by Antony Trew
I can’t do that, thought Black, deciding that the Greek must have been a waiter: at a not very good hotel—the better ones used trays.
Kyriakou passed round the glasses, raised his and smiled blandly. ‘Salud!’
Since Black felt no compulsion to help the conversation along, and Manuela appeared to be deep in thought, there was a thoughtful pause while Kyriakou fidgeted with his tie. Then with a schoolboyish grin, he said, ‘This is better than last time we meet, eh?’
Black, sensing that the Greek’s friendliness was inspired by the mythical letter, smiled perfunctorily. ‘Yes. Isn’t it?’
Kyriakou became confidential, looking round to see who was near, leaning his head towards Black, lowering his voice. ‘You know, Charles, trouble is dreenk. I have too much coñac. Make me leetle bit jealous.’ He pinched Manuela’s cheek playfully, but she pulled away and said, ‘Don’t.’
‘Is lovely girl,’ he went on. ‘Make Kirry jealous. Then Tino comes and we dreenk more coñac.’ His eyes grew large. ‘Too much. And now we get leetle bit mad. So we make trouble for you.’ He shrugged his shoulders, his hands appealing to them. ‘How can man be like this? Because dreenk makes heem mad? You know.’
‘How’s your friend’s arm?’
‘Aha. Not too bad. Now get spleents and sleeng. Is all right.’
‘I think he fell on it,’ said Black.
The Greek looked at him doubtfully, the bruised eyes lugubrious. ‘Yes. I suppose so. You know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Aha. Late already. Well. I must hurry for appointment. You look after Manuela, pliz.’ He beamed at them and was gone.
‘Didn’t I have behave nicely?’ asked Black.
‘Not bad,’ she said.
‘What are your plans for to-night?’
‘They don’t include you, Charles.’
‘Why so scratchy?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She turned away, her eyes sad, and he was afraid she was going to cry.
‘Let me get you a drink.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I must go.’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘I got a letter to-day. It concerns you, Charles.’
‘Oh, did you?’ He tried to appear casual. ‘May I see it?’
‘Yes. But not here.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s in my studio.’
‘When can I see it?’
‘Now, if you take me home.’
For a moment Black wondered if this were a trap. It had been out of character for Kyriakou to hand her over to him so easily, almost eagerly.
‘Sounds very cloak and dagger,’ he said.
‘Not really. I should have brought it to-night.’
‘So you’re inviting me to your studio?’ He looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But only to see the letter.’
When they reached the old house in the lane about the barrio sa Peña, they climbed the stone stairs to the landing. Manuela unlocked the studio door and switched on the light. She went in first and Black followed, wary and alert, still beset by doubts about this girl who attracted him so much, yet whose behaviour posed questions he found difficult to answer.
It was his first visit to the studio, and he looked round curiously when she went to make coffee. It was a large, high-ceilinged room. On its north side, under a skylight, was the jumble of canvases, paints, easels and palettes he would have expected. Some pictures were stacked against a wall. For the exhibition, he presumed. There was a partly painted canvas on one easel, a finished one on another. He looked at her spidery abstracts, so evidently influenced by Miro, so amateurishly executed, and felt sad for her. She hadn’t any real talent and yet she went on trying. Why, he wondered, was she leading this escapist life, trying to be something she must know she never could be.
The rest of the studio was comfortably furnished, mostly in Spanish wicker-work. There was a studio couch with Carnaby Street cushions, a writing desk, a coffee table piled with glossy magazines, several easy chairs, a hi-fi which looked good, and a complex of shelves and cupboards.
Looking at the couch, he wondered if Kyriakou was entertained there and his thoughts clouded and he grew angry. He decided he was being childish, and pulled himself together. On the bookshelves there were rows of paperbacks. He read the titles and approved most of her taste. The desk was untidy, a litter of papers and letters, old ballpoint pens, and pencils with broken points. There was a torn-up letter in the wastepaper basket, and an envelope bearing a Spanish stamp and a Barcelona postmark. He leant down to read the envelope. It was typewritten, addressed to Señor G. Madden.
