by Lex Lander
‘Buenos dias, Señor Warner.’
He had approached with such stealth I had been unaware of his presence. Had he been so minded, he could have killed me and I would have died by an unknown hand. A chilling thought.
‘Good morning, General.’ I stood up, brushing sand from the seat of my pants. We shook hands, warily, as if we each of us were handling a container of nitro.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said in his flawless English.
He was not in uniform but in riding breeches and a grey corduroy blouson that was loose enough to conceal a gun. He looked alert and very fit. He had a lot going for him, whatever his ambitions. It was a shame that we were adversaries instead of allies.
Beyond him, where the sand became scrubby grass bordering the beach road, was a figure, perched on the hood of an olive green sedan. Indistinguishable but clearly more than mere bystander.
‘Yours?’ I said to Irazola, indicating the figure.
He didn’t follow my look, simply nodded.
‘Say your piece,’ I growled.
He dipped inside the blouson. Defensive instincts instantly aroused, I stiffened, backed away, creating space to manoeuvre. But the hand emerged holding nothing more deadly than the well-remembered leather cigar case.
His chuckle was soft, but not reassuring.
‘Did you imagine I would shoot you, here in full view of the town?’ He swept an arm towards the concrete carbuncle of La Línea.
‘No sane person would,’ I conceded, ‘but then you might be a madman.’
He took that in good part. ‘I might,’ he said, as I declined a cigar from the proffered case, ‘but the possibility doesn’t trouble me. I feel perfectly sane, That’s all that matters to me and my men.’
He lit his cigar; he left the band in place, as always.
‘We are civilised men, are we not, Mr Warner?’
‘You may be, General.’
My answer took him slightly aback. Some of the self-confident ooze left him. When he spoke again the timbre of his voice was less cocksure, a trace more respectful.
‘We know the reason for your presence in Gibraltar.’
‘Is that a fact?’ A little boat was putting out to sea on the Gibraltar side of the neutral zone. Over there, maybe a hundred metres away, was safety. Right then I envied the man in his little boat.
‘To establish my bona fides,’ he continued, ‘I will tell you that I know you are here to break the GIBESTÁ movement. I will also tell you that I approve. Speaking personally and off the record, that is.’
That was unexpected.
‘You surprise me. A trend towards independence is reckoned to be helpful to Spain’s cause.’ I was giving away no secrets. The Spanish Government would have figured that out for themselves.
‘That is the conventional view.’ He inspected the glowing tip of his cigar with a nonchalance that didn’t convince me for a second. ‘I don’t suppose, by any chance, you were mixed up in the deaths of four of my men about two weeks ago, up in the hills behind Algeciras.’
‘That’s a funny question. I’m a civil servant, sort of. I don’t go around killing soldiers.’
‘Civil servant? Hmm, I wonder if that’s what you really are.’ He walked a short distance away from me, his riding boots crunching in the sand. He had small feet for a man, I noticed. He rotated slowly, cigar gripped between his immaculate teeth, profile on to me. It was a clean, classic profile, the nose straight and just the right length, the jaw assertive with no loose flesh beneath.
‘So you were not there, spying for your Government, when my men were murdered?’ A hint of anger in his voice now, well-contained.
‘Spying on what?’ The creation of distance between us was not accidental, only meant to appear so. Even more so than me, he was wise to all the tricks. We were both old dogs, only he was older and therefore more cunning.
His line of questioning so far was ambivalent. Was he investigating the deaths of four soldiers or plumbing the extent of my knowledge? If his forces really had been assembled for an invasion he had to know if the secret was out. If I thought he would accept it, I might have told him that the powers-that-be knew all, and didn’t rate his chances of success.
‘The day you brought Linda to my house,’ he said, in an apparent switch of subject, ‘you made some wild accusations. You realise it was all nonsense.’
‘All of it?’
‘Most of it. You took a few bare facts and mixed them with a great deal of hypothesis. Jumping to conclusions can be dangerous.’
