Part 14 (1/2)
”Everything's OK”
They had known each other since Coy was a boy playing hooky to fool around the docks, where there were s.h.i.+ps with foreign flags and sailors who spoke languages he could not understand. El Piloto, son and grandson of sailors who had also been called Piloto, could be found mornings outside some bar in the port, an honest man for hire, waiting for clients for his aging sailboat. Besides taking out women tourists, whose behinds he cupped to help them aboard, in those days El Piloto would dive to clear line from propellers, sc.r.a.pe barnacled hulls, and salvage outboard motors that had fallen into the water. In his free time he devoted himself, like everyone in those days, to small-time smuggling. Nowadays his bones were a little old to soak for too long, and he earned a living taking families out for Sunday outings, as well as crews from the tankers anch.o.r.ed at Es...o...b..eras, pilots on stormy days, and staggering-drunk Ukrainian sailors who tossed their cookies leeward after having drunk themselves blind in the bars. The Carpanta Carpanta and El Piloto had seen it all. A vertical sun, without a breath of air, focusing laser heat on the bollards in the port. The sea really wild: G.o.d jumping and skipping. A westerly zinging in the rigging like harp strings. And those long red Mediterranean sunsets when the water looks like a mirror and the peace of that world is peace itself, and you understand that you are only a tiny drop in three thousand years of eternal ocean. and El Piloto had seen it all. A vertical sun, without a breath of air, focusing laser heat on the bollards in the port. The sea really wild: G.o.d jumping and skipping. A westerly zinging in the rigging like harp strings. And those long red Mediterranean sunsets when the water looks like a mirror and the peace of that world is peace itself, and you understand that you are only a tiny drop in three thousand years of eternal ocean.
”We'll be back in a couple of hours,” Coy said, shooting a glance up at the Rock, ”and then shove off straightaway.”
El Piloto nodded, continuing to polish a bra.s.s cleat. By his side an adolescent Coy had learned a few things about men, the sea, and life. Together they dived for Roman amphoras and quietly sold them, fished for squid at sunset on the Punta de la Podadera, caught swordfish, marrajo, marrajo, and sharks on trotlines off Cope, and twenty-pound sea ba.s.s with a harpoon among the black rocks of Cabo de Palos-when there were still sea ba.s.s to fish for. In the Graveyard of s.h.i.+ps With No Name, to which old tubs made their last voyage, to be cut up and sold as sc.r.a.p, El Piloto had taught Coy to identify each of the parts that composed a s.h.i.+p as they squeezed lemon juice on raw clams and sea urchins, long before Coy went off to be a seaman. And in that desolate landscape of rusted iron, superstructures beached on the sand, funnels that would never smoke again, and hulls like dead whales beneath the sun, El Piloto had pulled out a packet of unfiltered Celtas-the first cigarette in Coy's life-and lit one with a metal pocket lighter that had an acrid, burnt-wick smell. and sharks on trotlines off Cope, and twenty-pound sea ba.s.s with a harpoon among the black rocks of Cabo de Palos-when there were still sea ba.s.s to fish for. In the Graveyard of s.h.i.+ps With No Name, to which old tubs made their last voyage, to be cut up and sold as sc.r.a.p, El Piloto had taught Coy to identify each of the parts that composed a s.h.i.+p as they squeezed lemon juice on raw clams and sea urchins, long before Coy went off to be a seaman. And in that desolate landscape of rusted iron, superstructures beached on the sand, funnels that would never smoke again, and hulls like dead whales beneath the sun, El Piloto had pulled out a packet of unfiltered Celtas-the first cigarette in Coy's life-and lit one with a metal pocket lighter that had an acrid, burnt-wick smell.
Coy picked up his jacket and jumped to the quay. Tanger followed, the strap of her shoulder bag secure across her chest.
”What will the weather be like tonight?” she asked.
Coy took a look at the sea and the sky. A few isolated clouds were beginning to break apart, streaking the sky in several directions.
”Good weather. Not much wind. Maybe a mild sea when we round Punta Europa.”
Surprise, enjoyment, a flash of vexation when she heard the word ”sea.” It would be funny, he thought, if she got seasick. Until that moment he had never considered the possibility of seeing her gla.s.sy-eyed like a tuna, skin yellowed, clinging weakly to the gunnel.
