“You’ll die for this, Villada!” he said, spitting in Jose’s face.
“No manners,” Jose said pleasantly. “And a bad loser. Let’s see if the other two are any improvement.”
“You out there,” he called. “Drop your guns and come in here. If one shot is fired, the girl will blow your officer’s brains out. If you do as you are told you won’t be harmed. Just a little inconvenienced.”
There was no reply.
“You tell them,” Jose ordered curtly. “ Or she will shoot.”
If the officer had spared me the briefest of glances he would have realised that it was a bluff and that I was no more capable of shooting him through the head than flying to the moon. But he didn’t. He glowered venemously at Jose and then said loudly. “ Do as the pig asks. That’s an order.”
The pig smiled with satisfaction, and while I kept the gun at the officer’s head, he strode to the door. Tight lipped, the injured Fidel and the furious Martinez stepped unwillingly into the room. With my gun still pointed at their officer’s head, they allowed Jose to tie them to the wooden chairs.
“Beautiful,” Jose said, his eyes dancing with pleasure as he pulled the rope tight. “Almost a complete set! And just to show there is no ill feeling, we’ll even bandage you up.”
“Go to hell,” Fidel said, cradling his still bleeding arm.
Jose shook his head in mock sorrow. “You never know when to say thank you, do you?”
They didn’t. Instead they swore with great energy and enlarged my Spanish vocabulary of obscenities threefold.
Jose laughed. “See to his arm, Alison. The lady of the house won’t thank us if we leave blood stains all over her kitchen floor.”
Thankfully I put the gun on the table and did as he asked. Neither wounds were so bad. One bullet had ploughed its way through the flesh of an upper arm and passed out the other side, and I simply cleaned it as best I could and bound it with some of the bandages we had brought to the cottage for use on Luis and Jose.
The foot wound was the worst. Not because it looked serious, but because it was me who had inflicted it. He screamed as I tried to ease his boot off, calling me names I had never heard of before. I avoided his eyes as I sponged it clean, not daring to probe for the bullet, but staunching the flow of blood and praying he would get medical help before very long.
“Whore!” he spat at me as I rose shakily to my feet. “English scum.…”
Jose raised an eyebrow. “ What did I tell you? They’ve got less breeding than they have brains.”
“You’ll be garotted for this, Villada,” the officer said through clenched teeth. “Salvador Ancioth took twelve minutes to die, if I have my way it will take you twice as long!”
“Charming,” Jose said lightly, staring intently out of the window towards the distant pines. “Only one minor flaw. I haven’t killed a policeman yet. Though no doubt it’s a technicality that can be overcome.”
There came the sound of rasped breathing and heavy footsteps thudded on the grass and then scraped to a halt outside the door, I drew my own breath in harshly, the icy touch of fear prickling my spine, staring round-eyed as the door swung inwards and Amiano and Arias surged into the room. A lump rose in my throat, threatening to choke me. I grasped at the table for support, my whole body trembling.
This was it. The end. All the future held for me was the inside of a Spanish jail, and then Javier pushed his way in behind them, his face distorted by a stocking mask, a gun held at their backs. His face split in a wide, triumphant smile.
“Is this a private party, or can anybody join?” he asked gaily.
Chapter Eight
I leant weakly against the wall as Jose tied and bound Amiano
and Arias with enjoyable vigour. Pedro winked through his hideous
disguise, slapping the palms of his hands against his paunch.
“Not a bad days work, eh?” he asked, his voice muffled.
“You’re joking,” I said bitterly. “It’s been the worst day of my
entire life … and it’s still not over.”
He said with a shrug … “It has been a little difficult, but soon
you will be safe in France.”
“France!” I said unbelievingly. “You’re as mad as he is!”
Pedro exchanged glances with Jose and grinned.
“France is the only destination for you now.”
Jose straightened up, ignoring the foul language from his prisoners,
and said: “Let’s know the worst.”
“The worst is that there are warrants out for your arrest.”
Jose’s face was grim. “What the devil happened?”
Pedro’s voice darkened. “It was Garmendia,” he said heavily.
