SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  ‘Maurice Pilcher.’

  ‘Yes. I gather he had already made his so-called confession public before seeing the police. They could hardly hush it up after that, could they?’

  A suitable answer escaped me.

  ‘Now that Plan A’s failed, is there a Plan B?’ Toby went on. ‘Are you going to deliver at all?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Work fast. Five days from now the British delegation arrives in Madrid; ten days from now the Conference begins. You’re on a short fuse. And so am I. And so’s the PM.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Unusually, he took it no further. Resigned, perhaps, to failure.

  ‘One other thing, Toby,’ I said, breaking into his goodbye. ‘Did you look at the chip I gave you?’

  ‘Chip? Ah, yes, the fameuse record of the Spanish Army preparing to wage war on us.’

  ‘Well?’ I said, when he didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Our experts agree they’re genuine …’

  ‘You don’t say. Charitable of them.’

  ‘…but that they don’t prove where, or more pertinently, why. Added to which, we’ve warned you about the Irazola progeny. They’re a malicious pair, not to be trusted.’

  ‘Message received, Toby. No sense in depleting the Treasury further with pointless telephone conversations. Give Sam a goodnight kiss from me.’

  I was mad, but not that mad. Still sitting on a fence of my own, between belief in an invasion and the urge to dismiss it as fantasy. Why I should bother in the face of such establishmental apathy beat me. I suppose deep down, however much I might decry it, I was a man of integrity. It was inborn or inbred, I don’t know which, and I was presumably stuck with it.

  I dressed soberly in my charcoal grey suit, settled a dark blue handkerchief in the breast pocket, and went to dine alone. Alone by design for once. I had much to mull over. Including the unprecedented rift that had been driven through my loyalties.

  * * * * *

  The venue for my meeting with Vella was the GIBESTÁ headquarters, an office in a disused bonded warehouse on a rundown wharf behind the Royal Gibraltar Yacht Club. It was not a spacious office and the seven of us made a tight fit.

  We sat at a small laminated-top table that was overdue for retirement – the members of the GIBESTÁ hierarchy minus Maurice, ranged against Elena, Luis, and me. Luis had a large band-aid on his left cheek, where I had socked him. The sun had returned, but little of it percolated here. The only light was a bare LED bulb, too bright to look at.

  Elena and Luis had willingly agreed to attend for the purpose of verifying what I was about to reveal to the GIBESTÁ council. Their vendetta, or whatever it was against their father, burned as fiercely as ever, it seemed. I had insisted on checking Luis for weapons but he was clean. Maybe he didn’t want to push his luck by transporting a gun across the frontier a second time. With or without, he still made me jittery.

  The meeting opened, not with an introduction by Vella, but to Peter’s blurted ‘To make it clear where I stand, I –’ He tapped his chest forcefully like a woodpecker going at a tree, ‘have not changed my mind about you, Warner. I only regret that Michael took it upon himself to save your life!’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ I said, with equal asperity. ‘Ask yourself would I be here if I were the Judas you say I am?’

  ‘You admitted it! Anything else is of no importance. Can’t you see that?’ he appealed to his fellow council members.

  ‘Enough!’ Vella imposed his authority on the gathering with that single word. ‘These people …’ He indicated the Irazola twins whose expressions reflected their bemusement, ‘… have not agreed to meet us to listen to your hysterical spluttering.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ From El Jefe. ‘For my part, I am … what is the right word? … eager to hear why they have come. How do we know they are not spies? The Spanish Government would pay well for inside information on GIBESTÁ.’ He smiled, rare for him, exhibiting an array of worn molars.

  ‘My brother and I are Basques,’ Elena announced, with the same blazing pride I remembered. ‘The Spanish are our enemies. We are prepared to help you because we do not support their policy towards Gibraltar.’ Chin up, every shapely centimetre the rabid revolutionary, she surveyed the four GIBESTÁ leaders and there was something scathing, even contemptuous about her regard. ‘And because … of a personal matter.’

  ‘May we be told what it is?’ El Jefe said. ‘This personal matter.’

