“No! Wait!” shouted Jack. “What about the honour code?”
Antonio half-lowered his arm. “Don’t be silly, James. You’ve dishonoured yourself so many times, you’ve no part in the system. A nobleman does not grant a disrespectful peasant the right to a duel.”
“A nobleman doesn’t invite a peasant to his table. I sat at your table, and we spoke as equals. If I’ve abused you, you have the right to satisfaction, not summary execution.”
Antonio actually smiled. “Very well, my friend. Lesson in etiquette duly taken on board. Do you have a weapon?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Perhaps our mutual friend can lend you one.”
Jack looked down at Gallego for the first time in several minutes. The old man’s face was ashen grey, his eyes glazed, his mouth slack. “Do you have a gun I can borrow, Adolfo?” The man in the wheelchair slowly turned his head and looked up at him, then cast his eyes down at his immobile right leg. With Antonio’s gun trained steadily on him, Jack walked round to right hand side of the chair, thrust his hand down beneath Gallego’s thigh, and felt the outline of a weapon embedded in a cut-out in the leather. Trying to disturb the occupant of the chair as little as possible, he pulled out a compact .38 automatic pistol.
“Take two paces sideways,” said Antonio quietly. “Good. Now point the gun away from me and cock it. Good. Now lay it on the ground. Excellent.”
Jack followed the instructions and stood behind the weapon with his feet a few inches apart. Then Antonio followed suit. Jack watched carefully as he rose to his feet again, and was pleased to see that his former friend was quite stiff in his movements. They stood there for a moment, eye to eye over a distance of some three metres. Jack seemed to notice the warm sunshine and the birdsong for the first time. “Isn’t there another way?” he asked plaintively.
“I can simply shoot you, if you prefer. And if I’m honest, I might as well do. I seem to remember you were quite handy with an air pistol, but don’t have any false hopes. I was better, and unlike you I’ve kept in shape. I’m going to count to ten, then I’m going to pick up my gun and place the first bullet in your gut. That will hurt, James. In the unlikely event that you’re still a danger to me at that point, you’ll get a second bullet in the chest or the head. Otherwise, Gallego and I will watch you writhe for a minute or two before I start on him. That ought to whet his appetite for what’s coming, and incentivise you to give it your best shot.” He looked Jack directly in the face. “Are you ready? Uno… dos… tres… cuatro… cinco…”
Then Antonio was interrupted by a shout from nearby, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a man with a gun pointing down the path. Without completing the count, he crouched down and snatched up the gun. Remaining at a crouch, he twisted at the waist and neck, extended his arm, and fired. A moment later he was startled by a flash from somewhere close at hand.
CHAPTER 19
Miguel was having another dismal day. It had started badly enough – a cheap brandy hangover is one of the worst there is – and gone downhill from there. Through waves of nausea and a throbbing headache, and amid constant interruptions from the daily routine going on around him, he was trying to reconstruct the damage limitation plan that had seemed so elegant the night before. It was beginning to come together in his mind. Thankfully it was the ever-resourceful Julio who had devised the plan, and that would do something to exonerate Miguel himself when it went awry—as he had ensured it would.
Typically of Julio, the plan had been simple and elegant. Word had been spread around HQ that the Englishman wanted to visit Alzaibar to boost his flagging recollections, and a personal security contractor had been booked to transport him there. It was inevitable given Gallego’s reach in the department that information would get back to him, and Julio was calculating that the former Adolfo would turn out in person to supervise Jack’s capture. However, the Englishman’s place would be taken by a volunteer from Miguel’s squad, while Jack himself would be ferried to a safe location in a second vehicle.
Seen through the lens of cheap brandy the night before, Julio’s decision to take Jack’s place in person had given Miguel grounds for optimism. As a result of his treachery, both the Englishman and the spook were almost certain to die. Now, however, in the cold light of day, ‘almost certain’ was not good enough.
