SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  ‘I have to get out of here, see the Governor.’

  ‘You’re not going to see anyone,’ the doctor said warmly. ‘You need at least twenty-four hours rest for the concussion alone.’

  The nurse was spraying sealant on the burned area of my leg. It was ice-cold but it did the job. She kept skimming nervous glances at me, as if she were unsure of my mental stability. I was in what appeared to be a small private ward, probably at the St Bernard’s Hospital which was closer to the airport than the Naval Hospital.

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you what happened at the airport?’

  ‘Only that you crash landed,’ the doctor said. ‘Now if you’ll just lie still …’

  ‘You goddam fool!’ I seethed. ‘We were shot down by a Spanish fighter.’

  His calm bedside manner slipped. The nurse was no longer spraying.

  ‘I … I don’t understand,’ the doctor said, a crack appearing in his shell of officiousness.

  ‘You will soon enough. Get me a car – with a driver if you think I’m not fit to be at the wheel. I have to see the Governor right away.’

  I could see he was still unsure whether to humour me or send for a straitjacket. In the event he humoured me. My wounds were dressed in what was probably world-record time and the doctor himself drove me round to the Convent.

  Then my problems began. The Governor was having a working lunch with the Chief Minister and on no account to be disturbed. The Sergeant of the guard refused me entry and when I brushed him aside and entered anyway I was seized by two soldiers and placed under arrest. Which did at any rate gain me admittance, if only to a small basement room furnished with a wobbly bench and a table. My fortunes took a turn for the better when, at my insistence, my old accomplice Major Ribble was sent for.

  I wasted no words on greetings.

  ‘Did you hear what happened at the airport?’

  ‘Something about a Spanish plane shooting down a chopper.’

  ‘Correct. I was in the one that was shot at. The pilot and a … a friend of mine, were killed.’

  He tweaked his moustache anxiously. ‘What’s going on, Warner?’

  ‘Explanations will have to wait. I have to see the Governor right now.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, old man.’ Typical. Protocol and red tape would be the death of Gibraltar yet. ‘He’s closeted with the CM. Can’t you tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘War, Ribble,’ I said bleakly. ‘War is what it’s about.’

  * * * * *

  The Governor made no effort to suppress his displeasure. As it happened, his session with the Chief Minister was over but another appointment was waiting in the wings. Ribble was dismissed with a mild rebuke, and Sir Gilbert received me alone in his private office. It was cool and peaceful there. The threat of an invasion took on a mildly ludicrous aspect.

  ‘I’ve sent for Kirkland to join us,’ the Governor said as I made myself comfortable.

  ‘It may be a long wait, Governor. When last I saw him he was lying on the floor in an interrogation room at General Irazola’s HQ.’

  The Governor boggled. ‘You mean he’s been abducted?’

  ‘No, I mean he’s defected.’

  ‘What!’

  I gave him a potted rundown on Kirkland’s background and loyalties. As the extent of the Prime Ministerial aide’s perfidy was unveiled the Governor’s brow darkened and an expletive passed his lips.

  ‘Is all this true?’ he said, when I had run dry.

  ‘It can’t be proved, but it’ll come out eventually. Meanwhile, Governor, there’s a more pressing item on the political agenda.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I went on. He heard me out and no interruptions.

  When I had recited my piece he said, ‘We already discussed your invasion theory at some length, as I recall. Surely the concessions that are to be made – and incidentally no one in Gibraltar apart from Mr Picardo and I are privy to the details – have removed that threat.’

  ‘That’s the whole point. The invasion is part of a military takeover of Spain, it’s nothing at all to do with the elected Government. Why do you think I was pursued here by two fighters and shot down?’

  ‘A serious infringement of Gibraltar airspace,’ Sir Gilbert asserted, thrusting his modest chin belligerently.

  ‘Balls to your airspace – with respect, sir. You’ve got to alert the Government … both Governments, British and Spanish. King Felipe may be in danger too.’ Though I was sure Petrov had been eliminated, his demise on its own wouldn’t remove the threat to the King.

  Sir Gilbert rested his elbows on the arms of his leather swivel chair and regarded me balefully.

