The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “If only I could make such calculations,” he says candidly. “There are locations that fascinate me. I have explored them, I have spent days—weeks—studying every detail.”

  “Are there many?”

  “Three. One is beyond the range of the French shelling; as such, I have dismissed it in principle … The other two are more viable.”

  “For the murderer?”

  “Of course.”

  Tizón says nothing for a moment, but lifts the tail of his frockcoat. In the dim light, Barrull can see the stock of the double-barrel Ketland revolver tucked into his belt.

  “This time he will not get away,” Tizón says grimly. “I plan to be prepared.”

  He notices that Barrull is staring at him with evident consternation. Tizón is aware that this is the first occasion, in all the time they have known each other, that the professor has seen him with a firearm.

  “Has it occurred to you that, by intervening, you are altering the murderer’s play? Disturbing his thoughts or his intentions?”

  It is Tizón’s turn to be surprised. Arriving at the Plaza San Juan de Dios, they feel a fresh, salt breeze coming in off the sea. A caleche is parked nearby, the driver sleeping on his coachbox. To their left, beneath the twin peaks of the Puerta de Mar, the guards are changing shift. They are lit from the landward side by a lantern that gives the stone a yellowish hue and glitters on the white belting of their uniforms, the cold steel of their bayonets.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” says the policeman.

  He is silent for a moment, considering this new perspective. Eventually he nods in agreement. “You mean that this may be why he has not killed for some time?”

  “It’s possible,” says Barrull. “Perhaps, because you have meddled with the bombs, modified—if I can put it this way—the artless random element of the French artilleryman’s shelling, you have also altered the murderer’s game plan. Unsettled him … Perhaps he will not kill again.”

  Tizón tilts his head sullenly, one hand patting the hard shape of the pistol beneath his frockcoat.

  “Or perhaps he will take up the challenge,” he says, “and play me at my own game.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The last light of day is fading, melting slowly before the encroaching purple of night as it slips between the terraces, the towers and the spires. As Lolita Palma arrives by carriage at the Mentidero—accompanied by her maid, Mari Paz, and the first officer of the Culebra, Ricardo Maraña—the west-facing windows of the houses shimmer with the last red beams guttering into the sea. So begins the hour—so much a part of Cádiz and so beloved by her—when the sea gleams faintly; when hushed sounds travel great distances like the hammer-blows of a shipwright working on the docks; when men fishing from the city walls head home, their rods over their shoulders, beneath the unlit street lamps; when idlers return from watching the sunset out beyond San Sebastián lighthouse; when lamps and candles are lit in shop windows and in doorways, piercing the tentative, tranquil darkness the city settles into every evening.

  At dusk, the Plaza de la Cruz de Verdad, known as the Mentidero, resembles a village fair. Telling her maid and the coachman to wait for her on the corner of the Calle del Veedor, Lolita Palma accepts Maraña’s hand and steps down from the carriage, drapes a black lace mantilla around her head and shoulders and, accompanied by the young sailor, walks among the tents. Children are running and playing while entire families sit on the ground, cooking on open fires and preparing to sleep under the stars. In recent weeks the French shelling has intensified, and its range has extended. Now bombs fall with unsettling regularity and, though the number of victims is not excessive—many shells still do not explode, therefore causing little damage—those living in the most exposed neighborhoods make the most of these balmy nights to shelter in this part of the city, safe from the artillery fire. Improvising bivouacs using blankets, straw mattresses and sailcloths, they occupy the square and a part of the esplanade which runs between the twin bastions of Candelaria and Bonete. Every evening at sunset the area around the Mentidero is transformed into a nomadic camp—citizens and immigrants, cheerfully resigned, gather until the early hours in local inns and restaurants or at the makeshift bars set up in the street, where wine, conversation, music and song go some way toward allaying their discomfort.

