Marine F SBS

by Robin James

  When the stolen Harley-Davidson and the Panda left Santiago de Compostela to head south-east to Orense and thence to Verín, near the border with Portugal, it was after five o’clock, and the heat of the afternoon was becoming oppressive. They still had a drive of some two hundred and fifty kilometres ahead of them.

  The Home Secretary’s nerves had been at full stretch ever since the morning’s telephone call with the message from Carolyn. He had got together the million pounds. It was sitting, in a brown-paper parcel about the size of four shoe boxes, on the inlaid, red-leather top of his desk. Since there was nothing else he could do about his daughter, while waiting for five o’clock and the next phone call to come he had been trying to occupy himself with his most urgent business in hand. His eyes must have strayed more than a hundred times to that parcel; one million pounds, money with very considerable purchasing power, took up a remarkably small space. He had imagined it would be very much more. It weighed in at about ten kilos and had – the more so perhaps because of the ordinariness of the brown paper and thin string – a strangely hypnotic quality about it.

  The afternoon dragged by dreadfully slowly – and then at the appointed hour there was no call from Kirsty. Parker-Reed did not yet know about events down in Spain because Major Fernandez had been too involved with what was going on to take the time to phone him; besides, the major was hoping that when he did call the Home Secretary it would be with good news.

  Kirsty had heard from El Asesino. He had called her from the house by the river before departing, with instructions to cancel the arranged message to London until further notice. There was no way until he was clear of the danger area and reorganised that he could begin to collect the ransom money. Let the son of a bitch sweat, had been his words.

  Well, the son of a bitch was certainly doing that. Parker-Reed waited until six, rationalizing that England was one hour behind Spain in clock time, perhaps they had not taken that into account. At ten after six, convinced that something had gone wrong, he called the Mirabelle.

  Fernandez was back aboard, working from Travers Bonnington’s office. With him was Pomares. Information, in the form of known histories and photographs of associates of El Asesino, was being faxed through from the London office of Interpol. So far – apart from that of Arsenio himself – Pomares had recognized only one photograph, that of the Irishman, Tim Shannon, who had escaped from Parkhurst with the Venezuelan. ‘He was the technician who was going to install the video,’ he told Fernandez. ‘But he had guns in the box, you understand me?’

  The major glanced at Shannon’s record. His conviction for rocketing the House of Lords he knew about, since he had been there. The rest was news to him. Suspected – there was no hard evidence but the word more often than not meant guilty – of being involved in eight separate bombings over a period of five years in which, in total, eleven innocent people had died and fifty-three had been injured. Also believed to have murdered by shooting or garrotting several UDA men in and around Belfast. Nice company Carolyn was in, thought Fernandez, grimly.

  Parker-Reed rang, and Fernandez brought him right up to date with events. ‘Can’t you call the Spanish police off?’ was the Home Secretary’s horrified reaction. ‘They’re liable to get her killed.’

  ‘It’s too late now, sir,’ said the major. ‘With respect, you called them in yourself. They have a fierce pride – and a good record of success in kidnap cases.’ He reminded Parker-Reed of the Melodie case, some seven years before, when the daughter of Armenian-born international businessman Raymond Nakachian was held for ransom – for a sum of some thirteen million dollars – in the south of Spain, but was finally rescued unhurt after twelve days, with all the criminals being apprehended and no money changing hands.

  ‘Look, I have the first million,’ said the Home Secretary, his eyes on the parcel. ‘It’s on my desk right in front of me. All – listen – all I want to do is pay what they want and get Carolyn back unharmed. Can’t you stop the Spaniards from going after them?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I have no power in that direction,’ Fernandez reminded him. ‘If anybody can do that, it’s you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Well, I’ll try.’ He paused. ‘Well,’ he went on, slowly, ‘you’ve done what you could, Major Fernandez. There’s nothing else you can do now that she’s on the mainland. You may as well report back to the Chief of General Staff.’

