The White Schooner (8 page)

He muttered an oath. ‘I’m going down to my suite, Juan. When the children have gone tell me.’

Juan replied, ‘
Si
,
señor
,’
but his mind was on getting the boat alongside. The old man need not have told him. He always went to the cabin on arrival. So that he should not suffer the inquisitive stares of people who like to catch a glimpse of this rich but curious philanthropist.

Among those on the quay who had been watching the return of the
Nordwind
were Black and Kyriakou. They had not met by chance. Black had been sitting outside the Bar Pechet when he saw the
Nordwind
moving across the harbour
towards
her berth, and he had gone across to have a closer look. On nearing the quay he had seen Kyriakou, and while his first instinct had been to turn away it had occurred to him that it might be wise to make a friendly gesture to the Greek.

That morning Black had found a letter from Werner Zolde at the post office. It had been brief and to the point.
Your
man
went
last
night
to
Palma
for
three
days.
We
will
contact
him
on
his
return.
Do
not
worry.
Black had experienced enormous relief on reading the letter, and now while they stood talking, watching the motor-cruiser manœuvre
alongside
, he felt relaxed, well-disposed even to the Greek.

The children came ashore and climbed into the waiting bus. The empty lunch baskets were handed up to the driver and the bus moved off. After they had gone, Juan went across to where the yellow Land-Rover was parked and drove it up the quay alongside
Nordwind.
He got out and went back on board. Presently van Biljon came on deck and walked up the small gangplank. With Pedro following, the old man went towards the Land-Rover. As he approached he nodded briefly
to Kyriakou.

Charles Black smiled. ‘You had a lovely day for your outing, sir,’ but van Biljon, looking straight ahead, gave no indication that he had heard.

‘Not madly friendly, is he?’ Black laughed drily.

Kyriakou adjusted the red silk handkerchief in the pocket of his striped coat. ‘You think you make friends and see the pictures, hey?’

‘The thought crossed my mind.’

‘Aha, my friend. Not so easy?’ The Greek seemed to relish the Englishman’s frustration.

‘He knows you?’

Kyriakou examined the end of his cigar. ‘Everybody knows Kirry.’ His complacent smile was boyish.

When Pedro had taken the
Nordwind
back to its moorings and the Greek had gone, Black walked up the quay past the white schooner and made his way to the Bar Pechet.

In a room above a shop, across the road, the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard put down the binoculars he’d been using to watch the arrival of the
Nordwind
and to check who’d been on the quay to meet her.

It was the hour after dinner at Altomonte. Van Biljon was in his gallery standing before a Renoir—a girl with a lace hat and a green parasol.

As always it evoked memories of a January night, frost on the ground, the smell of snow in the air, the sound of an engine across the lake, its note rising and then, when it seemed upon him, ceasing altogether; the lick and slap of disturbed water and from the darkness the low cry, ‘Joachim, Joachim,’ followed by his answering call, ‘Therèse, Therèse.’

An owl had hooted and quite soon he’d heard the crunch of the boat on the shingles and dark shapes had come splashing through the shallows. First the little girls, then their mother, and finally Kauffman himself, pouring out thanks in a voice broken with emotion. They had gone to the van and it was there that Kauffman had shown him the Renoir. He could still feel the exultation of that moment.

He had disliked the Kauffmans. The man oozed
obsequiousness
and she kept whining her gratitude. And why did they have to bring the children? Was it to crucify him?

The noise which had seemed a part of Black’s dream resolved itself into a car accelerating in the street below, and he turned over on his side and pulled the bedclothes up over his head to shut out the sound. Then he realised that it was daylight and he looked at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock. His head felt heavy and when he stood up nausea swept him. He touched the back of his neck and his hand came away moist with sweat.

On the bedside table there was a bottle of water and a thick glass. The water was tepid because the bottle had been
standing
in sunlight, but it took the dryness from his mouth. God, he thought, I shouldn’t have drunk so much. He stretched and thought of the long night behind him: La Terra, Clive’s Bar, the Delfin Verde, the Savoy Bar, Bud’s Bar, the George and Dragon, Mariano … she’d not been in any of them but he’d filled in time drinking at most, hoping she’d turn up. Later he’d gone into the old town … to La Carbonera, but she wasn’t there. He’d tried El Bistro, Antonio’s, Los Pajaros … and still no luck and he was getting pretty high. He had a hunch and went down to The Paseo Vara de Rey and took a taxi out to the Mar-Blau. She wasn’t there either but Ilse Berch was, and after she’d told him he wasn’t walking too well and a few other things, she gave him Manuela’s phone number. That hadn’t helped. A woman had answered after a long wait, a Spanish woman, and she’d said Manuela was out and anyway what was he doing ringing a respectable house at such an hour. So he’d given up and gone back to his room.

It had been a crazy night anyway, but he’d known that it was in a sense his last chance for Hassan was returning from Palma the next day. Thus it was a night on which he’d been able to let his hair down without risk of encountering the Arab.

As for this day, he must spend it in the
campo
,
both to be out of the way while Werner Zolde and Lejeune dealt with
Hassan, and because there was important work to be done in the hills round San José—and for that to-day would be as good as any, and better than most.

