The White Schooner (19 page)

‘Kamros is waiting outside the wall with the stretcher. The Zephyr’s parked according to plan. Can’t see the Land-Rover. Must be in the garage at the back. We’ve not had time to look. On the way up we spotted a jeep of the Guardia Civil parked in a thicket at the foot of the Altomonte road. About five kilometres from here. You know, where the dirt road joins the main road? It was parked off the road behind some bushes about half a kilometre on the Ibiza side. Its windscreen reflected our headlights. We ran on a bit and stopped. Then I went back and did a reccy on foot. There were no police that I could see, but of course it’s as dark as hell to-night.’

‘Christ!’ said Black. ‘They’ve probably gone ahead on foot to watch the road junction.’

‘Could be,’ said Helmut. ‘But they can’t know about us.’

‘I’m not so sure. Van Biljon knew a lot more about my movements than I’d bargained for.’

‘Any way of rejoining the main road without using the junction?’ Francois’ face was strained.

Black thought, then snapped his fingers. ‘Yes. There’s a track near the bottom of the Altomonte road. Used by cattle. Goes through bush and joins up with the main road about half a kilometre west of the junction. Very rough, but I reckon the Zephyr could make it … With a little bit of luck,’ he added.

‘Thank God for bird watching,’ said Helmut.

‘You can say that again. But it’ll be dicy. When they see our headlights they’ll make for the jeep. It’ll be touch and go.’

‘There’s a point I forgot to mention,’ Helmut grinned complacently.

‘What’s that?’

‘We took the precaution of removing the jeep’s
distributor-cap
. Fixed the R/T set too.’

‘At what time was that?’

‘About nine o’clock—soon after you passed in the
Land-Rover
.’

Black frowned. ‘Was that a good thing? If they’ve been back to the jeep they’ll know it’s been tampered with.’

‘I don’t think so. We replaced the distributor-cap after we’d taken a bit of wire out of the cable below the supply material. It’ll take time to find that. When they do it’ll look more like faulty cable than tampering.’

‘And the R/T set?’

‘Same thing. On the transmitting side. If those Spanish boys have got back to the jeep they’ve a lot of work to do.’

Black was thoughtful. ‘Dogs okay? Any sign of Tomaso or the housekeeper?’

‘About the dogs,’ said Francois. ‘You need not worry. They won’t. That meat was lethal. I hated doing it. We saw Tomaso go to the gate when Juan and Pedro left it. Expect he’s there now. Waiting for van Biljon and company to bring you and Manuela out. The housekeeper’s probably in the kitchen or the servants’ quarters. What d’you think he intended?’

‘We were going for a short voyage in
Nordwind
,’ said Black. ‘On non-return basis, I imagine.’

‘You always liked her lines.’ Francois grimaced.

Black looked at his watch. ‘Twelve minutes since you arrived. We must get cracking. I was hoping Tomaso might have come in by now to see how his chums were getting on.’ He went across to where Manuela was slumped in an
armchair
, her eyes closed. He touched her shoulder. ‘Manuela. Go with Helmut and Francois. Do
exactly
as they tell you. If you don’t I can’t be responsible for what happens. I’ll be rejoining you outside.’

She didn’t answer, and Black went over to the others. ‘I’ll go now and create the diversion in front. When you hear the shindy move off. Get him into the Zephyr
pronto
. Give him another shot when necessary. All being well I’ll be over the wall about ten minutes after you. It’s ten fifty-seven now. You should reach the car by eleven-fifteen. Give me five minutes’ grace unless it’s obvious I’ve come unstuck. In that case, don’t wait. Look out for the track. On the left, about two to three hundred metres before you reach the main road. Unfortunately you’ll have to use lights. If I have time, I’ll try and fix the Land-Rover. But I doubt it.’

Helmut shook his head. ‘You’ll be with us. Don’t worry.’

‘I sincerely hope so.’ Black patted him on the back, touched Francois’ arm and then, taking a set of gallery keys and handcuffs, he slipped the thong of a cosh over his wrist and took the automatic from the shoulder-holster. When he reached the gallery door he opened it quietly and went out, shutting it behind him.

A few minutes later Helmut and Francois checked the lashings on Pedro and Juan and went over to where van Biljon was lying. Helmut called to Manuela, ‘Come. Help us, please.’

