As he settled onto the string bed that night a thought drifted into Grainger’s mind, and a new plan began to form. Maybe he did not need reinforcements from Gibraltar after all. If he could persuade Abass to throw in his lot with them, then between him and his boat there was the answer. He still had the gold sovereigns in his bag and from his experience he knew most men would do most things for gold – if there was enough of it. The war was ruining Abass; he would be ripe fruit for picking.
‘I have a job for you and your boat, if you would like it,’ he told Abass over the first glass of tea the next morning. The fisherman raised his eyebrows in expectation of more.
‘How much you pay?’ he asked bluntly. Grainger laid five of his ten sovereigns on the table, clicking them down one at a time. Abass pursed his lips and nodded in appreciation.
‘And five more when we have finished,’ Grainger added.
‘This is much money to go fishing.’ Abass stared suspiciously at the gold on his table.
‘We are not fishing.’
Abass thought on it. ‘Is it dangerous?’
The boy looked at him disdainfully. He rubbed a finger around the face of one of the coins. ‘For gold, Baba, it is always dangerous. For safe there is only sous and centimes. Not more than this. Are you not a man, Baba? I am only boy, but I can do this.’
‘This boy speaks like a tiger – but will the tiger be so brave when the hunter is there?’
Grainger fixed Abass with a hard look. ‘The boy is brave – I have seen it. So what about you?’
Abass shrugged. ‘I am ready to do my work for your gold.’
The fishing boat of Ahmed Abass was a French built chalutier. It was not large, just 18 metres, but the eleven-litre diesel engine which equipped the boat to deal with fishing the Atlantic was plenty for the job he had in mind – and there was a strong gantry winch on the stern which could lift half a ton of fish in one haul. Short of a harbour tug it was the best available for the job in Grainger’s plan.
Just after the sun had topped its apogee he decided it was time to make a move. A frisson of excitement ran through him as he contemplated the job ahead. It was good to be back into the action again after the weeks of dodging, ducking and lying low. He had a pang of regret that Jordan was not with them – he knew he would have relished the tension.
‘Jamil, go to the warehouse and see if anyone is there. If you can, get round the back. See if that tender is still there.’
The boy jumped up. ‘Okay, boss, Jamil will see all things.’
Grainger put a hand of caution on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take stupid chances, Jamil. Just look and come back.’
The boy grinned his usual grin, which only made Grainger the more uneasy. He had grown to feel a responsibility for him.
‘Sure, boss, no worry. Jamil know these things.’
*
When the boy arrived, the door to the warehouse was open. Outside, the green Renault was parked in its usual place. This would be easy. He walked calmly and casually towards his goal. He would sneak in and go to the dock at the back. There he would be able to see if the tender was tied off to the jetty. He was half way to the door when it opened fully and there was the man in the straw boater. Just behind him was the woman. He hesitated, but it was too late; he was committed. He would play the begging boy. ‘Hey, mister, you have some baksheesh for me, one cigarette – please, mister, what you give?’
The man stepped forward; he had recognised him as the boy from Fez, the one who had distracted them while Grainger got away in their car. He lunged at the boy, who took off running.
As he got to the port gate it was shut. On the other side he caught a brief glimpse of the man in the dark suit, then there were gendarmes. It was a trap and he had stepped right into it. Curiously the only thing he could think of was that he had failed in his job; he had let Grainger down.
*
They waited for as long as they could but eventually they could wait no longer. They went aboard the chalutier, Grainger hauling the suitcase of weaponry up the gang plank, Abass with a small seabag. They would be out overnight, maybe two.
The big diesel rumbled into life. Abass casually stepped down the boarding plank to the dock, unhitched the lines fore and aft, then coming back aboard hauled the plank in and stowed it in the hold.
The distance between the boat and the dock widened as Abass turned the bow to the open harbour. Grainger kept looking back in the hope that the boy might appear, but there was nothing. He felt bad that he had sent the boy to a place of danger, but in the end he rationalised that it was an unavoidable peril of war. Nevertheless, it was the second man down on this mission and he didn’t like it.
Out in the roads of the harbour they got sight of the Lady Agrippina. The rising tide had swung her round so they approached full on the beam. They stood off around half a kilometre and dropped their own anchor; just another vessel sheltering in the lee of the sea wall.
Chapter 27
Showdowns and end games
Evangeline left the office of Nicolas de Leon in an angry, frustrated mood. It seemed that no sooner had she achieved something than it came undone and fell apart. She began to wonder what it was she had done that she deserved so much ill luck. She was not superstitious but her belief in all things rational was being challenged.
It had been a week and she still had no answer to her problems. The shop was making money and there was a surplus in the bank, but even with the business as it was it would take three, maybe four years before she could accumulate the sum demanded. She waited in dread for the next letter from Cortez or, worse, a writ of summons to have the case heard before a court. Should she just cut her losses, keep the money she had, see if she could find a shop to rent, and hand her freehold to the de Lorcas. It made her sick with anger every time she thought of what that meant.