  The words – without that being Parker-Reed’s intention – knifed into the major. He fought back a rising anger. ‘I’ve just lost a boat and her entire crew apart from the sub men,’ he said, keeping his voice steady. ‘Your daughter, sir, is one thing – and I’ll do everything in my power, given the chance, to see that she comes to no harm. My dead men are quite another. I intend to track down this monster and his gang wherever they might be, and bring them to justice.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ started Parker-Reed.

  ‘Permission to carry on, sir?’ Fernandez broke in.

  Something in the hard edge to the SBS man’s voice told the Home Secretary that this was no time to argue. ‘Permission granted,’ he said.

  Pomares recognized the face of only one other known associate of El Asesino – Felix Springer. The German had never been convicted of any terrorist activities for the simple reason that he had never been caught, but he was well documented from his days with the Baader–Meinhof gang. Little was known of him since, except for the fact that he had worked with Arsenio for the PFLP. But he had one conviction, from when he was only seventeen. It was for attacking a teenage couple at night in a parked car at a lonely spot in the Black Forest. He had served four and a half years for grievous bodily harm of the young man and rape of the girl. Fernandez did not like that last chilling piece of information one little bit.

  It was just before seven o’clock when Pomares boarded the Wessex to be flown back to Malpica. His wife, meanwhile, was lying on a bed, trussed as expertly as the young couple who were being held prisoner with her. Señora Pomares was too frail to fight her bonds for long, but the girl was continuing to struggle helplessly against them every now and again. Pedro had adopted a different tactic. Realizing he had little chance of freeing himself, he had contrived to get on the floor on his back beneath the window and, with his booted feet in the air, was loudly kicking the shutters.

  Pedro’s Harley-Davidson was at that moment being driven by Felix Springer, with Salim Kasar on the back and, a kilometre or so behind them, the Panda. The little convoy was travelling in a south-easterly direction on the N525. They were approaching the town of Ginzo de Limia, some eighty kilometres from Verín – just beyond which lay the point on the border between Spain and Portugal for which they were all heading.

  Had not a man from the rental agency paid a courtesy call on the house by the river, to see that everything was all right for the renters, the prisoners would probably have remained there for days. There was no answer when he tugged the old-fashioned bell-pull, but the crashing of the shutters, which had stopped temporarily, resumed with even greater intensity. He let himself in with a pass key.

  Twenty minutes later the Guardia Civil had the number of a stolen Harley-Davidson to look out for, plus the information from Señora Pomares that the kidnappers were also using a white Panda.

  The police were one step nearer to detaining the fugitives and Carolyn Parker-Reed. But El Asesino and his accomplices were drawing ever closer to the border.

  16

  There was only one further brush with a roadblock before they reached Verín. It was just after Albarellos. Turning back into the town and stopping there to check the map, Arsenio found that they could in fact go south from there until they hit the local road he needed to get them close to the border.

  Springer and Kasar were waved through the roadblock without so much as a glance. Details of the stolen motor cycle were not to reach the police there for another twenty minutes, by which time it would be too late. As they pulled away from the roadblock, Springer received a cal
l from Arsenio with instructions to catch up with the Panda at a little town called Oimbra, some fifteen kilometres south of Verín. Springer’s route was the longer way around by some six kilometres; for the first time, the German did what he had been longing to do – he put the bike through its paces. It went like a dream.

  At eight o’clock on the dot, they met in Oimbra. They were on a mountain road, surrounded by impressive, pine-clad mountains which reached verdant heights of fifteen hundred metres. There was very little traffic, and it was extremely unlikely they would encounter another roadblock in this wild countryside, but Arsenio was taking as few chances as possible. He told Springer to proceed a kilometre ahead of them once more. They went through the village of Casas del Montes, mountains towering all around them, the narrow road winding and with many precipitous drops – particularly hazardous since the occasional pothole would spring at them on the other side of a blind bend.

  As soon as Bousés was a kilometre or so behind them, Arsenio called Springer with instructions to wait for him.