In Jack’s case, provided he drew Gallego to the killing ground, the chance that he might survive the encounter was something Miguel could live with. But if Julio made it through the day he would know exactly where to put the blame for his plan’s ruin.
There was much work to be done. Potential witnesses would need to be got at with Father’s customary blend of lavish gifts and bloodcurdling threats. And records would need to be discreetly altered. But above all there was a battle looming, and Miguel knew what he had to do before anything else.
After a fast but uneventful drive out from the city, Miguel arrived at Alzaibar to find that the battle had started and finished without him. As he pulled up alongside Gallego’s helicopter, he surveyed the scene of carnage around it in disbelief. Then he looked up and saw three men with assault weapons trained on him, and he wondered if the outcome was still undecided. But as he climbed out of the car with his arms held away from his body, the men recognised him and grudgingly stood to attention.
“Where’s my father?” he asked the squad leader.
“Round the main block to the right, Sir,” the man answered.
Miguel jogged across the plaza as quickly as his bulk would allow. And as he rounded the corner, he saw a bizarre sight just a little way down the path. The Englishman was standing in a tense, slightly crouched posture. Beside him was a sleek, technologically advanced wheelchair occupied by the hated Gallego. And facing them from a distance of some ten paces meters, bolt upright and watching the Englishman like a hawk, was Miguel’s father.
As the detective watched in grim fascination, he observed a movement that must have been masked from his father’s viewpoint by the chair’s broad, well-padded armrest: Gallego’s left hand had dropped down beside his withered leg and come up bearing a compact pistol. Miguel yelled out in warning, but there was no time to frame words of explanation. Drawing his own weapon, he shouted again and drew a bead on the man in the wheelchair.
Then his father reacted. With surprising speed for a man of his age, he crouched down and snatched up a gun from the ground. Without waiting to straighten his legs, he stretched out his arm and took aim—not at Gallego, but straight up the path towards Miguel. There was a flash of light from the outstretched hand. The detective felt a crushing, numbing blow to his throat, and his sight was already dimming before the sound of three shots in reached him in quick succession from what seemed a great distance away.
Predictably enough, Gallego took charge of the situation. He was still brandishing in his left hand the pistol with which he had shot Antonio, but he quickly tucked it back into its hiding place as a squad leader came round the corner at the double accompanied by two heavily built troopers.
“I know your status,” Gsllego barked at the leader. “You are soldiers of fortune working for Antonio García. As of now, your contract with him is dissolved and you will take orders from me. You know who I am, of course, and you are hereby contracted to provide personal security services until further notice. Now, wheel me back to the transporter, will you? Get somebody to reconnect this wretched contraption’s batteries. And you may as well see if you can keep your former employer alive, but I rather think he’s a gone concern.”
There was a moment’s hesitation on the part of the three men. Then the two troopers looked to the squad leader for guidance and saw that it was a done deal. Jack and Gallego watched in silence as Antonio was hastily treated with field dressings then turned onto his side and carried away on a stretcher. He was still awake, but Jack knew enough to see that he was in deep shock and bleeding out from his thigh and shoulder. An urgent blood transfusion and surgery might save him, but Gallego w
as not going to be transporting anyone but himself to hospital. As the stretcher reached the top of the path a few yards ahead of him, its occupant gazed fixedly for a moment at Miguel’s blood-spattered body, emitted a sudden inexplicable bellow of pain, and died.
Jack wondered for a moment whether there had been any meaning to this incident, but there was a more pressing question to consider: What was his own life expectancy now? He had been foolish in assuming that Antonio’s treachery had put himself and Gallego on the same side. He stopped walking, twisted round and addressed the elderly man, who was being pushed up the slope by the squad leader: “So what have I got to look forward to now?”
“Very good question, James,” said the politician, who was still clearly in shock but more alert now. He gestured to the squad leader to stop. “You know, I’m genuinely sorry about the way things have turned out. I was content to leave you in peace as long as you were far away in England, but then your friend García dragged you back into the fray.
