Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti)

by Mogford, Thomas

  ‘It’s Nadeer.’

  Spike put down his bottle.

  ‘I’ve heard about the videotape,’ Nadeer said. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a fake, of course, but an irritant. You have it with you?’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘I understand you and your Bedouin sweetheart have been rubbing the police up the wrong way. Something about a false witness statement? We could probably make that disappear.’

  ‘I’ve got a different idea,’ Spike said. ‘You get Ángel Castillo to give a full confession to Esperanza’s murder and I’ll consider not posting the tape to Gibraltar.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Your girlfriend’s rather keen for you to bring the tape here. Isn’t that right, Tobes?’

  Spike heard a muffled scream in the background. ‘Bullshit,’ he said.

  ‘Well, she’s not with you, is she? What colour are her panties, Tobes?’

  ‘Pink,’ Spike heard shouted in the background.

  ‘Pink,’ Nadeer repeated. ‘So bring the tape with you in half an hour. You remember the villa. Send the taxi away then ring the bell on the gatepost.’ There was a pause. ‘Half an hour, Spike. Don’t make her wait.’

  The line went dead. Spike felt his heart banging against his ribs like a prisoner in a cell. He stood and walked to the café entrance, glancing left and right up the street. Four thirty. His head felt dizzy; he waited for his breathing to regulate then returned inside, hammering on the back door.

  Spike barged in as soon as the teenaged boy opened up. Rather than TV monitors, the glow was from laptops. The room smelled of weeks of stale perspiration.

  Jean-Baptiste and a crew-cut Moroccan sat staring at a fold-up screen. Displayed was a black-and-white image of heliopods, filmed from above. Numbers ticked along the base.

  Jean-Baptiste turned his slack face. ‘That tape,’ he said.

  ‘Have you made a copy?’

  Jean-Baptiste said something to the Moroccan, who hit a key on the computer. ‘We burning DVD now,’ Jean-Baptiste said.

  ‘I need the original.’

  He spoke again to his colleague. ‘Is it . . . real?’

  ‘Yes. Can I have the original?’

  ‘Not finished.’

  ‘I need it right away.’

  ‘You want help, Chingongo?’

  ‘Just the tape. The tape and a pen and paper . . .’ Spike scoured the cluttered room and saw a printed sheet on a table. ‘Pen, pen . . .’

  The boy gave Spike a chewed biro and he wrote out the home addresses of Peter Galliano and Jessica Navarro on the back of the sheet. On the screen, the black-and-white image was forward winding. Nothing changed but the numbers at the base.

  ‘Beaucoup bad shit,’ Jean-Baptiste said as he ejected the tape and handed it over.

  ‘Listen,’ Spike said, ‘I’ve got to meet someone. If I don’t come back, you’re to post DVD copies of the tape to Gibraltar. I’ve got money . . .’ He laid out a two-hundred-dirham note.

  ‘What you mean, don’t come back?’

  Spike moved to the door, then turned. ‘The El Minzah Hotel. How good are your contacts?’

  Jean-Baptiste stuck up a thumb.

  ‘One more favour, Jean-Baptiste, and I’ll buy you a first-class ticket to Madrid.’

  Chapter 74

  Spike held down the buzzer as soon as the taxi pulled away. There was no one in the sentry box, just the same stone lions eyeballing the road. A small black CCTV camera peered down from the gatepost.

  ‘Yes?’ came a voice.

  ‘It’s Sanguinetti.’

  The mechanism began to whirr, and Spike slipped at once between the gap. Cicadas pulsed in the palm trees lining the driveway. Strips of late sun shone between their trunks, heating Spike’s skin as he passed through them. In his right hand, in lieu of the tape box, he held a plastic carrier bag.

  The dizziness returned as he remembered Zahra’s smile as she’d left the hotel room. He’d let her go, failed to protect her . . . He stopped, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. He needed to concentrate. He continued up the curved section of driveway into the turning circle.

  No cars, no liveried butler to welcome him. He crunched over gravel to the gatehouse tunnel. Another CCTV camera tracked his paces.

  The swimming pool glowed in the last rays of the sun. Squatting like a silver toad at its rim was the heliopod.

