Message From Malaga (42 page)

He was walking slowly, partly sheltered by a family group that trailed around him. He was early by ten minutes. Once inside the patio, he separated from Papá and Mamá and little José and Maria and all the rest of the brood, and began his own separate stroll down one long flower bed. His face came into sharper focus. Today, he was a well-dressed man in the Spanish style (and it suited him—the Swedes would have adopted him on sight), with a seemingly quick eye for pretty girls that neatly disguised a more general interest. Not much missed him.

“Is he coming here?” Ferrier asked worriedly, noticing Lucas’ direction.

“Why should he? You and I are supposed to be safely up in the Albaicin.”

“The gypsy quarters? And how did we get there?” He watched Lucas stop at a display of roses and turn to look back at the entrance gate.

“Well—you were right—I did tell him I would probably lunch with you. I had to. He asked me what I was doing for lunch, when he came borrowing my room for his meeting with
some people who were arranging an exhibition of paintings here in Granada. He thought they were interested in two of his; very exciting, big deal. He was sorry about the way he was neglecting me, but it was just one of those things. He couldn’t even be with me this afternoon, as he had promised; we’d just have to postpone that daylight visit to the Albaicin and he’d take me there later this evening after dinner. And that’s where I dug in my heels and said, ‘But I’ve never seen it by daylight—that’s the whole point—I want to see the gypsies as they live there, not putting on a performance for tourists. So I’m going this afternoon.’ But not alone, he warned me; that would worry him. So I said that if he wouldn’t come, then I’d ask you. He tried to look doubtful. But he was pleased. After all, he had tried to steer me into that suggestion, hadn’t he?”

“The perpetual chess game. Pawn to Queen’s fourth.”

“But whose pawn?” she asked quickly. “I hope it was mine. That’s the winning move, isn’t it?”

“It’s the aggressive one.”

“Well, I’m tired of always reacting instead of acting. Let’s see what this move brings us.”

Lucas must have recognised someone who had entered the gate—there was a crowd there now—for he had stopped watching it and begun to walk slowly around. Bloody hell, thought Ferrier, I didn’t see any likely candidate coming through the entrance. I was too busy being fascinated by Lucas, too absorbed by what Amanda was telling me. So he did want to get me out of the way this afternoon, he did want—Ferrier’s thoughts stopped cold. He tightened his grip on Amanda. Behind a screen of line water, Lucas was meeting his friend. The arch of spray hid them as they came together, but not enough
from this high observation point. The man was Martin.

Amanda said almost in a whisper, “Before they leave, I must slip down there and get that man’s photograph. I’ll take the path through that high terrace on our left, circle back down to the entrance gates of the patio. I’ll catch him there. Don’t worry, it’s safe enough: they won’t be leaving together. He doesn’t know who I am.”

“I think he does. And there’s no need to photograph him. I can identify him. It’s Martin.”

She turned to stare at him.

“It’s Martin,” he repeated. And that explains so much, he thought, and his own anger grew. “I’m sorry,” he said bitterly as she looked back at the middle-aged man, tall, pale of face, quietly dressed, who stood beside Lucas. “Truly sorry.” For doubts and suspicions and all the rest of the poison that Martin had given him to drink. Thank God he hadn’t swallowed it whole, thank God for his own instincts. He had thought they were prejudices; he didn’t like the guy, he blamed him for fussing too much and delivering too little—a day late and a dollar short, that had seemed to be Martin.

For a long moment, Amanda could say nothing. She looked down at that quiet figure unbelievingly. “So Lucas has known all along. About me. He’s known. They’ve played me—” She took a deep breath. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, white-faced with shock. “Are you
sure
?”

“Positive. I met him last night.”

“Oh, no,” she said again, but this time it was in protest, not disbelief. “And all my reports—he would pass on to Washington only what he wanted them to see. Careful selection. Nothing damaging about Lucas—nothing valuable. No wonder my
reports got such little response. No wonder I seemed so—so ineffectual. Oh, God—what do I do now?” Her hand tightened on Ferrier’s, holding it close to her waist. And then something caught her interest in the patio. “That’s odd. They have scarcely talked, and now Martin is moving away. All the trouble they’ve taken, the risk—oh no, not for two minutes of talk. They could have telephoned for only that.”

