by Antony Trew
‘I’m told you’ve already done the conversion of a big finca on a …’ Black sought for words. ‘A very generous scale.’
‘You mean Altomonte?’
‘I am not sure of the name. Does it belong to a man called van Biljon.’
Haupt nodded. ‘That is Altomonte.’
‘I am told it is a magnificent conversion.’
Haupt gave a little bow. ‘Thank you.’
‘I gather,’ said Black, ‘that van Biljon doesn’t permit visitors. No chance of my getting to see it, I suppose?’
‘None at all,’ said Haupt. ‘If there was I would offer to arrange it for you.’
Black came straight to the point. ‘What did that conversion cost?’
Haupt thought for a moment. ‘That was more than ten years ago. To-day it would cost—let me see,’ he pencilled figures on a note pad. ‘About four million pesetas.’
Black did some mental arithmetic. ‘Nearly twenty-four thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money.’
‘A lot of work was done. It was exceptional.’
‘It must have been an interesting job.’
‘Marvellous.’ Haupt’s tired eyes shone momentarily. Expense was no object. Van Biljon was the perfect client. He knew basically what he wanted, but left the interpretation to me. Gave me a free hand. It was fabulous.’
‘This could be, too,’ said Black. ‘My friend in England is like that. He knows what he wants. Is prepared to pay for it and wouldn’t interfere. Anyway, he’s far too busy. He might fly out occasionally to see how things are going, but you’d have a free hand if you got the job.’ Black took out his notebook and pencil and wrote, Altomonte, conversion, 4,000,000 pesetas. He left the notebook open and laid the pencil on it.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘it would help if we took Altomonte as an example.’
Haupt hesitated. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Well, if I could see the plans and discuss them with you. Get some idea of what the finca was like originally, and what you made it into. And perhaps some of the main items of cost. That will give me something definite to work on.’
Haupt’s first reaction was to refuse firmly but courteously to produce the plans. He explained that it would be unprofessional, that van Biljon would never forgive him if he knew that they had been used to do business with a third party. Van Biljon, he said, owned a good deal of property in Ibiza, and apart from any other consideration Haupt could not afford to fall out with him.
Black pointed out that there was no question of copying the Altomonte design, that it was to be used only for purposes of discussion, and that he would under no circumstances reveal that he had seen the plans, not even to his friend in England.
He appealed to Haupt to help him settle the matter in such a way that he would not be obliged to go to another architect. ‘You know, having heard what a marvellous job you did on Altomonte, I’m particularly anxious to see you get this.’
Slowly Haupt gave ground and before long locked the door to his office, produced the plans and spread them on a table by the window. For the next hour the two men sat over them, Black making rough notes of layout and cost. By the time he was ready to leave they were on good terms, and they had agreed to treat the matter as strictly confidential.
‘I’ll write off to him in the next day or so. Then it’s over to him‚’ said Black. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if he flies out by way of reply. That’s if he’s not in New York or Tokyo or somewhere. He’s always on the move.’
Haupt expressed his thanks and showed him to the top of the stairs.
Black went down the lane whistling, pleased with the morning’s work. As he reached the square and turned right to cross to Anselmo’s he saw a big man with a deeply tanned face come up from the opposite pavement and stop outside the entrance. The moment he saw the face, Black’s nerves reacted like a triggered electronic alarm. Stepping behind a Volkswagen, he bent down, put his foot on the rear bumper and fussed with his shoelaces. Through the rear window he watched the man opposite, saw him stand in the doorway, hesitate for a moment, then go into Anselmo’s.
The Englishman was trembling and it was, he knew, the response to both shock and relief: shock that Ahmed ben Hassan of all people in the world should be on Ibiza at that moment, and relief that the Arab had not seen him. Standing behind the Volkswagen, his mind spewed out thoughts with the speed of a computer: if Hassan recognised him it would soon be known in Ibiza who he really was. In no time the information would reach van Biljon and then all ZID’s carefully laid plans, all the work of past years—particularly of the last eight months—would lie in ruins.
