“Mission aborted,” said one of the men quietly. “The drives were booby-trapped. At least whoever set it up gave us plenty of warning.”
“What about all Antonio’s data?” enquired Jack.
“Well, that’s some of it you can see pouring out of the door.”
Another hour later, and the hired Ford was cruising up the motorway towards Granada. There was a long drive ahead, and the site of a Wild West theme park outside the city got Jack reminiscing again. With nothing but the awesome landscape to distract them, his companions left him to talk. Miguel set the voice recorder running, and after a few minutes he began to jot written notes.
JAMES
Jerry thought that the most serious threat to my survival was Almería’s location: an isolated strip of coastal plain, cut off from the rest of the country by arid, rocky desert and spurs of unscalable high ground. Even today it’s hard to think of a city in Europe with fewer ways in or out. The roads are wider and faster than they used to be, but the choice is essentially the same: either the coast road running west towards Malaga and northeast to Murcia, or the one running northwest through the mountains to Granada. There’s a railway line following the same corridor to the interior, but the main station would inevitably be guarded.
The most direct route to my destination, Valencia, was round the coast via Murcia. The danger was that my pursuers would also see it as the natural choice. The alternative was to follow the Granada road inland as far as Guadix and branch northeast from there. It was longer but less obvious, and as the road wound its way across the dramatic landscape it served a string of remote railway stations.
Having chosen the second option, the next big question was how I would travel. We’d ruled out trains and buses, at least as a way out of the city, but I had no way of travelling the roads. To my relief, Jerry had taken this into account. “We need to think about transport,” he said, looking in Derek’s direction, “at least until our young friend is a good few kilometres from here. Your car is too well known. Any ideas?” Derek didn’t return Jerry’s eye contact. I guessed that Jerry had an idea in mind and it was one that Derek didn’t like. The silence grew more embarrassing as it lengthened.
An hour later my embarrassment grew beyond anything I’d ever known, as a familiar blue and white Renault skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust beside the house. To my relief, the only expression on Antonio’s face as he set eyes on me again was one of surprise. “James?” he said, with a faint note of disbelief in his voice. Then, to my present host, “Derek, good to see you again. But I had no idea.”
If Antonio was surprised to find me there, Derek was dumbfounded to see that Antonio and I were already acquainted. “Antonio, you and this young man seem to know each other. I can’t believe it.”
“It is a small world, isn’t it, my friend?” responded Antonio. “But it’s not that much of a miracle. James was one of my students in England. He recently honoured me with a visit, which is how he comes to be in Almería in the first place.”
Derek was still looking puzzled and I was in shock. It took Jerry to remind us of the need for urgent action. “Antonio, good to see you again,” he said, “but time is pressing. Can you take James north right away? As far as Guadix if possible? He’ll explain things along the way, and the three of us will talk when you get back.”
Antonio nodded, and Jerry turned to me next. “Listen carefully, James,” he said sternly. “Don’t delay in explaining to Antonio what’s happening. And the second he wants to turn round, you must get out and carry on under your own steam. Even if it means walking. Is that clear?” I signalled my agreement, and he continued. “There’s at least one train a day from Guadix to Valencia. It stops everywhere, so there are plenty of places you can break your journey if you have to. Or if you prefer you can head back to Bobadilla and choose a destination from there. Just keep your eyes open.”
Five minutes later, I was in the familiar car heading back towards the city centre. As we drove I told Antonio my story. From time to time he would interrupt to seek clarification, and when I’d finished there was a silence lasting a couple of minutes. When he finally spoke, he said something that drove my heart down into my stomach: “My friend, you owe me an apology.”
For several seconds I sat speechless. I wanted to sink through the seat, through the steel floor of the car, into the tarmac. But Antonio was speaking again in a breathless stream of consciousness: “I don’t expect you to say sorry, but I feel dishonoured. You stayed under my roof and you ate my food. You were under my protection and you said nothing. You went off into the night leaving me in ignorance, depriving me of the chance to help you. You patronised me, James. You shielded me from risk. You treated me as unworthy of your confidence.” He paused. “Alongside that, taking the pistol is nothing. I understand why you took it, and I’m glad I was able to help you in at least one small way. Nothing more needs to be said, we just…”
Antonio had glanced up at his rear-view mirror and said urgently, “Quickly, get down in your seat.” I went to look over my shoulder, but his right hand came across and pushed my head forward with surprising force for such an awkward angle. “No, down,” he snapped. For another minute we carried on at a sedate pace as my back and neck began to burn with cramp. Then I saw his foot twitch on the throttle, felt the car surge forward, and heard his voice telling me I could get up.
As we turned north, Antonio opened up for the first time about his own life. He’d shared my teenage obsession with weaponry. But unlike me, he lived in a country with compulsory military service. Rather than face conscription he’d enlisted for a short service commission. On the strength of a perfect score in aptitude tests he’d been inducted into military intelligence, and it was not until his return to civilian life that he’d trained as a teacher.
“I still get nostalgic for the old days,” he said wistfully as he ended his story, “but it’s no life for a family man.”