  ‘Get out, Carolyn,’ Arsenio told his captive as he pulled the Panda up next to the parked bike. Fear clutched the young woman. They were in a desolate spot, and had seen no other vehicle since leaving Bousés. To their left there loomed a thickly forested mountainside, while the right-hand side of the road dropped away so steeply that the tops of pine trees growing on the upper slope were almost close enough to reach out and touch. For an awful moment she thought that this was the end for her – that they were going to murder her here. They were going to dump her body over the edge, or they were going to bury her. It was astonishing how many dreadful thoughts crammed themselves into her mind within a matter of seconds. She sat, frozen with fear, in her seat.

  One of Arsenio’s big hands gripped her arm, as the other crossed her waist to open the door. ‘Get out,’ he repeated, this time shoving her.

  She stared at him with big, wide eyes. Her lips were trembling. She felt sick. ‘But what . . .?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,’ he interrupted her. He let go her arm and swung his legs out. ‘We’re going for a bike ride,’ he said quite casually. ‘Come on.’

  ‘A bike ride?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Going around to the rear of the little car, he opened the boot and took out a flight bag. Inside, among a small collection of tools of his trade, were the four Smith & Wesson handguns, Hantash’s 9mm CZ75 and a box of ammunition.

  Arsenio sounded not in the least menacing – and the fact that he was now carrying a bag somehow reassured her; happily, she was unaware of its contents. There was less fear in her as she stepped out of the Panda – but a great deal of apprehension.

  He thrust the heavy bag in her hand. Springer was standing by the motor cycle, holding it up. Kasar had already got into the car. Arsenio took the bars of the bike from the German and climbed on. He put on a helmet – no sense in getting stopped in the last little town before the border by some country bumpkin of a policeman for not wearing it.

  ‘Wear that,’ said Arsenio, as Springer handed Carolyn the other helmet. ‘Get up behind me. And be very sure not to try any tricks. All that will do is either injure or kill us both.’ He jumped on the kick-start. ‘See you in São Miguel,’ he said to the others. ‘Be lucky.’

  The engine started with a throaty roar and they were off, travelling slowly, one of Carolyn’s arms wrapped tightly around Arsenio’s waist, the other hand clutching the bag between them, which, had she only known – and then had she found the necessary courage – contained the means to put a rapid end to her tormentor.

  The late evening shadows were lengthening down in the valley far below them to their right. To their left the forested mountainside was beginning to grow dark. The yellowish orange of the darkening sky had a luminous quality to it. The panorama was strikingly beautiful for anyone in the mood to appreciate it; to Carolyn it merely heightened her sense of isolation and despair.

  Arsenio was in no hurry; the last village on this road, the outpost of Videferre, was only five kilometres distant and he needed the cover of night for the next part of his plan. It would soon be dark, and it suited him to take his time and not reach the village until it was.

  The four in the Panda, on the other hand, were in a hurry. They had thirty kilometres of winding, mountainous road to negotiate before hitting the C532 once more, and another twenty or so to the border town of Feces de Abajo. They wanted to be across the border – on foot – in time to hire a car in Portugal. They preferred to hire one in a false name to the even riskier alternative of being obliged to steal a vehicle.

  Shannon, behind the wheel, had cut his teeth driving – illegally, though scarcely anyone cared in Ireland in those far-off days – on the mountain roads around Killarney. Now he pushed the Panda to its limit. Not that its performance was at all impressive, especially with the weight it was carrying, but even so, on the hazardous road from Bousés to where it joined the C532, it was nothing less than suicidal. Hardened terrorists his passengers might have been, but the Irishman’s reckless driving all but scared the life out of them.

