Part 26 (1/2)

”We begin,” he said, ”with the fact that Tanger doesn't need you now. Your mission-play the double agent, keep Palermo in control, convince me that she was helpless and in danger-ends tonight, with you guarding us while she leaves. You don't have anything to give her. So what do you think she'll do? How can she get away with a block of emeralds? At airports they check the hand luggage with X-rays, and she doesn't dare to risk destroying such a fragile fortune in a checked suitcase. A rental car leaves a paper trail. A train means borders and c.u.mbersome changes. Does any alternative occur to you?”

He sat quietly, waiting for an answer. Saying those things aloud he had experienced a strange sense of relief, as if he were sharing the shame and bile he felt boiling inside. This night there's something for everyone, he thought. For your boss. For poor Piloto. For me. And you, blockhead, it's not all roses for you, either.

But the answer came from Palermo before Kiskoros could speak. He slapped his thigh.

”Of course! A s.h.i.+p. A G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.+p!”

”Precisely.”

”G.o.d in heaven. Clever as h.e.l.l.” ”That's my girl.”

Stunned, standing at the foot of the companionway, Kiskoros was trying to digest the news. His batrachian eyes went from one to the next of them, wavering among scorn, suspicion, and reasonable doubt.

”That is too many suppositions,” he protested finally. ”You think you are intelligent, but you base everything on conjecture.

You don't have anything to confirm a ridiculous story like that No proof. Not a single fact to hold on to.”

”You're wrong. There is.” Coy looked at his watch, but it had stopped. He turned to El Piloto, still quiet but alert in his corner. ”What time is it?”

”Eleven-thirty.”

Coy looked at Kiskoros with amus.e.m.e.nt. He was laughing quietly, and the Argentine, unaware that in truth Coy was laughing at himself, did not seem to appreciate the joke. He had stopped fiddling with the safety and was pointing the gun at Coy.

'At one o'clock this morning,” Coy informed him, ”the cargo s.h.i.+p Felix von Luckner Felix von Luckner, of the Zeeland line, sets sail. Belgian flag. Two trips a month between Cartagena and Antwerp, carrying citrus fruits, I think. She accepts pa.s.sengers.” of the Zeeland line, sets sail. Belgian flag. Two trips a month between Cartagena and Antwerp, carrying citrus fruits, I think. She accepts pa.s.sengers.”

”f.u.c.k,” muttered Palermo.

”Within a week”-Coy's eyes never left Kiskoros-”she will have sold the emeralds in a certain place on the Rubenstraat. Your former boss can verify that.” He invited Palermo with a nod of his head. ”Tell him.”

”It's true,” Palermo admitted.

”You see.” Coy laughed disagreeably once again. ”And then you also have the postcard she sent you.”

This time the blow hit home. Kiskoros's Adam's apple bobbed wildly in a confusion of convoluted loyalties. Even swine, Coy thought, have a soft spot in their hearts.

”She never said anything about that.” Kiskoros was glaring at Coy, as if he blamed him. ”We were going to...”

”Of course she didn't say anything.” Palermo was trying to light his cigarette. ”Cretin.”

Kiskoros's spirits plunged.

”We had a rental car,” he muttered, confused.

”Well,” suggested Palermo, ”now you'll be able to return the keys.”

He couldn't get his lighter to work, so the treasure hunter bent down toward the flame of the paraffin lamp, cigarette in his mouth. He seemed to be amused by the splendid joke of which they all were the b.u.t.ts.

”She never...” Kiskoros began.

