The White Schooner by Antony Trew Page A

her eyes shone. ‘Oh. It will be fun. I haven’t done anything like this for years.’
    They had reached the end of the pavement and started across the paseo when she said in a low voice, ‘I think we’re being followed.’
    Black felt an involuntary contraction of his muscles, a jangling of alarm bells in his ears, and in his mind’s eye an image of Hassan loomed like a wide-screen close-up.
    ‘By whom?’ he said quietly.
    ‘Man in a black beret. I saw him come down the road behind you when I was waiting. He sat on a bench on the paseo while we talked. Now he’s behind us.’
    ‘It may be coincidence. We’ll soon see. In here.’
    They stepped into a shop where Black bought a box ofmatches. When they came out the man in the beret was looking in the window. With enormous relief he saw that it was not Hassan.
    Black saw that she was worried. ‘Right. Now for test number two.’
    They turned left and started towards the hill, then left again into a dusty road which led to the fish market, then right until they had described a circle and come once again to the tourist office. Black looked back over his shoulder. The man in the beret was behind them, looking into the toyshop window.
    ‘Clever girl. He’s following us all right.’
    ‘Why?’ Her face screwed up with surprise.
    ‘Haven’t a clue. But let’s give him a neurosis. You go into the Montesol. Spend five minutes in the loo. Then out through the back entrance and down to Aviaco’s office. Near the bus stop. Know it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. In a taxi.’
    ‘What will you do now?’
    ‘See which of us he follows.’
    She walked across the paseo towards the Montesol while Black watched the man in the black beret who was fidgeting with his hands and showing other signs of nervousness. There was a line of taxis opposite. Black took the head of the line. ‘El Corsario,’ he said. As they pulled away he saw the man in the beret move across towards the rank.
    Black took two one-hundred peseta notes from his wallet and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘At El Corsario,’ he said in Spanish, ‘ask for Señora Alba. Bring her to the Montesol. If she is not there, don’t wait for more than five minutes.’
    The taxi turned right into Conde Rosellon, then left along Calle Anibal. Two cars ahead slowed down for people on the corner who were waiting to cross.
    Black looked through the rear window. There was no taxi following. He thrust the peseta notes into the driver’s hand. ‘Turn right and drop me,’ he said. As the taxi turned into Calle Montgri, scraping by the people on the corner, he slipped out and joined them outside the shoe shop. He looked back to see a taxi begin its turn into Calle Anibal.
    Before it had rounded the corner he went into the shoe shop. Through the glass of the shopfront he saw it go by, the man in the black beret leaning forward, engrossed in the pursuit. Funny, he thought, if there is a Señora Alba at El Corsario. He rejoined the shoppers on the pavement and made for the harbour. Minutes later he stopped a passing taxi and asked the driver to take him to Aviaco. On the way he thought of what had happened, and it left him worried. It was he and not Manuela who was being tailed. And then, as if one shock, one complication, were not enough, his thoughts went to Werner Zolde and he wondered how the German was dealing with Hassan: had he started yet, if not at what time would he, and how? And would he and Lejeune have followed up his suggestion?
    They must be discreet, he thought, my God they must be discreet. Failure on their part could destroy the whole operation . He knew what Kagan would have done once Hassan’s presence on the island had been known, and it was precisely for that reason that Black had not informed ZID. Kagan would have called the operation off at once rather than have it compromised. ‘We can wait,’ he would have said. ‘Another month, another year, what