The Armada Legacy

by Scott Mariani

  The shot caught her in the back. She collapsed on her face in a tangle of arms and legs, but she wasn’t dead. Brooke went on watching in anguish as the young girl tried to drag herself across the concrete yard. Serrato calmly walked up to her and fired another shot into the back of her head. The blood sprayed a foot across the ground. This time Presentacion stopped moving.

  Serrato returned the pistol to his man. ‘Dump the bodies in the jungle,’ Brooke heard him order the guards in Spanish. Her heart was pounding. She felt numb, barely conscious of the pain in her fingers clinging to the window ledge.

  Serrato turned round to walk away from the two dead women. There was nothing in his expression. As he moved closer to Brooke’s window she could see the flecks of blood on his suit. He paused to dab at them with a handkerchief, tutted irritably and walked on out of sight, followed by all but two of the men, who stayed behind to take care of the corpses.

  Wanting to throw up, Brooke lowered herself back to the floor. She knew that if Serrato returned to the dining room and found her missing, there might be a third woman’s body thrown out for the jungle scavengers that night.

  She staggered for the door, threw it open and started running frantically back the way she’d come. By a miracle she didn’t meet anyone as she retraced her steps; by an even bigger miracle she managed to find the dining room without getting lost in the maze of passageways. Her heart was in her mouth as she opened the dining room door, fully expecting Serrato to be there already waiting for her with a pistol in his hand. But the room was empty. Brooke hurried across to the table, sat down at her place and tried to control the emotions that were making her hands shake.

  A few minutes later, Serrato returned. He’d changed out of the cream-coloured suit and into a pair of chinos and a navy blazer. ‘I hope you will forgive me for so rudely interrupting our dinner,’ he said with a smile. ‘I suddenly remembered a matter of business that simply could not wait, not even for you.’ He glanced downwards and his smile faded into a frown. ‘You have taken off your shoes?’

  Brooke had completely forgotten the sandals she’d slipped off and left under the table. ‘They’re a little tight on me,’ she said, thinking fast. She managed to control the tremor in her voice.

  ‘No matter. I will have new ones made to fit,’ he replied. ‘Now, shall we eat?’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The address on the ripped-out page from Forsyte’s book was in the province of Granada, Andalucía, in the deep south of Spain. When Ben checked out the location, he could see Butler had been right about Juan Fernando Cabeza being reclusive. The historian had chosen a home high up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, some way east of Granada City and just about as remote as anywhere in Europe. His old university still had him listed on their website as a former faculty member, offering a blurb about his various academic achievements, accolades and publications. Cabeza’s birth date was 1966. The image of him on the site showed a craggy-faced man with a serious expression and unusually fair hair and pale eyes for a Spaniard. Ben committed the face to memory.

  After a few hours’ snatched sleep in the car, he boarded the earliest possible flight from Gatwick to Málaga, the airport nearest his destination. Another two hours later he was touching down on Spanish soil, dragging his heels impatiently through customs and hiring a Volkswagen Touareg four-wheel drive. His head was aching badly and he’d barely eaten a thing for two days, but a powerful, furious inner force kept driving him on.

  Ten-eighteen, local time. Brooke had now been missing for over fifty-nine hours.

  Ben’s last time in Spain had been a brief but eventful visit to Salamanca the previous September, when the weather had been hot and sultry. This time round, the dashboard thermometer read minus four and plummeted down two degrees further as he bypassed Granada in the Sierra Nevada foothills, 130 kilometres east of Málaga, and wound his way up and up into the mountains.

  The scant traffic thinned out to almost zero the higher the road climbed, and he saw nothing for miles and miles except endless snowy forests of oak and pine. He had to stop frequently to check his bearings. Once he almost collided with a curly-horned mountain goat that burst out from the roadside shrubbery and darted across his path. On and on the road led him, often buried deep in snow and almost impassable in places, climbing ever more steeply until he could see the snowy mountain peaks rearing up above the clouds like something out of a dreamscape.

