Conspiracy (28 page)

Then he lost consciousness.

9

Raul Coquias opened the door on the driver’s side, opened the window, and then leaned across the slumped figure of Keith Palermo to shut off the flow of knockout gas from the small Russian-made canister he had activated beneath the passenger seat. Still holding his breath, Raul cranked down Palermo’s window, took a slim metal case from the glove compartment, and broke open the sterilized wrapper on one of the disposable hypodermic syringes that lay inside. It was a simple matter to find a vein in Palermo’s wrist and inject the sedative, but first Raul swabbed the skin over the vein with cotton and alcohol, also from the glove compartment. They had said Palermo was to be treated well for a week, and that did not include giving him an infection with the needle.

The injection completed, Raul positioned the inert man upright, using the car’s seat belt and shoulder harness. To avoid possible stares from pedestrians, he took a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses from the back seat and fitted them on Palermo’s head. To keep the head from lolling forward during stops and starts, Raul used a white cotton-covered foam neck brace he had bought in a Madrid
farmaria
.

The guard on duty at the gate waved him through without a glance at Palermo. Raul drove half a block to a stop light, turned left, and then double-parked while he shed his uniform hat and jacket and stowed them under the back seat. He set his wristwatch alarm mechanism for ten minutes of ten. At that time the sedative would begin to wear off, and Palermo would need another injection. Then he put the car in gear and settled himself for a long drive. It was Saturday night; few stores were open to accept deliveries on Sunday, so there would be fewer tracks on the Camino Nacional. With luck, before Palermo needed a third injection he would have reached Granada, 405 kilometers to the south.

10

Shortly before seven o’clock, Sharon finished the last of her day’s work. She got up from her position at the control panel and walked to the central door of the studio truck. Cindy Ling was at the slo-mo deck.

“Seen Keith?” Sharon asked.

“A couple of hours earlier. In a crowd.”

Outside the track, Sharon sat on the metal steps until 7:05. Then she decided that Keith might have misunderstood and gone to pick her up at the office across the street. She came back inside the truck and phoned over. When no one answered, she decided she would walk there anyway; it was possible that he was waiting in the empty office and didn’t want to pick up a UBC phone.

The western sunlight on the Avenue of the Generals tinged the buildings with orange highlights and deep shadows. The dry Madrid air was cooling.
He’s got to be there
, Sharon thought.

11

As the sun set over Granada, Agustin Vavra walked up the dirt path of the Sacromonte with a heavy heart. It was the first Saturday night in nearly five years that he had no bet down for the Sunday
futbol
games. The scorecard was in his pocket. He had scored all fourteen games—win, lose, or draw for the home team—and in his bones he had the feeling that luck was running with him this time. Yet he had no bet down because he had no money.

From his outpost along the path, Agustin’s son greeted him in the Romany tongue. The boy was a beautiful child, almost eleven years old, and enterprising too. He had staked out his territory well in advance of the other children who served as “guides” to the gypsy caves. Tonight, the boy said, he would bring many
gadje
: foreign tourists. “No stealing from the other boys,” Agustin warned. He referred to the competition between gypsy youngsters, who fought like young tigers over tourists. According to the Kris, the gypsy law, the first to take the hand of the tourist had won the right to bring that
gadje
to his parents’ cave. Little Agustin, however, had taken to bird-dogging the smaller children and bringing their potential customers to Agustin’s cave—a practice that had brought Agustin a stern reprimand last week from the
voivode
, the chieftain of the Sacromonte gypsies—as well as a substantial fine. Tourists were the gypsies’ bread and butter, and they had to be shared. That was the rule.

Little Agustin grinned, perfect teeth gleaming white against his dirt-smudged skin. “Only steal from the
gadje
.”

This reply caused Agustin to frown gravely. The boy was developing into a very promising young pickpocket, but he had an annoying habit of robbing his victims before he brought them to Agustin’s cave. This practice caused great unpleasantness when the victim tried to pay for the evening’s entertainment and realized his loss. Agustin reminded the boy sternly that nothing was to be taken from a
gadje
until the return trip down the Sacromonte, and received a stream of protest that tourists returning from Agustin’s cave rarely had anything left worth stealing. 

