by Antony Trew
‘What business?’
‘Drugs.’ Black saw Manuela’s head flick towards him.
‘You’re lying again, Black. Like you lied about bird watching when you came to the house last time. You weren’t watching birds. You were watching Altomonte. It’s what’s in this gallery that interests you.’
Black shook his head. ‘That’s quite untrue in the sense you mean it. I was bird-watching. Manuela will confirm that. My interest in the gallery is professional. I am an art critic. It means good money and a scoop for me if I can do an article on your collection.’
‘So you’re an art critic and a drug smuggler.’ Again van Biljon thrust his face forward, so close this time that Black smelt the cigar-laden breath, saw the white bristles on the bony chin, the spasmodic working of the sinews in the thin neck, and the uneven palpitations of the blood vessels at the temples. The Englishman took sardonic pleasure in these signs of agitation.
‘I’ll tell you what you are, Black. You’re a liar. And a dangerous one.’ For some moments he stared at the Englishman, then nodded briefly to Pedro and Juan. ‘Un momento,’ he said and went to the recess.
Behind his back, Black heard the opening of a cupboard and the clink of metal. Soon the old man returned carrying handcuffs and a coil of nylon rope. Black felt the barrel of a pistol press into his neck as his arms were seized and pulled down behind him, then the cold touch of metal as handcuffs were snapped around his wrists.
Pedro kept them covered while Juan handcuffed Manuela’s wrists behind her back to an accompaniment of noisy protestation and finally tears. Black was too concerned with other things to worry much about this, but it occurred to him that the more noise the better so he, too, raised his voice in protest until Pedro hit him across the face with a flat hand. ‘Callarse! —shut up,’ the Spaniard growled.
Black was searched by Pedro, who returned everything to the Englishman’s pockets except van Biljon’s letter of invitation which he handed to the old man. Then they were made to lie on the floor and the rope was used to truss them. While this was being done the Spaniards’ low mumbling was interrupted at times by interjections from van Biljon. With his scarred face, hoarse voice and agitated manner, their host looked so much the stage villain that Black had the curious feeling that it was all an act, that at any moment the curtain would drop to a round of applause, perhaps of booing. There had been other occasions in his life when he’d been in danger and then, too, he’d experienced this feeling of unreality, that what his eyes saw, his senses registered, could not in fact be happening.
When they were trussed—so tightly that Black feared for their circulation—and Manuela had stopped sobbing and instead was sniffing at intervals like a child after a long cry, gags of mutton cloth were produced and tied round their mouths. The moment this happened, Black knew with chilling certainty that van Biljon was not going to hand them over to the police. His worst fear was confirmed: van Biljon knew what it was that had brought him to Altomonte. That was why they’d been invited to dinner, why Tomaso had been sent to fetch them, why they’d been asked to treat the invitation as confidential, why van Biljon had asked them to use his letter to identify themselves … he had ensured that the essential evidence would be returned to him.
While Pedro and Juan picked up their automatics and returned them to their shoulder-holsters, the dominant thought in Black’s mind was time. He could not see his watch, but he estimated that at least fifteen minutes had passed since he’d jumped for the light switch. He’d last looked at the time a few minutes before they’d reached the water-mill picture: it had then been ten twenty-seven … another fifteen minutes made it ten forty-two.
In the recess van Biljon was speaking to his servants in a low voice, almost a whisper. Black, concentrating, caught the words, ahora—en seguida—Nordwind.
What, he thought, is to happen now, without delay, which concerns the Nordwind. Before he could answer the rhetorical question, the Spaniards had seized him and Manuela by the ankles and were walking backwards, dragging them over the polished floor towards the gallery doors. Van Biljon, walking stiffly, went ahead.
As he was dragged along, Black raised his head and saw van Biljon go to the gallery door and swing it open, then turn back to them and step aside for Pedro and Juan to haul their loads.
What happened next appeared to him to take place in slow motion and, desperate and undignified though their situation was, Black felt it was not without humour: for into the doorway, directly in his line of vision—but unseen to van Biljon and the Spaniards who had their backs to them—came two bearded, silent figures with Lugers in their left hands and coshes in their right. Black saw their surprise in the fraction of time they needed to take in the scene then, with traumatic effect, the silence was broken by Helmut’s hoarse, ‘Up with your hands—pronto!’
