Carmody had to walk all the way to Utrectsestraat before he found one of the black Mercedes diesels that served as Amsterdam’s taxis. When he walked into the Beatrix twenty minutes later, the concierge was away from his desk. Carmody reached around and plucked the key to his room out of its slot. He rode the elevator upstairs.
His suitcase was sitting where he’d left it The two belonging to Gillian Waltham were gone.
Carmody cursed softly. Then he lifted the phone, jiggled the cradle until the concierge came on “The girl I was with,” he said, “what time did she check out?”
“About forty minutes ago, sir. She said you would be joining her later.”
“Was anybody with her?”
“An older gentleman.”
“Short, chubby, wearing a gray silk suit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They give you any idea where they were going?”
“No I’m afraid not. Is it important, sir?”
“It will be to them when I find them.”
He called Van Hagen, told him what had happened. Gave him Hubert Ten Eyck’s name and the address of the candy shop—the only leads he had to Zaanhof true identity. Then he rang up room service, ordered a bottle of Napoleon cognac He was sipping cognac and smoking a cigar when Van Hagen arrived a half hour later
Van Hagen was a thin, sad eyed man in rumpled clothing In addition to being a contact man and a black marketeer, he had acertain amount ofexpertise with diamonds. Carmody gave him the stone he’d palmed. Van Hagen looked at it through a loupe, then shook his head dourly.
“Synthetic” he said “Of good quality but worth very little.”
Carmody threw his cognac glass against the wall, watched it shatter with eyes that shone like green fire.
MONDAY AFTERNOON–SILVERA
In the pines at the foot of the steep fall, Silvera had begun digging a shallow grave. Nearby, what was left of Allen Fanning lay broken and bloodied and host to a swarm of hungry flies.
Silvera worked rapidly, in a thin anger that made his temples pound. Damn Fanning and the man’s foolish stubbornness! But the fault was as much his; if he had taken his time, exercised more control over his impatience and his passion, Fanning would have eventually told him where the diamonds were. Then he could have beaten the Britisher to death, slowly, slowly. As it was he had no idea where to find the diamonds, except that it was probable they were in the possession of the woman he had referred to as his wife. Fanning had carried no papers that revealed his hiding place on the island or his woman’s name. One small clue... that was all Silvera had to go on.
When he finished digging he slashed at the buzzing flies with the shovel, then used his foot to roll the dead man into the shallow grave. He scraped dirt over the body, patted the loose earth down. It was not the most concealing of burial places; but it would not be visible from the villa’s balcony or patio.
He climbed up the slope to the patio wall, then onto the balcony. There was blood and broken glass on the floor. Inside, he filled an earthenware olla with water, found a handful of paper towels and a plastic grocery sack. He swept the broken glass into the bag, cleaned up the spots of blood, put the paper towels in with the shards, returned the olla to the kitchen. Then he examined the balcony again: no signs of the fight remained. The diamonds were of paramount importance, to be sure, but the patrón did not like loose ends and the patrón would be displeased enough if the diamonds were not found quickly.
He relocked the balcony doors, climbed down to the patio, crossed to the parking area in front. Fanning’s rental car, a Seat 600, sat next to the 1200 he had rented. Silvera drove the 1200 down the winding access road to a spot where he could pull off into the pines. He took out his leather carry-all, transferred the Browning automatic into it from his belt, threw the plastic grocery bag into the trees, then hurried back to the clearing.
He deposited his carryall in the trunk of Fanning’s 600. A rapid search of the car yielded nothing but a map of the island, unmarked. But the 600 was still his one lead to the whereabouts of the diamonds. The keys, which he had taken from Fanning’s pocket, were inside a leather case that had the name of a Palma rental agency stamped on it. Silvera knew that in order to rent a car on the island, Fanning would have had to provide a local address. He also knew that there was nothing to have prevented Fanning from giving a false address, but he would not worry about that possibility now.
