15

IT WAS STILL raining when they set off the following morning, though somewhat more fitfully than the day before. The clouds rolled in ugly clumps around the hilltops and spilled along the valleys like drifting gunsmoke. South of Santiago, the countryside was a succession of mournful woodland and sponge-wet farmland from which the water drained in bubbling torrents beside and across the road. Far sooner than Derek had expected, they reached a dismal sprawl of dwellings not unlike several others they had passed through but which, a mud-spattered sign proclaimed, was Lerezuela.

Frank pulled up in the centre – a row of shops whose modern concrete structures seemed to have worn less well than the ancient stone cottages of the outskirts – and entered a bar to seek directions. A glimpse of the cavernous interior, where the flickering of a television revealed nothing save one pot-bellied customer propping up the counter, made Derek glad to wait outside, which he did not have to do for long.

‘Close by, as the concierge said,’ Frank announced on his return. ‘First right, second left. No more than a few kilometres.’

‘Did you mention Delgado’s name?’

‘No. But the barman did. With some slant of meaning I couldn’t catch. He asked if Delgado was expecting us. When I shook my head, he laughed. Not humorously.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Nothing – yet. Let’s go and find out.’

Their route took them out of the village along a narrow but well-maintained road between a conifer plantation on one side and a high stone wall on the other. At intervals, a coat of arms appeared, carved in the face of the wall, depicting a boar and a sea-horse supporting a quartered shield beneath a helm and crest. The Vasconcelez family, whose land Delgado had acquired by marriage, had evidently been of proud lineage.

This became even more apparent when, at a point where the road ahead deteriorated dramatically, a wide courtyard opened to their left, with a manicured lawn and a fountain at its centre. The boundary wall comprised one side of the yard, facing an ornate tree-bowered chapel. The third side was the colonnaded frontage of a large house, stone-built and terracotta-tiled, with tall balconied windows on two floors above the yard and ornately carved figures decorating the arches and balustrades. The central arch was higher than the rest, disclosing a porch and a firmly closed pair of wooden doors. Wealth and seclusion had suddenly revealed themselves where Derek had somehow thought only poverty and privation were to be found. He was, for the moment, taken aback.

Not so Frank, who drove boldly into the yard, pulled up by the chapel and climbed out. He was already marching towards the entrance when Derek caught him up. ‘Remember,’ he cautioned breathlessly, ‘We must take this slowly.’

‘We must take it any way we can.’

‘But diplomatically. It’s our best chance.’

Frank cast him a sidelong glance by way of answer and walked on. A sign fixed to the door ahead proclaimed PRIVADO – PROHIBIDO ENTRAR, of which Derek required no translation. But there was a bell-pull beside it and Frank yanked at this without hesitation. No sound penetrated from the other side and Frank had raised his hand to ring again when a judas flap slid back for a second and was followed by the slipping of a bolt. Then a wicket-gate set in the right-hand door opened just wide enough to reveal a bulky figure dressed in jeans and a black polo-necked sweater. He was of medium height but broad-shouldered and muscular, with a blank intimidating face on which a Viva Zapata moustache did its best to conceal a substantial scar. He did not speak, but eyed them with interrogative coldness. There was absolutely no suggestion in his bearing of courtesy or welcome.

‘Buenos dias,’ ventured Frank. ‘Señor Delgado, por favor.’

The man did not reply. Behind him, across a cobbled yard, Derek could see another fountain and beyond that the clipped hedges and shrubs of a formal garden. Then, clanking its chain as it loped into view, there appeared a huge alsation dog. Derek looked away before he caught its eye.

‘Señor Delgado,’ Frank repeated. ‘El general.’

The man’s gaze narrowed. Then he said, in scarcely more than a mumble: ‘No está.’

‘Not in,’ murmured Frank. ‘To us, anyway. I’ll ask when he’s due back. That should reveal something. Cuando vuelve?’

The man shrugged.

‘Hoy? Mañana?’

Another shrug.

‘Habla usted inglés?’

The man smiled. ‘Si. I speak English. You are … Americanos?’

‘No. But that doesn’t matter. We must see Señor Delgado. It’s very urgent. Muy importante.’

‘No, señor.’ The smile broadened. ‘It is muy imposible. Señor Delgado sees nobody.’

‘But—’

‘Nobody!’ He stepped back and was about to close the door when Frank reached out and held it open. At that the smile gave way to a scowl.

‘If we can’t see him, can we at least leave a message?’

‘No messages!’

‘He’ll want to receive this one. He’ll thank you for passing it on. He’ll blame you if you don’t.’

The man relaxed fractionally. The pressure on the door faded.

‘Well? Will you deliver our message?’

The answer was reluctant but emphatic, accompanied by a contemptuous curl of the lip. ‘Si.’

Derek wondered what Frank would say next, given that they had made no provisions for such a contingency. To his surprise, the old man pulled a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘For Señor Delgado,’ he said, handing it over. ‘For him and nobody else. You will make sure he receives it?’

‘Si.’

‘Today?’

‘Si, señor. Today.’

Frank nodded. ‘Gracias.’ This time, he did not intervene as the door closed, merely turned and walked away towards the Land Rover.

‘What was in the envelope, Frank?’ whispered Derek.

‘A letter. Brief and to the point. I wrote it last night. It invites Delgado to contact the sender at the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos in order to discuss some papers he has, originally the property of Vicente Ortiz.’

‘You knew we wouldn’t be admitted, didn’t you? That we’d have to leave a message?’

‘I thought it likely.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because you’d have said it was too risky, too direct, too undiplomatic.’

‘So it is.’

‘Maybe. But we don’t have time for your methods, whatever they are. So we’ll have to try mine, won’t we?’

‘But what kind of response will there be?’

‘I don’t know.’

They reached the Land Rover and climbed in alongside each other. The windows of the pazo stared down at them unblinkingly. If they were being watched, there was no twitch of curtain or glimpse of face to confirm it. And the absence of this – the disdainful lack of any response – somehow worried Derek more than the bolted gate or its sullen keeper. ‘Is there any chance,’ he asked, ‘that Delgado will recognize your name as an old comrade of Ortiz’s?’

‘None.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Easily. You see, I didn’t sign the letter in my name. I signed it in yours.’