The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Chapter seven

The sound of the engine trembled on the night air, diminishing and fading as the car followed the curving road down the mountains to the coastal highway. When the sound died away and only the wind stirred the silence, Peter sighed unhappily, for he felt very weary then, and very much alone.

“Oh, you’re such a stubborn man,” Grace said. “Worse than that, you’re wilful and selfish. You don’t care a bit about your old friends. Or about me. How could you send them away, Peter?”

“Do you imagine it was easy?” He couldn’t keep a trace of bitterness from his voice. “Don’t you realise how much I’d like them with me? And how much I need them?”

Grace touched her eye with a handkerchief. “When I found Mr. Bendell in Liege, he was overjoyed at the chance to help you. But he felt you’d balk at using Canalli. That’s the only reason we didn’t send for him. They didn’t dream you’d turn them down, Peter.”

It had not been easy, he thought sadly. He had told Bendell and the Irishman that there was no place for them in his plans, and they had had to take his word for it. But the Irishman, his eyes bright and hard as diamonds, had said, “Just one question, lad. Is the little bitch forcing you into this? Has that black hearted harpy got something on you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Peter!”

“Grace, keep out of this.”

“What is it, lad? Give us a straight answer, for the love of Mary. Has that rotten God-blasted bitch, Angela, got you where the hairs are short?”

“No.”

Bendell had sighed and said: “Peter, my instincts tell me you are being noble.”

“You should know me better than that.”

“I do know you, Peter. I know you are generous and loyal beyond the boundaries of simple sanity. But as it was in the past, so it shall be now. You led and the rest of us followed. If you truly don’t need us, Peter, we will go. Our presence here would only be dangerous to you.”

“I truly don’t need you, old friends.”

They had sighed and raised their glasses to him in a last salute.

Now they were gone. Even the sound of the car had died away in the windy mountains.

Grace walked to the bar at the end of the long living-room, and there was a suggestion of defiance in the decisive tap of her high heels on the cold marble floor. “I have a good notion to get drunk.” She wore a black suede dress and black nylons, and her body seemed to merge with the shadows; in Peter’s fancy, her bright face shone through the gloom like a glorious star mounted on a pedestal of exquisitely wrought ebony. “I should have told them the truth,” she said, splashing whisky recklessly into a cut-glass tumbler. “Yes. I should have told them about Angela and the film. And that you’re risking your life to keep them safe and free.”

“I’m very grateful you didn’t.”

“It was cruel not to. How do you imagine they’ll feel when they learn the truth? When they pick up a newspaper one morning and find that you’ve been shot and killed? Or are in prison?”

“Damn it, they’re not going to learn the truth. Stop worrying about me. I should think you’d have plenty to do just worrying about yourself?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Peter took the Ace of Diamonds from his pocket. It was quite soggy from his dunking in the lily pond; the gryphon’s head was streaked and blurred almost beyond recognition. “Let’s talk about you now,” he said. “I became a thief for what may have been a ridiculous reason, but my motives were serious and honourable. What excuse did you have?”

“I didn’t have any excuse. I didn’t need one.”

“There. That’s something to worry about.”

“Oh! What a moral snob you are! You look at me in disdain because I didn’t have a nice, sentimental justification for stealing things. Supposing I told you I accidentally set off a landslide that wiped out a convent? And that I stole money so the nuns could rebuild it? Would that make you feel better?”

“Grace! Is that true?”

“Of course not, you silly man. I don’t boast about what I did. But I don’t apologise for it.”

“Then you are simply an amoral criminal. I don’t see anything cute or funny about that.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so unhappy about it. Does it really mean that much to you?”

Peter slumped into a sofa and put his sodden shoes up on a coffee table. “Yes,” he said gloomily. “It means everything.”

Unexpectedly her mood changed; she smiled gently and tremulously, and sat beside him. She kissed his cheek and put her head against his shoulder. “Do you know why I love you so much? It’s because you care about my soul. You’d like it to be as fair as my body, wouldn’t you?”