  Pépé Lobo is having dinner on the corner of Calle de Hércules opposite the Café del Petit Versailles, at a dubious establishment known as the Negro’s bodega, which specializes in grilled sardines, roast octopus and red wine. In fine weather, the owner sets up a deck outside with three or four tables, mostly frequented by sailors and foreigners, who in turn attract those women who, after dark, prowl the streets and the neighboring alleys. Lolita Palma, spotting the corsair—who seems unaware of her presence—stops, leaving Ricardo Maraña to walk on alone. She has spent more than an hour searching the city for Lobo: first at the Sánchez Guineas’ office, where she was told he had dropped by earlier this afternoon; then down at the docks, where she found the Culebra ready to weigh anchor as soon as there is a lull in the strong nor’easter that has been blowing across the bay for the past two days. The Culebra’s first officer, hearing of her arrival from a boatman, immediately came ashore—it is a matter of life and death, she told him, offering no further explanation—and with his usual cold, polite formality, offered to accompany her to the Mentidero, where he believed the captain was having dinner. Now Lolita watches as the lieutenant approaches Pépé Lobo’s table, bending to exchange a few brief words, then turning toward her. The captain looks at her in astonishment, then says something to Maraña, who shrugs. Lobo sets down his napkin, gets to his feet and, not bothering to don his hat, weaves through the crowd toward her. She does not give him time to say the words clearly forming on his lips: “What brings you here?”

  “I have a problem,” she says brusquely.

  The sailor seems taken aback. “Serious?”

  “Extremely so.”

  Lobo glances around him, awkwardly. His first officer is now sitting at the table, watching them as he pours himself a glass of wine.

  “I’m not sure that this is the place,” says the corsair.

  “It hardly matters.” Lolita speaks with a calmness that surprises herself. “The French have captured the Marco Bruto.”

  “My God … When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday, off Punta Candor. A Royal Armada gunboat brought the news this morning. She spotted our ship on a reconnaissance mission to the cove at Rota. Both ships are anchored there, the Marco Bruto and the corsair felucca that captured her … She must have sailed too close to land.”

  Lolita feels the man’s eyes watching her anxiously. Having carefully considered her position, she has come here determined, having rehearsed every word, every gesture. But her calm exterior is an act of will. There is a powerful inner fury. It is not easy to meet those pale, questioning eyes. The corsair struggles to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” says Lobo. “This is a terrible misfortune.”

  “There is nothing to be gained by being sorry. This is not a misfortune, it is a catastrophe.”

  What comes next is not merely a sudden burst of honesty. Lolita Palma tells him everything, because she knows that it is her only hope. The inescapable conclusion. And so she tells him about the valuable cargo of copper ingots, sugar, grain and indigo dye the brigantine is carrying, but she also tells him about the 20,000 pesos crucial to the survival of the family business—to say nothing of the value of the ship itself and the goods and chattels aboard.

  “From what I have been able to ascertain,” she concludes, “the French are intending to move the ship to Sanlúcar and unload her there; given the storm, they have been forced to take shelter at Rota … I assume that as soon as the wind changes, they will weigh anchor. The jetty at Rota is too small to berth her there.”

  Having stooped slightly to listen to Lolita, Lobo now straightens up and glances around him once more. Eventually, he looks at her
again.

  “This nor’easter could hold out for another two days … Why aren’t they unloading her on the beach?”

  Lolita Palma does not know. Perhaps, with the Spanish and English gunboats nearby, they do not dare. Moreover, the felucca is based out of Sanlúcar, so perhaps they simply want to get her there. They may also be wary of the fact that guerrilleros operate on the Río Salado, so the French would be disinclined to transport the cargo by land.

  “Are you genuinely interested in what I am saying, Captain?”

  She poses this question with a hint of irritation that borders on disdain. She has noticed that once again he has turned away, as if heedless of what she is saying, and is looking at the lamps and lanterns being lit in nearby shops and buildings. After a moment she sees him screw up his eyes.

  “You were looking for me in order to tell me this?”

  Finally, he looks at her again, mistrustful. Just as he might look at the sea, she thinks. Or at life. Now is the moment to tell him.

  “I want you to retrieve the Marco Bruto.”

