Message From Malaga (23 page)

She was shocked. With Ferrier. “But he is a doctor. Doctors don’t—”

“I know,” he said wearily. “They don’t. Most of them don’t.” Most of them don’t play politics, he added for himself.
Nor do most priests, most ministers and teachers, and all the rest in dedicated professions. Most don’t. “I’ll gather together Jeff’s things,” he said, moving into the room. “What else can I do?” There must be a lot of formalities, he thought worriedly. And suddenly he felt drained of energy even at the idea of them.

“The hospital called your consul at once. He has notified Señor Reid’s lawyer, who will take charge. Señor Reid had arranged everything in advance.” She shook her head. “Did he foresee—did he have a weak heart?”

There had been no weakness about Jeff’s heart in any way, thought Ferrier. “He was a practical man. A foreigner in a strange land. And please, sister, stop blaming yourself. Or I’ll begin believing I’m to blame, too. But he wanted to see me. And I thought he was fine; a little weak, of course, but what else could you expect? Certainly nothing to worry about. I saw him eight years ago when he was in much worse shape. He was in the Air Force then, and he had crashed—” His voice dried up. He couldn’t go on. He began picking up the books and razor, jamming them into the green cloth bag.

“I shall get his other things,” the sister said, her voice and heels retreating into the corridor.

And pray for him, Ferrier thought; pray for all of us. That will give you some comfort.

* * *

Stop thinking about the past, Ferrier warned himself. The present has plenty of problems to be faced if you are ever going to see a future. He fitted the radio into the bag, dropped in the soap and toothbrushes, picked up the cassette player. It had long since finished the symphony and was now humming peacefully. He switched it off, added it to the collection. But the cassettes
were missing. Had he already packed them? He searched in the bag. No; the cassettes were missing. And so, he realised, was the engagement pad with Reid’s careful notations and marked dates. The dictaphone was gone, too. Also the silver pencil. He was back in the present with a vengeance.

He left the empty room and its masses of red roses, found an assortment of sympathetic voices and a brown paper parcel waiting for him in the hall, came out into the low yellow rays of a setting sun. Most of the people had left, but the old men were still there, resting against their low wall. He hoisted the green bag over his shoulder, carried the parcel in his arm, and went searching for his car. A brown paper parcel, small and pathetic: some clothes, a watch and ring, a wallet, a key chain. He laid it carefully on the seat beside him, dumped the green bag on the floor. He sat for a full minute before he turned on the ignition, trying to control the hot rage that swept through him. Medina. And Lucas. Above all, Lucas. And there was some anger left over for a man called Martin who hadn’t got here in time.

Why the hell does our side always have to drag its feet? he wondered bitterly. Why are we so casual about things that matter, always depending on luck to pull us through? Why do we spend so much time and energy and money and have so damned little to show for it? Why do the best men have to die while a lot of self-satisfied bastards argue the toss? What’s smothering us in stupidity—carelessness, selfishness, or just that easy habit of taking everything for granted?

He started the car, let the engine turn over. The back of my hand to Martin. He and his outfit were the first to know about an emergency in Málaga. But it was the opposition who came, bright and brisk, sharp-eyed and foxy, with Plan One; failing
that Plan Two; and no doubt Three, Four, to open the crack in any door. And what is our side left with? Me. I’m holding a lighter and information about the possible whereabouts of one Tomás Fuentes. And I have not a notion to whom I turn these over, or where or how. My only hope is that Martin will give just one tenth of the attention to me that Captain Rodriguez or Gene Lucas has paid, but with Martin’s average so far I don’t have much faith in that. Sure—all sentiment aside—poor old Jeff was probably not one of Martin’s most important agents; and I’m just one of Jeff’s friends who happened to get in the way. But whether an agent’s assignment is simple or complex, whether it’s routine stuff or dealing with highly sensitive problems, you listen to him when he gives you warning. He’s your man, out on point duty, your first line of defence. And that has an importance far beyond anything else. What use are the brains of government if they haven’t ears and eyes they can trust in far-off places? Decisions are only as good as the intelligence they are based on. And a capable and loyal agent isn’t so easily replaced. Señor Martin, you’ve just lost one... The back of my hand and the toe of my boot to you.