He drove the 600 Seat away from there, back to Palma.
The heavy-breasted young woman behind the counter in the rental office was more than a little flustered by his dazzling smile. But she was also afraid to bend strict agency rules. “I would like to help you, señor, I truly would. You understand?”
“I understand,” Silvera said, smiling, stroking her with his eyes, “and I would not ask except for this.” He showed her Fanning’s billfold, opening it to an identification card in one of the celluloid windows. “It slipped from the man’s pocket as he was getting into his rental car in El Terreno half an hour ago. I called after him but he did not hear or see me. There is nothing in the wallet to lead me to him. I have only the name of your agency.”
“Why don’t you take the wallet to the Guardia Civil?” she asked. “They will hold it until the owner can be found.”
“Undoubtedly. And undoubtedly you would perform the same service if I were to leave it with you. However, I would prefer to give the wallet to Señor Fanning myself.”
“But why?”
Another of his smiles, a small wink, a shrug. “Perhaps he might find it in his heart to offer a small reward. It would not be too much to ask, verdad?”
“You seem much too well-dressed to be thinking of rewards, señor.”
“Appearances deceive. You would not begrudge a poor but honest man a few extra pesetas, surely? Not a girl as lovely and understanding as yourself.”
She giggled. “Perhaps,” she said, “I could make an exception this one time, in such a good cause.”
“I would be forever in your debt.”
“Oh, would you? And how would you repay this debt?”
Coño estupido! Silvera thought. But his outwardly relaxed pose remained fixed; he forced more intimacy into his smile. “With an evening of dancing in El Terreno. And if the Señor Fanning does see fit to reward me, a fine dinner as well.”
“I would like that.” the girl said. “Tonight?”
“Tonight, yes.”
“I am finished here at seven.”
“Querida, I will count the minutes.”
Another giggle, moist eyes bright. “My name is Carmine,” she said. “Carmine Ortega. And yours?”
“Carlos,” Silvera said. “Carlos Vargas.”
“Where will we dance, Carlos? The J&B?”
Coño, Coño, putá! An urge rose inside him, tingling; he wanted to reach across the counter and slap her silly face, wrap his hands tightly around her soft, pulsing throat...
“The J&B, and then Barbarella’s.”
“Barbarella’s!”
“The señor’s address now? I have much to do, and I must go quickly if I am to be back here at seven.”
The girl stood, smoothed her suede mini-skirt over plump thighs. “You must never tell that I do this for you, Carlos.”
“Never. No, never.”
“The license number again?”
He gave her the slip of paper on which he had written the number. She crossed to a bank of filing cabinets, teasing him with her hips. Silvera did not even look at her; she was a mound of clay to him. She fussed in one of the drawers, removed a folder, opened it, read a typed form. When she came back to him he brightened his smile again, fixed his eyes on her breasts.
But she was pouting now. “The Seat was rented by a woman,” she said. “A Miss Jennifer Evans.”
“A friend of Señor Fanning’s, perhaps. His lover, perhaps?”
“Not one you wish to make your lover, Carlos?”
“You doubt me, querida?”
�
�Well–”
“I have no interest in any woman at this moment but Carmine Ortega.”
Desire chased away her doubts; her pout disintegrated. “The Evans woman’s address is the Hotel Mediterráneo.”
“Gracias, querida. If Señor Fanning is not there, the Señorita Evans will know where to reach him.”
“You will not forget to come at seven, Carlos?”
“I will not forget,” Silvera lied.
He drove quickly to the Hotel Mediterráneo. It was one of the new high-rise luxury hotels on the Paseo Maritimo, constructed of white stone and imitation marble, with jutting pastel balconies that overlooked the harbor of Palma. Inside, Silvera approached the concierge, asked for the room number of Señorita Jennifer Evans. An urgent matter concerning her rental car, he said.
The concierge consulted a guest list. “I am sorry, señor, we have no one registered by that name.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure, señor”
“A Britisher named Fanning, then? Allen Fanning?” Another consultation with the list. And another head-shake. “No señor. No one by that name either.”
