by Lex Lander
The apartment was unoccupied. I had watched Vella leave ten minutes earlier, driving off towards the town centre in his Mercedes wagon. After he turned the corner I made no move for five minutes in case he’d forgotten something. It took five more to gain entry to the apartment block and stage my break-in. I had allocated a further twenty in which to secrete away the parcel.
Guided by the slender beam of my penlight I crept through into the living room. The freezer was my objective. As was to be expected it was in the kitchen, in a corner. The upright kind with wire frame trays, which didn’t suit my purpose as well as a horizontal model would have done. No matter. Penlight between my teeth, I dragged out the lowest drawer, removed packets of frozen this and that, mostly vegetables. He was partial to asparagus if the profusion of packets was any guide. Powdered ice sprayed across the tiled floor. Couldn’t be helped, I was bound to make a mess no matter how careful I was, so no sense in going slowly.
The tray emptied, I unslung the bag from my shoulder. Ten kilos made a sizeable parcel – too sizeable, I discovered. Fortunately it had been split into five 2kg packages. I rammed three into the back of the empty drawer, loaded the frozen food packs back in until I ran out of space. It was a shoe-horn fit and the drawer protested as I pushed it shut, showering more ice granules over my hands and the floor. The two residual packages I returned to my bag.
I checked the time. Ten, eleven minutes had gone of my allocated twenty. Now, a dust pan and brush and a cloth, and I would be gone, leaving no mementoes of my passing. Warner the phantom burglar.
Vella’s kitchen was a modern fitted job and the broom cupboard was easy to spot – the only full-height door in the line of cupboards. It did not, however, contain a dust pan. Four minutes to go. Improvise, improvise, In the course of seeking a makeshift dustpan I came across the real McCoy, under the sink, complete with clipped-on brush.
A set of headlights from a turning car lit up the wall with its pinewood slats and the low-slung ceiling light over the table, then all was dark again. By now my jaw was aching from biting on the penlight. The ice crystals had travelled far and wide. I swept them into the dustpan and mopped the floor dry with a couple of segments of paper towel torn off a roll by the sink. The ice and the sodden towels went in a swing-top bin. My last act was to return the utensils to their cupboard.
I was heading for the door when the unmistakeable sound of a key sliding into the lock cylinder rooted me to the spot. I snapped off the penlight and, before disorientation set in in the ensuing blackout, nipped around the freezer and flattened against the side of it. Bloody thin cover. Let him take but a few paces into the kitchen and I would be discovered.
‘Take a seat,’ Michael Vella said to persons unseen. ‘I’ll just slip into something more comfortable then I’ll join you.’
‘Take your time.’ The voice was Ben’s. ‘We’re early anyway. Is Warner coming?’
‘Not tonight.’ Vella’s reply was indistinct. ‘Nor Peter, nor Eduardo. Tonight’s meeting is off the record. Just between the three of us.’
‘Now I’m intrigued.’
Me too.
Glasses clinked somewhere. I only hoped they wouldn’t come looking for frozen carrots.
‘You want some of this, Maurice?’ Ben, doing the drinks.
‘Go on then. Just enough to settle the butterflies, huh? No more’
I crept out from behind the freezer cabinet. I placed Ben and Maurice in the living room, Vella in his bedroom. The entrance hall and front door were in full view of both rooms. Safer then to delay making a break until they were all closeted together, preferably behind a closed door, even though sticking around heightened the prospect of discovery.
A smacking together of hands and Michael Vella’s booming voice: ‘I see you’ve made yourselves at home. Let’s get straight down to business then.’
‘Hear, hear.’ This was Maurice. ‘I am in trouble from my wife; we have guests coming tonight. What is so urgent that it could not wait until the weekend?’
‘Just this, Maurice. I want to cancel tomorrow’s bombing, and stop the campaign altogether. Either you agree or I will resign.’
What was this? A schism in the making? My hands mentally rubbed together. It could only be a nail in the coffin of the movement.
Ben was the first to react. ‘You’re bluffing.’
‘Call my bluff and you’ll see.’
