“Then you haven’t been listening properly. The distinction is illusory, but I can’t believe that you don’t already know that. Everything that happened, happened because Franco’s security services were riddled with fascist paramilitary groups. They provided quick and dirty solutions for the regime: wet work, to use modern jargon. And in return, they used the state to serve their own ends: to eavesdrop, to keep track of opponents, and to promote one another into senior positions. I was naïve enough to imagine that the system had been purged since Spain became a democracy, but in view of what I’ve seen in the last few hours I’m not so sure.”
“Have you quite finished?” asked Miguel drily. “Then can we have some peace and quiet until we’re back at the house? I can’t take proper notes in these conditions. And besides, I need some space to think.”
It was not until after a quiet, rather self-conscious lunch that they reconvened in the lounge at the safe house. It was Julio’s turn to supplement the audio record with written notes. Miguel seemed more relaxed but was still morose and uncommunicative.
JAMES
Having been told by my reluctant helper at Lóyola that my destination was only an hour’s drive away, I expected to be there by nightfall. But the terrain was far more rugged than I’d expected. As daylight faded, I was still little over half way and dropping with fatigue. And eventually I took a foolish risk.
The little bar-restaurant I passed looked warm and inviting, and the smell of food was like a magnet. There was still some stale omelette and dry baguette in my backpack, but I didn’t think it could hurt to stop for something warm before I spent the night in another cold, damp barn.
By the time I came to settle the bill I was bloated with food and somewhat inebriated. For the first time in days I felt relaxed. My internal alarm bells had gone silent. The man behind the bar was friendly, amusing and clearly interested in knowing about me. And when he pointed to a sign on the wall announcing that rooms were available, I thought how nice it would be to spend the night in such a safe, welcoming place.
I had a blissful hot bath along the landing from my room, which was upstairs in an annexe behind the bar. Then I turned in for the night and nodded off very quickly. But something disturbed me, and as I lay there trying to get back to sleep, with the events of the day going round in my head, I began to get nervous. The barman had seemed very friendly and trusting. But he’d plied me with drink and got me talking, and I was afraid I might have given too much away.
Without turning on the light, and wincing at every tiny creak from the floorboards, I climbed out of bed and peered through the shutters. At first there was no sign of life, but as I kept watch there came a series of flashes on the horizon followed by an uneven shimmer of light. I knew I was seeing a small convoy of vehicles cresting a hill and coming along the winding road.
I knew then that I had been betrayed. Thinking back to my own journey along the same deserted stretch, I reckoned that it was no more than three kilometres back to the last ridge. Even allowing for the poor road, I had no more than five or six minutes to get out. Thankful that I’d slept in my clothes, I pulled on my boots and went to the door—only to find that I was locked in.
The window offered no chance of escape; it was nailed shut and there would have been a bone-crunching drop to the ground below. I tried the door, but it was made of solid wood and opened inwards. Then in desperation I tapped on the side walls, and to my surprise they seemed to be built of nothing but wooden studs covered with painted plasterboard. It was a cheap, amateur conversion that must have allowed every sound to filter through from the adjacent rooms.
Looking out through the shutters again, I could see from the moving firefly of a burning cigarette that the barman was standing outside. He was over by the road, however, and I thought the outer walls were thick enough to conceal the noise of a breakout. In contrast, anyone staying in the next room was in for an unpleasant surprise.
I put all my energy into kicking at one of the flimsy sidewalls, and in less than two minutes a sizeable chunk of it lay in a pile of ripped cardboard and white dust on the floor. Fighting a violent coughing fit, I hunched down and pushed my backpack through the jagged hole into a mirror image of my own room. More plaster showered down as I pushed through after it, then I raced to the door. Putting my ear to the timber I could hear no one outside, and to my relief it opened without a sound.
Mercifully there was no one out on the landing, and I tiptoed cautiously along to the stairs. Emboldened by my progress, I crept down to the ground floor and listened again at the door to the outside. But now I could hear a gentle scuffle on the gravel—the sound of a cold, tense man fidgeting from foot to foot.
Turning my back on the outside door, I explored the lower corridor and found a bathroom with a small but passable window at the back of the building. It took only moments to open the window, push my belongings through and ease myself out headfirst after them. The landing was hard on my head and shoulders, but then I was up and picking my way across the yard in the darkness. I reached the perimeter and clambered over a wire fence just as I saw the wash of headlights and heard the crunch of tyres on gravel.
There was no sound of voices or slamming doors, but the lights cast frightening shadows as men mobilised around the site. I slipped away into an orchard and light woodland beyond, the sliver of moon giving me enough light to see obstacles without making me feel exposed. The terrain was steep and uneven, but I kept going.
For hour after hour as the drink wore off, I trudged across muddy fields or picked a crooked path through dank and treacherous woodland. I clambered in and out of slimy ditches and forded freezing streams. My hands were cut and scratched, my clothes wet and torn. At one point I heard engines revving all too close at hand and wondered if my efforts had been in vain. But I used the mercifully visible moon and stars to keep heading roughly south, and eventually I came to a narrow, sunken lane that seemed to head away from immediate danger.
