Message From Malaga (32 page)

He bowed for the ladies, who were pleased with the tables he had given them, and sent Jaime running to get the guitarist on stage. Yes, he assured the gentlemen, this courtyard would soon be full; yes, it was old, quite historic; no, the dancing would not start until almost midnight, but it was good to come early and secure the best tables. Tonight, he answered all these usual questions with good grace. After all, he had to thank this group of tourists. A telephone call to Captain Rodriguez was not something to be made on impulse.

When O’Connor came out of the study, twenty minutes later, he was no longer smiling. His face was grim. He said nothing at first, just walked up and down the full length of the living-room for several turns, head slightly bent, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him as if he were finding a solution there. Then he stopped in front of Ferrier. “When are you expected in Granada?”

“In about four or five days. I didn’t know how long it would take in Washington to—”

“Four days... That gives us a little leeway. But I think we had better act as if it weren’t there.” He gave a brief nod to Ferrier, eyes easing from their worry. Well, thought Ferrier with a surge of relief, he doesn’t think I’ve messed things up completely. “Ben,” O’Connor went on, “we still need you. Sorry. But you know this part of the country well, don’t you?”

“Andalusia? Yes. Alice and I spend Easter in Seville each
year, and branch off to Córdoba, Granada, Ronda. It’s—”

“Where is Alice now? Waiting for you in Toledo?”

“No. She’s with the kids and a visiting sister from—”

“Good. Just a couple of days more, Ben. Perhaps less. Nothing indiscreet, nothing to involve you. We’ll keep your status Simon Pure.”

“Which means,” Waterman told Ferrier, “he needs someone to drive his car.”

“You know the roads,” O’Connor said persuasively, “and possibly—if I remember you—all the short cuts, too. By the way, would you drive Mike out to the airport? He is leaving pretty soon.”

Mike was startled, but he said nothing. So we’ve got something, he thought as he rose and followed O’Connor towards the hall. Quickly, his mind reviewed the various plans O’Connor had laid out for him on their journey to Málaga. If it had all been a false alarm, they both would have returned to Washington, trying to console themselves with the fact that at least they had made the effort, at least they had checked. If there had been only a report from Reid, then they both would have returned to Washington, and no consolations needed. If there was not only a valuable report but also serious complications, O’Connor would stay behind while Mike high-tailed it to Washington, sending out en route a call for reinforcements or whatever additional help O’Connor might need. If there was no report worth sending on to Washington, but a completely fouled-up situation, then they’d both sit out the next few days in Málaga until the dust settled and they could see what had to be done. It’s Plan Three, Mike was thinking as he reached the hall: me for Washington. He could
feel the adrenalin beginning to pump into his veins.

“Good luck,” O’Connor told him, shaking hands, passing over the lighter discreetly. “No delay. You know whom to reach. Also, have the FBI called in on this—get Bill, if possible.”

So it’s their headache, too, thought Mike. We are on to something really widespread. “I’ll do that. Will you phone the airport, let Max know I’m on my way? I’ll avoid the main entrance, use the side gate.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, left the lighter safely there, brought out a scrap of paper. “Here’s the airport number—I jotted it down, thought we might have to use it again.” He glanced over to Ferrier and Waterman to check if they had noticed the lighter disappearing into his pocket, but his little subterfuge had worked. Waterman was washing down last mouthfuls of a sandwich with his Scotch, and Ferrier was paying no attention at all.

“Granada is the place,” O’Connor was saying. “And I’ll need all the help I can get. Double the reinforcements, if that’s possible. Get Max to handle it. Tell him—” O’Connor paused, looked across the room at Waterman. “Ben, what’s the biggest hotel in Granada?”

“The Palace. It’s also the best.”

“Ian—do you know it?”

“That’s where I planned to stay.” Ferrier was amused, both by his promotion to first name and by O’Connor’s gentle diplomacy—old Ben wasn’t to feel left out, although the answer to O’Connor’s unspoken question couldn’t come from Ben. Ferrier gave it. “It’s handy for everything. Plenty of short-term tourists, but restrained. Its situation couldn’t be better.” Within walking distance of Tavita’s house. Ferrier wondered if O’Connor had got his meaning.

O’Connor had. “Sounds good. What’s the Granada airport like?”

