Inside, a distinguished-looking man was waiting for him. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Inspecteur. I am Ferdinand de Lorca. I understand we have a mutual interest in a certain woman, and that we may be able to assist each other.’
Bonny was relieved to find that his host was fluent in French.
*
Cortez got the call just after he had finished his lunch. It was a summons he would rather not have received and it was a time of day that was less than convenient. It was that hour at which he habitually took his siesta, when he would stretch out on the comfortable leather sofa in his office, smoke a cheroot and doze.
Don Ferdinand had been adamant. ‘I have in my hands,’ he insisted, ‘the solution to the problem of that abhorrent French woman.’ He was not to be dissuaded from an urgent meeting and there was nothing to be done but to attend at the mansion.
Cortez took an instant dislike to Pierre Bonny. Here was another man he would sooner be rid of than help.
Don Ferdinand greeted Cortez with an urbane expression on his face, laced with a smile of malignant satisfaction. ‘Inspector Bonny is from the French Gestapo. He is here looking for that woman.’ He uttered the last word of his sentence with a voice steeped in a deep loathing. ‘He would like to arrest her – but there is a problem. Since that fanciful marriage she has the protection of a Spanish subject. The inspector has no papers or jurisdiction to aid him in this matter. You are a lawyer, what can we do?’
Cortez stared blankly at the two unlikely accomplices: Don Ferdinand, arrogant and self-assured; Bonny, shifty and unsavoury.
‘I could, of course, call on Gestapo agents in Barcelona and just abduct her,’ Bonny smirked. ‘She’d be on a plane in hours and heading for Berlin – but I’d rather do it legally. Have her arrested and deported. And then there is the matter of her lover.’
When de Lorca translated what Bonny had said, Cortez looked confused. ‘Lover?’ He frowned.
‘It seems,’ Don Ferdinand sneered, ‘that she is rather worse than we suspected. Not only did she entice and trap my son into a disastrous marriage for her own ends – it now appears that she arrived in this country with a lover and, far worse, they murdered a member of the French security services to make good their escape. Is it any wonder I want this woman out of our lives?’
Cortez was about to respond but Bonny cut across him.
‘His name is Richard Grainger; he is a British agent. He aided Pfeiffer to escape from custody when she was waiting to be questioned by the Gestapo.’
‘And where is this agent now, do you know?’
‘In Gibraltar, but I intend to lure him up here and have them both detained. That’s where you come in, señor.’
‘So, how do we go about it, Cortez?’ Don Ferdinand thrust his hands down into his pockets and raised his eyebrows in expectation of an answer. He was sure there would be one.
Cortez went into a deep brood. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a thoughtful pause. ‘I shall have to look into it, I need time.’
When the remark was translated Bonny assumed a scowl. ‘How long?’ De Lorca queried, his voice edged with disappointment. ‘The inspector needs to move quickly.’
‘Four, maybe five days. That is the best I can offer. I wish you a good afternoon, Don Ferdinand – Inspector.’ He shook the hands of both men and left.
‘Well, inspector,’ Don Ferdinand smiled affably, ‘we shall just have to wait. Are you staying here in Cadaqués?’
‘No, monsieur. I shall take a hotel room in Girona.’
‘Then you should try the Historic; it is the best one in the city. If you would care to wait a little I will have one of the servants call and reserve a room for you.’
*
In his office Cortez spent an hour struggling with what he had been told. It was all running too close to those fine lines separating his duty to his client, morality, and the law. What is right, he knew, did not always have a legal solution, but was this right? The more he thought about it the more he wanted it done quickly, and to distance himself from it. He knew what he had to do and it would once more be a questionable move. It would, he promised himself, be the last time he let a client put him in this position.
*
The phone in the shop rang. Tamaya picked it up and listened. ‘One moment please, she is resting.’ She laid the receiver on the counter top. ‘Maria,’ she called into the kitchen. ‘Please go upstairs to Evi. There is a phone call for her – but if she is sleeping don’t disturb her.’
