“But I was told—”
He stopped. Things were bad enough without telling Gonzales everything. If he told them everything, he would either be committed to an institution or summarily hung.
Gonzales said, “Told by whom?”
“No one. Forget it.”
“You know,” Gonzales said, “it is said in Spain that Americans are bad liars. But really, doctor, you surpass all my expectations.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You are really quite impossible.”
Ross said, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“You still will not make a confession?”
“Of course not.”
“We can wait,” Gonzales said. “Until you rot, if necessary.”
“You can’t hold me. You have no proof.”
Gonzales smiled grimly. “This is Spain.”
“I want to see a lawyer from the consulate.”
“One is coming. We always notify the consulate in these cases.”
“You’ll let me see a lawyer, then?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the floor, and ground it out under his boot heel.
“In the meantime, I will leave you alone, to think. When I return, I will expect answers. Understand?”
As he unlocked the door and let himself out, Ross said, “There won’t be any answers.”
“There had better be,” Gonzales said. He left.
The consulate man was young, with a crew cut and a nervous manner.
“Charlie Sweet,” he said, extending a damp hand. “How are you?”
“Great,” Ross said.
“They treating you all right? I’ll make a formal complaint if they’re not.”
“They’re treating me fine.”
“Ah, that’s good.” He sighed in relief. “Anything I can do for you? Want cigarettes? Candy? Newspapers from home? It can all be arranged.”
“I want out,” Ross said.
“I’m sure you do. But it’s really not a bad cell. I’ve seen worse.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I’ve talked with the consul about your case,” Charlie said. “The consul has conferred by phone with the ambassador. He’s not in Madrid now; he’s in San Sebastian, since the capital moves in the summer. To San Sebastian.”
“And?”
“I just wanted you to know, the government is doing everything possible, sparing no expense. It’s expensive to call from Barcelona to San Sebastian.”
“What did the consul and the ambassador say?”
“Well, they agree it’s serious.”
“I could have told them that.”
“Then too,” Charlie said, “I’ve talked with the police here. They’ve described the charges, and given me some idea of the nature of the evidence.”
“Yes?”
“Take my advice,” Charlie said. “Confess now.”
“But I’m not guilty.”
“The trouble,” Charlie said, “is that the prisons are overcrowded. If you’re convicted and you put up a fight, they may ship you to a political prison. They’re terrible. On the other hand, if you confess, you’ll go to a civil prison, which is much nicer. And with any luck, we may be able to get you out in five or ten years.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“You’re lucky,” Charlie said. “You’re young. Five or ten years won’t be too bad. Think of it that way.”
“I’d rather not think of it at all.”
“It’s the best we can do, I’m afraid. You must deal with realities.”
“The reality,” Ross said, “is that I’m not guilty.”
“Come on, now,” Charlie said, with a man-to-man grin, “You don’t need to act like that around me. I don’t know what you’re involved in, but there’s no sense pretending, is there?”
“Christ,” Ross said.
“It’s up to you,” Charlie said. “Whenever you decide to confess, you can call for the guard. He’ll bring writing things.”
“Listen,” Ross said, standing up. “Can’t you understand? I’m not guilty, and I want to get out of here.”
Charlie sighed and stood up. “You’ll come around. I’ve tried to reason with you, God knows.” He stepped to the bars and banged on them until a guard came down. “Just remember,” he said. “Any time you want anything, give us a call. Cigarettes, magazines, anything. We’ll be in touch. Good luck.”
He left.
Ross stood, dumbfounded, for a long time.
Then he sat down on the damp cot and thought. He thought about everything, from the very beginning, from the moment he arrived in Spain. He thought about every person he had met, every conversation he had had.
And slowly, painfully, he began to put it together.
Part III
“Radiologists have the shortest lifespan of all medical specialists.”
—U.S. Bureau of Medical Statistics
Prologue
HE WAS A BIG MAN, shouldering his way through the darkness, his face concealed beneath the broad hat. He hummed to himself as he walked along the Barcelona waterfront, down dark streets which smelled of fish and urine, a lonely and quiet part of town. But he was walking quickly, because he had to meet someone.
He was far from the red-light district, and so he was surprised when the girl appeared, stepping out from a doorway in front of him. Even in the dark, he could see she had short blonde hair and a trim body; she stood lewdly, with one hand on her hip.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Interest you?” she said.
He paused in amazement. “You’re American?”
“Americans for Americans,” she said, and stepped close, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. Gently, he pushed her away.
“I’d sure like to,” he said. “But I can’t.”
She pouted. “I’ll give you a bargain price.”
“I’d sure like to…”
She kissed him again.
“Nice perfume,” he said; hesitating. He was thinking that he was late for the meeting already, ten minutes late, and yet…
“I’m glad you like it,” she said.
