Message From Malaga (36 page)

O’Connor took out a small automatic, checked it carefully, slid it back into his right-hand pocket. “Insurance,” he said briefly, and pulled open the last door. He locked it securely behind them as they stepped into a small room. It was panelled, dimly lit, and empty. Ahead of them lay another room, presumably larger, slightly more illuminated by a soft pink glow. And silence.

There’s no one here, thought Ferrier at first. He exchanged glances with O’Connor; then together they walked into the circle of light from a table lamp, carefully placed to throw its small beam over the threshold. “Stop!” a voice said from the shadowed side of the room. Another lamp, its shade tilted to face them, was switched on and held up so that its light could strike them fully. He’s holding a gun on us, thought Ferrier and stood quite still, keeping his hands well in view. O’Connor did the same. The tense moment of scrutiny was over. “All right,” the voice said; the lamp was put back on its table, the shade straightened, and the hand with the revolver slipped into an inside pocket of the silver-grey jacket and came out quickly, adeptly, but now empty. “I did not expect two men,” the voice said. “But welcome, Mr. Ferrier—or do you still call yourself colonel?”

“No.”

“And your friend?”

“Robert O’Connor.”

“So soon? From Washington?” The hand was ready to slip back into the open jacket.

O’Connor said, “I came to Málaga when I got Reid’s message.”

“Then he did get in touch with you. But how?”

“Through me,” Ferrier said.

“And when did you two meet each other?”

A cagey bastard, thought Ferrier. “Last night—after I tried to telephone Tavita.”

“Tried?”

“You took over, didn’t you?”

O’Connor said brusquely, “Come on, Vado. No time for games. Do you want our help or don’t you?”

“So Reid managed to make a report on me. Quite a feat considering he was flat on his—”

“I transmitted the report,” Ferrier said. He frowned, looking at the man who stood well back in the shadows. “Switch another lamp on, will you?”

“What’s wrong?” O’Connor asked quickly, and turned on another light. “Isn’t this Fuentes?”

“The voice is the same one I heard on the telephone. The height and weight are about right. So is the suit. But I wouldn’t say he was definitely Fuentes if it hadn’t been for that movement of his hand, reaching inside his jacket for his revolver.” Ferrier enjoyed the look on Fuentes’ face: astonishment, then a touch of embarrassment soon smothered in annoyance as that over-ready hand dropped down to his side again. “I saw the same movement when he was on the staircase of Reid’s house. Early yesterday morning,” he added for Fuentes’ benefit, and got rid of some of the disbelief in those large brown eyes. “The housekeeper and the boy were taking him up to the attic.”

Fuentes recovered. “Your credentials get better and better,”
he said acidly. “I wish I were as sure of your friend.”

“You know, it would have been much simpler if you guys weren’t so damned cautious about being photographed for each other’s files.”

O’Connor’s manner hardened. The quiet voice changed to cold intensity. “What do you need, Vada? A few details about Department Thirteen? Some names—such as Sanchez and Rosa and Guzman and Vermeeren? Or shall we talk about Feodor, Brown, Vladimir, and—”

“Enough, enough,” cut in Fuentes, and stopped the flow of information. He glanced at Ferrier, who was watching him with open amusement. “And what interests
you
so much?”

“Just what the hell have you done to your hair?” The heavy dark thatch with its streaks of grey was gone. In its place was a half-shaven head with a thick bob of rusty white circling its back. The texture of the hair had changed with its colour; it was now coarse, slightly fuzzed, instead of being smooth and gleaming. The artificial baldness had heightened his brow, seemed to alter the shape of his head. His eyebrows had changed, too—no longer emphatic and black, but sparse and blond. Even the hue of his skin appeared lighter, the lips almost anaemic and formless. Only the furrows on either side of his mouth remained the same, and it would take more than pancake make-up to disguise them.

“Experimenting,” Fuentes said curtly. “I did not expect any visitors today.”

“Or any other day?” O’Connor asked, his eyes on a map of Spain roughly folded on a small writing table. “Were you really planning to take off on your own?” We got here just in time, he thought as he continued his slow tour of the room.

“Five days would have been too much in this place.”

“It’s cosy.” O’Connor was now standing at the kitchen door.

“Not so cosy with that air shaft,” Fuentes said. “Someone could get down from the roof with a rope ladder.”

