Message From Malaga (4 page)

It was a narrow hallway, with several small rooms branching from it. Tavita’s receiving room, dressing-room, bathroom, special sitting-room were on one side, and naturally over-looked the courtyard. The other side of the corridor had a series of little square spaces no better than interior boxes, where clothes were made and stored and cleaned and pressed under old Magdalena’s supervision. She would be there now, in the biggest of the boxes, a small skylight open above her grey head, a radio picking up some Algerian station and its soft wailing music, working alone, ironing out frills and ruffles on Tavita’s change of costume, her shapeless black dress bent over bright colours, gnarled hands smoothing out fine silks with strange delicacy.

But as he passed her door, ready with a brief greeting and a friendly nod, he saw she was standing just inside the threshold, waiting. She put a finger to her lips, her other hand on his wrist, her eyes looked along the corridor as if she thought someone might be listening at its other end. So he took a step into the little room, carefully avoiding the wide hem of the white-and-yellow organza skirt that floated down from the ironing board,
watching Magdalena’s pale, heavy, peasant face, with its tight lips and intense frown. She spoke in a deep hoarse whisper. “Important, this one. Very important. Tavita says you must get him away from here at once. Tonight. That’s what she says.”

Reid looked at her in surprise. In the six years Tavita and he had been running this little operation, there had never been any request like this. There never had been any urgency. Secrecy, certainly; that was a necessary part of security. A refugee from Cuba, smuggled out of Havana into Málaga, needed a place where he could find safe shelter until he could continue his journey to other parts of the country. There, relatives or friends would help him. (They had been contacted quietly, weeks and sometimes months before, to make sure that they were able and willing.) But in Málaga there were Castro agents and informers watching for stowaways; and the first day of freedom for a penniless man, often hungry and sick, could be a perilous one. There had been cases of political refugees, barely off the docks, who had been shanghaied right back to where they had come from. Others had thought they’d be safe if they could reach a police station or some official bureau, ask for asylum, be willing to face detention until their case would be judged. But it seemed impossible to prevent publicity: the news would leak out. Within hours, there would be a request from Havana for the man’s extradition: he was a murderer, an embezzler of union funds, a forger, a kidnapper and extortionist; full details of his crime—place, date, names of witnesses—to follow. And the details did follow, again within a few hours. “This man has to leave tonight?” Reid asked. “When did he arrive?”

“This morning.”

“The usual way?” Reid had worked out a simple—and so far dependable—method of bringing a refugee into El Fenicio. The first of them, six years ago, had been Tavita’s brother. El Fenicio had chosen itself, as it were, for the role of a safe house.

“No. He did not come from the docks. He came from Algeciras.”

“But how?”

Magdalena shook her head. She knew nothing. Tavita had given her the message for Señor Reid and she had passed it on. “He is dangerous, this one” was all she said. Her worst misgivings about helping any refugee had been fulfilled. She always had complained about the risks for Tavita. Not for
el norteamericano
; he could look after himself. So could Esteban. Even young Jaime. But Tavita? She could lose everything.

“Do you know this man?” Reid was watching her face closely.

She shook her head, pushed him out of her way as she reached over to switch on the iron. “Tavita knows of him,” she said. “He was a friend of her brother’s. That was many years ago. Here, in Málaga.”

“What is his name?”

Magdalena shrugged, tested the iron, began pressing a ruffle. She knew little, wanted to know even less. Whoever this man is, Reid thought, he really silences her. He reached out, gave her bent shoulders a reassuring pat, and then stepped into the corridor. Quickly, he walked its length, taking out his key to the sitting-room door. It was kept locked on the nights it held any special visitor. How many times had he come along here, just like this, in the last six years? No more than thirty. Some might think that a small achievement indeed, but it had
been successful. Thirty men who would never have been given permission to leave Cuba had found their way out. And after tonight? Possibly this could be the end of the whole operation: the man behind this door hadn’t come here through regular channels, hadn’t even been expected. Yet he must have known the right identifications, or else Esteban would have played stupid, turned him away when he had arrived this morning. I like this as little as Magdalena, Reid thought as he turned the key in the lock and then knocked three times before he opened the door.

