“Then be intelligent. Co-operate with us.”
“Very well. I’m an awful coward about things like that. Peter said if anything unexpected happened I was to give you two things.” Grace picked up a copy of the magazine Espana from a coffee table and gave it to Angela. “This was one of them.”
“Did he tell you what I was to look for?”
“He said that you would know.”
“And the second thing?”
“It’s here on the dresser.” Grace’s slim, dark skirt whispered lightly as she hurried across the room. Sunlight the colour of ripe lemons gleamed brightly on the white bow of her throat and lent a pale liquid sheen to her nylons. She fumbled with combs and brushes, and then pulled open a drawer with a suggestion of haste and desperation.
But when she found what she wanted, and spun around to face them, her eyes were cold, and something small and deadly glittered in her hand.
It was a twenty-five calibre automatic, decorated with mother-of-pearl handgrips.
She said quietly: “This throws high and to the right. Francois, if you take another step towards me, I’ll aim for the: middle of your left thigh. I’m a good enough shot to put a very painful cloud over your technical qualifications to manhood.”
Francois seemed to be trying to smile, but he only succeeded in flattening his lips, for the steady blue shine of the muzzle was not less unnerving than the light in Grace’s eyes.
Angela threw the magazine on the floor and stamped on it.
Grace picked up the telephone. When the operator answered, she gave her a number in rapid Spanish... Peter watched the first fragile lights of dawn rising on the horizon. It was Sunday morning, and in a few more hours the bulls would be running for the last time in this fiesta of San Fermin.
It was all over now... He and Morgan shared a sofa. Tonelli sat facing them with a gun in his hand. He looked alert and wary, despite the long vigil, but he also wore a ‘sportsman’s’ ring, and cords knotted with a jewelled clasp in lieu of a tie, and Peter could not believe he was a serious man. Blake stood at a table against the wall making himself a drink. He was the hairy one, with the bunched-up features, the head pointed like an artillery projectile, the fingers like bananas.
“Peter, I’m dreadfully sorry,” Morgan said, for perhaps the fiftieth time.
“Knock it off, Fatso,” Blake said.
“I was merely trying to explain that if Quince hadn’t taken such a conservative view of things, we might—”
“Okay, okay,” Tonelli said, cutting him off irritably.
It was still dark outside and through the darkness came occasional flashes of fireworks like heat lightning, and on the air drifted the muffled sounds of marching bands and pounding drums. But the fiesta of San Fermin was drawing to a close; tomorrow’s bullfight would end it.
And already the hikers were buying bread and sausage and wine for their rucksacks, and charting courses north and south through gorges with rushing green streams that would take them on to Biarritz or Madrid.
Tomorrow the roads fanning out from Pamplona would be clogged with cars and motor-cycles, and in the strange silence that would settle in their wake, the Basques would reclaim their old town, reclaim their tables in the cafés, and by nightfall the debris of the fiesta would be sluiced away by watering trucks, and nothing would be left of these explosions of emotion and hilarity but clean, damp streets shining under the old stars.
It was all over for San Fermin and Pamplona, all over for Peter Churchman. The most audacious undertaking of his career, and perhaps the most honourable, had been smashed by these improbably authentic hoodlums, who had forced him to call Mr. Shahari and ask him to bring twenty-five thousand dollars to Pamplona. Shahari had been dubious at first, but friendship had prevailed at last; he had agreed to take the risk, to accept the possibility of being put out of business and into prison by the Spanish government, which allowed him to deal in money in the south for the sake of the tourists, but which sternly forbade him to set a foot farther north than the town of Granada.
Tonelli glanced at his watch. “You’re sure you can trust this guy, Shahari?”
“He’s a reliable person,” Peter said.
“You’d better pray he shows,” Blake said.
“May I wash my hands?” Peter asked a bit later.
“You just did,” Blake said irritably.
“It’s nerves, I expect.”
“Come on.”
Peter walked to the bathroom with Blake’s gun at his back. He turned on both taps in the hand-basin, and, with but little hope, took the walkie-talkie from his pocket and tried to raise Grace. They hadn’t found the set when they searched him; it had been concealed and padded by a handkerchief in the rear pocket of his trousers. But it might have been at the bottom of the sea for all the good it had done him.
But even so, there was a lonely consolation in her silence.
For it was Peter’s fervent hope that she had prudently packed up and cleared out of town. He whispered her name twice but the speaker remained silent. With a sigh, he put the walkie-talkie away and returned to the living-room.
“Peter, they said you were a lawyer, and I had an uneasy feeling about lawyers at the time.”
“That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”
The phone rang and Blake picked up the receiver. After listening for a second, his expression sharpened and he glanced at Tonelli. “It’s the desk clerk. He says what’s-his-name’s in the lobby. Shahari. But he wants to talk to Churchman.”
“Okay,” Tonelli said to Peter. “Tell him to come up. Don’t put any English on it. Just get him up here.”
Peter rose and took the phone from Blake, who moved behind him and put a gun against his spine.
Peter said, “Mr. Shahari?”
“Yes, Peter.” It was a low and pleasant voice, pitched just above a whisper. Peter felt his heart lurch abruptly. If he were a camel, he thought, with a dizzying irrelevance, he would now be lying flat with a broken back; for this was the last straw.
“Well, hello,” he said.
“Darling, can you talk?” Grace said softly.
“As a matter of fact, I can’t.”
Blake’s gun dug into his back. “Cut the chatter.”
“Excuse me a second.” Peter covered the phone and looked evenly at Tonelli and Blake. “If you don’t want to blow this deal sky-high, you’d better listen. He’s got the wind up. He wants me to meet him in the lobby. Alone. You heard me tell him I can’t. I’d better explain I’m not dressed. Anything. But let me talk to him. Perhaps I can calm him down.”
They exchanged dubious glances, but before they reached a decision, Peter spoke again into the phone. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Shahari, I just stepped out of the shower. Why don’t you come on up?”
“Do you mean that?”
“Oh, no,” Peter said smiling.
“I understand,” Grace whispered rapidly. “I called Mr. Shahari yesterday. I thought you might have needed tools or equipment. It was all I could think of. He told me what you’d asked him to do, where he was meeting you. How many are there?”
“Oh, two, I should say.”
“Keep on talking.”
“Well, I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble.” Peter winked at Tonelli and Blake, who were watching him with uncertain frowns. “Excuse me a second.” He covered the phone. “This is better. He’s explaining the difficulties he had raising the money.”