She kissed him and put her arm behind his neck. He felt something damp: sweaty hands. That tore it. He hated a woman, even a pretty woman, with sweaty hands.
He broke away. “I’m awful sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got to go.”
And he left her, standing in the alley. He looked back once and glimpsed her, still standing and watching him. Then he turned the corner and was alone once more with the smells and the night.
As he walked, he continued to smell her perfume. It was too sweet, but sensual in its way, a kind of heady, strong aroma. It seemed to cling to him, but perhaps he was imagining that.
He had walked another block when it happened. Without warning, something fell on him, knocking him down, cutting his face in an instant of sharp, searing pain. He grunted and rolled over, feeling a flapping and a musty breeze around him.
A bird.
He kicked and scrambled to his feet. When he stood, he was alone in the street, with blood pouring down from a cut on his head. He looked around, then up.
It happened again. He saw it coming, a giant bird with the wings folded tight to the body, crashing down on him like a missile, and he tried to duck away, but it struck him in the throat, and he felt himself falling, and then he felt nothing at all.
14. PNGed
PETER ROSS AWOKE IN THE morning feeling damp, stiff, and unrested. He looked up and saw a guard unlocking his door. His first thought was that they were bringing him breakfast, and then Capitán Gonzales walked in.
Ross was not really surprised to see him.
“Get up,” Gonzales said.
Ross got up slowly.
“You are very lucky,” Gonzales said. “We had scheduled interrogation to begin this morning. Before breakfast. That is so you would not be sick.”
“Thoughtful of you
.”
“But there will be no interrogation.”
“I know,” Ross said.
“I suspected you did,” Gonzales said. “Those with powerful friends always know.”
“That’s me,” Ross said. “A man with powerful friends.”
“You are lucky,” Gonzales repeated. “If it had been the consulate, they could have done nothing.”
“But it wasn’t the consulate,” Ross said.
“No.”
“Tell me,” Ross said. “Which of my many powerful friends was it?”
Gonzales shook his head.
“But I have to send a thank-you note.”
Gonzales spat on the floor. “The judge was paid. The charges are dismissed. That is all you need to know.”
He led Ross down a corridor, toward the exit.
“The government,” he said, “is processing the necessary papers to declare you persona non grata. In less than forty-eight hours, you will be forced to leave Spain. I suggest you avoid unpleasantness and leave first.”
“Believe me,” Ross said, “I will.”
“Forgive me,” Gonzales said, “for doubting you.”
He opened the door, and Ross stepped out into the sunlight. Gonzales gave him a final, strange look, and closed the door.
Ross was alone, and free.
He took a taxi to his hotel, where the concierge greeted him like a man returned from the dead. “Ah, Señor, she will be very glad to see you.”
“She is still here?”
“Yes, Señor.”
“That’s interesting,” Ross said. He was not surprised. He took the elevator to the top floor and unlocked the door to the room. Angela was sitting on the bed, reading a paperback and munching an apple. She threw them down when she saw him.
“Pete! Thank God.”
She ran up and threw her arms around him, hugging him, but he did not respond. After a moment, she stepped back.
“Something wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“Pete, I’m so glad to see you. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He went to the closet and opened it; their suitcases were there, still packed. “Why did you stay here?”
“What a foolish question. I was worried about you, and I—”
“Knew I would be getting out soon?”
“No,” she said, in a soft voice. “How would I know that?”
“You tell me.”
She came up to him, very gently, and touched his face. “Pete, please—”
He turned away from her. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. About a lot of things.”
“So have I, and—”
“And the more I thought, the more peculiar everything seems.”
She stared at him and said nothing. He walked to the window and looked out
“Because,” he said, “somebody has kept track of me from the minute I entered Spain. Somebody has told people where I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m going.”
“Pete, if you think—”
“So,” he said, “I began to work on it. To try to decide who it was, and why. Especially why.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Sure you do. You understand just fine.”
“If you mean that I’ve been spying on you—”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting down.
They said nothing for a long time. Then she sat on the bed, fumbled in her purse, and lit a cigarette.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s all true.”
“You’re working for the count?”
“Yes,” she said in a soft voice.
“How long?”
“A year. A little more.”
Ross turned away in disgust. “Christ,” he said. He frowned, looking out the window at the traffic. In the glass, he saw his features reflected—hard, angry, and a little sad.
“It’s too bad,” he said.
She did not reply.
“I suppose you know all about the autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“And what I did?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“The count. He had a spy in the group that arranged the autopsy. It’s a long story.”
“The count seems to know everything.”
She sighed. “Almost”
He turned back and looked at her. She was huddled on the bed, her skirt pulled up, looking forlorn and tender. He fought an impulse and said, “The count sounds very remarkable. When do I meet him?”