She turned her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. “As fresh and fragrant as a bowl of spring roses. I’d do anything to please you, Peter. But I can’t do anything about my soul. I mean, I can’t get at it with a pail and scrub brush. Would you like to hear the story of my life?”

“Would it be the truth?”

“I suppose you have a right to be beastly. I did lie to you once. But I won’t now. My father died when I was a little girl. My mother remarried a few years later. He was a jolly little man with waxed moustaches and cheeks like apples. I loved him very much. Paul travelled a lot and when he came home he always brought me presents. Combs, mirrors, hair bows boxes of candy, dresses with lots of petticoats. When I learned, much later, of course, that he was a thief, it didn’t really make any difference to me. Paul never hurt anyone in his life. He would have fainted away at the notion of carrying a knife or a gun. And he only stole from the rich, of course.”

“That’s because the rich have the money. Robin Hood figured that out, too.”

She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Now you sound more like yourself, darling. Anyway, Paul got old and couldn’t work, and we became poor. There were various uncles and aunts living with us by then, and the pinch was uncomfortable. It was very hard on Paul! He sat in the garden sighing over the past, and planning jobs just to keep busy, the way some people do crossword puzzles. The plans were so clever it seemed a pity not to use them. So I used them. It seemed quite normal, like carrying on the family business.”

“So you all lived in luxury once again?”

“Well, we were comfortable at least.”

“Grace, this is terrible. This flip, casual tone, this total lack of remorse, is ghastly.”

She sighed. “I told you I couldn’t do anything about my soul.”

“All right then, why did you give it up?”

“It was because of Debby. When she was two-and-a-half or three, she told me she wanted to be a fireman. No, I’m quite serious. It made me think. You see, I had decided that there was something hereditary about what I did. Some compulsion that I wasn’t responsible for. Naturally, I thought Debby and the other children would grow up with the same well, proclivities. But here was Debby, a mere babe, striking out in a totally different direction.” Peter sighed with relief. “So you realised that what you were doing was wrong.”

“No. I realised that stealing wasn’t inevitable. I had enough money, so I gave it up.”

“And you made no attempt to make amends? You have no remorse for what you did?”

“No. I guess not. Actually, I never thought about it very much.” She put her hands on his cheeks, and turned his head to make him meet her eyes. “It’s not important now, Peter,” she said softly and urgently.

“All that matters is that you stay alive and stay free. Please take me in your arms, and love me as I love you. And say you’ll let me help you in Pamplona.”

“No. Absolutely no.”

“You think I’m not good enough. Is that it?”

“In a way you won’t understand, yes.”

“Oh, you brute!” She leaped to her feet, hands clenching spasmodically, lambent sparks of anger flashing from her splendid eyes.

It was marvelous to see; Peter was as entranced as if he were witnessing an electrical storm exploding over black, heaving seas.

“I’m sick of your lofty moralising,” she said furiously. “You patronise me because I was a common, ordinary thief. Because I didn’t excuse my crimes by pretending I had some mystical partnership with God. Well, I’ll show you, Peter Churchman. I may not have a lily-white soul; but I’ve got ten lily-white fingers that are just as clever as yours. If you won’t let me help, I’ll do the job on my own. And here’s what you’ll find when you open that vault in the Banco de Bilbao.”

She plucked the Ace of Diamonds from his hand and waved it defiantly in his face. “Something to press in your souvenir book. My calling card.”

Peter was shaken, not by her threats, but by her passion. With her slim strong legs spread wide, and the anger blazing purely in her eyes, she was like a creature struck from the ice and rock of mythology, proud, indomitable, fantastic.

“You are wonderful,” he said simply. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“Then why won’t you let me help you?”

“I love you too much. And secondly, I don’t need you.”

“Oh, you are cruel. You melt my heart with one word and break it with the next.”