”You have any Dramamine? Maybe you'd better take one before we shove off.”
”That's none of your business.”
”You're wrong. If you get seasick, you'll be in the way. That is my business.”
There was no answer, and Coy shrugged. They walked down the quay toward the Renault parked in the marinas parking lot. The setting sun, visible over Algeciras, shone red on the vertical face of the Rock, picking out the dark hollows of the old embrasures dug out of the rock. Two battered smugglers' launches, retired from sea duty and with blue and black paint dribbled down then-sides in gobs, were rotting on sawhorses amid rusted engines and empty steel drums. The sounds of the city intensified as they got closer to the parking lot. A bored customs officer was watching television in his guardhouse. A long queue of automobiles was lined up to cross the border in the direction of La Linea de la Concepcidn.
It was Tanger who took the wheel. She drove carefully, handbag in her lap, confident and without haste, down the street that ran behind the border barriers to the bay, then left, toward the rotunda of the Trafalgar cemetery. She had not said a word until that moment. Then she stopped the car, engaged the brake, looked at her watch, and turned off the engine.
”What's the plan?” Coy asked.
There wasn't any plan, she replied. They were going to drive up to Old Willis viewpoint to hear what Nino Palermo had to say. They would do exactly that, and then go back to the port, leave the car in the parking lot and the keys in the Avis mailbox, and shove off as planned.
”And if there are complications?”
Coy was thinking of Horatio Kiskoros and the Berber. Palermo wasn't the type who would be satisfied with offering a proposal and having them say, Well, we'll see, and See you later. With that in mind, before he left the boat he had picked up a Wichard bosun's knife, very sharp, with a four-inch blade and marlinspike, which El Piloto kept to sever halyards in an emergency. He could feel it in the back pocket of his jeans, between his right b.u.t.tock and the seat. It wasn't a big deal, but it was better than making a social call empty-handed.
”I don't think there will be any complications,” she answered.
At the cemetery, Tanger stood for a long time in front of one of the tombstones: for Captain Thomas Norman, RM, who died December 6,1805, of wounds received aboard the Mars, Mars, at Trafalgar. Then they went up to the viewpoint to study the place they were to meet Palermo at nightfall. Coy watched as she walked over the old concrete mounts, now empty of guns. She studied everything carefully: the access road and the one that climbed toward the tunnels of the Great Siege, the empty whitewashed military barracks, the British flag flying over Moorish Castle, the isthmus where the airport was located, and the broad Atunara beach that stretched northeast to Spanish territory. She brought to mind an officer studying the terrain before a battle, and Coy found himself doing the same-calculating possibilities, safe havens and dangers, the way you study charts and courses of a treacherous coast you want to reach by night. at Trafalgar. Then they went up to the viewpoint to study the place they were to meet Palermo at nightfall. Coy watched as she walked over the old concrete mounts, now empty of guns. She studied everything carefully: the access road and the one that climbed toward the tunnels of the Great Siege, the empty whitewashed military barracks, the British flag flying over Moorish Castle, the isthmus where the airport was located, and the broad Atunara beach that stretched northeast to Spanish territory. She brought to mind an officer studying the terrain before a battle, and Coy found himself doing the same-calculating possibilities, safe havens and dangers, the way you study charts and courses of a treacherous coast you want to reach by night.
Back at the cemetery gate, Tanger said, ”Whatever happens, I don't want you to interfere.”
That's easy to say, Coy thought. So he said nothing. He'd thought about asking El Piloto to come with them. In such situations three was a better number than two. But he didn't want to involve his friend too deeply. Not yet.
Tanger consulted her watch again, opened her purse, and took out a pack of Players. He hadn't seen her smoke since Madrid, and it may well have been the same pack because there were only four cigarettes left. She flicked the lighter and slowly drew on the Player, holding the smoke a long time before exhaling.
'Are you sure everything's all right?” he wanted to know.
She nodded. On her right wrist, the minute hand pa.s.sed 8:45. The glowing tip of her cigarette had burned down to her short fingernails. She rolled down the window and threw the b.u.t.t into the street.
”Let's go.”