The new arrivals got quickly to work: van Biljon and the Spaniards were ordered to face the gallery wall and press their raised hands against it; then they were frisked, their firearms and handcuff keys removed, and their pockets emptied, the contents scattered over the floor.
Van Biljon began an agitated protest. Helmut at once interrupted, and in a voice and manner which left no room for doubt he told them that if there was any refusal to obey orders, any unauthorised movement, any talking or other noise, he would shoot or—and to make his point he went briskly along the line tapping the backs of their heads with his cosh.
Francois took off Black’s gag, unlocked the handcuffs, and with his sheath-knife cut away the rope lashings. Black got to his feet, stiff and numb.
‘You okay?’ Francois’ dark eyes were fiercely interrogative.
‘For Chrissake. I thought you’d never come!’
‘Are you okay?’ repeated Francois urgently, ‘We need you.’
‘I’ll be fine in a jiffy.’ Black rubbed his arm and thigh muscles.
‘Take this.’ Francois kicked one of the Spaniards’ automatics towards the Englishman, then set about freeing Manuela. Black looked at the wall where van Biljon’s shoulders twitched curiously beneath raised arms, as if he were laughing. But Black knew that the emotion had nothing to do with humour. Then, with circulation returning and with it a good deal of pain and discomfort, he cleared his mind of irrelevances and concentrated on the task in hand.
Manuela, ashen and silent, was now free. Black helped her to her feet, but she had difficulty in standing. ‘Sit down if you want to,’ he said. ‘Massage your leg and arm muscles.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You’re not in any danger now. Don’t worry.’ It wasn’t quite true but it might help.
Helmut and Francois quickly handcuffed, gagged and bound van Biljon and the Spaniards while Black held them covered. Manuela, watching, wondered why they left the old man’s left arm free. She was soon to know.
Francois produced a small box from a beach bag. Taking a syringe from it, he held it vertically and with the needle pointing to the ceiling depressed the plunger until he was satisfied that the free air had been expelled. While the Frenchman did this, Helmut grasped van Biljon’s left arm and ripped the coat sleeve with a sheath-knife, pulling back the shirt sleeve and baring the arm to above the elbow.
With the quiet competence of a man who had done it many times before, Francois inserted the needle into the old man’s forearm and injected the Pentothal. Ten seconds later he lifted van Biljon’s eyelids.
‘Bon’ he said, taking first the gag and then a set of dentures from the old man’s mouth. ‘He’s out for about twenty minutes.’
Manuela watched, puzzled and frightened, as Helmut removed van Biljon’s shoes and socks. When the right sock had been taken off Black said, ‘yes,’ in a taut way. After that Helmut took off the left sock and again Black said, ‘yes,’ in what seemed to her a strange voice.
Black was putting on Pedro’s shoulder-holster. ‘Now,’ he said as he adjusted the straps. ‘Let’s have the gen, and make it …’ He was interrupted by Helmut’s hissed, ‘No you don’t,’ and turned to see the G
erman dart forward, grab Manuela and clap a hand over her mouth.
‘She was going to make a run for it,’ said Helmut, holding the struggling girl in a lockforwards embrace.
Black went over to her, his eyes seeking desperately to convey the concern and affection he felt. ‘Manuela. Don’t try that sort of thing,’ he pleaded. ‘We don’t want to get tough. You’re safe as long as you keep quiet and do as you’re told. If you don’t you’ll be soup before you know it. Take it easy. You’ve seen enough to-night to know that this isn’t a vicar’s tea party. There’s a hell of a lot at stake and if you get in the way …’ he paused, dropping his voice, ‘you’ll be put out of the way. I can’t say it more plainly than that.’
‘I don’t know who you are,’ she gasped, her eyes accusing them all. ‘Art thieves, kidnappers, whatever. But you’re a bunch of thugs, and I don’t want anything to do with you. Just let me go.’ She turned imploring eyes on Black. ‘Please let me go.’
