~ The Minox Chronicles ~

by

M. Frank Proctor

Prelude

January 1958, Marrakech

Their faces were the colour of blood in the carmine light, and they looked out upon the scene without appearing to see its exotic beauty. The early winter sunset had turned the sky bright red above the old city, a red that was relieved only by the shimmering, golden disc of the dying sun. The two men on the terrace could see the spires and minarets of the city’s skyline in silhouette against the crimson and gold of the heavens.

They were physically very similar, despite displaying considerable differences in dress and style. One was dressed rather formally in an expensive black suit, his raven black hair neatly trimmed. He managed to look cool and comfortable even in the warmth of a North African twilight. The other man was more casually attired in a pale, linen suit that was a little wrinkled. There was a softer gleam in his black eyes, and he had an academic look about him. Their faces, however, were very alike, and the black eyes that were common to both glittered red sparks in the dying light. The ‘scholar’ broke the silence.

“Our very good friend has returned.” He sensed his companion’s gaze turn upon him.

“Where is he?” the other man asked, a smooth intensity to the voice.

“At the moment he’s in England.” The scholar replied. “He’s quite safe. I have made the necessary arrangements for his care.”

“Does he have all seven marks?”

The scholar nodded gently.

“We must bring him in now. I will see to his welfare personally.” The man in the elegant suit spoke firmly, but his companion shook his head.

“No. We must content ourselves with watching from a distance for now. He has been gone a long time and been through a great deal—we must allow him time to recover.”

“That could take years,” retorted the man in black. “We can’t wait forever. We have a great deal of work to do, and we need him with us.”

The scholarly one placed a hand on his shoulder. “Patience, my brother—it is a virtue you know.”

The man in the suit was unimpressed. His impatience, though cloaked, seemed close to the surface. “If all we are here to do is exchange platitudes, then what about ‘procrastination is the thief of time’?”

The scholar allowed himself a wry smile, but when he spoke it was with authority.

“These matters are for me to deal with. You have your own responsibilities. You must not take any precipitant action. It could ruin everything. I will bring this business to a proper conclusion at the appropriate time.”

The two stood side by side looking forward while the red of the sky gave way to purple and indigo as the stars began to appear. After a long silence the man in the suit spoke.

“Don’t leave it too long. We have already lost a great deal of time, and the hand that writes history will not wait for us.”

The man in pale linen smiled into the growing darkness. “History, my brother, is a subjective subject. Let’s not worry too much about history.”

Some distance away a muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer.

One

June 2005, Andalusia Spain

The sign above the bar was still lit as he stepped out of the door and into the plaza. Even at this late hour, the playful zephyr that swirled around the square was still warm against his face. He looked up at the fishing boat that was painted in white on a green background. It had the name of the bar, La Barca, painted below it in the same dubious green.

Twenty yards away, the subtle waves of the Mediterranean fell onto the dark sands of the beach. He could see their white crests in the light from the street lamps, and in the quiet of the night, he could hear them lapping onto the shoreline. It was not like the surf he remembered as a boy in England. Those waves would arrive on the beach like an invading army and then fall back, taking the shingle prisoner and dragging it with them. These were more like the ripples in a large and languid pond; they almost insinuated themselves ashore.

He turned to call goodnight to those few of his few companions who still populated the bar. One of them turned to wave in his direction, and he heard a mumbled little chorus of ‘goodnights’ and ‘hasta luegos.’

He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and then set off across the pristine tiles of the plaza, which had been newly laid a few weeks earlier as part of the ‘revitalisation’ of the town. He listened to his own footfalls as he walked. He was wearing proper shoes, a rare thing at this ‘flip flop’ time of year, and he could hear them click on the tiles as he went. He walked home from the bar, as he had so many times before, through the narrow streets of whitewashed houses and up the palm-lined pavements of the hill.

The little town of San Luis was asleep or, at least, as close to sleeping as it ever came. The old fishing village had sprinkled itself along the beach at the base of the Andalusian hills many years ago. The old church of San Luis was one of the few remaining original buildings. The church and a few narrow streets of white houses were once all that had stood here.

When the colony of English ‘beachcombers’ had begun to settle in this place, a few years ago, apartment buildings had begun to spring up. These grey, concrete enormities stood awkwardly amid the whitewashed charm of the old, whitewashed town. Spanish builders were always happy to cash in on the British and German need to buy property at crazy prices, so the town had doubled in size in just a few, short years.

The British lived comfortably enough alongside their Spanish neighbours. As the leisure culture was drifting off home and going to bed, the other and more industrious culture was just getting up. The Spanish fishermen would take their boats out long before sunrise for their day’s work on the clear, blue water.

The Brit-pack, for the most part, would sleep until late morning and emerge for breakfast around midday. Later they would congregate in the bars until the early hours, bolstering each other’s confidence. They would gather together, convinced that they had been right to escape the vagaries of their native home, a place of cold winters, wet summers and high taxes. The warmth of the sun numbed the pangs of insecurity that haunted all exiles.

He fell into neither camp. He did not rise early for work, but he did not sleep late either—in fact he slept very little. Most nights he spent on his balcony waiting for the sunrise and remembering the things that he most wanted to forget. Tonight he had no appetite for memory, and he had firmly decided that tonight he would sleep.

He had now crossed the overpass that bridged the highway and had started to climb the hill that led home, if that was what it was. From the fields across the road the cicadas filled the night with their endless chirping song. They were creating, as they always had, the background music to the southern night. Now at midsummer they sang even louder in the still, quiet warmth of the darkness. He remembered hearing somewhere that these noises were the mating calls of the large insects. Well if that were true, only a small percentage would need to be successful in order to ensure the future of the cicada population.

The heat seemed to be having a stronger effect on him than usual, and he felt his shirt growing damp with perspiration as he made his way up the incline towards the apartment. The hill had been getting gradually steeper recently; tonight it seemed to be more like a mountain as it rose before him.

Several times on his way up he had been forced to stop and rest. He stood leaning with his hand against the wall, waiting for his breath to return and for the biting ache in his legs to subside. He knew the causes well enough: too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, too little food and not enough sleep. He had spent his life in a state of readiness, ready to chase some criminal at the drop of a hat, and now this lethargy had descended upon him.

Despite these frequent pauses, he eventually made it up the hill. He approached the wrought iron gate, set in a rough stone wall, which bounded the property. Passing through the gate, he followed the stone path that led between the high bougainvilleas to the front door of the building.

He fished in his pocket for his keys and noticed that the ground floor windows were in darkness. His Spanish neighbour was apparently in bed. Better be quiet, he thought. The Spaniard was a quiet and considerate neighbour, and he felt it incumbent upon him to return the courtesy.

Having entered the hallway, he closed the door quietly behind him and slowly climbed the stairs, his feet echoing on the marble steps. Tonight even the stairs had grown steeper. He had to make heavy use of the handrail to haul his tired body up the winding flight of steps. At the top he paused for breath before unlocking his door.

Once inside the apartment he opened the sliding glass doors that led out onto his small balcony. He automatically poured himself a drink and then looked at it disapprovingly. Often, as now, he looked at the glass of whiskey in his hand and wondered why he kept on drinking so much of the damned stuff. It was something that he rarely enjoyed these days, and it caused him so many problems, all of which he could have well done without. Despite these good intentions, he took the drink out onto the balcony and sat down at the plastic patio table. He chastised himself at least once a day about his drinking. It had been her job to do that and she had done a better job of it, but she had been no more successful.