Maria came back down and into the shop. ‘She is coming.’
Tamaya held out the phone anxiously. ‘Evi, it is Cortez.’
Evangeline rubbed the doziness from her eyes and heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘It’ll be about that wretched car. Well, it was his choice to have it back, so for me the matter is closed.’
She picked up the receiver. ‘Yes,’ she all but shouted into it. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have to ask you a question.’
‘Do it and be quick.’
‘Do you know a man called Richard Grainger?’
There was silence. Cortez waited. ‘Well?’
‘I did.’ She said the words very slowly, trying not to let the memory bring her to tears.
‘Did, señora? I do not understand.’
‘He is dead, Señor Cortez. He was killed in Morocco. More than six months ago’
That was not the reply Cortez had anticipated. It pulled him up short for a split second. ‘No, no; that is not right, señora.’
She hesitated, ‘I was told it by a very reliable source.’
Cortez, however, was adamant. I can assure you, senõra, he is very much alive, and presently in Gibraltar.’
That took her breath away. For the briefest of moments her head swam, she felt dizzy; she thought she was going to fall and in her confusion dropped the phone, cutting Cortez off short.
‘Evi!’ Tamaya jumped forward and put out an arm to steady her. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Richard – they say he’s alive.’
She could say no more. She just sat there, the tears rolling down her cheeks, streaking her make-up and turning her nose red. It was as she had been when Harper had first told her Richard was dead – but now there was a smile on her face; a faint, warm glow that would have been the envy of Mona Lisa.
When she had recovered herself she went into the kitchen and found Maria. ‘Tomorrow, if you would be so kind, Maria, I would like you to drive me somewhere. A place called La Vajol. There is someone there I need to talk with.’
Chapter 31
A time to move on
‘Charlie!’ Grainger shouted, waving at a middle-aged man in a bowler hat who was walking across the tarmac, and away from the DC3 that had flown him, and other members of the planning staff, down from London.
Charlie Armitage looked out of place in his dark pinstripe suit and blue polka dot tie, but he was part of the establishment and this was their uniform. ‘Dicky, my boy, how’s it been?’
‘Bit bumpy. How about you?’
‘Yes, the flight was okay. Slightly delicate moment when we thought we’d run foul of Jerry. The pilot said it was an Me109 but it ignored us – either out of fuel or out of ammo; maybe both, but he stooged off without giving any trouble. We had a long-range Mustang as escort till we got over Spain, so we weren’t that worried.’
‘Where have they billeted you?’
‘The Rock Hotel.’
‘Huh,’ Grainger said in mock envy, ‘that’s jolly rich for a billet. I only got the Bristol.’
Armitage cocked his head on one side, a grin spread across his face. ‘Never mind, decent restaurant at the Bristol. I’ll buy you supper, how about that? We can catch up on the gossip. I hear you fished our man Xicluna out of Casablanca. Lifted a nice motor yacht too. Good show; do like to see things done in style.’
‘You heard about Braiden, of course.’
‘Yes, bad do. That’s him gone for a Burton.’
‘Will he hang?
’
Armitage screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his nose. ‘Life more like. He just got in with a bad lot. Kidnapping Xicluna and selling him to the highest bidder was criminal, but …,’ he doffed his bowler hat to a passing naval captain, ‘… there’s no evidence he betrayed his country. It wasn’t as if he were selling secrets to the Bosch. Let himself get under the spell of that Spanish woman, Romero. She’ll get off scot free, of course. Franco’s lot won’t let us touch her. Von Meyer’s legged to Brazil; shouldn’t think the Yanks’ll get their hands on him either. Feel a bit sorry for Braiden; he was the stooge, as the Yanks say.’
‘Hah,’ Grainger threw out both arms. ‘He had no scruples about selling me. As I understand it he was going to hand me over to that bloody French policeman.’
‘Well, actually, I heard, he wasn’t in on that. That was the other two. Anyway, here we are.’ He stopped and looked up at the sign painted large on the building: ‘KHM: King’s Harbour Master’.