“It’s frustrating, because I have wanted to atone for my past—to clean up the private armies left over from the Civil War, and all the organised crime and violence for which they’re responsible. But the problem with democracy is that a past like mine disqualifies you from doing the job. And I’m not going to sacrifice this, the best work of my life. I’m not going to live in fear that somebody who’s shared the deeper darkness with me might…”
Jack was white in the face. “So you’re going to dive back into the cesspit of death and corruption that you inhabited before? You’re going to get more blood on your hands? And all in the interests of law and order? That’s the most crass stupidity I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Careful what you say, Jack. I’m happy to make it quick and easy, but I don’t have to. It may surprise you to hear this, but I’ve no reason to love you.”
Jack was getting desperate. “It seems to me that you’ve no reason to love yourself either. Isn’t it enough that you just killed Antonio?” Then his speech organs went onto autopilot as they had done so often in the past. He heard himself say, “And Miguel. For God’s sake Gallego, why did you have to kill Miguel? I thought you wanted to wipe out private armies, not hard-working policemen.”
He was pleased to see the three mercenaries stop and look round sharply. “Move along,” snapped Gallego, realising that Jack had deftly undermined his authority with the hastily co-opted henchmen. “Back to the transport. And hit this impertinent animal hard, now.”
One of the troopers span towards Jack, turning his assault rifle end-for-end as he did so. Jack braced himself for pain, and for a moment Gallego thought he had re-asserted his hold over the surviving hired guns. Then the squad leader barked a command and the trooper brought his weapon back to his side. “We’re more than just a bunch of whores,” he spat, as he drew his sidearm and swung his arm in Gallego’s direction. A split second later his face exploded, and his own bullet flew harmlessly out over the nearby ravine.
As the sound of a rifle shot reverberated around the hills and the squad leader’s legs crumpled under him, Jack noticed a thickset blond man marching down the path. But the newcomer’s size made nonsense of the perspective. He was further away than he had appeared at first glance, and what looked like a stick in his hands was a long sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight. The barrel swung backwards and forwards in a short arc as the man advanced, and without any further prompting the two troopers dropped their weapons and put their hands behind their heads.
“Welcome, Martí,” pronounced Gallego. “In the nick of time.”
“I can only apologise, Commander,” replied the big man with a little bow. “I made a serious error of judgement. As soon as we are stood down, I expect to be court-martialled and at very least demoted.”
“We will discuss the circumstances in due course. Any of your men still standing?”
“Just the pilot, Commander. They left him alone. And a couple the monks are treating who may pull through. I was the only combatant taken alive, and they handcuffed me to the helicopter’s undercarriage before they came running down here.” He lifted one arm so that Gallego could see the heavy bracelet that still encircled his massive wrist, and as he drew closer Jack could see the marks of a fresh beating on his face.
“Are these two soldiers employable?”
“One is. Not the other.”
“Do what you have to.”
Martí turned to face the trooper who had been about to administer a beating to Jack. “Pick up your weapon, soldier, and keep these scum covered.” Then he placed his own rifle gently on the ground, took a few paces backwards, and beckoned to the other man. Jack sidestepped behind Gallego’s wheelchair, took the handles, and turned it round ninety degrees so that it faced the impending action. Its wheels were now in exact line with the slope, but to his relief nobody seemed to notice in the tension of the moment.
The trooper looked anxiously from side to side and made as if to run. It took the sound of his former comrade’s weapon cocking to bring him back to reality. “One on one, or you can die like a dog,” said Martí pleasantly.
“I’m sorry. Give me another chance,” pleaded the terrified soldier pathetically.
“Ten seconds to decide,” replied the blond man.
Reluctantly the doomed man took a step towards him. Then, with an angry yell, he crossed the distance between them at a run. He knew what he was doing; his chin dropped and his arms went up as he came within striking distance of Martí and launched a flying kick at his leading kneecap.