‘As you demonstrated.’ The sand was so soft my feet were slowly subsiding into it. I shifted position. He watched me warily.
‘General Irazola,’ I went on, getting exasperated by the fencing, ‘you asked me to meet you and here I am. So far all we’ve done is exchange chit-chat. Either you tell me what you really want from me or I leave right now.’
The blood rushed to his face. He glanced towards his unidentified companion. The latter seemed to tense as if in expectation. Waiting for a signal perhaps.
‘I want to know,’ Irazola said, ‘how much you have learned and whom you have told.’
A last appreciative pull on his cigar before he flicked it away, three-parts unsmoked.
‘We’re wasting each other’s time,’ I said coldly and set off for the road. Irazola himself didn’t budge but his companion stepped out smartly to intercept me. As we drew closer I observed that he was tall and very slim and most of all very familiar.
Petrov.
The VP-70 hammerless automatic Ribble had supplied as a precaution was not merely to make me feel better. Petrov was also armed, and only a fraction behind me on the draw. I was close enough to make out the fat silencer that almost doubled the length of his automatic. Silencers are less effective than propaganda would have us believe, but out in the open like this it would do an adequate job of finishing me off, without disturbing the peace.
We both stopped. It was a classic standoff situation. A man was cycling along the road that led to the beach but even as I watched he turned into a side street between two apartment blocks. The rest of the town was not yet up and about.
‘Do nothing impulsive, my friend.’ Irazola had moved up behind me and spoke into my left ear. ‘My gun is also silent.’
‘But mine isn’t,’ I reminded him. ‘And when I start using it everybody will know what’s going on here, including my people.’ I aimed a nod at the Rock as if to imply we were under observation.
A low chuckle.
‘You are right. I am only bluffing.’
‘I’m not. I haven’t killed anyone for a year at least.’ To Petrov, now within conversing range, I said, ‘Hello, fuck-face.’
‘Be careful what you say, Englishman.’
‘Tortured any more pregnant women lately?’ I said breezily.
His sallow features remained as impassive as a carving.
Irazola frowned. ‘Torture? You talk in puzzles.’
‘Riddles, actually,’ I said. ‘Your friend Petrov is a throwback to your famous Inquisition. He could teach you Spanish a thing or two, couldn’t you, Petrov?’ As I spoke I rammed my automatic into the man’s mouth, barrel foremost. It pulped his lips, carried on through his front incisors, and pushed them down his throat. He screamed and gagged at the same time, which can’t be easy to do, and let go the nasty big pistol – I caught it before it hit the sand.
Retching and gurgling blood, Petrov sank to his knees. Irazola stepped forward to his aid, then had a change of heart when I jabbed him in the solar plexus with the silenced snout of Petrov’s gun. Most men would have doubled up. Irazola wasn’t most men though. A whoof of pain and an involuntary backward skip were the only effects.
Petrov was still choking on ingested molars and blood. His mouth was a scarlet pit and he was clawing at it with red-tipped fingers.
‘Does it hurt, Petrov? Consider yourself lucky. If this wasn’t such a public place it would be your balls down your throat, not your teeth.�
� So saying, I kicked the kneeling, swaying form in the fork as hard as I ever kicked a football. He didn’t even scream. Just folded up, instant and total blackout. Too bad. I’d have liked to see him suffer some more, the way Linda had.
‘Now you’ll have to find yourself another inquisitor, General.’
Irazola lowered his gun. Arguably he could have shot me when I kicked Petrov. His failure to react told me he wasn’t as confident of his immunity as he pretended.
‘That much was true anyway,’ I said. ‘You are working with the Russians.’
He snorted. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’
A car engine whirred behind the nearest apartment block but failed to fire. An empty bus rumbled around a corner, diesel engine clanking. La Línea was coming awake. Irazola holstered his gun hurriedly, more proof that even a Spanish General wasn’t above the law. I stooped and used Petrov’s pants leg to wipe the gore from the muzzle of the VP-70 before following Irazola’s example.