Black would have given much for the opportunity to piece together its contents, but he heard the door of the kitchenette open and he moved away, wondering how the letter had come to be in her studio.
She came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits,
‘Looks good,’ he said.
She poured the coffee and offered him a biscuit.
‘D’you sleep in here?’
‘No. I have a bedroom.’ She inclined her head towards the door at the end of the room. ‘And a bathroom.’
‘Big deal,’ he said.
‘It’s okay for me.’ She looked at him evenly. Then she went to her desk and rummaged about until she’d found what she wanted.
‘This is it.’ She passed a sheet of note paper to him. Before reading it he saw that it was typed, headed Altomonte, and signed Hendrik van Biljon. It was dated 10th May. Two days back—Thursday. The day that van Biljon had stopped the Land-Rover outside the Bar Pechet to speak to them. He wrote in English:
Dear Miss Valez,
After I saw you this morning it occurred to me that you and Mr. Black might care to dine with me at Altomonte on May 14th—to celebrate the hanging of my new picture and see round the gallery. In this way, perhaps, I can make amends for my lack of courtesy on the occasion of your last visit. I have arranged for a car to pick you up outside Anselmo’s in the Mercado Nuevo at 8 p.m. Please show this letter to the driver to identify yourselves. I do not normally have visitors here so I would, to avoid offence to others, be grateful if you would treat the invitation as confidential.
I shall understand if you cannot come since I have given such short notice, but please let me know.
With regards,
Hendrik van Biljon
Chapter Eighteen
When he got back to his room that night, Black made no attempt at sleep. There was too much to think about, too many new problems to tussle with. He lay on his bed, eyes closed, recalling the detail of what had been said in the studio. After some discussion, and a good deal of persuasion on his part, they had agreed to accept the invitation. Manuela had been curiously reluctant: said she realised how important it was to him that he should see the pictures, but they meant little to her; and the date was awkward—she didn’t say why —so couldn’t they reply thanking the old man and suggesting another? Black had pointed out that van Biljon’s letter, while acknowledging the short notice he’d given, made no suggestion of alternative dates. In fact the last thing Black wanted was another date. If the invitation were what it purported to be it was, for him, providential. To see over Altomonte and its gallery from the inside, as a guest, at that juncture, was almost too good to be true. And in the end Manuela had agreed, and they would be going. But it probably was too good to be true—that was the trouble, and that was why so many questions posed themselves which Black could not answer. Why had van Biljon issued the invitation? Was it for the reason given in the letter? To make amends for a past discourtesy? Was it that he wanted to share the joy of a new acquisition?
In each case Black found the explanation unconvincing. That left him with the unpalatable fact that there must be another, and if it were the one he thought it might be, then somewhere along the line there’d been a failure of security. Had he been careless? Or Helmut or Francois, or others in the Snowgoose? Or someone at ZID?
Early on—that day in the hills near Altomonte—Manuela had said, You
know Charles, nobody could ever steal those pictures and get away with them. And he had agreed, and whatever her suspicions then might have been he felt he had long since put them to rest.
It was on the morning of that day, hours before her remark, that Manuela had seen the man in the beret trailing them. It was not long afterwards that Black’s room had been searched. He had ascribed these events to police activity in connection with the drug traffic. There’d been a buzz that Madrid had become restless and was determined to put an end to it. Over a short period of time Black had been seen on a number of occasions with Manuela and Kyriakou, and hangers-on like George Madden. What more natural then, than that the police should check on him. But now, in the light of van Biljon’s invitation, he wondered what connection if any there was between these events. Was there some quite other construction which could be put on them?
And, finally, three items in van Biljon’s letter stood out for Black like lighthouses. He and Manuela were to treat the invitation as confidential, transport would be provided, and they were to bring van Biljon’s letter with them. Manuela had not commented on any of these, and it had suited Black to say nothing. But whatever the answers might be to his doubts, there was one certainty: he’d have to go down to the harbour within the next few hours to see Helmut and Francois.
