The first step was to haul the dressing table round the end of the bed and brace it against the door. It was an exhausting task, and the fact that he could move it at all meant that it would not present the attackers with much of an obstacle. All the same it was quite heavy and solid, and its removal from the window cleared a possible exit route. In a moment, Jack had eased one of the internal steel shutters aside and pushed open the glazed door onto the balcony.
Expecting at any minute to be met by a hail of shots from below, he slipped out onto the railed concrete platform and tugged the heavy steel shutter back into place. Finally he nudged the door shut. A moment later he heard a crash from inside as the door to the corridor was forced open, followed by a fresh burst of gunfire and the impact of bullets against the shutter’s far side.
CHAPTER 5
A cold, salty wind blew up the narrow access ramp between apartment blocks. The man standing guard there shivered involuntarily and tried to keep his limbs constantly moving in spite of his growing fatigue. He looked for the hundredth time at the luminous dial on his watch, noting with satisfaction that it was only another hour until he was due to be relieved. Time really dragged when there was nothing to see or do. Well, nothing but wait to be relieved, and sound the alarm if anyone tried to approach the Mayor’s apartment or his car.
There was the sound of a car pulling up further along the street. The security guard looked at his watch yet again. It was too late to be a night-owl returning from a night out in the Old Quarter, too early to be someone’s taxi to the station. He tensed, because these were violent times and there was a reason someone stayed on guard beside this exclusive block day and night. There was no sound of a door slamming, however, and after a few minutes had passed he began to relax again.
The guard tensed again as he heard the scrape of a boot, and when a young man came into view at the end of the ramp he reached round to undo the buckle on his night-stick. Then his breath came out in a sigh as he recognised the uniform.
“Ah, you scared me,” he said to the policeman as he re-fastened the buckle.
“Sorry,” answered the policeman, removing an unlit cigarette from his mouth in order to speak. “But I needed a light – left home without one – and I knew there’d be somebody here. Could you oblige me, my friend?”
The guard smiled as he reached into his pocket and brought out his prized Zippo lighter, but his dark-adjusted vision was ruined by the flare of light as the vapour ignited. The next moment, he was doubled up and wheezing for breath from the savage blow he had received to the midriff. A second impact to the left kneecap laid him on the ground, where he lay for a moment struggling to take in enough breath to gasp with pain and shock. A wave of panic took him as something was stuffed roughly into his mouth, and he was dimly aware of a metallic click as his wrists were cuffed together behind his back.
The newcomer looked down at the struggling guard without a hint of sympathy. Ducking back round the corner, he retrieved a package from the angle of the wall. Sliding under the rear of a black Mercedes Benz, he used a coil of wire to fasten the package to the middle section of the exhaust pipe, just in front of the silencer. A little more than two minutes later he was back with the guard. He pressed the barrel of a pistol into the man’s throat and waited for his eye contact. “I’m going to remove the gag. One sound, and you’ll be spending your last few minutes breathing through your neck. Do you understand?” The guard nodded as energetically as he could with the gun barrel gouging into the soft flesh beneath his jaw-line.
Seconds later, a policeman was half-dragging a bent, limping figure along the street to a parked car. There was only one witness, a junior chef on his way to work in the city centre. “Damned drunk,” announced the policeman by way of explanation. The witness made no reply, merely spitting at the guard’s feet.
The fresh guard turning up for the dawn shift was surprised to see a stranger on duty, but not surprised enough to give the alarm. It wasn’t the first time one of his regular colleagues had failed to report for work. “Jaime hung over again?” he asked the man he was relieving.
One man down, Captain,” announced Seve Torres. “No visual contact with the target yet, but there are others in the building.”
“Very good, Red Two. Carry on. But remember, a mounting body count is no use to us without information. You need to take prisoners.”
“Message understood, Sir.”
Torres signed off, and as he did so his posture slumped. The raid on the compound had begun so well. A sympathiser working at police HQ had informed his Legion contact that a secure facility up in the hills was in active use again after standing idle for several weeks. The Captain himself had made a tentative connection with the current operation and ordered a unit forward. The discovery of the late Red Leader’s SUV in a barn near the house had been all the evidence needed to justify an assault.
Torres should have waited for backup, but he was impatient. He had been too keen to take Serrano’s place and had wanted a solid achievement on his record. Confident of his strength and firepower, he had gone in. And initially, the occupants had been taken by surprise. The uniform was dead, the fat detective had been overpowered and cuffed to the plumbing, and all that remained was to grab the placid-looking Englishman. Then things had taken a turn for the worse. With two colleagues he would certainly have succeeded, but with just his regular partner – the clueless Rodríguez – he had made himself a hostage to fortune.
Rodríguez had gone down in the first minutes, tackled hand-to-hand by a lanky brawler they had not known was on the premises. The would-be squad leader had heard the unmistakeable and nauseating sound of his partner’s neck breaking. He had opened fire, perforating the dead man’s remains with unfelt bullets but missing his killer. He had made it through to the accommodation wing just in time to see the uniform entering a room, bringing the man down with a well-placed three-shot burst and dispatching him with a second volley.