And suddenly, for the first time since he had known her, there was weariness and defeat in the proud line of her shoulders. She turned quickly away, but not before he saw the bright flash of tears in her eyes. Peter wished desperately that he could find words that might give her some measure of hope or comfort, but he realised that anything he said would only ring with a hollow and hurtful banality. He turned to the door.

“Peter?”

Yes?”

She looked steadily at him. “Will you promise me one thing?”

“Yes?”

“If you need me, if you really need me, will you promise to let me help you?”

The adverb she had used made it less difficult for him to lie; for he knew he could coat the word ‘really’ with many slippery philosophical meanings. “Yes, you have my promise, dear.”

Perhaps she believed him, perhaps she didn’t; her eyes and face, calm with hurt, told him nothing. He sighed and went away.

That night he wrote dejectedly in his journal: To be indifferent to Divine Law is to put your faith in the practical; and see what a botch practical people always make of things. Grace must not be indifferent; she can’t be. After a moment of reflection, he addressed an irrelevant inquiry to the page: Is Atheism really the best defence against Agnosticism? Then his mood changed, and he wrote: She is more philosophical about this mess than I am. I am censorious. (Moral snob?) While she is realistic. (Moral spastic?) Everything is suddenly turned around. Stay awake, dreamer, for things are not as they seem. Not ever.

He re-read what he had written and tried to make sense of it. There was a kernel of truth hidden away somewhere, but he couldn’t find it.

All in all, he decided morosely, it wasn’t one of his better efforts.

Peter wished he were someone else, or someone different.

Thinking of it, he wrote: In time of crisis the truly wise man panics; for the cool of head and stout of heart are always invited to repel attackers.

Peter had a talk with Angela before he left for Gibraltar the following morning. Francois was not present.

“He’s running on the beach,” she explained with a slow, sweet smile.

“Every morning and every afternoon, he runs on the beach. He’s quit smoking, too. Do you imagine he’s worried about the bulls?”

“I see how that possibility distresses you.”

Angela’s smile became silky. “Poor man. He’s extremely sensitive to physical pain. Perhaps it’s because of things he saw and did in the war.” She lay spread-eagled on a double lounge, immolating her slim body to the rising sun. White patches of gauze covered her eyes, but the soft, dreaming curve of her lips betrayed a sensual stir behind the delicate shell of her forehead. When she stretched her arms above her head, the rise of her ribs gracefully rounded the gleaming hollows between her small breasts and hips.

“Are you worried about the bulls, Peter?”

“I can handle my end of the job, I think.”

“You were always so brave.”

“But you’re going to make a mess of yours.”

“Oh?” she rolled on to her stomach and arranged herself comfortably.

“Would you like to rub some cream on my back?”

“I didn’t come here to do Francois’s chores. Tell me this: do you have any intelligent plans for getting the jewels out of Spain?”

She smiled. “Francois has no zest for his chores since he began training. He eats yoghourt and salt pills and vitamins, and sleeps at night on the sofa. But it isn’t jewels, Peter, it’s diamonds. You will take only diamonds. The Contessa of Altamira’s Net and Trident of diamonds. The Diamond Flutes of Carlos. Nothing else.”

“And have you thought of what will happen when they’re found to be missing? Every customs point will close with a crash. A ring of guns and troops will circle the whole country.”

“Yes, but with luck they’ll be too late. You and Francois will have the diamonds on Sunday. The bank remains closed till Monday. By then by Sunday night actually the Flutes of Carlos and the Countess of Altamira’s Net and Trident will have been flown from Spain under a diplomatic seal.” She smiled and moved her feet slowly up and down like a swimmer. “We have another partner, Peter, a South African with the embassy in Madrid. He and Francois and I will be thousands of miles from Spain when the theft is discovered. The real trick is that the international diamond cartels will do anything to prevent these stones from reaching the market. There are collectors, of course, who wouldn’t give a damn that they were stolen; in fact that might even add to their value in certain areas. And so everything’s been arranged. You may set your mind at ease, Peter. Angela has her specialities, as you have yours.”

