‘I’m not going there, Frank. That’s something I’m keeping to myself.’
‘That’s very noble of you, if unnecessary, seeing as the guy’s dead.
Or are you protecting his memory?’
‘It’s got sod-all to do with his memory. I don’t want Tom to find out, ever.’
‘You’re properly stuck on that little man, aren’t you?’
‘So much so that sometimes it surprises even me. I didn’t think I could ever be so happy.’
‘Too bad Oz isn’t around to share it, then.’
‘No. Oz was very reserved when it came to sharing.’
He speared his last prawn. ‘Suppose he was still around, and suppose the d’Amuseo scam had screwed him for big bucks?’
‘No chance, he was way too cynical to get suckered into something like that.’
‘But suppose, just suppose. Let’s say he’d been taken for five million euros, as a couple of people will have been if the money does vanish. What would he have done? Written it off as loose change?’
I considered the question. ‘I can’t say for sure, you understand,’ I began, ‘but my suspicion would be that by now Caballero would be a couple of metres under in his own land, with Lidia Bromberg alongside him, and anyone else Oz’s people could find.’
He whistled. ‘Are you pulling my chain?’
I shook my head.
‘And that’s what you don’t want Tom to find out about his dad?’
‘Along those lines.’ I held his gaze. ‘Let me tell you something now: if you ever think of using that as a lever against me, you might find out how alike Oz and I were. A couple of his friends are my friends too, and I’d turn them loose in the blink of an eye on anyone who threatened our son, in any way.’
He eyed me up and down: I let the words hang in the air for a few seconds. ‘Now,’ I continued abruptly, ‘change the subject. When you were reading that paper on the AVE, what made you grin like an undersized Cheshire cat?’
‘I saw an outside chance for us to get out of this mess, if I can get us close to him. There was a thing called “Agenda” in the political pages, showing forthcoming events, meetings, visits and suchlike. Guess who’s due in Barcelona tomorrow, for a consultation on the Olympics in preparation for 2012? None other than the UK junior culture minister, Justin Mayfield, MP. If I can get to see him, and tell him about the bother we’re in, and about how we were dropped in it, we could just be in the clear.’
‘What could he do?’
‘He’s a member of the government, for Christ’s sake. He’s got clout. He could blow the whistle on Interpol, and call for an investigation into how I was set up, by whom, and why. A mole in that organisation has international security implications.’
I had to agree with all of that. ‘An investigation would have to start with your controller. What’s her name, anyway?’
‘I knew her as Charlotte, but I’d be amazed if that’s her real name. I agree she’s a possibility, but she’s not the only one. She has her own line managers.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Within the Interpol London bureau, I only ever met her. I was a secret even in their world, Primavera. Imagine the consequences if it became known that security services across Europe were recruiting convicted criminals as part of their strategy to combat major international crime.’
‘Yes, I can imagine them. And that suggests another way back into the daylight. Why don’t you simply phone the Sun, or the Daily Mail, any bloody tabloid, and sell them the story?’
‘Because I’m deniable, all the way along the line. There is no paper trail. The tabloids are interested in stories that shake governments; ours is earthquake proof on this.’
‘But somebody must have signed off on it.’
‘If they have, those papers will be secret for ever, or until everyone involved is long gone. But I doubt if anyone did. I worked in Westminster, remember. Sometimes ministers just don’t want to know about things that might splash mud on their boots.’
‘Or blood,’ I murmured. ‘So how do we get to see your old pal Mayfield?’
‘You probably don’t. It’s an official visit, and he’ll probably have a tight timetable, so I’ll have to blag my way past his private secretary. That might be more difficult if I had you in tow.’
‘Where will you find him?’
‘He’s going to be in the Hotel Arts, according to the paper. Do you know where that is?’
‘Yes, I’ve been there. It’s right down on the sea. It was built as part of the Olympic village, then converted. That may be why he’s stopping there. Do you think he’ll see you? After all, you did say he distanced himself from you when you went to prison, and he didn’t return Auntie Ade’s calls.’