WE may just get there in time, thought Coy. As they scrambled up the ladder the night air struck his face. There was a mult.i.tude of stars, and the sc.r.a.pped s.h.i.+ps were ghostly in the glow from the port. Behind them, lying on the floor of the hold, the Argentine was no longer moaning. He had stopped moaning when Palermo stopped kicking him in the head, and the blood bubbling from his seared nose was blending with the rust of the floor and sputtering as it hit his smoking clothing. He had lain writhing at the bottom of the companionway, jacket blazing, screaming, after Nino Palermo, leaning forward to light his cigarette, had thrown the lamp at him. The arc of flames whirred through the darkness of the hold, pa.s.sed Coy, and hit Kiskoros dead in the chest, just as he was saying ”She never...” And they never learned what it was she hadn't done or said because at that instant the paraffin spilled over Kiskoros, who dropped the pistol when a lick of flame touched his clothing and raced upward to engulf his face. An instant later Coy and El Piloto were on their feet, but Palermo, much quicker than they, had swooped down and picked up the pistol. The three of them stood there, looking at each other unblinkingly as Kiskoros twisted and turned, lost in flames and emitting bloodcurdling screams. Finally Coy grabbed Palermo's jacket and put out the flames, first slapping at them and then throwing the jacket over Kiskoros. By the time he removed it, Kiskoros was a smoking ruin. Instead of hair and mustache he had blackened stubble and he was braying as if he were gargling turpentine. That was when Palermo had landed all the kicks to the Argentine's head, in a systematic, almost bookkeeper-like fas.h.i.+on. As if in farewell he were laying money on a table for his indemnification. And then, holding the pistol but not pointing it at anyone, and with a not-at-all-amused smile on his face, he sighed with satisfaction and asked Coy if he was in or out. That was what he said-”in or out”-looking at Coy in the gleam of the last flames from the spilled torch on the floor, his face that of a night-prowling shark about to settle a score. may just get there in time, thought Coy. As they scrambled up the ladder the night air struck his face. There was a mult.i.tude of stars, and the sc.r.a.pped s.h.i.+ps were ghostly in the glow from the port. Behind them, lying on the floor of the hold, the Argentine was no longer moaning. He had stopped moaning when Palermo stopped kicking him in the head, and the blood bubbling from his seared nose was blending with the rust of the floor and sputtering as it hit his smoking clothing. He had lain writhing at the bottom of the companionway, jacket blazing, screaming, after Nino Palermo, leaning forward to light his cigarette, had thrown the lamp at him. The arc of flames whirred through the darkness of the hold, pa.s.sed Coy, and hit Kiskoros dead in the chest, just as he was saying ”She never...” And they never learned what it was she hadn't done or said because at that instant the paraffin spilled over Kiskoros, who dropped the pistol when a lick of flame touched his clothing and raced upward to engulf his face. An instant later Coy and El Piloto were on their feet, but Palermo, much quicker than they, had swooped down and picked up the pistol. The three of them stood there, looking at each other unblinkingly as Kiskoros twisted and turned, lost in flames and emitting bloodcurdling screams. Finally Coy grabbed Palermo's jacket and put out the flames, first slapping at them and then throwing the jacket over Kiskoros. By the time he removed it, Kiskoros was a smoking ruin. Instead of hair and mustache he had blackened stubble and he was braying as if he were gargling turpentine. That was when Palermo had landed all the kicks to the Argentine's head, in a systematic, almost bookkeeper-like fas.h.i.+on. As if in farewell he were laying money on a table for his indemnification. And then, holding the pistol but not pointing it at anyone, and with a not-at-all-amused smile on his face, he sighed with satisfaction and asked Coy if he was in or out. That was what he said-”in or out”-looking at Coy in the gleam of the last flames from the spilled torch on the floor, his face that of a night-prowling shark about to settle a score.

”If you hurt her, I'll kill you,” Coy replied.

That was his condition. He said it even though it was the other man who had the chrome and mother-of-pearl pistol in his hand. Palermo didn't object; he just grinned that white-toothed shark's grin and said, ”Okay, we won't kill her tonight.” Then he put the pistol in his pocket and hurried up the ladder toward the rectangle of stars. And now the three of them-Coy, Palermo, and El Piloto-were running along the dark deck of the bulk carrier as across the port, under the illuminated cranes and dock lights, the Felix von Luckner Felix von Luckner was preparing to cast off her mooring lines. was preparing to cast off her mooring lines.

THE light was on in the window of the Cartago Inn. Coy heard Palermo's exhausted-dog, snuffling laugh beside him. ”The lady is packing her bags.” light was on in the window of the Cartago Inn. Coy heard Palermo's exhausted-dog, snuffling laugh beside him. ”The lady is packing her bags.”

They were standing beneath the palms along the city wall, with the port below and behind them. The lighted buildings of the university shone at the end of the empty avenue.