Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  Her answering smile was absent-minded. She was looking at the other cars. “No sign of my Buick,” she said with relief. “You never can tell with these people. They may come ahead of time, make sure it’s all safe before they actually meet.”

  “You really believe they will meet?”

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  Yes, she really believed it. He switched off the engine. “How do we approach? Up that hill?” The path climbed between gardened terraces.

  “I’ll show you the way.” She was opening the door. “Keep a little distance behind me. We’ll meet in the patio.” She hesitated, nervousness no longer disguised. “But keep me in sight. Don’t lose me, Ian. Please!”

  “I won’t.”

  Then she said in a very small voice, “Geronimo!” and she stepped into the brilliant sunshine.

  20

  Amanda walked steadily up the path to the main entrance of the Generalife. There were several people taking this road: a few family groups dawdling, keeping a close eye on straggling children; some foreigners pausing every now and again to look back at the view of the Alhambra on the hill behind them, studying maps, frowning over guidebooks. A mixed crowd. It would grow as the afternoon lengthened—most visitors-to-come were enjoying Sunday dinner or their siesta. She could see no one she recognised.

  She reached the underpass, a short tunnel that would bring her up into the main courtyard. In its shadow, she risked turning to glance behind her. Ian Ferrier was a little distance away, trying not to appear as if he was hurrying. She felt a sudden warmth, an excitement, a strange suspension in time. Then she walked on, before he would see that she had been standing there, looking at him. There was a smile in her eyes, a softness on her lips as she stepped out of the underpass and entered the courtyard. More people here. Quickly, she came back to reality.

  There was no sign of Gene Lucas as yet. How cleverly he had chosen this place for his meeting: several ways in and out, many paths, a confusion of terraces, an abundance of shelter from thick cypresses heavy with age, distractions everywhere—bright colours of flowers, constant movement of people. She glanced at the little groups debating what route they’d take first, and chose two Swedish girls who had decided on the patio, handsome blondes with a gay line of chatter and a roving eye—but not for her. They didn’t even notice as she followed close at their heels, then slipped away from their escort once she was through the entrance. Usually, when she came here, she’d stand just at this spot, looking at the long rectangle that formed a patio, open to the sun, whose floor was entirely covered with roses and flowers. Today, she didn’t pause. The entrance was a vulnerable place. Quickly, her eyes searched, made sure Lucas hadn’t arrived.

  She had chosen a path between two of the long straight beds of roses that ran the full length of the patio. Delicate sprays of water met in a perfect arch above the bright flowers, a curtain of crystal beads gleaming in the sun, shimmering at the touch of stirring air. It was a fragile wall, translucent, but somehow she felt it protected her. She relaxed. She stopped to admire some roses, waited for Ferrier. In a few seconds, he was beside her. “All clear, I think,” she said softly.

  And half an hour to wait. “Where do we go?” Ferrier had been studying the patio. About fifty yards long, perhaps more; and a quarter of that distance wide. Two walls with vines and shrubs on either side, disguising a drop to a lower terrace on his left, a rise to a higher terrace on his right. Behind him was the entrance he had just used—better keep away from there, he warned himself. Facing him, edging this incredible floor of roses, was a two-storeyed pavilion, white, simple yet fragile in the Moorish style, that stretched across the full breadth of the patio and ended it completely. The second storey interested him. It had a wide, deeply recessed balcony that seemed to occupy most of the floor space up there.

  She noticed the direction of his eyes. “That’s where we go. We take the steps on the left.”

  They were narrow and steep, tucked away at the corner of the building as if the architect had wanted to keep them as unobtrusive as possible and not destroy the line of his pavilion. “Any other way out from that place?” He kept looking at the balcony. One thing in its favour was its depth: he couldn’t see its back from where he stood.

  “Yes. It’s really a gallery. You’ll see when you get up there. Several rooms, and a side way out on to the terrace that lies above us. If necessary, we can always make a quick exit that way.” She noticed his hesitation. “The gallery is so broad that they can’t see us up there unless we come almost to its edge and look down on the patio.”