  Curious faces peered out from the interiors of shabby-looking bars into the dimly lit, cobbled main street of Videferre as Arsenio and Carolyn drove by. Arsenio had taken the precaution, at a battered and barely legible sign telling them they were a kilometre from the village, to stop the Harley and take measures to ensure that Carolyn would not give him any trouble as they passed through. She had protested that she would do no such thing as he tied her wrist to the handle of the flight bag in case she decided to drop it in the street and thus attract attention to them. She further protested as he secured her ankles with string to the footrests. Then he shut her up by gagging her – a fact that would go unnoticed behind the black plexiglass visor of her helmet. He also told her, quite calmly, that if she still managed to draw anyone’s attention and they tried to stop the bike, he would shoot them.

  They sailed through Videferre without incident, in a couple of minutes. Then the road came to a dead end. There was nothing in front of them but a shaly mountain track, no wider than a footpath, snaking upwards through scrub-covered mountain. Arsenio drove straight up it.

  The off-duty policeman who lived in the last house in the village watched the winking, bouncing progress of the bike’s lights until they disappeared, high above him. A couple intent on lovemaking, he assumed; it was the perfect night for that sort of nonsense.

  After a while, driving on it having become more and more tricky, the track became impassable except on foot. They had reached the side of the mountain. Far below them, just discernible in the dim light from a not quite quarter moon and the brilliant stars, stretched a plain with a river running through it. On the other side of the plain, the distance from them impossible to judge, but certainly several kilometres away, was the cluster of lights from a village. Arsenio got off the bike, yanked it on to its stand, untied Carolyn’s feet and took the bag from her.

  ‘Christ,’ she said, looking in dismay down into the void. ‘Now what?’

  ‘We walk.’

  She softly echoed his words. ‘We walk.’ She squinted ahead of them and down. ‘But where? We’re on the edge of a bloody mountain.’

  ‘Down there,’ he grunted. He jerked his chin. ‘Then over there. To Portugal.’ He slid the handles of the bag together up his arm and over one shoulder, took her hand and started down the rocky track, tugging her after him.

  She resisted, snatching her hand out of his. ‘If you think I’m going down there . . .’ she protested. ‘We’ll break our necks.’

  ‘No we won’t. The track carries on. It’s an old cattle and mule track – they’re all over these mountains. It’ll wind right the way down into the valley.’ He dug into the bag and brought out a powerful torch, which he switched on. ‘This’ll make it easier.’

  ‘I’m not going down there.’ Having to some extent got used to being the prisoner of this man, she had lost a little of her fear of
him – enough, at any rate, to register her protest firmly.

  He sighed as he turned to her and shone the light directly in her face, blinding her. ‘Carolyn, oh but you are, my love,’ he said, insistently but without menace. ‘We both are. You have two choices. You follow close behind me, in which case should you slip you’ll have me to fall on. Or . . .’ He reached in a back pocket of his slacks and slipped out a flick-knife which he held up between the torch and her face. He pressed a button and a nasty-looking, slightly curved blade sprung open with a menacing click. ‘. . . you lead the way with this prodding you on. In which case if I slip I’ll fall on you. Comprendes?’

  She nodded weakly. He folded the knife and put it away, then again started down, very slowly and carefully, Carolyn on his heels.

  The shale was loose, smashed and broken continuously over the centuries by the hard little hooves of hundreds of thousands of goats and lambs, by countless cows, by shepherds’ boots and sticks, by donkeys and by horses – and the path was perilously steep. But taken carefully, with the torch picking out their every stepping place, it was safely negotiable. They slowly slipped and slithered their way down, Carolyn tense with the fear of it and even El Asesino not exactly having the easiest of times. Every little bend, each of them fifty or so metres from the previous one and something like twenty below it, was a tight little hairpin so that the nasty drops were continually changing from their left to their right.

  Happily, it was too dark to see just how severe those drops were; to ensure they did not, Arsenio was careful to keep his light directly on the path ahead and not let its beam slip over the edge. Very gradually, as their legs began to feel the strain and their feet began to ache and blister, they climbed down towards the plain, where the black, twisting streak of river – the Assureira – bounced silver shards of moonlight and twinkling stars at them as it gradually appeared to broaden and lengthen.