  ‘No.’ Elena said shortly. I warmed anew to her. In spirit she and Linda were much alike: gutsy, hot-blooded, inveterate rebels.

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ Peter grumbled, ‘farce though it is. What marvels is the famous Mister Warner going to reveal to us?’

  ‘Just this, Peter – Spain is planning to invade Gibraltar.’

  If stunned silence was the reaction I had wished for I should have been well content. Even unflappable Eduardo had no slick comeback to offer.

  Four pairs of eyes swivelled from me to Elena and Luis.

  ‘It is true,’ Luis confirmed. ‘An invasion force has been assembled twenty kilometres from your frontier. It consists of thirty thousand men and a considerable amount of armour.’

  I felt sorry for Michael Vella. Here was this honourable, peace-loving man, being told that his plans for an independent Gibraltar were about to be consumed in the flames of battle, his precious GIBESTÁ and with it his whole raison d’être made impotent and irrelevant. His features caved in. He seemed to shrink in stature.

  ‘How did you come by this … story?’ Though inside he must have already accepted the truth of it, he couldn’t bring himself to do so publicly.

  Luis answered. ‘The Generalissimo of this force is our father, General Julio Irazola.’

  Collective shock rippled through the committee. No one spoke for several seconds. At length Vella roused himself sufficiently to say to me, ‘Can you vouch for this?’

  I nodded. ‘All of it. I’ve met General Irazola, I’ve known Elena and Luis six months, and I’ve seen the invasion army with my own eyes. Not only that but I’ve passed the word along.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Someone with influence at Westminster.’ At this Vella perked up. I fashioned an apology with my hands. ‘Before you pat me on the back, Westminster was not impressed by all accounts. Dismissed it as fantastic.’

  It still rankled, that dismissal. Notwithstanding the infamous reputation of the Irazola twins, any hint, however vague, of another Falklands in the making ought to have merited further enquiries.

  ‘Do you mean,’ Peter said, his tone incredulous, ‘that the British Government is aware of this invasion plan and don’t intend to do anything about it?’

  ‘Not quite that. They simply don’t believe in it.’ I didn’t say why. Slighting the Irazola twins would only weaken their credibility.

  ‘Do you believe in it?’ Vella asked.

  The question was inevitable. Much as I would have preferred to duck it, I also wanted to tell him the truth. He deserved at least that much. If only I was sure what the truth was. Mentally I ran through the supporting evidence: the Irazola twins’ own conviction, be it real or pretended; the presence of such a large force with its unheard of preponderance in armour – if Luis was to be believed; General Irazola’s apparent courtship of Russia; his attempts to silence me, to dig out of me how much I had uncovered of his scheming.

  Everyone was watching me. As if my belief was the lynchpin on which the next move turned. If so, it was a large responsibility. All manner of wheels might be set in motion if I backed the twins.

  ‘Yes, I believe in it,’ I said at last, in a voice that sounded unlike my own. ‘I think they’re going to invade Gibraltar.’

  Peter opened his mouth as if to refute it, then changed his mind and instead rose and moved across to where a wall map of southern Spain hung.

  ‘Where exactly is this army?’

  ‘A little to the west of north of Algeciras,’ Luis
answered. ‘Find the town of Los Barrios, there is a lake to the north west.’

  Peter traced a route on the map with his forefinger. ‘I have it.’

  ‘They are camped by the lake.’

  Peter’s breath whistled through his teeth. ‘They could be here in a matter of hours,’

  Vella joined him and together they bent forward to quiz the map.

  ‘Even sooner than that,’ Elena said. ‘They have helicopters – many helicopters.’

  ‘Not troop carriers,’ I countered. ‘Or not big ones, at any rate. The most they could transport at a single uplift would be, oh, five or six hundred men.’

  ‘Not enough,’ Peter conceded. ‘They would need to outnumber the garrison here by two-to-one to be certain of victory.’

  ‘The garrison has no tanks, no artillery to speak of,’ El Jefe reminded him. ‘No fighter aircraft.’

  ‘We’re bloody defenceless,’ Ben growled, fishing out a packet of cigarettes. He handed them round; only Luis took one.

