Zamora's Tattoo

CHAPTER 1

Nigel Chapman-Worthington was lost. The noisy souk confused him, although he thought he knew the tangled, Tangier market well. But he had been preoccupied as he threaded his way through the choked Moroccan labyrinth, with its dusty, narrow alleys. Sunlight sliced through rattan shades strung between the crumbling huts. He skirted a mountainous camel that lay in a dusty heap. Turning down a lane almost too narrow for his shoulders, he flattened himself into a doorway so that a screaming Berber could jerk his laden burro by, the wide load grinding along the hollowed-out walls that had been scooped concave from centuries of commerce. Nigel came to a stall where a wizened, earless man sat amid skeins of garish, freshly dyed yarns. Further on, vendors hawked the chemicals the dyers used-bags of aniline, stacks of cinnabar crystals, mounds of scarlet grains. Nigel followed his nose now, the ever-thickening pong of dead flesh from the tanning vats. But he had never come in from this direction. He tried to get his mind off Anna and Pherson.

There was nothing he could do about it now. That was the price of doing business.

Nigel glanced at his watch. The major was not a patient man and Nigel’s last trip had been wasted because of a missed rendezvous.

It came on scurrying feet-the blow in his solar plexus that doubled him over. Now he lay curled in a dark passageway, clutching his crotch, waiting for the kick that would knock his hands away.

He was kicked in the face, then the bare foot, hard as a hoof, stood on his head, grinding his cheek into the filthy cobblestones. Nigel heard the grunts and exertions of the thieves. Skillful hands searched, poking everywhere. Nigel knew better than to struggle. He hoped only, as he lay bent double, gasping for breath, that they would not cut his genitals. A hand tore the wallet from his grasp.

As quickly and as silently as they had descended on him, the bandits were gone.

For a moment Nigel lay, not moving, then, aware that his head was no longer pressed with a heavy foot, he rolled over, sat up, tasted blood. His elbow had taken the weight of the fall and it throbbed dully. He shook his head to clear it of the shock and the stench. He was finally able to stand. Easy old boy, he told himself. The wallet was nothing. A decoy. What had he lost? His license, a EuroBank card and a large amount of virtually worthless Algerian currency. He could cancel the card and replace the driver’s license, but he knew that he would not really have to. The thieves were certainly Arabs. The robbers would get rid of evidence fast, for if caught with stolen property, especially now, they might lose a hand in a public amputation.

Nigel would pay someone in the souk to have the wallet recovered. He stepped into an alleyway and unbuckled his belt. Reaching under, he pried the slit in its under side apart. Under the thin leather, end-to-end around his girth, he had stashed a hundred thousand pesetas in large bills.

He worked his way back along the narrow street. None of the peddlers would meet his eyes. Ahead, a youth in an impeccable galabiyya robe looked at Nigel with interest and curiosity. When he got close, Nigel greeted him in Arabic and pulled him into a doorway.

As the youth listened to Nigel’s proposition, his face showed sympathy and exhaustion. But I have not eaten nor drunk anything all day, he protested.

"I know it is Ramadan. Allah will reward you, and so will I, Nigel told him, pressing a thousand peseta note into his hand. My hotel is the Royal Oman."

The youth stared at the money. I’ll try to get your wallet back. But those thieves were not Moroccans.

"If you find it, bring the wallet. After sunset we’ll eat hjarira soup together."

The serious, narrow face softened. You know us then.

"Aywa, nacam; yes. Nigel answered. Until then, I too, will neither eat nor drink."

The youth, clearly impressed, shoved his hands inside his robe. But why? You are not a believer.

Nigel grunted. I am becoming one.

The boy smiled, touched his forehead and disappeared into an alleyway.

His elbow throbbed, but Nigel was sure, with the instinct of a man who had experienced the certainty of fracture that it was not broken. Now, he had to hurry. He climbed a narrow stairway, the stone eroded by a thousand years of leathery feet. Squinting, he went out into the sunlight. There below him, arranged like the colors on a painter’s palate, shallow wells were cut into the stone. Standing knee deep in the hot dye, as they had done since they were young boys, sweating figures twisted and wrung leather hides in the heat of the day. As Nigel watched this, a voice rasped from a doorway.

Praise Allah.