  It was early afternoon by the time Ben caught his first glimpse of the house through the trees, checked his map again and knew he’d come to the right place. By then the road had dwindled into a narrow track that was virtually invisible under a blanket of white. If any other vehicles had made it up here recently, all trace of their passing had been covered in the last snowfall. Judging by the heavy sky, another was due before long.

  The final hundred or so yards to the house were blocked by a fallen pine trunk that looked as if it must have come down in a recent winter storm, and drifts too deep even for the 4x4 to negotiate. Ben got out and began trudging through the crisp snow, his legs sinking in knee-high. The cold air was stunning after the warmth of the car. Condensation billowed from his mouth. He dug his hands deep in his jacket pockets.

  He paused at the fallen tree to brush away the clumps of snow from his jeans and observe the house. It was a long, low building except for the round, ivy-clad, two-storey tower that dominated one wing. The stonework was as white as the snow that had drifted high up against the foot of the walls. Thick bushes and spreading pine trees had grown in close all around. He could see no sign of a vehicle, but guessed that Cabeza’s car or truck must be parked behind the wooden doors of the garage built into the ground floor of the house. Straining an ear over the constant whistle of the cold, biting wind, he was sure he could hear faint music coming from somewhere inside. Someone was at home.

  He could hear the music more clearly as he approached the foot of the building. It sounded like Beethoven, being played loudly from one of the rooms within the round tower.

  The front entrance to the house was at first-floor level, on a raised terrace skirted by a wrought-iron railing. Ben climbed the slippery steps and tinkled the little bell that hung from an ornate bracket by the door. It didn’t surprise him when there was no response. The Beethoven was blaring loudly enough from inside to drown out anything short of a shotgun blast. Maybe Cabeza was deaf, he thought. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Creaking it open a few inches, he peered in and could see the woody interior of a living room with exposed beams and a tall stone fireplace.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out in Spanish. ‘Anyone here?’

  Still no sign of life except for the music. Ben kicked the snow from his boots and stepped inside the house. He looked around him. The scent of freshly-brewed coffee drew his eye to an open doorway to his right, and the kitchen beyond. He walked in and touched the coffee pot by the stove. It was warm, and so was the half-finished cup sitting on the table next to an open newspaper.

  The music was still playing in the background. Ben made his way back through the living room towards the sound. Through another door was a hallway that led to the first floor of the tower, a round library completely encircled with wooden bookcases crammed with thousands of volumes and periodicals. Next to a little reading table was an iron spiral staircase leading upwards to a neat circular hole in the ceiling. Ben climbed the steps and found himself emerging into a hallway on the tower’s top floor with a door on either side of him.

  The music was coming from the left hand door. Ben knocked lightly, then more firmly. ‘Hello? Professor Cabeza?’ He waited for a reply, but all he could hear were the strains of Beethoven from behind the glossy wood. If Cabeza was inside the room, he didn’t want to scare the man by walking in unannounced – but he couldn’t wait out in the hall forever, either. He gently opened the door and stepped inside.

  The semicircular room was bright and spacious, lit from above by a large skylight and from the east and west by a swe
eping, curved expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out through the pine trees over the snowy forest and the peaks in the distance. Historical prints hung on the walls. More books and papers lay in heaps and piles everywhere: on the floor, on a side table and among the clutter of the large desk by the window. But what Ben was looking at was the high-backed leather chair facing away from him, and the man he could see sitting in it.

  All that was visible of the chair’s occupant were the top of his head and his zip-up tan leather ankle boots. His fair hair was unkempt. He was completely still and looked from behind as if he were gazing dreamily out of the window, so taken up with the soaring orchestral music that he was oblivious of anything else going on around him.

  ‘Professor Cabeza?’ Ben said.

  No response.

  ‘Are you Juan Fernando Cabeza?’ he asked again, more loudly. Still nothing.

  The Beethoven was blaring from a powerful little stereo system in a cabinet. Ben had had enough of it. He stepped across and turned the music abruptly off.