“James Bond,” I answered reverently. “James Antonio Bond. No wonder you drive like a stuntman. Have you ever been in a gun-fight?”
“Let’s not talk about it,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 11
JACK
Brown now with dust, the once white Ford reversed into a parking space just across the road from Guadix railway station. Julio left the engine and air conditioner running, and the temperature in the car stayed almost bearable.
“So this is Guadix.” Miguel was flushed and sweating. “Why the hell have you brought me to this suffocating hole in the middle of nowhere?”
“Sorry, Miguel, I thought you got the point. Purely to help you, I’m doing my best to put a confused bundle of memories in order. And I’ve said enough times that it’s both painful and difficult. The point of coming to these places isn’t just to jog my memory, although it’s doing that too. It’s about laying ghosts to rest. And that’s helping me to talk about things I’ve been bottling up for decades.”
There was silence in the car for a full minute, then Miguel spoke again. “I’m not going to say sorry. But I will say thank you for your efforts to help us. Have you seen all you need to see here?”
“Not yet. Could you just drive around for a while? I’m trying to get a sequence of events clear in my head.” Julio dutifully put the car into gear and began to pull out. “No,” barked Jack suddenly. “The other way. Please. It’s important.”
They set off, and as Jack gave directions they went round in a great loop. Then they went round again. Finally, Jack breathed out loudly and suggested they go for a cold beer.
The bar in which they sat was mercifully air-conditioned and the beer ice-cold. The early evening clientele could best be described as middle-class bohemian, befitting a town famous for its cave dwellings and its arts scene. An invisible pianist was playing smooth jazz somewhere in the establishment, and the waiters wore black bow-ties. Jack thought that he and his companions looked rather out of their element. He put the vague sense of embarrassment out of his mind, however. H
e was coming to a part of the story that he knew was appallingly dark, but apart from the occasional impressionistic flashes…
…Severed…
…Gaping…
…its precise nature was still sealed away.
JAMES
It was evening before we reached Guadix, but the place made a strong impression on me and I was itching to explore. That wasn’t on Antonio’s agenda, of course, but I expected him to head home at any moment.
“Thank you so much for all you’ve done,” I said. “I wish I could offer you money for petrol, but I know it would offend you.”
“Perhaps you’re getting to know me at last.”
“You should be getting back to your lovely family. I’ll go to the station and check the timetables. And I’d like to visit the Troglodyte caves while I’m here.”
“Do you know, James, I thought you were beginning to grasp what you’re up against. It seems I was wrong. I’m not turning my back on you until you’re sitting on a train surrounded by people.”
“Why? You don’t owe me anything. In fact I owe you. You should go home.”
“Then you’re not getting to know me as well as I thought. I do owe you. Bad people are persecuting someone who’s been a guest in my house. I can’t come up north with you, but as long as you’re in my part of the country I have a duty to help you.”
JACK
“A good friend, clearly,” commented the detective without any real warmth in his voice. “And a good man. But I can’t imagine living with a moral code like his. I’d have dropped you at the station and been out of here.”
“He was a remarkable guy,” confirmed Jack, wistfully. “I still can’t believe he’s gone, even though I haven’t seen him face-to-face for forty years.”
“But I’m guessing that his judgment wasn’t perfect. That’s based on things you’ve said outright and on little hints you may have let slip without meaning to. Remember, I’ve listened to a lot of witnesses in my years in the service. And I think he must have done something to raise the stakes, to escalate the danger you were in.”
Jack was silent for a moment as he tried to work out how he had let something so big slip under his guard. Was it on the last evening at the second safe house, when Miguel and Julio had been plying him with questions in an attempt to bypass his long-winded narrative? He did not think so, but then how was Miguel able to see so clearly where the story was going? “The best thing is if I carry on,” he said at last.
JAMES
I sat in the passenger seat of the blue Renault, looking along the street at a black Mercedes parked opposite the station forecourt. I hadn’t really expected to find the station unguarded, but having my worst fears confirmed hit my morale harder than expected.
“OK, Scarlet Pimpernel,” said Antonio. You told me how you got to the platform in Granada by walking along the tracks. We need to see if something like that is possible here. I think the main entrance is too much of a risk.”
“What do I do about a ticket? There’s been an inspector on every train I’ve travelled on. And what’s that about the Scarlet Pimpernel?”
He grinned slyly. “They seek him here, they seek him there… Just paying you back for the dig about James Bond. But you’re right about the ticket. There’s no point in attracting attention. If you give me your carnet I’ll go in and buy it for you.”
I handed him my prepaid travel booklet and he started to get out of the car. Then he sat back down and looked at me searchingly. “James, you can drive, yes?”
“Yes, but what…?”
“Then get behind the wheel, and take off at the first sign of trouble. If necessary I’ll get the train back to Almería and report the car stolen. But remember, if you can get onto the train it’ll be safer than the road. It’s due to arrive in just under a quarter of an hour and will leave about five minutes later.”