A hand jerked him into the darkness. Nigel sensed that there was more than one man in the musty darkness. They were men from another place, and they had not washed for some time. The raspy voice was close now and had the sour smell of self-denial, of a man who had not wet his parched mouth since before sunrise. Then the operative has come? the voice asked.

I think so.

The voice hissed, Think? We must know.

Nigel swallowed. He’s like the last one. He could be his brother.

The dry voice seemed to ridicule the idea. The CIA would not be so stupid.

Nigel was able to laugh.

You do not respect them, the bulky man whose form was more visible now, finally said.

Certainly not. Nigel answered. Where is Rashid?

The others chuckled. He could make out three, maybe four, but he could not see any features. It was dark and the men wore their kaf-fiyeh drawn over their faces.

It is not my custom to trade with strangers, Nigel said. Rashid said it would be the same as before.

The raspy voice dropped a tone. He has sent us. But let me assure you that we share, shall we say, his appetites. I must apologize for the roughing up. We had to see that you are not wired.

Nigel now realized the purpose of the thieves.

Return my papers, he snapped.

Of course. Here. He heard his wallet slap the floor. But you’ll need more than that.

I have it. Rashid established the price.

Two hundred fifty thousand.

Nigel made a disdainful noise unique to Libyans and there was a long, stunned silence.

The shadows of the three men in the room moved closer. One of them released a tense, fetid breath. There has been a drowning.

That was the code Rashid had given him. Nigel decided to chance the rest. In the desert? Nigel countered, No, the child lives.

A light snapped on, blinding him. From behind the light the raspy voice was insistent. When will we see him?

A month, perhaps. Nigel said.

Raspy voice said, The major will be pleased.

Nigel pushed the light away, and for an instant, its beam caught the red and white checked pattern of their kaffiyeh. There are technicalities, Nigel said. The child has not been exactly located. But with our instruments, we can hear him crying."

One of the men spat something in Arabic and a sharp point pressed against Nigel’s throat. Its pressure measured the irregular rhythm of the big man’s breathing.

If you are lying, we will eliminate you. Raspy voice snapped his fingers. Like a flea.

Despite the knife against his skin, Nigel bluffed a dry laugh. This must have impressed them, for the point was lifted from his throat. "Did you bring the chocolate?" Nigel pronounced it cho-co-LA-tay.

The light swung out of his eyes to the floor. There, next to dusty feet, a naked brick of hashish lay on the stone. Nigel bent down and pinched off a bit. He put it into his mouth and waited.

Nigel Chapman-Worthington opened his money belt and began to count.

CHAPTER 2

It was late and they were the last two patrons.

The candle threw flickering light on Trigger Denton’s face. Rolf Pherson watched as the Englishman ate hungrily. The two men sat next to drafty windows that overlooked the churning, phosphorescent Mediterranean. The electricity had gone out just after the waiter had set their plates down and hissed RAH-pay, the Spanish name for anglerfish.

Trigger had a square face, framed by a clipped, ginger beard. His blue eyes were sharp and small. As Trigger spoke, they registered a range of emotions-suspicion, surprise, merriment. As he looked closer, Pherson thought he could see in them an abiding disappointment.

Insisting that Pherson use his nickname, Trigger explained that the expatriates in Asa had one thing in common-a past they would rather forget. As a consequence, last names had been dropped. Most went by nicknames or by occupation. Harry the Flood, a plumber. Trigger, the ex-copper. One way to live in the present was to return to a time when Miller was the bloke that ground your wheat. Hearing this, Pherson realized that this white village perched on a barren mountain, the town he had discovered very briefly a year ago, had been a perfect choice.

Trigger had a face you could trust. Just hours ago, Trigger had interrupted the troopers that had detained Pherson at Barajas Airport. The Guardia Civil questioned Pherson’s residence visa, pulled him aside and seemed annoyed at his presence.

They had just begun to search his luggage when Trigger intervened. In badly accented, insistent Spanish, Trigger convinced the troopers that Pherson was his client and that he had come to pick him up. Trigger showed them his British passport. After studying it, the troopers readjusted their patent leather hats. Hatchet faced, they waved them both through.

