‘Where did you find that?’ Grainger gestured to the food on the table.
‘There is one shop – not so far, boss. He make good bread and sell raib beldi.’ He motioned to the bowl then tore off a strip of bread and dipped it into the yogurt. ‘You sit down, boss, I bring coffee. What you want we do today, boss?’
‘What we do today Jamil is liberate Monsieur Xicluna.’
‘How we get him off boat, boss? Big bastard he sure be watching.’
‘We’re not going to Jamil. Émile Xicluna stays on board. We’re going to steal the boat and take it a long, long, way away.’
The boy gave a serious look, thought for a moment, then grinned. ‘Good plan, boss. Jamil never stole one boat before.’
Chapter 25
The best laid plans
One week before the shop was due to open two men came with a painted board and fixed it to the fascia over the window. PASTELERIA FRANCESA it announced in the colours of the French tricolour. It was 20 August, Evangeline’s birthday.
The pregnancy was now very evident, she calculated she was almost five months gone, and the sickness and the tiredness had subsided. She felt she had a new energy, much of it fuelled by her engagement with the new project.
‘Bonne anniversaire.’ Tamaya declared that morning as Evangeline came into the kitchen for breakfast. With a flourish she placed a large apricot tart on the table.
Two days before they were due to open the door to the public Evangeline went to the printer’s workshop and carried away a box of handbills: announcements of the opening. Together with Tamaya she went out into the local area where they posted the bills through the letterboxes of the residential properties in the vicinity. Working one each side of the street, they spent the day until they had exhausted both themselves and the stock of bills.
‘Tomorrow, we shall bake,’ she told Tamaya, ‘but tonight we shall drink a toast with our supper. I have found a good bottle of champagne – French, not Spanish – one the Germans have not managed to get their hands on.’
The opening was better than either of the women had dared hope. At the end of each day there was nothing left. It was the season of fruit and there were apricots, pears, mirabelles, ripe golden plums and soft red berries. They were rising at five each morning to bake the bread and croissants. Throughout the day the oven was continuously stoked as tarts and flans, savouries and yet more bread poured out to fill the trays and baskets in the window.
At the end of September they took stock. The sales were good and there was a profit. It was not large but the business was working and it would keep them. However, there was one thing concerning Tamaya. ‘I am a little worried for your health, Evi,’ she said diffidently. ‘The baby will come soon and you will not be able to work these hours and look after a baby. I think you must find an assistant to work in the shop. I can manage the baking but you must rest after the baby has arrived.’
Evangeline accepted the fact. They would need help, but if they were to take on another they would have to have more business.
Two days after this conversation Evangeline had a meeting with the manager of the Hotel Historic, Girona’s best hotel. She took with her a box containing two croissants, two pains au chocolat, a pain au raisin and a chausson aux pommes. It felt strange to walk into the place where less than six months earlier she had come with Carlos after the marriage.
The manager, Señor Hernandez, took the pastries graciously but announced that he had not the time to discuss her products, nor did he have the authority to make decisions concerning these things. ‘We have our own pastry chef, señora,’ he said, showing her to the door. ‘I will, however, bring your products to the attention of the owner, Don Ortega. It is he who makes these choices.’
She returned to the shop heavy with disappointment. She had been sure of success and it had failed. Tamaya put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Evi, I can manage. If I start one hour earlier I can finish the baking, dress the window and serve in the shop. Then when we close for lunch, I can bake for the afternoon and be ready again to open at two. You will see, it can be done.’
‘Thank you, Tamaya. I shall try the other hotels. Maybe I was aiming too high with the Historic.’
*
It was Tuesday, the first day of October. Tamaya had been up since five, the fire was at temperature and the morning pastries were on their trays ready for the oven.
‘There is a letter from the Historic.’ Evangeline waved it at Tamaya. ‘The owner, Don Ortega, likes what we make – they will become a customer.’ Tamaya let out a shriek of delight and clapped her flour-coated hands to her cheeks, leaving her face powdered in white. ‘You need to look in the mirror before you go into the shop,’ Evangeline laughed.
