by Mathew Carr
The guard was carrying a 12-gauge pump-action Winchester, and Lawton unhooked it from his shoulder and rifled through his pockets for spare cartridges. He shoved them into his own pockets and inched the door open. There were no other guards nearby, but he could see two armed men walking along the far perimeter wall near the main entrance. To his left, the estate reached out across a wide strip of open ground behind the main house toward a citrus orchard that led into the wall and a fenced-in field where some horses were grazing. As far as he could see, the orchard offered the only way out, provided they were able to reach the trees without being seen.
Zorka seemed entirely docile now as he slotted the knife in his belt and pushed her back down into the tunnel, where they found Esperanza still leaning against the wall with the cane-pistol resting against Weygrand’s head. Lawton took it from her and tucked it into his belt along with the knife, before nudging Weygrand with the shotgun.
“Get up,” he ordered. “We’re leaving.” He looked at Zorka. “You can help carry Miss Claramunt. Take your arm away from her and I’ll kill you. And if anyone tries to stop us out there then I’ll kill the two of you first. Don’t think I won’t.”
Weygrand’s bulbous eyes flitted around desperately as Zorka put one arm around Esperanza’s waist. Even then Esperanza struggled to get up the stairs, and she had to lean on the pews for support as they threaded their way back toward the doorway. Weygrand peered down at the dead guard as Lawton pushed him around the spreading pool of blood. “You can’t kill them all,” he said.
“You better hope they don’t see us then,” Lawton replied.
Lawton opened the door once again. There were no guards in sight, and he ushered the others out in front of him and pointed with the shotgun toward the orchard. In any other circumstances he would have run the short distance to the trees, but now he was forced to walk at Esperanza’s pace as she stumbled forward with her arm around Zorka’s shoulder. They had nearly reached the orchard, and he was beginning to think that they might make it after all, when he heard a shout from behind him.
He looked back and saw a guard standing at the corner of the outbuildings. In the same moment the dogs began to bark and two more guards came running toward them from the far wall. Zorka had stopped walking now and she had a faint smirk of triumph on her face, which quickly vanished as he raised the shotgun toward her head. Even as they neared the trees the barking grew suddenly louder. Lawton looked back and saw three more guards coming toward them, holding the two Dobermans by the leash. It was all going as badly as it could, he thought, and as he pushed Zorka and Weygrand into the trees there was no obvious prospect that it would get any better.
31
No sooner had they reached the orchard than Lawton realized that the trees were spread too widely to give much cover or protection. The barking was becoming louder and more frenzied, and guards seemed to be coming toward them from various directions. Lawton knew they could not outrun them. He looked around for a place to make a stand, and spotted a raised irrigation tank, whose low stone walls offered a potential defensive parapet. They had nearly reached it when he heard a sudden movement to his left. He swung around with the shotgun raised to his shoulder, and saw the guard standing about fifteen yards away with his rifle pointed toward them.
The two shots were almost simultaneous. Lawton saw a guard drop to the ground and Zorka also pitched forward, pulling Esperanza with her, and lay still with her face to one side. For a moment he thought it was a trick, but Esperanza crawled away from her with a little cry of disgust and Lawton saw that Zorka was not moving. He reached into his pocket for a cartridge, but Weygrand was running back toward the barking dogs now and shouting hysterically for help. He had nearly reached the edge of the trees when one of the dogs leapt at him. The dog seemed to tower over Weygrand as he screamed and tried to stay on his feet, but now the other dog came up behind him and bit his leg. Weygrand fell backward screaming and wailing as the two dogs tore at his arms and throat like lions taking down an antelope or a wildebeest.
Lawton knew they were attracted by the blood from Weygrand’s wound. Esperanza was still kneeling on the ground, and she looked as though she were about to faint. Whether it was from the loss of blood or the horror at her situation he could not tell, but he reached down and hauled her brutally to her feet, and then hoisted her over his shoulder. During the war he had often had to carry wounded men away from the trenches, sometimes under fire, and Esperanza was lighter than any soldier. He ran toward the field, with one arm raised to stop her from falling and the other holding the shotgun. Almost to his own surprise, they reached the field he had seen earlier and he clambered over the low fence. He expected to be shot at any moment as they stumbled past the skittering horses, but to his amazement they reached the wall and he laid Esperanza back on her feet.
