by Lex Lander
They seemed startled at the possibility that it might not.
‘They can hardly expect more,’ the Defence Minister demurred, winding a tendril of blonde hair around her index finger. ‘If we concede sovereignty their casus belli is nullified.’
‘Are we scared of fighting them?’
His discomfiture was considerable. ‘Not scared militarily, no.’
‘Politically then.’
‘Why should we be?’ A typical politician’s answer.
‘It’s a cliché, I know, but I never thought I’d live to see the day when Britain would back down from a scrap with Spain. Whatever happened to the Armada spirit?’
The Defence Minister just grimaced.
‘Realities of the age,’ Kirkland said coolly. Strangely, he appeared not to share the Foreign Secretary’s dismay at the prospect of surrendering the Rock.
‘Why does all of this require me to go to Madrid?’
‘You’ll be going with Kirkland as special adviser on Gibraltar,’ the Foreign Secretary answered behind steepled fingers. ‘Much as it may go against the grain, GIBESTÁ is a factor which will have to be taken into account during the negotiations and your first-hand knowledge of the movement and its leading lights will be invaluable. Additionally, thanks to your extended stay on the Rock, you must have some idea of the mood of the Gibraltarians. The Spanish will be impressed, which is what we want them to be. Your relative fluency in their language will be an added bonus. As you are aware, Kirkland also speaks Spanish like a native, on account, I imagine, of his wife – his very lovely wife.’
Kirkland made a show of unbecoming modesty. ‘Thank you for the dual compliments. I accept the one about my wife, at any rate.’
I drained my cup. ‘Terms still the same as Sideshow?’
The Foreign Secretary blinked. ‘What terms would those be?’
‘Yes,’ Kirkland cut in with a warning contraction of his pale eyebrows. To the Foreign Secretary he said unctuously ‘I’ll fill you in later, Minister.’
Meaning that my fee had short-circuited the ministerial approval process.
‘Are you going to brief me now?’ I said, diplomatically changing the subject.
‘Outside of this office, if you don’t mind, Kirkland,’ the Foreign Secretary said, almost apologetically. Standing up abruptly, he stuck out his slender hand. ‘Thanks for all you’ve done … attempted to do, Warner. It wasn’t your fault it came unstuck and you more than made up for any failure in that direction with your intelligence on the Spanish invasion plan.’
‘No black marks?’ As if I cared.
‘Not even a grey one as far as I’m concerned.’
Promotion prospects still good then.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Madrid was hot and seemed hotter still in contrast to the cool of an English spring. Unlike Kirkland and me, the city’s inhabitants were dressed for it, their light loose clothes contrasting with our wool suits. The heat bothered Kirkland and when we stepped out of the taxi before the modern and sumptuous Princesa Plaza Hotel, he was pink of hue and perspiring.
After a beer and a freshen-up I took a stroll down the long boulevard that ran past the front door of the Palacio Real – the Royal Palace. It was early evening, the first inkling of the drop in temperature that nightfall and eight hundred metres of altitude would bring chilling my bare arms. The streets were noisy but cleaner than those of London, and signs of neglect or dilapidation were absent. On the contrary, the majority of the populace had a distinctly prosperous look.
I walked as far as the Palace, a stone building of three storeys with square colonnades built into the walls. Architecturally-speaking, not dissimilar from Buckingham Palace, except that a busy thoroughfare passed within a few metres of the front door. The lower windows were pink with the glow of sunset, making them appear to be lit up inside. No members of the Royal Family waved to me from behind them.
Opposite the Palace I turned left into a plaza of lawns and flowers and shrubs and a monument of an armour-clad rider on horseback. I mounted the ring of steps at its base and read on the plinth that the rider represented was in fact a woman and a queen to boot – the Renanda Isabella Segunda de Bourbon no less. Spain’s Boadicea? Behind me a tourist snapped off several pictures in quick succession, his garishly-dressed wife posing at the base of the plinth.
‘Move a little to the left, dear… no, my left not yours …’
‘How the hell am I supposed to know, you moron …!’