“There isn’t any.”

“
What
?”

“That’s right,” Waterman said. “It used to handle light planes, but no longer. It was closed down a couple of years ago.”

O’Connor’s shock changed to frustration. “Are you sure?”

Ferrier said, “Why else do you think I had to rent a car to get here from Granada?”

O’Connor shook his head as he took a map of Spain from his pocket and unfolded it. Goddammit, he thought, this really will slow everything up: no easy escape. Twice as difficult, twice as dangerous. For we’ll be on our own—no help from the authorities here—in a city of over one hundred and fifty thousand people, and no airport. And the nearest airports seemed to be either at Málaga or at Seville. And of course there was Cádiz, still farther away from Granada but only a few miles east of Rota, where there was an American naval base. Too far perhaps, but an interesting speculation, at least. “Ben,” he asked, “how long does it take to drive from here to Granada? Three hours, with all these mountains?”

“Less if the traffic is light. Depends on the time of day.”

“And from Granada to Seville?” From the map, the road was longer but possibly easier. “It’s well over two hundred miles.”

“Around four hours if you put your mind to it.”

“Thanks, Ben.” O’Connor folded the map, shoved it back into his pocket. “Now what about getting Mike to the airport here? We’re in a bit of a rush.”

“Oh?” Ben put down his glass, rose to his feet. “Sounds an
important young man,” he said as he looked over at Mike.

“Don’t put ideas into his head. And I want you to hurry because I expect you back here. To collect me and drive me to our hotel and let me stretch out on a nice flat bed. Dammit, Ben, don’t you ever need to sack out? I’ve been travelling since—”

“Sure, sure,” Waterman said. “Time zones. That’s what kills everyone.”

Ferrier said, “Use my car and save yourself walking a couple of blocks for yours. Come on, Ben, I’ll see you out and lock the back door after you.”

Mike called to Waterman, “I’ll meet you down near the front gate.” He waited until both Ferrier and Waterman had left the room. “So you’ll be in Granada. Palace Hotel. Reinforcements make contact with you there.”

O’Connor nodded. Strange how talk of a nice flat bed made him realise how tired he actually was. He got hold of himself. “Max will be in charge of them. They’ll be his hand-picked men.”

“Special action?” There was a touch of envy in Mike’s voice.

“You never can tell. I want them in Granada by noon tomorrow.”

“That’s pressing hard.”

“Max can manage it. He has connections in Seville; some good friends there. And in Granada. Tell him to head back there once he sees you safely transferred at Torrejon.” That was the American air base just south of Madrid.

Top security and high speed combined, thought Mike. “No problem,” he predicted. “The problem would be if you tried to keep Max out of Granada. He has had a pretty disappointing evening.” Max had stayed on board their plane at the Málaga
airport, kept out of sight from any inquisitive eyes. Which would make him, of course, doubly valuable in Granada: a fresh face, non-identified and unexpected, was always a definite asset.

“We didn’t need him here, as things turned out. But we do, in Granada. Tell him that. We’ll need him. And three cars, with Spanish registration. And one light aircraft, capacity for six or seven, waiting at Seville.”

“That’s how you are getting out of Granada?”

“It’s the surest way.” The road to Seville might take longer to drive than the one back to Málaga, but it was straighter and simpler, with no high mountains to face, and less chance of an unexpected ambush. Hell, thought O’Connor—listen to me putting in the orders and I don’t even know if we are going to deliver. But certain basic arrangements had to be made; they couldn’t be left to wild inspiration at the last minute. “Okay, Mike. That’s all. On your way.”

“What about your flight across the Atlantic? I’d better warn them, when I transfer at Torrejon, to expect you and some friends—when?”

“Just tell them to expect us.” He had almost forgotten that hop back across the Atlantic, perhaps because it seemed such a small problem compared with reaching Seville and getting safely away from there. Somehow, Seville worried him: it might be too obvious, and the opposition could be as well organised there as they were in Málaga. Our one hope is speed, he decided. If we could be in and out of Granada before the opposition even learned we were there, then Seville would be no trouble at all.

“Can’t have you taking a commercial flight,” Mike said with a grin.