‘Why isn’t El Jefe here? Have you told him?’
‘I don’t need Eduardo. All I need is you two to vote with me and the bombing stops.’
‘To hell with you.’ Ben, angry. ‘Do you think you are indispensable?’
‘Not quite. But if I was to step down now, GIBESTÁ would never recover, certainly not before the Madrid talks.’
The freezer motor burped into action right by my ear and I only shot a foot into the air.
‘Why now, Michael?’ Ben had gone from a snarl to a whine. ‘Just when we are beginning to win.’
‘Win?’ Vella’s voice was a lash. ‘Nobody wins when you use such methods, can’t you get that into your heads? What is left to win if you have to smash and destroy on the way. All we shall inherit is rubble and a people to whom violence will have become acceptable as a means to an end. Listen, both of you: when our political rivals seek to remove us, as they will surely do one day, will they not feel justified in using the same techniques? In time our country will be as synonymous with perpetual violence as Northern Ireland was, or Syria is.’ A thumped fist. ‘I will have no part of it!’
While my brain was assimilating this development the kitchen light came on, dazzling me and paralysing me in one. Footsteps, coming closer, then the easily recognisable opening of the door of the fridge, which stood next to the freezer. Now I had good reason to be grateful that Vella had chosen an upright model.
I held my breath while Vella – it was sure to be him – rummaged in the fridge. He was whistling softly through his teeth, no tune. A tearing of polythene, the fridge sighed shut. Now, surely, he must come past me to the sink and it would be all up with me, cover and plot both blown.
But he didn’t come to the sink. When the kitchen light snapped off I slid to the floor, weak with relief. The talk in the living room was now muffled, the words indistinct. Vella, bless him, had closed the door. Regret at being shut out of the evolving drama took second place to the need to put distance between me and Vella’s freezer.
Lights were on in the hall, which eased my exit. I slipped out, retaining the door catch with my little strip of plastic to prevent it from snapping back. A fast descent, three stairs at a leap, to the ground floor. In the street, I set a brisk pace towards the town centre, past the cable car station, to pass under the ramparts at Southport Gates. A clock chimed ten. The evening was still young, if only I had someone to enjoy it with. Officially though, I wasn’t even here. I was an unperson.
The Three Owls bar in Irish Town was bustling and noisy. Noise is great cover for private phone calls. I tapped out a number on my cell phone. A single bleep and the receiver was lifted.
‘Mascarenhas.’
‘Sideshow. Go ahead.’
End of conversation.
* * * * *
Vella was arrested later that night for possession of explosives with intent to cause injury to person and property. For good measure Ben and Maurice, who were still with Vella when the police swooped, were also taken into custody.
‘What a coup!’ Toby, phoning from London, crowed. ‘Masterful. You’ve excelled yourself, André .’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ I felt flat. Dirty, too. ‘He was planning to call off the bombings.’
‘Who – Vella? Irrelevant, dear boy, irrelevant. It’s debatable whether they did his cause more harm than good anyway.’
I skipped my morning visit to Linda. She would wonder why, but I wasn’t up to the inevitable inquisition. She had a knack of making me look inside myself and not like what I saw. Same as Maura used to. Not that I required any external assistance right n
ow.
While I was sipping an aperitif in the hotel’s Arcadia Bar I was paged to come to the front desk. It was Peter. White faced, lower lip protruding aggressively. More volcanic than ever.
‘How did that stuff get into Michael’s flat?’ he hissed within earshot of a lobby-full of staff and guests.
‘Are you trying to get me arrested?’ I snapped back, fuming at his lack of discretion. I hauled him away from the desk. The hall porter stood back in alarm as we crashed through the swing door and into the parking lot.
‘Don’t say anything,’ I warned him.
The rough handling seemed to sober him. He shook free of my grip and we strode stiffly along the road, the Great Dune on our right, soaring up to the crest of the Rock.
‘Now,’ I said, as we cleared the hotel precinct, ‘what are you trying to tell me?’
Peter’s lip curled. ‘You mean you had nothing to do with planting explosives in Michael’s freezer?’
