“Ilse?” he repeated.
“Nothing.”
He began to edge sideways, gun fixed on the table, eyes fixed on my hand. I watched him move slowly, cautiously, feeling his way. There was nothing between him and the door. They watched me and Keble’s lips shaped the word “No”. O’Halloran was at the door.
Ilse plunged after him. “Take me with you.” His eyes flickered and I snapped off a shot that missed. The woodwork splintered. The Luger shot high and right. Dammit. The next shot was lower, to the left and would have taken him through the chest but Ilse had reached the doorway and it took her in the middle of her back. There was a yellow orange flash from the door, an explosion that wasn’t mine and something hit me a stunning blow in the shoulder. I tried to fire again. My fingers wouldn’t move. I couldn’t hold it up. O’Halloran vanished.
Jesus, I said but I didn’t hear the word. I must have spoken to myself.
Ilse thrashed in the doorway. She moaned, the sounds bubbling in her throat like thin lava.
A curtain surrounded me. I couldn’t see it but it was there. A thin, hazy blue curtain that muffled sound and made everything seem very far away. There was one thing I could see clearly. A rectangle of light. The doorway. I walked towards it and through it, stepping over Ilse carefully, very carefully. I didn’t see her or hear her but something in my senses told me she was there and how to avoid her.
I walked on, through the patio, past the cars, through the gateway and onto the road. My feet were on nothing. I felt nothing. I could hear nothing, see nothing.
Then a figure appeared from the trees at the bottom of the road, running towards me, arms waving and shouting something I couldn’t hear.
I stopped, bones soft as jelly and I swayed. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. For a second it parted. Sweat was pouring down my face. There was a flame in my shoulder and my fingers curled with cramp.
It was Carol with Félix and Mac behind her.
Then the curtain closed on me, very sweetly and gently, getting closer, thicker, darker, a warm blackness that I fell into gratefully.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I woke to the sound of traffic and suddenly I was wide awake. I raised my head. It was an old-fashioned bed with a brass headstead. The mattress was thin and hard but the sheets were crisply white. I like the feel of smooth white sheets. I felt them.
My left hand moved. My right didn’t. It was strapped to my side. I looked down at it and I could feel the stubble rasp on the folds of my chin. I was neatly and professionally bandaged.
I tried moving my legs, which they did. I rolled over onto my left side, lifted myself onto the elbow. The room swung round me in slow loops. I waited until it settled down. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I sat up. The bed quivered, sounded like a Honegger symphony. The room made lazy erratic circles round me.
The giddiness passed. I stood up. It wasn’t difficult. Staying up was. The door opened and Carol came in.
“I should have known.” She rushed at me, took my arm, turned me back to the bed and made me sit on it. Standing hadn’t been a good idea. I didn’t fight her.
She stood back. Her hair was lank and uncombed, framing a face pale and soft. Her eyes were dull putty eyes.
I moved and the bed made its usual noises. “This bed must have given the neighbours a lot of fun in its time.”
The dullness in her eyes suddenly passed as if it had been wiped off. “Oh, Alan.”
“Where am I?”
“Málaga. Félix knows a doctor here.”
“What did he say about medicine?”
“Nothing.” She frowned. “Gave you an antibiotic shot, I suppose.”
“Medicine.” I waggled my left hand.
“Oh, your medicine. That’s the first thing you can think of.” She slammed out of the room. The door bounced on its frame and swung back open.
Yes, my medicine. Cures a hell of a lot of ills the flesh is heir to. And even more focuses the mind. The cornerstone of civilisation. God bless the man who discovered distillation. May his still never run dry.
Mac’s head appeared with a smile as big as a dinner plate. “It didn’t take you long to get her mad.” He came into the room.
“By Christ, it’s good to see you.” I stretched out my left hand and he took it.
He sneaked a glance at the door. “That girl sure thinks a hell of a lot of you. Nursed you like a baby, watched you every minute.”
“I’ll tell you something, Mac –.” I stopped. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t even want to tell myself. I said, “Oh, what the hell.”