As soon as Antonio had left the car, I wriggled across to the driving seat and began familiarising myself with the controls. But I was exhausted after a virtually sleepless night in the tiny car, and as the minutes ticked by I could feel my eyelids drooping.
I was jerked out of my reverie by a shout from along the street. A man had just run across the courtyard in front of the station and was sprinting along the road towards me. My first reaction was fear, but then I realised with an even greater shock that the sprinter was Antonio.
Immediately I turned the starter, and as the engine whined into life I pushed the stick into gear and let up the clutch. There was a faint crunch as I brushed bumpers with a van parked awkwardly in front of me, followed by a tinkle of broken glass. Then the note of the eager little engine rose to a scream as I fumbled to change gear with my right hand. I nearly stalled as I pulled up beside Antonio, but he wrenched open the passenger door and flung himself in.
“Go, go, go,” he shouted, his face purple beneath the tan. I let the clutch up and took off cautiously, casting a wary glance at the black Mercedes still sitting stationary across the road.
“I’m sorry,” I blustered, “I hit…”
At that moment a man in uniform came rushing across the courtyard towards us with his arm waving. But his eyes weren’t on us—they were on the Mercedes. Instinctively I put my foot down harder, and the little car surged away as I made my way smoothly up through the gears. But we were only a couple of hundred metres along the narrow road when I saw in the mirror that the black car was following us. “Uh-oh,” I breathed. “They’re onto us.”
“Right just up ahead,” urged Antonio. “They can beat us on the straight. Our only chance is in the lanes. And we need to switch places as soon as we can.”
I pulled the car sharply round a right-hand corner where Antonio was pointing and raced down a narrow thoroughfare, praying as I did that we wouldn’t meet anyone coming the other way. “Right again,” he shouted, and again I followed instructions. I drove at a reckless pace along the winding, bumpy single-width lane.
Then Antonio spoke again. “I have a plan,” he said. “Turn right at the end, then right again, and park in front of the station. Here, take your carnet. Don’t try to use it—the man in the ticket office took one look at your name and freaked out. But the station is swarming with foreign students. Just walk onto the platform and lose yourself in the crowd. You’ll have to improvise if the guard comes through the train, but I think it’s your only hope.”
I pulled in where the Mercedes had been parked just a few minutes earlier. Then I turned to Antonio to say thank you, but he cut me off. “No time. Get going. Write to me.” After a quick handshake I grabbed my holdall and leapt out. He quickly sidled across to the driving seat, and by the time I was across the road he’d turned a corner and disappeared.
I never saw Antonio again, or tried to contact him. And I never heard from him until he sent me a friend request on Facebook a few months ago. We were going go on a grand tour—roughly following my route from forty years ago. It was going to be therapeutic for both of us. But getting back to the story, I walked straight past the ticket office and pushed in among a group of tall, sun-bleached, unshaven, mostly Australian backpackers. And the train wheezed its way into the station less than five minutes later.
It wasn’t what I’d expected – just a tiny diesel shunting engine with three dilapidated coaches _– and it was already overfull. Even the luggage racks carried horizontal passengers in various states of consciousness. So I just stood in the corridor, and we were moving within another five minutes.
JACK
“Now this is crucial,” announced Jack as he checked to make sure he had his companions’ full attention. “I was watching carefully as we pulled out of the station, and I saw no sign of trouble. But I could see a dense column of smoke diagonally ahead of us. And a minute later, as we crossed the road that I’d driven Antonio’s car along earlier, I could see that a vicious fire was raging somewhere to the right of the tracks.
I think the smoke is important. Because I’ve come up with a theory – perhaps suspic
ion would be a better word – that Antonio took them out. Tthat he killed the whole crew in the Merc. I’ve no idea if he meant to. I hope he was just trying to hold them up and things went wrong. You see, I got the blame for their deaths. And as you’ve already worked out, that took things to new level.”
“We should go and look,” said Miguel.
There was a heavy silence in the car as they drove round the circuit once again, and this time Jack asked Julio to stop the car at a junction within sight of the railway overpass. “It was here,” he said quietly. “I think three members of the Legion died violently just here. I think that intentionally or not Antonio killed them. And having met some of the people involved, I know they’d have hunted him forever. If you can find the record of a fatal accident just here, you might get some names and a vehicle registration.”
It took nearly two hours for a reply to come back, by which time they were back in the air-conditioned bar, but the result was conclusive. Miguel passed on the substance of what he had been told: “In September 1973, three men died in a mysterious incident at the road junction where we stopped. Two of them were employees of a private security firm up in the far north of the country—one with active paramilitary connections. The same firm owned the car in which they were found, a black Mercedes, which was not badly damaged and was later re-commissioned.
“I don’t understand,” said Jack after a moment’s silence. “There was a big fire. How can the car not have been a write-off?”
“I’m keeping the best for last,” answered Miguel. “There was another car involved which was completely burned out. It was a modified Renault 8, ownership untraceable. The only patch of paintwork left intact by the fire was in the angle of the passenger door. It was mid-blue.”
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 14