Medusa

Soldiers and bandsmen fanned out, climbing the slope behind us, and Alvarez in a shaken voice asked us all to go down to the pavilion where there would be some wine and something to eat. Would we go now please, then the authorities could take any statements they might need. He glanced down at the body of the Mayor. A soldier was covering it with a plastic sheet encrusted with cement. Alvarez made the sign of the cross and turned abruptly, walking stiffly erect down to the road. I watched Gonzalez Renato stand for a moment, head bowed over the body, then go to his car. Most of the guests did the same, and watching them pay their respects to the inert bundle that only a moment before had been so full of vitality, I had the feeling they were not thinking about Jorge Martinez, but about themselves, and wondering what would happen now. Politically he was the nearest to a strong man the island had known since the end of the French occupation in 1802. Now he was dead and nobody to replace him, nobody who had the charisma and the public appeal to guide a volatile, insular and basically peasant people into an increasingly uncertain future.

We were held in the hospitality pavilion most of the afternoon. Plain-clothes police arrived, noting down names and addresses, interviewing those nearest to the murdered man and anyone who might have had a glimpse of the gunman. The food disappeared almost at a gulp, the wine too, the babble of voices on a high pitch as speculation reached the verge of hysteria. Who had done it — the extreme right, the extreme left, Eta? Or was it a delayed reaction to events in Africa? Salvemo Meaorca.For myself, and the scattering of other ex-pats attending the ceremony, it was not a pleasant experience. We might not be directly responsible, but you could see it in their eyes — we were to blame.

There was something quite primitive in the way some of them looked at us, as though we had the Evil Eye. And the Guardiain particular reacted in a similar manner, their manner of questioning increasingly hostile. It was almost as though they had convinced themselves that one of us, one of the extranjeros,must know who had done it and be connected with it in some way. You could see it from their point of view. This was an island. To kill like that, in cold blood, it had to be somebody from outside — a terrorist, some representative of a foreign organisation, not one of their own people. It was a gut reaction. They were looking for a scapegoat, but the fact remained that all of us who were being questioned, all except the children and a mother who had gone looking for her little boy, we were all of us gathered there in full view, so that in the end they had to let us go.

Soo and I didn't talk much on the drive back. It was late afternoon, the air full of the clean smell of pines and everywhere the fields massed with colour, the predominantly golden carpet of flowers patched with the startling white of wild narcissi, the sun blazing out of a blue sky. What a lovely day for a killing! What the hell was wrong with Man that he couldn't enjoy the beauty of the world around him? Politics. Always politics. I felt almost physically sick. There was so much here in Menorca that I loved — the sea, the sun, the peace. And now it was shattered. Martinez had been much more than just the Alcalde of Mahon. He had been a power throughout the island.

That evening several of us met in a restaurant near the square in Villa Carlos. But though we talked late into the night we achieved nothing except a fragile sense of solidarity. There were men there who had been in the island many years, but though they tried to kid themselves they were now Menorquins, they knew in their heart of hearts they were still foreigners. We were all of us extranjeros.I was not in a happy frame of mind when I finally returned home. Soo, thank God, was already in bed and asleep. I undressed in the dark, a breeze blowing the curtains. Lying there, eyes closed, my mind went over and over the events of the day, the talk at that crowded restaurant table. Too much brandy, too much coffee. And then the phone rang.

I thought it might be America. Sometimes Americans forget the time difference. I rolled over, reaching blindly for the receiver, but Soo was before me. 'Yes?' She switched on the light. And then, after a moment: 'For you.' She passed it across to me and turned over, away from the light, as a man's voice spoke in my ear: 'Wade here. We've just got the news. You were there, I gather.'

I came awake then, wondering who the hell he was. 'Who is it? Who's speaking?'

'Wade,' he repeated. 'Commander Wade.'

I remembered then. 'Where are you speaking from?'

'London,' he said. 'Where did you think?' He had a quiet, crisp, well-educated voice. 'Did you see him?'

'Who?'

The man who shot Martinez, of course. Did you recognise him?'

'I didn't see him. How should I? Nobody saw him, not to recognise him.' And I asked him, 'What's it got to do with you, anyway?'

But he ignored that. 'We have a picture here. It's just come in. It shows you seated right beside the Mayor. You must have seen what happened.'

'Of course I did. But the shot came from the villa behind and I was looking at Jorge Martinez, we all were, watching him as he pitched forward down the steps on to the terrace below. The police have full information, they took statements — '

'Yes, yes, we've got a telex copy of your statement here.'

Then why the hell are you phoning me? It's after one in the morning.'

'I'm well aware of the time.' His tone was slightly weary and I guessed he had been at some Navy office most of the evening.

'What are you, Intelligence?' I asked. But all he said was, 'This is an open line, so let's keep to the point. I'm phoning you because Lloyd Jones reported you'd been very helpful in locating a friendof his.' His emphasis on the word friend made it clear he didn't want the man's name mentioned. 'I understand you have now exchanged an unfinished villa and an old fishing boat for his catamaran. Where is he, do you know?' And when I said I had no idea, that he was away fishing somewhere, he asked when I had last seen him.

'Almost two weeks ago.' And I added, 'What business is it of yours? Anyway, you have my statement. You've just said so.'

'Yes, but there's nothing in it about your dealings with this friend of Lloyd Jones. We need to know where he is now, and where he was at the time the Mayor was shot. Hullo, hullo! Are you still there?' His voice had sharpened 'Yes, I'm still here.'

'You didn't answer.'

'Why should I?' I was fully awake now and wondering what his real purpose was. I've no intention of acting for your organisation.'

'What organisation?'

Intelligence,' I said. 'I want no part of it and I'm going to hang up now.'

'No. Don't do that. Not for the moment.' He said it as though he were giving an order on his own quarterdeck.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Goodbye.'

'Ahmed Bey. Remember? And the Mattarella brothers.'

'What do you mean?' The receiver was back at my ear, a quite involuntary movement.

'Kenitra,' he said. 'On the coast of Morocco.' And he added, 'You see, I've had a few enquiries made about you. I don't think I need say any more. Now answer my questions please.' There was a coldness in his voice that hadn't been there before, a certainty that I would do what he asked. 'Have you seen our friend since you handed the Santa Mariaover to him ten days ago?'