She removed the white gauze patches from her eyes and looked at him without noticeable friendliness. “But my future plans don’t concern you. I just want you to realise I’ll be comfortable. Thinking of that should amuse you. Now let’s talk about that great ox, Phillip. I don’t like him, I don’t trust him.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s something cold and cruel in his hands. When he helps me from his shoulders I feel that he’d enjoy snapping my spine like a celery stalk. And when he thinks no one is watching, he stares at Francois in a strange fashion. As if he despises him.”

“You can’t blame Phillip for sharing a majority view.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I’ve explained that.”

“Then explain it again.”

Her mood was getting worse, he saw. He shrugged. “I got talking with him in Pamplona. I saw he had the three things I wanted: greed, physical strength, and a lack of imagination.”

“I want you to get rid of him.”

He shook his head. “Either I run things, or I don’t. Make up your mind.”

“All right,” she said slowly. She sat up and regarded him with an appraising smile. “I really don’t like you, Peter. Do you realise that?”

“Yes, and it grieves me keenly. Now let’s talk about the film, shall we? I want it the morning Francois and I enter the bank. Francois will bring it along with him. Otherwise, I won’t blow the vault. Do you understand?”

“What makes you think you can give me ultimatums?”

“Because, Angela, I don’t like you either. And the tensile strength of my bondage isn’t infinite; you’d be wise not to strain it.”

“Peter! What would I gain by double-crossing you?”

“Why, nothing, of course.” He smiled into the shimmering lights of her narrowing eyes.

“I’ve sent Phillip on to Pamplona. I suggest you and Francois leave tomorrow. We’re almost at the point of no return now. So remember my terms: no film, no diamonds.”

She smiled back at him and nodded slowly.

Peter rose to leave. The crucial information he took away with him was that their trust and confidence in one another was non-existent. If faith could move mountains, theirs wouldn’t budge feather.

At Gibraltar British destroyers cruised over the green waters between Spain and Africa; the broad white tail of the tourist ferry was hull-down on its way to Tangier; whistles blasted the mild air, and gulls flew about with an expertise that seemed tinged with panic; fishermen with brandy and cheap watches and hashish in their boats rowed steadily but cautiously towards a Dutch freighter anchored in the Straits, while on the Rock itself, Indians and Tommies and Spaniards mingled in the streets, and children played cricket in squares ringed with venerable cannons.

Mr. Shahari’s shop was in the High Street. Bright silken kimonos and black lace negligees fluttered over the sidewalk, offering splintered glimpses of merchandise piled up behind dusty glass windows. For tourists and seamen there were Swiss watches, Toledo blades, watered perfumes, cuckoo clocks, banderillas in red and white streamers, figures of the Virgin and the Buddha, jade necklaces and bracelets, tambourines, castanets, guitars, and gaudy scarves emblazoned with the images of Roy Rogers and Gary Cooper, of stallions nuzzling mares in front of Canadian sunsets, of the peerless Manolete gazing sorrowfully at idealised bulls and sefloritas.

As Peter hurried towards this cornucopia of frivolities, he ran into Cathy Clark.

“Oh, Peter, how lucky. I’m so worried. I’ve got to talk to you about Morgan.”

At sight of her, Peter’s soul had curdled like an oyster dropped in boiling milk. That reaction was hardly fair, he realised; Cathy was young and innocent, and her voice was not at all like most Americans, but still, she had been in his office when he had received the summons from Angela how many decades ago had that been? and her presence recalled the shock of that moment all too vividly.

“I’m very rushed.”

“But Morgan’s in terrible shape, Peter. I went to see him yesterday. He’s going up to Pamplona with those ghastly Americans. Do you know them? One is so hairy he sheds. He really does. And the other one, his name’s Tonelli, I think, he looks like, well, like he’d love giving a multiple hotfoot to a centipede. Have you met them?”

“Yes.”