The room was in darkness except for a vertical strip of subdued light where the tall shutters had been left ajar. Down in the courtyard, Pablo’s heels were beating out a frenzied
zapateado.
The man who stood looking out at the balcony could not have heard Reid’s knocking against the collected noise, but he had sensed the door opening. He swung round on his heels, stepping aside from the band of light, and faced Reid.

“Close the shutters. Draw the curtains,” Reid said in Spanish. What kind of a fool am I dealing with? Had he actually been out there, on that balcony? Possibly it was safe enough, provided you moved slowly and kept well back in the shadows: it was partly recessed, and the iron railings and side pillars were thickly covered with climbing vines. Even so, there was a risk, and it irritated Reid.

“
You
close them,” the man told him in English. He stepped farther away, merging completely with the darkness.

Reid moved quickly, wasting no time on argument. He pushed the shutters gently together, fastened them securely; the strumming guitars, the stamping feet, the clapping hands, the cries of “
Olé!
” faded into the background. He caught the heavy
folds of the long curtains, drew them close until their edges overlapped; the last vestiges of greyed light were blacked out. Behind him, the small lamp on the central table was switched on. Reid turned toward it, but the man was no longer there. He was now standing some six feet away, his right arm held stiffly, his eyes watching Reid’s hands. Reid kept his voice casual. “Were you out on that balcony?”

“It’s a good place to see what is going on.”

“It could be a foolish place, too.” Reid chose the nearest chair, sat down, crossed his legs, made no attempt to reach for his cigarettes.

“Did
you
see me out there?” The man slipped his throwing knife back into the cuff of his tight sleeve.

Reid shook his head. And was I supposed not to notice that knife? “You know, if I had come up here to kill you, I would have entered with a revolver pointed. I would have peppered the room in the direction you moved. There’s a good six-to-one chance that I would have got you.”

“A noisy method.”

“There are such things as silencers. Even without one of them, the noisy method might have seemed only part of the flamenco. Pablo’s heels rattle like a machine gun.”

The man sat down at the table. “Don’t be so sure you would have got me,” he said softly. “The light from the shutters reached the threshold of the door. I could see your feet—and your hands.”

So this was a type who never apologised, and if he explained it would be to show how right he was. Certainly, he wasn’t afraid of risks; but he calculated them. And his reflexes were remarkably quick. Physically, he was of medium height and
weight, with even features, thick dark hair now greying, heavily tanned skin, pale lips, two deep furrows on either side of his mouth, expressionless brown eyes under heavy brows. He was dressed, surprisingly, in a neat summer suit of silver-grey, a cream silk shirt, a broadly knotted tie of almost the same colour. He was totally unlike any refugee who had ever emerged from a packing case in the hold of a cargo ship.

“You were late,” the man was saying, continuing his explanation.

Two minutes.”

“I saw you leave your table. Someone could have been waiting for you near the staircase. A matter of substitution, you understand.”

“Quite,” said Reid gravely. He repressed a smile. He had the feeling that this man might not appreciate any joke about conspiracy: he seemed to accept it as a natural way of life. Yes, Magdalena might have been right—this man could be trouble. “How did you know who I was?” He could risk taking out his cigarettes and lighter.

“Tavita pointed you out to me. Necessary, wouldn’t you say?”

“Certainly cautious.” Reid took a cigarette, was about to light it, remembered politeness, and rose to offer the pack. “Do you smoke?”

“I prefer cigars.”

“But not here,” Reid said quickly. “Tavita doesn’t smoke cigars.” He lit his own cigarette, sat down at the table with his hands well in view. The lighter was at his elbow. “The smell stays in a small room for days.”

“Does she smoke this brand of cigarette?” The man reached across the table, lifted the pack, examined it briefly, tossed it back.

“As a matter of fact, she does,” Reid said. “We are cautious, too, you see. I’m sorry we had to lock you in here, but that is also part of—Something wrong?” The stranger had stretched his arm across the table again, tapped Reid’s left hand.

“Only your watch. I’m amazed that a careful man lets it run slow.”

“I don’t think so.” If he’s interested in this watch, then let’s encourage him, Reid thought. Let’s keep his curiosity away from the lighter. Reid unfastened the watch from his wrist, wound it a little. “It usually keeps perfect time. Are you sure it isn’t your watch that is fast?”