Tamaya took the letter and read it. ‘This is wonderful. Do you think we might be able to afford some help now?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Evangeline’s face dimpled with a wide grin, ‘and now I shall try again with the other hotels. I feel sure that when they know the Historic is buying from us they will want to as well.’
*
Maria came to work in the kitchen on the second week of October. She was a short, robust woman in her fifties. Her raven black hair was streaked with grey and she had broad buttocks that Tamaya joked made her look like a cart horse on the move from behind – though it was said in good nature and she was careful not to let Maria know that she had said it.
She was a widow; her husband who had died the previous year had been a baker and she knew the art. Her forearms were strong from years of kneading dough and she had prodigious energy. She was also a woman with a generous nature and, even more important, she had born five children. For the other two women it was an unspoken comfort that in their little company was someone who knew how it would be when the time for Evangeline came. There was one more thing that recommended her: she was able to drive. This was an asset of great importance since a week after Maria started work there was another moment for celebration. They had added two more hotels to their client list together with the bar at Girona railway station. The deliveries to the hotels and others required the van, and as the pregnancy progressed Evangeline complained that the bulge in her belly was making her waddle like a duck, and that she was finding it harder and harder to squeeze in behind the wheel. At this the other two laughed and put their hands on the bump to feel the baby move. ‘Santa Madre,’ Maria kept saying. ‘This one must be a boy. He kick like a footballer. He will be strong.’
With the approach of winter the air in the shop was buoyant. Evangeline began to prepare the plans for the last quarter of the year. There was All Saints Day and then Christmas. It would be busy and there would be the birth. Now was the time to plan.
Then another letter arrived.
‘What is it Evi?’ There was a hint of concern in Tamaya’s voice. Evangeline was sitting behind the counter in the shop, staring at a single sheet of paper. Her face looked dark and angry. She smacked her hand down hard on the letter as if she were slapping the sender. ‘That perfidious swine and his dishonest lawyer!’
‘Evi?’
‘Don Ferdinand.’ She pushed the single sheet along the counter top to where Tamaya was standing, the look of concern now showing in her eyes.
‘It’s from Cortez. He says the Mercedes car was not the property of Carlos, it was paid for with de Lorca money and they want it returned. They say I had no right to sell it. He goes on to say unless I repay the sum it was sold for they will go to the courts and take the shop, which they now claim is theirs.’
For a moment Tamaya went limp. ‘Can they do this thing?’
Evangeline screwed up her face and breathed out heavily, her breath noisy and angry. ‘Probably – I don’t know – but to hell with de Lorca, I shall fight them.’
She wanted to cry, but that was the baby; it had changed her hormones. She knew it and she fought to hold it back. It would not be good for the others to see it had got to her. This was her shop, and her people, and she
was going to fight for them.
*
Nicolas de Leon was quite possibly not the best lawyer in Girona, nor probably was he the worst. He was just a name she had picked out of the telephone directory. She needed somebody to advise her.
The lawyer de Leon listened patiently to what she had to say, taking notes as she recounted the circumstances that had culminated in the demand from Don Ferdinand. When he had finished he sat back to consider what she had related.
‘I think your position is a difficult one, señora,’ he said cautiously. ‘De Lorca is a powerful name in the region and one that is not easy to fight. The family has connections and influence – right the way up to the judiciary.’
‘But it is my right, surely. The evidence is noted here, in the attestation that was issued by his own lawyer.’
‘Who drew up this list, señora?’
‘I did. They asked me to.’
‘Well, they will challenge it. They will say you fabricated your rights to this Mercedes car. That is certainly what I would do in their position. My advice to you is to seek a settlement; make an offer.’
Evangeline was disappointed by the response. It seemed as if her chosen man of the law had no fight in him and it left her irritated.