He shook his head. ‘We can’t, yet. But we will before long. There isn’t time to argue or explain. We’re not art thieves and we’re not thugs. Now calm down, or we’ll have to use the hypodermic on you.’
She knew from the way he looked at her and his voice that he meant it. She stopped struggling and said a sullen, ‘All right.’
‘Now,’ Black looked at his watch and turned to Helmut. ‘Quick! What’s the gen?’
‘Kamros is waiting outside the wall with the stretcher. The Zephyr’s parked according to plan. Can’t see the Land-Rover. Must be in the garage at the back. We’ve not had time to look. On the way up we spotted a jeep of the Guardia Civil parked in a thicket at the foot of the Altomonte road. About five kilometres from here. You know, where the dirt road joins the main road? It was parked off the road behind some bushes about half a kilometre on the Ibiza side. Its windscreen reflected our headlights. We ran on a bit and stopped. Then I went back and did a reccy on foot. There were no police that I could see, but of course it’s as dark as hell to-night.’
‘Christ!’ said Black. ‘They’ve probably gone ahead on foot to watch the road junction.’
‘Could be,’ said Helmut. ‘But they can’t know about us.’
‘I’m not so sure. Van Biljon knew a lot more about my movements than I’d bargained for.’
‘Any way of rejoining the main road without using the junction?’ Francois’ face was strained.
Black thought, then snapped his fingers. ‘Yes. There’s a track near the bottom of the Altomonte road. Used by cattle. Goes through bush and joins up with the main road about half a kilometre west of the junction. Very rough, but I reckon the Zephyr could make it … With a little bit of luck,’ he added.
‘Thank God for bird watching,’ said Helmut.
‘You can say that again. But it’ll be dicy. When they see our headlights they’ll make for the jeep. It’ll be touch and go.’
‘There’s a point I forgot to mention,’ Helmut grinned complacently.
‘What’s that?’
‘We took the precaution of removing the jeep’s distributor-cap. Fixed the R/T set too.’
‘At what time was that?’
‘About nine o’clock—soon after you passed in the Land-Rover.’
Black frowned. ‘Was that a good thing? If they’ve been back to the jeep they’ll know it’s been tampered with.’
‘I don’t think so. We replaced the distributor-cap after we’d taken a bit of wire out of the cable below the supply material. It’ll take time to find that. When they do it’ll look more like faulty cable than tampering.’
‘And the R/T set?’
‘Same thing. On the transmitting side. If those Spanish boys have got back to the jeep they’ve a lot of work to do.’
Black was thoughtful. ‘Dogs okay? Any sign of Tomaso or the housekeeper?’
‘About the dogs,’ said Francois. ‘You need not worry. They won’t. That meat was lethal. I hated doing it. We saw Tomaso go to the gate when Juan and Pedro left it. Expect he’s there now. Waiting for van Biljon and company to bring you and Manuela out. The housekeeper’s probably in the kitchen or the servants’ quarters. What d’you think he intended?’
‘We were going for a short voyage in Nordwind,’ said Black. ‘On non-return basis, I imagine.’
‘You always liked her lines.’ Francois grimaced.
Black looked at his watch. ‘Twelve minutes since you arrived. We must get cracking. I was hoping Tomaso might have come in by now to see how his chums were getting on.’ He went across to where Manuela was slumped in an armchair, her eyes closed. He touched her shoulder. ‘Manuela. Go with Helmut and Francois. Do exactly as they tell you. If you don’t I can’t be responsible for what happens. I’ll be rejoining you outside.’
She didn’t answer, and Black went over to the others. ‘I’ll go now and create the diversion in front. When you hear the shindy move off. Get him into the Zephyr pronto. Give him another shot when necessary. All being well I’ll be over the wall about ten minutes after you. It’s ten fifty-seven now. You should reach the car by eleven-fifteen. Give me five minutes’ grace unless it’s obvious I’ve come unstuck. In that case, don’t wait. Look out for the track. On the left, about two to three hundred metres before you reach the main road. Unfortunately you’ll have to use lights. If I have time, I’ll try and fix the Land-Rover. But I doubt it.’
Helmut shook his head. ‘You’ll be with us. Don’t worry.’