The original plan would have to stand, but an emergency one would have to be prepared, and an urgent signal made to ZID. In the morning Snowgoose would have to go to sea on some pretext or other to transmit it. It could not be sent through the post office, and the schooner was not permitted to transmit radio signals in harbour. He got off his bed and switched on the light to look at the faded wall calendar: a girl in a yellow bikini sitting astride a sixteenth-century cannon, a phoney siren with a cheese-cake smile enjoying the phallic ride. It was the twelfth of May. It would be the thirteenth at midnight. Dinner with van Biljon on the fourteenth. D-day on the eighteenth. He thought of the Sinai Desert. The long wait in the warm June night, the interminable hours before sunrise, before the tanks and trucks started rolling. He had felt then as he felt now: tense, apprehensive, irrevocably committed, longing for action that would mean the beginning of the end.
He set the wrist-watch alarm for one-thirty in the morning, switched off the light, and turned on his side and tried to sleep.
In the dusty undistinguished building on the Avenida Ignacio Wallis the thin man leant back from his desk and closed his eyes, pushed his feet forward and stretched. Yawning loudly, he took a cheroot from the box next to the telephone. When he’d lit it and drawn on it several times, he balanced it on the rim of the ashtray and began to work through the pile of papers on the desk.
They were the drafts of the orders for the raids and arrests which were to take place the next day, the fourteenth of May, and he had typed them himself. Calvi was satisfied that he had precluded any tip-off since only he, the Comisario and his deputy, Bonafasa, knew what was in the wind. And even they knew little of the detail. Calvi intended to delay the briefing of his staff until the last moment. Not until they had assembled and were ready to move off, would they know what and where and when.
The day before he had been telephoned by the harbourmaster who had reported that the Snowgoose wished to leave harbour for a short visit to Abago, a deserted islet to the south of Formentera. ‘They say they will be back in a day or so,’ he had added.
‘Let her proceed,’ Calvi had said, for he was pleased with this development. The pieces were falling into place.
The steamer from Barcelona, the Sevilla, had arrived that morning, the cargo in which Calvi was interested had been landed, and Kyriakou and Tino Costa had been among the passengers. The cargo concerned was in a warehouse under surveillance, as was the house in D’Alt Vila which the Greek had just leased from van Biljon. The principal suspects were being watched and would continue to be until the arrests took place during the night of the fourteenth.
Capitan Calvi picked up his cheroot. There was nothing more he could do now but wait. He thought about the Snowgoose and those in her. Where did she fit into the picture? What was her role? What part if any did Abago Island play? Van Biljon’s boat, Nordwind, went there occasionally with parties of children. Snowgoose was on a visit to Abago now. Nordwind was in harbour. Would she put to sea to-day or to-morrow? Were these events in any way related?
That the Snowgoose had gone to sea the day before might have been no more than a coincidence. But if she returned to harbour that afternoon, it would complete the pattern of the last occasion. Then the steamer had arrived in the morning and the Snowgoose in the afternoon.
Calvi drew on his cheroot, pursing his lips to expel the smoke as he replaced the papers in the file and locked them away in the steel safe. Then he went to the window and looked out over the sea, his thoughts with his wife and child in Madrid.
When Black arrived at Anselmo’s the tables in the little courtyard where he was to meet Manuela were empty, so he went to the bar and ordered a dry Martini. It was early and there were no familiar faces about. Anselmo’s was a gathering place for the expatriate English, and he supposed that was why van Biljon had suggested it as a rendezvous. Taking the Martini from the bar, he chose a table where he could see the front door. While he waited he ate pecan nuts, drank the Martini and re-read van Biljon’s letter of invitation.
Deliberately, he pushed away the temptation to speculate about the night ahead and the extent to which their plans would meet the new situation. For two nights now he had had little sleep, though he had managed a few hours’ rest that afternoon.
It is better, he decided, that I empty my mind and relax. Stretch feet forward, he admonished, consciously relax thigh and leg muscles. Next toes. Uncrimp them and let them go slack. Now the arms. Lay them out along the chair and then go slack. Straighten the fingers, relax the muscles. Now, head back and let the neck and facial muscles go. After that, shoulders and chest. Last of all the stomach. Let go! More—more. Get rid of that knot of muscular contraction: the anxiety syndrome. There it goes.
