SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  I checked my watch: only six minutes left. Our safety margin was eroding to nothing. The policeman still ambled. He was in no hurry, he had the whole night to fritter away. If I didn’t take the initiative all three of us would go up with the bomb.

  ‘Stay here,’ I ordered Peter. I didn’t doubt his fortitude or his willingness to help, but he was still an amateur and a volatile one at that. I moved out into the open, crossing the street at a tangent, on a convergence course with the policeman. My sudden materialisation startled him, his saunter faltering.

  ‘Buenos dias,’ I hailed, forcing a casual tone.

  ‘Señor,’ he returned neutrally.

  ‘I have just arrived here,’ I said in Spanish, by way of explanation. I stopped an arm’s length short of him. ‘Is there a hotel …?’ That was when I hit him. Bringing the sandbag out from behind my back in a sweeping curve, connecting with the side of his skull, just below the rim of his helmet, which promptly flew off.

  In real life people do not go down without a murmur when sandbagged on the skull with a solid object. Not unless you can place the blow in an especially vulnerable spot. The policeman didn’t even fall, merely staggered against the wall, gasping, arms stiffly outstretched, like a high wire walker. I hit his now unprotected head again and he crumpled untidily, still conscious but all co-ordination gone. A third tap, to the temple, and finally he was out. He looked peaceful lying there on the sidewalk. He might have been taking a nap.

  Less than a minute left.

  I signalled to Peter, huddled in the doorway.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  He came at a run, lugging the two bags. The sign on the side street read Tuckey’s Lane. We had just rounded the corner into it, stumbling in our haste, when two loud bangs ripped the night apart.

  Peter let go a hushed whoop. ‘We did it, we did it!’

  ‘And we’ll be done for it if we hang around here,’ I cautioned him. A light came on in the second floor of an apartment building up ahead, then another, higher and to our left. Dogs started barking here and there.

  But for the incident with the policeman, our ten minutes’ grace would have been ample for us to reach the battered but roadworthy van that was our getaway vehicle, parked a short sprint from the Post Office. Peter would have driven me to my hotel and gone on alone to his home in Catalan Bay Village. No sound plan is without a contingency clause and this was where Peter came into his own. He led us at a trot down a dank alley between darkened buildings. It terminated a street’s width from a flight of stone steps that wound upwards between the blank walls of two tenements – there are many such steps in the town, short cuts to its upper levels. We bounded up them, as perfectly co-ordinated as partners in a three-legged race, tool bags clinking. Haste would make us conspicuous, but had to be risked. The priority was to get clear of the immediate scene, before the police mobilised and began rounding up all stray persons as a matter of routine.

  Out of breath, we arrived at the top of yet another flight of steps. Paradise Ramp announced the sign. A haunt for courting couples maybe.

  ‘Over there.’ Peter said, snorting with exhaustion. He indicated more steps, narrow, curving up into a dense pack of buildings. Sirens were hee-hawing down below in the city centre.

  We were crossing the road, the bulwark of the Rock black against the starry night, when a voice hailed us. I had the sandbag out even as I turned to meet this new threat.

  Peter, reacting fast, restrained me. ‘It’s all right, André. He’s one of us.’

  A fair-haired man in a donkey jacket loped towards us, grinning.

  ‘That wasn’t much of a bang,’ he said, and there was only relief in his voice. ‘Hello … Mr Warner. Nice to meet you again.’

  It was the guy called John, last met on a bar terrace in Catalan Bay Village, during my exploratory visit.

  ‘Let’s get under cover,’ Peter urged, sounding nervous for the first time since the explosion.

  John grunted agreement. ‘Follow me,’ and he took off up the steps.

  We had covered perhaps two-thirds of the distance to the top when he veered off to the right where a door stood open, the room beyond dimly lit by a table lamp. In the doorway was a woman wearing a dressing gown. She retreated inside to admit us.

  Peter, last to enter, closed the door, locked and bolted it.

