Part 25 (2/2)

”Tell me one thing,” he said, crouched against the bulkhead, unaware of the others, his words for Tanger alone. ”Tell me just one thing.”

He asked with a calm that surprised even him. Tanger, who had started up the steps, stopped and turned toward him. 'All right, one,” she conceded.

Perhaps I owe you at least one answer, the gesture said. I've paid you in other ways, sailor. But maybe I owe you that. Then I will walk up this companionway, and everything will follow its course, and we will be at peace.

Coy pointed to Kiskoros.

”Was he already working for you when he killed Zas?”

She didn't answer, merely stared at him. The dancing light of the paraffin lamp cast dark shadows on her freckled skin. She turned, as if to leave without answering him, but then seemed to change her mind.

”Do you have the answer to the riddle of the knights and the knaves?”

”Yes,” he admitted. ”There are no knights on the island. Everyone lies.”

Tanger considered that for an instant. He had never seen her smile such a strange smile.

'It may be that you arrived on the island too late.”

Then she went up the stairs and vanished into the shadows. Coy knew that he had already lived that scene. A ray of sun and a drop of amber, he remembered. He saw Kiskoros's pistol, Palermo's desolate expression, and El Piloto s taciturn immobility before he again rested his head against the iron bulkhead. Now his certainty and his loneliness were so intense they seemed perfect. Maybe, he reflected, he was wrong after all, and the line between knights and knaves wasn't all that dear. Maybe, in her own way she had been whispering the truth all the time.

ALL things considered, betrayal held a unique pleasure for the victim. He dug into the wound, relis.h.i.+ng his own agony. And like jealousy, betrayal could be more intensely savored by the one who suffered its consequences than by the one responsible for it. There was something perversely gratifying in the strange moral liberation that came from being betrayed, or in the painful memory of noting the warnings, the perfidious satisfaction of confirming suspicions. Coy, who had just discovered all this, thought about a lot of things that night, sitting beside El Piloto and Nino Palermo with his back against the bulkhead in the hold of the half-sc.r.a.pped bulk carrier, and facing the pistol of Horatio Kiskoros. things considered, betrayal held a unique pleasure for the victim. He dug into the wound, relis.h.i.+ng his own agony. And like jealousy, betrayal could be more intensely savored by the one who suffered its consequences than by the one responsible for it. There was something perversely gratifying in the strange moral liberation that came from being betrayed, or in the painful memory of noting the warnings, the perfidious satisfaction of confirming suspicions. Coy, who had just discovered all this, thought about a lot of things that night, sitting beside El Piloto and Nino Palermo with his back against the bulkhead in the hold of the half-sc.r.a.pped bulk carrier, and facing the pistol of Horatio Kiskoros.

”It's a question of patience,” the Argentine commented. 'As a compatriot poet of mine said: With the dawn, every thief is with his aged mother.”

Nearly an hour had pa.s.sed. When his former boss had stopped insulting him and reproaching him for his deceit, the hero of the Malvinas had relaxed a little, and perhaps in memory of old times he had revealed a few confidences, speaking in a low voice, aided by the torch, the place, and the long wait. It wasn't, Coy decided, that he was so loquacious, but that like everyone else he had a certain need to justify himself. They learned how when Kiskoros had taken Palermo's first message to Tanger, she had changed the panorama of his loyalties with admirable skill and convincing reflection during a long conversation-man to man, Kiskoros emphasized-in which she expounded the mutual advantages of their working together. Palermo would be out of the picture, and thirty percent of the profits would go to the Argentine, if he agreed to act as a double agent. Because, as Kiskoros pointed out, life was a trade-off, et cetera, et cetera. And most of all, because hard cash is hard cash. Not to mention the fact that she was a real lady. She reminded him of another rebel he had met, in 1976, in the barrio silvered by the moon of ESMA. After a week of the electric prod, they still hadn't got her real name out of her. Coy had no trouble imagining the scene. The military mustache of ex-CPO Kiskoros twisted in a grimace of nostalgia, and the stench of singed flesh mixed with the aroma of beefsteak around the corner at La Costan-era, and the music of Viejo Almacen, and the girls of calle Florida. Cajhe Cajhe Florida was how it came out in Kiskoros s Buenos Aires accent, as he stretched his suspenders mournfully. But that-he interrupted himself, not without effort-was another story. So, going back to Tanger-such a lady, he insisted-every time Nino Palermo sent him to watch her or put pressure on her, he actually pa.s.sed on information. Beginning to end; subject, verb, object. And that included Barcelona, Madrid, Cadiz, Gibraltar, and Cartagena. Tanger always knew how dose they were, and Kiskoros was punctually informed of every step she took with Coy. Well, nearly every step, he qualified delicately. As for Palermo, his a.s.sa.s.sin- supposedly Florida was how it came out in Kiskoros s Buenos Aires accent, as he stretched his suspenders mournfully. But that-he interrupted himself, not without effort-was another story. So, going back to Tanger-such a lady, he insisted-every time Nino Palermo sent him to watch her or put pressure on her, he actually pa.s.sed on information. Beginning to end; subject, verb, object. And that included Barcelona, Madrid, Cadiz, Gibraltar, and Cartagena. Tanger always knew how dose they were, and Kiskoros was punctually informed of every step she took with Coy. Well, nearly every step, he qualified delicately. As for Palermo, his a.s.sa.s.sin- supposedly his his a.s.sa.s.sin-had kept him drugged with partial information, until the man from Gibraltar, fed up with pampas tunes, decided to take a look for himself. That very nearly threw a wrench into the works, but fortunately for Tanger the emeralds were already on board the a.s.sa.s.sin-had kept him drugged with partial information, until the man from Gibraltar, fed up with pampas tunes, decided to take a look for himself. That very nearly threw a wrench into the works, but fortunately for Tanger the emeralds were already on board the Carpanta Carpanta. Kiskoros had no choice but to ride along with Palermo. The difference was that now instead of Coy and El Piloto being alone in the hold, the treasure hunter was keeping them company. Three birds with one stone. Although, in that respect, Kiskoros was sure he would not have to throw it. Kiskoros had no choice but to ride along with Palermo. The difference was that now instead of Coy and El Piloto being alone in the hold, the treasure hunter was keeping them company. Three birds with one stone. Although, in that respect, Kiskoros was sure he would not have to throw it.