Long practice in living a life of double identities had made me adept at manufacturing outrage. ‘Why do you assume that? Shit, man, we’re on the same side.’
‘You’re on nobody’s side. I realise that, even if Michael doesn’t. And obviously it was you. Who else has access to explosives?’
My derisive laugh was also manufactured.
‘Any number of your enemies, including the Government.’
That quietened him for a moment. He laid a hand on my arm, forced me to a standstill.
‘Do you deny it then? It wasn’t you?’
‘Is it likely, schmuck? I mean, you haven’t even paid me for that last bomb yet. Would I be so dumb as to bite the hand that feeds me?’
‘You might. If ours is the hand that feeds you.’
He left me before I could drum up a riposte, to stalk back towards the hotel. I let him go. His suspicion was unsurprising, his shrewd insight goddam disturbing.
I stepped over the low wall at the roadside, located a suitable rock for perching on. The sea, sunlit, winked at me. An old man was fishing from an overhanging crag, making frequent casts, reeling in fast, obviously using a spinning lure. The ozone smell was clean and pure, and made my private world all the grubbier by comparison. What sickening irony that Vella alone of the GIBESTÁ hierarchy had opposed the bombing campaign and, ultimately, had been prepared to stand on his principles, and yet it was he, not Peter, not Eduardo, who now languished in the can and stood branded as a terrorist of the worst kind.
Well done, Warner. As neat a frame-up as anyone could wish for. Pat yourself on the back, celebrate a little; better still, celebrate a lot. The Government treasure chest is at your disposal.
It almost made my old profession as an assassin seem honourable.
The fisherman had made a catch: a strip of silver was threshing at the end of the line, dodging his clutching hand. At length he got a grip on it, discarding the rod to free the hook from the gasping mouth. He cackled wheezily in his triumph.
My next move was not so clear cut. It didn’t necessarily follow that the incrimination of Michael Vella would lead to the demise of GIBESTÁ. Assuredly it would weaken it, cause some loss of momentum that, with the talks now looming, could prove fatal to its cause. For the present though, all I could do was sit on my butt and let developments develop, so to speak.
Depressed, I retraced my route to the hotel. As I entered the parking lot a multi-coloured cab pulled up at the hotel entrance. A girl dressed in leggings and a short jacket got out. She stared at me, a slow smile creasing her face.
‘Hello, André,’ Elena Irazola said. ‘I’ve come to collect the car.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Irazola twins had barely entered my thoughts since I parted company with them. I had wiped them from my memory, as one does a particularly unpleasant nightmare. The impact of the murders committed by Luis had faded to a distant ache.
‘How’s Luis?’ I said.
Her expression clouded.
‘He is well. He is at home.’
‘Got away with murder, did he?’ I said harshly. ‘Daddy must carry a lot of influence.’
The taxi drew away and she came closer. My olfactory senses were titillated by her perfume. The rest of me wasn’t. The prospect of a romp with Elena no longer appealed.
‘It is nothing to do with Papa. No one knows Luis did what he did. Nobody saw us clearly enough to identify us except those four soldiers.’
‘No, that’s right. And they’re all dead.’
‘Can we talk? Without anger, I mean.’
That made me cool down fast. Elena wasn’t responsible for her brother’s misdeeds and I had no cause to suppose she condoned them. Hadn’t she even tried to prevent him from killing the Sloothaak woman?
So I apologised. We took tea on the terrace, overlooking Catalan Bay, all very civilised. She had come, I discovered, not only to pick up her car but to deliver a message.
‘Who from?’
‘It is in writing.’ She dug in her shoulder bag. ‘From my father,’ she said as she placed the white envelope on the table before me.
I was tempted to let it lie but my curiosity was too strong. Inside was a card, printed in fancy italics with the general’s full name and, below it, an address I didn’t recognise.
It read, in a precise hand that was of nearly the same standard as the printing:
Mr Warner
May we meet? Elena will say when and where. I owe you an explanation.
Your servant.
And a signature that bore no resemblance at all to the rest of the handwriting. The ‘servant’ bit was pure irony.
