Message From Malaga (33 page)

O’Connor was thoughtful as he handed Ferrier his drink.
Then he repeated grimly, “Give nothing away that could really damage his return... Well, let’s see what we can do, shall we?” He raised his glass, and they both drank to his promise. O’Connor’s voice came back to normal. “Frankly, there were some parts of your story I didn’t like at all.”

Ferrier’s sense of accomplishment left him. He looked at O’Connor, his eyes narrowing.

“They got Tavita’s Granada address. Right out of your wallet. Not good, not good.”

Ferrier relaxed. “I know,” he agreed. “It links her too closely with me. Could be dangerous for her.”

“Or vice versa. It was in her handwriting, too. That’s going to interest them—they’re probably checking on any autographed photographs of her, right now.” O’Connor rubbed his brow worriedly. “And I didn’t like that whole silver pencil bit. Reid’s was lifted from his hospital room—they are probably taking it to pieces looking for microfilm—and Lucas knows the girl Ames carries an identical pencil. That’s danger right there for her.” He looked at Ferrier, said carefully, “Unless, of course, Martin’s suspicion about her is right.” He still kept his eyes on Ferrier. “No comment?”

“I don’t believe she has sold out.”

“Why not? Because she cut loose from the Wild Left at Berkeley when she found her group was being manipulated by communists?”

Ferrier shook his head. “That’s a good story—always has been—but there was more than that to her. It was the way she reacted when she saw the kids at the beach. The lost ones, the lotus-eaters, searching for the never-never land. It hurts her to watch them. It hurts me. Blown minds, unhappy eyes, sullen
mouths. All of them crowding together for the only courage they know. If Amanda had been just another version of Lucas, either she would have walked past them without a qualm—accepted the scene as one proof that America was on the skids, that her theories about the West were right—or she might even have risked a little gloating just to see me squirm. But no. The scene hurt her. Hurt badly. She’s worried about the future of the country. Really worried.” Ferrier took a deep breath. “So the hell with Martin. He has been infiltrated and he chose the easiest excuse. That’s all.”

“Martin must have had good reason for whatever he said.” O’Connor was playing stranger to all this: the dispassionate observer who did not want to trespass on a colleague’s responsibility.

A reason, certainly; but I might not call it good, thought Ferrier. “Is Martin important?” he asked frankly. “Is his section, department, group, whatever you call it—is it important?”

“Everything is important in this kind of work, big or small.”

Ferrier had to smile. “Well, is his particular set up important in a big or a small way?”

“I’d imagine,” O’Connor said cautiously, “that its significance is growing, now that the Soviet fleet is all over the Mediterranean.”

“In that case, infiltration is really something to worry about.”

O’Connor broke his neutrality with a definite nod.

“Then,” asked Ferrier angrily, “why doesn’t he go after the man who delayed sending you my telephone message? I phoned Madrid from the hospital before three in the morning, Málaga time. You didn’t hear about it until dawn, Washington time. There’s a six-hour summertime lag between Spain and our
eastern seaboard. Whatever happened in all those extra hours to a simple little message that didn’t even need decoding? You could have received it last night.”

O’Connor said nothing at first. I was in the office until ten o’clock last night, he was thinking; I could easily have received that message from Málaga before then. “I take it you don’t think much of Martin’s efficiency?” he asked with a smile. But his own feelings were bitter. He masked his worry. “Well, Martin is out of our present operation now. We don’t need his assistance. I have other sources.” Max, for instance. Max won’t drag his feet, or let others loiter, either. “As for the Ames girl—Martin could be right about her, you know. To be quite frank, he has a reputation for being cautious. Not imaginative, not daring. But quietly capable. He has been in this kind of work for twenty years. One of the old hands.” Too old? wondered O’Connor. That delay in the delivery of the message from Málaga could have been absolutely disastrous. As it was, there had been irreparable loss: an agent dead. And there was now a feeling of emergency that was too tight for comfort. So let Martin clean up the mess in his own back yard—no doubt he was already investigating who was asleep on the job and why—and we’ll concentrate on our own problems, O’Connor decided. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll need your help in Granada, Ian. Will you give it?”

And what would he say if I refused? “I’ll vouch for you,” Ferrier said with a grin. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It’s the quickest way of approaching Fuentes. You will get in touch with Tavita, meet Tomás Fuentes, and then assure him I’m the real O’Connor and no substitute.”