‘That would be neither fair nor just.’
He half chuckled, with a patronising curl of the mouth. ‘Señora, the law is not about fairness; it is not even about justice. The law is simply a set of rules made up by those with the power to enforce them. When there is no longer the power – well, then it ceases to be law. Just now the power is with de Lorca. Let me tell you what I say to all my clients. Do not go to law if you can avoid it. Litigation is like an infinite onion. You peel away one layer only to find another – and then another. You never get to the core. Settle, it will be much cheaper.’
In response she gave a deep sigh. ‘Señor, you fail to understand. I cannot offer a settlement. I do not have the means, and even had I, it would stick in my throat and choke me to do such a thing. I shall find another way.’
Chapter 26
Betrayal
‘How we steal this boat, boss?’
Grainger had spent the morning checking the contents of the suitcase of arms that Harriman had left. There were four grenades: two stun, two smoke. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. There were two Thompsons, some plastic explosive, detonators, the trench gun – and ammo for everything. What he lacked was hands. The boy would be useful, but what he really needed was another man to replace Jordan. He did not want to contact Harriman; he was no longer sure he could trust the American, but that was his only conduit to Charlie without going out on a limb and exposing himself by cabling London – and the gendarmes were now looking for him. It was a dilemma he had wrestled with for the two days they had been lying low in the villa.
On the morning of the third day he had made up his mind. He would call Harriman.
Harriman sounded less than pleased to hear from him. ‘I thought we agreed you would stay off the airwaves.’
‘No, you told me to get lost. That’s not an agreement. What happened to Tommy Jordan? Was it a curtain call?’
Harriman’s tone lightened. ‘Hell, no. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. He took one in the chest but the shooter must have been crouching down. The shot was angled. It went up and he stopped it in the collar bone. He’s on the mend.’
‘Good to hear. Now I need a favour. I want you to let Gib know I’ve found our man and I need reinforcements to get him clear.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Okay, where are you?’
‘Back in your safe house.’
‘How the hell did you get in there?’
‘I have a friend – he’s an accomplished burglar.’
There was another long pause. ‘Right, sit tight. I’ll get on to it.’
‘Oh, and Harriman, it seems the gendarmes are after me.’
‘How’d that happen?’
‘I think we have a mole in the garden somewhere.’
‘You don’t say.’ With that Harriman hung up.
‘I don’t like it, Jamil.’ Grainger was checking the magazine clip in one of the Thompsons.
‘What you not like, boss?’
‘Any of it. The way things keep going wrong; how every time we get a lead, the other side are always there in front of us, always one jump ahead. Who got the gendarmes involved and why? Who are these other people? There is a leak, I’m sure of that.’
He put the Thompson down on the table. ‘Do you know how to use a gun?’
The boy laughed.
‘I know,’ Grainger said, mimicking like a parrot. ‘All boys in Morocco knows how to shoot gun.’
‘Lot of guns in souk boss. Many workshop mends guns there. Sometime Jamil help them. ’
The boy picked up the Thompson, released the magazine, cocked the breach with a snappy ‘click-clack’ to clear any round in the chamber, then taking the magazine in one hand he thumbed the rounds out onto the table. As quickly as he had done it he pushed the rounds back into the magazine and with a single snap pushed it back into the breach. It had all been done in less than 60 seconds. The boy grinned but said nothing.
Grainger turned his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. ‘Should’ve known better than to ask.’
It was just before dawn and still quite dark when Grainger realised he was not alone in the room.
‘Boss.’ The whisper came from low down beside the bed.
‘Jamil, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘We got visitors, boss – in the garden.’ Grainger rolled out of bed and quickly got into his trousers.
‘Here, boss, you need this thing?’ The boy held up the Thompson. ‘Maybe thieves, boss. Could be big bastard German. Machine gun is good for this.’
Grainger took it. ‘Yes, very good.’ As he said it he realised the boy had the other Thompson.
