“Nasty bites, for a cocker,” the doctor said. “I had a cocker once. He didn’t bite like this, I can tell you.” He continued swabbing.
“Well, it looked like a cocker.”
“You’ll want to report this to the health authorities, of course.”
Ross looked at Angela. “Of course.”
“As soon as I’m through, I’ll call—”
“It’s rather late,” Angela said. “Could we do it in the morning?”
“We shouldn’t really,” the doctor said.
“She was a sweet old lady,” Ross said. “She was awfully apologetic. A Mrs. McPherson.”
“McPherson? Then she was English?”
“Oh yes,” Ross said. “She’s calling our hotel in the morning. Going to have the dog checked first thing.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. “Well then.”
The doctor bandaged the hand carefully, then leaned back. “Have you had a tetanus shot?”
Ross looked puzzled.
“That’s the shot to prevent lockjaw,” the doctor explained. “Most travelers get a booster.”
Ross thought, half a cubic centimeter of antitoxin. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I had so many shots, it’s hard to keep track …”
“I’ll just give you another,” the doctor said. He filled a syringe. “What sort of work do you do, Mr. Ross?”
“I’m an insurance adjuster,” Ross said, and made a face as the needle jabbed in.
They left the doctor after promising to call back in the morning. Angela drove away, out of the town.
“We can go south,” she said, “to the coast. And catch a boat—”
“No,” Ross said. “We have to stay nearby.”
“But why?”
“Because,” Ross said, “it’s here.”
“The emerald?”
He nodded.
“But where? How do you know?”
Ross sighed. “I wasn’t sure, until just an hour ago. Then I made the connection. Hamid. He had been hired by the count to steal the body and bring it down here. But he didn’t deliver.”
“I know,” Angela said, “but I don’t see how that explains anything.”
“Hamid,” Ross said. “It’s an Arab name, not a Spanish name.”
“So?”
“Think,” Ross said. “Where would you hide the most valuable single jewel in the world if you were a Spanish Arab?”
She smiled. “An Arab would give it to his father, or his brother, or his uncle…”
“Right.”
She frowned. “I still don’t—”
“Hamid mentioned something to me about Washington Irving, and something about lions. I didn’t understand. But now I do. Hamid took that body, with the emerald, to the logical place for any Arab to take a valuable object.”
“The Alhambra?”
“Yes,” Ross said.
“I don’t believe it. The Alhambra is a park. It’s got cops, and guards, and everything. How could he have gotten a body in there and hidden it?”
“The same way we’re going to get it out,” Ross said. “Now drive into the mountains, and let’s get some sleep.”
She drove high into the hills east of the town, until they were up where it was cool. She pulled off the road into a grove of olive trees. Ross sat back in his seat, sighed, and closed his eyes. Angela rested her head on his shoulder. He fell asleep almost immediately.
He awoke in the morning with hot sun streaming down onto his face. Looking over, he saw Angela curled up behind the wheel, still asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he got out, stretched, yawned, and walked through the olive grove. The air was slightly damp, fresh, and clear, smelling of animals, plants, and the desert. Off to the right, a small herd of sheep grazed on the grass beneath the olive trees.
He walked until he came to a short rise and could look down on the city of Granada. Though large, and in some districts modern, it still bore the Moorish influence, with the cramped streets, the brown tile roofs and whitewashed walls, and the open courtyards. It was very beautiful in the morning light.
He stood and looked for a long time.
It was said that the Arabs still mourned for Granada in their evening prayers. If so, they had mourned a long time; Granada fell to Ferdinand and Isabella in January, 1492, the same year the Genoese lunatic, Columbus, discovered America. Granada, until then, represented the last and strongest foothold of the Arabs in Europe. It was easy to see why—rising high above the town, on a sharp, steep series of hills, was the Alhambra, the complex of palaces and fortresses which had housed the Moorish kings, their nobles, and harems for hundreds of years. The name, literally, meant purple-red, which was the color of the buildings. On an adjoining hill was the Generalife, the summer residence of the Moorish court, composed of white, pristine buildings.
And everywhere were gardens, trees, fountains, running water … an exotic fortress of great beauty and craftsmanship. The hills were covered with trees and the palaces decked with flowers; the temperature there was ten to twenty degrees lower than the one-hundred-degree heat of the desert and the city of Granada on the plains. In Granada, the heat, the dust, and the burning light were brilliantly hot; in the Alhambra, everything was cool, verdant, and sensual.
Now, in the twentieth century, it was difficult to imagine the caliphs, the harems, the eunuchs, the sorcerers and alchemists and noblemen who had lived on that mountaintop. Below, in the city, were the spires of a Catholic cathedral and the modern buildings of a bank, a hotel, a garage. Yet the mountain retained a sense of mystery, of greenery and seclusion, of secret sensuality, even from afar.
“What are you thinking about?” He looked over; Angela was there.
“Dancing girls,” he said, “in the moonlight.”
“The Alhambra?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure about it?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“And you know how to get in?”