“You’re a lucky man. She’s a swell chick and crazy about you.”
“Christ, I’ve a daughter her age.”
“That wouldn’t stop any guys I know.”
“Well, it stops me.” It sounded petulant and foolish.
Carol banged in with a bottle of 103 and a small tumbler of thick glass. She pushed them into Mac’s hand. “Give the invalid his medicine.” She didn’t look at me. “I’m going to tell Dr Rivera he’s conscious.” She scoured me with her eyes. “Conscious, huh.”
I dosed myself and it slipped down warm and easy. I rested the glass on a fold of the sheet and licked my fingers. “Mac. You know about Katz?”
“Carol told us.”
“What happened to him?”
“He came down that road in his Merc like a bat out of hell and – pouf! Disappeared.”
I threw back the rest of the dose, sat up, checked the glass into a fold of the sheet again, licked my fingers once more.
“Carol had told us where you had gone and why, so we followed you. We picked you up, got you into Félix’s taxi and back to El Puerto.”
“Then what?”
“You looked bad. The only doctor Félix knows he can trust is here in Málaga, so here we are. Christ, I’ve never seen Félix drive like that. Scared the shit out of me. The bullet wound’s nothing. He took it out, cleaned you up then shot you full of dope to keep you out. Exhaustion was your problem, he said. Seemed a pretty good medic.”
“I’m not exhausted now,” I snapped. “So, what do you mean Katz disappeared? Is no-one looking for him, Legra even?”
“Yeah, Legra’s looking for him. And for you. You’re the hottest thing this side of the Pyrenees.”
I swore several times and Mac looked amused and into my mind there came a name. In the study. The sheet of paper. Verde. Torre Verde. Casa Morena. Torre Verde.
I wriggled up and the glass bounced thickly on the floor. “Where is Torre Verde, Mac?”
“Never heard of it.” He bent down for the glass.
“It must be somewhere near here. Those German sailors flew into Málaga and were put up overnight at the Casa Morena, Torre Verde. Damn it all, Mac, it must be near here.”
“Could be.” A door in the other room opened. Mac tensed. “Who’s that?”
“It is the doctor.” Feet tacked across the oilcloth and he came into the room, a tight plump little man with slicked-back hair and tiny black eyes, meshed round with lines.
“You’ve been drinking.” That was the first thing he said.
“Just testing the system for leaks.” I said it in English and got a laugh out of Mac.
“Cómo?”
“I thought it would be good for me.” I put on a serious face and tried to look humble like a good patient should.
“I am the one who will decide what’s good for you.” His eyes licked me over in reproof. He sat on the bed. His breath smelt of cloves so he didn’t mind a tipple himself. He felt my pulse, took my blood pressure, pulled down my eyelid, peered into it, asked me how I felt and when I said fine, he told me to hold my left arm up and lean forward. I obliged and he grabbed the end of the tape and yanked.
I yelped and Mac laughed. There were tears in my eyes. I don’t know anything more painful than that.
The wound had a separate dressing and Rivera took that off gently. He peered at it, his eyes even tinier, then pursed his li
ps and sat back.
“Two or three days’ rest, complete rest, and you will be as good as new.”
“That’s not much of a bargain.” I tried the old joke bravely. “Can’t you do better than that?”
Rivera smiled. He had beautiful white teeth and a neat black moustache to show them off. “That is the best any doctor can do for you, my friend.” He pretended he had never heard it before.
He put on a fresh dressing and snapped the bag shut. I looked at Mac. “Perhaps the doctor would like a drink?” The doctor would. Mac padded out. “Do you know Torre Verde, Doctor?”
He frowned and crowded in another dozen lines round his eyes. “Torre Verde? Torre Verde? Ah, yes. Río Verde. A few kilometres east of Marbella. That is the Río Verde. It will be there.”
Mac was back in the room with three glasses and pouring out the 103 and passing it round. Rivera raised the glass. “To your health, señor.” He didn’t waste any time. He shifted it in one swallow without a blink, returned the glass to Mac, stuck two neat fingers into his waistcoat pocket, sliding out a gold and black enamelled pillbox, transferred one of the pills to his mouth and the box back into his pocket. It was a smooth performance. It had had a lot of rehearsals. He sucked the pill and said “I must go.”