Silvera’s headache had returned. He entered the hotel bar, ordered a Scotch, drank it neat, and called for a second. So Fanning’s woman was named Jennifer Evans. She had given a false address, but she would have had to show her passport at the rental agency; the name was her real one. But where was she? How could he find her? Jennifer Evans... another Britisher. And there were thousands of Britishers on Majorca, in hotels and bungalows and villas. How would he find her? Yes, and what would he tell the patrón?
MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON JENNIFER
She could not find the diamonds.
She had searched the farmhouse thoroughly—bedroom, parlor, kitchen, pantry, rear porch, Allen’s luggage, her own luggage, everywhere—and now she stood again by the tub of dusty and tepid water trying to understand. Had he taken the diamonds with him after all? And where was he, for God’s sake? He had been gone nearly eight hours now.
Absently, she rubbed perspiration from her bare breasts. Something was wrong. And yet she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. Allen had told her the man he was seeing was completely trustworthy, but if he’d taken the diamonds with him and shown them to this man... no, he wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t. He had told her he was leaving them here, she remembered that now, and he would never lie to her. Not Allen.
Perhaps he’s had an accident, she thought, some kind of accident with the car. The only other explanation she could think of was that he’d been found somehow by the ones who worked for the man Allen had stolen the diamonds from. If that was it, they would make him tell about the farmhouse and then they would come here and torture her and maybe kill her... oh, that was daft, how could they have found Allen? He had been so careful, they couldn’t know about the man he was seeing or even that he had come to Majorca.
Then where was he?
And where were those lovely fucking diamonds?
Jennifer felt panic stirring inside her, struggled to get a grip on herself. Perhaps she was overreacting; perhaps Allen was still being bloody methodical in arranging things and he would return soon and the diamonds... the diamonds must still be here, she had simply missed them somehow in her search.
She began to feel a little better, calm again. She drank a glass of warm well water, made a face at the acrid mineral taste, and then went into the dark and humid parlor to look outside. The rocky entry road and the red-earth farmyard shimmered with heat mirage, and the pines stood absolutely motionless, like backdrops on a stage set. In the sky overhead, a hawk wheeled in slow motion-drifting lower and lower with each turn, hunting prey. The silence had a hollow quality to it, brittle and breathless.
Out there? She thought then. Would he have put the diamonds outside somewhere?
She pushed through the glass beads, walked along the side of the house and under the arbor, pausing at each of the pieces of homemade furniture and at the deteriorating metal swing. Over by the stone well, then, and the outbuildings, and the corrals. Looking, looking, finding nothing.
Sweat coated her, burned in the grotto of her thighs. The urgency was growing in her again; she felt the panic again. She ran back to the house and searched the bedroom another time, their luggage, each of the other rooms.
No diamonds, no diamonds, no diamonds
MONDAY EVENING–GILLIAN
The man who was calling himself Peter Zaanhof lived in a white stone villa on the western outskirts of Malaga, set into the low foothills a half mile from the sea. Mauve colored bougainvillea, thick and fragrant, clung to the whole of the wide facing wall, and there were tall palm trees in the front yard. It was all very nice, especially with the sky aflame with sunset colors and the Mediterranean like burning phosphorous in the distance, but Gillian didn’t want to be here. She didn’t like Zaanhof, for one thing. And for another, she was still afraid. Of Carmody, mostly—that he would find her before she could get out of Spain, and of what he would do to her if he did.
The taxi driver removed their luggage from the trunk, and Zaanhof paid him; a moment later Gillian stood alone with the Dutchman in the gathering twilight. He said, “Do you find it appealing, dear lady?”
“Your villa? Yes, it’s beautiful. But I still wish you’d paid me in Amsterdam. Or at the airport here.”