‘Evi, there is a man on the telephone,’ Tamaya called up the stairs. ‘He says he wants to speak to you about Don Ferdinand’s money.’ Evangeline’s stomach flipped over and she felt a wave of nausea. This, she was sure, would be Cortez with talk of writs and courts.
‘Good morning, señora. My name is Abraham Mendel. Your name and number were passed to me by my good friend Nicolas de Leon. Forgive me for calling without a proper introduction, but Nicolas has said that you are in grave need of assistance. He thought I might be able to help you. I am a banker, señora. I lend money against security. If you would care to visit me, we can perhaps see how you might be helped.’
It was a lifeline, but at the back of her mind there was a nagging fear. Abraham Mendel was a moneylender. She had heard the rumours, the stories put about by the Nazis. Jewish people were not to be trusted, especially the moneylenders – but she had no evidence that this was so. Many of her father’s friends were Jewish, not just academics, there were businessmen as well. They were all perfectly decent people and it seemed unfair now to brand this man as untrustworthy, with no better evidence than rumours of the Nazis, whom she hated and distrusted. She put the idea behind her. She would go and see him.
The house of Abraham Mendel was not what she had expected. She had somehow imagined it would be one of those dingy, grey stone places tucked away in a dark corner of the Jewish quarter of the city. When she got to the address she was surprised. It was a very modern house in a good residential area. It had the latest steel-framed windows.
A domestic answered the door and ushered her through a generous hallway. Inside, the house was light and airy with good polished timber floors and fine carpets. It was not at all what she had imagined and all the more surprising because in her mind she associated the modern décor and fittings with a much younger man – certainly younger than the one she now met.
Abraham Mendel was a man in his sixties with an unruly shock of steel-grey hair and a heavily lived-in face. He was quite short and rotund, which gave a jolly appearance, but when it came to the niceties of conversation he came straight to the point.
‘Now my dear,’ h
e said as soon as she was seated. ‘Nicolas has told me your story and I think I can help. You need money to pay Don Ferdinand de Lorca. I know this man. He can be very hard on those who owe him money. I am prepared to advance you what you require to satisfy his demand.’
Evangeline felt a sensation of lightness as a resolution to the heavy load of the previous days began to reveal itself. ‘Thank you, Señor Mendel. I am not sure how I can express my gratitude enough.’
Mendel ignored the remark. ‘There will, of course, be interest at a rate 15% until the loan is repaid; and I shall need to take a mortgage on your property.’
Evangeline hesitated. She did not like the idea of a mortgage. She had heard bad things about forced repossession. It had happened even in her own small home town – during the great depression, when she was just a child. Her father had always dinned it into her that a mortgage was a bad thing and best avoided. Now here she was, being steered into that very thing.
‘I hope you will forgive my actions,’ Mendel continued, ‘but I have taken the opportunity to look at your property, and I have spoken with the agent, Borja.’ He gave her a craggy smile. ‘I am satisfied your shop and business are sufficient value for the security. So, if you wish to proceed, Nicolas is ready to draw up the papers.’ He sat back in his chair, folded his hands together and placed them to rest on his ample paunch. He did not have to wait long.
‘I think I should like to take some time to think about it – if you do not mind.’
‘Of course,’ he smiled, ‘that is the right thing for you to do – but I don’t think you will get a better offer anywhere else, señora.’
Evangeline got up and offered him her hand. He took it, gave a touch of a bow and kissed the back of it. Inside she felt a little shudder. His actions of kissing her hand and bowing were reminiscent of her first meetings with Carlos.
‘Please take your time. I am here if you need my services.’
That evening when they had closed the shop she sat down and discussed the position with Tamaya. It was not that she expected solutions from this shy young woman, who had now become her friend, but it helped just to talk about it. ‘It feels,’ she said sadly, ‘as if all these men want to make a profit from my problems: Cortez, Don Ferdinand, the lawyer de Leon and now Señor Mendel. I do not believe any of them have a real interest beyond my money.’
Tamaya reached out to Evangeline and stroked the back of her hand. ‘It is business, Evi,’ she said quietly, ‘it is the way this world is.’
That night she could not get comfortable. Between the weight of the baby and the weight on her mind, sleep refused to come. Just before dawn she slipped into a brief and shallow doze, then woke feeling ragged. Life was awful.
In the day’s mail the worst news of all arrived; the news she dreaded. It was a letter from Cortez. She had seven days after which Don Ferdinand would apply in the court for possession of her property. The decision had been made for her. She would not bother to harrow over it any longer. She phoned Abraham Mendel. ‘I should like to take up your offer if it is still available, Señor Mendel.’
With the money in her bank account she prepared to confront Cortez. She would try to negotiate a reduced settlement. If she had to pay the full 150,000 pesetas she would, but not without the satisfaction of seeing his face and telling him what she thought of his, and his client’s, shabby morals.
Maria drove Evangeline to Cadaqués in the little Renault camionette. She would wait for her outside Cortez’s office.