She went across, frowning and sullen, her eyes on the cosh dangling from Helmut’s wrist.

He stared at her. ‘I’m going to carry van Biljon out. At the wall we may need assistance. Francois will keep next to you. Please behave. He also has a cosh.’ With that he bent down, picked up the long thin body of the old man and with little effort slung it over his shoulder.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Flick the lights.’

When Francois had flicked the lights on and off, he led the way out of the gallery with Manuela, hesitant and fearful, at his side. They stopped in the patio for a moment while Francois shut and locked the double doors.

Once out of the gallery Black made for the nearest pergola, moving silently in the shadows, past the long pool, until he reached the french windows to the hall.

Before entering he looked in. From where he stood he could see not only into the hall but into parts of the rooms adjoining it. There was no one about. Taut, wary, he went in and made his way to the Tribal Room. He chose it because it was on the side of the house nearest the kitchen and farthest from the wall down which Helmut and the others would pass once they’d gone over at the back. It helped, too, that he was familiar with the layout in that wing.

The curtains were drawn and the lights on. The doors leading to the pantry and kitchen were shut, but the iron gates on the guest-suite landing were open and he marked that as an emergency exit. When he’d locked the other doors, he knew that the Tribal Room could only be entered from the hall or the guest-suite. On the south side of the big room, where the windows overlooked the main gates, he moved a curtain an inch aside and looked through. The gates were about fifty yards away, the lights along the terrace in front of the house still on, as they had been when Tomaso had driven them up in the Land-Rover. There was nothing to be seen of the Spaniard. Then he heard the sound of his voice, faint at first but growing louder. He was calling the dogs, alternately whistling and using their names.

The sound came from the east side of the house, and Black watched the corner there. Presently Tomaso appeared, still whistling and calling, making for the gates, using a hand torch to search the clumps of cacti and shrubs. When the Spaniard had almost reached the gates, Black picked up a wooden stool and flung it at the front windows of the Tribal Room. It struck the thick curtains, smashing the glass behind them with a shattering noise. The whistling stopped, and Black looked through the chink in the curtain. Tomaso was standing at the gate, watching the east wing of the house, his mouth wide
open with surprise.

Black took a wooden giraffe by its neck and beat with it on an African drum, with excellent results. Next he seized a great earthenware bowl, Amerindian in origin. This he threw at
another
of the front windows and it, too, made a rewarding noise. Highest decibel register yet, he decided. Again he went to the window and looked out. Tomaso, bent low, was
running
up the steps to the front door. Simultaneously, Black heard knocking on the door from the kitchen passage and a woman’s voice, fearful and querulous. ‘What is happening?’ she cried. ‘What is the trouble?’ It was the housekeeper.

Affecting a throaty hoarseness, he shouted in Spanish, ‘Murder! Run for your life.’ There came immediately the sound of footsteps scampering on terra-cotta tiles, fading rapidly into the distance.

‘Now for the reception committee,’ he muttered as he slipped into the hall and stood against the wall beside the front door. He could hear Tomaso inserting the key, and watched fascinated as the handle turned. The door was
opening
against him so he edged back, cosh in his right hand, Luger in his left. It was happening in slow motion, and again he was reminded of a Buster Keaton comedy. Why did
dangerous
moments seem so unreal, so funny that he wanted to giggle? It was a weakness. Kagan would not approve. Tomaso was doing his best to be careful, but he lacked training or he wouldn’t be coming into the room like that. Didn’t he know the standard drill?:
Kick
door
and
jump
aside.
If
door
hits
soft
object
fire
through
it,
if
in
doubt
challenge.
Tomaso did neither, relying on stealth in slow motion,
apparently
convinced that where the noise had been the people must be.

As the Spaniard came through the door, slowly, like a
stalking
cat, his eyes were fixed on the Tribal Room, and there they were when Black’s cosh descended and Tomaso lost all further interest in the proceedings. Black looked unhappily at the prone figure twitching on the floor at his feet. He had no quarrel with Tomaso. ‘Definitely not first eleven,’ he sighed as he took the Spaniard’s automatic from a limp hand and slid it under a settee. He looked at the clock in the hall and then at his watch. It was seven minutes since he’d left the gallery. The others should be over the wall by now and making for the car, Helmut and Kamros carrying the stretcher
while Francois covered them and brought along the girl.

