18

NORBERTO GALAZARGA WAS a dapper little man encased in a perfectly cut three-piece suit complete with gold watch-chain and shot-silk lining. There was more hair on his upper lip, in the form of a trimmed jet-black moustache, than on the whole of the rest of his head. His broad and ready smile sent creases rippling up his brow and over his bald crown until they disappeared from view. His eyes sparkled so noticeably Derek suspected he employed special drops to achieve the effect. And he wore enough cologne to seep through even the pungent aroma of the cigar at which he squinted and sniffed and very occasionally puffed. He embodied nearly every quality Derek felt least at ease with: subtlety and inscrutability complicated by foreign blood and a distracting bundle of affectations. He was so obviously Derek’s intellectual superior, so clearly prepared for his every remark, that conversation with him began to resemble a form of self-analysis in which he would periodically intervene with the lofty air of a bored psychiatrist.

‘Abduction is such a brutal business, Mr Fairfax. So heedless of the family ties it threatens to sunder. Yet I suppose we could also regard it as a specialized form of commerce. Trade by coercion, so to speak. Naturally, it is easy for me to philosophize about such matters, when I have no personal experience of them. For your friends, the … the …’

‘Abberleys.’

‘Quite so. For them, it must be altogether shocking. Too painful for words, I should imagine.’ He raised his cup of chocolate as if to drink, then replaced it in the saucer untouched and leant back in his chair, toying with his cigar. ‘They have my sympathy, my heartfelt sympathy.’

Derek told himself, not for the first time, to relax, to view this tortuous discussion as a necessary preliminary to the desired objective. Here they sat in the hotel’s plushly furnished lounge, reclining in softly cushioned armchairs beneath a huge gilt-framed portrait of some Hapsburg nobleman, talking their way back and forth in feathery undertones over the one subject neither could mention which was also the sole purpose of their meeting.

‘I am surprised, I must confess,’ Galazarga continued, ‘that you could find time to visit Spain on such abstruse business when your friends’ problem – their appalling dilemma – is so critically balanced. One might almost think you hoped to assist them by coming here, though how I cannot understand.’

‘Perhaps I’ve not made myself sufficiently clear.’

‘Perhaps not.’ The words were accompanied by his characteristic smile.

‘Then let me try again. Your response to my letter suggests Señor Delgado is very interested in obtaining the document I happen to have in my possession, a document written by Vicente Ortiz, a native of Barcelona, during the Civil War, in which he describes in detail certain events which took place in Cartagena in October 1936.’

‘You have aroused Señor Delgado’s antiquarian curiosity, certainly.’

‘Does he want it – or not?’

‘Forgive me, Mr Fairfax, but it is premature to pose such a question. The issue at this stage is what you want in return.’

‘Samantha Abberley’s release.’

Galazarga frowned. ‘Naturally you do. So do I. So, no doubt – if acquainted with the distressing circumstances – would Señor Delgado. But he is no magician. He cannot wave a wand to grant your every wish. Nobody can.’

‘Except the people holding her.’

‘Except those, yes.’ Another move towards the chocolate cup was aborted. ‘But how are you to communicate with them?’

Derek studiously erased all expression from his face as he replied. ‘I think I may have found a way.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’ Their eyes met and it seemed to Derek that, quite deliberately, Galazarga allowed the veil to rise momentarily from his meaning, the screen around his intentions to slide briefly back. What lay behind was hard and cautious and cunning: Delgado’s iron hand in his secretary’s velvet glove.

‘Congratulations are in order, then.’ The smile returned and with it the layers of pretence. ‘If you are right, you may be able to render the Abberley family an inestimable service.’

‘I’m right.’

‘Your confidence does you credit. But permit me to utter a word of warning. You are in a foreign land of which you know very little. Of its history, I would suspect, even less. Remember your own countrymen’s proverbs: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, whereas ignorance is bliss.’

‘What Ortiz knew was inescapably dangerous. I have his written record of it. And I’m willing to surrender it.’ Derek could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip and forehead, but knew he could not be seen to wipe it away. It was useless to hope his anxiety had escaped Galazarga’s notice. The only question was what he would conclude from it. ‘But my willingness is strictly conditional. You follow?’

‘I believe I do.’ The cigar slipped into his mouth, then was withdrawn. ‘I think I can safely say Señor Delgado would very much like to agree satisfactory terms for his acquisition of the Ortiz … of the curio you describe.’

‘Good.’ Derek swallowed hard. ‘There’s just … er … one thing I have to explain.’ Galazarga’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Originally, a hand-drawn map was enclosed with the document. Unfortunately, it’s been destroyed.’

‘Destroyed?’

‘By a previous … holder.’

‘The map does not form part of what you are offering?’

‘It would, if it still existed. But it doesn’t. Nothing’s being withheld, you understand. The map is lost. Gone. Not mine to offer. Nor anybody else’s either.’

Galazarga clicked his tongue. ‘Oh dear. Oh dear me. This is … a sad development.’

‘It needn’t be. What’s gone is also safe. And what isn’t gone is on offer.’

‘Quite possibly. But the map …’ He drew lengthily on his cigar. ‘Incompleteness, however fractional, is anathema to the true collector. It reduces the value of an item dramatically. It may prove … fatal … to the prospects of a sale. Yes, fatal is I think the word.’

‘If it did have such an effect, I’d have to look elsewhere for a buyer.’

‘Would you?’

‘Yes. And I reckon I’d find one, the absence of a map notwithstanding. Don’t you?’

‘I?’ Galazarga coughed. ‘I really could not say. Señor Delgado may feel able to proceed despite your proviso. Or he may not. The decision rests with him.’

‘When will he take it?’

‘After I have apprised him of the relevant facts.’ Abruptly, Galazarga leant forward, took a sip of chocolate, then rose, extending his hand in farewell. ‘To which task I shall give my immediate attention. Such a pleasure, Mr Fairfax.’

Derek stood up hurriedly, shook Galazarga’s hand and found himself returning the infuriating smile. ‘When … er … when will I hear from you?’

‘Within twenty-four hours. Without fail.’

‘Right. I—’

‘Adiós.’ With the faintest of bows, Galazarga turned and walked swiftly from the room.

After the door had swung shut behind him, Derek subsided back into his chair and began to retrace their conversation in his mind. He was still engaged in this process when, a few minutes later, Frank Griffith appeared in front of him.

‘I saw him leave,’ the old man said, lowering himself into the seat Galazarga had occupied and staring intently at Derek. ‘How did it go?’

‘It went.’

‘When will we have Delgado’s answer?’

‘Within twenty-four hours.’

‘And what will it be?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you think it will be?’

‘I don’t think.’ He looked straight across at Frank. ‘You’ve told me often enough since we left England to wait and see. Well, you should be glad. Now, that’s all I’m capable of doing.’