‘Meet for what?’ I asked Elena, my mind racing with the implications and whatever else minds race with when confronted by an unexpected situation.
Her eyes over the cup were solemn.
‘He didn’t say.’
Another attempt to muzzle me, perhaps for good? Not that he would know it, but he had no cause to nibble his nails over me. I had revealed all there was to reveal about him and his schemes, and the lack of interest from high quarters had been resounding.
‘He doesn’t say where.’
‘Anywhere but here. In La Línea if you like.’
‘Not a chance. He’s not getting me back into Spain.’
‘But he cannot come here. He dare not. Someone would recognise him. How would a Spanish general explain a visit to Gibraltar?’
‘Inspecting the fifth column?’
A small line of irritation formed at the bridge of her nose.
‘Be serious, André.’
Two small blonde girls rushed out onto the terrace squealing, one in the pursuit of the other.
‘It’s mine – give it back!’
‘Shan’t, it’s mine!’
Once around our table then off back into the coffee bar. The squeals faded.
‘Kids,’ I said, in that indulgent tone the kid-less use on such occasions.
‘What reply shall I give Papa?’
I thought about it. Was there any point? It wasn’t the risk that bothered me. Not much, anyway. But risks should only be run for a purpose. Whatever Irazola wanted, it wasn’t to make me a gift of his invasion plans.
Then that old professional curiosity came peeking through, like a shaft of sunlight following a downpour.
‘All right. Tell him I’ll see him in La Línea. We’ll meet on the beach tomorrow, next to the border fence.’
‘André …’ Her voice was strained. It didn’t sound like her at all.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I didn’t want to see you. I wanted to collect the car, leave the note at the desk, then call you later for your reply. That’s how it was supposed to happen.’
‘But you have seen me. What’s the difference?’
Her face crumpled, losing some of its loveliness.
‘That is the difference, mi cariño.’
* * * * *
The La Línea beach at six in the morning was sparsely populated. A pair of joggers at the
sea’s edge preceded by a Lassie-type collie, were the only life forms in sight to ease my solitude. They trotted up to the wire fence that marks the start of the neutral zone between the two frontiers, coming round in a wide circle, their rhythm unbroken. A glance for me, squatting on a rock, as they padded by in perfect harmony, their dancing shadows misshapen in the rising sun.
It wasn’t a very clean beach. It smelled of dead seaweed and faintly of sewage from the processing plant on the Gibraltar side. Litter density was about average for Spain and included an overturned supermarket cart with its castors missing.
The collie bounded over to investigate me. A sniff at each of my feet in turn before chasing after the joggers with a ‘wait-for-me’ bark.
The sun unstuck from the horizon. The sea was calm, slapping idly at the shore. To my right the Rock rose sheer, even the taller buildings at its base puny and frivolous by comparison. The gun emplacements high up were like empty eyes, watchful, yet with nothing to watch. The days of battle were long past. Even the solitary sentry patrolling the frontier had been dispensed with. Only the customs post and a few strands of wire stood between Spain and reconquest of the Rock. In short, it was vulnerable.
I rested on an elbow and imagined the sequence of events if Irazola was bent on marching in: seizure or destruction of the airport would be the key to a successful invasion. Control of the airport would make external reinforcement of the Royal Gibraltar Regiment, the Rock’s only military unit, impossible. To bring troops in by sea would take too long; it would be all over before they embarked. Mobilisation alone would require a minimum of one week.
The more I examined the situation the more certain I became that Gib could only be defended if it made preparations. If the defences were strengthened and more men and especially more materiel were shipped in before hostilities opened.
But these were ridiculous suppositions! Spain wasn’t going to invade Gibraltar. It was unthinkable, on a par with the Irish Republic invading Ulster. Spain and Britain were allies and joint members of NATO. They hadn’t been at war since … since … the Peninsular War? Or was that Napoleon? European history was a shaky subject for me. Anyway, not for centuries. Okay, so Gibraltar was a running sore, it still wasn’t worth a Falklands-style adventure.