Then the true scale of Torres’ misjudgement had become apparent. Without a partner to work a pincer movement, the main quarry had eluded him. By the time he had worked his way past the barricaded bedroom door, the Englishman had left the building via the balcony.
Torres turned and made his way back to the communal area. He set his weapon down on the kitchen worktop and put some water on to boil. He had one or two minor wounds that needed dressing, and in the absence of alcohol he craved caffeine. Then there was a sound behind him. He whirled round to see Martí standing in the doorway. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief that his partner’s killer had not crept up on him.
“Oh, it’s you, Martí. Thank God. How on earth did you know to come here?”
“I was able to contact base through a borrowed phone. I was told you needed backup, and I came.” The blond man smiled, humourlessly. “Their assessment was clearly on the money.” And here the smile broadened into a leer. “But I’ll tell them you died bravely.”
Torres saw the way things were going and lunged for the machine pistol on the work surface beside him. But Martí was recovered and ready. He stepped forward, lowered his shoulder and put all his weight behind a punch to Torres’ solar plexus. The weapon clattered to the floor and the victim folded over, his vision fading to black as he struggled to draw breath. He was unable to put up any resistance as Martí stepped behind him, put a bulging arm around his neck and swiftly choked the life out of him.
Martí stopped to speak to the handcuffed detective on the way out. “I haven’t got time for you, old man, and in any case I owe you. But if you want my advice, go for a career change. It’s a different world from the one you grew up in.” With that, he was gone.
Another half-hour elapsed before Jack and Julio came in, found Miguel and freed him from his own handcuffs. By the time the three of them emerged into the night, Juana the midwife was at her patient’s side several kilometres away. And a hundred metres along the road they came to an elderly SEAT hatchback that Julio had taken from the hospital car
park.
“I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my life,” said Jack with feeling as they climbed in. “I thought you were going to be out of action for days.”
“I was,” smiled Julio. “But when I drove up I found a situation in progress. I parked the car and came in on foot. I took out one hostile, then I went round the back to find a way to get you out, and you were already on the balcony. You showed considerable presence of mind in my view.”
“Cheers, but I’d never have tried to lower myself down without you there to confirm it was safe and give me a pair of shoulders to climb onto.”
“That’s enough mutual admiration for now,” scolded Miguel. “Julio, are you back in service?”
“More or less. I caught a bit of a knock on my stitches from that goon inside. Feels a bit damp under my shirt. I ought to check.”
The driver peeled off his jacket, and the shirt underneath was wet once again with fresh blood. “I must say, I feel a little dizzy still. Anyone else care to drive?”
“Red Six reporting. It was a total disaster, Commander,” reported Martí as soon as he was clear of the ill-fated compound. “Red Two and Red Seven both down. One hostile down. Target escaped. Orders, please.”
“Red Six, assume the duties of Red Leader, who as you know is also a casualty. All units to fall back and regroup. Get some food and sleep. Anything else to report?”
“Negative, Commander.”
“Your loyalty to your line of command is recognised and warmly appreciated, Red Six, but let me ask you directly. Your captain. How has he acquitted himself in this operation?”
“With respect, Commander, it’s not my place to pass judgement on a senior officer. But if you’re asking about the operation, I would have planned it differently. We’re now several men down and the target is still at large. It was too big and nowhere near smart enough. If we’d kept a lower profile they’d have tried to come in to police headquarters and we could have neutralised them with just two units.”
“Thank you, Red Six. And in your opinion, is there an explanation for the Captain’s error of judgement.”
Martí was silent at first, but when the question was repeated in a sharper tone of voice he knew that failure to answer could be suicidal. “Vanity,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, “Ambition. Closed ears. Imported whiskey.”
“Last question, Red Six. Do you have two or three close colleagues with whom there is complete mutual trust?”
“Two. Not three. But they’re solid.”
“Very well. At 0800 tomorrow you are to return to base and relieve the Captain of his duties. All duties. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“No, Commander. Orders received and understood.”
Martí smiled to himself as he drove. He did not care much for politics or doctrine. And unlike some of his colleagues he had no interest in inflicting pain, fear or death. But he loved the Legion for its own sake, he did not suffer fools like Torres or Gómez gladly, and he liked to be in control.
JAMES
It was towards the end of June that I realised I was being watched. By that time I was just beginning to get over – or so I thought – the horror of finding Gato’s body down behind Monte Igeldo. Even the experience of seeing my friend Carlos shot down in cold blood seemed remote and unreal. I’d resumed showing my face at college after a short break in attendance, and I’d just that morning arranged to meet up with local friends at a nearby funfair. Neither place held much appeal, and both were winding down. The academic staff were only interested in clearing their desks for the summer or planning for the autumn, and the Travellers were busy preparing for the road.
As far as the latter were concerned, the local residents couldn’t wait to see the back of them. The crime rate had soared as local lowlifes plundered the neighbourhood knowing that the outsiders would reap the blame. There were reports of picked pockets, sexual assault and fighting. Local bars and restaurants complained of lost business. Shopkeepers told anyone who would listen of the losses they had incurred through pilfering and vandalism.
