Message From Malaga (43 page)

The door opened. One of the young men he had seen sitting on the terrace that morning looked at him enquiringly, and
relaxed. “Good,” he said. “Glad to see you.” Then he glanced out, following the direction of Ferrier’s eyes, nodded. “Yes, he’s been busy all afternoon.”

“Regular staff or special substitute?” Ferrier asked as he stepped inside.

“Well—he’s older than most of the emptiers and polishers. And he has been keeping a careful eye on this room. Much good it has done him. We’ve been taking it easy.”

Have you? wondered Ferrier. He nodded over to O’Connor and two younger men—strangers to him—who were all on their feet, heads turned to face the door. Their jackets had been thrown aside, their shirt sleeves rolled up, ties slackened, collars loosened. The two strangers had just finished closing a fair-sized attaché case, stood beside it protectively. A sender-receiver? Ferrier glanced away from it, looked at the room. It seemed perfectly normal, with the usual nineteenth-century furnishings, faded pinks and creams, brass bedsteads, and all. But the writing table had been drawn up close to the French windows that gave out on their own balcony, and the connecting door to another bedroom was unblocked and half open. O’Connor moved over to the dressing-table, began pouring drinks for everyone. He was looking remarkably happy. “And where have
you
been?” he asked genially. It hadn’t worried him too much, obviously. Then he looked curiously at Ferrier as he offered a glass of Scotch. “Have this. You look pretty hot and thirsty. In fact, you look damned worried. What’s the trouble?”

Ferrier took the glass, added more ice, juggled it around as he looked at the two strangers over by the attaché case. “Are these Martin’s men?” he asked quietly.

“No. They work with Max.”

“Absolutely guaranteed?” Ferrier looked at the other young man. Yes, his companion on the balcony that morning had left with Max. He was possibly okay.

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him angrily. O’Connor’s were perplexed. “Absolutely. That’s Sam who let you in. You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?”

“No connection with Martin at all?”

“None.” O’Connor was emphatic, and cold.

“Do they know who he is?”

“We have discussed him a little.” O’Connor sounded vague. “We are working as a close team. In the circumstances, there’s a need to know—”

“Good. I can talk then. There’s something you all very much need to know,” Ferrier took a swallow of cool liquid, didn’t even taste it. “Martin is in Granada.”

“Is he now?” O’Connor said. He was surprised, but not alarmed. “Well as long as he stays out of our hair—”

“He’s working for the opposition.”

O’Connor froze. “Do you know what you are saying?” he asked much too quietly.

“I know that I saw Martin meet Gene Lucas—by appointment—in the Patio de la Alberca—up at the Generalife.”

“How do you know it was a definite appointment? Martin could have been trying a smart move with an enemy agent.”

“Amanda Ames heard the appointment being made early this morning in Málaga. She intercepted a phone call to Lucas.”

“Amanda Ames?” This was Sam, half-amused, half-pitying. “Didn’t you know she came up to Granada with two of Lucas’ men? If you are looking for someone who may be playing around with the opposition, you couldn’t do better than start with her.”

“That,” Ferrier snapped at him, “is what you are meant to think. She came up here on Martin’s orders. If there’s any suspicion about a security break in his network, he can shift the blame on to her. He has laid all the groundwork for that, hasn’t he? And if any information about Fuentes gets to the opposition, then Martin will say that she lunched with me today and made me talk too much.”

“Did you?” O’Connor asked.

“I lunched with her. But I didn’t talk about Fuentes.”

“Was she curious about him?”

“She had heard his name in these intercepts early this morning in Málaga.”

“And she never reported this to Martin today—after all, he did send her here, didn’t he?”

“He hasn’t been in touch with her. He left her sitting in the cold. She didn’t even know he was
in
Granada.” Ferrier drew a long, deep breath. “I tell you, I saw him. I saw him identify Lucas clearly to a third man who had also come to that meeting at the Generalife. And that man was Ben Waterman.” Ferrier could feel a wall of ice forming around him, right here in this warm room. “Ben Waterman,” he repeated defiantly.

The four faces stared at him.

Sam glanced at O’Connor. Then he said to Ferrier, “I don’t get the picture, frankly. That patio where they met is the one with the pools? Just below—”

“You know damned well it isn’t,” Ferrier said. “Roses and a special irrigation system. Amanda and I stood slightly back on that gallery, looked down on them without being seen ourselves. The fountain sprays didn’t hide them from where we were standing.”