  Spike walked up the right-hand edge of the pool. The doors to the main house began sliding apart, and Toby Riddell stepped outside, frowning at the sun, a smile on his freckled face. He wore a navy, brass-buttoned blazer and high-waisted chinos. His sandy hair was combed back, as though he were ready to go out for the evening. His black shoes glinted.

  ‘You’ve got the tape then,’ he called out.

  Spike held up the plastic bag.

  ‘Great,’ Riddell shouted. ‘Bring it over, then you can take the girl.’

  Spike took a step towards the heliopod, then stopped. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Zahra first. Then the tape.’

  Riddell glanced over Spike’s shoulder at the doorway which led down to the underground garage. ‘Uh-uh, sunshine,’ he replied. ‘Other way round.’

  As Spike started to turn back towards the gatehouse, he saw Riddell’s right hand dip beneath his blazer. Spike would have thought that the pistol was fake, but for the long black silencer screwed to its muzzle.

  ‘Hands nice and visible,’ Riddell called out.

  Spike raised the plastic bag up above his head. Riddell was coming towards him over the terrace.

  ‘Higher. Where I can see them.’

  Using his fingertips, Spike felt for the handles of the plastic bag and knotted them together. Riddell was almost at the heliopod now, skirting towards him along the edge of the pool. Spike could see his yellow teeth as he smiled, piggy eyes squinting at the sun.

  Breathing out slowly, Spike transferred the plastic bag to his left hand. It dangled down. He swayed it back and forth. Then he looped it into the air so that it landed with a plop in the middle of the pool.

  Riddell’s smile disappeared. He steered his gaze to the pool, where the tape was floating, buoyed by the air in the bag. ‘That was stupid,’ he said, looking back at Spike.

  ‘You’d better get it before it sinks,’ Spike replied. ‘Or you’ll never know if it’s genuine.’

  Riddell twisted both hands, angling the pistol, as though aiming up beneath Spike’s chin.

  ‘And if it’s not genuine,’ Spike called out, ‘then I’m the only person who can tell you where the original is.’

  Riddell glanced again at the plastic bag. ‘Not one fucking muscle,’ he said, as he backed along the edge of the pool.

  The water darkened Riddell’s chinos as he splashed down the steps. The plastic bag was creeping towards the deep end, drawn by the cleaning current. Riddell was up to his waist, still pointing the pistol at Spike. His blazer tails swirled. The bag was just three metres in front. When he turned his eyes to check its position, Spike sprinted towards the heliopod and crouched down behind it.

  There was no bang from the gun, just a cymbal-like reverberation as the bullet hit the side of the heliopod. A higher-pitched clang followed, as Spike crouched down lower, protected by the metal shaft. In front, he could hear Riddell thrashing about in the water, trying to get an angle for the shot.

  Grimacing, Spike placed his hands on the shaft of the heliopod and shoved outwards. The current prickled his palms as though he were gripping the stem of a rose. The heliopod started to rock as the metal clanged again, right by Spike’s ear. Directing all his strength into his arms, he heaved again until it tipped on its stand, landing with a heavy splash in the water.

  Sharp droplets sprayed up onto Spike’s face; he was teetering on the flagstone edge, hands clawing at the air, trying to switch his momentum backwards. Elbows by his ears, he held himself there, looking down and seeing Ridd
ell frozen in the middle of the pool, plastic bag beside him, one hand still on the pistol, the other clutching back and forth, sinews on the side of his neck like ropes as his face angled upwards to the setting sun.

  A crackle came from the water: the heliopod was sinking, drawing its forked tail of wires behind it. Now Riddell’s entire body was convulsing. As Spike finally fell back onto the terrace, he heard Riddell give out a long falsetto scream. Then there was nothing but the rhythmic saw of cicadas and the slow, steady chug of the filtration system.

  Chapter 75

  Spike glided like an automaton, a torso on mechanical legs. The lights were on in the gatehouse; he descended to the garage, taking the steps three at a time. Then he saw her. Sitting on a metal chair in the middle of the concrete floor, motionless, brown hessian sack over her head. ‘Zahra!’

  Her shoulders began to twist; he pulled off the sack and saw her eyes wide, hair lank and sweaty, electrical tape over her mouth. She kept glancing beyond him, blinking as though in warning.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Spike said, ‘you’re safe now.’ He moved behind her; her wrists and ankles were taped behind the chair.