“He is insane. He deliberately wrecked our plans to smuggle the
arms in.…”
Jose’s voice was barely controlled. He said tightly. “ Garmendia
betrayed us?”
Pedro nodded, and beneath his mask Javier’s distorted features
blazed with savage anger. “Jaime’s death is on his hands,” he said
passionately. “And all the others who died. It was all Angel’s fault
…”
Jose’s face had whitened. “ Was it?” he said softly. “Was it, indeed.”
Pedro said in a low voice. “He thought you were too soft, Jose.
With you out of the way he thought he could control the local ETA units himself … and he has. They all believe the attempt to smuggle in arms failed because of you, and that it was your fault so many men died. Angel is behaving like a madman. He and Alphonso Cia murdered Motrico’s mayor … and it was Angel who tipped off the coastguards about the rescue attempt last night, and gave Alison’s name to the police. He wants you dead and out of the way, Jose. And if the police don’t do it for him, he will do it himself.” Pedro cleared his throat uncomfortably. “ There is even worse.”
No-one moved and the silence lengthened tensely. He said at last, not looking at me. “ Both you and Alison are wanted on charges of murder.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” I cried out, the room reeling around me. “They can’t! It’s not true!”
Jose caught hold of me, his arm tightly round my shoulders.
“Like I said,” Pedro continued. “Garmendia is a man possessed. His own brother died that night on the beach because of his treachery. The last twenty-four hours have been a continuous chain of bombs and shooting. Early this morning it was Motrico’s mayor. Later a bomb exploded in the town hall at Zarauz. No-one was injured but it was a miracle. And he has support. All the lunatic fringe are behind him. As we left to come here and warn you, they were rioting in Amorebieta and the police were rounding up demonstrators … all hell is breaking loose. And according to the latest news bulletin, you and Alison killed a coastguard in the early hours of this morning whilst escaping arrest.”
“We didn’t,” Jose said curtly. “And I’d like to know how that son of a bitch framed us!”
“It would have been easy,” Pedro said with outspread hands.
“Garmendia knew what time you were to be picked up by the boat. He tipped off the coastguards, and if you did escape then he was nearby. He fired the shot that killed one of them and you and Alison are left to take the blame.”
Jose said hoarsely, “I’ll kill him. God help me but I’ll kill him.”
“Not this side of the Pyrenees you won’t.” Javier said practically.
“One sight of you and the police will have you in Carabanchel, if you live that long.”
“None of you will live that long!” the officer sneered triumphantly. “ Not one of you will set foot on French soil …” he broke off abruptly as Javier jabbed his back with the butt of his gun.
“You’re in no position to threaten anybody. I would keep quiet if I were you … unless you want a posthumous award.”
The officer’s eyes burned with anger and an ugly red stain flushed his face and neck, but he clamped his mouth tig
ht shut staring venemously at Javier as he turned his back to him.
He and Jose moved towards the door, heads close together, whispering so that the listening policemen could not hear. Pedro sighed, saying softly so that I could hardly catch the words. “ Jose came back from Argentina last summer. Since then he has re-organised all the local ETA units, before, they were a shambles, and psychopaths like Cia and Garmendia were killing and bombing under the cloak of Basque nationalism. Jose put an end to it. He negotiated with Madrid from our headquarters in Bayonne, with a coherant plan for Basque autonomy and he was beginning to have success. Angel saw his chance of discrediting him and took it, even though his brother was killed in the process, now nothing will stop him. The whole Basque region is going to be plunged into bloodshed again.” He patted my shoulder comfortingly. “But another twenty-four hours and you will be with your friend, miles away from here and for you, this will be nothing but a bad memory.”
“My friend!” I jerked my head upright. “But you never said.… Where is she? Is she hurt? What happened?”
“She is waiting for you in Bayonne. With Luis. She telephoned the inn at six this morning.”
Relief swamped me. Ridiculously I wanted to cry. “But how? In heaven’s name, how did she get Luis across the border?”
The warm, friendly eyes smiled. “ That is a mystery. But I am not surprised. Not knowing Miss Daventry. She is a very enterprising lady.”
“She is indeed,” I said fervently. “ I only wish I was with her.”