“How did this meeting take place?” O’Connor asked slowly, watching Sam’s face. Ferrier had been accurate, no doubt about that.

“First, Lucas came into the patio. Walked around for some minutes. Next, Martin appeared and talked with Lucas—briefly. Then he saw Waterman approaching, and he retreated a short distance, stood there, waited. Waterman passed him as close as this—” Ferrier took a step right up to O’Connor—“but they didn’t even look at each other. And then Waterman stopped beside Lucas. They began walking, talking. They were still talking when we left. Martin walked, too, kept his distance behind them.”

The details had made some kind of impression. The four men looked at each other, then back at Ferrier.

Ferrier said, “Waterman arrived exactly at half past four. That was the specific time Amanda had heard in Málaga. She told me about that before we saw them meeting.” He shot a hard glance at Sam. “I didn’t quite believe her just then, didn’t know what to think. But she was right about all the details. Half past four and Waterman was there. She thinks he is the important one.”

There was a long deep silence. “Ben would be flattered,” O’Connor said. “I expect him here at six. He has been sleeping off too big a lunch. Sam—would you just check his room?” That’s something at least, Ferrier thought. He tried another drink, but found his hand was trembling. He placed the glass carefully on a table, sat down on the nearest chair.

“And,” added O’Connor, addressing one of the others, “he hasn’t seen you, has he, Burt? Why don’t you get down to the front door and watch who returns to the hotel in the next half
hour?” He looked at the remaining young man. “Al—I can’t think what the hell to give you to do, but wander out, will you? Perhaps you should keep an eye on the Ames girl.” He turned to Ferrier, who had slumped in the chair and put a hand wearily up over his eyes as if he were trying to blot out the whole Generalife scene. “Ian,” O’Connor said, “what’s her room number?”

Ferrier’s hand dropped slowly. He roused himself. “Room 403. But she won’t be back yet. We returned separately to the hotel. She took a taxi. She said it was safer.” Then he burst out, “I wish we hadn’t. I wish she were here talking with you people. She could give you—”

O’Connor said, “It was certainly safer. For you. She was right about that.”

“For me?” Ferrier looked at him indignantly.

O’Connor said to Al and Burt, “Okay. Phone if there is anything urgent. Otherwise I’ll see you around six.” They nodded, gave one last searching look in Ferrier’s direction, went out through the communicating door in the next bedroom, taking the attaché case with them. O’Connor waited until the outside door to the next room was also safely closed. He picked up Ferrier’s drink. “Let me freshen this for you.”

“Safer for me?” Ferrier was back at that question, and angry.

“Look—if that girl has told you the truth, she is in a decidedly tricky position. Right up on the high wire. Anyone who tries to share her act is also sharing the danger. Fortunately for you—come on, take this drink; you need it—fortunately, this is a crisis moment. And it passes. By tomorrow, if only we play our cards right, Tomás Fuentes will have been only a rumour. A big exciting rumour that petered out. Nothing to it, man.
We’ll leave tonight, looking disgruntled and depressed: another of those false leads. And the opposition—oh, they’ll search for a few more days, put out more alerts, but they’ll leave, too, equally disgruntled. Rumours happen all the time, and they are mostly false alarms.”

“They’ll leave with a broad smile all over their faces.”

“But we have got Fuentes. And we have hidden that fact. And we’ll keep on hiding it as long as we want it hidden.” O’Connor’s voice had been cold and hard. Then he looked at Ferrier, who was sceptical and depressed, said more easily, “Let me give you the good word. We’ve been in touch with Max, loud and clear. The first stage is accomplished. Just half an hour ago, Fuentes was leaving for Washington.”

Ferrier forgot everything else. “But not from Madrid. There wasn’t time enough for that.” He rose, went over to the French windows, looked out on the balcony. This room was high up, and made higher by the drop beneath the hotel to a lower stretch of ground. It faced roughly south-southwest, judging by the sun. He came back to his chair. O’Connor was watching him, had already guessed what was behind this interest in the view outside. “Loud and clear?” Madrid was due north. Reception would have been more difficult. “The message came from somewhere to the south?”

“That’s right,” O’Connor said. “A little to the west, actually. From the Cádiz area.” He was suddenly in excellent humour.