”This won't end here,” said Palermo. ”I will find you wherever G.o.ddammit. Wherever you go. I will find her and I will find you.”

Kiskoros did not seem to be overly concerned.

”The lady is totally in control, and she knows how to take care of herself,” he replied. 'And I plan to be far away. I may go back to my country-wrinkled and weary, as the tango says-and buy myself an estancia in Rio Gallegos.”

”Why does she want eight hours?”

”Obvious. To put the emeralds in a safe place.”

'And leave you holding the bag.”

”No.” Kiskoros denied with the barrel of the pistol. ”Our arrangement is clear. She needs me.” ”That b.i.t.c.h doesn't need anyone.”

The Argentine jumped to his feet, frowning. His bulging eyes shot sparks at Palermo.

”Don't talk about her like that.”

The seeker of sunken s.h.i.+ps stood staring at Kiskoros as if he were a green Martian.

”Don't s.h.i.+t me, Horacio. Don't... Come on. Don't tell me she's brainwashed you too.”

”Shut up.”

”This is a very serious matter.”

Kiskoros took one step forward. The pistol was pointing direcdy at the head of his former boss.

”I told you to shut up. She is a total lady.”

Ignoring the gun, the treasure hunter shot Coy a sarcastic glance.

”You have to admit,” he said, ”that skirt has.. .Well. Lots of appeal. Roping in you and your friend, I suppose, wasn't too hard. As for me... G.o.d almighty. That's a little tougher. But sucking up to this sonofab.i.t.c.h Horacio... You know? That's a piece of work.”

He sighed, respectful. Then he reached for his jacket and took out his pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and said thoughtfully, ”I'm beginning to think she actually deserves the emeralds.”

He looked for his lighter, absorbed in his thoughts. Then he smiled mockingly.

”We're idiots, all of us.”

”Don't include me,” Kiskoros demanded.

'All right. I take it back. These two guys and I are dumb. You're the idiot.”

At that moment, the siren of a boat entering the inlet pierced the bulkhead-a hoa.r.s.e, brief blast from the bridge warning a smaller vessel to clear the lane. And, as if that one toot were the culmination of a long process of reflection that had consumed Coy for the last hour-in reality, he had been thinking about it unconsciously much longer-he saw the rest of the game laid out in its entirety. He saw it in such dear detail that he almost blurted it out. Every one of the dues, suspicions, and questions he had been aware of during the last few days took on meaning. The part Kiskoros was playing at that moment, the eight hours, the selection of this hold as a temporary jail, all of it could be explained in few words. Tanger was getting ready to abandon the island, and they, betrayed knaves, were being left behind.

”She's leaving,” Coy said in a loud voice.

They all looked at him. He hadn't opened his mouth since Tanger disappeared through the hatchway to the deck 'And she's dumping you,” he added for Kiskoros's benefit, ”just like us.”

The Argentine stared at him, Then he smiled, skeptical. A neat, slick-haired frog. A self-congratulatory dandy. ”Don't give me that s.h.i.+t.”

”It's all so dear. Tanger asked you to hold us till daylight, isn't that right? Then you dose the hatch, leave us here, and join her. True? At seven or eight in the morning at such and such a place.

Tell me if I have it right so far.” The Argentine's silence and expression said that in fact he did. ”But Palermo is right. She isn't going to be there. And I'm going to tell you why. Because by that time she will be somewhere else.”

Kiskoros didn't like that. His expression was as dark as the black hole of the barrel.

”You think you're very clever, don't you? Well, you haven't been so smart up to now.”

Coy shrugged.

”Maybe,” he conceded. ”But even a fool can understand that a newspaper opened to a certain page, a certain kind of question, a postcard, a couple of trips, a matchbook cover, and information Palermo unknowingly provided some time ago in Gibraltar, all lead to one particular place. You want me to tell you, or shall I be quiet and wait for you to discover it yourself?”

Kiskoros was playing with the safety on the pistol, but it was obvious his thoughts were elsewhere. He frowned, uncertain.

”Go ahead.”

Never taking his eyes from Kiskoros, Coy again rested his head against the bulkhead.

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