  ‘That’s what it amounts to,’ El Jefe said.

  I said, ‘If they landed only five hundred men at the Top of the Rock restaurant, you would never shift them without air support.’

  Vella came away from the map, brow puckered in thought. ‘Their main force would come in via the isthmus. Which means we would have only two or at the most three hours warning.’

  ‘And only then if you have Irazola’s camp under surveillance by someone equipped with short-wave radio or a cell phone,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, how will you know when they’re coming? If we could find out their timetable that would be better.’

  ‘Either way, we’re finished,’ Vella said gloomily. ‘How can we stop or even delay that many men with tanks.’

  ‘By proving to the British that the invasion is a fact.’ El Jefe put his deft finger on the only effective solution. ‘We cannot defend ourselves.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we must try,’ Peter declared. ‘We must make preparations in case all else fails. We must form a militia.’

  Vella looked dubious, fingering the carbuncle that disfigured his upper lip.

  ‘You won’t stop an army corps with shotguns and air pistols,’ I said. ‘All that will happen is that people will die.’

  ‘Needlessly,’ Elena pitched in. ‘My father will win, no matter what you do. Even if you arm every man, woman, and child in Gibraltar.’

  This aroused Vella’s pacific instincts.

  ‘There are not guns enough here to arm a hundredth of the civilian population. Resistance would be pointless.’

  ‘Have you no pride?’ Peter almost shouted. ‘I for one, won’t surrender without a fight!’

  ‘Nor I,’ Ben said.

  ‘Nor I.’ El Jefe’s impassive gaze passed over us all. ‘Better dead than enslaved.’

  ‘You exaggerate,’ Vella rumbled, ‘but I agree we must not meekly accept the inevitability of invasion. We need the British. As you said yourself, Eduardo, we must somehow make them take notice.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I do not intend to sit around to wait for the tanks to roll down Main Street,’ Peter fumed.

  Returning to his seat at the table, Vella gave the twins a direct look.

  ‘Will you help us? Will you be our spies and secure the necessary proof – proof that will convince the British and make them act?’

  ‘We can try,’ Elena said unhesitatingly, and Luis nodded assent. ‘But we cannot guarantee to succeed.’

  ‘About the invasion date,’ I said, waving air space in Ben’s cigarette smoke. ‘Logically the general’s zero hour must be linked to the Conference, which is due to start on 8th May. Now, which would make the most sense politically and militarily – for the Spanish Government: to launch their invasion before, during, or after the Conference?’

  There was silence while six intellects sifted through the options. A ship tooted in the harbour. Some small creature scampered overhead. My own stance was already thought out but I wanted to hear others’ before I aired it.

  ‘Not before.’ Luis was first to contribute. ‘They would be branded as out-and-out aggressors, like the Japanese at Pearl Harbour. The talks have to be held and must fail. Only then will they have justification for using force.’

  ‘I agree,’ Peter said. ‘The diplomatic avenues must always be explored before resorting to arms. Even Hitler made a pretence at settling his differences with Poland before he attacked. In any case, the King would never allow it.’

  El Jefe startled us all by thumping his balled fist on the table.

  ‘You fools!’ he hissed. ‘All that you say of the King and Government of Spain is true. But what makes you think they will have any say in it when the day dawns, hey?’

  ‘What do you mean, Jefe?’ Vella said, a frown creasing his brow.

  ‘Are you not familiar with the history of Spain? How did Francisco Franco come to power? You think there are no more Francos left in Spain? Hah! It is not so many years since that crazy Tejero tried to reinstate a dictatorship. There are many who disapprove the monarchy’s liberal attitudes and those of Sanchez and his socialists even more so. Suppose the King and the Government will have no say in it. Suppose the military do it first and tell them afterwards.’ Eduardo’s tiny twinkling eyes roamed around the table, came finally to rest on me. ‘Or suppose they just get rid of them all.’

  * * * * *

  The following three days were notable only for my enforced inactivity and their culmination in Linda’s discharge from hospital at her own behest. Thinner, paler, shaky on her legs. The hospital authorities declined all responsibility.