  “But can we see them?”

  “You’d be surprised.” She was already moving towards the steps.

  She seemed to know what she was doing. But he resisted it, just a little. “I’ll follow,” he told her. He waited for a couple of minutes, walking around the stretches of roses, seeing nothing to alarm him. It was an innocent Sunday afternoon, a general assortment of the domestic. Families with children, old people alone, honeymoon couples speechless, younger people in chattering groups, two handsome Spaniards stalking two blonde Swedes, a grey-coated attendant with slow pace and supervisory eye. Reassured, Ferrier glanced at his watch—four minutes past four o’clock—and then briefly at the huge central balcony of the pavilion. A redheaded man and a fair-haired girl were standing at its front, elbows leaning on the balustrade. Otherwise, it was empty. Immediately, he was worried about Amanda. He headed with no more delay for the flight of stairs.

  It was a steep, straight pull, discouraging for most leg muscles. His own reminded him they had already had their exercise for the day. At the top of the steps, there was a quick plunge into limited space, tortuous, shadowed: a twisting corridor of stone, a few rooms small and bare of furnishings; intricate carvings and designs around the occasional narrow window that was empty of glass, letting in the hill breeze and keeping out the stark sun; superb views for those who had time for them—neither Ferrier nor the young couple kissing blissfully in one dark corner qualified for that; and then, unexpectedly, emergence into bright daylight and the long deep balcony. It was roofed, enclosed on three sides, and obviously led to other rooms. A true gallery, in fact, spacious and simple and inviting. The red-haired man and his girl were leaving. Amanda was alone, drawn close against one side wall, almost at its centre point. Her eyes were watching the main entrance to the patio.

  He went over to her, stood beside her. “A good view of the gates,” he conceded, “but you were vulnerable. I could have been anyone coming up behind you.”

  “I knew your footsteps.” She was smiling. “Actually, I sneaked a quick look.”

  “How long have you been standing here?”

  “Before you looked at your watch and saw the time was five past four.” She lifted her wrist, comparing his watch with hers, glanced briefly to check. “You’re a minute slow. Or am I fast?”

  “From now on, I’d better take your word for it. And that’s a lopsided apology. You were right and I was wrong about this place. It’s safer than it looked.” He half turned at the sound of footsteps—the old floors creaked well—but it was another couple, wandering hand in hand. Behind them, slowly, tactfully, came one of the uniformed attendants, making sure that historical monuments were given the proper respect. Ferrier rested a shoulder against the wall. “No wild parties allowed, I see.”

  “You’d have to go back five centuries for that. This was where the harem was kept. So my Spanish friends tell me. They may be romanticising of course. It makes a good story, especially by full moon.”

  “You came here by moonlight?”

  “Once.” Her eyes kept watching the entry to the garden. But not on business, he thought, and felt a twinge of jealousy that startled him. He tried to joke it away by looking around the empty gallery, saying, “Standing room only nowadays. A pity. No improvement at all on cushions piled on silk rugs, stars above, roses below, and the distant music of falling water.” And Amanda with her hair falling loosely
over her shoulders, her eyes on his, her lips coming to meet him. “Amanda—”

  Her eyes did turn to meet his.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Quickly, she looked down at the entrance.

  “Let’s get this damn duty over and done with,” he said, “and then—” And then what? He looked away, too, stared down at that bloody entrance.

  Five minutes passed. “I hate waiting, this standing around,” Amanda said.

  “Will he come?”

  “Lucas? Yes. That message was definite.”

  “Not a fake to draw you up here?”