Black dragged Tomaso to the foot of the stairs and
handcuffed
him to the wrought-iron banisters. After a last look round, he ran through the hall, out on to the patio and on past the pool to the gallery. There he unlocked the doors and went in, locking them again behind him. He checked the Spaniards’ lashings and found them secure, but Juan’s gag had worked loose and this he tightened, warning the men that if they wanted to see the sun rise, they’d better play dead for the next few hours.

That done, he went to the far screen and took the Cézanne water-mill picture from its frame, and with a heavy pocket knife lifted the tacks which secured the canvas to the stretchers. He rolled the canvas and thrust it inside his trousers, wedging it between belt and body. When he left the gallery he locked the doors, and in the subdued light from the patio made for the outbuildings. Beyond them and the
screening
clumps of figs and cacti, he found the wall and moved westward along it, checking the rough surface with the beam of a pencil torch. Soon the bottom of the nylon ladder showed up.

Grasping it, he climbed to the top of the wall, pulled it up after him, dropping it over on the far side and climbed down.

Moving as fast as he could in the darkness, he went along the side of the
finca
keeping to the wall, the top of which was outlined against the sky by the lights from the house. At the corner the wall turned east across the front of the property, and he left it and went into the trees. A few minutes later he came to the road and started down it. The night was cold and clear, the sky bright with stars, the light southerly breeze charged with the scent of almonds and lemons from the terraces.

When he reached the S-bend, he followed it to the bottom of the ravine. There he went into the trees again and walked in a half-circle, sniffing the wind until he picked up the synthetic odour of petrol and oil and rubber. He followed it until he almost walked into the car.

‘Everything okay?’ Black’s dry throat made him hoarse.

‘Okay,’ said Helmut. ‘Bloody hard work carrying him, though. Even with the stretcher. And you?’

‘Fine,’ said Black. ‘I had to clobber Tomaso. He’s out for
a bit. Handcuffed to the banisters.’

‘And the housekeeper?’

‘She’s lying low somewhere. Badly frightened, I’d say.’

‘What about the girl? Drop her here?’

He had almost forgotten Manuela. ‘Not yet,’ he said,
climbing
into the driving seat. ‘All in?’ He turned but could see nothing in the darkness.

Francois said, ‘Okay. He’s between me and Kamros. Stretcher’s in the boot. I’ve given him another shot.’

Black started the engine and switched on the headlights. In the glow of the facia board he saw that Manuela was next to him. He touched her hand reassuringly, but she snatched it away. The car came clear of the trees and they turned south on to the dirt road, climbing the long slope out of the ravine. At the top he switched to sidelights and then, as they began the descent, he used the headlights again.

‘Time?’ he called.

Helmut held his wrist against the dashlight. ‘Eighteen minutes past eleven.’

‘Christ,’ said Black. ‘It’s taken twenty-one minutes.’

‘Feels like twenty-one hours,’ said the German.

Black said, ‘I’ll drive down at an easy pace. They’ll see and hear us before we reach the turn-off, but they won’t know whether it’s the Zephyr or the Land-Rover. They’ll reckon on stopping the car at the junction to check. We’ve got to reach the main road via the cattle track before they realise we’re by-passing the junction. When we reach the track we’ll give it stick.’

Helmut said, ‘I wonder if that jeep’s serviceable yet?’

A voice came from the back seat. ‘You’ll soon know.’ It was Kamros at his gloomiest.

The lone olive tree showed up in the headlights and Black slowed down, his eyes straining for the cattle trade. He knew that the police, a few hundred yards ahead at the road junction, would long since have seen the Zephyr’s headlights although he’d kept them dipped. If they’d got the jeep going or requisitioned a passing vehicle, it would be a close thing.

He saw the track and swung right. ‘Hold tight,’ he called. ‘It’ll be bumpy.’ To Helmut he said. ‘Keep a look-out for snags. Shout if you see anything.’

With the car in second gear, he switched the headlights on
and accelerated. Then began a wild dash through trees and scrub, the Zephyr swerving and bumping along the dry track, braking and skidding as unexpected hazards loomed up, then accelerating on to the next one, the car sometimes leaving the ground as it hit a furrow or grass hump. Twice it seemed to Black that they would go over as he fought skids with wheel and accelerator. Several times Helmut shouted warnings, once when the headlights dispersed a shadow cast by bushes and a yawning burrow showed up close ahead. Black wrenched the steering wheel and the car lurched dangerously, a rear wheel sliding and spinning as the rim of the hole collapsed.

