THEY BOUGHT COARSE BREAD, salami, and cheese in a little store downtown; also a bottle of wine. As Angela made sandwiches, she said, “I really don’t understand this. There are restaurants within the Alhambra, you know.”
“I know. But they won’t be open at night.”
“We’re staying up there?”
“Yes. After it closes.”
“And search?”
“That’s right,” Ross said.
They got into the car and drove through the town until they reached the base of the mountain on which the Alhambra was perched. A road led up through green forested parks.
“We’ll leave the car here,” he said. “Out of sight.”
They began the long walk up the mountain, keeping to the side of the road, letting tourist cars and buses pass.
“There will be thousands up there today,” Angela said, watching the cars.
“So much the better. The crowds will help us.”
As they climbed, the air became cooler and quieter; the noisy bustle of the city was left below, with the heat and shimmering light. Along the road, in an ancient cut stone trough, water gurgled. The system of irrigation which supported the lush growth on the mountain was a marvel.
“I like it here,” she said.
“It will be cold at night. We should have brought sweaters.”
“Do you think it will take long? To find the body, I mean.”
“No, not long.”
“Do you think the count has started to search for us?”
“I’m sure of it. But not here—he’ll be, looking in Madrid, or Barcelona. Anywhere but right here, under his nose.”
“Sooner or later, he’ll figure it out.”
“That’s true,” Ross said. “And he’ll come after us.”
“What will we do then?”
“Run like hell,” Ross said, “and hope for the best”
“If he catches us, he’ll kill us,” Angela said. “I know it.”
“No,” Ross said. “He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we’ll have hidden the emerald. It’s our ace in the hole.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I.”
Angela shuddered. They said nothing more until they reached the top and entered through the ancient, elaborately decorated horseshoe gates of the palace. Just inside, the tour buses were parked, and groups of tourists were forming around shouting guides. Along one wall, a row of vendors sold trinkets, souvenirs, and guidebooks. All around, magnificent, red-brown, stood the buildings and palaces. Directly in front of them was the square palace of Carlos V. Behind that were the old Arab gardens and palaces. To the east, occupying a corner of the mountain, was the fortress, the Alcazaba.
They paused to buy a map from one of the squatting vendors. Ross noticed that among all the guidebooks were copies of Washington Irving’s Legends of the Alhambra.
He remembered the dying words of Hamid: “Twenty paces east from Washington Irving…”
Did he mean here?
Ross turned to Angela. “Which way is east?”
“I don’t know. Check the map.”
He did. East took them toward the Alcazaba. He casually stepped off twenty paces and found himself in the middle of a small garden, halfway between the palace of Carlos and the fortress. There were dozens of tourists everywhere, all around.
He walked back to Angela.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Just a little confused.”
“You get the wrong directions?”
He scratched his head. “Maybe. Or maybe I heard wrong …”
Twenty paces. He tried to recall the conversation exactly. Hamid’s words had been tense, the last gasps of a dying man. Was it twenty paces?
He tried thirty, then forty. Nothing; he was still left standing in the middle of the garden. He switched directions, going north instead of east, but found nothing. One or two tourists, watching him, were beginning to mutter among themselves; he decided to stop.
“We need a guidebook,” Ross said.
Angela bought one, and he thumbed to the index, looking under Irving, Washington. He found the proper page.
There was only a paragraph, describing the American writer’s fascination with the hilltop fortress and his careful collection of all fables associated with the buildings. Several of the stories were summarized at the bottom of the page. Ross glanced over them briefly.
Then, returning to the text, he read: “A bronze plaque, 16 by 24 inches, stands in the south wall of the Palacio Arabe, commemorating Washington Irving’s interest in the Alhambra. It was erected in 1894, and bears the inscription …”
“Come on,” Ross said, closing the book. “I think we’re onto something.”
“Figured it out?”
They walked across the courtyard, toward the Arab Palaces. “Yes. I had the number of paces right. But I was starting from the wrong place.”
They came up to the plaque, the letters raised and slightly corroded.
“Washington Irving,” Ross said. “Twenty paces east from the Washington Irving …”
He stepped it off. He was heading for the Alcazaba, with its twenty-foot-high walls of brown masonry. He covered fourteen paces, then sixteen, and stopped.