‘I could have you arrested for carrying that,’ Irazola said.
‘Go ahead. And explain him.’ I stirred the comatose Petrov with my toe. ‘And how both of you happen to be carrying silenced pistols.’
He squared his shoulders. ‘We will meet again,’ he said, with conviction, as if it were pre-ordained.
‘Count on it.’
‘I must remember not to underestimate you next time.’
In the rosy glow of that accolade I watched them go, Irazola supporting Petrov. They made for the olive green sedan. Irazola even flipped me a salute as he drove off. I hung around until the car turned off the road and its engine noise faded into oblivion.
A grey cloud had settled over the Rock, motionless as if tethered there. I walked to the sea’s edge. No spectators. No one to see me lob first Petrov’s pistol then the VP-70 over the wire to land in the sand on the Gibraltar side. The reverse of the method I had used before crossing into Spain a short while ago. At 5.30am. no one had been around to witness the deed. Now it was after seven, and joggers and strollers were about. But if someone found the two guns, at least they would be our finders, not theirs.
On the Spanish side of the frontier post Elena was waiting for me.
‘You’re up early,’ I said in greeting.
‘I came with Papa. Is everything all right between you and him?’
‘We haven’t kissed and made up, if that’s what you’re asking. He wants to know how much I know.’
‘About the invasion?’
‘Presumably. If there is to be an invasion.’
‘You still question it?’
‘Yes,’ I said bluntly, aware that a border policeman was taking an increasing interest in us. ‘Some of my associates suspect you may be pulling our legs.’ We were speaking Spanish and I used the expression ‘tomar el pelo.’
Her disbelief refuted it.
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Por gusto vivo?’ For kicks.
‘Pah!’ She threw her hands up. ‘You do not deserve to be helped.’
‘You’re probably right.’ I made as if to go on.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me give you my telephone number. When you finally become convinced that Luis and I have told the truth you may need us again.’
The prospect of needing the murderous Luis was scary. But I took the card from her, consigned it to my wallet.
She angled forward to kiss my cheek. ‘Take care, André. However this turns out.’
‘You too. If ever your father finds out what you’re doing you may discover that blood isn’t always thicker than water.’
I crossed the border on foot, waved through by a yawning border police officer, and walked down to the Gibraltar side of the beach to recover the two automatics.
* * * * *
It was a simple enough equation.
Irazola, a Spanish general, and Petrov, a Russian agent of some sort, maybe now on sick leave.
Irazola plus Petrov equals Spain plus Russia.
The equation couldn’t be that simple. Spain, at its most left wing, was a Social Democracy, albeit of post-war vintage. Spain would not climb into bed with Russia and Vladimir Putin.
Longer, deeper deliberation. My conclusion was that not even the prize of Gibraltar would induce Spain to alienate herself from her military and trading partners in the Western World. The price was too high.
So approach it from a new angle, dummy: why employ a Russian agent to do your spying and torturing when you have a whole Army Corps of trained Spanish muscle men at your beck and call? Why buy allegiance, when you already have it for free?
Possible answer: because a deal had been cut and Petrov was there to represent his country and make sure it was honoured.
Speculation, speculation, speculation. It led to the conclusion that Spain and Russia were in cahoots, a hypothesis that didn’t add up. When I got up from the breakfast table to pay a call on Linda I was still no further forward in my theorising. Still no nearer truth and reality. All that could be said with certainty was that under the ever more scummy surface of the stagnant pond that was Gibraltar, something was seething. The rattle of sabres was in the air, and the spit and crackle of musketry, and it was daily growing louder. If I wasn’t careful I was going to get caught in the crossfire.
* * * * *
On my previous visit to the hospital I had brought Linda’s iPad and she was toying with it when I popped my head around the door. Her smile was less brilliant than usual, not much more than a reflex.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, and offered only her cheek for me to buss. ‘I’ve been watching that demonstration outside the Governor’s house on Sky news.’