  “Not a fake. He doesn’t know about my new little listening gadget. I had one, you know, that wasn’t too reliable somehow or other. Then, just a month ago, an old friend from my training days was passing through Málaga, came to see me. He’s an expert in electronics; it’s his specialty. So he listened to my complaint, said he’d fix it for me. And he did. A new device entirely. He got it working, one Saturday afternoon—the picnic day, remember?—and I must say it is miraculous. He told me to keep quiet about it, though. And I have, until now. So that you can take the worried frown off your face,” she added with a small laugh. “As for keeping quiet—I think he cadged the device from a friend. Unauthorised procurement of intelligence supplies.”

  “In other words, he took a short cut. Clipped the red tape. Sounds a sensible kind of fellow.”

  “And of course,” she said, amused, “all I heard for four weeks was just political chitchat. One of those doldrum periods I mentioned at lunch. Then wow! These last two days—they’ve been something else.”

  “What about the old listening device, the one that spluttered instead of talking? Did your friend remove it, or leave it in place?”

  “In place. Untouched. Not even examined.”

  “He’s smart as well as sensible. Did he offer any explanation of what had gone wrong with the first gadget?”

  “He thought it had been discovered, and put out of action when anything important was being discussed.”

  “And who would Lucas blame for it? You?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not... At least, he never gave one sign that he thought me anything except another of his little stupids. Good for making the sandwiches, lending him vodka when the Martinis ran out at his parties, emptying ashtrays, washing up, amusing his nonpolitical guests with light chitchat. Women’s work.” She shrugged that off, turned serious again. “We aren’t the only opposition he has to worry about. There are the pro-Chinese communists. They’re around, you know. In fact, they came into one of his private discussions yesterday. The KGB are nervous that the Maoists may try to kidnap Tomás Fuentes. Or that the CIA may get hold of him.” She gave Ferrier a quick, searching look. “Just who is Tomás Fuentes?”

  “Someone important to them, obviously,” he said, trying to keep his voice offhand, his face blank of expression. “Interesting discussion you heard yesterday.”

  Her eyes went back to watching the gate. There was a long silence. “They are going to search Tavita’s house,” she said at last.

  “How?”

  “By pretending to interview her.”

  “My God—” And here I’m stuck, he thought grimly. He controlled himself. “Did you mention to anyone that you were meeting me for lunch?”

  She saw where that question was leading. She didn’t like it. “And bringing you up here to get you safely out of the way?” she asked angrily. “Trust me more, Ian. You don’t, do you?”

  “I’ve never met a girl who attracted me more.”

  “I know you like me. Just as you know I like you. But something has been coming between us all afternoon. What? Oh, forget it,” she said bitterly. “But I haven’t been using any bug in your rooms. If I do that with Lucas it’s because he is the enemy. He is out to destroy us. Any way he can. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I know the facts of life. I’m not quibbling about electronic surveillance of an enemy agent. Or of anyone who is planning assassination or organising sabotage or conspiring to seize power by force. We’d all have given a lot for some listening device or telephone bug that could have been planted on Lee Oswald long before he shot Kennedy.” From behind them, entering the gallery, came a burst of giggles and cross talk in Swedish and Spanish. Ferrier glanced around: the two young men had caught up with the blondes, and what couldn’t be understood was being mimed. It was a merry little party, and would get merrier. The girls came forward to have a quick look down at the rose garden, decided the gallery was too crowded with Amanda and Ferrier there, and retreated to explore the rooms. Ferrier grinned and said, “Now that’s where I wouldn’t condone any listening device. Nor would you.”

  She nodded. “Just so you know where the line is drawn,” she said, relaxing visibly. “I’m not someone who snoops around into people’s lives. I—”

  “I know that,” he said, and slipped his arm around her waist. “You don’t have to be so defensive about it, though. Not to me, at least.”