Frank nodded. ‘I think he will. I know a few things about him from the old days, like who his cocaine supplier was and how much he and I went through. Plus there was a married lady he was shagging back then, and even now if her name came out it could cost him his job.’
‘Okay, so you’re going to blackmail your way in to see him?’
‘When the devil drives,’ he whispered.
I picked up my coffee cup, but it was empty, and there was no waiter around to refill it. ‘That’s it for me,’ I told him. ‘I’ve had it.’ As soon as the words passed my lips, I realised just how true they were. I had missed out on several hours’ sleep the night before, and since then I’d been running on adrenaline. I really was knackered; plus my foot hurt like hell, and I had no paracetamol.
‘Yes, me too,’ Frank admitted. ‘Let’s get along there and lock ourselves in. This train still has a stop to make during the night.’
‘I’m too tired to bother about that. If anyone wakens me, I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth and that’ll be that.’
We walked the short distance back to our compartment, where Frank secured the door and then wedged his rucksack strap around the handle as extra insurance. I climbed into the top bunk, but didn’t pull up the ladder; it would have been churlish, after he’d saved my bacon . . . and I didn’t really have room for it.
I switched off my reading light, then stretched full out, slipped off my clothing, all of it, folded it as neatly as I could, into the smallest package possible, and put it by my side. Naked, I slipped under the sheet that Renfe had provided. I waited for Frank’s light to go out, but it didn’t. I glanced to my left and saw the top of his head, as he faced the basin in the corner. I leaned over for a better look. He was standing, rigid, in his underpants and seemed to be trembling violently, shaking from top to toe. ‘Hey,’ I whispered. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was strained. ‘You could have died today, we both could, and we’re still stuck well in the middle of the fucking forest. I’ve been in hiding for six weeks, Prim, in hiding from the whole fucking world, including my own mother, and it’s done no good because I’m still in danger, you’re in danger, and now she’s in danger too. It’s getting to me, that’s all. I need a few moments of weakness to regroup. Don’t worry, though: I’ll be fine.’
He was still shaking. ‘Hey, wee guy,’ I found myself saying gently. ‘You need a cuddle. Come on up here for a bit.’
He turned and I reached out my hand to him. He climbed the ladder and lay down alongside me. I wrapped my arms around him, as I had done with Tom when he was younger; he felt cold, even though the train’s air-con was only a partial barrier against the heat of the night, and he was still shivering. I held him tight, until his tremors began to subside, until he felt warmer, and calmer, and the pounding of his heart had slowed. I realised that my chest was damp, and that he had been crying.
‘Here now,’ I murmured. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. Let me show you.’ I wrapped the sheet around us both. With the movement, my right nipple pressed against his parted lips: I felt him suck it, very gently, not voraciously, as Tom used to do. I was sure it was involuntary, rather than erotic. It didn’t excite me, yet I found it touching. What happen
ed after that was probably inevitable, given all that we’d been through that day, and the state he was in. I slid my arm down his back as he lay there, motionless, found his underpants, eased them past his buttocks, and took them off with my left foot. I reached for him, and found him still shrivelled and flaccid, for all our proximity. I massaged him, gently at first, and then more firmly, as he began to stir. It took a little while, but eventually he was as ready as I reckoned he was going to get. I drew him on to me; he seemed to weigh hardly anything. His head was on my shoulder as I guided him to the entrance, and took him inside me, into my moistness. I ran my fingers through his hair, and began to move, slowly. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, until finally he responded, thrusting, and we were in rhythm.
It didn’t last long, and I didn’t have anything approaching an orgasm, not even after those years of total abstinence, but he did, or at least he came, for I’m told that’s not always one and the same thing for a guy. It wasn’t great sex, in fact it didn’t even approach good, but somehow it left me feeling at peace with myself, realising as he finished that until then, until that very moment, I hadn’t thought of the Algonquin, not once.