It was two days later that I climbed down from the back of a farm truck and set foot on the hallowed precincts of Alzaibar. I was light-headed from lack of food and water, exhausted by my trek, and chilled to the marrow from the two nights I had spent in derelict shepherds’ huts high up in the summer pasture. All the same, I was ecstatic. The vista that unfolded as the truck climbed up into the mountains had been spectacular, but nothing could have prepared me for the spectacle before my eyes.
I’d known that my destination was some kind of hilltop monastery, but the picture in my mind as I travelled had been of something traditional in style and modest in size. What I actually found was a sprawling complex of modern buildings daringly cantilevered over a deep and gorgeous ravine. The central structure, circular and somewhat resembling a crashed flying saucer, seemed to rise diagonally out of the depths of the rift. Its high, curving prow overshadowed a broad, kidney-shaped plaza adorned with a fountain, a row of cloisters and a slender, tapering bell tower. It was an impressive monument to faith and ambition, but beyond the grounds the mountain continued its interrupted rise, culminating in a serrated crest that humbled the man-made structure at its feet.
For all its unsettling visual impact, and the rampant trade in religious artefacts and tacky souvenirs, I can never forget the sense of peace and wellbeing that permeated the place. Within a couple of days I’d learned enough to pass myself off as a certain Brother Esteban, and by the end of a week I could imagine myself staying there indefinitely. In fact, forty years on, there’s still a small part of me that never left.
Less happily, I was kept under close watch by the Office of External Relations. Their role embraced both visitor management and security, and they made sure that I had minimal contact with the community’s inner life. I was a welcome guest, they assured me, but it was my responsibility to avoid attracting attention from insiders or outsiders alike. And before long, without any warning, my time there came to an abrupt end.
My last morning unfolded as usual, lunchtime passed without
any variation to the routine, and I was on my way to Lectio Divina. At the leader’s request I’d chosen a short passage of scripture to recite from memory, and I’d been rehearsing it under my breath throughout lunch. I was still muttering it to myself as I crossed the plaza in front of the cloisters. Then I noticed that the precincts were quieter, less bustling than usual.
At that moment, more than a dozen brothers from External Relations jogged past in formation, heading towards the main entrance. They were always impressive and more than a little intimidating, moving around with military precision and bearing. They dressed in regular monastic garb and carried wooden staves rather than rifles, but on that day they looked more than ever like soldiers on manoeuvre.
Bemused by what I’d seen, not realising the implications and still reciting the memory passage to myself, I made my way to the study room only to find it deserted. And as I turned to make my way back to the cloisters, I could see the Director of External Relations hurrying towards me. “James, you must leave,” he announced breathlessly. “We were looking forward to having you with us for a little while longer, but it’s not to be. You need to fetch your belongings quickly and go to the main gate.”
“Why? Have I done something that…”
“Please understand, this is through no fault of yours. But we can’t talk now. You need to hurry.”
I ran up to my cell as fast as my clinging habit would allow, and hastily changed into a freshly laundered tee-shirt and jeans. Then I retrieved my backpack and headed for the main gate as directed. It was a sad moment, but I was much stronger physically and mentally than I had been when I arrived. A man I had seen around the complex before – I think he was a doctor – was waiting in his car just beyond the gateway, which was being guarded by the security detail I had seen heading this way earlier. The car’s engine was already ticking over. The driver pointed at the passenger seat as I approached, and no sooner had I climbed in than he was accelerating down the hill.
CHAPTER 8
JACK
“So now it’s not just a couple of dodgy priests; it’s a whole army of dodgy monks and a dodgy doctor. Good Lord, if this is all true you know how to suck people in.” Miguel was looking fixedly at Jack and for the first time Julio was twiddling the pen round his fingers in a gesture that Jack interpreted as a sign of irritation.
“Hey, I’m telling it the way I remember it,” he snapped. “I’ve told you it’s not easy, and it’s going to get harder as time goes on. If you don’t want to hear any more that’s absolutely fine by me. Just drop me off at the nearest station and I’ll take my chances from there. But if you want me to carry on then for God’s sake let me.”
“Yes, please go on.” There was an unusually conciliatory tone in the detective’s voice now, and he looked across at Julio’s notes as he spoke. “But this monastery… Alzaibar. The whole place seems to have been sympathetic to your situation, is that right?”
“I think it was more than that,” replied Jack. “I hope it’s safe to say this now that things are so different politically, but I think the whole establishment was dedicated to preserving the Basque culture and language—keeping it safe underground until the storm was past. And to speak still more plainly, I’m sure I wasn’t the only undesirable they were granting asylum to. In fact I’ve never got over the feeling that providing a sanctuary for well-meaning outlaws was their main purpose in life.”
“That sounds too far-fetched to be true. After all, they threw you out.”
“That’s too harsh. They helped me as long as they could, but I think there were bigger fish to protect. And they had no fortifications, no weapons. Their only armour was the political repercussions of a frontal assault on a holy shrine.”
JAMES
As we headed down the mountain I tried hard to find out what was going on, but my companion met every question with polite evasion. Then, as we neared the town in the valley below the monastery, he shouted over my incessant questions: “Quick, get down!”