He released the brake, moved from neutral into first. All right, he told himself as he edged carefully along the street to plunge into the avenue’s thick traffic, you’re committed. You solve the problem your way, with a lot of help from old Jeff. He had made a big effort, back in that hospital room, to pass on a few tips. Just in case someone silenced him? Yes, all that talk about being helpless—that meant more than you realised at the time. Washington, that’s where you are going. There and back, all the way to Granada. These were the priorities: delivery of the lighter; Tomás Fuentes himself. Not a visit to Italy and
then a pleasant week in England. Instead, four or five days of hectic travel and a search for a man called Richard O’Connor. No, not Richard: Robert. Robert O’Connor. And what’s the quickest way to find him?

He began turning over in his mind all the people he knew in Washington who might help him cut through the tangles of red tape to approach Langley—if that was where O’Connor worked. People who could be trusted to be discreet. That was the problem. There were four he crossed off his list as soon as he had named them: decent-enough guys but blabbermouths, never could resist proving their importance by casual leaks to their favourite newsman. A fifth was crossed off, too: he carried political weight, had plenty of influence, but he was a foxy character who loved to polish his TV image. That left Ferrier with two, who could be guaranteed to keep their mouths shut and avoid publicity. Which of these two would be the quicker to act? Speed was needed as well as caution. The urgency worried Ferrier. That would be the biggest problem of all, and a complicated one, too. For a moment, he thought with regret of his own private plans, relatively simple compared with all this mess he had got into, now disappearing like a jet trail in the high blue sky, spreading fainter, thinner, into nothing. But again, it was a matter of priorities. If you couldn’t face them by the time you had reached the age of thirty-seven you were ready to be buried among the ruins. The sad discovery of the adult world was the permanent truth: you don’t always do what you want to do; you do what you must.

* * *

The Calle San Julian was peaceful, no one loitering near the gateway to Number Nine. So interest had dropped, Ferrier
thought hopefully; the KGB—like Spanish Security—had perhaps deactivated its file on Jeff Reid. Dusk was approaching, thickening perceptibly. Soon the twilight would end, short-lasting, bringing sudden night. Concepción obviously thought it was too early to switch on the lights, but the dark house was uninviting. Sullen and sad, it was already retreating into the spreading shadows of trees and bushes. It gaped blankly at Ferrier—no welcome there—as he drove up the short stretch to its side yard and parked opposite the kitchen door. He picked up the bag and parcel, stepped out into the warmth of a still evening. So quiet, he thought everything was so quiet. The people in the next-door house must be away for the weekend; from over the high dividing wall, there was no sign of life, only the feeling of emptiness. And there were no voices from the kitchen, no radio, no laughter, as there had been last night. Had Concepción already heard the news? If she hadn’t, he had better tell her right away, get it over with. He walked to the kitchen door, the light crunch of gravel under his feet breaking the silence.

The door was unlocked. He pushed it open. The smell was hideous. He switched on a light, dropped Reid’s belongings on the nearest chair, made for the electric stove—a gleaming touch of modernity, like the giant refrigerator in a vaulted alcove—where a pot hissed venomously. Its liquid had boiled away, leaving a black mass of unrecognisable objects encrusted on its bottom. He pulled out his handkerchief, yanked the pot away from the burner, dropped it on the tiled floor. There was nothing to spill anyway. He turned off the burner, looked around the kitchen uncertainly.

It was mostly old-time style, with a few additions, a mixture of everything from cooking to eating to sitting, and big enough
to house a family of ten. Cluttered but clean. He opened the door again to get rid of the smell of fish glue, crossed over to the row of back windows to let more air in. Under their stretch lay the sink and a long tiled counter. Concepción had been at work there, preparing dinner. Bowls of diced vegetables, peelings and scrapings beside them, a knife on a chopping board, a half-sliced onion. He was worried now, as well as puzzled. He jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket, felt the lighter. He hesitated, thinking hard. And then he heard a small crunch of gravel from the yard outside. Someone was approaching the open kitchen door, and carefully. Concepción? She didn’t need to walk with such caution. Quickly, before the visitor could see his hand go out, he dropped the lighter into the nearest bowl, made sure it was covered in its bed of chopped tomatoes. He backed swiftly away from the counter, moving as lightly as the man outside, reached the central table. He paused there, watching the doorway. No one entered. There was only silence.