“Not you, either,” O’Connor said quickly. “We don’t want either of us being hijacked to Cairo or Cuba.” The idea appalled him: that would really muck up every goddamned thing. But he smiled, opened the door. “Take care.”

Mike patted the lighter, deep inside his pocket. “It’s part of my skin.” Not even Max would be told about it. “See you in Washington.”

O’Connor watched the young man ease his way out on to the steps, vanish into the shadows of the garden. He stood there for a brief minute, listening to the silence of the night. And he thought of all the recent argument and uncertainty about America’s youth. Well, that was one worry he didn’t share. He had met too many young men and women—not connected with his work, either—in the last ten years, who knew some history, recognised some facts about the world, and didn’t cop out from responsibility. Good luck, Mike. He closed the door.

Perhaps the trickiest part of Mike’s journey might be boarding the plane at Málaga without being spotted. (He had restrained himself from giving Mike instructions about that; they would only have been a demonstration of a lack of confidence. Mike was good, or he wouldn’t have been brought along on this trip.) Certainly, if Ian Ferrier was to be believed—and he was inclined to believe him at present—the opposition was very much alive in Málaga. “All over the place,” Ferrier had said. “And we’ve been nowhere.” Well, decided O’Connor, I’ll hear Ferrier’s story, all of it; whether his head aches or not, he has to spill it out tonight. No more delays. We’re leaving the nowhere behind and getting somewhere.

Quickly, he went into the study, picked up the receiver, consulted Mike’s slip of paper. It was a special number at the
airport, connecting with the plane itself. As he waited to get through, he wondered if Ferrier had read much of Lord Acton. He would know the usual quotation that was bandied around frequently, these days:
Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.
But there were other passages in Acton well worth remembering, and one particularly applicable to the events in Málaga that had so depressed and angered Ferrier.
Do not overlook the strength of the bad cause, or the weakness of the good.
Yes, thought O’Connor sadly, that just about covers everything.
Do not overlook...

* * *

Ferrier heard O’Connor’s quiet voice in the study as he returned from locking up behind Waterman. More telephoning, he thought, and dropped into the nearest chair. He wished it were his bed upstairs: a long cold shower and then cool white sheets, deep deep sleep and complete forgetting. At least, things seemed to be in some control now; that was an improvement. He glanced at his watch. Just after half past ten, and all was—if not well—certainly better than expected. Even his head had stopped feeling like a lump of clay balanced uneasily on top of his neck. It was tender to touch, sharp to remind him to treat it gently. But that was little enough. Considering. Two seconds slower, just one hesitation lasting an intake of breath, and that blow would have caught him full on the back of his head. Which proved one thing: when you move, move. And no wasted argument.

“Now,” said O’Connor, coming into the room and drawing up a chair across from Ferrier, “I’d like your complete story. We have just about three quarters of an hour before we can expect Ben back here. Time enough?”

“If I stick to the essentials.” Ferrier had been over them so often in his own mind, today, that there was no problem about marshalling them into order. “They begin at El Fenicio. I was sitting at Reid’s table, waiting for his return.” Clearly, quietly, without emotion, Ferrier began as concise an account as possible. Apart from the subject, it might have been one of his reports back home on recent developments in the Soviet fractional-orbital bomb system.

O’Connor listened well. No interruptions, no raised eyebrows or politely repressed amusement, no quizzical comments or half-veiled criticisms. He really listened. And the result was that Ferrier, his confidence in O’Connor growing steadily, finished his report well within the time limit.

“And that,” said O’Connor after Ferrier ended, and he had caught his breath, “is a considerable that. Isn’t it?” He looked at Ferrier for a long minute, then rose and poured a couple of Scotches. “Reid did a fine job. That recorded conversation with Fuentes is absolutely vital. Our thanks to you, Ian, for making sure it reached safe hands.”

“There’s one footnote I should add. It’s Jeff’s own impression of Fuentes. He said you should be wary of the man’s over-all strategy. His tactics, meanwhile, are to give you just enough information to tease you along, get your help; and once he reaches wherever he wants to go, he is cutting himself off from you, lying low, clamming up, waiting. Waiting until his enemies in Cuba are discredited. Then he hopes to be reinstated. He is only a temporary defector, who will give nothing away that could really damage his return to Department Thirteen. That is his real aim.”