How’s that?
Better isn’t it? Feel the tensions drain away? Stay relaxed. Absolutely slack. Now for the mind. Empty it. Think of RAJ. R—A—J JAR. ARJ. rja. ajr … concentrate on RAJ. Must look at my watch. Seven minutes to. Hope she’s not late. Maybe she’ll rat on me. Think of RAJ. Jar. JRA. Is it him? raj. RAJ. Jra. Why can’t I remember his voice? How far back can one remember a voice? My mother’s? Yes. My father’s? Yes. Think of other people you knew long ago and try to … no. No. No … Think of raj. JAR. arj. jra. Check on the light switches as you go in. Mark them right away. I cannot empty my mind. And for God’s sake, my muscles have contracted and I am all tense again, toes and fingers screwed up, neck straining, jaw muscles taut, and my stomach feeling as if someone has reached into it and tied my entrails in knots.
And what about Manuela? Poor Manuela. It is bad luck. You were born under an unlucky star, my sweet. You have lost your way and got mixed up in dangerous things.
The resolution of opposing forces and all that crap. It’s too late now. And I don’t really trust you though I think I love you. Which doesn’t really make sense. Kagan would vomit. I can hear him. The wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong girl. But he needn’t worry. I shall have to leave you to Kirry and Tino and your other queer friends. I wonder what will happen to you? And there you are now … coming through the door … pale and dark—such dark eyes—such dark shadows—trips? happenings? psychedelic extravaganzas?—so beautiful you are—high cheek bones—arching eyebrows—but so frail—not enough food.
And now you’ve seen me, but you don’t smile. You are worried, my poor Manuela.
‘Hi, Charles.’ She looked at him inquiringly and her hand went up in brief greeting as she glanced at her watch. ‘It’s exactly eight o’clock.’
He stood up. ‘Not to worry. See anything that looked like a car waiting for us outside?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t even look. I was hurrying. There are cars.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’ He led her out into the street. It was dark and the lamps in the square cast dim light at long intervals. The parked cars were empty, but there were people about, walking, sitting on benches, talking in low voices. A group of children played hop-scotch on the red and white chequers of the paseo, and the night air smelt of drains.
They walked a short distance down the pavement, then turned and came back to the corner outside Anselmo’s.
‘We’ll have to wait here,’ he said.
She made no answer. One of her preoccupied moods, he supposed. I would like to know what goes on in that little head. He looked down at the silent figure next to him and patted her shoulder. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘We’re going to a party.’
She turned towards him and in the lamplight he saw her sad smile. He was wondering what to say next, when a car pulled up alongside them. It was the yellow Land-Rover. Tomaso, the housekeeper’s husband, the man with the bulbous nose, was driving.
He peered at them in the dim light. ‘Señor Black? Señorita Valez?’
‘Si. Buenos noches.’
The Spaniard nodded, leant over and opened the door. There was room for them all on the broad seat and Manuela sat between Black and the driver. They drew away from the kerb and went through the town to the San José road. Black was silent, thinking of van Biljon’s note … Please show this letter to the driver to identify yourselves … Why was it necessary to identify themselves to Tomaso who already knew them? Black had not shown him the letter nor had the Spaniard asked for it. He was trying to make sense of this when Manuela said, ‘I wonder what time we’ll get back?’
He said, ‘Haven’t a clue. About midnight I suppose.’
She replied with a sigh that became a yawn.
After that there was only the roar of the engines and the hiss of the wind. Not until they had passed Figuretes and the turn-off to the airport, and the Land-Rover was well into the country, eating up the distance, its headlights revealing a fantasy of rushing stone walls and olive trees and verges of green grass, and golden wheat and marigolds and poppies and violets, and owls and night-jars—not until then did they speak. And all through the long silence he knew she must be busy with her thoughts, just as he was with his. And his were private, not for sharing, as must be hers. And anyway it was inhibiting to have Tomaso next to them in the darkness, sullen, silent, communicating nothing but the sour odour of his body.