There were, he knew, two alternatives, but each was equally difficult to contemplate. Either the operation must be called off or Hassan removed—from Ibiza at any rate. How that could be done he hadn’t the vaguest idea. But if there was one imperative it was that he should know where Hassan was staying. Translating the thought into action, he moved from the Volkswagen and took up a position on a side street pavement from which he could watch the entrance to Anselmo’s. He leant against the wall, shielded by a truck, pretending to read the newspaper he’d taken from the shopping basket, and while he waited his mind went back to the night in Rafah. His company had been parachuted in at dusk with orders to cut off any motorised elements which tried to escape along the coast road. After the drop there had been virtually no opposition. Some of his men had rounded up gangs of demoralised prisoners who threw away their weapons, while others prepared fighting positions. Then they had sat down to wait for an enemy who failed to materialise, and for their own tanks and infantry which were expected some time after midnight. At about ten o’clock, two of his men had brought in a big, handsome, but very frightened Arab. He’d been found in civilian clothes, hiding in a deserted house. He had denied that he was an Egyptian or indeed any sort of fighting man, but in view of his lack of papers and evasive answers he’d been brought in for interrogation. ‘Terrorist or political agent‚’ the young Israeli sergeant had said with withering finality.
You did not, reflected Black, forget the face of a frightened man you’d been watching at close range under a bright light for over an hour. He could recall every moment of that torrid interrogation in the hot stuffy room which had smelt so overpoweringly of stale sweat. He himself tired, suffering from nervous exhaustion, frustrated and worried because he’d damaged his ankle in the drop—and the big Arab, older than he, frightened, even terrified at times, pleading that he was a civilian caught by chance in Rafah through the fortunes of war which had started only the day before. He was, he claimed, Ahmed ben Hassan, a merchant from Beirut, but he had no papers of any sort to support this. The Egyptian soldiers he said, had beaten him up and taken his wallet—in it all his papers—before they cleared out of Rafah. With pathetic dignity he had showed them his bruises. He had, he said, come to Rafah by way of Cyprus and Port Said, and had only been in Port Said because business had taken him there, not for any love of the Egyptians. As to the precise nature of that business he had been equivocal, until Black had worn him down with threats of violence. Threats of which, in normal times, the Englishman would have been ashamed but which, in those circumstances, at that time, in the heat and clamour of war, he supposed he might well have carried out. One never knew. But Hassan had broken then, admitted that he was a dealer in currency and hasheesh—a spiv to be explicit—and it was that which had brought him there, and taken him to Cyprus and Port Said.
In that long hot hour of interrogation Black had become almost resentfully aware of a growing pity for the man who stood before him, frightened, helpless, and alone. Indeed, towards the end, he had even been conscious of a sort of kinship, as if each was wistfully aware that in other circumstances they might have been friends, that the confrontation was a product of forces which had not been of their seeking. But he had fought down these feelings and when soon after midnight forward elements of the infantry had driven into Rafah with the tanks, Black had handed the Arab over to an off
icer in military intelligence—and that was the last he had seen of him, or indeed even thought of him, until a few minutes ago outside Anselmo’s.
And so his thoughts came back to the present—Ahmed ben Hassan in Ibiza. For Christ’s sake! Just as he could never forget the man’s face, he had no doubt Hassan could never forget his. He thanked his stars that he now wore a beard and decided that as from that moment he would never fail to wear his dark glasses. But if he were to meet Hassan face to face, to be in his company for even a few minutes, he had no doubt he would be recognised—a voice was something which could not be disguised, and a voice that had for more than an hour interrogated you, threatened you with torture and death—and all less than twelve months before—was not one that was likely to be forgotten.
Black got back to his room that night in a state of exhaustion brought on by the physical energy he’d expended in shadowing Ahmed ben Hassan through most of the day, and the nervous strain which this new and unexpected complication had engendered. But at least the shadowing had paid useful dividends.