  She has said it—has managed to say the words—her voice low and measured. She lifts her chin and stares at him, unblinking, intent, as she strives to hide the fierce beating of her heart. How ridiculous it would be, she thinks suddenly, fearfully, to faint here in the street. Without my smelling salts.

  “Is this some jest?” says Pépé Lobo.

  “You know it is not.”

  She cannot be sure now that her voice did not quaver. Those green eyes seem to be scrutinizing every inch of her.

  “That is why you came here?”

  It is not really a question, nor is there any surprise in his tone. Lolita Palma does not answer. She cannot. Sometimes these days she feels a terrible weariness, a frailty almost like a sickness. The erratic pounding of her heart has slowed now; the space between each beat is longer. She has gone as far as she can go, and she knows this. The corsair surely knows it too, for, after a brief hesitation, he reaches out his hand, just enough to brush her elbow, as though inviting her to walk a little way with him. She follows the man’s slight gesture, meekly allowing herself to be led. After a moment, she hears his voice again.

  “It would be impossible to get to the ships at Rota … They will have anchored them over three and a half fathoms as always, between the headland and the rocks. Protected by the gun batteries at Gallina and Puntilla.”

  At least he did not laugh, she thinks, relieved. Nor did he say anything untoward, which is what she feared. Though skeptical, he simply sounds solemn, correct. He seems genuinely intent on explaining to her why he cannot do as she asked.

  “You could try at night,” says Lolita, coldly. “If the nor’easter holds, all you would need to do is cut the mooring rope and hoist a sail and for the brigantine to drift away from land …”

  She says no more, hoping her words will be enough. Enough for him to see things as she sees them; as she has spent all day imagining them, poring over the map of the bay in her study until it is imprinted on her brain. She notices him give her a sidelong glance—admiration, perhaps; a little hopeful, or maybe a little amused. But the surprise in his voice seems genuine.

  “Well now, you seem to have studied the matter thoroughly.”

  “My life depends on it.”

  The Plaza del Mentidero stretches out toward the esplanade, the ramparts and the sea, between the artillery park and the military barracks at Cadelaria. Between the makeshift tents where families have huddled are open fires on which stewpots simmer. From somewhere nearby comes the sound of children shrieking, a few melancholy notes of a guitar. In the last row of houses there is a coal yard; in the doorway a woman in a black shawl sits dozing in a chair, surrounded by brooms tied together with cane. Behind her, the ghostly glow of an oil lamp illuminates sacks and baskets of coal.

  “When the wind shifts, the Marco Bruto will leave the cove,” ventures Pépé Lobo. “It would only be possible to attempt what you’re suggesting when she is on the open sea, far from the gun batteries.”

  “By then it might be too late. They will travel armed, perhaps even with an escort. We would lose the element of surprise.”

  Lolita Palma detects a skeptical smile playing across the corsair’s lips. Since that night at Carnaval, nothing about those lips goes unnoticed by her.

  “This is a job for the Royal Armada, not for us.”

  Drawing on her last reserves of calm, Lolita looks once more into those green eyes. Lobo is gazing at her in such a manner that, for a moment, she does not know what to say. Oh, God, she thinks. Perhaps it is because of the way I see him now. Because of what I am doing or what I want him to do. Because of what I am proposing to do to him, to his ship and his crew.

  “The Armada will not deal with matters relating to an individual,” she says finally, with perfect equanimity. “At best, if we manage to get the Marco Bruto out of the inlet at Rota, some gunboats from La Caleta might escort her back home … but no one will guarantee anything.”

  “Have you been to the Harbor Master’s Office?”

  “I spoke to Valdés in person. And that is how things stand.”

  “But the Culebra is a corsair not a warship … Neither the ship nor my crew are up to what you are asking of us.”

  They are now on the windy esplanade near the arbor and the small, half-withered garden next to the munitions dump. The city walls are just ahead, the watchtowers and cannons swathed in a fading haze of indigo. In the damp, salty breeze, the lace of Lolita’s mantilla flutters against her face.