Marital bliss at its finest. I passed on to a bench beyond the statue, where I sat and watched the world go by for a few minutes. As the sky grew darker the nip in the air on the Iberian plateau grew in proportion. Most other promenaders were better prepared, with windbreakers and sweaters. None of them was within hearing range so I extracted my cell phone from my hip pocket and selected a number from the contacts list.
Michael Vella might have been waiting for my call: the receiver was lifted even as the ringing began.
‘Warner,’ I said without preamble. ‘Any news from the Irazola kids?’
‘Nothing. Are you still in England?’
‘Madrid.’
A gasp. ‘How … what …?’
I overrode his expostulations.
‘Just listen, Michael, I’m trying to help you.’ I checked again for potential eavesdroppers, was reassured. ‘A friend in high places let something slip over dinner. I fed him enough alcohol to loosen his tongue further and I can tell you that the British Government now definitely does accept that an invasion might be in the offing.’ It was a feeble tale but in his anxiety I hoped he wouldn’t notice. Now for the crunch – to tell or not to tell that Gibraltar was going to be dumped, albeit on a leaseback basis. I had spent the previous night mostly engaged in an internal tug-of-war between my natural liking and respect for Vella, not to mention the personal debt, and my professional obligations. In tipping him off I might even be guilty of treason.
‘André, are you still there?’
‘Yeah.’ I came to a decision and hoped it was the right one. ‘Michael … listen carefully. The Spanish are going to be offered sovereignty –’ His anguished ‘No!’ reverberated against my ear drum. I silenced him brutally. ‘You can wring your hands later. It’ll be subject to leaseback, ninety-nine years is the favourite, which means it won’t happen in the lifetime of any living Gibraltarian, nor in the lifetimes of most of their children.’
He swore obscenely, a rarity for him, serving to underline the strength of his antipathy.
‘It will mean an insurrection,’ he said, his voice bitter. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Talking like that won’t help. It’s up to you to make sure it’s accepted. You’re the only one who can convince your people it’s the best of all possible options. Or perhaps you’d prefer an invasion.’ My tone was harsh, with an undertone of irony.
‘Yes, I would.’ The blunt statement shocked me momentarily. ‘Then the British would be obliged to defend us.’
It was a twisted kind of reasoning that advocated independence yet in extremis called upon the protective umbrella of the imperial power whose sovereignty was so hateful. I said this much to him.
‘I have to be pragmatic. Under British rule, GIBESTÁ has a chance of achieving some form of autonomy, under Spain we have none. After having finally regained control over us, do you imagine they would be prepared to even recognise the existence of an independence movement?’
He was right, of course.
A squat elderly man in braces and beret came shuffling over and plonked down at the other end of the bench. An unlikely snooper, but why risk it?
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Where can I reach you? What are you doing there, in Madrid, anyway?’
‘Business.’ Let him draw his own conclusions. ‘I’ll try and find out more. My friend’s a member of the British negotiating team, staying at the same hotel. Don’t try to contact me.’
He didn’t speak for a l
ong moment, then, ‘André …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m grateful for what you’re doing for us.’
Damn right he should be.
‘Think nothing of it. I’m repaying a debt.’
‘What debt?’ To him there was no debt. That was the kind of man he was.
‘Goodbye, Michael.’
Back at the hotel I called the Caleta and asked for Linda. She was out, I was informed. Out where, I wondered, worry nibbling at me even as I hung up. She had no business being out, still wasn’t recovered from her injuries.
Thanks to Linda I had been able to some extent to banish Maura from my daily flashbacks. Now I was haunted anew by the possibility that I had only exchanged one unrequited receptacle for another.
* * * * *
‘The Conference opens the day after tomorrow,’ Kirkland reminded me unnecessarily as we breakfasted matily together. ‘So I propose we meet our team today. Get it over with. It’s bound to be a bore.’
So maybe he and I had more in common than I had figured.