“Whenever you want.” Her voice was flat and mechanical.
“That’s why you stayed, isn’t it? To take me to him? After he paid off the judge and got me free?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her face, tear-stained, pinched. “He must pay you well. Were you really a stewardess, or an actress?”
“I’m not acting.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Please, Pete—”
“You really are remarkable. You had me fooled.”
“I’m not acting.”
“Very good, for an amateur.”
“Pete, I love you. I swear it.”
“I’m sure,” he said, “that you would have cried buckets when I received my prison sentence. You would have cried for a week, even. Maybe two.”
“You’re not fair.”
“I’m scared. I don’t expect you to understand it. I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
“Swell. Just so you take me to the count.”
She got up wearily from the bed. “You don’t have to go,” she said. “I could tell him you never returned to the hotel. No one would know.”
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. The eyes, sad and red, still pleaded with him.
“Too late for that,” he said. “I’m in too deep.”
“You’re not.”
“I am, thanks to you. I am now an integral cog in the machinery. I have been primed and filled with information. I am a living set-up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take me to the count,” he said.
“Pete, it’s dangerous.”
“No kidding.”
“Pete, please, stop it. I can’t take much more.”
“That’s good to hear.”
She walked up to him then and slapped him as hard as she could. It was not very hard; he blinked. She kicked him in the shin.
“You’re a fool, a damned fool! Don’t you understand anything? Get out, get out, forget the whole thing!”
He stared at her and watched as she ran her fingers through her glossy black hair.
“Call the count,” he said. “Now.”
The speedometer on the red Mercedes limousine said one sixty, and it was calibrated in miles. The car tore across the mountainous dry land, raising a cloud of dust behind. The driver was a squat Spaniard with a heavy beard and wrap-around sunglasses. He said nothing, but drove with dogged, animal determination.
In the back seat, Ross sat with Angela, not speaking. They had been driving for three hours, crossing the same harshly monotonous landscape at the same breakneck speed. Occasionally, he looked at her, and she pretended not to notice and continued to stare out the window.
He wanted to talk to her, to trust her, but he knew he could not. Not now, and perhaps not ever. That was the way it was, and the way it had to be. He still did not understand what was happening, except that he had somehow become crucial in everything. The professor had talked to him, but the professor must have known that Angela was working for the count. Therefore, everything the professor said was calculated to be relayed to the count.
But Hamid—that was another thing altogether. Something quite different. Hamid was somebody’s mistake. Whose mistake Ross did not know. But a mistake.
Now Ross was letting himself in for it. A stupid maneuver. Angela was right, he was a damned fool. But he could not help himself. There had been a time when i
t was all very frightening. And then there was a time when it was all very macabre and confusing. Finally, it had become a roaring pain in the ass. Ross wanted to know how it all fitted together and why he had become involved.
So he was going to see the count.
He was a damned fool, no doubt about it. This was none of his business, it was too deep, too complex, too intricate, too violent. If he had any sense, he’d leave. He’d stop the car right now, and hitch a ride back to the next big city, and take the next plane back to New York. He’d quit and forget it all. After a month in New York, it would all seem like a bad dream, nothing more.
Angela said, “I’m sorry to get you involved.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes,” she said. “It does.”
He didn’t want to talk to her. When he heard her voice, his stomach twisted, and he felt odd. He wanted to trust her, yet he knew he could not. That was all past. It could not be recaptured.
He stared out the window. They passed a farmhouse, a simple shack surrounded by animals—a lazy burro, clucking chickens, a litter of pigs. The farmhouse stood alone in the desolate landscape. There was no sign of a living person anywhere. And then it was gone, lost in the swirling dust plume of the car.
15. The Count
LATE THAT EVENING, THEY CAME down from the Sierras toward a large city spread across the plains below them. They did not, however, enter the city, but instead headed north, to a rugged area in the outskirts, in the foothills of the mountains.
Ross nodded to the city. “Granada?”
“Yes,” Angela said.
“The count lives here?”
“Nearby. It will be a few minutes, no more.”
The Mercedes left the main road, and traveled up a twisting dirt track. It was dark, and they seemed to be passing through an orchard or fruit grove of some kind; Ross could not be sure. After several minutes, they came around a bend and saw the castle.
It was nestled into the foothills, a tall, imposing stone building, showing the Moorish influence in its arches and masonry. It was brightly lighted. In front was a circular drive, a pleasant lawn, and a large fountain with splashing water.
The car came to a halt, and they stepped out into the cool night air. Angela led him up the steps to the massive, iron-studded door. She knocked, using a cast iron knocker, which Ross noticed was made in the shape of a human fist.
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