Message From Malaga (25 page)

Esteban drew himself up to his full height. He stood, half sideways, shoulders back, face aimed at Ferrier. All he needed was a sword and a cape and he would be coming in for the kill right over my left shoulder, thought Ferrier. He kept his eyes fixed on Esteban’s. He did not speak. “Why?” Esteban asked harshly.

“Matéo,” said Ferrier thoughtfully. “Yes, that is much safer than Tomás Fuentes.”

There was a long silence. Esteban’s eyes narrowed, his lips were compressed. “If I had my way, I would let our police deal with him.”

I bet you would, Ferrier thought as he watched the thin, bitter face. “And what about Tavita?” he asked quietly.

“No trouble would come to her. I would make sure of that.”

I bet you would, Ferrier thought again. “Give me five days, Esteban.”

“For what? To save his miserable skin?”

“Five days. Perhaps four. And you’ll never see or hear of him again.”

“But you will not imprison him? Sentence him to death? No, no. You Americans lose yourselves in lawyers’ talk. What I want is justice.” He controlled his rising anger with a great effort. He looked at Ferrier intently. “Will you Americans never learn? When you help your enemies, you betray your friends.”

Esteban took a deep breath. “Five days,” he said, and turned on his heel.

Ferrier rose slowly to his feet and followed a silent Esteban into the corridor. He was moving carefully, testing his strength. Much steadier now. Almost normal. Even the pain had become only a small persistent ache. I’ll manage, he thought; I’ll have to. As he entered the big room, Esteban—drawn well ahead of him, walking with his decided stride, grace combined with anger—was reaching the study. So he
is
going to telephone, Ferrier thought. And that was one worry less.

* * *

It was old Magdalena who was speaking. The phone connection was clear, but her words were unintelligible. She was crying, and the effect of sobs on a flood of Spanish was disastrous. “Please,” Ferrier kept saying, “would you get Tavita? I want to speak with Tavita.” He looked around for help from Esteban,
but he wasn’t in sight. He had handed Ferrier the receiver without a word, placed a note beside him on the desk, and then moved away. “Magdalena! I want to speak with Tavita. With Tavita!” That was almost a shout. It got through. There was a choking intake of breath, then the sound of the receiver being laid on a table, then nothing. Ferrier nursed the back of his head, reminding himself not to shout for the next few hours, and waited. And waited. And then he began to wonder if Magdalena had walked away, forgotten the call, and the receiver would lie there and lie there... One minute passed. (He had read Esteban’s note: Tavita’s address and number, as requested. And he had started going through the telephone directory to find the local Iberia office for information on flights to Madrid and connections to New York.) And then, well into the second minute, the receiver was picked up. A man’s voice spoke. The señorita was indisposed, he announced in Spanish.

“One second!” Ferrier said sharply. He had visions of that receiver being dropped back on to its cradle. “Do you speak English? Good. I am Ferrier, Ian Ferrier.”

There was a short silence. Perhaps of interest?

“I am Señor Reid’s friend. I am staying at his house. Are you Señorita Vergara’s chauffeur?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Matéo? Then I can speak with you.” I’ve hit the jackpot, thought Ferrier: Tomás Fuentes, himself.

But that was too direct, seemingly. “I shall find the señorita.” And almost at once, she was speaking. As if, Ferrier thought, she had been standing near, waiting for Tomás Fuentes’ command. Was Tomás taking full charge? If so, Ferrier didn’t like it. He
didn’t like it one bit.

“Who is it?” she asked. Her voice was quiet and sad, almost listless.

“Ian. Ian Ferrier. I wanted to tell you that—”

Her voice came to life. “Oh, Ian—it
is
you. I am so glad you telephoned—I don’t know what to do. Poor Jeff, poor Jeff...”

“Nothing has changed, Tavita. Don’t be frightened. You aren’t alone.” Careful, he warned himself, careful how you say it. This phone could be tapped. “It’s a bad time, I know, for you. But we’ll get through it. Just trust me and—” He was speaking to nobody; the receiver had been taken out of her hand. And then came the man’s voice. Son of a bitch, Ferrier thought, he was checking on me, making sure I was Ian Ferrier. Of all the suspicious bastards—

“You must excuse the señorita,” Tomás Fuentes was saying. “The news about Señor Reid has been a great shock. May I take your message for her?”

“Tell her I saw Señor Reid this evening. He talked a great deal about her. I will come to see her in Granada. I think she would like to know what he said.”

“That will be a consolation, I hope?”