The demonstration she referred to had been organised by GIBESTÁ the previous evening as a protest against the arrest of their leader. Some scuffles had taken place and here and there a window had been smashed. In most respects though it had been an orderly affair. According to which estimate you believed, as many as seven thousand Gibraltarians had participated, over twenty percent of the indigenous population.
‘What’s up?’ I asked as I pulled up a chair.
‘If I ask a you a direct question will you give me a direct – and truthful – answer for a change?’
My mind engaged gear, trying to predict what was coming.
‘If it doesn’t put me in breach of contract. I’ve already been a heap less discreet with you than I should have been. Don’t make me betray secrets, honey.’
‘Secret or not I’ve got to ask: were you responsible for what’s happened to Michael Vella?’
I took refuge behind a veneer of surprise. ‘What makes you think I might be?’
‘Something you said the other day. You talked about bringing your job here to a conclusion. You were kinda shy about saying how.’
I remembered. I studied her, She was paler than usual, her eyes pink around the edges and slightly bloodshot.
‘Have you been crying?’
She sat upright with a jolt, bringing her face up close enough to mine to rub noses. ‘Don’t give me any bum steer, Warner. Just level with me – was it you? You’re the bomber, you’ve got access to explosives. If figures that you must have planted them on him!’
‘Leave it, Linda. I told you – I can’t talk about it.’
She twisted away from me. A handkerchief appeared from under the sheets and she blew her nose into it.
‘It sucks,’ she said, two words only, but steeped in recrimination. ‘I don’t care what your motives are, it’s a lousy, lousy deal you gave that poor sucker. How can you live with yourself?’
‘The world’s a dirty place.’
‘Sure it is, it’s a stinking sewer. But that doesn’t mean you got to go swim in it. You don’t need to do this, Warner.’ It was a plea straight from her heart. The caring Linda, making a rare showing.
‘Don’t delude yourself. Vella will stay behind bars until the authorities decide he can be set free. It’
s out of my hands.’ I reached for her, but she shrank away. ‘Surely you can see that.’
‘Is it out of your hands?’ Her look was withering. ‘Couldn’t you publicly confess? They wouldn’t dare arrest you, after all you’re one of … one of them. They might kick you out of the … what do you call it … Civil Service. But so what? I tell you this, buster, I’d sooner make a living flashing my snatch at a roomful of jerkoffs than doing a tenth of what you do.’
Stung, I retorted, ‘And you’d still be doing it if it wasn’t for me. And who are you concerned about anyway – me or Vella?’
That flustered her. She made some uncoordinated movements with her hands, finally said, ‘You … both of you. Vella I hardly know, but he strikes me as a good man … sincere … you remember that word? But it’s you I worry about. You’re too good for this cruddy business.’
‘Linda …’ This time she didn’t shrink away but let me take her hand, let it lie limply in mine like a dead fish. ‘It’s a job of work I’m doing, like any other. It’s in the interests of the people of Gibraltar.’ Did I really swallow that? ‘It’s in the interests of world peace and security.’ More baloney. And if I wasn’t convinced how could I hope to convert her. I shifted tack. ‘Look, maybe this isn’t the right time to say this but I thought maybe … you and I could –’
‘Don’t say it, Warner!’ she flared. ‘You’re goddam right – this isn’t the time. I need to think, sort things out in my head.’ The appeal in her eyes touched me. ‘So do you. My God, so do you.’
* * * * *
I took the Aston at a faster lick than was safe up narrow, climbing Queens Road, the sprawling city below opening up as I left the Rock Hotel and the Casino in my wake. The tip of the runway poked into sight below, thrusting out into the blue bay. A battered van coming towards me slowed and cowered into a recess in the road to let me past; the Aston needed a lot of space and I wasn’t in a forgiving mood after Linda’s harangue.