“That should be simple enough.”

“Check into the Palace Hotel tomorrow morning. Around nine. I’ll be there ahead of you. But pay no attention to me at all. Have breakfast, read the papers, study the view, and then—soon after ten o’clock—call Tavita.”

“Call her? From the hotel?”

“Why not? What else would a man be expected to do if he carried Tavita’s address in his pocket? Make it a friendly call, really friendly—alone in Granada, hoping to see her as much as possible, can you spend the day with her beginning now? Right away, the sooner the better.” O’Connor stopped abruptly as he noticed the amusement on Ferrier’s face. “Sorry. I don’t need to brief you on how to talk to a woman. Okay, okay. Handle it your way. And after the call, you set out for Tavita’s address. You’ve got it?”

Ferrier passed over the sheet of paper on which Esteban had written the full directions. “I’ve memorised it this time,” he said pointedly. “You can keep it.”

O’Connor studied it. “How far from the hotel?”

Ferrier repeated the directions that Tavita had given him. “A few minutes’ walk,” he ended.

“Good. You’ll reach it easily by half past ten, and I’ll be right behind you. Ben and I will leave the hotel by car, drive around. for a little, then past Tavita’s house. He’ll drop me there quickly, and I’ll be at the front door in a matter of seconds. Have the old girl—Magdalena?—ready to let me in. No waiting. Ben will drive on; get back eventually to the hotel. That way, there will be no cars parked anywhere near Tavita’s house—neither yours nor mine. Got all that?”

Ferrier nodded. “And afterward?”

“You can relax and enjoy Granada.” Unless, of course, there
were complications.

“Yes?” asked Ferrier, watching O’Connor’s eyes.

“That’s what I’m hoping for you, at least,” O’Connor said blandly. “Plans have always got to be elastic—strong enough to carry the load, flexible enough to stretch a little.”

“Like the fat lady’s girdle.”

“Just about,” O’Connor said, and broke into a broad smile. He gave one last look at Tavita’s address, took out his matches and struck one into a flame. He watched the piece of paper catch fire, curl up into a thin sheet of black ash; then he dropped it on to an empty plate, mashed it into fragments among the bread crumbs from the sandwiches. “Most determined handwriting,” he observed. “Whose?”

“Esteban’s.”

“Ah, yes—the ex-bullfighter. You know, that was another thing I didn’t like in your story.”

“Esteban? A very decent man,” Ferrier said quickly.

“Which also means a simple, honest man who sees things in strict black and white. He hates Fuentes, doesn’t he?”

“But he’s devoted to Tavita.”

“Then he has had a real battle raging in his mind for the last two days.” O’Connor shook his head in sympathy.

“Should I call him? Tell him I’m on my way to Granada. No delay, now.”

“The only wrong thing with that idea is that I don’t want anyone to know we are moving in so fast. Surprise is our best weapon.” Our only one, O’Connor thought worriedly. But where the hell was Ben? Had Mike taken off safely? Was Max now being briefed, starting to make his plans, sending some special messages of his own? “Fuentes is a tricky customer,”
he said, trying to stop thinking about Mike’s journey. “He will have his own ideas about where he is going. Reid was right: Fuentes is using us, for a small
quid pro quo,
to reach his hiding place. He must have had this planned for months.”

“Switzerland and a numbered bank account,” Ferrier suggested.

“How much did Reid actually tell you about Fuentes?” O’Connor asked quickly.

“Just what I’ve already told you. Enough to warn you—in case the lighter got lost.”

Strange, realised O’Connor, that this man knows more about Fuentes than anyone else except myself. And in one thing, he added to that, he actually knows more than I do. He knows how Fuentes looks. “Sorry about the early start tomorrow. But I don’t want you—” He broke off as the telephone rang. He glanced at his watch again. Something wrong at the airport?

“Do I take it?” Ferrier asked.

O’Connor nodded, rose with Ferrier, followed him into the study, stood impatiently by.

“It’s Martin,” said Ferrier, covering the mouthpiece. “For you.”