“They’re So cruel to him. They call him Fatso and Porky. And he doesn’t rant and rave like he used to, he just sits there and heaves big sighs. Are you a lawyer, Peter?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Morgan seems to think you are. Peter, he’s in trouble. I know it.

Can’t you do something about him?”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

She frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know. But those men have a hold on him. He shouldn’t go to Pamplona with them.”

“Cathy, if Morgan wants to go to Pamplona, I can’t stop him. I’m late now. Excuse me.”

In the small office behind his shop, Mr. Shahari smiled complacently at heaps of merchandise on his desk. “I believe it’s all here, Mr. Churchman. The diet crackers and diet chocolate. The walkie-talkies, everything.”

Peter inspected the walkie-talkies, and placed them in his attaché case, along with the crackers and cans of milk.

“There will be no trouble with those items,” Mr. Shahari said. “In fact, it will please the Spanish customs officials to find a wealthy man who must nourish himself on dry crackers and milk that tastes like chalk. It will make them pleased with the prospect of the chickens and rice and wines that are waiting for them in their own homes. But as for the other things,” he looked soberly at the shining heap of precision tools on his desk, “they are another matter altogether.”

The bits and braces and drills sparkled palely in the light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. They looked powerful and cruel, like ferocious metallic animals, with deadly little jaws, savage claws, rows of glistening pointed teeth. They actually looked hungry, Peter thought, as if they were eager to start tearing and champing at a banquet of bolts and hinges and locks.

“You will need luck,” Mr. Shahari said.

“I know.”

“In fact, you’ll need a miracle.”

From the alley behind Mr. Shahari’s shop came the sound of low and mournful piping. Peter looked at his watch.

“Maybe there’s my miracle.”

Mr. Shahari raised his eyebrows. “No, Mr. Churchman. That is only a knife sharpener.”

Peter opened the back door of the shop. The old tinker with the mossy cheeks stood beside his wagon in the alley.

“You see, I told you that you could depend on me,” he said. The old man seemed in high spirits; his smile was wide, and his eyes gleamed with conspiratorial excitement. “We’ll play a good trick on them, eh senor?” There was a wine bottle in his pocket.

Peter collected the drills and braces and carried them to the doorway.

After a glance up and down the alley, he went out, side and spread the tools on the work surface of the tinker’s wagon. The old man smeared them all with thick coatings of black grease and, one by one, dropped them into the wooden tub of dirty water lashed to the side of his rig. On top of them he threw a half-dozen broken knives, and several dented pots and pans. When they disappeared from sight, he pantomimed smoothing the surface of the water with his hands, as if he were tucking them all away in bed. This set him to laughing hugely.

Overcome, he clutched his sides, and turned a flushed and merry face to Peter.

“What a trick!” he cried, between gasps. “What a trick!”

“Yes,” Peter said, a bit nervously, and glanced at his watch. “Now you must reach Spanish customs at exactly four-thirty. Before the day labourers check out. Got that?”

“You can depend on me,” the old tinker said, and, still laughing heartily, he trundled his wagon off down the alley.

“It’s very clever,” Mr. Shahari said. “I wish you luck, Mr. Churchman. Now, would you care to glance at this bill?”

Peter lunched late at the Queens. He had a fine meal. Prawns, paella, lamb chops, and assorted cheeses, which he funnelled down with the aid of a half-bottle of Banda Azul and several brandies. Then, as the sun and his spirits began to sink, each inevitably and irrevocably, he paid the cheque and went off to collect his car.

The standards and guidons of historic regiments sang in the breezes above the ramparts of the Rock. On a cricket pitch near O’Hara’s Battery, a sergeant-major shattered the air with furious roars at a platoon of drilling soldiers.

Peter drove with outward composure past landmarks whose names rang with the march of empire; the Bastion of Orange, Ragged Staff, and St. Jago’s Barracks but his thoughts were not of cavalry charges and riotous natives, but of customs officers a mile or so ahead, with their neat uniforms and white gloves and X-ray eyes.