He had followed him down to a pension, Vista Mari, on the Figueretes side of Los Molinos and then, after a long afternoon during which the Lebanese had not emerged—and when Black was about to leave in the belief that his quarry must have gone out through a back door—he had seen Hassan come out. He had changed into blue cotton slacks and a T-shirt, and a bathing towel hung round his neck. Keeping well behind, Black had followed him up over Los Molinos and down past the military hospital. From a safe distance he had watched Hassan go to the end of the rocks where he had divested himself of the T-shirt and slacks, to reveal a powerful muscular body clad in bathing trunks. The Arab had then pulled on a white rubber skullcap and dived into the sea.
He was a strong swimmer and with long powerful strokes and rhythmically beating feet, he had set out for the big rock which stood out massively several hundred yards from the shore. There was a strongish breeze from the north-east and Black could not help admiring how Hassan headed boldly into wind and sea with what seemed little effort.
The Englishman shivered. The sun was low in the sky and the wind cold. There were no other swimmers and he was not surprised, it was too late in the afternoon and too early in the year. When he judged that Hassan was half-way towards the big rock, Black went on down the slope to the kiosk. He greeted the Ibizencan bar-tender, who was packing up for the night, and ordered a coñac.
‘He must be tough,’ he said to the Ibizencan, gesturing with his head in the direction where Hassan could be seen swimming out to the rock. ‘It is cold.’
‘Si, señor. But he swims at this time every evening.’
‘Every evening?’ said Black doubtfully.
‘Si, señor. Around that big rock. At least for the last few days. He is a visitor from the Lebanon. Sometimes he talks to me. A strong man with a fine body. Says he swims every day of his life when he is home. A friendly fellow, but he does not drink because he is a Moslem.’ The bar-tender shook his head sorrowfully.
‘Well,’ said Black. ‘It is cold. I must be moving. Adiós.’
‘Adiós, señor,’ said the barman as Black moved away and started up the path away from the kiosk. He had not gone far when he turned and looked back. Hassan was no longer in sight and Black realised that he must be on the seaward side of the big rock.
It was only then, while he waited for him to re-emerge, that Black realised—suddenly and with terrifying certainty—that Kyriakou and Manuela’s friend ‘Benny’ in the ferry steamer, the Olympic swimmer who suffered from seasickness, was Ahmed ben Hassan. Hassan a colleague of Kyriakou’s! Black felt a tightening of his stomach muscles and then, while he was still tussling with the implications of this discovery, he saw the white rubber skullcap round the eastern corner of the rock and Hassan, wind and sea now behind him, came swimming shorewards. Deciding that he had seen enough for the day, Black set off up the steep path, making for the tunnel in the Citadel walls through which he could reach D’Alt Vila.
In his room that night he sat grappling with the new and potentially disastrous complication. At nine o’clock Maria Massa knocked on the door and inquired if he was not going down to the town to have something to eat, as was his custom. He told her he had a headache, and refused her offer to prepare something. ‘All I need,’ he said, ‘is a cup of tea and I’ll make that myself. Muchas gracias, señora’
And she had gone away querulous and dissatisfied, to leave him alone with his problem.
In the end he came to the conclusion he’d known he’d have to in the beginning: that this was essentially a task for Werner Zolde and André Lejeune. He was too well known in Ibiza, in too exposed a position—and entirely without the facilities they had—to deal with Hassan. It was for them. He would make suggestions, and if these were not practical—well, it was up to them. With the means at their disposal there were various alternatives. But there were two imperatives now—Hassan had to be removed from the scene, and it had to be done quickly and with discretion.
He took up a pen and paper and wrote the letter to Werner Zolde, telling him that Hassan was on the island, explaining who he was and the threat he represented. He was, wrote Black, to be removed and kept out of Ibiza, at least until the project had been accomplished. He mentioned that Hassan was staying at Vista Mari, the pension at Figueretes, that he apparently swam from the rocks below the military hospital every evening about six, swimming round the big rock. Black suggested the scheme he had in mind, but stressed that what was done finally was for Werner Zolde to decide and that in any event the utmost discretion was necessary.