  ‘My wife,’ John said, as I took in the details of the small but neatly-kept room. The woman was petite with black braided hair and in an advanced state of pregnancy. She greeted us with a tentative ‘Hello.’

  ‘We stay here tonight,’ Peter said, stripping off his jacket, making himself instantly at home.

  This was part of the back-up plan. Like it or not, I was temporarily dependant on Peter and the goodwill of GIBESTÁ to stay clear of the law.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ the woman asked, in uncertain English. John gave her an approving look.

  ‘Coffee would be great,’ I said, smiling at her to put her at ease. She smiled back and went off through the only other door, in the rolling gait that seems to come with late-stage pregnancy.

  ‘Tomorrow morning we will take you to your hotel,’ Peter said to me, fishing a packet of cigarettes from his discarded jacket. He and John lit up.

  ‘Did it go smoothly?’ John enquired.

  ‘Exactly as planned,’ Peter boasted, drawing hard on his cigarette, the tip glowing like a firebrand. He didn’t mention the policeman.

  ‘Now they will take notice of us.’ John’s grin split his face. ‘We have shown our claws. They will not dismiss us so lightly.’ He looked at me. ‘We must have more bombs, and soon. We will force independence down their throats.’

  ‘Bravo,’ I said. ‘Spoken like a true fanatic.’

  Puzzlement altered his features. These were not the sentiments of an ally.

  Peter said, ‘You sound as if you do not approve. Yet it was you who placed the bomb.’

  ‘Don’t get confused about the difference in our motives. As Michael pointed out to you the other night, a mercenary isn’t obliged to commit to the cause, or even sympathise with it. Bombing is only a means to achieve your objective. It can happen that the end and the means sometimes become blurred, so you can’t tell one from the other.’ We were all sitting now, three points of a triangle. ‘You understand what I am saying?’

  Peter scratched the point of his chin, fingernails abrading stubble. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Just don’t get so fond of bombs that you forget why you’re using them.’

  At that point I left off moralising. The coffee came and I drank it. It held tiredness at bay for a while longer but I eventually dozed off in the chair and there spent what remained of the night.

  * * * * *

  The morning papers had been typeset before the bombing took place, and written reporting was confined to a Stop Press section at the foot of the front page of the Gibraltar Chronicle, a few strictly factual, unemotional lines. They reported the discovery of an unexploded bomb at the Post Office. It mentioned the detonators that went off but failed to set off the explosive device. The policeman I had pretended to sandbag got a mention as the hero of the day for having disarmed the bomb. That same policeman, who was really a bomb disposal expert, had disconnected the detonators from the plastic the instant Peter and I left the scene. The two bangs we had heard were the detonators going off.

  In terms of outrage, the failed attempt was as effective as a successful bombing would have been. People in the street interviewed by Rock Radio, the local station, expressed shock but not all of them condemned it. A sizeable minority were in favour of any action that would promote independence and keep the Spanish out. The radio station stated that they had earlier received an anonymous call, allegedly from a GIBESTÁ spokesman. Whilst no responsibility was admitted for the bombing, the spokesman had spelled out GIBESTÁ’s singular requirement: an immediate commitment by Britain to negotiate independence.

  As arranged the “policeman” was also given airtime. He
told of how he was knocked down but not out, and managed to stagger over to where the bomb had been placed and extract the detonators.

  The reporter, noticeably awed, asked how he knew how to disarm the bomb.

  ‘I used to be with a bomb disposal unit in the army.’

  That took care of any questions that Vella and co. might have been inclined to fire at me over my failure to blow up the Post Office.

  Later I tuned the TV in to Gibraltar News and watched Vella being intercepted by a reporter as he left the Central Police Station after ‘helping with enquiries’.

  ‘Was GIBESTÁ responsible for that bombing attempt?’ the reporter fired at him, no attempt at subtlety.

  ‘We do not approve of violence,’ Vella had replied stonily. Which was as good a non-answer as I had heard in many an interview, and in his individual case was not a lie. He would make a brilliant politician.

  ‘But was the bomb yours?’ the reported persisted.