“It should be.” Ferrier’s mind switched from the guarded phrase, from the importance of saying little yet meaning much, to the sudden starting of a car in the driveway. Esteban... Esteban was leaving.

“A great tragedy. For the señorita. For all his friends. For his business associates, too. He will be hard to replace. Death ends so many hopes and plans.”

“He was a practical man. I am sure his affairs are well
arranged!”

“That is fortunate. When shall the señorita expect you here in Granada?”

“As soon as I get back from Washington.” Ferrier could hear a small sharp intake of breath. “I’m taking the first flight I can get from here. Urgent business. You will explain that it is urgent to Señorita Vergara? That I shall return as soon as the business is accomplished, and come straight to see her?”

“And when do you expect that?”

“By Wednesday, I hope.”

“Four days?”

“Five, at the most.”

“But”—the voice was sharp—“you will miss the funeral.”

That, thought Ferrier bitterly, was a reminder that people might question his absence from Málaga. “Señor Reid will go back home,” he said, muffling his anger. “His lawyers will attend to that.”

“Of course,” Fuentes said quickly. He sounded well satisfied. “I will tell the señorita—”

“Make sure you do.” Ferrier jammed the receiver back on the cradle, stood looking at it with tight lips and hard eyes. I agree with Esteban, he thought: this man is poison. Why the hell should I burst a gut getting to Washington to save his hide? He looked around the study, seeing it clearly for the first time. Complete disorder. Books pushed aside on shelves or toppled on to the floor, pictures pulled askew—a search for a wall safe possibly. Drawers were agape, contents rummaged; even the locked drawer in the desk had been successfully opened. All this, he thought, and Esteban walking out in cold anger. Was it worth it? And above all, a good man dead.

The attack of severe depression passed, leaving him with a renewed ache at the back of his head. He would call the airport later, when he had got over this spasm. He lowered himself into an armchair, leaned back carefully, covered his eyes with his hand. Worth it? Yes, he could hear Jeff Reid saying, yes. If we could root out even one trained assassin, with all his willing helpers—the people who will give him shelter, supply extra arms, cover up his movements with false statements, contribute money without questioning how it is spent, help his escape through the hidden exit routes, rally the gullible to his defence if he is caught—all that has happened in this one day in Málaga would be worth it. Even one assassin... And we can root out more. Worth it?

“Yes,” Ferrier said wearily.

Concepción’s voice was saying “Señor Ferrier?” hesitantly, worriedly.

He dropped his hand from his eyes, saw her standing at the study door. She had the ridiculous pot in her hand. She held it up, by way of apology. He signed to her to come in. “Esteban has gone. Will he be back?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. We did not part well.”

“I know. He is angry.”

“I’ll be leaving tonight. You can’t stay here alone, Concepción.”

“Why not? There is a lot to do. And someone must take care of this house—until—until—” She shook her head, not knowing what arrangements would be made. “I have tidied your room, señor. The men searched there, too. They were everywhere. Why?”

He shook his head, grimaced with the pain that the small
movement had stirred up. He rose to his feet, slowly, felt all right. If he could just remember to keep his head still for the next hour or so, he’d be fine.

“You should rest in your room, señor. And I shall bring you more ice.”

“Do you know how to fix Esteban’s cure?”

“Of course.” She actually smiled. “It was I who taught him how to make it. An old cure.”

“All right, bring me that. I’ll go up and have a shower.” A cold, cold shower. It felt good even now. He looked down at his clothes, crumpled and torn. He’d also feel better with a change—if he had anything left to change into.

Concepción gave one last look at the study, sighed, shook her head, hurried away to mix the drink for him. But half-way across the main room, she halted and turned in alarm. The doorbell had rung. It rang again. She looked back at Ferrier uncertainly. He glanced at his watch. A quarter off nine. Who came calling at a quarter to nine? There was a third ring, and then impatient knocking, urgent but light.

“I’ll get it,” said Ferrier. Then, as he entered the hall, he called back softly, “Did you lock the back door after Esteban left?”

“That is locked.” She gripped the pot handle tightly, held it at the ready, followed him slowly but definitely into the hall. A comic but comforting sight, thought Ferrier. Not that she could be of much use, if more trouble was waiting outside; but he liked the way she had volunteered. All demonstrations of support were most welcome at times like these. “There is a light outside, over the door,” she said quickly, switched it on. “And there’s a chain.”