‘I’m sorry.’ He breathed the words in my ear.
I smiled. ‘Less of the sorry, okay? We’re going to get through this, and if we don’t, well, what the hell? We’ve eaten, we’ve drunk, and we’ve made merry.’
I slid out from under him and down the ladder. I filled the basin, washed myself thoroughly with one of the cloths and a small bar of soap, then dried myself with a hand-towel. When I climbed up again, he was on his back, sleeping like a baby, with a look on his face that would have become an angel. I reached over him, retrieved my small parcel of clothes, and took the bottom bunk.
Twenty-three
I still felt okay about it in the morning, when I woke just before seven, to the gentle rocking of the train as it pulled out of a station, Tarragona, I guessed, recalling the destination list I had seen as we got on.
I got out of my bunk and did some stretching exercises, as far as I could in the limited space. I washed the rest of myself, smeared my roll-on antiperspirant under my arms and on the inside of my thighs, then dressed.
By the time I was finished, and looking acceptable, Frank had begun to stir. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at me. ‘Morning.’ He yawned.
‘And to you. How do you feel?’
‘Fine. The tiger’s back, I promise.’ He paused. ‘Prim, about last night, I’m sorry.’
‘Listen,’ I replied, ‘I’m not going to shag you every time you say you’re sorry so give it up.’
He laughed. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t mean that; it was lovely. What I meant was I’m sorry you saw me like that, but the truth is, all that stuff yesterday, it scared me shitless.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? How do you think I felt when I walked into that hotel room and saw Caballero holding a gun on me, or when you told me the truth about the Canadian and his mate?’
‘I meant to ask you about them,’ he told me. ‘When you met them in that restaurant, did you tell them why you were in Seville?’
‘Hell, no. I told them I was a single mum playing the tourist for a few days, while my aunt minded my child.’ The implication of that dawned on me as I spoke. ‘Oh, shit! I told them where they could find your mother. Frank, I’m so sorry.’
‘Now you’re at it,’ he exclaimed. ‘Prim, you weren’t to know. Don’t give it another thought, please.’
‘That’ll be difficult; shooting my mouth off to two strangers. What was I thinking of?’
‘Nothing, forget it.’ He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and sat there, looking down at me. He had a small erection . . . not that he could ever have a large one, to tell you the truth . . . and in the full light of day, that made me feel a little awkward, and want to get out of there.
‘I’ll make room for you to get washed and dressed,’ I volunteered. ‘I’m off to the restaurant car for breakfast. I’ll order for you. Coffee and croissants enough?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
I left him to it and made my way along the train. As I sat down at a table for two, I realised I wasn’t sure whether I should be feeling like a whore or a social worker. I settled for the latter, and gave my double order to the waiter.
I had finished mine and was contemplating scoffing Frank’s croissant when he arrived. He must have been carrying a razor in his rucksack . . . or maybe the Swiss Army knife did that job too . . . for the slight stubble he had been sporting was gone. He had changed into a white T-shirt, so new it almost gleamed: I could see creases, as if to confirm that it had just come out of its wrapping. His hair was perfectly groomed and he smelled of something I thought I recognised as Aramis.
‘I wonder where we’ll be having breakfast tomorrow,’ he said, as he sat.
‘With respect, Frank,’ I told him, ‘I hope I’ll be having breakfast in Monaco with my son and his half-siblings, and that you’ll be safely reunited with Auntie Ade.’ It had occurred to me that maybe the smartest thing for me to do when the train pulled into Barcelona was to jump into the first available taxi, head for the airport, reclaim my Jeep and drive as fast as I could out of the Dodge Goddamned City that my life was threatening to become.
The croissant stopped halfway to his gob, as if he had read my mind. ‘I hope so too, love, but I need you with me when I go to see Justin.’