“The windows are heavily barred.” And no way out on this side of the house, O’Connor decided. It has to be the front door.

“That wouldn’t stop a fire bomb being thrown in through my bedroom window, or the kitchen’s. And hear those footsteps overhead?”

“Visitors to the museum?” suggested O’Connor. And there was one thing he particularly didn’t like: the old fireplace in the kitchen now partly blocked by a refrigerator. Fireplaces meant chimneys, and chimneys meant other fireplaces. He glanced up at the ceiling, wondering what the room above contained. The sooner we get Fuentes out, the better, but let’s keep him calm about this place—just in case our arrangements get fouled up and he has to stay for one more night. Perish that thought, but it could happen. “You are safe enough here,” O’Connor said as he came back into the room. “It’s the street outside that you have to worry about.”

Fuentes looked at him sharply.

“You’ve stirred up more trouble than you think.”

“More?” Fuentes obviously didn’t believe that.

“Your ex-comrades have been asking about a man called Tomás Fuentes. Yes, they’ve dug up your old name.”

“Where were they asking?”

“In Málaga. They’ve connected you with Jeff Reid, and no doubt with Tavita. If so, they will move into Granada.” Fuentes swore steadily for a stream of seconds, ended in a frowning
silence. “They’ll trace me here,” he said at last. “I knew it, I knew it—this place is a trap.”

“Not this place. Tavita’s own house could have been one. But there is no known connection between Tavita and this little love nest. At least, not for the last six years—so she told me on our way down here.”

“They’ll find the connection, if they search hard.”

“They will. But this is Sunday, and all offices are closed; no available records about Tavita’s lodgings, past and present, until tomorrow.”

“They’ll talk with Esteban.”

“He isn’t likely to give out to inquisitive strangers. But the sooner you leave Granada, the better. We have the men, right here, and the cars. I’ll get you to Madrid—or just south of Madrid. Put you on a private plane, capable of a long flight. You wanted to go to Switzerland. Isn’t that right?”

Fuentes stared. “Reid turned in a very full report,” he said acidly. A slight pause. A sudden worry, intense enough to escape through the mask. “Who read it besides you? Martin?”

It was Ferrier’s turn to stare. How the hell does Fuentes know about Martin? Or perhaps these boys know far more about us than we know about them. It was a disturbing thought. Humorous, too: since when did I start saying “we” and “us” so easily?

O’Connor looked at Fuentes thoughtfully. “So far, no one has heard that report except me.”

“Heard? Reid dictated it?” There was alarm in Fuentes’ eyes.

Better than that, thought Ferrier as he watched Fuentes; old Jeff got you to dictate it, yourself. How does that send you, Tomás? There’s real danger for you—your own words, your
own voice. Ferrier glanced over at O’Connor. How was he going to play this? Tell Fuentes the bad news, or string him along?

“Briefly,” O’Connor said. “He hadn’t much time. Don’t worry. The report is safe.”

A neat evasion, thought Ferrier. Most of that taped conversation must have come from Fuentes. But O’Connor wasn’t going to press that point now, seemingly. He was more interested in studying the shutters that covered the windows flanking the front door.

“Do you have it?” Fuentes asked.

“On me? Of course not. Too dangerous.” There was a small gleam of humour in O’Connor’s eyes as he studied the Spaniard. “Turn off the lights, would you? I’d like a look at that courtyard.” As the room went black, he opened the louvres of one shutter carefully. The patio was just as Tavita had described it to him. But it was more crowded than he had expected; its voices had been muted by the thick walls and door of this house. Yes, there was plenty of movement out there, people of all kinds, all ages, tourists predominant, a constant stirring and thickening and thinning. Enough? “Ian, come and see this layout. Interesting?” As Ferrier took his place at the window, O’Connor studied the younger man’s expression. Yes, he was interested, all right; he’d remember it. O’Connor glanced at the illuminated hands of his watch. Eleven-forty. The museum shut down for lunch and siesta at one. His thoughts raced, kept coming back into the same pattern, as if some sixth sense was pushing them that way. Try it, he told himself. If it doesn’t come off, you’ll lose nothing; you’ll just, move him out this evening as you originally planned. “Okay,” he said, “switch on the lights.” He closed the louvres tightly, fixed them
back in place. “Are you going to trust yourself to me, Vado, or are you going it alone?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. It’s between risk and stupidity.”