At the door a sentry challenged them. ‘Sir Charles Armitage and Mr Richard Grainger,’ Charlie said breezily. ‘Here for the Joint Chiefs’ conference.’
They met in the bar for a whisky. The conference had been more a debrief than anything else. Grainger had been grilled and quizzed by an assembly of American and British high-ranking officers: naval and army.
Grainger sniffed appreciatively at the whisky in his glass. ‘Single malt Laphroaig. Haven’t seen any of that for, oh, two years.’
‘Yanks, dear boy.’ Armitage took a sip from his glass. ‘It all goes to them at the moment. We’ve only got it because they’re in town. Strange really. We ship it all the way across the Atlantic, dodging Jerry subs, only for them to bring it back over here again. You have to admit it, they travel in style.’
‘So when does the balloon go up?’
Armitage was non-committal. He held up his whisky glass to admire its smoky gold contents. ‘Can’t really answer that – above your security clearance. There’s a spell yet.’
‘Well, talking of spells, I could do with a spell of leave. Thought I might take a couple of weeks off, go up country. There’s someone I’d like to look up.’
Armitage twitched his head and winked knowingly. ‘Ah, the little French mademoiselle.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘My dear boy, nothing gets past me. You should know that by now.’
‘So, what about it, Charlie? I’ve done my bit for the moment. Time off for good behaviour?’
Armitage shot him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, dear boy, ‘fraid not. Would love to, you understand, but not just at the moment. You remember Harper, up at … where was that place?’
‘La Vajol.’
‘That’s the place. He has something that needs your attention. Something that needs doing before the balloon goes up.’
Grainger was disappointed. He had got through the last lot with more than a few narrow squeaks. He had rather set his heart on seeing the girl again. ‘What about a week?’
Armitage shook his head. ‘Sorry, Dicky, can’t do it, dear boy. Ask me again after you’ve done this little lot.’
‘So when are you shipping me out?’
‘Day after tomorrow. Spend a day on the rock. Go and say hello to the chimps.’
‘I’ve spent the day sitting around being debriefed by them, thanks.’
‘Steady on, that’s no way to speak of our American cousins.’
Grainger shrugged. ‘Anyway, Charlie, they’re macaques not chimps.’
‘Same thing, dear boy.’ Armitage got to his feet. ‘Right, let’s go and get that bit of dinner I promised
you.’ That, Grainger knew, was it. The subject was closed and left there at the bar.
As they went into the restaurant Grainger saw the boy coming out. ‘Have you eaten, Jamil?’
‘Yes, boss. Jamil go to top of town. I see lights of home from there.’
‘Is that the boy you brought over with you?’ Armitage asked as Jamil disappeared through the doorway.
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s a clever lad, Charlie, I’ve suggested to Wilson they find a use for him. He’d be a real asset over there once the troops are ashore. He’s as keen as mustard.’
Armitage looked over to the door the boy had just passed through. ‘Is that a request for me to pull strings?’
‘Yes, Charlie – I think it is.’
‘All right, I’ll see what’s to be done. Shame to waste a good man. Right now let’s have some grub. I hear they do a good claret and some halfway decent beef.’
Two days later he shipped out. He left early that morning for the airstrip where a DC3 was waiting. Armed with a new passport and travel permit, he would go to Barcelona then make his way upcountry from there.
Wilson had come to the hotel to collect him in the Admiral’s staff car: a big Humber Imperial with a flagstaff on the offside wing. Charlie sent his apologies; he had been called to a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Grainger sat in the back on a huge green leather bench seat. Next to him, the boy – an assumed air of importance on his face as he gazed out of the window at the passing buildings and the people on the streets. The cheeky grin on his face told anyone who could see that he was a person to be reckoned with.
‘Will you come back boss?’
‘Don’t know, Jamil. Depends on what I have to do.’
‘Why you need go away boss? Jamil like work with you.’
‘My boss says I have to.’
‘Your boss, he man in hotel yesterday?’
‘Yes, he’s the big boss. I have to do what he tells me.