Now he filled the porcelain wash basin with cold water and bathed his face, spluttering and snorting, drying his head and face roughly as if to rub away the pain.

In his notebook he found the number Use had given him. He put on a dressing gown and went down to the landing where the phone was and dialled the number. The Spanish woman of the night before answered. He held his fingers against his mouth to distort his voice and asked for Señorita Valez. There was a long wait before Manuela came on the line.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Who is it?’

‘Charles Black.’

‘Oh, Charles.’ She sounded pleased. ‘How did you know my number?’

‘Ilse gave it to me.’

‘How are you?’

‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘I want your help.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Yes. My head.’

‘Your head? I don’t understand.’

‘I went looking for you last night. In just about every bar on the island. When I couldn’t find you I drowned my sorrows.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘They all say you drink too much. I heard this before I met you.’

‘They lie. Will you help me?’

‘How can I help you?’ There was laughter in her voice,

‘Come and spend the day with me. In the
campo.
’

‘In the
campo
?
What for?’

‘To clear my head. Get back to nature.’

She laughed again. ‘You can do that without me.’

‘Much nicer
with
you,’ he said.

At first she refused, said she must paint, that she had many things to do. But he persisted and at last she gave in and they agreed to meet outside the tourist office at eleven.

‘Wear heavy shoes,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make you walk and climb.’

‘Oh. It will be an
awful
day, I’m sure.’

‘No‚’ he said, ‘it will be fabulous. But don’t wear bright
colours. I want to show you some birds.’

Back in his room he made a syrup of sugar and water, smeared the bottom of an empty Kodak carton with it, and put the rest in a saucer which he placed on the window ledge facing the terrace. Then he opened the window and went to the bathroom.

After his bath he soaked a spill of cotton wool in ink and rubbed it on his left ankle. While it was drying he sat
watching
the bees at the saucer. Then he rubbed over the inked ankle with a wet handkerchief, leaving a blue stain.

When he crossed over to close the window, the bees buzzed angrily but stayed at the saucer. Using tissues, he caught four and transferred them to the empty carton, the lid of which he’d punctured with small holes. If that doesn’t work, he thought, there’s always the snake-bite serum.

She was wearing blue denim slacks and a shirt to match when he met her outside the tourist office on the Paseo Vara de Rey. He thought she’d never looked more attractive.

‘Do you approve?’ she asked. ‘Not too bright?’

‘Not bad. Got a jersey?’

She patted the straw bag hanging from her shoulder. ‘Here.’

‘Raincoat?’

‘Also.’ She touched the bag again.

‘Good. I have the lunch.’ He showed her the fisherman’s bag. ‘We’ll take a bus to San José. Then walk.’

She touched his arm impulsively and her eyes shone. ‘Oh. It will be fun. I haven’t done anything like this for years.’

They had reached the end of the pavement and started across the
paseo
when she said in a low voice, ‘I think we’re being followed.’

Black felt an involuntary contraction of his muscles, a jangling of alarm bells in his ears, and in his mind’s eye an image of Hassan loomed like a wide-screen close-up.

‘By whom?’ he said quietly.

‘Man in a black beret. I saw him come down the road behind you when I was waiting. He sat on a bench on the
paseo
while we talked. Now he’s behind us.’

‘It may be coincidence. We’ll soon see. In here.’

They stepped into a shop where Black bought a box of
matches. When they came out the man in the beret was looking in the window. With enormous relief he saw that it was not Hassan.

Black saw that she was worried. ‘Right. Now for test number two.’

They turned left and started towards the hill, then left again into a dusty road which led to the fish market, then right until they had described a circle and come once again to the tourist office. Black looked back over his shoulder. The man in the beret was behind them, looking into the toyshop window.

‘Clever girl. He’s following us all right.’

‘Why?’ Her face screwed up with surprise.

‘Haven’t a clue. But let’s give him a neurosis. You go into the Montesol. Spend five minutes in the loo. Then out through the back entrance and down to Aviaco’s office. Near the bus stop. Know it?’

‘Yes.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. In a taxi.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘See which of us he follows.’

She walked across the
paseo
towards the Montesol while Black watched the man in the black beret who was fidgeting with his hands and showing other signs of nervousness. There was a line of taxis opposite. Black took the head of the line. ‘El Corsario,’ he said. As they pulled away he saw the man in the beret move across towards the rank.

Black took two one-hundred peseta notes from his wallet and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘At El Corsario,’ he said in Spanish, ‘ask for Señora Alba. Bring her to the Montesol. If she is not there, don’t wait for more than five minutes.’

The taxi turned right into Conde Rosellon, then left along Calle Anibal. Two cars ahead slowed down for people on the corner who were waiting to cross.

Black looked through the rear window. There was no taxi following. He thrust the peseta notes into the driver’s hand. ‘Turn right and drop me,’ he said. As the taxi turned into Calle Montgri, scraping by the people on the corner, he slipped out and joined them outside the shoe shop. He looked back to see a taxi begin its turn into Calle Anibal.