Unencumbered by a seatbelt, I was able to twist myself round and kneel in the foot-well with my torso hunched over the seat. The driver pumped the brakes until we were down to a more sedate speed, and shortly afterwards I felt the car buffeted as two or three vehicles raced past up the hill. I longed for him to put his foot down, but he proceeded at a steady pace for another couple of minutes before accelerating again.
“I think you can get up now,” he said eventually. “Thankfully the curve in the road allowed me to see them in time, but how they got here so quickly is a mystery.”
“So this is about me, isn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.
He did not answer for a few moments, then he nodded. “Only in a manner of speaking. Actually, it’s about local history, if that’s any comfort. You’ve just found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Will the Brothers be alright?”
“I expect there’ll be shouting and perhaps some threats bandied around. But only a madman would assault the sanctity of Alzaibar.”
I didn’t feel reassured that the monastery and its extended family would be safe, and for most of the journey I sat in thoughtful silence. Meanwhile the driver kept up a brisk pace all the way to the city of Vitoria. Parking in front of the railway station, we walked into the ticket office where he bought me a carnet kilométrico—a voucher good for three thousand kilometres’ rail travel.
“Go to Madrid,” he said brightly as we paused at the barrier. “All the scum of Europe ends up there. The police have their time cut out with real criminals. If there’s anywhere in the country you should be safe, it’s on Franco’s doorstep.”
JACK
“Madrid?” muttered Miguel. “You didn’t say anything about Madrid yesterday. I know we were rushed, but…”
“I can’t win, can I?” Jack grumbled in response. “One minute I’m giving you too much information; the next, I’m leaving things out. You asked the questions yesterday, and I answered them. Anyway, I was only there for one night. I was planning to stay until I felt it was safe to head up to the border, but I had an unpleasant experience…”
Miguel made to interrupt, but at a look from Julio he held back as Jack continued. “I checked in at the youth hostel, which was a big mistake.”
The detective could no longer control himself. “Of course it was a mistake. You’d been warned not to use paying accommodation.”
“That wasn’t the problem. I knew it was dangerous, of course, and I was knotted up with fright. I had no doubt that I could pass myself off as a Spanish national in a brief conversation, but I knew I’d be unmasked by anyone who wanted to chat about football or the local attractions.”
“Documentation was a more serious threat,” commented Julio.
“It was. I had no passport and no idea whether my name or description were on some kind of hot-list. Fortunately the receptionist made no attempt to engage me in conversation, and using the Spanish identity card still in my possession I registered as Carlos Echeverría.”
“A serious criminal offence, whatever else you were innocent of,” said Miguel drily. “I could still arrest you for it today.” He turned to the driver. “Julio, that’s our best lead yet. If Carlos Echeverría was the name on the documento nacional that Jack picked up at the murder scene, then it’s a real name that ought to cross-check with old case files. Can you follow that up right away?”
Julio nodded but made no move to go over to the telephone or the MacBook that sat on a small desk in the corner. Jack wondered, not for the first time, what the professional relationship was between the two off them. Julio was clearly more than a chauffeur or personal assistant. While Miguel freely issued orders to him, the younger man had a mind of his own. And the guy fought like an all-action hero.
“You can carry on,” said Miguel, when Jack failed to launch back into his story.
“Sorry,” replied Jack. “I’m trying to decide how much about Madrid to leave out. Most of it, I think. The doctor made a g
ood call in advising me to stay there. But one night in the stinking, unsanitary, bug-infested slum of a youth hostel – the unpleasant experience I was about to mention before you jumped in – left me feeling so unclean that I couldn’t face another night. I spent a couple of hours hunting for somewhere else to stay, then gave up and headed back to the station.”
“And your next port of call was…” Miguel consulted his own notes from the previous afternoon. “Córdoba. I’ve heard it’s a lovely place.”
“That’s not why I chose it. I simply took potluck on the first train heading south. But you’re right. It was such an extraordinary place, and I was feeling so confident that I’d left my troubles behind in the Basque Country, that I booked into a cheap hotel and began to enjoy myself.”
“Clearly you hadn’t left it all behind,” muttered Julio. “Weren’t you worried at all?”
“Of course I was. And for the first two or three days I was constantly looking over my shoulder. But as the days went by I felt more and more relaxed. And after a week with no sign of trouble, I was sure my problems were sorted. So much so that I abandoned my plan to head for the border and bought a ticket to Granada.”
JAMES
I approached the youth hostel in Granada with some trepidation. My experience at the sister establishment in Madrid had quite literally left its mark on me—I’d been bitten from head to foot. And a still greater worry was that the staff would be more vigilant. But in the event it was spotlessly clean and nobody looked too hard at my ID. The three-night rule was rigidly enforced, but an idea for another interesting detour was already growing in my mind.
It was a happy and carefree interlude. I hooked up on the first evening with a strikingly attractive and sweet-natured German girl named Ursula. Over the next two days we developed a strong mutual attraction, and who knows where it might have led if I hadn’t needed to leave in a hurry.
JACK
“Why are you telling us all this, Jack?” Miguel was now firmly back in the driving seat.
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 10