Medusa

‘How can they?’ I said. ‘I was sitting there in full view when it happened.’

‘Yes, but the gun. I take it they haven’t found it yet.’ And he added, ‘You see, they don’t know how Barriago came by it. He couldn’t have entered Menorca with the thing tucked under his arm. And what did he do with it afterwards? Do you know?’

‘Of course not.’

He didn’t say anything then, and I wondered whether he believed me.

‘Has Lloyd Jones left Gib yet?’ I asked him.

‘I can’t answer that.’ And when I persisted, he said he was not privy to the detailed movements of ships. That was when I asked him what department of the Navy he was. He hesitated before answering. ‘Planning. Forward Planning.’

‘Then perhaps you can tell me if Medusa will be putting in to Malta.’

‘I think she may.’

‘Before or after she visits Mahon?’

‘Before probably.’ And then he asked me what my eta Grand Harbour would be. ‘You’re leaving tomorrow, you say?’

‘No, not tomorrow.’ I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t just sail out of the port here and head straight for Malta, it’ll have to be the early hours of the following day,’ I said. Carp could motor the catamaran round to Es Grau, or Port d’Addaia, one of the smaller inlets, then we could slip out when everyone was asleep.

‘And your eta?’ he asked again.

‘Five days from now,’ I said, if we’re lucky and the weather holds.’

‘I see.’ He seemed to be thinking something out. Then to my surprise he said, ‘Well, good luck!’ He said it in quite a cheerful, friendly voice, and with that he rang off.

II

Malta Incident

Chapter One

The weather, in fact, did not hold. Carp had the boat ready for sea well before noon, he and Luis motoring her across to the commercial quay where they took on fuel and water, cleared customs and immigration, and loaded the fresh stores Soo had ordered, also the last-minute purchases. They were away by 14.30. By then it was blowing force four from just north of east, the wind funnelling up the harbour so that they were motor-sailing with jib and main hard in.

I was there to see them off. I had spent most of the morning talking to people on the phone, chiefly the foreign element, those who had established themselves in business and were permanently resident. Some of them, of course, like myself, had not involved themselves in the political life of the island. But even they were beginning to get worried. Those with Spanish connections were more deeply concerned and Fuxá’s name constantly cropped up. Others were mentioned, of course — one of the leading PSOE figures, in particular — but it was Ismail Fuxá who really scared them. Most regarded his separatist, anti-foreign movement as having grown alarmingly in recent months, some even thought he might have enough support in council to get himself elected as the new alcalde.

Only one of them was willing to talk about it openly and at length. That was Freddie McManus, a retired property developer who had once stood as Conservative candidate for some Scottish constituency. He pointed out to me that however the 1978 constitution might try to safeguard the powers of the central government, the establishment of the Balearics as one of the seventeen independent provinces meant in practice that the potential power of the locally elected alcaldes was greatly increased. ‘It’s a charter for the emergence of little Gauleiters. All that’s required is a dominant personality. And if the man has a cause, then he’s even more dangerous.’ And he had gone on to point out to me that to islanders stuck out on the eastern fringe of a small group in the Western Mediterranean, Madrid was a long way away. Also, and he had emphasised this very strongly, the power of the alcalde was rooted in the history of Spain, when in 1485 Queen Isabella struck at the nobility through the Ordenancas Reales with a court of two alcaldes to administer justice in every town of thirty or more inhabitants. ‘Given a weak governor in Palma,’ he said, ‘anything could happen if that man Fuxá became Jorge Martinez’s successor.’

None of the others I talked to were as forthcoming as that and quite a few were unwilling to discuss the political situation with me at all, some making it clear in the nicest possible way that they wanted to distance themselves from me, others quite blunt about it. There was, of course, an element of guilt involved. An island the size of Malta with a third of its wildest rock coast blanketed by villa and hotel development is not a pretty sight and most of us were getting our living from the urbanizacións in one form or another. It wasn’t as bad as Benidorm or Tenerife, but to those with a conservationist conscience it still left a nasty taste in the mouth, bearing in mind how unspoilt Menorca had been before.