“He isn’t moving too far away. He seems to—” Ferrier broke off. He was perplexed, uncertain, as he saw a third man approaching. It was Ben Waterman.

Amanda had caught sight of Waterman, too. “There’s your friend—the one who delivered my postcard to you.”

Ferrier had found the explanation. With a smile, he said, “He knows Martin. He has either followed him up here—that’s the kind of wild thing Ben might do, just for the hell of it—or he came to admire the roses and caught sight of Martin.” In either case, this should give Martin a jolt. “Let’s see how Martin handles this,” Ferrier said, his smile spreading. “Yes, very skilful. He has put ten feet between himself and Lucas. They don’t even know each other any longer.”

Then Ferrier’s amusement ended abruptly. Ben Waterman had passed Martin without one glance. Ben Waterman had joined Lucas. Together, they began walking slowly along the stretch of rose bed, stopped now and again, walking, stopping, walking, and always talking, talking easily and quietly and intently. Martin followed at a discreet distance, keeping a watchful eye on everyone around them.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Amanda asked almost in a whisper, drawing back instinctively as Martin’s eyes were suddenly raised to the gallery.

Ferrier didn’t speak. She looked at him. His face was tense, his lips tight. He has had a worse blow than even I had she thought; this has hit him hard. She asked no more questions, just kept her hand on his. The pressure of his arm around her waist was almost unbearable.

Ferrier took a deep breath. “Ben Waterman.”

“He’s the important one. He arrived exactly on time. Half past four. Martin made sure that he’d meet the right man, quickly, without any doubts. Yes, that was it—Martin vouched for Lucas.”

“I’ve known him for years,” Ferrier said dully, still watching Ben Waterman, now half hidden by a screen of water. “And I never knew him at all.”

“He could be working for us,” she tried. “He could have been sent here to do the job I’ve done so—so badly,” she added bitterly. But she didn’t really believe it: this man Waterman was giving the orders. Of that, she was sure.

Ferrier got a grip on his thoughts. “Let’s move out of here. I’ve got to get back to the hotel. There’s a man I must see. At once.” O’Connor... How much had O’Connor told Waterman about the Fuentes escape? About the journey to Seville with Max? Perhaps Fuentes had never reached there. “Come on,” he urged.

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“I’m
not
leaving you here alone, and no argument about that. Look, Amanda—there is nothing more you can do. It’s over. Done. Finished.” And my job, now, is to get you safely down through these gardens to the main road. “Come on,” he repeated, his voice sharp with worry.

“I must see if anyone else joins them—get a photograph—”

“And report to whom? Martin?” he asked brutally. But she came out of her shock, recovered some of her senses.

She looked at him helplessly. “I—I—” She shrugged her shoulders as if she had just fully realised how lost she was. But she did not move.

“Face it, Amanda. The job’s over. And you are in danger. If you are found near this patio, it won’t be only this assignment that’s ended for you. For God’s sake, don’t you know the danger you’re in?”

And so are you, she thought. I’ve put you in this danger. But the job’s not over. Not yet. And you won’t leave without me. What do I do, what do I do?

“There is one man you can report to, and he is at the hotel,” Ferrier said in desperation. “He is leaving for Washington. This evening.” And that got results.

“The man you must see?” She didn’t wait for his reply. She began walking quickly, past the honeymoon couple who were wandering around hand in hand, past a group of schoolgirls twittering excitedly under the careful gaze of a nun, past the young men who circled around them, past the attendant pacing his beat, and led Ferrier through the little maze of bare dark rooms and passages that brought them out on the upper slope of the Generalife’s hill.

He let her choose the way down. She knew these paths better than he did. The pace was fast. By himself, he might have taken a longer route through the complication of terraces and Moorish architecture. The chief problem, now, was time. But they lost none. (He had stopped worrying about being discovered by one of Lucas’ men patrolling these gardens. It was more likely, he decided, that the smaller fry had been kept
well away from the patio: Martin would not want any of them to be able to identity him. Nor would Ben Waterman.)

“Congratulations,” he said as he saw that their quick detour was bringing them back into the mix of people outside the patio’s entrance gates. “When we leave the underpass. I’ll draw ahead. Keep well behind me. I’ll signal you if I see anyone. That stretch of road down to the parking area is too open for my taste.” It was just the kind of place that Lucas might have posted one of his agents.