It was getting towards dusk on the last day of the fair when I spotted the watchers, and I owe it to one of the Travellers that I did so. I’d spent the early evening in the company of local friends, and we were sitting on the steps of an apartment block a few dozen yards along the street from my own lodgings. I listened drowsily as they discussed what they’d do for entertainment now that the fair was leaving town.
All of a sudden an old man came staggering along the pavement towards us. I recognised him immediately; I’d seen him at the fair earlier, guzzling red wine from a bottle and hurling abuse at a worn-out woman whom I took to be his wife. He stopped level with us and stood swaying as he looked backwards and forwards along the street. Then, to my disbelief, he lurched between two of the cars parked diagonally along the kerb and got behind the steering wheel of a little ‘600’. He sat in the vehicle for a minute—long enough to give us hope that he wasn’t going to drive after all. Then he started the engine, backed out too quickly and caught the corner of a black ‘124’ saloon in the next bay. Its driver was sitting there behind the wheel, and I thought I knew what would happen next. Both drivers would get out, and there would be a loud altercation with much waving of arms, perhaps even a scuffle.
In the event, the driver of the black car acted as though nothing had happened. He just sat there minding his own business until the Traveller came round and tapped on his window. Even then, all he did was shake his wrist dismissively. Eventually the drunk shrugged, got back into his car and drove away.
Apart from the icy detachment of the man in the larger car, there was nothing remarkable about the incident in itself. It simply brought to my attention a man and a vehicle that I wouldn’t otherwise have noticed. And I’d never have thought of it again, but for the fact that a similar car was parked in the same spot when I walked past on my way to college the next morning. There was a different man inside, but as I looked in his direction he caught my eye for a moment before hastily looking away. That spooked me a little, but not as much as when I closed the shutters that night and again saw a dark car parked a few yards from along the street, the tiny glow of a lighted cigarette fidgeting inside.
By this time I was worried. All other things being equal, nobody in their right mind would assume they were under surveillance based on such flimsy evidence. But all other things were not equal. I was still haunted by my experience down among the rocks, still hearing that whip-crack as I went off to sleep most nights, still half-expecting dire consequences. And with my heart in my mouth I took a course of action that I’d been putting off ever since fleeing from the crime-scene: I went to see Father Ignacio.
He encouraged me to open up about anything that was troubling me, and it quickly became clear that this wasn’t his first conversation of the kind. Once I’d told him the full story he spent a couple of hours coaching me in personal security: avoiding certain places, spotting surveillance, planning escape routes and so on. It was rushed, but this was the first of several sessions I’d spend with him before new developments forced me to put it all to use. Finally, he left me alone in his study for several minutes before returning with a safe address I could go to in an emergency. But his most immediate and predictable piece of advice was that I should go home to England and stay there.
JACK
“And how did you react to that?” asked Miguel. The red neon on the recorder continued to flash, but Julio put down the pen with which he’d been making notes and looked up at Jack expectantly. “To be told to go and not come back?” continued Miguel. “That must have come as a slap in the face”.
Jack looked round the room before replying, taking in the pastel walls, the chintz upholstery and the framed prints on the walls. It had been a good session, he thought. This was a more comfortable setting than the last supposedly safe house—less institutional, more personal. After the violence at their previous base he wondered if he would ever feel really secure agai
n, but the soft colours and pleasant furnishings were somehow reassuring. And from the outside, the place was much more anonymous—not an isolated facility, but a proper house in a walled and gated community of similar detached homes. He brought his thoughts back to the present. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“How did you react to being told you were persona non grata?” asked Miguel with a touch of impatience.
“I don’t think I saw it that way. At least, not at the time. He was concerned for my safety, and he didn’t think I‘d be safe as long as I remained in the country. If he had an ulterior motive, it was that my presence was a focus for trouble in which others could get hurt. The region had enough anger and hurt of its own, he said, without outsiders getting involved. And here was the shutdown: if I provoked others to violence when I could so easily remove myself from the picture, I’d share the moral responsibility for whatever happened. After a great deal of soul-searching I took his advice.”
“You went home to England?” asked Julio, his face expressionless. His torso had been re-bandaged and the bleeding stopped, but he still looked grey. “Then how…?”
“I came back again,” interrupted Jack. “After a mere two weeks. Within minutes of stepping off the plane at Gatwick I discovered what it must feel like to be a foreigner in Britain. At first I put my feelings down to exhaustion, but as the days unfolded I still felt like an alien. Everywhere I looked, I seemed to see pallid and furtive people, litter, drab colours, haste, lack of eye contact. And my alienation were compounded every time I turned on the TV, listened to the radio, or met old friends and neighbours with whom I had nothing left in common. As for my family, I never doubted their love and loyalty, but there was a new barrier between us that was tearing me apart. I was…”
“Hang on, this is all very touching,” interrupted Miguel with more than a hint of sarcasm, “but can we roll the tape back a bit? You’re asking us to believe that no more than two or at the most three weeks after witnessing a double murder, you found yourself under surveillance by some kind of men in black. I have to say that under Franco there were half a dozen different agencies it could have been. But assuming all this is true, why on earth did you come back? Surely you’d been through enough.”
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 7