Message From Malaga (17 page)

“What job?”

“I’m in the same line of work as Reid. He told you he is with the CIA?”

“No.” And, thought Ferrier, I’ve never known anyone in the CIA who went around proclaiming it as blatantly as this. What’s Lucas trying to do? Impress me, get my full co-operation? Can this type really be authentic? If so, God help our country.

“That shook you,” Lucas said delightedly. “At least I’ve had one success this morning. You’re cool, Ferrier, you’re really—” He jerked his head around to look at the doorway, all expression wiped off his face, the lean handsome profile now hawklike. It was the dark-haired girl. “Hello, Amanda. Getting impatient?”

Slowly, she entered the hall. “The others are. They are all over the garden. You’ll have quite a time corralling them back into the car.”

“You start work on that. I’ll be with you right away.”

“What makes you think Bianca would listen to me? She never does. Why did you have to bring her along? There is just one too many on this picnic.” The voice was plaintive.

Ferrier had a feeling of disappointment. This complaining touch was the last thing he had expected from anyone as pretty as Amanda. He preferred her as he had first seen her, with a smile glancing over her lips. Now they were down-drawn and mutinous. But Lucas seemed pleased, as if he was taking her small show of jealousy as a compliment. “We’ll soon be on our way,” he told her as she wandered vaguely around the hall. She scarcely glanced at Ferrier. She stopped just beyond the two men, again rather vaguely, and began studying Lucas’ vineyards.

Lucas turned back to Ferrier. “You can tell Reid I delivered on time. And I’m waiting for further instructions.” He glanced at the girl, added, “I suggest a series—three more pictures. But if so, I’ll have to start work right away. Let me know, will you, what Reid has in mind?”

Ferrier nodded. “What’s your telephone number? Better write it down for me.” I’ve given him his cue, he thought; now he will produce a little silver pencil and flourish it under my nose. Lucas is just the type to enjoy playing games like this.

“I’ll call you,” Lucas said. “Late this evening? If you have any news for me, we can make a date for tomorrow.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Ferrier warned him. “I don’t know where the hell I’ll be this evening. And I may have left Málaga by tomorrow.”

Lucas studied Ferrier thoughtfully. “Difficult, aren’t you? You know, I have the strange feeling that you could give me Reid’s answer right now.” He shook his head unhappily over such lack of trust. “Oh, well—I’ll write down my phone number, and you can call me.” He pulled a wallet from the pocket of his bleached linen shorts, found a scrap of paper. “Have you got a pencil?”

So he put the first move on me, Ferrier thought in annoyance. And am I supposed to produce Reid’s pencil, hand it over nonchalantly?

Amanda had turned away from the painting. “It isn’t really your best work, Gene. You’ve rushed it, and it shows.”

“Thanks a lot,” Lucas said coldly. “If you want to be helpful, where’s that silly pencil of yours—the one you always carry around in that grab-all?”

“Would you like it?” She spoke with studied sweetness. She
searched with maddening slowness in the white canvas bag that hung from her shoulder.

“Amanda! Come on!” Lucas was angry. “You’re in a foul mood today.”

A mood called Bianca, thought Ferrier. His hand came out of his pocket, empty. “I’ll find something to write with,” he said diplomatically, and started toward the study.

But Amanda caught his arm lightly as he passed her. “Here you are,” she said, presenting him with a pencil. It was small and slender, made of silver, decorated with arabesque tracery. “Give this to the man. And tell him to hurry. Are we going sailing or aren’t we?”

Ferrier took the pencil, resisted a second glance, passed it over, and hoped Lucas couldn’t sense the jolt that had stiffened his spine.

Amanda covered his reactions beautifully. “I have the most wonderful idea,” she told him. Her voice had lost its petulance, became warm and inviting. “Why don’t you come along on our picnic?”

“He can’t,” Lucas said, scribbling down the telephone number.

“But why not? He looks like a man who has a long empty Saturday ahead of him.” She spoke to Ferrier. “Do you know anyone at all in Málaga?” Her deep-blue eyes were sympathetic. “No? I guessed it. How awful. Gone—”

“No,” Lucas said decidedly. He handed her back the pencil, gave Ferrier the slip of paper. “Now, get out to the car. Let’s start moving,” he told her.