I will, wrote Black, call at the post office each day. If you have any message for me post it c/o Lista de Correos. I must know as soon as you have completed your task, for until then I cannot continue with the project. He folded the letter, which was without the sender’s address or signature, and placed it in an envelope. He had written Werner H. Zolde on it, when he stopped and frowned. ‘Christ,’ he muttered desperately. ‘What a silly bloody mistake. I must be crazy.’ He tore the envelope into small pieces, took a fresh one and wrote on it H. W. Liebson, Lista de Correos, Ibiza. Then he took a stamp from his wallet and stuck it on the envelope. Soon after ten o’clock he went down to the post office and dropped the letter into the box.
When he got back to his room, tired as he was, he studied the plan of Altomonte which he’d made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office.
Chapter Six
The light from the shaded lamp spilled across the desk, throwing into relief the bony white hands holding the letter. They were ghostlike, their roots lost in the cuffs of the black velvet smoking jacket.
The hands folded the letter slowly, began replacing it in the envelope, hesitated, and then carefully, methodically, tore it into small pieces, dropping them into the wastepaper basket.
In one movement the hands clicked off the desk light and switched on wall lights which brought their owner to life, as when a dark scene on a stage is suddenly illuminated. The man stood up, tall and straight, his hair silken white, the weathered face sun-tanned, the folds of the scars exaggerated by the shadows, the dark glasses reflecting the lights on the walls. He walked stiffly, age inhibiting movement, making for the chair in the corner. Before he reached it there was a knock on the door. He stopped, turned, and called, ‘Adelante!’ The door opened and a man came in carrying a tray, the silver coffee set and crystal glass and decanters throwing back the lights of the room in kaleidoscopic patterns.
‘Son las diez, señor‚’ said the servant. ‘It is ten o’clock.’
The old man looked at his watch and a moment later the clock on the desk chimed ten. ‘Bueno, Juan‚’ he said.
The ritual never changed. He dined at nine, alone, after which he came to the study. At ten o’clock, Juan would knock on the door and enter with the coffee and liqueurs. Always he would announce, ‘Son las diez, señor‚’ always van Biljon would look at his watch and say, ‘Bueno‚’ always the desk clock would chime
the hour. But the ritual never palled. It was the moment of the day to which he looked forward most, the one he enjoyed above all others.
Juan stood inside the door, immobile, impassive, holding the tray. The old man paused, looked round the study and then, lifting his head and jerking his chin forward, he walked stiffly from the room, along the passage, down through the sitting-room to the hall and up stone steps to the patio. At its centre a swimming pool shimmered with reflected light and along three sides vines climbed and twisted on pergolas.
Followed by his servant, he started across the patio keeping to the left of the pool which was flanked by the two wings of the house, their white sides studded with windows.
The old man stopped before a wrought-iron door, drew keys from his pocket, unlocked first the iron door, then the heavy wooden one behind it, and stepped inside. As he turned on the switches the dark abyss of the gallery glowed into life. For a moment he stood still, accustoming his eyes to the light, then went in, closing the doors behind him. Juan followed, carrying the tray.
At the far end of the long room a leather settee and armchairs stood in a recess furnished with low tables, a tall glass-fronted bookcase, a writing-desk, and two cabinets on elegant brass-shod legs.
The tall man stood watching while the servant placed the tray on a table before the settee, lit the lamp under the coffee percolator, and transferred the decanter and liqueur glass to the table. With an almost imperceptible bow, he withdrew from the recess and went up the gallery, closing the double doors as he left.
The old man walked over to the bookcase, opened a drawer and took from it a cedarwood cabinet. He spent some time choosing a cigar, preparing and lighting it. After drawing on it he examined the line of burning ash and, satisfied, stood for some time, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, head sunk, deep in thought until the cough and splutter of the percolator alerted him.