  Silence flooded the room like cold water. Ben looked back across at the leather chair, expecting Cabeza to react. What that reaction would be, he’d no idea – outrage, indignation, terror, maybe; as long as the guy didn’t keel over with sudden heart failure, Ben was sure he could get him talking with more or less gentle persuasion and find out whether coming all this way was going to prove a wild goose chase or bring him any closer to finding Brooke.

  But Cabeza didn’t so much as twitch at the sudden stopping of the music. Was he asleep? Comatose from drink or drugs? Dead? Ben edged closer, moving round the chair so that he could see the tip of the man’s left shoulder and his legs as well as the top of his head. He was wearing a beige fleece jacket and brown corduroys.

  Ben was about to reach out and shake the back of the chair when something moved on Cabeza’s desk.

  It was only a minute movement, and Ben only registered it for a tiny fraction of a second before he realised what it was and how he needed to respond to it.

  The desk lamp was a metal Anglepoise, chrome-plated to a mirror finish. What Ben had seen was a reflection in the lampshade.

  The reflection of something behind him, moving fast towards him.

  The reflection of a man with a gun.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ben wheeled round to see the man striding across the room, headed right for him. He’d been hiding behind the door as Ben came in – a powerfully-built man of thirty-five or forty with short dark hair and a look of animal ferocity on his face. He wore black combat trousers and a military-style jacket.

  The gun in his hands was one that Ben recognised instantly. It was a SIG SG 553 carbine: stubby, black. Special Forces and tactical law enforcement personnel termed it a primary intervention weapon; everyone else in the world would call it a machine gun. Seven pounds one ounce of lethal Swiss efficiency, mounted with laser and optical sights and handled by someone who seemed to know disconcertingly well what he was doing as he pointed it directly at Ben’s chest. He wore the weapon’s black nylon tactical sling round his neck and shoulder like a man who’d been trained in combat. The expression in his eye told Ben he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  A quarter of a second later, Ben was proved right. But by the time the room erupted with deafening gunfire and the flurry of high-velocity 5.56mm bullets was in midair, Ben was already flying over the desk for cover. The windows shattered. Plaster exploded in chunks from the wall, showering Ben with white dust as he crashed to the floor on the other side of the desk, bringing it down with him and colliding hard against the side of the leather chair, knocking it over.

  Out of the corner of his eye Ben saw the body of Juan Fernando Cabeza spill out of the fallen chair, his head rolling off his shoulders and falling down separately to split open into a liquid mush on the carpet.

  Except that it wasn’t a real man – it was a mannequin. The beige fleece jacket and corduroys had been stuffed with towels. The head was an overripe pumpkin topped with a straw-coloured wig. The hems of the trousers had been carefully draped over the empty ankle boots, which stayed where they were as the rest of him fell apart.

  Ben wasn’t able to gape at the fallen dummy for more than an instant before the man with the gun opened fire again. Bullets thunked into the top of the overturned desk. It wasn’t much of a shield against the potent assault weapon. The gunman rattled off another string of fully-automatic fire that whipped up a storm of splinters from the rapidly disintegrating desk.

  Ben was aware there could only be one reason why the shooter hadn’t just walked right up to him, pointed his weapon over the top of the desk and shot him to pieces. He must think that Ben was armed.

  And if that was the case, it wouldn’t be long before he sussed out that he wasn’t. Which meant Ben had to get out of this trap, and fast. There was only one way he was going to do that. He flung himself out from behind the desk and made a dive for the smashed window.

  Broken glass raked his arms and sides as he went crashing through what was left of the window pane. He dropped through empty space for what seemed several seconds, cold air whistling in his ears, arms and legs outflung. Then the impact of the pine branch below the window drove the air out of his body. He let out a grunt of pain, bounced away from the branch, dropped a few more feet and felt another crash into his ribs. His fingers raked twigs and branches but he was falling too fast to get a purchase on anything solid. His vision became a spinning kaleidoscope of green foliage and gnarly bark and the white snow below as he tumbled, ripping and crackling, through the foliage of the tree. The white ground rushed up to meet him. Then suddenly he was buried, blinded, coughing and choking and groping frantically to claw his way out of the deep snowdrift that the wind had piled up at the base of the tower.