From Rota? “You had him taken straight to our naval base there? And what does Fuentes say to that?”

“He is peacefully asleep.”

“He isn’t going to Switzerland?”

“If he wants to go—yes.” O’Connor’s thoughts travelled
briefly to Jeff Reid’s lighter. It might be a powerful mind-changer. “After he has talked with us, of course,” he added discreetly.

“How much co-operation will you get when he wakes up in Washington screaming double cross?”

O’Connor looked pained. “Don’t tell me you are feeling sympathy for that son of a bitch? Do you know what he pulled on me? A gun. Complete with silencer. I didn’t even have time to take your parting advice.”

“He actually drew on you? Backing up more demands?”

O’Connor nodded. “You know, there was a very awkward moment when I realised he would have killed me, taken my papers, walked right out of that door into the courtyard—if only he had been closer to my height and weight and had more of my face structure. Yes, there he was, pointing that pistol at me, calculating what kind of chance he would have.”

“But not all power comes out of the barrel of a gun,” Ferrier reminded him. He looked at O’Connor speculatively. “Sometimes it comes from a hidden ace. Such as Fuentes’ own words, in his own voice, recorded by Jeff Reid’s lighter?”

O’Connor only looked bland. “By the way, the lighter is safe. Thought you ought to know that. A relief, isn’t it? Yes, Mike arrived in Washington without any trouble.”

But Ferrier hadn’t finished with Fuentes. “Why beat your brains out trying to make the rumour theory work? Why not let Waterman and his friends realise you’ve got Fuentes, and out of their reach?”

“Three reasons,” O’Connor said crisply. “One: Fuentes is not safely out of their reach at this stage, if they know where to look for him. Two: we’d have no chance of any cooperation
from Fuentes if he knew we hadn’t covered his tracks as we promised. You know what he’d scream then? That we kidnapped him, took him by force, against his will. He’d blame us to clear himself. And three: Tavita’s own safety.”

“Three valid reasons,” Ferrier said slowly. “Kidnapping charges? That’s pretty steep. But it’s pure Fuentes. He’d never have any chance of a comeback among his own people if they didn’t think he had been victimised. They’d make good propaganda mileage out of that, too.” Then Ferrier smiled. “When do you play your ace?”

“Only if we must. And I hope it won’t be necessary.”

“That’s one time he won’t be able to come up with any excuse, any explanation. No charges, no more demands. A reformed character.” Ferrier added bitterly, “I say he isn’t worth saving.”

“Our country is worth saving,” O’Connor said quietly.

“In spite of its Ben Watermans and Martins. God, what a hell of a mess some people create for themselves. Why? Why?”

“I’ll start asking that when I’m quite sure in my own mind what they are.” O’Connor paused. “I think we should remember that Ben Waterman was responsible for getting Mike safely to the Málaga airport last night. Ben didn’t run any interference, try any tricks. Sure, I know Ben hadn’t any idea that Mike was going on to Washington, or that he was carrying that lighter on him. No one knew that. Not even you. I know, too, that he might have been just building up our trust in him. As you’d probably say in your present mood, it was all a part of the old confidence game. But we ought—”

“Dammit, I’ve got every right to my present mood.”

“I understand fully,” O’Connor said. “But isn’t it possible
that your interpretation of the scene in the patio was a little coloured by the Ames girl? She may be—”

“I saw him.”

“Were you close enough to be sure it was Ben and not some quick-change artist imitating him? Remember Fuentes and his skill? That’s possible, you know, it’s quite—”

“Possible,” Ferrier interrupted sharply, “but not true.” His voice was harsh. “Look, do you think I
enjoy
saying it was Ben?”

“No, no. Please—” O’Connor looked at him unhappily.

Ferrier insisted, “I saw him. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, tightly cut, Spanish-style.”

“If so, it’s the first time he has worn it.” O’Connor sighed, frowned. “Ian, mistakes can be made. But if you didn’t make one—” there was a long pause, a deeper frown—“you can be sure that neither Martin nor Waterman is going to get away with it. Be sure of that,” he added grimly.

“How would you handle the problem?”

“Not here. We couldn’t deal with it here. It takes time, for one thing, to verify all the facts, make sure the suspicions are justified, trace all the leads we discover.”

“So we play along with them, now, as if nothing had happened?” Ferrier didn’t stomach the idea, and he showed it clearly.