The barriers were down at the airfield. He waited for a BEA. jet to come in and land, then drove across the runway and joined the tail-end of a queue of cars and trucks waiting to be checked through into Spain.

In another line were labourers, burrows, horse-drawn wagons, tradesmen pushing handcarts.

The two lines came together as they neared the customs point. Peter cut his engine and studied the officers who were examining luggage and parcels in the cars ahead of him. Sometimes it was possible to sense their mood and to guess at the probable intensity of their inspection.

On occasion this amounted to a smile and a casual wave in the direction of Spain. But today things looked serious. Tourists were being sent with their luggage into the offices that adjoined the checkpoint.

Labourers were emptying rucksacks on to the ground. White-gloved hands poked into burlap bags slung over burros, delved into suitcases and valises, fingered and threaded their way through the contents of bundles and blanket rolls.

Peter spotted his tinker in the line opposite him. The old man was advancing on the customs point in noisy stops and starts; when he braked his wagon the pots and pans hanging above the work bench banged together like cymbals; when he shoved it forward they set up another tinny clamour, and the water in the wooden tub sloshed over the sides and made black patches in the yellow earth.

The old man saw Peter and smiled widely at him. They were abreast of one another now, not ten feet apart. The tinker waved at Peter. Peter looked away. He could feel his heart pounding.

“Senor! Senor!”

Peter gave him a fleeting smile to quiet him. The old man chuckled, and winked at him.

An officer came over to Peter’s car.

“You have any firearms? Whisky? Cigarettes?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The old man knows you, eh? Please open your briefcase.”

“Yes, he came up to my villa last week to sharpen the knives. He’s a good man. Very honest and industrious.”

“The briefcase, please.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Another officer was inspecting the tinker’s wagon, peering into pots and pans, gingerly picking over a tray full of dull and broken knifes.

“These crackers and cans of milk? They are for your children?”

“No, they’re for me.”

The officer looked at him sceptically.

“You like such food?”

“Well, it’s not a question of liking it. I’m trying to lose some weight, you see.”

The officer shrugged. “We will lose it all when we die. Why hurry?” He examined the walkie-talkies with more interest. “And these?”

“They are radios,” Peter explained their use, and the officer copied down their serial numbers.

“Have a good trip, senior.”

“Thank you very much.”

In the opposite line the tinker grinned slyly at Peter. The officer who had been looking over his wagon was apparently satisfied. He stepped back and waved the old man on to Spain.

Peter slowly let out his breath. In the ultimate analysis, he thought, everything hung always on slender threads of chance; one could try to anticipate all eventualities, erect the stoutest possible barricades against the unforeseen or unexpected, and be prepared for any conceivable fall of the dice and all to no avail.

For there were strains one couldn’t predict, stresses one couldn’t imagine. And these had a maddening way of adding their weight to considerations at precisely the wrong moment, at exactly the moment, in fact, when the gossamer threads of chance were already stretched to the breaking point.

Fate had an inexhaustible supply of booby traps, an infinite variety of sneak punches. She (or was it he?) was always waiting to let you have one in the groin or behind the ear. Cleverness was only half of it; you had to be lucky.

But now Peter’s luck seemed to be holding strong. The tinker was on his way, pushing past the customs officer, with all his pots and pans banging a cheerful farewell to the Rock. Peter said a silent prayer and started his car.

And it was then that all the threads of chance began to snap!

A jet flew over screaming like a banshee. Dogs raced away from the noise in mindless circles, eyes rolling, ears flat. The jet banked and a gust of wind intensified the squeal and hiss of ruptured air. A burro brayed deafeningly, broke away from his master, lashed out with his heels at anyone who came near him. He backed up to the tinker’s wagon, kicking at it savagely, and one of his bony, rock-hard hooves splintered a stave in the wooden tub bolted to the side of the rig.