  With unsteady fingers, he set about unpeeling the tape. Her hands came free first; he knelt to her ankles and untied them too. She stood shakily and threw her arms around him. The strip of tape on her mouth had been softened by saliva; Spike eased it off and pressed his lips to hers. As they kissed, he stroked the damp hair back from her face.

  Above them stretched the bank of CCTV units. One monitor showed the driveway, one the pool terrace. Spike reached up and pressed eject: a large black cassette slid out, the same make as the one he’d just thrown into the pool. He ejected the others and slung them in the hessian sack.

  Zahra was still tearing off the last of the dangling strands of tape. ‘They grabbed me outside the hotel,’ she said, ‘they wanted the tape –’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  She shook her head. ‘One of them kept touching me. I’ve seen him before at the Sundowner, he was –’ She stopped. ‘He had a gun.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘How did . . . ?’

  ‘Shh,’ Spike said. ‘We can talk later.’

  He steered her up the vehicle ramp. The lever drew no response so they turned and ran up the garage stairs to the terrace.

  ‘Ya Allah,’ Zahra said, covering her mouth with a hand.

  Riddell was floating face down in the water. His legs dangled and his wrists hung limply by his ears. On the tiled base of the pool, the heliopod lay side-on like a space-age shipwreck. The plastic bag containing the tape had caught on a mirrored petal; it flapped in the current beside the set-square shape of the pistol. Above, in the filtration system, bobbed a dark, oily squash ball.

  ‘Let’s get back to the road,’ Spike said, and they turned and ran down the tunnel.

  Chapter 76

  They pushed through the shadowy shrubs of the El Minzah gardens. A street band was playing, the music blending with the cheers of a crowd. A police siren shrieked behind; they waited until the blue flashing lights had passed, then carried on through the foliage.

  Empty wooden sunloungers surrounded the hotel pool. The underwater lights were on, the sight of the shimmering water giving Spike a queasy feeling in his stomach. He blinked away a flashback of Riddell’s floating body.

  They continued towards the glass doors. The first two were draped by velvet; through the next two along Spike made out the same trestle tables he had seen at the Roadshow. He turned back to Zahra, who kept tightening and loosening the knot on her headscarf. ‘You surviving?’ he said. Taking her hand, he led her to the darkest spot by the windows. ‘I’ve got to find Jean-Baptiste. Will you wait here?’

  She sat down on a sunlounger; he leaned in and kissed her.

  The first glass doors were locked. Spike tried the next, flattening his palms to the glass. The panes came apart; he glanced back at Zahra, then slipped quietly inside.

  The buffet was even more lavish than before, skewers of rare lamb, samovars of mint tea, flaky Moroccan pastries, soft cloying nougat oozing with fondant. The curtains at the far end were closed. Indistinct voices came from behind.

  Spike crept forward, seeking the midpoint of the curtains. Parting them with his thumbs, he peered through. Nadeer Ziyad was standing at the lectern. Among the Americans, Chinese, Japanese and Europeans in the audience, Spike saw more Moroccans than before, some in traditional dress, most in suits. The blonde bob of Regina Solness leaned towards the governor’s shaven head.

  ‘The festival of Eid ul-Fitr is a time for thanks,’ Nadeer was saying, ‘a time for universal gratitude. What better day, then, to . . .’

  Spike widened the curtains further. The DVD trolley lay ahead in the aisle; beside it, in the same seat that Spike had taken at the Roadshow, Spike saw the lofty, proud head of Jean-Baptiste, dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail.

  The screen behind Nadeer was down but it didn’t look as though there were plans to use it. Two porters in fezzes flanked the door. They seemed as transfixed by Nadeer as everyone else.

  ‘After this long period of hardship,’ Nadeer continued, ‘it is only natural to look forward to something bright, to a chance to make good the . . .’

  A black cable snaked up the aisle towards the DVD player. Spike crouched down, feeling under the velvet until he had it in his hand. Looking again through the gap, he gave the cord a tug. There was a click of plastic on wood; he yanked again and saw Jean-Baptiste’s head turn.