  “Then,” she asked very quietly, “why are you so divided about me? Why does everything go so well between us—and then, without warning, your guard goes up?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, and there was more truth in it than he liked to admit, “because I’ve been a fairly happy bachelor, everything arranged comfortably, simply, no extra cares, no ties on my freedom; and then I meet a girl who has beauty, intelligence, a sense of humour, a sense of duty, and her life is full of problems. And automatically my reflexes say, ‘Danger, Ian, here’s danger.’And instinctively—” His eyes hardened, his arm tightened on her waist. And Amanda’s body stiffened, drew nearer to him. Gene Lucas had just entered through the gates.

  He was walking slowly, partly sheltered by a family group that trailed around him. He was early by ten minutes. Once inside the patio, he separated from Papá and Mamá and little José and Maria and all the rest of the brood, and began his own separate stroll down one long flower bed. His face came into sharper focus. Today, he was a well-dressed man in the Spanish style (and it suited him—the Swedes would have adopted him on sight), with a seemingly quick eye for pretty girls that neatly disguised a more general interest. Not much missed him.

  “Is he coming here?” Ferrier asked worriedly, noticing Lucas’ direction.

  “Why should he? You and I are supposed to be safely up in the Albaicin.”

  “The gypsy quarters? And how did we get there?” He watched Lucas stop at a display of roses and turn to look back at the entrance gate.

  “Well—you were right—I did tell him I would probably lunch with you. I had to. He asked me what I was doing for lunch, when he came borrowing my room for his meeting with some people who were arranging an exhibition of paintings here in Granada. He thought they were interested in two of his; very exciting, big deal. He was sorry about the way he was neglecting me, but it was just one of those things. He couldn’t even be with me this afternoon, as he had promised; we’d just have to postpone that daylight visit to the Albaicin and he’d take me there later this evening after dinner. And that’s where I dug in my heels and said, ‘But I’ve never seen it by daylight—that’s the whole point—I want to see the gypsies as they live there, not putting on a performance for tourists. So I’m going this afternoon.’ But not alone, he warned me; that would worry him. So I said that if he wouldn’t come, then I’d ask you. He tried to look doubtful. But he was pleased. After all, he had tried to steer me into that suggestion, hadn’t he?”

  “The perpetual chess game. Pawn to Queen’s fourth.”

  “But whose pawn?” she asked quickly. “I hope it was mine. That’s the winning move, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the aggressive one.”

  “Well, I’m tired of always reacting instead of acting. Let’s see what this move brings us.”

  Lucas must have recognised someone who had entered the gate—there was a crowd there now—for he had stopped watching it and begun to walk slowly around. Bloody hell, thought Ferrier, I did
n’t see any likely candidate coming through the entrance. I was too busy being fascinated by Lucas, too absorbed by what Amanda was telling me. So he did want to get me out of the way this afternoon, he did want—Ferrier’s thoughts stopped cold. He tightened his grip on Amanda. Behind a screen of line water, Lucas was meeting his friend. The arch of spray hid them as they came together, but not enough from this high observation point. The man was Martin.

  Amanda said almost in a whisper, “Before they leave, I must slip down there and get that man’s photograph. I’ll take the path through that high terrace on our left, circle back down to the entrance gates of the patio. I’ll catch him there. Don’t worry, it’s safe enough: they won’t be leaving together. He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “I think he does. And there’s no need to photograph him. I can identify him. It’s Martin.”

  She turned to stare at him.

  “It’s Martin,” he repeated. And that explains so much, he thought, and his own anger grew. “I’m sorry,” he said bitterly as she looked back at the middle-aged man, tall, pale of face, quietly dressed, who stood beside Lucas. “Truly sorry.” For doubts and suspicions and all the rest of the poison that Martin had given him to drink. Thank God he hadn’t swallowed it whole, thank God for his own instincts. He had thought they were prejudices; he didn’t like the guy, he blamed him for fussing too much and delivering too little—a day late and a dollar short, that had seemed to be Martin.

  For a long moment, Amanda could say nothing. She looked down at that quiet figure unbelievingly. “So Lucas has known all along. About me. He’s known. They’ve played me—” She took a deep breath. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, white-faced with shock. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I met him last night.”