He felt foolish, wondered if his imagination had overreacted. No, he decided, someone was out there, someone whose foot had slipped on the loose gravel; someone who was now standing absolutely still, hoping he hadn’t noticed. What is this? he wondered angrily. An ambush, a trap? and what has happened to Concepción?

He circled back to the stove, picked up the pot from the floor. Its handle had cooled slightly, was at least bearable to hold now. It was medium size, but solid, and nauseating to look at. The smell was clearing off, though. If he hadn’t been so quick to put distance between himself and the bowl of tomatoes, he would have remembered to pick up the knife. Not that he was an expert with it; apart from the usual pistol
practice, his training in combat had been of the unarmed type. Again he looked at the doorway into the yard. What was he supposed to do? Step right out from a lighted kitchen, a perfect target? He turned, made for a closed door behind him. This one should open toward the heart of the house, perhaps into the corridor that led into the main room. Once there, he knew the geography of the place—and the position of the light switches, he reminded himself wryly.

He opened the door, carefully, quietly, made sure there was no one waiting for him there, and then slipped out of the kitchen. He was in that corridor all right, and it was empty. Dark, too; no lamps had been switched on. Ahead was an archway framing grey shadows of chairs and couches, an interior still life, a study in twilight. He tightened his grip on his cumbersome weapon, walked softly, steadying his slow progress with his left hand against a plaster wall. At the threshold, he paused. Then, quickly, he stepped into the room. No one on the staircase to his left. But from his right there was a man coming at him with the butt of a revolver held high.

Ferrier swung the pot, hit the descending wrist, heard the pistol go clattering over the floor and the man curse. As the man made an attempt to lunge at him he swung again, this time catching him on the side of his fat, round face. The man went down with a scream, and stayed down. From the direction of the kitchen came running footsteps.

Ferrier mounted two steps of the staircase, drew his back against the wall. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the greyed light of the room, but he couldn’t see the fat man’s pistol. It must have slid some distance over the tiled floor, was now hiding under a couch or chair. So I surprised them, he
thought with some real pleasure, even if they were expecting me. All carefully planned, was it? He concentrated on that wide doorway. Come on, come on, he told the footsteps silently. They had stopped as abruptly as they had begun. The man was waiting just within the threshold. All right, thought Ferrier, I can wait, too. But he tightened his grip, lifted his arm, listened for the smallest sound of movement.

“Hold it!” The voice came from the centre of the room. A small, thin man rose from behind the chair where he had been crouching. His pointed revolver, a silencer adding ominously to its length, was direct and menacing. He came a few steps nearer, no more than twelve feet away. “No,” he warned Ferrier. “Don’t throw that thing in your hand. Drop it! I will use this revolver if needed. You make a good target. At this distance, the poor light does not matter. Drop it!” The words were in English, heavily accented, but fluent. The manner was intense.

Ferrier checked his impulse. He could see the man clearly enough; therefore the man could see him. This was no bluff. A loaded pistol, aimed right at his chest, ended all bright ideas. He dropped the cooking pot. It thudded down a step, clanged against the iron railing, stuck there.

“Come here! Hands up! Up!”

Ferrier stepped down one tread. He glanced at the entrance to the corridor. There was a footstep there, as if the man was getting into position. There was, as yet, nothing to be seen.

“Face me! Come here!”

And leave my back unprotected to that third man on the threshold?

“All the way down! Move!”

Ferrier drew a deep breath, steadied himself. If it was to be
a knife between the shoulder blades, he had had it. But if it was only to be a blow on the back of his head, he might—if he was quick enough—lessen its impact. He moved, and moved swiftly, leaving the protection of the staircase wall, stepping obliquely forward into the living-room.

The man on the threshold, tall and powerful, came out of its shadows, arm raised and ready. The blow, aimed at the back of Ferrier’s head, only tipped him, but even so he stumbled forward, pitched on to his knees. There was a stinging pain. He let himself slump into a heap on the floor, pretending to black out.