Peter watched in horror as water began to trickle from the cracked tub; he could not have been more dismayed if his own life’s blood were spilling out on the ground at the custom officer’s feet.

The level of the water in the tub dropped slowly and steadily, revealing pots and pans first, then an assortment of knives, and finally the grease-smeared tools he had acquired from Mr. Shahari.

The customs officer looked at them with a frown, more puzzled, it seemed, than suspicious. Peter silently cursed the old tinker who stood frozen with apprehension, a weak and guilty grin flickering through his mossy beard. Move! Go! He tried desperately to catch his eye, but the tinker was staring at the customs officer like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

Slowly, and with an air of surgical fastidiousness, the officer drew off his immaculate gloves and tucked them under his belt. He had not quite reached a decision, he was not thoroughly committed, Peter realised with a flare of hope; his ferret-like instincts had not yet caught a whiff of quarry. He shrugged and glanced at one of his incurious colleagues, inviting the officer’s attention to the dully glittering objects in the wooden tub. The second officer frowned and strolled over to the wagon, pulling off his gloves.

Peter sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. A sudden, accelerating roar sounded behind him; and Peter gasped as he flicked a glance at his-rear-vision mirror. “No!” he shouted, vainly and fruitlessly, and threw himself to one side.

There was a bucking, sickening crash. The impact flung him against the dashboard, and he collapsed to the floor as batteries of brilliant lights exploded painfully inside his head.

Dimly he heard squalls of agitation and confusion howling outside his car. There were shouts, screams, brayings, barkings. Someone jerked open the door that partially supported his weight, and Peter fell out of his car on to the concrete ramp of the customs point.

A voice said tearfully: “I must have stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Are you hurt, senora?”

“No, no. But I deserve to be. The fool that causes the trouble always gets off without a scratch.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, senora. Machinery isn’t infallible. It makes mistakes, too.”

Another solicitous Spanish voice said: “I believe you’ve bruised your knee, senora.”

“It’s nothing. Oh, please see if he’s hurt.”

Peter raised his cheek from the cold and oily concrete, and blinked in confusion.

Grace stood encircled by a cluster of sympathetic customs officers, dabbing at the pretty tears sparkling in her eyes. One of the men whipped an immaculate handkerchief from his tunic and applied it delicately to the scratch on her knee.

Another officer waved impatiently at the line of labourers.

“Look, move along. There’s no need to gape and stare. Old man! Get your wagon moving. You’ve been cleared, haven’t you?”

“Si, si, si, senor Grace sank down beside Peter. “Are you all right, sir?”

Peter watched the old tinker trundling his wagon into Spain, knees and elbows pumping like pistons. Therattle of pots and pans was soft and sweet in the mild air.

“I’m fine,” Peter said with a sigh.

Grace put a hand gently but tentatively on his arm, “May I help you? Please?”

There were forms to fill out, statements to sign and Peter’s car to be towed back to the garage on the Rock. Grace’s Bentley, however, was not seriously damaged. She offered Peter a ride, and this gesture pleased the customs officers. They smiled approvingly, their hearts and fancies quickened by the sweet and logical fashion in which the Lord provided Samaritans with victims to look after.

Waving and smiling, they watched the Bentley roll on to Spain.

In the car Grace said quietly: “Are you angry with me?”

“I’d be a fool if I were. What did you do? Go to Mr. Shahari?”

“Yes.”

“He told you what I was up to?”

“Oh, no. But there was a bill on his desk with your name on it. I can read things upside down quite well. Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I knew what you were trying to do.” She smiled nervously. “You didn’t answer my question, Peter. May I help you?”

He sighed. This was what she wanted, what she relished, what her soul was cut and shaped for; why should he cavil at using her, any more than he would hesitate to use the deadly and functional tools he had acquired from Mr. Shahari?

“On one condition,” he said quietly. “That you do exactly as I tell you. Will you promise me that?”

“Yes, I will, Peter.”

“Very well then. Listen.”