Message From Malaga (52 page)

“We found the driver. She got into his taxi, changed her mind, joined a busload of people walking up to the Generalife. But they were too slow for her. She hurried ahead of them. Then the taxi driver got another fare.”

Ferrier said nothing.

“Al started an intensive search, once we had placed her at the Generalife. We knew the exact area where she was heading, so we concentrated on that. But no results.”

She is dead, Ferrier thought and Sam is wondering how to tell me. “And where did you find her?”

“In her car.”

“Up there on that road? When?”

“Five minutes ago. Just before I spoke with Al.” Sam waited. There were no further questions. So he tried to explain. “First,
they must have taken her to the house where they put the old girl.” He looked over at Magdalena. “But nothing like that,” he added quickly. “No marks on her. A broken neck. What you might expect if her car crashed into a tree on her way back to Málaga. Yes, I think that was their plan for her.”

Ferrier turned away, started indoors.

“Look—I’m just telling you why Al was late in getting here.” Sam had been more resentful about that than he had allowed himself to appear. “When the Lucas car and the Buick left the hotel early, Al had a couple of men tail them. That’s how we discovered the house. They saw Magdalena being taken out; then Amanda—”

“I don’t need the details,” Ferrier said harshly. “And there’s the doorbell.”

* * *

Tavita stood in the middle of her peaceful room. She looked around her with wonder. The strange young men had left, and Sam was out in the garage. The two bodies had been removed, a thin carpet was rolled around one of them, while the other—brought in from the terrace without a wound on him—was being taken to some Buick up on the road. The prisoners had gone, too, jammed into the big American car that had stood for all that hideous hour outside her front door. There were still scars and stains, her quick eyes noted, but rugs had been pulled over the worst ones. And tomorrow, she thought, I will have my own people scour and polish. Now all she had to do was to close the door behind her and go to the garage, where Sam had already placed Magdalena inside the big car. He was going to drive them. Ferrier, Sam had explained to her privately, had to get back to the hotel, and she wasn’t to question him or talk
much, and least of all was she to let him know that Sam had told her so.

“I’m ready,” she told Ian Ferrier now. Together they walked out of the house. Ferrier locked the door, gave her the key. “Don’t worry,” she told him, “I shall be safe. I am taking Magdalena to friends—a doctor who is devoted to me—he runs a very good clinic. She will get well. And I am no longer afraid. Thank you, Ian.”

“I’ll be leaving Granada tomorrow.”

I guessed that, she thought. “Then we will meet when you come back.” She reached up, kissed him. “To some happier time,” she said, with tears suddenly filling the large beautiful dark eyes. She left him before he could say anything, got into the car.

Sam waved as they passed Ferrier, felt better when he saw Ferrier nod and wave back.

“Did he really want to walk to the hotel?” Tavita asked. “We could easily have given him a lift.”

“He wanted to walk.”

“And not talk?” she asked shrewdly.

“Well—he’s had a pretty rough day.”

She was silent for a few moments. “Tell me, was there really a bomb? In my house?”

“You have quick ears.”

“The men were speaking in Spanish. It was easy to have quick ears. A bomb... Esteban will never believe it.”

“Don’t mention it to Esteban or anyone else.”

“But why shouldn’t I—”

“It would be one way of saying thank you to all of us.”

“You come from Madrid. I knew it. Your accent. Your
manner—so self-contained, so independent.”

“No, my mother came from Madrid. My father from Barcelona. I am strictly Toledo. Toledo, Ohio.” He broke into a wide grin.

She looked at him, incredulous. And then she thought how pleasant it was to be startled only by something as simple as a joke. “Very well,” she said. “I shall tell no one—not Esteban, not anyone—about the bomb. I shall put everything out of my mind. Except—when I dance and the music is angry. Then I shall think of these men.”

Sam glanced in the rear-view mirror before he turned off this stretch of quiet dark road with gardens walling it on either side. Ian Ferrier had come out of the driveway. He was walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head bent.

“You see him?” Tavita asked quickly. She turned to look, but the car had swung to the left.

“Yes. He’s all right. The walk is just what he needed.” What I need, too, thought Sam. A rough day for all and everyone, and I have a couple of hours ahead of me before I can relax and take a deep breath and have a little time to feel and think. Then as the car passed under an avenue of trees, broken moonlight dappling the road ahead of them, he heard the murmur of little fountains, flowing water, sad and plaintive. “Do you know Machado’s poem?” he asked. She didn’t, of course, but he quoted a line from it, anyway. “
Granada, agua oculta que llora
.”

She shook her head. “That is too sad. There is another Granada. A hundred other Granadas. When you come back—you will come back?”

He laughed and nodded a half-promise, which was all he
could ever guarantee. Here today, and tomorrow where? “I’ll see you dance in Málaga.” That was one promise he would like to keep.

* * *

Ferrier went out on to his small balcony, leaned his arms on the railings, looked down over the steep drop to a cluster of lighted streets far below. The noises were distant, rising in muted waves to reach him up here on these heights. Pleasant to hear: faraway laughter, a child’s high voice calling, a surge of guitars. There was a little square strung with bright-coloured bulbs, crowded with strolling couples. And beside it, the old church, with its small tower illuminated and its bells silenced, stood guard.

“Come in. The door’s open,” he called over his shoulder. He wasn’t the least surprised to see Sam. “Everything under control?” he asked briskly. Sam looked relieved, came out to join him on the balcony. “Just getting a bird’s-eye view,” Ferrier said, and pointed down. “Odd, isn’t it? Every Sunday night that little square will be lighted, the same people will walk there, new children will appear and the older ones will start strolling with their girls instead of throwing a ball around. Every Sunday night...”