“Climb onto me,” he said, bending down. “And then pull yourself over.”
“And you?” she asked weakly.
He smiled at her. “I’m a sick man, Espe. I’ve lived my life. Go back to the city. Go to the British consulate. Tell them what you saw here.”
Esperanza hesitated and then she stepped onto his back, holding onto the wall. Even as Lawton straightened up he saw the guards emerging from different parts of the orchard and fanning out on the other side of the fence. He was disappointed not to see Klarsfeld among them. He had five cartridges left, and he would have liked to have saved one shot for the German. He felt Esperanza step away from him now and he looked up to see her lying lengthways on the top of the wall.
“Drop!” he said. “You’ll make it.”
Esperanza gave him one last sad, grateful look, and then lowered herself over the wall till he could only see her hands. He emptied the shotgun and slotted in another cartridge. The guards were coming warily through the fence now, and Lawton knelt down and picked his target. He breathed in the smell of oranges and horse dung and glanced up at the peerless Spanish sky. He had spent the best part of two years sitting in a dark room like a prisoner in his own body, expecting nothing more from life than collapse and degeneration. It did not seem like a bad way to die, with the sun on his face and a gun in his hand, and it was certainly better than having his life sucked out of him in Randolph Foulkes’s laboratory. Once again he heard the barking and he knew the dogs had finished with Weygrand. If the guards or the dogs did not get him, he promised himself that he would save one last bullet to make sure that no one took him back there.
He was just about to squeeze the trigger when he heard three shots from the orchard and the barking abruptly fell silent. Lawton stared toward the trees, and the guards also glanced back uneasily. For a moment everything was still and silent, and then two more pistol shots rang out and two of the guards dropped to the ground. Their three companions were still looking at the orchard in confusion when Lawton shot one of them down.
“Put your guns down and your hands up!” A hoarse rasping voice called from the orchard. The two guards dropped their guns and raised their hands.
“Step away!” the voice called.
Once again the guards did as they were told. They stared back at the orchard, as a man with white hair and a floppy worker’s cap stepped out of the trees, holding a pistol in his hand, and Lawton recognized the terrorist Salvador Santamaría, who he and Mata had questioned in the Raval. Three more men and a woman emerged from the trees behind him. All of them were armed, and the woman was smoking a cheroot with one hand and holding a pistol in the other. Lawton was still staring at this incomprehensible sight when Georges Bonnecarrère came limping out of the orchard, holding a pistol and a stick to support himself.
* * *
The Frenchman stood by the fence, while his companions encircled the hapless guards and gathered up their weapons. “Monsieur Lawton,” he said. “It seems I’ve arrived in time once again.”
* * *
Bonnecarrère was leaning on the fence now, and despite his attempt at a smile, Lawton could see that he was in some pai
n.
“You’re one person I didn’t expect to see again,” he said.
“The bullet hit me here.” Bonnecarrère gingerly touched his left side just above the waist. “It went straight through me. I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky twice so I decided to take my chances in the sea.”
“A wise decision. But how did you find me?”
“After they bandaged me up I went looking for Miss Claramunt’s informer. I thought he might tell me where you were. And I met Señora Tosets here and Señor Santamaría. It turns out they were already making… inquiries of their own, thanks to your intervention. This Montero was not the man Miss Claramunt thought he was.”
“So I hear.”
“It was Busquets who betrayed Pau.” Rosa Tosets came up beside them now, holding a cheroot in one hand and a pistol in the other. “I’m Pau’s mother. Ruben had nothing to do with that. He was working for the army. He was supposed to entrap Ferrer. That’s why he played the revolutionary. And to think that bastard lived under my roof and married my daughter!”