Grateful for the favor, and wondering about the reason, Pherson sat next to Trigger on the plane to Almeria. During the flight, Trigger said he mistrusted a bored copper. A bored copper was dangerous. He admitted that, before he had come to Spain a few years back, he had been a detective. For Scotland Yard. Now, Trigger had bought a bar in the same Moorish village that Pherson had chosen, Asa. Pherson planned to rent a room in a pensión but Trigger convinced him that there were several comfortable apartments in the village, complete with kitchen, bath, and bedrooms.

For the six months, they could be rented cheaper than any pensión. Another thing Trigger told him, there was no bus from the airport to the village. A taxi cost a hundred dollars. So they had come to Palomares in Trigger’s ancient Mercedes.

Now, in the restaurant, Trigger paused, a nugget of fish impaled on his fork. Although he had ordered them beer, Trigger had not touched his own. Listen, he said, cocking his head, the reflection of the candle dancing in his eyes. Trigger blinked and looked at Pher-son.

Rolf heard only the surf and rattling utensils from the kitchen.

Trigger slipped the bite through his beard, held it in his mouth, and chewed. His mouth froze. There, he said. Hear that? That’s his tattoo all right. He watched Rolf Pherson with raised, expectant brows.

The beer was cold and Pherson was exhausted. He had endured the cramped seats of airplanes and sterile airports for nearly twenty-four hours. He took a swig and put the bottle down. How the hell could you hear a tattoo? Trigger could put more spin on a story than a lefty’s curve ball. The detective made every word count. Trigger had probably been one hell of a cop. Pherson wondered why he had given it up.

The mistral pressed the window. Their candle fluttered, then recovered. They’d been in the restaurant a long time and it was nearly midnight. Pherson’s fish lay half-eaten. It wasn’t bad, but the five-hour time difference had thrown him off. Tired as he was, he could see Trigger was a night owl. A story or two was Trigger’s only price for the ride from the airport. They had talked as the right-drive Mercedes hurtled over narrow mountain roads, the lights shooting off into the night. Trigger had told him he had picked an odd time to come to Spain. Twenty-five years ago, almost to the day, an American B-52 had collided with its tanker. When both planes exploded, four hydrogen bombs had fallen, three on land, one into the sea. Pherson had been a Boy Scout at the time. Luckily, the bombs had not been fused, did not detonate. Not unless you count the TNT collars that blew on the one that had fallen in the cemetery and the other that had gone off a few yards from where they were eating now. The Spanish, in their constant flirtation with death, had named this restaurant La Bomba.

It had been a long time since Pherson had seen a tomato, as real and as red as the one quartered on his plate. But he could handle only the beer. Besides, he’d come to Spain to escape politics. He was convinced that an artist had to be an outlander, suspicious of politics. Sure, as a student, he had demonstrated against Nixon’s war. But now he was convinced that demonstrations meant little. A man should just try to do his own work as well as he could; and his was manipulating the alchemy of light and sensitized silver on paper.

The waiter brought two more cold beers. Trigger shoved both of his toward Pherson. The Englishman stared at the candle, now consumed to the length of a finger. He leaned forward, his face glowing in the flickering light. You’ve not heard of our local hero, have you?

Pherson took a big mouthful of beer.

Right. Trigger rubbed his hands. Legend has that in fifteen sixty nine, during the reign of Philip II, a Barbary pirate, the same bloke that captured Cervantes, managed to land very near here. Right. This Mami leads his band of cutthroats, undetected, along the narrow beach. Oh, his objective is clear enough! Trigger jerked his thumb inland. He is out to nick Vera, Ferdinand and Isabel’s capital. That’d cut off any resistance-ensure an invasion of Saracens, from Africa! His eyes squinted. Africa’s just fifty miles away, he said. "Well. Near here, a few miles up the beach, there’s this tower. Built by the bloody Phoenicians. Before the Romans, even! Still find the likes of them all along the coast. Well, in our tower, on this particular day, is this bloke Zamora. He’s keeping watch, see?

Zamora spots this army of Arab pirates creeping up his beach! Oy! Trigger blinked, shook his head. What to do! Zamora knows calling out is useless for there are no defenders to hear him. Instead, he reckons Mami will flay him alive. But you see, the cliff surrounding the tower, creates this echo. Trigger picked up a saucer in each hand and cupped them together.

Right. So Zamora takes clam shells, and he beats a tattoo. Trigger managed a rhythmic, glassy sound.