  ‘A truly global initiative,’ Nadeer was saying, ‘which the rest of the world will look upon as . . .’

  Jean-Baptiste stepped into the aisle and moved behind the DVD trolley. A constellation of red and green lights twinkled on the unit.

  ‘. . . the genuine sense that history – Actually,’ Nadeer broke off, ‘we didn’t book any VT for tonight, so –’ The screen behind him lit up. The porters, not understanding Nadeer’s English, reached for the switches by the door and turned off the lights.

  ‘Ama nas aghbiaa,’ Nadeer hissed in Arabic, but all eyes were on the screen now, making Nadeer himself turn.

  The footage was silent. In grainy black and white, two men were arguing. Only one of their faces was visible, a tall handsome man in a turban. His indignant expression was one Spike had come to know well. The tall man raised his hands as though making an emphatic point. Suddenly his turban unravelled like a ribbon, arms falling limply by his sides as he sank to the ground out of shot, as quickly as if someone had flicked an ‘off’ switch. The man he had been arguing with leapt back in panic: Spike caught a glimpse of the thick salt-and-pepper hair of Ángel Castillo. A third man appeared in shot, face to the camera. His dark wavy hair was shorter but the glinting eyes and hawk’s nose were unmistakable. Nadeer held a pistol with a silencer in one hand. He pointed it downwards; it kicked back and a cone of light flashed from the muzzle.

  There was an intake of breath from the audience. A woman screamed. Nadeer looked round from the screen. ‘I don’t know what kind of prank this –’

  The sequence restarted: Jean-Baptiste had edited it into a loop. A murmur rose as the turbaned man fell again from shot. ‘This is outrageous . . .’ Nadeer said as he stepped down from the lectern. He shouted in Arabic, then began striding down the aisle towards Jean-Baptiste.

  The danse macabre was on its third showing; Spike heard a low sobbing from behind. He spun round to see Zahra watching the screen from over his shoulder.

  Nadeer was running now towards the DVD unit as Jean-Baptiste backed up the aisle.

  ‘Oho,’ Spike heard behind. ‘Oho, oho . . .’

  Most of the audience were on their feet. Heads turned as Zahra lurched for the gap between the curtains, flailing her arms at Nadeer, who stopped now, staring at her, face transformed for a moment into the small, scared boy Spike had seen captured in a school photograph.

  The DVD was still playing as Jean-Baptiste came marching through the curtains and helped Spike drag Zahr
a, shrieking and clawing, back through the glass doors.

  Chapter 77

  They sat together in the darkness beneath the Medina walls. ‘I’ve just spoken to my friend,’ Spike said to Jean-Baptiste. ‘He’ll get you into Spain by tomorrow night. From then on, you’re on your own.’

  Spike turned to Zahra. Her arms were clasped around her knees, forehead leaning against them. Her shoulders shook. ‘Zahra?’

  She looked up, eyes brimming.

  ‘We should get going. The man said we have to be there in half an hour.’

  Zahra swallowed then gave a weak nod.

  The three of them looked up as a firework exploded above, fired from the festival celebration on the beach, arcs of red glittering streamers embracing the night sky. Spike got to his feet, Jean-Baptiste following.

  Zahra was still sitting; Spike reached down and took her hand. She stood, then hugged him, closing her eyes as the unshed tears spilled. ‘Feels like my heart has been cut out,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s better to know,’ Spike said.

  Another volley of fireworks; Spike held Zahra’s hand as they set off up the coast road. A few metres on, Spike turned. Jean-Baptiste was still standing beneath the walls of the Medina, chin raised defiantly to the burning sky. ‘What can I say?’ he called out. ‘I must like this city.’

  Spike smiled and continued hand in hand with Zahra towards the port.

  Part Five

  Gibraltar

  Chapter 78

  Spike threw open the French windows. It was a fine day outside, a few wisps of cloud, not too much wind. A new collection of Paganini’s chamber music was playing on the iPod dock. Spike detected the gentle, fast-fading notes of a mandolin beneath the violin and bassoon. Altogether a more charming tone than the caprices. He wondered if he shouldn’t take a trip to Italy when the weather cooled, see if he couldn’t find the run-down quarter of Genoa that had produced this strange, lugubrious man.