Martí was ready, and the contest was over in seconds. Moving with unexpected grace for a man of his build, he sidestepped the attack and left his adversary off balance. A well-placed elbow caught the unfortunate trooper under the chin as his momentum carried him past, and he landed painfully on his hip and shoulder. Before he had time to defend himself, Martí dealt him a crippling kick in the small of the back. At that point he might have walked again one day. But then, seemingly without effort, Martí lifted him clear of the ground, knelt on one knee and broke his back over the other.
Jack never forgot the sound nor found out whether the man survived. but for the moment it was put out of his mind as he found himself once again the centre of attention.
“What’s your name, soldier,” Gallego asked the last surviving member of Antonio’s private army.
“Abella, Commander,” he replied, standing to attention with an audible click of his heels.
“We’ll talk about your future in due course, but you were about to carry out my instructions when you were interrupted. Please carry on.”
Abella turned to Jack, his face expressionless, and for a moment Jack thought he might be about to object. But the man was simply playing to his audience. Slowly, almost casually, he raised the butt of his assault rifle to shoulder height and brought it sharply forward. There was a crack as the flat of the stock struck Jack on the cheekbone and he fell sideways. Everything went black and purple for a moment, but he remained conscious as Abella toppled over to join him on the ground. The next moment, the wheelchair began to creep backwards. Second by second it gathered pace as Gallego shouted for help.
Then there was a blur of movement on the edge of Jack’s vision, and suddenly the chair stopped moving. Someone had caught it—a tall man dressed like a funeral director. And Jack slumped with relief as he recognised Julio.
“Jack, are you badly hurt?” asked Miguel’s driver as he pushed the wheelchair back up the path to where Jack was lying. Bracing his foot behind a wheel, he reached down and helped the Englishman to his feet.
“Black eye coming,” answered Jack, “but it could be worse.”
“You’re lucky. He must have liked you. He slapped you with the flat of the stock rather than punching you in the jaw with the butt.”
“Remind me to thank him.”
“You sound like your old self. Where’s Miguel? I need to talk to him urgently.”
“Julio, I’m sorry. Miguel’s dead. Antonio
shot him.”
“Antonio shot him? García López? What are you talking about? He’s…”
“Dead? He is now. He was here, alive, but Gallego shot him a split second after Miguel went down. He had another gun concealed somewhere on the wheelchair.”
Julio was going white. “Oh God, I need to think,” he said. “Stay here with Gallego for a minute. But we’ll have you facing the other way, Minister. With respect, I can’t risk having you behind my back with God knows what hidden under your jacket.” Turning the chair to face downhill, and carefully wedging a wheel against Abella’s blood-spattered body, he walked a few yards up the slope.
Gallego watched as the tall man named Julio disappeared behind him. There was something hauntingly familiar about the stranger that he couldn’t place. He was reminded of himself as a young man: erect, proud and remorseless. A few moments later, he heard the newcomer call out to Martí, the one man left standing whom he could trust.
From his different vantage point, Jack could see that the Legionnaire had recovered his rifle from the ground. He was holding it in a relaxed two-handed grip, the barrel sloping downwards, but Jack had no doubt that he could bring it to bear in a fraction of a second. Julio, meanwhile, had taken a few steps up the slope towards Martí, and was now standing with his feet well planted and his hand under his jacket.
“Hey, my big, strong friend,” shouted Julio. “We can do this one of three ways: We can fight, like we did a few days back, and I’m not carrying a fresh knife wound now. Or we can shoot, in which case your brains will be covering the grass before you’ve got that cannon up to horizontal. Or we can talk.”
Jack watched as two deadly fighters of very different styles slowly lowered their weapons to the ground and warily stepped forward to meet one another. From Gallego’s viewpoint, facing away from the action, there was simply silence followed by a subdued murmur of distant conversation.
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 24