“And miss all this excitement?” Javier asked, turning towards me, his eyes alight.
“It’s not excitement. It’s a bloody nightmare,” I said crudely, and saw Jose give a flicker of a smile.
“What are you going to do with our private collection?” Javier asked him, nodding towards the smouldering men.
“A day without food or water will do them no harm, and by then we will have sailed safely to Bayonne.”
“No matter how deep on French soil you go, I will hunt you down, Villada.” The officer spat at him. “The French government doesn’t want to upset Madrid. And the French police are our allies.”
“But the French Basques are not,” Jose said, picking up his gun and thrusting it into his holster. “And France has a law of political refuge that will shelter us. Be grateful for the fact that we haven’t killed you.”
“You’re going to pay, Villada,” he hissed, shaking with fury. “You scum! You bloody Basque bastard, you.…”
“Javier,” Jose said, ignoring the flow of obscenities. “It is time to go, they won’t wait for us long. The tide will change in another hour.”
The officer glowered, spitting at us as we filed out of the room, his bitter voice still cursing us as we stood in the shade of the pear tree, the shadows lengthening around us as the blood-red sun sank behind the mountain.
“Will you be able to make it?” Pedro asked Jose anxiously. “ It is a hard climb and Alison is already exhausted.”
“Make what?” I asked, filled with fresh alarm.
“To Lindaraja,” Jose said off-handedly. “ I told you before. It is our only chance.”
“But I thought we were going by boat, you said someone was waiting for us.”
“Let’s hope the idiots in there are just as gullible,” he said dryly, nodding his head in the direction of the cottage. “Pedro and Javier are returning to Miguelou to track down Garmendia. We are going in the other direction. Upwards,” he pointed to the mountain. I licked dry lips, saying hoarsely: “Isn’t it possible to go round? Why is it necessary to climb the summit?”
“There is no way round without running into road-blocks. At Lindaraja we can pick up horses and equipment. Our only chance is to cross into France across country. We need to start now, before the rest of the light fails, I’m banking on the fact that the exact whereabouts of our friends wasn’t known. If it was we stand no chance. If it wasn’t, then we have perhaps a day in hand.”
Javier handed him a torch and flask. “ Good luck,” he said, and turning to me grinned. “Perhaps a night out in Bayonne, eh?”
“If I ever live to see it,” I said bitterly.
Jose had already turned and was striding out, leaving a trail of trampled marguerites behind him, Pedro gave me a comforting pat on the back, and facing the inevitable, I turned to follow. As I did so Javier pulled the stocking mask away, his dark curls rumpled like a small boys. He moved forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck, and may the Saints go with you,” he said.
With my eyes suspiciously bright I turned my back on him and followed Jose up the dust blown track.
Chapter Nine
The twilight was deepening rapidly, the mountain crests dark and menacing against the last lingering rays of the sun. We rounded the dark mass of the rhododendrons, the pine-needles rustling beneath our feet as we picked our way carefully to the lake.
The luminous surface of the water glittered silk-black as we skirted its banks, my shoes sliding on the dampness of fallen leaves and slippery moss. Minutes later we were in the open. The first faint stars glimmering in the darkened sweep of the sky as we stood on the narrow path that girdled the mountains flank. From the bottomless depths on my right hand side the wind came in flurrying gusts and I halted, my heart beating painfully.
He turned round, eyebrows raised questioningly. I cringed back against the comfort of the trees as far from the blind abyss as I could possibly get. I said haltingly: “ I can’t do it. I’m sorry, Jose. But I can’t walk out there in the darkness … the drop is sheer …”
With surprising gentleness he grasped my hand, labouring with his injured arm to hold the torch.