  ‘You are quite sure about all this, I hope, Warner. It’s a great responsibility you’re asking me to shoulder.’

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ I replied, my patience tottering, ‘it is now one-forty five pm on 8th May. On Sunday morning, approximately forty hours from now Irazola’s tanks are going to roll across the frontier, across the airport runway, and down Main Street. Behind them will come a division of troops, with a couple more in reserve. Your skies will be full of helicopter gunships, and warships will mount a blockade. Do you want to be remembered as the man who handed the Rock over to Spain?’ I was guessing about the blockade but it was reasonable to assume that Irazola had allies in the fleet.

  ‘All right, Warner.’ A profound sigh, as if he were humouring me. ‘Point made. I’ll call the Foreign Office. Then we’ll see.’

  I had always known he wouldn’t move without authority from HQ. I sat down uninvited in one of the crescent of chairs drawn up before Sir Gilbert’s desk.

  His face darkened. ‘I’d rather you waited outside, if you don’t mind.’

  He forestalled my protest by stabbing the buzzer of his intercom. Ribble came in, so promptly I suspected him of eavesdropping at the door.

  ‘Mr Warner will wait in the ante-chamber,’ Sir Gilbert said unsmilingly. ‘And you are to remain with him.’

  My banishment lasted through three cups of Government-brand tea. It was approaching three o’clock when Sir Gilbert came out of his office. He was paler than when I had left him.

  ‘Well?’ I fired at him.

  ‘Come in, will you?’

  Back in his office he said without prologue, ‘We are to let events take their course. No precautions are to be taken and nothing done which might be construed as provocative.’

  ‘Provocative!’ I almost gagged on the word. ‘You mean we let them stroll in and raise the Spanish flag over the Rock?’

  ‘There are difficulties.’ Sir Gilbert was clearly unhappy with his brief. ‘The Spanish Prime Minister is away in South America, the King cannot be reached and no one seems to know his whereabouts.’

  ‘Well, what a coincidence.’ I was barely coherent. ‘What about organising resistance here? You’ve got several hundred servicemen at your disposal. There’s a couple of Navy boats in the harbour. Christ, man, you can’t just sit on your fannies!’

  ‘It’s not my decision,’ he snapped back. ‘I’ve been ordered to offer no resistance. Avoiding loss of life is the main concern. After all, from what you say, Irazola doesn’t represent Spain. His will be an act of rebellion, wholly illegal. It will be up to the legitimate government to deal with him.’

  The man was unbelievable.

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? Unless somebody does something Irazola will very soon be the legitimate government. They’re going to exile the King or worse, and install a dictatorship with Russian collusion. Think of what that will mean for all of Europe, let alone Gibraltar.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me as though I’m senile. How would defending Gibraltar prevent that?’

  I smacked the palm of my hand to my forehead. ‘By upsetting their timetable. Irazola needs Gibraltar and he needs it fast. It’s his launching pad. If he fails, or he’s simply delayed, the timing of his coup will be upset and may even be scrapped. It’ll give Sanchez a breathing space to fly back from South America
and muster support. Also, the removal of the King and Government is timed to happen after the announcement of the surrender of Gibraltar.’

  Sir Gilbert flopped despondently into the nearest armchair. ‘I’ve had my orders. I can’t flout them. If I authorised a military response and it backfired – say hundreds were killed – it would be the end of me.’

  ‘You fucking coward!’ I stormed. ‘Screw your career. You’re the only one who can stop it. Just get –’

  I broke off in mid-tirade. Was he the only one? What about Michael Vella and his militia. The home guard I had dismissed as primitive and ineffectual. Without another word I wheeled round and stamped out.

  My chauffeuring doctor was long departed, so I set out to walk the half-kilometre to Vella’s apartment, praying he would be home.

  He was. Not only that but El Jefe and Peter were with him.

  ‘A council of war?’ I enquired, when he let me in.

  ‘I never expected to see you again,’ Vella confessed drawing me into the centre of the vast living room. Peter rose slowly, as if his joints were stiff.