  “Listen to me, Captain. I told you about the twenty thousand pesos aboard the Marco Bruto, but there is something I have not said … In addition to the usual reward for recapturing her, I will add ten percent of that sum.”

  “Forty thousand reales? Are you in earnest?”

  “Absolutely. Two thousand silver pesos. An amount which, for each of your men, is equal to a fifth of everything he has earned to date at a single stroke. To say nothing of the official reward for her recapture.”

  There is a sustained, appraising silence. She notices his lips purse.

  “This is clearly important to you,” says the corsair.

  “It is critical. I do not think Palma e Hijos can survive her loss.”

  “The situation is truly that bad?”

  “It is agonizing.”

  Unexpected, candid, almost brutal, her answer surprises even her. She holds her breath for a moment, bewildered, unable to bring herself to turn away from this man who is staring at her so solemnly. Perhaps it was a mistake to speak so freely, to go so far, she thinks anxiously. Certainly she would never have made such a frank confession to Don Emilio, or to his son Miguel. Not in these words—not to them, nor to anyone. Lolita Palma is too wary and too proud. And she knows this city. In an instant, she realizes that Pépé Lobo understands all these things too, as though he can read her mind. The thought is strangely comforting.

  “To attempt it would be suicide,” says the corsair after a moment.

  They are standing by the parapet of the city walls—just as they did on the night of Carnaval, thinks Lolita—and she, like Lobo, is staring out to sea, past the swell that breaks against the rocks at Los Cochinos, all the way to the few distant lights on the headland at Rota, across six miles of choppy water and white salt spray.

  “With a stiff wind like this,” the corsair continues, “the only way to do it would be to sail close, approach the cove from the French fort at Santa Catalina and then come in as close as possible to shore … That would mean coming within firing range three times.”

  “There is no moon. That affords a certain advantage.”

  “But it brings disadvantages, too. Risks. Like running aground in the darkness on the rocks at Gallinas … It’s a dangerous stretch of coastline.”

  Lobo places both hands on the parapet, as though on the gunwale of his ship. Lolita notices his manner as he stares out at the bay; surely it must be the same as when he is aboard the Culebra
. His is the wary, preoccupied expression of a man who takes nothing for granted, at sea or on land. As though he can never trust anything or anyone.

  “Besides,” Lobo continues, “even if we could get there, we would have to split the crew and put a boarding party on the brigantine, something that could not be done without attracting attention … to say nothing of the fact that the felucca is anchored nearby and heavily armed: two 12-pound carronades and six 6-pound guns … What you are asking would mean the cutter and her crew braving the field guns of the French batteries, boarding the brigantine and perhaps doing battle with the feluccas …”

  “Exactly.”

  For the love of God, thinks Lolita as she hears her own words. I do not know how I came by this cold logic, but I give thanks for it—for this desperate need that allows me to speak in this way, this calm that restrains me from throwing myself at him, forcing him to take me in his arms again.

  The corsair nods slowly, tilting his head to one side. He seems to have reached some conclusion, one she cannot intuit.

  “I don’t know what you think of me, but I can assure you …”

  He breaks off—or rather, he allows the words to die away in a vague, strangely masculine sigh. His voice and the silence that follows make the hairs on the back of Lolita Palma’s neck prickle. She shudders, both with physical desire and selfish hope. In a flash, hope prevails over desire and all that is left is the urge to pose the inevitable question.

  “Can it be done?”

  Pépé Lobo laughs, softly, quietly, but making no attempt to hide it. As if some invisible figure has just said something funny, in a whisper Lolita did not hear. This laugh gives her hope, yet it shocks her. Only a man who has heard the devil himself laugh, she thinks, could laugh as he does.

  “We can try,” murmurs the corsair. “The sea is capricious … We may succeed and we may fail.”

  “All I ask is that we try.”

  Lobo looks down at the dark waves lapping at the foot of the ramparts, at the foam carried on the wind that gives the rocks a curious phosphorescence.