“Seven of us in one car—that’s really carrying the carefree bit too far,” she said rebelliously. She turned to Ferrier. “We each
and every one of us have a car—can you believe it? But we must all pack into Gene’s, and laugh and wave—such jolly fun—and when he makes a sudden stop I’ll be right over his windshield.”

“You’ve never objected before to sitting on a lap—” Lucas began.

“Stationary,” Amanda interrupted. “But not at the speed you drive.” She looked angrily at the blonde girl who had come running up the steps to stand hesitating at the threshold as she saw the tight group of three. She had gathered some roses, fastened them loosely into her long hair, and held a large cluster of bougainvillaea against her breast. “Our flower child, Bianca,” Amanda murmured.

“Why, there you are!” Bianca said with a delighted, two-rows-of-teeth smile. In spite of her name, she was definitely American.

“Yes, aren’t we?” Amanda said blandly.

“Amanda—” warned Lucas. But Amanda was already out into the sunlight, walking quickly toward the car. Bianca wasn’t quite as simple-minded as she seemed. She turned and ran, passing Amanda, dropping roses but reaching the car first.

Ferrier was grinning widely as he and Lucas followed. “Two pieces of advice: don’t mix your drinks, and never mix your women.”

“So I’m learning,” Lucas agreed. “A little discipline is what is needed,” he added, frowning in Amanda’s direction.

“Happy picnic. I begin to wish I were coming with you.”

Lucas saw nothing funny in that. “We’ll keep our contacts to a minimum. Phone me at that number I gave you—it’s my answering service—but only leave your name. That will tip me off to get in touch with you.”

“Do you really expect to hear from me?” Ferrier asked lightly, determined to keep everything as casual as possible. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about Lucas. At first, he had almost accepted him—perhaps because he had been hoping for someone to arrive quickly and take charge. Then he had begun to think Lucas was a fraud—until he had asked the girl for her “silly pencil”. If Lucas knew about that, he could be authentic. Lucas and Amanda, a very neat team, staging a quarrel as an efficient little smoke screen. These two working together? And yet, there had been something in the girl’s manner, in the expression in her eyes when she had handed Ferrier the pencil, that puzzled him.

“Why not?”

“I’ll have nothing to tell.”

“You know what I think?” Lucas said softly. “I think you could tell me right now. Martin really won’t like this delay one bit.” His voice sharpened “Not one bit.”

Threats always angered Ferrier. He let go. “The hell with this Martin, whoever he is. The hell with you, too. I’m not in your line of work. You must be really out of your mind if you think Jeff Reid would pass on information to me. I’m a weekend guest. That’s all. So shove it.”

“You aren’t the usual weekend guest,” Lucas said stiffly, but he wasn’t quite so sure of himself. He even became politely persuasive. “If Reid is lying trussed up in a hospital bed, can’t phone, can’t get messages out, who else would he use but his old reliable—”

“Shove that, too.” You try too hard, he thought as he stared angrily at Lucas. Then he changed gears. “You know,” he said too innocently, “you’re lucky. I might just have gone on
drawing you out, and then turned in a nice piece on how the CIA spooks go chasing their shadows.
Life
might print it. Or what about
Ramparts
? It’s just their idea of what the American public should know. Your Martin really wouldn’t like that one bit, either. Now would he?” Ferrier’s smile broke into a laugh. It sounded authentic, even to his own critical ears. Lucas moved quickly away, urging his friends to get into place. Bianca, of course, was already there, well settled into the seat next to Lucas.

It was an odd scene: a car overloaded with determined gaiety, heavy witticisms and light giggles, beads and flowers—there had been quite a rape of Reid’s garden—and the faded, crumpled shirts denying their Dior and Cardin labels. Amanda wasn’t joining in. She stood outside the car, her arms folded. Then she turned away, began picking up the roses that Bianca had scattered in her haste. Concepción had appeared—perhaps she had been watching all along from a distance—and took a firm stand at the corner of the house, brows down, eyes in an intense Spanish stare.

“Amanda!” Lucas called. He was angry.

“In a minute.” She was carrying the roses to Concepción. “These have to go into water or they’ll die.”

Lucas swore, turned on the engine, went savagely into reverse, and backed the car down the driveway. Amanda stood looking after it. There was amazement on her face, a dejected droop to her slender shoulders. Lucas, giving her one last glance, must have been delighted.