  ‘I think I owe you an apology,’ he said and stuck out a hand. Though nonplussed, I accepted it and the apology, unmerited though it was.

  ‘Why the change of heart?’

  ‘Your telephone call from Madrid,’ Vella explained. ‘We owe you a great debt for that.’

  Gratitude always embarrasses me.

  ‘Not greater than the one I owe you.’ A bout of dizziness came over me and I felt my legs buckling. I grabbed Vella for support. The room was changing shape, straight lines becoming wavy, the floor undulating like a fairground tilt-a-whirl.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vella said, alarm in his voice.

  ‘Nothing … an aeroplane accident. Just let me sit down.’

  He and Peter all but carried me to the couch. I crashed down onto it. Vella laid hand on my forehead.

  ‘You’re running a temperature.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I repeated, and gulped gratefully from the glass of water Peter handed me. The dizziness receded.

  El Jefe said, ‘We heard a Spanish aircraft crashed on the runway. Were you involved?’

  ‘Not now, Eduardo,’ Vella protested.

  ‘Now’s a good time. Yes, I was involved.’ I ran briefly through the train of events that had led up to the destruction of the helicopter and Elena’s death.

  ‘Poor girl,’ Vella said, concerned as always with the human aspect.

  ‘Never mind the girl,’ Peter said callously, which made me want to hit him, but I didn’t have the energy to stand let alone get into a brawl. ‘You haven’t explained what made you so important the Spanish Air Force was prepared to risk an international incident to stop you.’

  I set the now empty glass down on a nearby coffee table. All eyes were on me, as if sensing some momentous revelation.

  ‘You won’t like the news I’ve brought you,’ I said, ‘but Irazola’s forces are going to march into Gib at five o’ clock am. the day after tomorrow.’

  The room went very quiet. So quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  Peter recovered fastest. He shrugged and looked at Vella.

  ‘I warned you,’ he said.

  ‘They must be mad,’ Vella said. ‘Spain will lose all possible sympathy –’

  ‘Who said anything about Spain?’ My voice was harsh. ‘This is a strictly one-man show, with Vladimir Putin waiting in the wings. And the man behind it all – Julio Irazola – claims to be the son of Franco.’

  That really floored them.

  ‘Franco’s son?’ El Jefe said, his voice an awed croak. ‘My God, is it possible?’

  ‘The bastard sired many bastards, I suspect,’ Vella said bleakly. ‘Be that as it may, a lot of Spaniards will flock to his banner for this reason alone.’

  I gave them the rest of it, no frills. As a bonus, I also threw in the outcome of my recent interview with the Governor.

  ‘So they won’t offer even a token resistance?’ Vella said, aghast.

  ‘Not a single bayonet will be fixed in your defence.’

  ‘We are grateful to you for coming here to warn us,’ El Jefe said from the depths of his armchair. ‘But I am a little surprised that the Governor should take you into his confidence to such an extent.’

  Peter, quick to seize on any discrepancy, moved to confront me. ‘Yes, André. How is it that the Governor spoke so freely in front of you?’

  I gave a sigh. ‘This is no time for in-fighting, Peter. Let’s just say I’m not what I appear to be but that I’m on your side. Will that do?’

  Peter took a step forward, jaw jutting. ‘No, it fucking well won’t!’

  ‘Leave it, Peter!’ Vella rapped out, in a sergeant-majorial tone. ‘André has done more than enough to prove where his sympathies lie. I accept him as a friend and an ally, and so must you. We are going to need all the allies we can get. Especially …’ Smiling lop-sidedly, ‘… one who has access to such high places.’

  ‘He is right,’ El Jefe said, giving Peter a direct look. ‘But it is as well that we understand the manner of this man who would run such risks to help us. He had no need to come back to Gibraltar, after all.’

  Peter succumbed with a scowl. ‘Very well. I would like to know just who and what you are, André, but these things will wait. What we must do now is decide on how to defend our country.’

  ‘Defend your country is right,’ I agreed. ‘Not because you can win but because you need to disrupt Irazola’s schedule, throw grit in the works of his military machine, buy time for the legitimate government to arrest him and his buddies. Tell me, did you proceed with the plan to form a militia?’