He smiled. “For the moment,” he said, “we simply pay the tourist entrance fee and walk in.”
“As simple as that?”
“Let’s hope so.” He smiled. “Come on. Let’s go: we’ve got to stop in town.”
“What for?”
“Sandwiches and a bottle of wine.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
As they drove down in the Porsche, Ross found himself frowning. Angela said, “Something the matter?”
“I keep thinking about Joaquim. Did you notice his hands?”
“They’re huge. Immense.”
“No, I meant the scars. He had some peculiar hook-shaped scars that were obviously very deep.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps he got them in a fight.”
“No,” Ross said. “I don’t think so. Something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But I keep wondering whether those scars came from the same knife that was used on Carrini and his men and on Hamid.”
“You think Joaquim killed them?”
“No. He’s strong, and he’s powerful, but he could never kill Carrini and his three friends. Not all together, in a group. Not without help.”
“Maybe he had help.”
“Yes,” Ross said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
18. Ismael
JOAQUIM STOOD IN THE CENTER of the courtyard at the far side of the castle. He stood very straight, his huge body clothed in stiff cloth fabric, his face covered with a wire mask rather like a dueling mask, except that it enclosed his whole head.
In his hands, he held a rope thirty feet long. Attached to the end of the rope was a quarter pound of filet mignon. He set the meat on the stone floor of the courtyard and picked up a can of aerosol spray. He shook the can, then held it over the meat and sprayed it for several seconds. A rich, heavy odor filled the air.
From the far corner of the courtyard, the count said, “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then swing it.
”
Joaquim lifted the rope and began to swing it in a slow circle, paying out the line as he went. Soon the beef was whistling through the air.
“Higher,” said the count. “Keep it high.”
The count was dressed in a Chinese bathrobe of red silk. His feet were bare, and he moved cautiously across the courtyard. He stopped beside a low building and pulled on a stiff leather glove. He flexed his fingers, then stepped back.
“I’m going to use Ismael today,” the count said. “He is the most ruthless. Be careful.”
“I will,” Joaquim said.
The count nodded and pulled on a wire helmet similar to the one worn by Joaquim. Then he opened a door and stepped into a low building.
A soft fluttering sound greeted him.
“Hello, my pretties. Anyone hungry?” He scanned the rows of perched birds. There were six, each trained to varying degrees. They regarded him gravely, with unblinking eyes. Their long beaks, curved at the end, were sharp and businesslike.
The finest falcons money could buy. He smiled to himself. Ross and the girl would be so surprised. They were fools, of course, not to have suspected: it had been a tradition in Granada for generations. At one time, a whole quarter of the city had been given over to the falcon trainers. Now, it was the province of noblemen, men with the time and money to engage in the expensive, slow, dangerous process of training a bird of prey.
“Ismael,” the count said. “How are you today?”
Ismael cocked his head. He was a large, fierce bird, weighing twenty pounds, all of it muscle and tearing beak, nothing wasted, no fat.
“You want to play a game?”
The count held up his gloved hand, moving slowly so as not to frighten the bird. Ismael hesitated, then stepped onto the outstretched finger. The count felt the sharp talons grip the glove in a fierce hold.
“Good, my pretty. Very good.”
Again, with a slow gesture, he raised the leather hood with his free hand and placed it over the falcon’s head. Ismael gave a little wriggle as the hood was set in place. Then he relaxed.
The count stroked the smooth feathers.
“Very good, very good.”
He took the bird outside.
Of all the birds, Ismael was his favorite. He had named it after determining that it had great intelligence, yet a vicious ruthlessness which surpassed all caution. It was almost human, this falcon: it became so caught up in the vigor of its attack, it became foolhardy, mindlessly brave.
Yet effective. Undeniably effective.
The falcon could do anything. He had seen Ismael attack and kill a two-year-old bull. The bird had struck three times, first at the eyes, then at the neck, and finally, slashing with the beak until the animal bled to death.
Twenty pounds of fighting flesh killing two hundred pounds.
“We have work for you, Ismael,” the count said, stroking the feathers soothingly.
In the courtyard, Joaquim was swinging the meat. He was making high circles, the beef still whistling as it made its arc.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready,” Joaquim said.
Joaquim was used to this. He had been attacked many times by young falcons in the early stages of training. So, for that matter, had the count, though expensive plastic surgery had covered all traces.
“All right, my pretty.”
He removed the leather hood and gave a shake of his gloved hand. The falcon flew up, its head twisting jerkily as it climbed. It went up and up, more than a thousand feet into the air, and then began circling. From the ground, the count thought it hardly possible that the falcon could see, but he knew better.
Ismael circled. A minute passed, then two. The falcon went wide, over the town of Granada, spreading its wings and gliding effortlessly. Then it returned. Joaquim still swung the beef. This was how they had trained the falcons, and this was how they had learned the truth about falcons’ sense of smell. The experts said that falcons hunted by sight alone and could smell nothing. The count knew better. From long experience. A falcon could be trained to hunt by smell, and to hunt with murderous success.