So he has left her to work on me, thought Ferrier. But there are less crude ways of doing it. He’s a son of a bitch. That little bickering act in front of me was one thing; this snub in front of
a carload of gossips is quite another. Ferrier went over to the girl, touched her arm. She came back from her own thoughts, looked at him worriedly. She wasn’t angry. Worried. She said quietly, “The problem is how do I reach the dock in time to get on that boat?”

“I’ll give you a lift down there, if that is what you want.”

“It isn’t. But it might be the best idea.” She remembered the roses. “Let me give these to the housekeeper. She can put them in a vase.” She turned to Concepción and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Ferrier watched her curiously; she really had meant what she had said about keeping flowers alive. A strange one, this. He reached his car, started the engine, and had the door open for her as she came running to join him. Concepción had melted, and even waved goodbye to them. “I apologised for my friends,” Amanda said by way of explaining that small miracle.

“Your friends?”

“Thank you for that doubt in your voice. No. They come and they go, and Lucas groups them around himself while they are here. The affluent vagabonds.” She sighed and shook her head. As they neared the street, she became practical again. “Back out to your left,” she told him. “We go south.”

“Do you really want to go sailing with that bunch?”

“No. But I’d better. For your sake.”

“Mine?” That amused Ferrier. So did the plain-clothes policeman who stood patiently in the shade of a large plane tree. “There’s a Security boy—the one who is trying to read a newspaper.”

“Whose?” she asked quickly.

“Spanish.”

Her eyes widened. “There is another back there, along the
street. He seemed to be having trouble with his car. And he isn’t Spanish. Lucas was much too pleased to see him when we arrived.”

Ferrier adjusted his rear-view mirror. Yes, there was a man farther up the Calle San Julian. His car must all right now. He was getting into the driver’s seat. “A blue Fiat? It’s taking off. After us, do you think?”

She nodded. “You’re it. Now we’ll
have
to drive to the dock.”

“Why? I say the hell with Lucas and his giggle of lotus eaters.”

“I wish I could. But if I don’t turn up for the picnic, he might start guessing that I had picked a quarrel just so as to arrange some time alone with you. Which I did, of course.” She smiled as she saw she had forestalled his next remark. “But it won’t be much—only a matter of twenty minutes or so. And it is perfectly logical that you would offer me a lift. It wouldn’t be quite so explainable if we shook off that car on our tail—it is, isn’t it?—and headed away together for some place unknown. Perhaps even a quiet rendezvous? That’s the way Lucas thinks. He has the most intricate suspicions.” She looked at Ferrier quickly. “You didn’t fall for his act, did you? I mean, you didn’t tell him anything? I must say I was scared. I stood outside the doorway within comfortable listening distance, but there is just so long one can admire a bougainvillaea without attracting attention. When the others started to explore the garden, I thought I’d better come inside and start interrupting. For a very bad moment, I thought you were going to produce a silver pencil.”

Here it comes, Ferrier thought: the question about Jeff and what else did he give you or what did he did tell you, what did he discover.

But she was looking at the busy intersection they were approaching. “Keep on going. When you reach the big street, turn left. Again keep on going past the long stretch of park and flowers. Then past the bull ring—you can’t miss it, it’s as big as the Colosseum—and follow that avenue for about three miles. Then you make a right—I’ll give you the sign when—and you’ll be on the water front. There’s a kind of a place there—boats and docks and restaurants and beaches, all kinds of fun and games. The dock we’re aiming for is bang in the middle of it all. Got it?”

He nodded, kept his eye on the thickening traffic.

“Now,” she said, “let’s concentrate. I’m Amanda Ames. You are Ian Ferrier. You sent Reid’s mayday message to Madrid early this morning; 21-83-35 was the number you called. And you asked that the message be delivered to Martin.” She paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She had been quick to notice, he thought. He identified himself solely as Ferrier over the phone. “Just wondering where you picked up the Ian. Are you a friend of Reid’s?” But if so, why hadn’t Reid told him to telephone her?

“No. We’ve never met. Any contact we have is made through Madrid. It was Martin who gave me your name. He would check on you, of course; probably through the Embassy. They know you there, don’t they?”

Damned idiot, he told himself. He was so busy trying to find the complicated pieces of an intricate puzzle that the obvious things were escaping him. Of course Martin would be curious about him. “I only hope,” he said, trying to reassert his intelligence, “that when Martin phoned you he didn’t use that 21-83-35 line. It has been tapped, obviously. Unless, of course, Lucas is working with you.”