  ‘GIBESTÁ has no bombs.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase the question – if the Government don’t agree to negotiate with you, will there be more bombs?’

  ‘I am not in a position to say,’ Vella stonewalled flawlessly.

  Other questions were fended off with equal skill. Vella was urbane, co-operative, and in no hurry to slip away. It was the press who tired of the verbal duelling and in the end let him pass through their ranks.

  Later on they seized other GIBESTÁ interrogees, including Peter. They mostly lacked Vella’s finesse at deflection but the crumbs they cast at the pack were no fatter. In turn they made their non-committal statements and nobody hearing them would be in any doubt about where the blame lay.

  * * * * *

  The call from Vella himself was not unexpected. I had just returned to the Caleta from my restless night in an armchair, and was about to step into an elevator when my cell did its warbly thing. Before answering, I tucked myself into a discreet corner, out of earshot of the front desk.

  ‘What happened, André?’

  ‘You heard the news report. A policeman got brave.’

  It was fortunate for the veracity of the report that Vella had been present when the policeman had interrupted our bomb planting. No need to invent an explanation.

  ‘So it would seem. As it happens, for propaganda purposes, the attempt to bomb has been almost as effective as if we’d done the job. And speaking personally, I’m happy that we got away without any damage to property.’

  He was happy, the Government was happy, and no doubt the insurers were ecstatic not to be facing damage claims. Most importantly, my credibility as a bomber was intact.

  * * * * *

  ‘You could have buzzed me,’ Linda said, pouting, as we strolled along the Catalan Bay beach, barefoot, carrying our shoes.

  I apologised.

  ‘I was worried,’ she grumbled on.

  I apologised more abjectly. We diverted past a ruined sandcastle. Linda kicked at it, sand puffing from her foot. She had painted her toe nails blue, I noticed.

  It was afternoon, and my lesson periods with Ribble were over and done. Now I could devote all my attention to Linda, which after all was no hardship. We had the beach much to ourselves. A lone windsurfer was trying to work up speed from a catspaw of wind. Blue skies, blue seas. The stuff dreams are made of on a foggy winter’s day back in Britain.

  ‘Were you mixed up in that bombing business?’

  ‘No.’ The lie came smoothly from much practice. ‘I wasn’t mixed up in that “bahming” business.’ The exaggerated imitation of her accent brought her out in a fit of giggles.

  ‘So if you weren’t trying to blow up the Post Office what were you doing, out all night?’

  ‘Never you mind. What I wasn’t doing was cheating on you.’

  The hackles, predictably, shot up.

  ‘Who the hell cares if you were?’

  ‘You do.’

  She was so taken aback that her usual responses let her down for once. I put an arm about her waist, what was left of it.

  ‘And I’m glad you do,’ I went on.

  We stopped in perfect concert. Shoes hit the beach. She entered my embrace quite naturally. Her thighs pressed mine and suddenly I wanted her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re growing.’

  I kissed her hard on the mouth. She strained against me.

  ‘Don’t pretend you’re surprised,’ I said as I came up for air.

  ‘But here? It’s such a waste!’

  The hotel was a literal stone’s throw away. Linda demonstrated that being pregnant didn’t necessarily slow you down if the motivation was strong enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Breakfast is my favourite meal. The day lies ahead, virgin, unsullied, ready to be used or squandered according to inclination, the mind and body bursting with stored energy.

  Linda had gone up to her room for the performance of ablutions, I had lingered in the restaurant for a second espresso. Now, emerging from the breakfast bar, I drifted across the lobby to browse through the picture postcards. Debated whether to shoot one off to Cassandra. What should I say? Wish you were here? Get better soon?

  ‘Mr Warner … André?’

  I turned to confront the speaker and received a jolt like an electric shock.

  ‘Luis …?’

  General Irazola’s son grinned and nodded. ‘You did not expect to see me again.’

  ‘Well, no, not here, at any rate. What brings you to Gibraltar?’

  ‘You.’ The reply was female. Elena Irazola side-stepped into view from the other side of the postcard rack. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. She was the practical joker of the two, the sort to get a kick out of playing a trick.