The boy frowned and thought for a moment. ‘He big bastard boss?’
‘No, no, he’s okay, Jamil. Don’t worry, he’ll find you another job.’
The boy said nothing for a while. He just sat with his own thoughts, watching out of the window. As they arrived at the airstrip he turned and fixed Grainger with a firm look. ‘Jamil like work with you, boss. Can big boss fix this?’
‘Not really, Jamil. I’m sorry to go too.’
‘Ha, big boss, he big bastard then.’
Grainger laughed. ‘If you say so, Jamil. Look, we’re here.’
The car lurched onto the rough ground at the front of the control tower and stopped. ‘Come on, time to say goodbye.’ They got out of the car together. Grainger offered his hand and after they had shaken the boy stood back.
‘It was good one job with you, boss. Jamil like you come back soon.’ Then he came stiffly to attention and saluted as smartly as any officer of a regiment of guards.
Grainger did not look back; he felt somehow it would not be the right thing to do. From the window of the DC3 he caught a glimpse of the boy standing there, still at attention, as if he were on parade; a solitary figure in a brown djellaba, exactly as he had first seen him on the ferry dock in Tangier. Wilson or Charlie would look out for him, he was sure of that. In that moment a sudden and obscure image flashed across his mind and he saw for an instant the picture of when he had been left by his parents, on that first day at boarding school. For a second or two he understood how they must have felt.
As the plane came round and circled across the rock he could just make out the Humber, though the boy was nowhere to be seen.
The DC3 droned its way up the coast northwards. Three hours later it touched down at Barcelona airport. It seemed strange to be in a civilian airport after two years of spartan military strips, surrounded by ordinary passengers coming and going; even stranger to see the bar and the restaurant with a café next to it. There was even a shop selling books and souvenirs. It felt surreal; impossible that there was a war on and for a while he suspended reality.
He bought a beer and sat at a table and watched the world go by. He let his thoughts go idly back to Evangeline again. She was out there, somewhere, probably not far from La Vajol. Maybe he could persuade Harper to let him slip away, just for a day or two. He would see. It was worth the try.
The beer finishe
d, he strolled out of the terminal and found a taxi.
‘Where to, señor?’ the driver asked.
‘I need a hotel, something comfortable. What’s good?’
‘I recommend the Ritz Plaza, señor. Very good hotel.’
Grainger settled back in the seat. ‘That’ll be it then.’
The Ritz Plaza was the best address in Barcelona. It was also alarmingly full of Germans. Spain had declared neutrality but it was nonetheless a Fascist state. Franco leaned towards the Nazis and they went wherever they pleased; the Gestapo were everywhere. Had he arrived a week earlier, he might have come face to face with Pierre Bonny.
After a bizarre week of living with the enemy the message finally came. He would not go to La Vajol. Harper was to travel south. They would rendezvous in Girona, at the Hotel Historic. As he checked out of the Ritz Plaza he felt as if a heavy cloak had been lifted from his shoulders. He would no longer have to worry about absent-mindedly lapsing into English in the hotel restaurant or whistling ‘Colonel Bogey’ in the corridors. One morning he had come out of his room and, without thinking, broke into the popular song, ‘We’ll Meet Again.’ He had got through the first few bars before it sank in and he pulled himself up short.
At Barcelona station he boarded the train for Girona. It was late departing, plagued with unscheduled stops and holdups on the way, and took nearly three hours.
At the Hotel Historic, Harper was already checked in and waiting. He had only met Harper once before and then only briefly, after he had come across the Pyrenees from France, with Evangeline in tow and the Gestapo just one step behind them.
The American major, a man in his forties, was typical of his kind. Open and cheerful with a wry sense of humour. ‘Hi,’ he said when they met in the bar. ‘Good to see you’re still alive – have you seen the restaurant? Don’t have the steak. It’s always like eating your boots on Monday – on account of the Sunday afternoon bullfight, you understand. Okay, down to cases. How’d you like a little vacation in La Belle France?’
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 25