“Busquets was Ugarte’s man,” Bonnecarrère said. “He helped him kidnap Tosets and some of the others.”
“He won’t be helping anyone again,” Santamaría growled.
Bonnecarrère looked embarrassed now. “Busquets told us the shipment was coming to Arenales’s estate. Of course I couldn’t go to the police about this—not the way things are in the city. And I knew we didn’t have much time. Señora Tosets and Señor Santamaría proposed their own solution and I was obliged to accept it. And now there is one more body in the harbor. When in Rome, one must do whatever is necessary. Especially when Rome is burning.”
“We don’t normally work with the French secret service either,” said Señora Tosets. “Where’s Esperanza?”
“She’s on the other side of that wall,” Lawton pointed behind him. “Just over there. Who else have you found?”
“Only Weygrand. What’s left of him.”
“And Foulkes? And the German?”
“Foulkes is alive?” Bonnecarrère looked at him in astonishment. Just then Lawton heard shots coming from the house, followed by the sound of an engine. “I’ll explain later.” He turned to Santamaría and Tosets. “There are some prisoners in the chapel basement. You need to get them out.”
He ran toward the house and the outbuildings and slowed down as he reached the empty dog cage, with the shotgun raised to his shoulder. He turned the corner just in time to see the Delaunay-Belleville disappearing out of the main gate. Two guards were standing outside the entrance to the main house, exchanging fire with some men who were concealed behind some of the trees beside the driveway. They turned and raised their weapons as Lawton came toward them sideways on, looking down the barrel of the shotgun.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
The guards dropped their pistols and raised their hands.
“Who was in the car?” he snapped.
“The German and his driver!” one of the guards replied. “And the Englishman!”
“Where’ve they gone?”
“We don’t know!” the other guard replied. “We don’t know anything! We only work here, señor!”
“Who’s in the house?”
“Just the count, sir. And the servants.”
Lawton looked around now, as three men came toward them from the direction of the dog kennels, wearing crumpled jackets and flat caps and holding pistols.
“You’re with the Frenchman?” Lawton asked them.
“With Señora Tosets,” one of the men replied.
“So am I.” Lawton turned back to the two guards and nodded toward the gate. I want you both gone now. Run. The first man who stops I’ll shoot him.”
The guards sprinted toward the gate, while Lawton walked into the building with the shotgun pressed against this shoulder. No sooner had he entered than the black servant appeared in the doorway of the dining room, and held up a pistol. Lawton shot him in the stomach, holding the shotgun at his waist and the servant crashed back into the room and crumpled to the floor. Lawton peered quickly inside and saw the two assistants from the laboratory cowering on the other side of the table where they had been eating their lunch. Both of them put their hands up. He nodded toward the front door and stood back to let them pass before making his way up the stairs with his back against the wall, loading the shotgun as he went. At the top of the stairs, he glanced around the corner before stepping into a wide reception area with a large fireplace on one side and a long tiled corridor running the length of the building to the other.
He walked down the corridor with the shotgun at his waist and his finger over the trigger, past the portraits of scowling aristocratic gentlemen who looked vaguely like Arenales. All the rooms were empty, but when he tried to open the door at the end of the corridor he found that it was locked. He leaned back and kicked it open. In the far corner of the room Arenales was still in his dressing gown, kneeling in front of a crucifix and a little altar. He stared back at Lawton and his eyes flickered toward the pistol that was lying on the bed beside him.
“You’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you?” Lawton asked. “Don’t you know it’s a sin?”
Arenales shook his head and glanced at the pistol once again. “What do you want?” he asked.
“What do I want? Well I’m going to count to three,” Lawton said. “If you don’t tell me where Klarsfeld has gone I’m going to send you to whatever God you pray to. One—”
“Girona!” Arenales blurted out. “They’re going to wait there till the strike is over and then catch a train to Paris. Then Berlin.”
“Which road did they take?”
“They went inland—to avoid the city.”