I frowned at him. ‘First, please don’t call me “love”. For the avoidance of doubt, what happened last night happened mainly because I felt sorry for you, and partly, I suppose, because I haven’t had sex for going on three years. Second, why is it so important that I go with you?’
‘Corroboration,’ he replied. ‘What the security services and Interpol tried to do through me and Gresch, and the way we were sold out from within the organisation, has massive implications. Governments have fallen for less, and Justin’s a member of the bloody government. But he’s a highly moral guy, not the sort to let a wrong go uncorrected. I can persuade him to take this to the highest level, but he’ll need both of us to tell our stories. If heads are to roll over this . . . and they bloody well will, or my name’s not Frances with an “e” . . . it’ll take your evidence as well as mine to convict them.’
I couldn’t argue with his reasoning; also, I thought of the weakness he’d revealed the night before. It was more than a possibility that whatever inner strength had sustained him though six weeks in hiding had been exhausted, and that he needed to draw on any resources I had in that department. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll come with you. Hopefully, he’ll arrange protection for us, and organise a proper search for Auntie Ade.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
I asked our waiter for more coffee, and for some toast and jam. As the train moved north, we finished breakfast, looking out of the window at the rugged skyline, through the slight haze that rose from the ground as the sun evaporated the dew that had settled through the night.
Before long the countryside began to change as we reached the outskirts of the urban sprawl that is Barcelona. The place has become a tourist Mecca since the 1992 Olympics helped to bring Gaudí’s wonderful architecture to the world’s attention, but all of that is to be found at its heart. Like virtually every city I can bring to mind, it ain’t very pretty on the outside.
The platforms in Sants Station aren’t architect designed either. They used to be darker than the London Underground, until new construction let some daylight in. As the train pulled in, we went back to our cabin and packed, if that’s what you could call it. For all my good intentions, I had become a bag-lady, alongside Boy Scout Frank with his rucksack. We took our time over it, waiting until no more passengers seemed to be leaving the train; only when the cleaners began to move in did we step down on to the platform.
He led the way up the escalator, ever cautious, in case our enemies had got ahead of us once more, a possibility if they had a
car and had driven like hell through the night. But there was no sign of the Canadian or his mate. I was going to head for the taxi rank, as usual, but Frank vetoed that. Instead we left the station by a side entrance, went into a shop on the edge of the square, and mingled with the early-morning shoppers for a while, before leaving by a different door, into another street, further away from the station. My guide and protector seemed to be back on form. We walked briskly along the shaded pavement until we saw a taxi available for hire. I flagged it and climbed in as Frank took one last look around, to be sure. ‘Hotel Arts, please,’ I told the driver. The courtesies are always observed in Spain. I don’t know another nation where ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are used as often.
He nodded. ‘You’ve been to Córdoba?’ he asked, as he drove off.
‘How did you know that?’ I asked suspiciously; paranoia had me in its grip, good and proper.
‘Your bag,’ he replied. ‘I recognised it. My sister lives in Córdoba;
I go there a couple of times a year, and sometimes I shop with her. Did you visit the Mezquita?’
‘Yes. Everyone does, don’t they?’
‘All the tourists, yes. Are you tourists?’
‘What do you think?’
I saw him smile in the rear-view. ‘You, I’m not certain, but your friend, he’s not Spanish.’ I glanced at Frank, sitting silently beside me, looking inscrutably Asiatic.
‘No, that’s for sure. Actually, I’m Scottish, and so’s he . . . well, half of him.’
‘That explains it. Scottish people speak good Spanish; better than the English. They cannot make our sounds.’ It hadn’t occurred to me before, but he was right: the ability to pronounce ‘loch’ properly does help a hell of a lot when speaking Castellano.
The morning traffic was at its peak, and so it took a while to reach the hotel. Our driver apologised for the delay, but said that it would have been worse if he had gone on to the throughway, the Ronda Litoral. Frank frowned doubtfully, but I knew that he was speaking the truth.
Inhuman Remains Page 13