From the darkness of the kitchen, one of the waiters laughed.

These shells, mind you, beaten just so, sound like a horse. And with the echo, like cavalry. Zamora, he shouts CHARGE! His voice echoes like a charging brigade! Trigger blinked, mimicking the Pirate leader. RETREEEAT, Mami yells. Laughing, Trigger brought his fist down on the table. And the whole lot run back to their boats and sail back to Morocco.

Trigger sat back and drained a glass of water.

Right then, he said, wiping his lips with a napkin. Your Saracen invasion never comes. Ferdinand defeats the rest of the Moors and kicks them out for good

Trigger took a deep breath and leaned forward, tapping Pherson’s hand. And on some nights, when there is a wind coming over from Morocco, you can hear Zamora rattling his shells.

Pherson thought the story sounded like Monty Python and said so.

Trigger stiffened. Well, those Cambridge and Oxford poofters would know their history, wouldn’t they?

Pherson was puzzled.

Schools for gays, spies and lay-abouts, aren’t they? But, he patted Pherson’s arm and laughed. You might as well know, mate-when it comes to politics, I’m right of Genghis Kahn.

The candle was low. Trigger laid five hundred pesetas on the table.

As they drove away from the restaurant, the surf crashed on the beach. Trigger took a steep turn up the mountain. They came over a rise and Asa perched high up the mountain, bright as a grounded ship. Going up, the Mercedes bucked, began to overheat. Trigger kept up his patter, filling Pherson in on how the town had been revived by the Spanish Little Hollywood, further up the valley. It had been the film site of the Spaghetti westerns of the sixties and seventies. Lawrence of Arabia and the Clint Eastwood westerns had been filmed there. It was still operating for location shots. Finally, wheeling the boiling car through narrow streets, taking corners with an inch to spare, Trigger braked in a little square, it seemed to Pherson, no larger than a basketball court.

The best apartment is up there, he said pointing to a second floor balcony. Let’s take your bags up. I know the owner. You sleep here tonight. No obligation. Tomorrow we’ll get it all sorted out."

The five heavy suitcases and the two boxes of books and camera equipment had to be hauled up the steps. Trigger unlocked the carved door and they lined it up along the wall. Trigger quickly showed him the layout. Spartan, furnished rooms and a balcony, where they looked down the mountain to a dim string of lights that defined the beach. The moon hung close and yellow. The air was warm and smelled, Pherson thought, like blossoms and sand.

Come on, then, Trigger said. I’m taking you to the best bar in town. He clapped Pherson across the back. You’re the first tourist we’ve had in the off season. Don’t get many in January.

Pherson was tired, but the cubic, moonlit houses and the distant roaring of the sea revived him. The cadence of flamenco echoed in the streets and so they left the gurgling Mercedes and turned up the cobblestone incline toward the music.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning, Rolf Pherson’s eyes opened, then closed. In one brief instant, his foggy brain registered planes of apricot, white, and azure. He rolled in the bed toward the familiar warmth of Jo. Instead, his arm bounced on sheets drawn tympan tight over the lumpy mattress.

Spain.

Next to the bed, the window framed white adobe houses strewn like sugar cubes up the saddle of the mountain. Each reflected a different pastel hue in the sunrise, apricots and creams against a cloudless sky.

Pherson scratched his chest where the wool blanket rubbed. Last night’s film replayed in soft focus. Trigger had fed him a good many beers.

Pherson threw back the blanket and set his feet on the cold terrazzo floor. Beside them, shed like skin, his jeans lay collapsed in a compact tube. He stood, stretched, and let out one of his Tarzan yawns. The noise echoed in the apartment and drilled his forehead like lightening.

Out on the balcony, Pherson shielded his eyes. The rising sun was warm against his chest, yet he shivered from the cold. Below him, the village seemed to float. From the valley came distinct sounds. If he searched carefully enough, Pherson could find their source in the lens-sharp air; the barking of a dog became a distant white speck running against the combed red earth of a field. The bray of a burro sawed from an orange grove. A road twisted down through the field and the grove, disappeared around a hillock and reappeared where it met the bright mirror of the Mediterranean. He could hear the surf, magnified in the amphitheater of the valley. Despite his hangover, each sound and color was as fresh as if it had just been created. Because of the grant and with ruthless planning, he was