O’Connor swore softly, took the receiver. He listened patiently. “Nothing to worry about,” he said at last. “Mike is needed back in Washington, that’s all. I’ll travel on with Ben to Madrid, stop off at a couple of places and meet some people there. Might as well, while I am in Spain... Yes, yes. I know there isn’t any flight out of here on Sunday morning. We’ll be driving... All right. If you have uncovered anything urgent, you can reach me in Granada. At the Palace. We should be there around lunchtime... Ferrier? No, he won’t be here tomorrow...
I’ll tell him, but I think he’ll see to his car himself... Sure, sure, he’ll let the housekeeper know to expect Reid’s lawyer. Goodbye. Thanks for all your co-operation... No. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.” He replaced the receiver quickly, making sure of an end to the call. He stood looking at it for a few moments, then went back to the living-room.

O’Connor was frowning. Surely, he was thinking, Martin didn’t expect me to give any serious information over that phone? Besides, it is none of his business, anyway. Possibly he’s just trying to give the impression of being tremendously efficient. “Well,” he asked Ferrier, who was being tactfully silent, “did you piece that conversation together?”

“Some of it,” Ferrier said frankly. “You weren’t bothering about any conspiratorial whisper, were you?”

Something else was amusing O’Connor. “At least we know Mike is safely out of Málaga.” He laughed outright at the way the information had come to him. Sideways, as it were, in the form of a mild complaint. “Martin got worried when he heard I wasn’t on that plane.”

“He had someone watching the airport?”

“Just in case of a crisis.” O’Connor looked at Ferrier with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Changing your mind about him being ineffective?”

Ferrier let that go. “What was that bit about my car?”

“He offered to have someone take it back to Granada, for you if you were travelling off in another direction.”

“Obliging of him.” So Martin had noted the car’s registration plates.

“It was meant kindly. Oh, yes—and another bit of fussing: nothing is to be removed from here. Two of his men are coming
to make an inventory. Close examination of everything. So tell the housekeeper to leave things as they are.”

“If,” Ferrier said wryly, “she’ll let two strange men enter, after what she has been through tonight. She’ll probably call the police.”

“We’ll let Martin handle that,” O’Connor said generously. “Now where was I when his call interrupted us?”

“Early start. And you didn’t want me to do something.”

“That’s right. I don’t want you taking any risks on that road to Granada. Keep the speed down, will you?”

Ferrier caught the full meaning. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure of getting there.”

“That’s all I want. If you are followed, don’t try to—” He cut off, listening intently.

“That’s the old Mercedes.” It was moving carefully up the drive toward the yard.

O’Connor was on his feet grabbing his jacket, pulling it on as he hurried Ferrier toward the back of the house. “If you are followed,” he repeated, “don’t try to outdistance them. Play it safe; keep everything natural, unworried.”

“Okay, okay,” Ferrier said reassuringly. He unlocked the kitchen door. Ben Waterman was waiting outside, handing over Ferrier’s car keys with a happy flourish. He was in good spirits and all ready to tell them of some small triumph—that was the look in his eye—but Ferrier never heard it, for O’Connor caught Waterman’s arm, said, “Later, later,” in a low voice. Together they headed down towards the front gate. Ferrier locked the kitchen door, went quickly through the long passage to try to have a parting glimpse of them from the dining-room windows. But he could see nothing. They must have left the
moon-silvered stretch of driveway for the mixed shadows of the garden.

He wasted no more time, himself, but made for the staircase. He did not switch off the lights, deciding that a plunge into blackness would mark O’Connor’s exit too definitely. He was equally careful about the lights in his own room, relying on the one at his bedside already turned on by Concepción when she had tidied the place. She had done more than that: the clothes he had given her for cleaning and pressing that morning were all hanging neatly in the wardrobe. Which solved a small problem. A man who liked to travel with only one bag couldn’t afford to mess up his two jackets within twenty-four hours. Twenty-four? Even less than that, since he had sat down at a table in the courtyard of El Fenicio.

He was slowing up. He fumbled with his alarm clock, but made sure—careful, now, careful—it was set for five. That would give him time to pack, leave a note for Concepción (inventory, plus thanks, plus a more practical token of his gratitude), and set him well on the road before six. He placed the clock on the table close to his pillow, stood looking at it, stood thinking of tomorrow if only to stop remembering the pain of this day.

Then he got hold of himself, moved quickly. He stripped, showered, fell into bed, drifted away. Into sleep.