  Ben burst out of the snow and struggled to his feet, ignoring the crippling pain of dozens of minor cuts and bruises. Looking up, he saw the shooter appear at the smashed window high above. The spent magazine from the SIG dropped into the snow as the man discarded it with professional cool and slammed in another. Before he could release the bolt and resume firing, Ben took off at a stumbling sprint through the snow, heading between the trees in the direction of the car and running in a wild zigzag to make himself a harder target.

  The shooter opened fire again. Single shots now, let off in rapid succession with deliberate, surgical precision. A bullet thwacked off a pine trunk just inches from Ben’s head.

  Who was this guy? A soldier? He acted like one.

  Ben sprinted on towards the car, reaching into his pocket as he went for the ignition key, praying it hadn’t fallen out during his tumble from the window and muttering a quick thanks when his fingers closed on the cold metal key ring. He’d reached the fallen tree now. He hurdled over the top of it, snow flying in his wake, and hit the ground running. The Volkswagen was just a few yards further.

  The shooter wasn’t about to let him get there. The car’s windscreen and side windows disintegrated into a thousand fragments. A line of holes punched through the metal of the bonnet. Another burst took out the lights and shattered the front grille. The perforated bonnet flew open. Liquid spewed out of the destroyed radiator. The VW wasn’t going anywhere.

  Ben veered away and changed course, heading deeper into the forest. The bursts of gunfire were following close behind, and gaining. A snow-laden pine branch exploded into a hail of ice fragments a foot from his head. Then suddenly the terrain was with him as the ground sloped away from the house, putting him out of sight of the shooter.

  He kept running. Silence from the house now; the only sound the rasping of his own breath in his ears and the crunch of his boots on the snow. He knew the gunman faced a choice: either to leap out of the smashed window after him and take his chances with the tree and the snowdrift below, or else to run back down the spiral staircase, through the house, out the door and down the steps after him. Ben didn’t think the guy would be crazy enough to choose the former. Which gave
him a time advantage, albeit a slight one.

  A hundred and fifty or so yards from the house, the hillside was sloping more and more steeply downwards. Ben took a diagonal line down the incline, nimbly avoiding jutting tree roots that could hook and break a running man’s ankle. He had no idea where he was going. He could only hope that the slope wouldn’t lead him to the edge of a sheer drop, cutting off his escape. He leaped over the black, rotted trunk of a fallen pine, misjudged the depth of the snow beyond it, stumbled and fell, his arms disappearing up to the elbow. He cursed, staggered upright and kept moving.

  Then he stopped, listening hard, suddenly aware of the buzz of a chainsaw in the distance. There was somebody else in the forest.

  Or was it a chainsaw? As the wavering two-stroke engine note grew rapidly louder, he realised that it was coming from the direction of the house. It was the sound of a snowmobile, and it was getting closer very quickly. The shooter was coming after him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ben ran faster down the wooded hillside, sliding and stumbling through the snow, knowing that one trip would send him tumbling down the slope in a fall that would probably break his neck. He could hear the snowmobile catching up. He glanced over his shoulder and saw it clear the top of the slope, sending up a white spray from its skids, the rider steering wildly with one hand and pointing his machine carbine over the top of the windscreen with the other. Ben caught a glimpse of the shooter’s face. His teeth were bared in rage. The eyes behind the plastic goggles were burning with hatred.

  Flame crackled from the muzzle of the weapon. Snow flurried up at Ben’s feet a fraction of a second before he heard the shot. The shooter let off another round; something went crack just a few inches away, bark flew from the trunk of the nearest tree and Ben felt a glancing blow strike his arm. The ricochet had left a deep sear in the sleeve of his jacket. He might not be so lucky next time.