Our chauffeured Mercedes limousine, long as a bus, swept us through the city with unconcern for intersections and other obstacles, to the Cuidad Universitaria – University City – in the northern suburbs. Here was a city within a city, modern tower blocks rising from landscaped gardens, the youthfulness of the trees evidencing its newness. We left the broad avenida, doubled back on ourselves and passed back underneath it. A few complicated turns later we careered into a parking lot, overshadowed by a squat oblong of a building bearing no identification whatsoever.
‘This doesn’t look like a university,’ I remarked, as we abandoned the limousine.
‘It isn’t. It only pretends to be.’ Kirkland didn’t elaborate. ‘It was chosen for the talks in preference to some more prestigious venue in the city centre because it’s easier to protect.’
‘Who needs protection – us?’
‘Gibraltar is an emotive issue. Fanatics are likely to emerge from the carpet fluff. Especially if the talks look like failing.’
‘But they won’t fail. Not on our account.’
‘The Spanish don’t know that yet. We aren’t about to shoot off every arrow in our quiver before we even sit down at the conference table. They have to be seen to fight for their sovereignty and we to squirm giving it to them. Get the picture?’
Devious was too mild a term for what was afoot.
A semi-circle of stone steps led up to multiple doors through which people were constantly passing, many of them in police or military uniform. Two soldiers with shoulder-slung machine pistols prowled the terrace. They scrutinised us, but made no effort to apprehend us.
Inside was different. In a plasticky emporium we were directed to a desk, searched rather perfunctorily, checked against a list, approved, and handed cards with clips that bore our photographs, names, and status: I was a “Foreign Office Executor”, which I guessed was a mis-spelling of “executive”.
‘They seem organised enough,’ I said, as we followed a gun-toting soldier to an elevator, where three or four other civilians waited.
‘Yes, to give credit where it’s due, the Spanish are taking it very seriously indeed. They can’t afford to risk any bad publicity. Any violence against the British delegates might harden Britain’s attitude and lose Spain world support and sympathy.’
Up we went, bodyguard and all, to the second floor and a long room with many windows that faced towards the centre of the city: the two hundred and fifty metres tall Cuatro Torres in the business area were outlined sharply in the crisp morning air. The UK delegation, six strong, were already in debate, established in a tight group around a corner of the hollow-square table. Although they had been notified of the secondment of two “advisors” to their team, the leader, Malcolm Crabbe, MP, Foreign Office Minister and late Chairman of the Operation Sideshow committee, was not welcoming.
‘Who needs you?’ he groused as we offered breezy ‘Good mornings’, and sorted out seating.
‘Perhaps the Foreign Office is afraid we’ll be outnumbered,’ some team member suggested. Other, less polite suggestions came in its wake.
‘We take no part in the actual talks unless you call on us,’ Kirkland said, spoken like a true diplomat. ‘We’re here to advise on technical aspects.’
Crabbe sniffed. ‘Such as?’
‘And to observe,’ Kirkland dodged, slippery-smooth, ‘and report back.’
‘You hear that, chaps? We’ve got a Fifth Column amongst us.’
The ‘chaps’ evinced a suitable level of affront and clattered coffee cups.
‘Milk or cream, Denis?’
‘Pass the pot, will you, there’s a good fellow.’
They couldn’t have cared less. This was just another junket, a few weeks high living in Madrid: plush hotel, NQA expense accounts, plenty of leisure time.
I was too preoccupied to pay much attention to the round of introductions: despite my injunction not to contact me, Vella had called my cell phone, very late the previous night. The Irazola twins had turned up soon after our conversation with some new and supposedly sensational material that they would not divulge until they had discussed it with me. They were driving to Madrid today for that very purpose. Naturally, I speculated for hours on what it might be, and slept little as a result. In fact I was having a run of bad nights. There was too much conflict inside my head. Linda, Vella, Irazola, GIBESTÁ, treason, uprising, war … all of it spinning round like a great turbine, ever faster, too fast to control.