“He stood up, patted himself into shape and went out on our thanks without saying goodbye.
“Do you think Katz could be at Torre Verde?”
“How the hell would I know?”
How the hell indeed. There was only one way to find out. “Where are my clothes?”
“Your what?”
“Jesus, Mac. My clothes.”
“You’re not getting up?”
“Where are they?”
“I’ll get them.” He took the glass and sulked out.
I tested my legs. They were shaky but I wasn’t light-headed any more. The room wasn’t going into orbit. I tried a few steps. Okay. I couldn’t go a couple of rounds with Mac, but I didn’t fall on my face.
He came back and threw them on the bed. They were stiff with dirt and smelled of sweat but they were all I had. First, the trousers. I had to sit down. My balance wasn’t good enough to stand on one leg.
Finally I was dressed and it had taken a lot of effort. I was shaking, pale as an old shirtfront and sweating. I sat on the bed. “Can you get me a car, Mac?”
“Why do you want a car, Alan?” Neither of us had heard Félix come in.
I told him about the Casa Morena. There was a tired pallor under his scorched skin and his eyes looked strained. He pulled his chin and listened to me. “It is possible.”
“We’ve got to try.”
He agreed with me. “But you must do it alone.”
And that was what I wanted. I told him that.
“We shall assist you. But I – we – have too much at stake. Not just our safety, other things.”
I didn’t ask him what other things. “I understand, Félix. You have helped me much.” He had. I owed him a lot. I owed him more than I had ever owed any man.
“When you have finished at the Casa Morena – ” he stopped. His eyes blinked and moved, following the thoughts in his mind. Mac and I waited. Then to Mac, “While I am away I want you to get a car for Alan. Speak to El Tipo. He will arrange it for you.” Then to me, “I know a man in Estepona who will take you to Tangiers, you and the girl. I shall arrange that also. You will drive the car that Mac will bring. The rest will travel in my car and we shall arrange a meeting place near Torre Verde.”
“Perfect.” It was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I had no trouble following Félix’s taxi. On Easter Monday most of the traffic was going in to Málaga to the bullfight. It was another SEAT 600 El Tipo had got for me.
Past Marbella, Félix swung off onto a loop road on the left and I followed, stopping behind him. Félix got out and came over as I was winding down the window. He leant on the roof and pointed across the coast road to a narrow track twisting away behind low green hills.
“That is the way. It ends in Istán. The Casa Morena is about one kilometre on your right.”
I looked across and nodded. “Istán. Got it.”
“We shall wait for you here. May God go with you – if there is a God.”
That was a good each-way bet. I grinned at him, nodded again and clunked the 600 into gear. Time to go.
The road came back in a short arc to the coast road. Mac gave me the thumbs-up sign as I passed. Carol didn’t look at me. There was no traffic so I hit second and the 600 did its best for me.
The road turned sharp left behind a low hill and immediately I was in another world. Peaceful, green, silent. Not a sound of the growl and whine of the coast. The road climbed gradually, bearing right, and I was through the first barrier of foothills. The Sierra Blanca rose, dusty grey, scarred and pleated above the foothills but they were still some way off.
The Casa Morena was a new villa standing on its own. Everything about it was smooth and white as an iceberg and just as lifeless. The double black iron gates were closed and padlocked.
I drove past and stopped out of sight.
I walked back up the hill until I reckoned I was level with the villa. The grass was coarse and dry under my feet and made soft cracking sounds. Three thin black cattle with matted coats skittered away from me.
I paused on the rise of the hill to survey the scene. Nothing moved, just flies buzzing blackly in the air, just a crow gliding smoothly over the house, wheeling against a current of air and flapping away silently, just the cattle pretending to nibble the grass while watching me out of frightened eyes. I wasn’t fooling them.
There was no cover. I walked down the hill, the nerves crawling down my back. Then I was behind the garage and out of sight of the house.