Just like those films she liked, Coy concluded admiringly. Henry Fonda leaning against the fence below a black-and-white sunrise, readying himself for his walk to the O.K. Corral. And yet there was something so d.a.m.nably real in her att.i.tude, so strong in the way she restarted the motor and drove up the hill, pa.s.sing the Hotel Rock and dropping to half speed as the grade of the road became steeper, that it stripped the situation of any possible artifice. This was totally real, and Tanger was not playing a role for his sake. She wasn't trying to impress him. She was the one who was driving, who was concentrating on keeping the car away from the curb and the dangerous precipices, who took the tight curves with cold purpose, confident, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gears.h.i.+ft, glancing from time to time toward the top of the mountain with a frown of concentration. When they arrived at the small turnoff to the viewpoint, she maneuvered the car until it was headed toward the road, downhill. Ready to speed away, Coy thought uneasily, as she opened the car door and got out, her sweater knotted around her waist, and her bag in her hands.
A ROVER was parked nearby, next to the wall of the old bastion. That was the first thing Coy saw when he got out of the car, along with the Berber chauffeur leaning against the hood. Then his eyes followed a semicircle to the left, the road to the tunnels, the rise toward the rugged peak of the Rock, the abandoned casemates and the balcony overlooking the airport, with the isthmus and Spain in the background, dark mountains, dark sky, gray ocean to the west and black to the east, and the lights of La Linea coming on below in the twilight. A bad place for a talk, he told himself. He looked to the railing of the viewpoint, where Nino Palermo was waiting for them. was parked nearby, next to the wall of the old bastion. That was the first thing Coy saw when he got out of the car, along with the Berber chauffeur leaning against the hood. Then his eyes followed a semicircle to the left, the road to the tunnels, the rise toward the rugged peak of the Rock, the abandoned casemates and the balcony overlooking the airport, with the isthmus and Spain in the background, dark mountains, dark sky, gray ocean to the west and black to the east, and the lights of La Linea coming on below in the twilight. A bad place for a talk, he told himself. He looked to the railing of the viewpoint, where Nino Palermo was waiting for them.
Tanger was already there. He followed her, breathing in the aromas of salt, thyme, and resin on the breeze that stirred the shrubs and treetops. Another look around but no sight of Horacio Kiskoros anywhere. Palermo stood leaning against the railing, hands in the pockets of a light, collarless hunting jacket, a garment that made him seem even more corpulent than he was.
”Good evening,” he said.
Coy murmured an automatic ”Good evening,” and Tanger said nothing. She stood stone still before the treasure hunter. ”What is your proposition?” she asked.
As if she weren't there, Palermo spoke to Coy.
”Some women get right to the point, don't they?”
Coy didn't answer, refusing to accept the complicity Palermo was offering. He stood back a little, at a distance but alert, listening. She was the boss, and that night he was acting more as bodyguard than anything else. He felt the weight of the knife in his back pocket; the Berber wasn't all that efficient, after all, watching from so far away. He frisked you when you were clean and didn't frisk you when he should have. Maybe he was following orders from Palermo, who wanted to appear diplomatic.
The treasure hunter turned to Tanger. The fading light was beginning to obscure the features of her face.
”This hide-and-seek game is ridiculous,” he said. ”We're wasting powder in salvos, when in the end we're all going to end up at the same place.”
”What place is that?” Tanger asked.
Her voice was absolutely serene, neither provocative nor insecure. Palermo laughed briefly.
”At the wreck, of course. And if I'm not there, the police will be. Current law.
”I know the current law.”
Palermo gestured as if to say, Well, if that's the case I have little to add.
”You have a proposition,” said Tanger.
”I do. I have_____ G.o.d almighty. Of course I have a proposition.
We're starting with a clean slate, senorita. You have f.u.c.ked me and I have f.u.c.ked you.” He paused. ”Speaking metaphorically, of course. We're even.”
”I don't know where you get the idea that we're even.”
She had spoken in such a low voice that Palermo moved forward slightly, bowing his head to hear better. The gesture gave him an unexpectedly courtly air.
”I have resources you two will never have,” he said. ”Experience. Technology. The right contacts.”
”But you don't know where the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria is.” is.”
This time she had spoken loudly and clearly. Palermo snorted.
”I would if- you hadn't put so much time and effort into throwing tacks in my path. Blocking access to that mafia of archivists and librarians... d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l. You took advantage of my good faith.”
”You haven't had good faith since they took away your pacifier.” The hunter of wrecks turned to Coy.