Jack had opened his eyes by the time the second shot sounded. The tall man’s feet and body were still positioned square on to him, but his head was turned sideways and his right arm was extended in the same direction. He fired his second shot, and a dark shape stumbled out from behind a rock a few metres away. Julio swung the pistol back towards Jack. “Don’t go anywhere,” he snarled. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Julio stalked across the uneven surface with his gun held out in front of him. Jack saw him pick up something long, dark and heavy. He hurled it away, and it hit the nearby rocks with a clatter. Then he hauled a kneeling man to his feet. That was the point at which Jack got his wits back and dived behind a large, seaweed covered rock. He reached into his trouser pocket and attempted to pull out the snub-nosed pistol he had been carrying ever since his final one-sided conversation with Gallego. He did not dare waste time ejecting the magazine to see how many rounds were left; he just had to hope that there was at least one. He saw that it was still cocked, and so he simply clicked the safety off, held the weapon in a two-handed grip, and waited.
“You need to come out, Jack,” he heard Julio call out. “I have a friend of yours here, and he won’t tell me who he is.” Jack did not move. He had no idea who else could be there on the beach, let alone a friend. “I think I’ll start putting some holes in your friend,” came Julio’s voice again, “and maybe his screams will bring you out.”
A vaguely familiar voice called out, “Jimmy, don’t do it.” It was followed by the sound of a heavy blow, clearly audible even over the noise of the sea.
“Who is it?” shouted Jack. “Tell me who it is.”
There came the sound of another blow, and the same voice said. “It’s Txako, Jimmy. Do you remember? The cause of all your troubles.” There was something wrong with the voice. It was recognisably Txako’s, but it was slightly distorted—lazy, almost slurred. “He’ll kill us both,” the speaker added. Then there was another hard blow and he went silent.
“Come out, Jack,” shouted Julio. “We can do this the quick, easy way. But if you annoy me any further there’s another way. Your friend is going to get a bullet in the stomach on the count of three. One… Two…”
Jack took his right hand away from the pistol and stood up, positioning himself at a slight angle to Julio so that his hanging left hand and the pistol it held were shielded from view. Txako was kneeling on all fours on one of the cove’s few sandy patches, which was now stained with his blood. Julio was standing over him, the gun trained diagonally down at his head. Txako looked up into Jack’s eyes from a distance of no more than half a dozen metres. His hair was grey, his face sunken, his posture limp and defeated, but his eyes said something more daring. He flicked them three times towards Julio, and Jack knew there was a message in there. For another second he pondered, then he noticed that Txako was bracing his upper body weight on a large, round stone. At least, that is how his slumped posture made it seem. But his fingers were wrapped so tightly round it that the knuckles were white.
Jack got the message. He casually raised his eyes to the path down the cliff, and smiled but said nothing. A moment later, Julio noticed where his gaze was focused. He abruptly pointed the gun at the Englishman’s chest. “What’s going on?” he snapped.
“You’re too late,” muttered Jack without looking at him. “The cavalry’s here.”
Too surprised and bewildered to shoot, Julio whirled round to follow Jack’s eyes. But before he had turned his body more than a few degrees, Txako’s hand flew upwards. Ballasted by the stone he had been holding, it smashed into Julio’s groin with a dull thud. The effect was spectacular. For a split second the tall man held out against nature by sheer force of will. Then he abruptly jack-knifed into the classic wounded male pose. His hands, including the one holding the gun, went between his legs.
“Jimmy, run,” wailed Txako, but Jack’s own conscience got in the way, and he lost the chance of ever finding out how Txako came to be there. In what seemed like slow motion, Julio’s pistol came back up. Normal combat tactics dictate that you take out the enemy with the gun first, but Jack’s gun was out of sight while Txako was close at hand and looking up at him insolently. The Ruger swung down towards Txako’s chest. There was a flash and a report, and he leather-clad figure pitched backwards onto the sand.
The next moment, the gun in Jack’s hand was firing—a much deeper sound than the crack of the Ruger. One, two, three, and click—the ammunition was spent. But Julio was lying stretched out on the sand with blood gushing from his head and chest. Jack did not think he was a danger any longer, but he kicked the Ruger away from its owner’s outstretched hand and rushed over to see Txako. “Lord, into your hands…” muttered the monk in his final delirium, then he was still.
Jack turned to examine Julio. The dying man seemed unable to move or even speak, but his eyes showed awareness and horror. It took several minutes for the light in them to fade.
Starting with Julio, Jack searched both dead men’s pockets and quickly found the two things he was looking for. The digital recorder that contained his tormented oral account of the past, he tucked firmly down into his own trouser pocket. Then, in a zipped compartment in the lining of his old friend’s leathers, he found an undamaged mobile phone.
He stood up, tapped in a number, and a few seconds later a smile came to his lips. “Hi darling,” he shouted over the sound of the sea. “I just wanted to let you know I’m OK. I’ll be getting the train back up to Paris in the morning… Yes, I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to charge my phone… Yes, it is the sea you can hear; it’s quite rough… No, Antonio’s not with me right now. He had to lie down… Yes, it’s done me good. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, and I’ve got a lot to tell you. Bye, darling. Pass on my love to the kids.”
Starting with the snub-nosed pistol and going on to the Ruger and finally Txako’s rifle, Jack ejected the magazines and hammered each barrel against a rock until it was ruined beyond any chance of repair. Then he hurled the gun parts and the phone out to sea, and picked his way back to the foot of the path. He had not been looking forward to the long, dark walk up to the headland, and he was relieved to see Txako’s BMW standing there with the key in the lock. Forcing his head into a helmet that was a little too small for him, he kicked a leg over the saddle and folded away the stand. Then he started the engine, and, rather gingerly at first because he was out of practice, he rode the BMW up the footpath into the gathering night.
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 27