Before it had rounded the corner he went into the shoe shop. Through the glass of the shopfront he saw it go by, the man in the black beret leaning forward, engrossed in the pursuit. Funny, he thought, if there is a Señora Alba at El Corsario. He rejoined the shoppers on the pavement and made for the harbour. Minutes later he stopped a passing taxi and asked the driver to take him to Aviaco. On the way he thought of what had happened, and it left him worried. It was he and not Manuela who was being tailed. And then, as if one shock, one complication, were not enough, his thoughts went to Werner Zolde and he wondered how the German was dealing with Hassan: had he started yet, if not at what time would he, and how? And would he and Lejeune have
followed
up his suggestion?

They must be discreet, he thought, my God they must be discreet. Failure on their part could destroy the whole
operation
. He knew what Kagan would have done once Hassan’s presence on the island had been known, and it was precisely for that reason that Black had not informed ZID. Kagan would have called the operation off at once rather than have it compromised. ‘We can wait,’ he would have said. ‘Another month, another year, what difference? We can wait, so long as in the end we succeed.’

But Black knew that if the operation were to fail now he wouldn’t get a second chance. If Hassan were here this time, he could be here next time. Kagan would choose someone else. Someone who could not be compromised in that way. No one knew better than Black himself the element of
recklessness
which was so much a part of his nature. Well, he thought, that’s the way I am and that’s the way I’ll always be, and we are not going to call off this operation.

The bus put them down outside San José and they walked back along the road towards Ibiza until they reached the dirt road which would take them into the hills.

It was well past noon and sun from a cloudless sky had warmed the earth. The road led through terraces of almonds and caribs and as they walked the air vibrated with the hum of bees and the high note of cicadas.

The terraces were carpeted with marguerites and poppies, charlock and pea flowers, and their warm spring perfumes were overlaid by the aromatic scent of rosemary and sage. On
the stone walls of the terraces little green lizards came
suddenly
into the sunlight to watch them, throats palpitating, before slipping back into crevices and shadows.

Later the road steepened and they took to the hillside, making their way through undergrowth which grew denser as they climbed.

At times he would stop and point to a bird, then watch it through binoculars, describe it to her and sometimes make an entry in the book he carried in the bag. It seemed to Manuela that he knew a great deal about these things.

Once he stopped and listened. ‘Hear that?’

At first she could not, then beneath the complex hum of insects she heard a low ‘
tec,
tec
.’
She nodded.

He whispered, ‘Icterine Warbler, I think. Keep still. We may see it.’

She looked in the direction from which the noise came, saw movement in a shrub, and a bird appeared. Small and
undistinguished
, a pale earthy brown.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s the Olivaceous Warbler.
Hippolais
pallida.
See the long bill and pale stripe above the eye.’ He passed her the binoculars and while she was using them he was trying to free his mind of the nagging picture of the man in the black beret leaning forward as the taxi passed the shop window.

Farther up the hill she stopped, touched his arm and pointed to a small bird perched on a dried stem. It had a black crown, grey upperparts and white undersides. A distinctive white line, like a moustache, ran from the bill. Its eyes and legs were russet.

‘My bird is prettier,’ she whispered.

He nodded. ‘Ruppell’s Warbler. Handsome little chap.’

The bird made a diminutive rattling noise and whisked away. Black looked at Manuela’s flushed face. Her eyes were brighter than he remembered them. ‘Enjoying it?’

‘Very much. It is for me something quite different.’

He said, ‘I wonder how many men have told you you’re beautiful?’ She stopped and tossed her black hair back so that she could see him better. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you are. And the thought just crossed my mind.’

She stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, then she looked up the hill towards the pines. ‘Come
on,’ she said. ‘You say we lunch in the woods. I am hungry.’

They sat under the trees on a carpet of pine needles to a late lunch of
bocadillos
,
long crusty rolls filled with cheese and tunny, a bottle of red wine and some oranges. When the meal was finished, Black put the empty wine bottle and crumpled paper into the fishing bag. ‘Had enough?’ he said.

She was lying on the pine needles, her hands clasped behind her head. ‘Yes. The
bocadillos
were marvellous. Where did you get them?’

‘At the market.’

He lay on his side next to her, chin in hand, elbow on the ground, examining her face feature by feature, approving it. He put his little finger on her lips. They were soft and moist. He took the finger away and examined it.

‘No lipstick,’ he said.

She nodded, her eyes half closed. ‘All my own work.’

‘Nature’s,’ he said, and saw the dark hollows under her eyes and ran his finger gently over them and examined it. There was nothing on it. ‘That nature too?’ he asked and there was an edginess in his voice.

‘My liver. That is nature.’

You’re lying, he thought. It’s those bloody drugs. He wanted to take her roughly and shake her as if he could physically empty out the nonsense.

He asked her about her life, her family, her hopes and fears. She told him of her childhood in Puerto Rico, of her schooldays there and her two years at a university in Southern California where she’d taken fine art.

Yes, there had been some men in her life. No, she had never married. She was twenty-five, she said. She had lived in Paris for three years, painting, then gone back to her family in Puerto Rico when her mother died. After some time in Seville where she’d joined an art colony, she’d come to Ibiza.