She glanced at the patio gates as he steered her wide of them. The crowd around them was bigger than ever. “Conditions are perfect,” she murmured. “Too bad about that photograph.”

“We’ll do without it,” he said sharply.

“Waterman talking with Lucas, Martin just ten feet away—wouldn’t that be something?” she asked lightly.

“Let’s not even joke about it,” he told her. “Don’t press our luck, Amanda.” At least, he thought, her confidence is returning. Up on that gallery, six minutes ago—less—she had been a shaken girl. “I’ll get to the car first, bring it to meet you at the foot of that road. Then you hop in. No strain. Right?” They entered the underpass. “Right?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. “We’ll keep separate. I’ll scout ahead. If everything is okay, I’ll be at the foot of the road with the car. Got that?” And if everything isn’t okay, I’ll get back to her, grab her by the wrist, and we’ll lose ourselves among those terraces.

She nodded. “But I don’t think we should risk being seen getting into the same car. I’ll take a taxi. Much safer.”

He halted, looked at her. “Safer for whom?” Was she worrying about
him
? He nearly laughed outright.

“For both of us. Lucas knows we are spending the afternoon
together. We’ll be less noticeable if we are separate.”

True enough. But he didn’t like it. “There may be no cabs.”

“Then you’ll just have to pick me up as you said. But we really shouldn’t arrive at the hotel together.”

“We have a perfectly good cover story for that.”

“Not any more. We never could have visited the Albaicin, gypsies and all, in this short time. No—you had to leave after lunch—business appointment, friends to meet, something like that. And I took a taxi and went sightseeing.”

He glanced at his watch. A quarter of five. Better than he had hoped, much better. But not good enough for the Albaicin alibi. She was right about that.

“I’ll see you at the hotel,” she told him. “My room number is 403. I’ll stay there until I hear from you.”

“We’ll be watching for you. And if I don’t call you before six—if I get delayed somehow—go straight to Room 307. His name is Smith.”

“Take care, Ian,” she said quickly. “You are my one hope.” She laughed, a little unsteadily. Then suddenly she reached up and kissed his cheek. “And thank you.”

He caught her into his arms, held her as if he would never let go, looking into those blue eyes. He kissed her lips. Then he was out into the bright sunlight, following the visitors who were leaving, making his way against the current of new arrivals.

The smile lingered on her face as she watched him go. He merged with the stream of foot traffic, and she stepped out of the underpass, keeping her head down, her hands deep in her coat pockets. She felt the mini-camera. Too bad, she thought again. I was so close to some really corroborative evidence. Martin could not have talked his way out of that.

The smile had gone from her face. Yes, conditions were perfect. In this crowd, she was only one of hundreds. And even if she couldn’t get the three men into one photograph, she might get them separately as they left the patio. Same background, same clouds, same light showing the same time of day, same shadows, same film... Yes, that would be one piece of evidence that no one, not even the expert liars, could contradict. She quickened her pace. If she didn’t get down to that group of taxis, Ian would come up here after her. Cursing and swearing, but coming up definitely. He was probably watching her, now, as she came to the foot of the road.

She saw the white Simca pull out as she got into a taxi. “Just a minute,” she told the driver. She watched the Simca cruise past, Ian looked at her, making sure she was safe. It put on speed. Near her, a touring bus stopped and poured out a batch of crumpled people. This is my chance, she thought, this is it. Quickly, she handed the man a large tip, said, “Sorry, I have changed my mind.” She was out and away before he could shrug his shoulders.

She slipped into the crowd of tourists and was lost from sight.

Ferrier did not stop to phone O’Connor from the hotel porter’s desk. He made directly for Room 307, not even bothering to take the elevator to the second floor and walk the third flight. There was no need for that now. Ben Waterman knew exactly where O’Connor was to be found.

Ferrier knocked quietly. “Coming,” a voice called from the room. He waited impatiently, studied the giant brass ashtray lying flat on the floor near him with its smooth fresh sand impressed by a large coat of arms. Along the vast stretch of hotel corridor there were many bright ashtrays and a uniformed boy at work on his knees, emptying the few cigarette butts, changing the sand, polishing the brass until it gleamed, adding fresh sand, smoothing it arena-flat, and at last carefully pressing it with the imposing seal.