The garage had an up-and-over door. I bent down, tried the handle and found it unlocked. I turned it and lifted it slowly. There were two cars, a white MGB GT, left-hand drive, and a blue Mercedes.
I stopped at the edge of the back of the house and peeked round the corner. A swimming pool was set in the lawn. The grass needed cutting and the pool was empty, which is the emptiest thing in the world. The windows were shuttered like those at the front and side.
I edged quietly to the back door, put my hand on the knob, turned it, waited. Waited until I realised I was holding my breath for some reason so I let it out slowly and pushed. The door opened. I held it open an inch and did some more breathing exercises and listened. The silence was as solid as the house.
I sucked in my waist and squeezed out the Luger, using the back of back of my hand to push open the door. Still no sound, not even of the door opening. It swung on its hinges, silent as a cat at night.
I stepped into the doorway. The light from the open door splayed out on the floor in a white rectangle and my shadow was chiselled in front of me.
Once it had been a show house kitchen. Tiled, gleaming, functional. A setting for Martini advertisements with golden-haired housewives percolating coffee before serving after-dinner mints, witty conversation and whatever else they had to serve. Not too long ago. It doesn’t take much to turn paradise into a wilderness. It’s the easiest thing in the world. The surfaces were cluttered with dirty dishes piled crazily on top of each other, the food rotting and smelling. Someone had smashed a bottle against a wall, the broken glass lying sharp-edged and jagged on the drainer top. The fridge door was open and its pale light was will o’ the wisp. I shut the door. It made a soft sucking sound.
The interior kitchen door was open. I put one foot in front of the other, putting them down carefully on the floor so I made no sound. It was an L-shaped room. The part next to the kitchen was the dining area. The room turned to the left and was out of sight. A voice said, “Is that you?” A thick, weary voice.
I froze and said nothing. Didn’t breathe.
There was the sound of glass on glass and liquid pouring and the voice said: “I am glad you are here. I knew you would come."
Did he?
Nobody behind me in the kitchen, nobody in the dining area. It didn’t have the smell of a trap but I wasn’t taking any chances.
The voice went on. “It’s all over, all over, finished, the end.” It wasn’t Katz’s voice. Morena’s? "The end for all of us. Do your worst. Why do you think I have been waiting?" The voice got louder, a bleary challenge in it. “Eh, why do you think I have been waiting? Come on. I am here. Alone.” There was the sound of a throat straining back to swallow and then the voice continued, quietly now, to itself. “Aren’t you there? I thought it was you. Hearing things. It’s time you came. Why aren’t you there?" The voice was rising and falling like tired waves on a beach. “I know you’re coming, I know you’ll come. We were going to rule the world, rule the world but you spoiled it. So why don’t you come, finish it off? Eh? Finish it off. Finish me off. I’m finished, all finished, everybody finished.”
It was a voice that came through a three-day tunnel of drink, fear and self-pity, sounding no more dangerous than a squashed caterpillar.
My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I stepped left, my back to the wall. It was Morena. He was sitting on the edge of an armchair pouring himself another drink and still talking to himself. I spoke sharply. “Morena!”
He lifted his head and stared at me. He wiped his forehead with the back of his thumb as he did so, a trickle of liquor splashing out of the bottle onto the low tiled table in front of him. He didn’t notice it and put the receptacle down, transferring the glass to his right hand. He put that down beside the bottle then he sat upright.
“I am prepared to die like a Spaniard,” he announced. His face was smeared and shadowy in the gloom.
“Is Katz here?"
“I knew it was you. You thought I didn’t hear you but I did. Now the waiting is over. Thank God the waiting is over.” He put both hands to his head, the balls of the thumbs pressing into his eye sockets and the fingers squeezed over his forehead. His shoulders shook. “Oh God forgive me for the evil I have done. Holy Mother and Father forgive your son his sins.” He was crying.
I went to the window, unfastened the catch, opened it, then the shutters. I looked at Morena. His head was turned away. His right hand cupped his eyes. Nothing else happened. There was nothing but Morena’s sobs sawing the air.
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