  ‘Indeed we did,’ Vella replied. ‘But we are only in the preliminary stages. Peter has been the driving force, which will be no surprise to you. It is thanks to him that we have a command structure and can call upon a thousand volunteers. What we lack most apart from weapons is military expertise. Almost no Gibraltarian has done military service. Those who have, like Eduardo here, are too old to fight, though naturally we shall make use of them in an advisory capacity.’

  ‘A man with knowledge of explosives would be an asset,’ El Jefe remarked, his expression wily.

  Peter glanced at him then across at me. ‘Have you served in the forces, André?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I was an officer with Military Intelligence. A long time ago.’

  ‘Is that where you learned to handle bombs?’

  I coughed. ‘In part. I was given a refresher course here in Gib. ‘

  Vella brushed this aside. ‘Will you join us, André? Help us organise, help us prepare our defences. Will you?’

  ‘It’s too late, you know. Any defence can only be rudimentary.’ I tugged absently at cotton strands on my shirt that had once attached a button. ‘And how long do you think a thousand untrained men, poorly-armed, could hold off tanks and trained troops?’

  ‘We would use guerrilla tactics,’ El Jefe said, and his eyes blazed with the light of battle. If someone offered him a rifle I was sure he’d be mixing it with the rest. ‘Fall back on the Rock. Use the tunnels and the casements. Let them try and drive a tank in there.’ His cackle set Peter off; even Vella grinned, his teeth a white grid in his brown features. ‘We might even get some of the old guns working.’

  ‘Without shells, what use would they be?’

  Vella was not deterred. ‘Even so. Will you join us, André?’

  The ‘Yes’ was formed, needing only articulation, when the door bell buzzed. Clucking in irritation, Vella stalked off to answer it.

  The long couch, where I sat, was in a shallow recess, obscured from the hall door. Had I been almost anywhere else in the room Linda might have behaved with more restraint, might even have tried to deceive me. As it was, her first utterance on entering was, ‘Hi, darling, surprise-surprise,’ and for the reason already mentioned, the endearment wasn’t directed at me.

  ‘Linda …’ was all Ve
lla said. I got up, much too quickly for my concussed brain. Linda and Vella were framed in the doorway, kissing; she on tiptoe owing to his height.

  ‘How touching,’ I said, and Linda pulled away with an exclamation of dismay.

  ‘Warner! You’re back.’ She remained stock still for some seconds, then came slowly towards me, arms out, appealing. She as lovely as ever, vital, radiating health and happiness, her rich brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her dress was oyster-pink and figure-hugging. And her figure was worthy of it, the post-natal flab almost gone. Vella followed her, plucking self-consciously at his nose, clearly flustered by the exposure of his intrigue with Linda.

  She came up close, held my hands. I let them lie in hers, stiff, like pieces of wood.

  ‘Nobody told me you were here. If I’d known …’ She flapped her hands helplessly. ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this, honey.’

  ‘You don’t need to explain. We’re not married. We’re not anything at all.’

  Her mouth turned down. Vella came to stand beside her, ill-at-ease, an intruder in his own home.

  ‘It started when Linda was in hospital.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Look,’ Peter said, acting as conciliator for once, ‘this can wait, can’t it? We were discussing the invasion.’

  ‘Invasion!’ Linda’s eyes darted from face to face, coming to rest on Vella’s. ‘He’s joking, isn’t he?’

  ‘If only he was,’ he said, awkward still.

  Peter, growing irritated, dragged me around, separating me from Linda. ‘There are things we must do! We need you. Are you with us?’

  I looked from him to Vella and finally to Linda; to Linda the longest of all.

  ‘No,’ I said, and Peter recoiled from me, as if I’d announced my contraction of a highly contagious disease. ‘I’ve finished with Gibraltar.’

  It was petty to let my spite overrule the strong sense of obligation that had drawn me back to Gibraltar in the first place. Perhaps on account of my semi-concussed state, Linda’s duplicity and my discovery of it with it was blown up in my mind into a massive betrayal. That the other guilty party should be Michael Vella, a man I liked and respected, was doubly destructive.