The father took his son’s flattery, as the saying goes among the peoples of Rom, with a mug of garlic water.

“Guide them elsewhere, then,” he growled, and rumpled the boy’s hair.

Continuing up the narrow, rock-strewn pathway, Agustin reflected on the humiliation he had suffered in the
jugar
shop, the grubby hole-in-the-wall in Granada where he placed his
futbol
bets. To have lost, that was one thing; but to have lost so badly that he could not even afford the minimum wager for the Sunday Fourteen? That was a catastrophe.

Even now his ears burned hot with shame at what they must be saying about the foolish gypsy. Tomorrow he would have the pesetas from tonight’s crop of tourists, but that was too late to save face. He cursed softly to himself and wished that he had never heard of
El Copa Mundial
, the World Cup, and that he had never bet against the Americanos. The loss he had taken was a setback not only to his pride, but also to the family economy; he had hoped to realize enough winnings to furnish the second cave he had recently bought. 

That cave was at the top of the Sacromonte, isolated from the competitors in what Agustin felt was a commanding position—a natural journey’s end for those who wished to say not only that they had seen the gypsy dances in the caves in the sacred mountain, but that they had climbed to the very top.

Unless he had a sudden stroke of fortune, however, Agustin would now have to wait until next year to buy the rugs and copper utensils and leather goods that a properly furnished cave required. Perhaps even later, the way prices kept going up. He dreaded to think of what Lora, his wife, would say. Her mother was to have moved up to the new cave, but now the old harridan would be with them for the remainder of this tourist season and on through the winter. When she learned of the money he had lost, her tongue would drip venom. 

Agustin made up his mind not to tell any of the family until after tomorrow. That way he could be assured of tonight’s take; no one would hold back on him. Then, if there was a good haul, he would have a sizable portion to bet on the
Copa Mundial
semifinals. Agustin still had a good hunch that the Americans were going to lose.

He pushed aside the worn canvas flap that covered the mouth of his cave and forced a smile. His wife and two daughters greeted him. They were already dressed in their working garb, the tight gown of the
volta
fertility dance. Long sleeves, a neckline that plunged to the waist, close-fitting around the hips. Their gleaming black hair was tightly braided. Their lips, boldly painted red, compelled attention. Their dark eyes, outlined in mascara, transfixed the unwary. 

Tonight they would dance. The ten or twelve
gadje
who would crowd into the cave at any one time would stare as the rhythms of the tambourine and
zimbel
, the melody of violin and flute, possessed the dancing women. The gypsy legends— the dance of the vampire and the virgin, the dance of the boar’s tusk and the rose-water—would work their magic. The
gadjes
would part with their valuables, either voluntarily, as payment for what they were about to see, or otherwise as the little ones and Lora’s mother moved among the crowd, their skillful hands busy during the heat of the dancing.

There had been much excitement while Agustin had been away, his wife told him. Rojas, the chief of the Sacromonte, had telephoned for Agustin concerning a new business venture he wanted to discuss. And Ignacio, the rug peddler, had offered to cover the dirt floor of the new cave four layers deep in high-quality designs for less than half his usual rate. All he was asking in return was that payment be made by the end of July. 

“That would give us three good months operating two caves,” Lora said, and showed her teeth in a brief smile of pride at the bargain she had found. For Lora, a brief smile at any time other than during the volta dance indicated wild excitement. Agustin coughed and scratched his beard and said the rugs might be worth looking at. Then he excused himself and said he would pay a call on Rojas, the chief.

As it turned out, Rojas’s business proposition also concerned Agustin’s second cave.

12

It was not quite 2:00 a.m. when Keith Palermo felt a coarse hand gently slapping his face. He opened his eyes and immediately winced at the pain of a barbiturate hangover, a tight, throbbing band that cut across his forehead and his temples. For a moment he closed his eyes again, trying to remember what had happened. He recalled the security guard, recalled getting into the man’s car. Then, nothing. 