The negotiating team talked around us for the next half hour, Kirkland occasionally slipping in some germane comment that was promptly discarded. My own contribution was zero.
‘Excuse me,’ I said at some stage in the dreary repartee, in sudden need of solitude. Nobody acknowledged. I slipped out into the corridor. Our escort was still there, picking his nose. He jerked sloppily to attention.
‘I’m going outside,’ I informed him. ‘Voy fuero. Vale?’
He insisted on riding back down to the ground floor with me and seeing me out of the building. I walked through the surrounding gardens, hoping to clear my mind of clutter, returning at length to the front of the building and a wooden bench.
Cars and taxis came and departed, and people detoured around me, intent on their own affairs. Alone, free of distractions, I began to put my thoughts in order, in particular about whose side I was really on and whom I was fighting for. In truth, that was what was really at the root of my dolour. I had made mistakes, some big, some small, but to pass state secrets on to an outsider such as those I had passed to Vella was to put my conscience through hell. And Vella, by all recognised definitions, was an enemy of the state. He who is not with me is against me. Justify it, Warner, I said to myself, square it with your professed virtue if you can.
I couldn’t.
So I continued to be plagued by guilt. Continued, that is, until two arms came from behind and wrapped around me. Female arms.
‘Day dreaming, André?’
‘Elena?’ I freed myself and stood up.
‘I’ve missed you.’ Her kiss was uninhibited, like most of her behaviour. Her declared fondness for me was flattering considering the age discrepancy, so I kissed back with a suitable amount of ardour. She looked ravishing with her hair caught back in blue ribbon and just enough make-up. Under an open corduroy blouson she wore a white ribbed sweater that stuck to every undulation of her torso, and skinny jeans that made her appear taller than she was.
Luis was with her but remained discreetly at a distance. Now, with the intimate phase over, he came up, swaggering a little as was his style. We exchanged greetings.
‘Hello, André. I am happy to see you again.’
I gave him a wary nod as I shook his hand. He was less immaculately turned out than usual, his chin shaded with stubble, his white shirt overdue for laundering. It was hard to credit that this was the same honcho who had gunned down eight people with such sickening glee. The flesh-pressing gave m
e the same feeling you might get from grabbing a 20,000 volt cable. Instinctively my eyes wandered over the lightweight sports jacket in search of bumps that might mean a weapon. No obvious protrusions but that didn’t put me at ease: the jacket was open and hanging loose on his slender frame, and a pistol worn in the small of the back is all but undetectable.
I said, ‘Vella told me to expect you, but how did you find me here? It can’t be a coincidence, surely.’
‘The hotel told us.’ Her eyes went from me to the building. ‘I know this place well. My father comes here sometimes for meetings.’
‘Speaking of your father, have you seen him lately?’
‘Not since we found out what is really happening,’ Luis replied ahead of Elena. ‘We have much to tell you.’
‘So I gather. Do you want to talk here and now?’
But Luis was no longer paying attention. He was staring down the path to the parking lot, towards an approaching group of mostly uniformed men. A cluster of camera-toting newsmen paced them, filming as they went. Two civilians were cutting across a lawned area on a converging course; one of them called a greeting.
‘Hola, General! You are late, but I forgive you!’
‘You are wise to do so, my friend. I have brought a division of tanks as my personal bodyguard!’
The voice, jovial, affable, was familiar. I looked harder at the uniformed group.
‘It’s Papa!’ Luis whispered, pointing like a retriever. ‘He is here!’
The group broke up as it met the two civilians, revealing at its core General Irazola, magnificent in dress uniform, a broad white smile cleaving his tanned face.
‘Did you know he was going to be here?’ I asked Elena.
‘We knew he was coming to Madrid, that was all.’
The group, now some dozen strong, plus the scurrying cameramen, was heading for the entrance where the two sentries were already ramrod-backed. In the midst of the uniforms I recognised another adversary – Petrov. Puffy of mouth and sickly of pallor. Good! The group moved on and Petrov passed within touching range of me, heedless of my presence.