“Not for me,” Sam decided. “Not for you, either.”

“I guess not. But it’s kind of nice to watch.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I didn’t feel too hungry. Thought I’d get to bed early. But I don’t feel much in the need of sleep, either.”

“What about dinner with me?”

“It’s after midnight.”

“The kitchen is still cooking its head off.”

Sam relaxed completely. Ferrier’s voice was easy, his manner natural. He had taken off his tie, opened the neck of his shirt, and now he sat down on the sill of the French windows and stretched his legs comfortably. “That walk did you good.”

“Yes. It cleared my head. Got the old brains working again. And I came to a decision.”

“Oh?” Sam lit himself a cigarette.

“I’m giving you all six months, Sam.”

Sam took the cigarette out of his mouth, stared at Ferrier. “What’s that?”

“Six months to watch Gene Lucas, learn everything you can about him and his contacts, find out just how much danger he is to the country. And then I’m coming back. To Málaga. And I’ll deal with him myself.”

“What?” repeated Sam.

“I’ll take care of him,” Ferrier’s calm, quiet voice said.

There was a pause. “We may take care of him ourselves before that.”

“Then good and well. But if some of the higher-ups start stalling, want more time, keep thinking up new notions—well, they are going to be disappointed. You’ll know all you need to know in six months.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Now that,” said Ferrier with some amusement, “is just a little below your normal level of thought. On the contrary, Sam, I’m being very sane when I say that Gene Lucas has already done too much damage. And you are crazy if you let him run around loose. Are you?”

“Not that crazy.”

“So you agree with me?”

“I see your point.”

“That’s that,” said Ferrier. He rose to his feet. “I’ll be moving off early tomorrow.” For Madrid. And a meeting, if that was possible, with Adam Reid. What shall I get? A sullen look, a smart-alec snub? Or some human questions, a willingness to listen even a little to another side of an unhappy story, perhaps a show—just one small show—of compassion? Useless, Rodriguez had said yesterday; but he had kept his promise and delivered Adam’s address, a small scrap of paper slipped quietly under Ferrier’s door this evening. Useless? All I can do is try, thought Ferrier. That is all that Jeff Reid would ask for. A try.

Sam was watching him. “You know, you might do better to take it easy for the next day or so. What’s the rush?”

Yes, thought Ferrier, take it easy for a day and then find Adam Reid had gone before I reached Madrid. He smiled and said, “I’m tougher than I look.” He held out his hand, added, “You did a good job, Sam. All of you. Glad you are on our side.”

They shook hands firmly. “See you around,” Sam said.

“Sometime,” Ferrier completed. They both laughed.

“Oh, by the way—” Sam signed to Ferrier to come indoors. He dropped his voice back to the old conspiratorial level. “I’ve just had word from Bob O’Connor. They got to Seville without incident. He’s now aboard the plane, en route for Madrid.”

“And Waterman?”

“Churning out all his oldest jokes. Just a little ray of sunshine.”

“How many men does O’Connor have with him on that flight?”

“Five. Enough to please you?” Then he turned serious. “We owe you a lot, Ian. That’s what Bob said. Special thanks to you.”

“I’ll pass it on to Jeff Reid. And Amanda.”

Sam hesitated. “There was a film in that camera. Two clear pictures, a third blurred. Waterman is cooked. She got the proof.”

There was a long silence.

Sam spoke again. “She would say it was worth it, Ian. If she did not believe that she would never have been in this job.” He paused, asked with real sympathy, “Did you know her well?”

Ferrier thought about that. “No. And yes.” Then he said in that quiet, cool voice, “I only met her twice.” But she will be hard to forget. “Good night, Sam.”

And when he was alone, Ferrier went back to the window, sat down on the sill again. From here, he had a wide view of the dark-blue canopy overhead, soft and rich, like a throw of velvet. A solitary guitar was playing, its slow unhappy music rising to him from a distant street, losing itself as it tried to reach the stars. This, thought Ferrier, was how it all began. A guitar in a courtyard, the night sky above... Jeff, and Tavita. And Amanda.

Yes, she would be hard to forget.

The guitar died away. He rose and went back into his room. Tomorrow was an early start.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helen MacInnes, whom the
Sunday Express
called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.

Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.

Since her first novel
Above Suspicion
was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers;
The Salzburg Connection
was also a major film.

Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.

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A series of slick espionage thrillers from the
New York Times
bestselling “Queen of Spy Writers.”

Pray for a Brave Heart

Above Suspicion

Assignment in Brittany

North From Rome

Decision at Delphi

The Venetian Affair

The Salzburg Connection

While We Still Live

The Double Image

Neither Five Nor Three

Horizon

Snare of the Hunter

Agent in Place

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PRAISE FOR HELEN MacINNES

“The queen of spy writers.”
Sunday Express

“Definitely in the top class.”
Daily Mail

“The hallmarks of a MacInnes novel of suspense are as individual and as clearly stamped as a Hitchcock thriller.”
The New York Times

“A sophisticated thriller. The story builds up to an exciting climax.”
Times Literary Supplement

“Absorbing, vivid, often genuinely terrifying.”
Observer

“She can hang her cloak and dagger right up there with Eric Ambler and Graham Greene.”
Newsweek

“An atmosphere that is ready to explode with tension... a wonderfully readable book.”
The New Yorker

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BY DONALD HAMILTON

The long awaited return of the United States’ toughest special agent.

Death of a Citizen
(February 2013)

The Wrecking Crew
(February 2013)

The Removers
(April 2013)

The Silencers
(June 2013)

Murderers’ Row
(August 2013)

The Ambushers
(October 2013)