“Let me,” I said hesitantly, taking it from him. I shone it downwards, a brilliant shaft of light, on the treacherous path. The pine-woods on our left soughed and danced beneath the growing wind, the sheer drop on our right pulling me dizzily towards it as stronger and stronger headwinds pulled at my hair, my dress, tugging me towards the lip of crumbling stone. Inch by inch we edged our way painfully along, Jose’s hand never leaving mine, urging me persistantly onwards, keeping me away from the pull of the cliff, away from danger.…
It was an eternity of dark and fear and harsh breathing before the path led inwards, losing itself beneath the thick trunks of the pines and groves of impenetrable bushes. The blackness was thick now, pressing out everything but the beam of bright light from the torch, as we plunged into the depths of the trees, stumbling over gnarled roots, finding a way round the matted thickets, and all the time we were climbing steadily higher, pushing aside damp and fluttering leaves, the wind roaring now, tossing the branches of the trees, whipping my hair across my face as I pushed away clawing brambles, striving to find a clear passage through the maze of fallen boulders and the web of clinging vines.
The trees began to thin and as I raised the torch higher, all I could see ahead in the arrow of dazzling light was rocky ground, perilous with inky-black gullies and high above, the fierce, forbidding buttresses of the mountain rising crest after crest.
Jose’s pace never slackened, with laboured breathing we scrambled over great boulders and slithered over avalanches of loose stone.
Then at last, despairingly, I felt Jose’s great weight no longer supporting me and leading me on, but leaning heavily against me, his breath coming in harsh rasps. As we skirted a fall of rock he stumbled, swearing viciously. I held him, the sweat soaking my body, exhaustion engulfing me. He sank to the ground and I crouched beside him, unscrewing the flask of spirits that Javier had given him. He drank deeply, pushing the flask back into my hand. I took one mouthful then another, the strong spirit burning my throat, warming my tired body. I leaned back, eyes closed, drawing on whatever reserves of strength remained. When I opened them Jose was already struggling to his feet, the dressing on his shoulder moist and gleaming. I stretched out a hand tentatively and he turned away.
“Your shoulder …” I began, but he thrust the flask back into his pocket.
“We’ve nearly done it,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “One last push. Come on.”
I thrust my body beneath his good arm, and the nightmare journey began again. The shale beneath our feet slipped and slid like a live thing till we were on hands and knees, literally clawing our way upwards.
The moon had risen, pale and luminous, lighting the way before us. The mountains peak rose in sharp silhouette, an indomitable barrier between us and safety. Exhaustedly we clambered upwards, circling the gullies that sliced the rock asunder, inching our way step by careful step, in constant terror that the ground beneath our feet would give way, would topple us down the stark walls of rock, smashing into the pitiless scree.
I wiped the perspiration from my face, struggling for breath, amazed at Jose’s strength, terrified that at any moment it would fail, with shaking hand I pointed the torch up and above me. The summit was there, a bare sheet of naked rock, glittering sleekly beneath the yellow ray of light. The wind whistled about our ears as we stood high and exposed, half-senseless with fatigue. With one last superhuman effort we moved upwards again, scrabbling for handholds where no handholds were, slithering backwards whole feet at a time, clutching desperately at any crevice, any ledge, any fissure that we could haul ourselves up by. My hands were numb, my mind a blank. Just one more step forwards, one more leverage upwards … I could feel hysteria rising in my throat as I clung and scraped and dug my way towards the summit.
Then the ground shelved, the wind tore at us in deadly gusts, but nothing rose ahead. No inky-black wall of rock, no dreadful buttresses, no unclimbable slabs of sheer stone. With a sob I sank to my knees, Jose’s arm around my shoulders as he gasped painfully: “We made it! Thank God, we made it!”
The wind tore the words away from him, flinging them to the elements as we clung together like children, my frozen body wracked by sobs. Then, from the great high vaulted summit we edged our way downwards, grappling for footholds, clutching at any finger hold possible, till with hands grasped we staggered onto turf and moss and the ground beneath our feet no longer slid in cascades of loose earth and flurries of pebbles, but was firm and solid and safe. The dark malevolence of the peak was behind us now, below were trees and shadowy leaves and the carpets of pine-needles and narrow tracks made by unseen animals. Wearily we stumbled into the depth of the woods, resting every few yards against the bole of a tree, the branches shrouding us with shelter, the pine-needles comfortingly soft beneath our feet. Even the wind had dropped, whispering down through the leaves, fanning our burning faces.
Tapestry of Fear Page 5