“You’re the risk, I suppose? I hope you are a good one.”

“Then we leave together?”

“When?”

“Now. Or almost. As soon as Ferrier can reach the Palace and contact my man. We ought to be out of here five minutes before one.”

Fuentes looked at him with a slight attack of admiration. But he overcame it easily enough, reverted to his sardonic smile. “I have a moustache to add to this fantasy.” He gestured to his face.

“All you need is a change of clothes—something you didn’t wear in Málaga. Forget the moustache. You’d have to glue it on hair by hair, or else it looks fake. Have you any coloured contact lenses in your box of tricks?”

“Yes. Would you like to choose which colour, too?”

O’Connor ignored the hint of derision. “It’s
your
face. Suit it. Now, let’s move. Start cleaning up—leave no evidence of what you’ve been doing to your hair.” He caught Ferrier’s arm, started with him towards the anteroom, stopped and looked back.

Fuentes had not moved. “You surprise me in one thing. No conditions for helping me to escape?” He glanced at Ferrier. “And not to Switzerland. I have other plans.”

That’s for my benefit, Ferrier thought. I’d almost believe him, if I didn’t doubt that honest smile.

“You know the conditions,” O’Connor said. “You talk. I want the names, and fields of operation, of all Americans who
have been trained, or are being trained, under the direction of Department Thirteen.”

“When do we talk? And where?”

“You can start once Ferrier leaves. And we’ll finish it near Madrid, when I catch up with you again.”

“You aren’t travelling with me?” Suspicions were rising visibly.

“As long as I stay in Granada, your comrades will stay—waiting for me to contact you. So I’ll remain here and keep them guessing. You’ll travel with a very good man. He has had his instructions. The only change in them is the timing. With luck, we’ll be eight hours ahead of schedule. Come on, Ian.”

But again they were stopped. Fuentes said, “Let us get one thing straight. I will not travel in a car that is obviously American, or with men who seem to be American. There must be no apparent contact between me and you.”

“We can manage that.”

“Also, I have certain stipulations about the way I convey my information to you. I do not talk or use a dictaphone. You will provide me with a typewriter and paper, leave me alone in a secure room. You will have that list of names and work zones, neat and clear. Talking can be so diffuse. You agree?”

Cool, thought Ferrier, as cool as they come. He is not going to have his voice identified in any way with the information he is passing on. Just several sheets of typed paper, safely impersonal, which he can deny he ever typed once he is reinstated. I can hear him now, rhetoric flying, about American imperialists and their conniving machinations.

“Agreed,” O’Connor said. “Any more demands?”

“Demands? Stipulations. If they are not acceptable, you can leave with Ferrier.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Fuentes relaxed. He had won that round. O’Connor was angry. “I have other necessary requests—passport, papers, money, which you will supply. Nothing extortionate. I am not a capitalist. But we’ll leave the discussions of those details until you get rid of him.” He nodded at Ferrier.

“Come on, Ian,” O’Connor said, and shook his head warningly. Ferrier followed, his own anger simmering. He took the key from O’Connor, forced his mind back to the business on hand. O’Connor was saying, “You’ll find Ben Waterman in the Palace bar. He’ll direct you to a man called Max. Pass the word: I need Max now, a couple of his men, two cars. Then you leave the hotel and drive your own car down here. They will follow, park where you park—as near the museum as possible. Max will tail you when you start walking to the museum, but he must stay out in the street. And the instant I see you coming through that gate into the courtyard, I start easing Fuentes and myself out of here. As soon as Max sees me, he is to head back to his car. I’ll follow, steer Fuentes into his arms. After that Plan B goes into operation. Got everything?”

Ferrier nodded. “Plan B,” he repeated. Whatever the hell that was. He began trying the lock, felt the grip and then turn.

“If I don’t see you in the courtyard five minutes before one o’clock, then we’ll postpone everything until this evening. Need my map?”

“I have one. Don’t worry. I won’t get lost.” He pulled the door open. Back to the old jogging, he thought. But what would it be like uphill?

Of course, remembered O’Connor, he knows his way around a map—any map. The little unnamed twists and turns that
showed streets too small or insignificant to be identified would be no puzzle to Ferrier; he was accustomed to a bird’s-eye view. “Okay. See you at the hotel—but before six. Sneak into 307.”