But somehow they kept going until Helmut shouted, ‘See that! Police maybe.’ Ahead and to their left the headlights of a car came sweeping up out of the darkness and they knew that they had almost reached the main road.

‘Christ!’ said Black, and as the Zephyr dry skidded round a bend on the cattle track, he switched off the lights and slammed on the brakes. Those in the back seat were thrown forward and the car juddered to a stop behind a clump of pines. The air was thick with dust, and from the wheels came the acrid smell of burning rubber.

He switched off the engine. ‘Sorry to have stopped so untidily, but there’s good cover here. We’ll hold on.’

The headlights of the other car disappeared. ‘Must’ve gone into a dip,’ he said. ‘They’ll slow up soon.’

Before he’d finished speaking they appeared again, the beams reaching towards San José. In their lights, through gaps in the pines, Black could see the road ahead of and below them, no more than a hundred yards away. In the Zephyr the only sound was that of breathing, and even it seemed to stop as the other car swept up the main road, came opposite the thicket of pines, and raced on in the darkness.

‘Don’t think it could have been the police,’ he said. ‘That car must have seen our headlights before we stopped. If it’d been the police, they’d have slowed down to check.’

‘Unless they reckon we made the road ahead of them,’ suggested Helmut. ‘And went round the bend.’

‘We’ll probably do that anyway,’ said Black dryly. ‘Let’s give them a minute or two to get clear. Watch their headlights as long as you can. They may be aiming to stop ahead of us and wait.’

Francois leant forward from the back seat. ‘Are you going
to take the Ibiza direction?’

‘It’s tricky.’ Black took a deep breath. ‘Means going back on the main road past the junction—that’s past the jeep if it’s still there. I think we’d better take the San José route. Unless
somebody
has a better idea. Whatever we do is a gamble. But the San José route’ll get us to Cabo Negret quicker.’

The minutes ticked away as they waited for the other car’s headlights to disappear. When they had, Black said, ‘They should be five or six kilometres away now.’ He started the engine, switched on the headlights, and they moved off down the track. It became rocky and rutted, growing steeper as they approached the main road where the line of the ditch was marked by a long shadow. At its edge, Black stopped the car and was about to get out to examine it when Helmut leant across and grabbed his arm. ‘Look! Something coming down from Altomonte.’

Black swung round to see distant fingers of light probing the darkness like antennae as a car made its way down the valley. ‘Must be the Land-Rover,’ he said.

It seemed to him unlikely that Tomaso could have
recovered
in time to have been of much use. Anyway, he was handcuffed to the banisters. Techa must have overcome her fear, got into the gallery somehow, and released Pedro and Juan. But speculating didn’t help, it was the fact of the pursuit he had to deal with. ‘I reckon we’ve got five minutes’ start,’ he said. ‘And a lot more speed.’

‘D’you think the police will stop them at the junction. Then join in the chase?’ asked Helmut.

‘Could be. Now for this bloody ditch.’ He turned in the driving seat. ‘Everybody out. Get ready to shove. Not you,’ he said to Manuela gruffly as she began to move. Immediately contrite, he added, ‘You’re too light to make any difference.’

She said nothing and he climbed down and had a good look at the ditch before engaging low gear and taking the Zephyr into it. The car moved ahead, meeting the ditch at an oblique angle, lurching first one way and then the other, its body groaning as the metal twisted and strained. It started up the slope towards the verge, hesitated, stopped, and the engine roared as the wheels spun. Black slipped the gear lever into reverse and backed. ‘Now! Shove as we try again,’ he called. It was not until the fourth attempt that the Zephyr staggered out of the ditch and Black pulled it up on the side of the road.
They’d lost at least three minutes.

The others ran up and climbed in, and he let the clutch out and accelerated through the gears until they were making for San José. On the straight stretches the speedometer needle hovered between the 120 and 130 kilometre notches, the roar of the wind drowned all other sounds, and the bends and undulations in the road made it difficult to see if they were being followed. Nothing was said, but Black knew that his men—and for quite other reasons, Manuela—were thinking of the police, expecting a road block round every corner, over the brow of each hill, looking back for the headlights of a pursuing car.