Zaanhof smiled. “But dear lady, I have already explained and apologized. There were so many arrangements to make, here and in Amsterdam—”
“Yes, all right. It doesn’t matter as long as you pay me now.”
“But of course. Did you doubt that I would?”
“No. No, I never doubted it.” But she had, and still did, and would until she had the money in her hands.
Zaanhoff tried to pat or stroke her arm; she avoided the contact. He shrugged and smiled at her again in that moist, treacley way of his. It made her nervous because she knew now what lay behind it, the duplicity and the capacity for violence that he had demonstrated in the candy shop in Amsterdam.
She hadn’t bargained for that scene with the gun, the double-cross against Carmody. God, she’d almost wet herself. Zaanhof had told her in the beginning that there would be no trouble, that it was all an elaborate but harmless ruse. Well, it wasn’t harmless at all. She had known that after spending five minutes with Carmody; nothing that man was involved in was harmless. But she had committed herself by then, and the lure of the two thousand dollars Zaanhof had promised her was too strong for her to try to back out. She would have backed out, though, if she’d known what was going to happen in the candy store. And if she’d known the truth about the diamonds.
Zaanhof had told her about the diamonds while they were on the way to the Beatrix to pick up her bags. That the stones weren’t real. He’d led her to believe they were, he said, because it would be easier for her to convince Carmody if she believed it herself. He hadn’t been concerned about what Carmody would say or do when he found out they weren’t real. Carmody’s threat didn’t seem to bother him, either. It was a pity he’d had to close the transaction by gunpoint, he said, but Carmody’s insistence on counting the money had made it necessary. There had been only ten thousand dollars in the satchel. He hadn’t been able to raise any more cash on such short notice. She thought that was a lie, too, but it didn’t make any difference, really. It was a fait accompli either way.
None of the game-playing made much sense to her. At first she had hoped to find out what it was all about, but after two days in the hotel room with Carmody—and especially now—she didn’t want to know. All she wanted was her money, a good night’s sleep in a pension in Malaga, a seat on a plane out of Spain tomorrow, and another seat on a plane home to the States on Wednesday.
Zaanhof picked up her bags, and his own, and led her through the lush garden. Inside the villa it was dark and considerably cooler. The furnishings were Old Spanish, heavily scrolled, with rococo brass ornamentation. None of it looked very comfortable, including the l
ong couch upholstered in tapestried cloth that he invited her to sit on. She remained standing in the middle of the room, on one of several braided rugs opposite a deep stone fireplace. There were olive-wood statuettes on the fireplace mantel, intricately carved, of different kinds of animals; she looked at them to keep from looking at Zaanhof.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Zaanhof,” she said, “I’d like to keep the rest of our business as brief as possible.”
“Won’t you call me Peter?”
“My money... Peter. Please.”
“Of course, dear lady. But first, a drink.”
“I don’t care for one, thanks.”
“Ah, but we have had a long day. A drink will refresh.”
“Thank you, but–”
“Dry Sack, perhaps? Do you like sherry?”
“Yes, but I really don’t—”
“Excellent,” Zaanhof said, and before she could protest again he turned quickly and left the room.
Gillian sighed, sank wearily onto the couch. Well, all right, she would have one glass of sherry. It would do her no good to offend the Dutchman now, and she was too exhausted to argue anyway.
She closed her eyes, thinking of home -Canton, the house she had grown up in, her mother and father. Almost a year, now, since she’d taken the money she’d carefully saved over five years of part-time jobs and come to Europe to pursue her acting career. She could hardly believe what an innocent girl she had been when she’d left the States, how immature for a twenty-three-year-old college graduate. All starry-eyed and full of plans, convinced that the Italian and French film directors who spent their summers in Biarritz and Cannes and Nice would notice her, be impressed by her talent, give her the kind of entré into the film world that she could never get in the Hollywood jungle. Attractive and talented American girls were always very much in demand in the foreign market, weren’t they?
Yes, they were, but the market they were in demand for had nothing to do with films.
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