He collected his baggage from the last Madrid flight of the afternoon and quickly left the small airport. It was another of the local bank holidays, one of those innumerable Spanish fiestas. The last taxi had left and only the airport bus remained which he took to the centre of Bilbao, there he found another connection to San Sebastian about 100 kilometres away to the north through the low mountains of the Basque country that ran up to the French border. The road was good, a modern toll highway twisting and turning as it rose and fell between the steep pine covered hills, passing compact towns and villages that sprouted endless high-rise apartment blocks in ochre brick.
After ninety minutes they arrived in San Sebastian, Donestia, where Arrowsmith walked to the small regional transit railway station and from a call box telephoned to Hendaye. Everything was in order. He then took the next commuter train that seemed to stop every couple of hundred metres until it crossed the Bidassoa and terminated its journey at the French border town of Hendaye Ville some thirty five minutes later. He followed the small crowd and filed past the abandoned passport control post.
He entered the hall of the main railway station and looked at his watch, it was just after five fifteen, de Montfort should have been there at five, he looked around and then walked out to the car park; there was no sign of him.
It was raining and windy, weather not untypical of the Basque country that was open to the unpredictable Atlantic weather. Perhaps he had had difficulties with the traffic, though his villa was just ten minutes away it was the eve of a holiday weekend. He watched through the glass doors observing the coming and going of cars and taxis. Finally a large silver Renault pulled into the parking area, it was Xavier de Montfort. Arrowsmith saw him, made a sign and walked out to and climbed into the car.
They shook hands. “Everything okay?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Good.”
They made their way through the small town centre and in ten minutes they were in de Montfort’s large villa. It was called Mendi Txiki which meant small mountain in Basque. A Spanish nobleman had built it in the early part of the century; evidently from its size and gardens it had been a period when domestic help was abundant and inexpensive. The villa was in local stone with wood balconies and shutters in a dark red, one of the three favoured colours of the Basque country. It overlooked the Baie de Chingudy facing the cathedral of Fuentarrabia.
He had seen that de Montfort was agitated and once inside the villa he could barely hold back his words as Arrowsmith looked irritably at the holdall that de Montfort placed on a low table.
“It’s all here, Irish pounds,” said de Montfort with an air of embarrassed relief.
Arrowsmith unzipped the holdall and opened one of the manila envelopes.
“Irish pounds!”
“Yeah, why? Is that a problem?”
“Yes, er, no, I mean it’s not very bloody discrete, if you see what I mean.”
“There was no other choice.”
“Well who wants fuckin Irish pounds, the Cubans don’t even know what they are!”
“That’s the way it is, you can change them!”
“You’re fuckin joking, can you see me walking into the exchange office with one million bloody punts!” he said losing his calm.
Arrowsmith stared at the holdall and sighed then calmed down, there was no point in getting worked up, and in any there was little he could do about it.
“Okay, it’s the amount we agreed?”
“Right, the equivalent to ten million Francs, in one hundred punt notes.”
“Good, on Monday I’m leaving for London and then to Paris where I’ll meet the Cubans. Then we’ll all meet in Zurich on Friday, the money will be handed over to them as agreed.”
“Isn’t it a bit complicated?”
“I’ll bloody well say it is, fucking Irish pounds, and I suppose there’s no trace back to Dublin? Which is what we wanted n’est pas!”
De Montfort bowed his head, it was not his fault but he was taking the cane. It was all the fault of that stupid bastard Kennedy who had not thought to inform the bank that the cash should be in pounds sterling.
Xavier de Monfort, originally from Bordeaux, a large powerful man, he wore a close cut beard, and usually displayed a ready and sincere smile. He was normally of a jovial nature, full of information about his adopted country, Euskal Herria, or the Basque Country. He loved to parade as a Basque playing pala in the trinket courts around the local countryside where pala and the other traditional racket ball games were played. He spoke a smattering of Basque enough to impress his visitors and told endless stories of the mountainous region of the Pyrenees and its hardy Basque inhabitants.
Arrowsmith nodded, to make matters worse he was not at all happy about going through Heathrow, with its maniacal controls, it was typical of the Brits, he thought, they always reacted after the horse had bolted, they had never seemed to stop the IRA or others exploding their murderous bombs when and where they wanted.
“Listen, on second thoughts you bring it to Zurich. There’s no way I can go through London with that. I am meeting the Cubans in Paris and I can’t drag that around Europe!”
“That’s not what was really foreseen!”
“I’m sorry if you can’t agree then I’ll have to speak with Castlemain. Do it! I’ll see you’re looked after.”
“Okay! Okay!” replied de Montfort only mildly cheered up by the prospect of getting something extra for his troubles, at the same time apprehensive by the prospect of going to Switzerland with the money, it was not the Swiss, they did not object to money coming into the country and discretely avoided asking questions, it was the French who could make a problem, a big problem, if there was a border check.
Castlemain could have sent the money by inter-bank transfer through the bank with no difficulties, but he insisted on remaining invisible in such deals, corruption of government officials was not exactly good banking practice.
Arrowsmith had no choice….part of the money was his.
“What shall we do for dinner?”
“Up to you, is it safe leaving the money here?”
“No problem, I’ll put it in the safe, then we’ll go to the Trinket and have a drink, it’s a bit early, after we can eat.”
They left the house and drove to the Trinquet, a local restaurant and bar well known for its pala courts. They knew the local crowd there, it was a good idea, it was a bit too chilly for the time of the year to eat outside.
“By the way, I almost forgot, we’re invited for an after dinner drink with Max Argand on his boat,” he informed Arrowsmith.
Because of the parking problem de Montfort was forced to leave his car a good ten minutes walk away on one of the side streets leading off the Baie de Chingudy. They strolled along to the Marina where the ‘Tomahawk’ was berthed, it would not be difficult to find, it was by far the biggest in the marina, at berth B08 according to Argand. The ‘Tomahawk’ was thirty metres long and five and a half wide at the stern.
To the south the mountain Les Trois Couronnes dominated the view and to the west the Jaizkebel watched over the Spanish town of Fuentarrabia. The Alcazar and the sixteenth century church across the Bidassoa River were just behind the masts of the sailing boats moored in the marina. The evening crowd was much more dense than usual drawn by the boat show that occupied what was normally a large public car park at Sokoburu.
Chapter 67
Thalasso
Offshore Islands Page 66