Lawton nodded and lowered the shotgun. Even as he turned his back he knew what he hoped would happen. He swung around with the shotgun, just as the count was reaching for his pistol. The count immediately pulled his hand away and began to hold up his hands, when Lawton squeezed the trigger. The blast hurled Arenales back against the altar, and a silver cross fell onto his waist as his head slumped onto his bloodied chest. Lawton dropped the shotgun and walked quickly back down the corridor. He returned to the main entrance just as Bonnecarrère was coming around the corner, accompanied by Esperanza, Señora Tosets, Santamaría, and four men and a woman he had not seen before. All of them looked equally dirty and bedraggled, but it was not until they came closer that he saw that the woman was in fact a man wearing female clothes, and one of the men was dark-skinned, like an Arab or a Gypsy.
“We found the prisoners,” Señora Tosets said.
“Good.” Lawton turned to Bonnecarrère. “Did you bring your motorcar?”
“I did. It’s parked in the forest further down the road. The others came in a cart. Why?”
“Klarsfeld and Foulkes have gone to Girona. They’re trying to get to Berlin. Arenales said they went inland. He tried to shoot me, but he wasn’t fast enough.”
“They’ll have gone through Montseny,” Santamaría said. “Through the mountains.”
“You know the road?”
“I do.”
“Then you should come with us.”
“Are you sure?” Bonnecarrère asked. “They have a head start and a faster car.”
“They’ll have to look for gasoline. And even if they get to Girona they’ll have to wait for a train.” Lawton turned to Señora Tosets. “Can you take Miss Claramunt back to the city? She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs rest. A doctor should see her.”
“Of course.” Señora Tosets tucked her pistol into her skirt. “That room—the one with the chairs. Is that where they killed my son?”
“It is.”
“But why would anyone do such a thing?”
“Miss Claramunt can explain,” Lawton said. “Did you see the can of paraffin in the corner?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well I advise you and your comrades to burn that chapel to the ground. And then make yourselves scarce.�
�
“With pleasure,” Señora Tosets said. “Just make sure you get them—one way or another.”
Lawton nodded. He picked up one of the pistols the guards had discarded, and walked back up the drive. It was only then, as he heard the birds singing all around him, that he realized how good—and how surprising—it felt to be still alive, and now that he had survived he was ready to follow Randolph William Foulkes all the way to Berlin.
32
Bonnecarrère’s car was parked in a clearing just off the road, about a half a mile away from the estate. The Frenchman was unable to use the crankshaft because of his wound and he and Lawton stood back and watched Santamaría crank the motor into life. Lawton sat in the back of the car, while Santamaría climbed into the front next to the Frenchman. They drove away down the dirt road, through a forest of thick pines, until the road began to open up once again and he saw Barcelona and the Mediterranean to his right, with the columns of black smoke trailing up into the blue sky.
They had been driving for about half a mile when Santamaría told Bonnecarrère to turn left. They continued to drive down through the pine forest, until the dirt road began to flatten out and gave way to a macadamed surface. The macadam had been badly maintained. Much of it was badly eroded, and Lawton could feel every bump and pothole as they made their way through vineyards, cultivated fields, and a succession of small towns and villages that looked as though they had not fully entered the twentieth century. Many of them still had greased paper over the windows instead of glass, and towering churches overlooking mean little squares where dogs, chicken, and pigs mingled with people who looked as poor and wretched as their surroundings.
Most of these squares were patrolled by Civil Guards and Somaten militia, and even without stopping Lawton sensed their wariness and suspicion. Apart from the occasional mule-drawn cart, and peasants carrying twigs or bundles of hay on solitary mules, there was no other traffic on the road. Lawton was beginning to think they had lost the Delaunay-Belleville when Bonnecarrère stopped alongside a group of old peasants with burned faces and black caps who were sitting outside a little country bar. They stared admiringly at the automobile as Bonnecarrère pulled up in front of them. Lawton kept his pistol out of sight as Santamaría asked if they had seen a red motorcar passing through the village.