“Coming back,” the count said.
High above, almost lost in the hot Andalusian sun, Ismael circled. It moved without exertion, its wings spread, floating on the high currents.
Then it happened.
The count had seen it before, but each time it gave him a fresh thrill. Ismael pulled in its wings, folding tightly into a black muscular knot, and fell like a stone. It dropped, gathering speed, moving thirty, then sixty, then one hundred miles an hour. It was screaming through the air, beak forward, talons spread, ready to rip and tear …
It hit the meat.
With an animal scream, Ismael gripped the filet, grabbed it, yanked, and pulled it free of the rope. It climbed twenty feet, tearing the meat, pecking at it, and then released it. The meat fell and landed in a small cloud of dust in the courtyard. Ismael climbed higher again, circled once more, and then descended slowly to the count’s outstretched, gloved hand. It gripped the finger, flapped its wings a final time, beating a wind around the count’s face. Then it was quiet.
“Good bird, very good,” the count said.
He slipped on the hood.
The bird was trained, of course, to attack the scented meat so long as it moved. When it was still, it did not attack.
“I think Ismael will do marvelously,” the count said. “Just marvelously.”
“You will spray those two?”
“Yes,” the count said. “And the professor.”
“Are you certain he is here?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the count said. He gave a small, childish laugh and returned the falcon to the roost.
The girl was waiting in the count’s study.
“Well,” the count said, “are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Here is the spray,” he said, handing her the aerosol. “Pretend it is insecticide.”
She nodded.
“But before you go, dye your hair. Ross will remember you.”
She gave a short laugh. “He won’t remember me. He was so frightened of the cops, he won’t remember a thing. And I gave him some song and dance—”
“Dye your hair,” the count said. “Dye it black. And fix the makeup on your eyes.”
Subdued, she said, “Yes, sir.”
“Now remember. There will be five. Ross, a girl, the professor, another man, and another girl. You must get all five. Understood?”
“Understood.”
19. The Alhambra
THEY BOUGHT COARSE BREAD, salami, and cheese in a little store downtown; also a bottle of wine. As Angela made sandwiches, she said, “I really don’t understand this. There are restaurants within the Alhambra, you know.”
“I know. But they won’t be open at night.”
“We’re staying up there?”
“Yes. After it closes.”
“And search?”
“That’s right,” Ross said.
They got into the car and drove through the town until they reached the base of the mountain on which the Alhambra was perched. A road led up through green forested parks.
“We’ll leave the car here,” he said. “Out of sight.”
They began the long walk up the mountain, keeping to the side of the road, letting tourist cars and buses pass.
“There will be thousands up there today,” Angela said, watching the cars.
“So much the better. The crowds will help us.”
As they climbed, the air became cooler and quieter; the noisy bustle of the city was left below, with the heat and shimmering light. Along the road, in an ancient cut stone trough, water gurgled. The system of irrigation which supported the lush growth on the mountain was a marvel.
“I like it here,” she said.
“It will be cold at night. We should have brought sweaters.”
“Do you think it will take long? To find the body, I mean.”
&n
bsp; “No, not long.”
“Do you think the count has started to search for us?”
“I’m sure of it. But not here—he’ll be, looking in Madrid, or Barcelona. Anywhere but right here, under his nose.”
“Sooner or later, he’ll figure it out.”
“That’s true,” Ross said. “And he’ll come after us.”
“What will we do then?”
“Run like hell,” Ross said, “and hope for the best”
“If he catches us, he’ll kill us,” Angela said. “I know it.”
“No,” Ross said. “He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we’ll have hidden the emerald. It’s our ace in the hole.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I.”
Angela shuddered. They said nothing more until they reached the top and entered through the ancient, elaborately decorated horseshoe gates of the palace. Just inside, the tour buses were parked, and groups of tourists were forming around shouting guides. Along one wall, a row of vendors sold trinkets, souvenirs, and guidebooks. All around, magnificent, red-brown, stood the buildings and palaces. Directly in front of them was the square palace of Carlos V. Behind that were the old Arab gardens and palaces. To the east, occupying a corner of the mountain, was the fortress, the Alcazaba.
They paused to buy a map from one of the squatting vendors. Ross noticed that among all the guidebooks were copies of Washington Irving’s Legends of the Alhambra.
He remembered the dying words of Hamid: “Twenty paces east from Washington Irving…”
Did he mean here?
Ross turned to Angela. “Which way is east?”
“I don’t know. Check the map.”
He did. East took them toward the Alcazaba. He casually stepped off twenty paces and found himself in the middle of a small garden, halfway between the palace of Carlos and the fortress. There were dozens of tourists everywhere, all around.
He walked back to Angela.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Just a little confused.”
“You get the wrong directions?”
He scratched his head. “Maybe. Or maybe I heard wrong …”
Twenty paces. He tried to recall the conversation exactly. Hamid’s words had been tense, the last gasps of a dying man. Was it twenty paces?
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