‘You want I go on roof, boss? Shine this in garden.’ The boy held up a flash light he had taken from the suitcase of weapons.
Grainger ran his mind over the idea. ‘Okay, do that, but wait till you hear me open the back door, then you turn on the flashlight– but keep your head low.’
At the back door Grainger waited. With almost no sound he pulled it open. There was now nothing but the metal shutter between him and whoever was outside. Gingerly he lifted the securing bar. Tucking himself tight in against the door jamb he squatted down on his haunches. Then, with a rapid shove, he pushed the shutter open wide. The dark air was ripped with spitting flashes and the crack of small arms.
From the tiles a light caught the shadows of the assailants. The clear image of one stepped out and raised an arm towards the light. Shots went up in the direction of the roof. There was the rattle of a Thompson in reply, then the torch fell and somewhere somebody cried out in pain. In the same moment Grainger emptied his entire magazine, spraying the last position in which he had seen the figures of their attackers. Then there was silence.
Grainger slid back across the kitchen, leaving the empty Thompson on the floor. He ran to the salon where the gun case was still on the table. Frantically he pulled out the trench gun. There was a sound and a figure appeared low in the doorway. Grainger levelled the trench gun.
‘Don’t shoot, boss. It’s me, Jamil.’
As they stood there momentarily frozen, listening to the silence, the first light of dawn cracked the horizon. Cautiously they crept back to the kitchen. The door was still gaping open. Beyond, they could see into the garden. It was now deserted.
In among the shrubs they found evidence of blood. Someone had been hit but there was no sign of a body. They went back into the villa.
‘We’re leaving.’ Grainger slammed the lid on the gun case, tied the strap and went out into the garden, ‘Come on, Jamil. We need to get out now.’
They had hardly left when they heard the wailing of a police klaxon. ‘Harriman,’ Grainger muttered under his breath, ‘there’s our leak.’
‘Wh
at now, boss?’ The boy had not spoken since they left the villa; nor had Grainger said anything to him. They had both been put to silence by the events.
‘We have to find somewhere else to hang out.’
‘Jamil know one good place, boss. I know one man in Medina. He give room very cheap. If you want we go there.’
The car was too hot. Harriman had its number so it was only a matter of time before he turned them in.
‘We need to find somewhere quiet to dump this, Jamil. Any ideas? Maybe we should also set fire to it.’
‘Waste of good car, boss.’
‘Can’t take the risk of keeping it, Jamil. The gendarmes will be looking for it – and probably our German friend.’
The boy scowled. ‘Not friend, boss, big bastard. I know one man, boss, he thieve cars. Make them in pieces to sell. He make very good business. He give you money for this one car. You want we go see him?’
‘You know what? Your name should be Ali Baba.’
‘Why that, boss?’
Grainger just laughed. ‘Not important. He was a man who they say knew forty thieves.’
The boy frowned. ‘Jamil only know five thieves, boss. Maybe six.’
The house they went to was not far from the port. It was the home of Ahmed Abass, a fisherman. He greeted the boy like a father would a son.
The house was not large. There was a shed with a net loft and a string bed. That, Grainger said, would do him nicely. In the house a place was found for the boy. It was not ideal, but it was shelter and it gave Grainger time to think.
That evening the boy came with food from the souk and together they sat with Abass. The fisherman talked non-stop: about fishing and the trawler he owned; about the war, which he complained was ruining him, what with the British blockade of the Straits and Vichy shore patrols. These, he grumbled, were bad enough, but the German U-boats were worse. ‘They are trigger happy – they see a boat of my size as fair game. I am Moroccan, I fly the Moroccan flag. Sometimes Jamil is out with me, he is a good sailor, but I have a responsibility to keep him safe. Once a U-boat came and fired its gun at us. We were only saved by a British destroyer. When the Germans saw it they dived and ran for cover. Then the British came on board and turned everything upside down saying I might be breaking their blockade. It is ruinous.’
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 21