“Perhaps. Certainly, it isn’t as elegant as that one. So very thin.”

“The newest fad. All face and no works. Like some people I know.”

“No works?”

“Hardly any. See?” Reid displayed the watch with an owner’s usual pride, let the man examine it closely. “I don’t suppose there are many of those for sale in Havana.”

“The first I’ve seen.”

Reid took the watch, strapped it back on his wrist. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes—caution. I was explaining why we had to keep you locked in here. But we don’t want any stranger opening that door and—”

“There is need for caution,” the coldly factual voice cut in. “I saw three men down in that courtyard, each of whom would have been quite capable of killing me. When I saw them, I thought that was why they had come here.”

Reid’s amusement ended. “If you’ve blown our little operation—”

“They may not have been following me. I doubt that. I have been excessively careful. They may only have been putting in time, spending it agreeably, normally; or they could have chosen to meet here where men of all types and nationalities can be found. We will watch them, of course—”

“Will we?”

“They are potentially dangerous, quite apart from me. They—”

“I’d prefer to hear about you. There are several questions. How did you get here, why did you come, who are you, where are you going, what relatives or friends have you in Spain?”

“Relatives? None. Friends? Tavita. Where am I going? To safety. Who am I, why did I come? The answer is the same: I am a defector.”

Reid stared at the quiet face opposite.

“And how did I get here? I’ve planned the journey for months.” He watched the American take off his jacket, throw it over a neighbouring chair, loosen his tie and the collar button of his shirt. “Yes, it is warm,” he said with his first smile, small and brief. But not for me, he seemed to be saying when he made no move to slip off his coat. Perhaps, thought Reid, he doesn’t want to show the gun he is carrying.

“Where did you start the journey?” Reid asked. Was this man really a defector? He could be Spanish Security. He could be a Castro spy. “And we’ll talk in Spanish now.”

“It was planned in Cuba, and started in Mexico when I went there on a special mission last month. From Mexico to Venezuela and then to Morocco. From Morocco to Spain, by the port of Algeciras—as a tourist. I even took an excursion across the bay to have a look at Gibraltar. Yesterday, I joined the tourists to see
the beauties of Andalusia. I did not come into Málaga on that bus. I had a headache, a feeling of slight fever, so I left it when we stopped to make a brief visit to Torremolinos. What changes there are in that place! I knew it as a fishing village. Now there are a hundred hotels—like Miami’s. A stranger is not even noticed. And there are so many kinds of strangers, from the naked to the fully clothed. This morning, I came to Málaga by public bus—and then a short walk, and then a taxi; another stroll, another taxi. Oh, not to El Fenicio direct! Really, Señor Reid, you must understand that I
do
know this business. If you wonder how I arranged so many changes of clothing, passports, all I had to do was to have a small suitcase waiting for me in various cities. As I told you, I had plenty of time to arrange all that: six months of preparation, once I had decided on the plan. I used reputable hotels, American Express, Cook’s, even an airport in one place.”

“And if anyone had been curious and opened the suitcase stored with
him
?”

“Tragic for him. The locks could not be opened by any stranger without the case blowing up in his face.”

“And who left these cases for you to collect?”

“Various agents, helped by some sympathisers. They are accustomed to leaving suitcases and parcels for someone else to pick up. My department has quite a lot of experience in these matters. Don’t look so surprised. I have directed so many people to move between countries and continents that surely I know how to arrange my own travel.” He paused, smiled slightly again. “Do you understand all I’ve been saying? Or shall we go back into English? You now know that my accent
is
Spanish, and not Cuban or Puerto Rican or any other variety. Isn’t that so?”

That was so. But it was better to keep using Spanish; this man talked more freely in it. Reid ignored the smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re so damned smart, I don’t think you need anyone’s help to complete your escape.” And if you hadn’t dropped the word “defector”, he thought as he stared at those unreadable eyes, I wouldn’t have spent another two minutes on you; you aren’t the kind of refugee who needs any aid or comfort. What are you—defector, or agent for Castro’s Cuba? “In any case, there isn’t much you can expect here, except a bed and food and new clothes. That’s all Tavita ever provided, first to her brother, then to his friends, and then to friends of his friends. It has been mostly a family affair.”