  ‘Make sure she stays off her feet as much as possible,’ the surgeon said in an aside to me.

  Though an agreeable enough habitat, the Caleta Hotel was hardly suited to convalescence. Nevertheless, Linda’s room was made as comfortable as possible and I negotiated terms for a member of the staff to be placed effectively at her beck and call.

  Sex was banned of course for several weeks, which meant no homecoming romp between the sheets. Aside from which something had gone missing from our relationship. The former natural camaraderie was forced, stilted. It was as if we were actors on a stage, playing second-rate, cardboard parts, speaking lines learned by rote. I didn’t air my disquiet. Hoped it would pass, whatever it was.

  After that first uncomfortable day I spent more of my time out, leaving Linda to recuperate in solitary. She didn’t protest.

  The fourth day after her return, as I was squeezing the Aston into too small a space outside the hotel, I spotted her coming up the road from the direction of the village. Leaving the car, I went to meet her. She was wearing a summery dress of some burnt orange colour decorated with brown whorls that was new to me, and her steps were cautious. Slim once more, as she was they day I chased her on the highway those months ago. Her colour was unusually high. She looked preoccupied but happy.

  ‘Hello there,’ I said, and she started, jolted out of her reverie. But her smile was ready, almost the old Linda.

  ‘Hi. Lovely day.’

  ‘So are you. Lovely like the day.’

  Her arm slipped through mine.

  ‘I went down to the beach. It’s my first time out of the pen, you know that? I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘It worked. Now you can return to your cell like a good little inmate. Do you want me to carry you?’

  ‘Like a bride over the threshold?’ Snigger. ‘So long as we go slow and easy I can manage.’

  It was going to be all right between us after all. Some psychological scarring from her injuries was to be expected. The surgeon had prepared me for it, impressed on me the need for tolerance and compassion. I was to make no demands on her for some while. Certainly the matter of her infertility was not to be mentioned without prior medical advice.

  ‘Tonight we’ll dine in the restaurant,’ I proposed. ‘If you feel up to it, that is.’

  ‘Sure.’ Her acceptance was mechanical, short on enthusiasm. ‘It’s a date.’

  Be
patient, I reminded myself.

  * * * * *

  Vella came round that same evening, seeking news. I had finished dressing for dinner and joined him in the Arcadia Bar for aperitifs. I hadn’t heard from Elena and Luis so was unable to throw him any crumbs.

  ‘Peter is forming a militia,’ he said darkly. ‘He doesn’t believe your friends will obtain the proof we need or that even if they do the British Government will act on it.’

  Secretly I half-subscribed to Peter’s view. I brooded for a moment, sipping my gin and lemon.

  ‘Give them two more days. If we haven’t heard by then I’ll … I’ll …’ What would I do? What could I do?

  Vella’s smile was grim. ‘That’s what I was afraid you would say.’

  ‘I’ll talk to my London contact again.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ Vella snorted and poured three fingers of Scotch down his throat in a single draught.

  * * * * *

  London was ahead of me. I was recalled to the Foreign Office that very same evening, the message coming not directly but via the Governor’s residence in the form of a fax message in an envelope delivered by a military policeman. Harry brought him into the bar.

  ‘I was told to wait for a reply, sir,’ the redcap said, stiffly to attention, brass buttons winking, webbing stiff with blanco, not a crease out of line.

  ‘At ease, corporal,’ I said. ‘This is civilian territory.’

  Significantly the message was from Kirkland. Had Toby washed his hands of me?

  Filching a sheet of hotel notepaper, I scrawled a reply: Coming first available flight, and signed off ‘W’.

  I broke the news to Linda, sitting across the table and looking luscious.

  ‘I’d better let Vella know,’ I mused aloud, forking an endive.

  Later, munching my way through a chateaubriand steak in brandy sauce, I mentioned that Elena or Luis might call the hotel.

  ‘Can’t you give them your cell number?’

  ‘I don’t know theirs, so no. If they do call, and you speak to them, tell them I’ll be in touch as soon as I come back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Christ knows. They might even arrest me for treason or abusing my expense account or something.’