  ‘Elena. Fancy seeing you here.’ Although my mind was playing football with the possible motives for the arrival of the Irazola twins, I kept my expression bland.

  Which became difficult when Elena delivered a smacking kiss to my lips.

  ‘Where is your girlfriend?’ she asked, eyebrows hoisted in wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ Luis said, and added, ‘In private,’ nodding pointedly at a stooped old guy who had come to stand beside me and was pawing through the postcards.

  ‘In my room,’ I suggested and we took the elevator to the third floor.

  ‘Marvellous view,’ Elena commented, going straight out on the balcony. She was wearing grey designer jogging pants and sweat shirt. Luis was dressed retro-style in narrow slacks and a chocolate coloured blazer with wide lapels.

  I sat on the edge of the unmade bed. ‘Talk,’ I said curtly.

  Elena turned and leaned her bottom against the balcony wall. ‘We are on your side, André, let us be clear about that.’ She lit a long, tipped cigarette, dribbled smoke from her nostrils. ‘We are not your enemies.’

  It was true that without their help Linda and I might now be prisoners of the General. Or worse than prisoners. Still I was mistrustful. People change sides. Alternatively, their ostensible disloyalty to their father might well be part of some fiendish scheme to do with Gibraltar. Currently, I was suspicious of all and sundry. That, in part, was what I was being paid for.

  ‘How did you know I was here in Gibraltar, at the Caleta Hotel?’

  ‘My father,’ Luis answered.

  That was jolt number two. ‘How is the General?’ I said while assembling my thoughts.

  ‘He knows all your movements,’ Elena said, watching me closely as if monitoring my reactions.

  ‘How? And why?’ Though perhaps the why was unnecessary. In his mind I posed a threat. He wasn’t to know I had already relayed all I knew to Toby, and that I wasn’t being taken seriously.

  ‘The how is by means of informants stationed here in Gibraltar.’

  ‘Are you saying Gib is infested with Spanish spies?’

  They both shrugged. Luis sat down, interlocked his fingers, fixed his gaze on the carpet.

  ‘Our father does not tell us everything. All
we know is that he claims to have connections in Gibraltar and that these connections notified him of your presence. They also report that you are associating with leading members of the GIBESTÁ movement.’

  Connections. It might mean anything from the Spanish Secret Service to a casual paid informer. It might mean a tall Slavic guy with a dumpy female companion. My confusion was growing.

  ‘As to the why –’ Luis broke off as there came a brusque tap at the door. Linda walked in in

  her usual breezy fashion.

  ‘Oh! Hey, excuse the interruption.’ She was about to back out when recognition set in. She stared in disbelief.

  ‘My God, it’s the Irazola kids!’

  ‘Come in, Linda,’ I said resignedly. ‘No reason you shouldn’t be in on this.’

  She backed up against the door to close it and advanced into the room, joining me on the bed. The gesture statement was not lost on Elena. Her mouth twisted. She turned her back on us, flipping her half-smoked cigarette over the balcony.

  Luis, effecting not to notice, said, ‘My father thinks you know something of our Government’s plans, something to do with Gibraltar, the Madrid Conference …’ He frowned. ‘I am not sure myself what is going on or what it is you know that is of such importance. However, we offered to come and see you and find out.’

  ‘You don’t say. You’ve got a nerve telling me you’ve come to interrogate me on behalf of your old man. You figure I would obligingly reveal all my secrets, just like that?’

  ‘Kind of optimistic,’ Linda inserted.

  ‘I am not such an inocente as that,’ Luis said with some affront. ‘That was a ploy to win his approval. We are not here to in search of information, we are here to supply it.’

  There are moments when my intellect is slow to get into gear. This was such a moment.

  Luis, noting my confusion, didn’t try to hide his amusement. ‘For … private reasons, we are prepared to … to give you information which has to do with our country and Gibraltar.’

  I was catching up fast now, the agent-provocateur side of me stimulated by this unasked-for gift.