He opened his eyes again, and focused blearily on the shadowy figure who was leaning in through the passenger door staring at him. Swarthy face, greasy hair, wide lips, sparse wisps of an unrealized mustache making the grimy skin look still dirtier. 

“Who are you?” Keith whispered.

The man smiled graciously. “I am Rojas, chieftain of the people of Rom,” he replied. “Welcome to Granada.”

Before Keith could answer he felt a gun prodding his ribs. 

“Get him out of here,” said a voice behind him. 

Keith turned and saw the Bernabeau stadium guard, now without his uniform. “Search him for weapons,” the man went on. “And be quick about it.”

Raul’s tone showed his impatience with the gypsy’s posturing. He was fatigued from his long drive and not looking forward to the return trip—or to the eight-hour shift of stadium guard duty that awaited him in Madrid, starting at noon.

If Raul was late, people would ask why. Palermo would be missed by then, and police would be questioning all stadium personnel.

The man called Rojas lifted Keith out of the car. 

For a moment Keith thought of making a run, but behind Rojas were two others with the same swarthy faces. Both had knives. Keith’s head throbbed as he tried to think what to do. It took an effort of will to stand quietly while Rojas knelt and patted Keith’s legs, arms, and sides. He straightened and patted Keith on the chin once more. “He is unarmed,” Rojas announced, as though the discovery represented a personal achievement.

“Hold him,” commanded Raul, and reached into the back seat of his car. He came up with a small color Polaroid camera. “Take this.” He leaned over to give the camera to the gypsy. “Each day you will send by airline courier service to me in Madrid a photograph of this man holding that morning’s newspaper. He is to be treated well. If the photographs all show evidence of proper treatment, I shall return on Friday with your payment. If he appears to have been harmed, or if no photograph appears when I call for it at the airport, all three of you and your families will pay the penalty. You remember what happened to Paolo?”

Rojas nodded silently, recalling how the face of his predecessor had been altered by three of Raul’s bullets. All three had been fired at close range, into Paolo’s nose.

“There will be no mistakes,” Rojas said quietly. “But what if he attempts to escape?”

“Then you will kill him. But he will not attempt to escape.”

Raul went on, turning his attention to Keith. “Will you, Senõr Palermo? You will know that in a week you will have your freedom. You will be able to rejoin your team, to play in the contest for third place in Seville. Would you risk death knowing that?”

Keith felt a rush of anger. “You’re doing this just to keep me away from the Argentina game? Who are you working for?”

“Let us say only that we wish to influence the World Cup, Senõr Palermo. As you may have guessed, we are from another country, and the names you have heard us use are not the ones on our passports. When you have been released, we shall all have returned to our part of the world.”

Keith tried to keep him talking, hoping to learn more. “Why should you keep me from the game with Argentina?”

“We are not careless,” Raul replied. “You have seen our faces, but you will not be able to use that information against us once we have vanished from Spain. If you knew more, however, we would be unable to release you alive. Do you understand?”

Keith nodded.
There has to be a weak spot
, he thought.

“Do you intend to keep me drugged?”

“I tell you the truth, Senõr. You have won much respect by your
futbol
here in Spain. We do not wish more drugs unless you make it necessary.”

At Keith’s side, Rojas spoke up. “The more you cooperate, Senõr, the more pleasant will be your stay with us.” He pointed up the hill behind them, a dark shadow on this moonless night. Here and there, lights from the caves glimmered through the cloths that covered their entrances. “Your quarters await you at the top of the Sacromonte,” he continued. “If you wish, you may walk there like a man, or be drugged and carried up the pathway like a child. It is your choice.”

Raul started the engine of his Renault. “I leave him to you, then,” he said, pointing a finger at the gypsy. “Do not forget the photographs. I want to see his face growing more beautiful each day.”

He cut the wheel hard left and executed a U-turn in the darkened roadway. A hundred yards back, Keith and his captors saw the car’s lights come on and heard the engine increase speed.