The door was opened by a secretary but Evangeline brushed past, ignoring her and leaving her slightly shocked. She went straight to Cortez’s room and, without knocking, pushed open the door and marched in. Cortez, who was drinking tea at his desk, stood up in haste at the unannounced entrance, slopping tea onto a document.
Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down at his desk and put her handbag onto its leather top. ‘Señor Cortez, I am not here to waste my time or yours. I want this matter finished. I am prepared to offer a settlement of your client’s demand. You will understand I do this, not because your client has a bone fide claim but only because it will cost me more of my time to fight him than he is worth.’ She opened her handbag and took out a chequebook. ‘Shall we say fifty thousand?’
Cortez said nothing for a moment. This was not what he had been expecting. He finally gathered himself. ‘I do not think my client would accept such a low offer.’ He paused. ‘However, I believe if you made it seventy-five then I think it might be acceptable.’
That was better than she had hoped for. She opened the chequebook. ‘Do you have a pen?’
Cortez raised a finger. ‘I must consult Don Ferdinand first, you understand. I cannot accept it without his approval.’ He picked up the phone and gave a number to the operator. There was the faint sound of a line ringing and connecting.
‘I have the lady here in my office. She is offering to write a cheque for seventy-five thousand. I thought you might find that acceptable.’ He waited.
Evangeline watched his expression, trying to judge the response. His eyes narrowed. She could hear the muffled tinny scratching of Don Ferdinand’s voice coming through the bakelite of the receiver, but it was impossible to understand the words being spoken.
‘Of course, I understand,’ Cortez said, then replaced the handset in its cradle.
‘The answer, I am afraid, señora, is no. Don Ferdinand will not accept your offer. Furthermore, he has made it clear that he is not interested in your money – in whatever sum. He requires the return of the Mercedes car. On that he is immovable.’
Evangeline slapped her hand down on the desktop with a force that shook even her. ‘What is wrong with this man?’ Her voice was close to shouting. ‘Why is he determined to torment me?’
Cortez was pulled between two poles: the irrational insistence of his client and the anger of this woman in front of him, which deep inside he knew was justified. All he wanted was to be rid of them both. De Lorca was a power to be feared, and not a man to cross. She had dangerous knowledge of his dealings with Carlos, which were unethical at the least, criminal in the worst interpretation. Between them, he feared for his future in the law. If he had any sympathies at all then they were with this woman. Even under the shadows of his self-interest he knew she was the injured party and that de Lorca was being vindictive.
‘I would like to help you but I cannot.’ He breathed out a heavy sigh. ‘Don Ferdinand is like a wounded bull. He sees you as the picador who has put a spike into him. He wants only to destroy you.’
Evangeline screwed up her fists. ‘Why, in God’s name, why? What have I done to him that I should deserve this?’
‘Carlos was the only son. There was another boy but he died as a child. Carlos was the vessel that was to carry the family name forward. There is no other male in the related family. Don Ferdinand’s brother was rendered sterile by the smallpox so he had no offspring. There were no other males in that generation. The de Lorcas have been cursed over the years with a proliferation of daughters. The line can only continue through a male. It is the end of the dynasty – in his eyes.’
Evangeline puffed out her breath. ‘Then this vendetta is all the more absurd. I am carrying his grandchild in my belly.’ She put a hand on the bulge to emphasise the point. ‘Does it not occur to him that this is possibly the boy the family needs?’
A lugubrious expression came over Cortez’s face as he slowly shook his head at the futility of the conversation. ‘You do not understand. In the de Lorca tradition your child would not be of pure blood. They are obsessed with the sanctity of the bloodline. Have you met any of the women – the sisters of Don Carlos?’
‘No, I was never allowed to meet the family.’
‘You missed nothing. They are a sickly group. They all have the same defect – a receding chin line and an overbite on the bottom jaw. It is the result of generations of inbreeding.’ He lifted his hands in an act of despair. ‘With the death of Don Ferdinand it will be the e
nd of the dynasty – no bad thing in my opinion – but that is why he torments you. He sees you as the destroyer of his line and he wants revenge.
He pushed back his chair and stood up, signalling the meeting was over and that he had no more to say. He had one final question as he escorted Evangeline to the front door. ‘Could you not buy back the car with this money you are offering? Then return it to him.’
‘Would that satisfy his obsession for revenge?’
‘I doubt it, but it would satisfy the law – and you would be safe in that respect.’
On the route back to Girona she mulled over Cortez’s final words. ‘Before we return to the shop, Maria, I want to go somewhere else. I will direct you on the route.’
When they arrived at the Garatge Plana she did not wait for anyone to appear on the forecourt. She simply got out of the car and walked directly into the showroom. Her senses were flooded with warm relief. There in the middle of the floor was the Mercedes. A man whom she did not recognise came out of an office to one side and greeted her. Like any salesman he hoped she was a prospect.
Evangeline did not wait for him to ask what interested her. She walked straight to the Mercedes and placed a hand on the louvered bonnet. ‘I want to buy this car – what is your price?’ She knew she would be asked to pay a premium, a profit to the business, that was to be expected. This, after all, was the purpose of business. However, what she had not prepared herself for was the response that came.
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 22