Yes, he thought, it might be wise to hook the chain in place
before he opened this heavy chunk of wood. Only then did he turn the lock, pull the door open for the few inches that the chain would allow. But whoever was outside was as cautious as Ferrier. He was keeping himself out of view—or perhaps out of range. “Who is it?” Ferrier asked quietly. He repeated the question in Spanish.

There was a small laugh. “Charlie Brown and the Peanuts Gang.” The man was standing well back, drawn into the shadows; his voice was low, but clear enough to be almost recognisable. Not Lucas’ voice, that was definite. “Hey, there! Turn off that goddamned light—the one in the hall, too.”

Ferrier looked back at Concepción. “I think I know who this joker is,” he told her as he switched off the lights. She said nothing, and stared at him fearfully as he unhooked the chain. I hope so, he added to himself, and swung the door open.

Tavita watched Tomás Fuentes end the call. “I will tell the señorita,” he was saying. Would he? she thought bitterly. He had taken control; he would tell her what Ian Ferrier had said if it suited him. Taken control... We’ll see about that, she told herself, and turned away abruptly to conceal the sudden flow of tears. It was the first time she had wept since the news of Jeff’s death. She had exclaimed, and lamented, and talked wildly; she had put on a performance over which she had no control—hysteria, Tomás had called it. Quickly, she moved out on to the narrow terrace, stood with her back to the room, her elbows resting on the stone wall that dropped straight down to the second terrace, with its wall falling down to a third. A ledge garden, Jeff had described it, clinging to the side of a cliff. Far below was the wooded gorge, and the little streets and crowding houses with their cooking smoke now invisible in the darkness, and the rise of other hills with their bright sparkling
lights strung out like glistening beads. This was where Jeff had often stood with her, watching night come to Granada.

She heard Magdalena’s footsteps, heels clacking on the paving stones with her firm solid tread. The old woman had brought her a white shawl to throw around her shoulders, cover her throat and bare arms against the cool touch of the rising breeze. Magdalena stood beside her in silence—there was no need to talk; they had known each other too long, too well—and then stirred uneasily, spoke angrily under her breath, left abruptly. So Tomás had come out here, too. The soothing, cleansing magic of this place had gone.

But she refused to be driven away, as Magdalena had been. And she refused to ask questions. Or take orders. From now on, whether Tomás knew it or not, she was going to be in control. It was the only way to deal with such a man. Show him one small weakness, and he had you by the throat. I have dealt with blackmailers before, she thought: some made demands by calling on your pity; some made threats by rousing your fears. Tomás had done both. But no more, no more, she told herself. Don’t let him see, don’t let him even feel, how helpless and weak you are. But you aren’t alone. Remember that. That’s what Ian Ferrier had said: “You aren’t alone.” So remember it.

Tomás Fuentes looked at the lights of Granada. “Strange,” he said, “this is my first visit to Granada.”

And your last, she thought bitterly.

“What, no comment on that? You surprise me, Tavita. Don’t you think it is comic? I know much of Spain, and yet Granada—so close to Málaga—is the one city that I never entered.”

“That explains why it remained so peaceful during the troubles.”

“That explains why you chose it. A dream world. Buried in history of long ago. An anachronism—”

“Peace is never an anachronism.”

“Would you like my professional advice?” He studied her cold silence. “I shall give it to you, in any case. This kind of city, Granada the peaceful, Granada the proud, will be the first to flare up when the troubles begin again. And they will, Tavita, they will.” She had turned on him with flashing eyes. “And they always start where it is least expected. Why? Because of a sense of guilt. Take any place where people have been spared war, ruins, starvation, cruelties, and what do you have? Well, at first—when others are suffering—they are afraid that the suffering will come to them, too. And when it doesn’t, they are grateful. And then they grow a little smug. They see virtue in their escape. They begin to believe they are so clever or so tolerant or so generous that there is no reason for anyone to start trouble, that they are secure forever. And as the one sop to their conscience, which is secretly bothered that they have suffered so little, while others have suffered so much, they develop a sense of guilt. And it is this sense of guilt that betrays them into the hands of their enemies. When the challenge comes, they hesitate, they argue, they are divided among themselves. They refuse to see it, in its full threat. Therefore they do not act. And action is the only answer to challenge. But how can a man take action when he is wearing a hair shirt next his skin? The hair shirt of guilt. It weakens and distracts. And once his enemies know that it is there, they grip where it hurts most. They have him. A man who has a sense of guilt is easily manipulated. And he is always the loser.” He smiled as he looked at her. “Are you listening? Do you follow what I have been saying? No,
I suppose not. Enjoy your dream world, Tavita. It won’t last long.”