‘I sincerely hope so.’ Black patted him on the back, touched Francois’ arm and then, taking a set of gallery keys and handcuffs, he slipped the thong of a cosh over his wrist and took the automatic from the shoulder-holster. When he reached the gallery door he opened it quietly and went out, shutting it behind him.
A few minutes later Helmut and Francois checked the lashings on Pedro and Juan and went over to where van Biljon was lying. Helmut called to Manuela, ‘Come. Help us, please.’
She went across, frowning and sullen, her eyes on the cosh dangling from Helmut’s wrist.
He stared at her. ‘I’m going to carry van Biljon out. At the wall we may need assistance. Francois will keep next to you. Please behave. He also has a cosh.’ With that he bent down, picked up the long thin body of the old man and with little effort slung it over his shoulder.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Flick the lights.’
When Francois had flicked the lights on and off, he led the way out of the gallery with Manuela, hesitant and fearful, at his side. They stopped in the patio for a moment while Francois shut and locked the double doors.
Chapter Twenty-One
Once out of the gallery Black made for the nearest pergola, moving silently in the shadows, past the long pool, until he reached the french windows to the hall.
Before entering he looked in. From where he stood he could see not only into the hall but into parts of the rooms adjoining it. There was no one about. Taut, wary, he went in and made his way to the Tribal Room. He chose it because it was on the side of the house nearest the kitchen and farthest from the wall down which Helmut and the others would pass once they’d gone over at the back. It helped, too, that he was familiar with the layout in that wing.
The curtains were drawn and the lights on. The doors leading to the pantry and kitchen were shut, but the iron gates on the guest-suite landing were open and he marked that as an emergency exit. When he’d locked the other doors, he knew that the Tribal Room could only be entered from the hall or the guest-suite. On the south side of the big room, where the windows overlooked the main gates, he moved a curtain an inch aside and looked through. The gates were about fifty yards away, the lights along the terrace in front of the house still on, as they had been when Tomaso had driven them up in the Land-Rover. There was nothing to be seen of the Spaniard. Then he heard the sound of his voice, faint at first but growing louder. He was calling the dogs, alternately whistling and using their names.
The sound came from the east side of the house, and Black watched the corner there. Presen
tly Tomaso appeared, still whistling and calling, making for the gates, using a hand torch to search the clumps of cacti and shrubs. When the Spaniard had almost reached the gates, Black picked up a wooden stool and flung it at the front windows of the Tribal Room. It struck the thick curtains, smashing the glass behind them with a shattering noise. The whistling stopped, and Black looked through the chink in the curtain. Tomaso was standing at the gate, watching the east wing of the house, his mouth wide open with surprise.
Black took a wooden giraffe by its neck and beat with it on an African drum, with excellent results. Next he seized a great earthenware bowl, Amerindian in origin. This he threw at another of the front windows and it, too, made a rewarding noise. Highest decibel register yet, he decided. Again he went to the window and looked out. Tomaso, bent low, was running up the steps to the front door. Simultaneously, Black heard knocking on the door from the kitchen passage and a woman’s voice, fearful and querulous. ‘What is happening?’ she cried. ‘What is the trouble?’ It was the housekeeper.
Affecting a throaty hoarseness, he shouted in Spanish, ‘Murder! Run for your life.’ There came immediately the sound of footsteps scampering on terra-cotta tiles, fading rapidly into the distance.
‘Now for the reception committee,’ he muttered as he slipped into the hall and stood against the wall beside the front door. He could hear Tomaso inserting the key, and watched fascinated as the handle turned. The door was opening against him so he edged back, cosh in his right hand, Luger in his left. It was happening in slow motion, and again he was reminded of a Buster Keaton comedy. Why did dangerous moments seem so unreal, so funny that he wanted to giggle? It was a weakness. Kagan would not approve. Tomaso was doing his best to be careful, but he lacked training or he wouldn’t be coming into the room like that. Didn’t he know the standard drill?: Kick door and jump aside. If door hits soft object fire through it, if in doubt challenge. Tomaso did neither, relying on stealth in slow motion, apparently convinced that where the noise had been the people must be.