At sixteen, he was up against the wall.
“Wrong again,” Angela said.
“Maybe my paces were too big. Hamid was shorter.”
Angela lit a cigarette, and Ross leaned against the wall. He thought about the problem. Even if he reduced the size of his steps, he would strike the wall too early. That couldn’t be it.
He looked around the ground, but the dirt was hard-packed, undisturbed.
“Maybe it’s inside the wall itself,” Angela said. “Maybe there’s a secret tunnel or a passage.”
They turned to look at the wall, running their fingers over the crude bricks, touching, feeling.
“Señor y Señorita.”
They turned. It was a policeman. He looked at them curiously.
“Yes?” Ross said.
“A pleasant day,” the policeman said, touching his cap. But the eyes were alert and watchful.
“Yes,” Ross said. “We were just admiring the masonry. The ancient methods were excellent, do you agree?”
The policeman’s face showed hesitation, then relief. They were tourists examining the masonry, touching it. Nothing more complicated. He smiled. “Indeed, we are very proud of it. Very proud.”
He touched his cap again and moved off.
Angela sucked on her cigarette and watched him leave. “I was frozen up,” she said. “I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. I just froze.”
“It’s all right,” Ross said. “It doesn’t matter.”
He snapped his fingers, and shook his head.
“Of course,” he said. “Twenty paces. That’s inside the wall.”
“You mean inside the fortress itself?”
“Yes. It can’t be anything else.”
They hurried inside the fortress, passing through the arched, carved gate and climbing a ramp that led to a parapet. There, they could look down over the interior of the fort. For the most part, it was old and uninteresting—utilitarian barracks, squat buildings, and heavy stonework.
Then Ross saw something. A section of the fort had collapsed and was under repair. It was fenced off from the public, with signs in four languages to keep away.
“What’s underneath the fort?”
“A cellar, I think. For storing ammunition and supplies.”
“That’s it,” Ross said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Sure of what?”
“Where the body is.”
“What do we do?” she said.
“We check. I check.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Stand guard.”
They climbed down from the parapet and walked across the courtyard of the fort to the place where the floor had collapsed, opening onto the cellars beneath. They looked down the hole. A musty, dank odor rose into the sunlight.
“Lovely,” Angela said.
Ross turned and glanced around the courtyard. A group of tourists were lined up at a far corner, waiting to climb up a round tower. Nobody was paying them much attention. He gave her the guidebook.
“Here. You can pretend to read this.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going down there.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He grinned and slipped under the fence. “See you.”
It was a drop of ten feet to the stone floor below. He poised on the edge, tensed himself, and jumped. He landed on all fours, raising a cloud of dust.
“You all right?” Angela said.
“Fine.”
He looked around. A series of arched rooms and tunnels led off, fading into darkness. There was a smell of decay, damp stone, and ancient dust. He sneezed, hearing the sound echo through the vaults. He paused to get his bearings, then headed off in what he hoped was the right direction.
As he left the hole, it became shadowy, then completely dark. Fortunately, he still had his penlight; he clicked it on. The batteries were already weakening, the light turning yellow. He would have to be careful; the light was helpful now, but it would be essential when he returned in the evening.
He passed through a room which had obviously been a dungeon. There were small cramped cubicles and heavy rusted bars. Iron rings on the walls once held torches; he could see spots of lampblack on the ceiling. On the floor, the dust was several inches deep; probably no one had set foot here for centuries.
Or had they?
He looked and saw the clear imprint of a man’s foot. Then another, and another. They were leading west, toward the wall. He noticed the pattern, the unevenness of the steps.
Like a man staggering under a heavy weight.
Hamid.
With the body.
He followed the impressions through the dust. Around him, everything was black. All he could see was the small cone of yellow light coming from his penlight.
He moved forward.
The air became colder and damper. And he began to hear sounds. At first, it was a clicking, very far off. As he approached, it became a chattering, like the excited jabber of monkeys. The odor in the passage became more fetid, and it turned still colder.
The noise was louder.
What was it?
Abruptly, the passage took a sharp right-angle turn, and he saw. The body, still draped in white, lay in a corner.
And he also saw the source of the chattering.
Rats.