17

STILL SMARTING FROM Frank’s use of his name on the letter to Delgado, Derek lay on his bed at the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos, listening to the drip and splatter of the rain in the courtyard beyond his window. He could not help feeling annoyed that the ploy made so much sense. There was a slim chance Delgado might have heard of Frank, none at all that he might have heard of Derek. Besides, Derek had expounded the case for cool-headed negotiation and the letter had given him the chance to carry it out. What he really resented, of course, was the exposed position it placed him in. He was no longer anonymous, no longer able to claim neutrality whenever it suited him. And he suspected there was more to Frank’s reasoning than he had admitted. Why did he suddenly want Derek to take the leading role? Why was he willing to step aside?

Whatever the answer, it was too late to do anything about it. An hour ago the telephone had rung and Derek had found himself talking to a cultivated English-speaking Spaniard called Norberto Galazarga, none other, it transpired, than Delgado’s private secretary.

‘I am Señor Delgado’s eyes and ears, Mr Fairfax. I act for him in all matters. I am entirely in his confidence.’

‘Good. Now, has he—’

‘Señor Delgado has read your letter and has asked me to meet with you in order to discuss your proposal.’

‘I haven’t made a proposal.’

‘But you will, will you not?’

‘Perhaps. I—’

‘Would eleven o’clock tomorrow morning be convenient?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose—’

‘I will call upon you at your hotel. I look forward to our discussion.’

‘Er … Well, so do—’

‘Buenos tardes, Mr Fairfax.’

And so the die was cast. One intermediary would meet another under conditions of truce. Delicately and with infinite caution, they would edge towards an understanding. Or so Derek hoped. Though how he would phrase his ‘proposal’ he did not know. To what kind of approach would Delgado – or his syrup-tongued secretary – be most receptive? To what form of logic would they yield?

Such issues might not be so intractable if he knew more about Delgado. His blood-stained past was one thing. But what of his present? What kind of man had fifty years of peace produced? Frank had insisted they return to the bar in Lerezuela after leaving the pazo in search of precisely such information, but the little they had learned from its lugubrious proprietor and the less reticent among his customers had been neither helpful nor encouraging.

Delgado, it seemed, was held more in awe than affection by the locals. El guante férreo, he was nicknamed – the iron glove, a twisted reference to his artificial right hand that was also a metaphor for his pitiless nature. Several families had been turned off Vasconcelez land to make way for Delgado’s forestry projects, linked as they were to his wood-pulp business in Vigo. He was believed, indeed, to have a metallic finger in every branch of Galician industry, accumulating thereby a considerable fortune to add to what he had acquired by marriage. The pazo was said to be fabulously furnished, a fortress for his long retreat from the world. Since his son and grandson had been killed by ETA terrorists, he had grown ever more reclusive, to the extent that now he was seldom seen, though staff at the pazo said he was still in good health. His affections were reserved for his allegedly beautiful eighteen-year-old granddaughter, Yolanda, to whom no extravagance was denied. She was at a finishing school in Switzerland, where all traces of her Galician roots were being expensively eliminated. As for Delgado’s Civil War record, everybody professed an eloquent ignorance. By their reactions, one might have supposed no such war had taken place.

‘What I’d expected,’ Frank had said during the drive back to Santiago. ‘Money. Power. But not much love. It’s the reward his type normally reap.’

‘If he’s so wealthy, why should he care about the gold?’

‘Because he’s greedy. Because he can’t stand to lose what he plotted long and hard to gain.’

‘But he’s nearly ninety years old, for God’s sake. He’ll be dead before he can spend it.’

‘He doesn’t want to spend it. He just wants to have it. I told you – I know his type.’

This Derek did not doubt. It was one of the thoughts that would not leave his head. Frank knew. But he did not. Frank understood. But he would be the one who met Galazarga tomorrow morning and tried to strike a bargain. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, studying the mobile pattern the rain made against the shutters, as serpentine and shifting as the problems his mind could neither master nor discard. Everything was so simple and straightforward according to Frank, everything was cut and dried before it was done.

‘Make it clear to Delgado’s secretary that we have the means to destroy his employer’s good name and won’t hesitate to do so if the girl is harmed. Then offer him a straight swap under secure conditions: the statement in exchange for the girl.’

‘But what about the map?’

‘Tell him the truth. Tell him he can have everything we have – but that doesn’t include the map.’

And if he doesn’t believe me?’

‘Make him believe you.’

‘It’s easy for you to say. Not so easy to do. We may be barking up the wrong tree, remember. We may be offering Delgado something he badly wants, in return for something he doesn’t have.’

‘No. Delgado has the girl. You can bank on it.’

But Derek was not convinced. It might still be a colossal misunderstanding. When all was said and done, there was no proof, no clinching evidence that Delgado was their man. As he stared up at the canopy of the bed, across which some medieval hunting party frolicked in embroidered abandon, the thought assumed a comforting dimension. So long as he could believe in the possibility of Delgado’s innocence, his meeting with Galazarga was not too dreadful a prospect. Any amount of embarrassment was after all preferable to—

The sudden bleeping of the alarm clock cut short his deliberations. It was seven o’clock and time to call Charlotte again. Sitting up, Derek snapped off the alarm, hoisted the telephone into his lap and dialled the number. Charlotte answered at the second ring.

‘Derek?’

‘Hello, Charlotte.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. We were turned away from the pazo but I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow morning with Delgado’s private secretary.’

‘You’re getting close, then.’

‘Maybe. But don’t forget Delgado may have nothing to do with this.’ He paused for Charlotte’s reply, but none came. ‘Charlotte?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Not exactly. It’s just … I have some news for you. What it amounts to is proof.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of Delgado’s guilt. There’s no longer any doubt about it, Derek. He’s the one who’s holding Sam.’