Gibraltar Passage

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I want to get him out of sight. Down here.”

  They turned down a narrow, filth-strewn alley that emptied directly into the bay. When the water came into view, the barkeeper wailed and struggled anew.

  “Wait,” Pierre said. When they stopped he stuck his face within inches of the barkeeper’s and roared. The man whimpered a reply. Another angry command. The barkeeper spewed a fear-filled response.

  Pierre took a step back, his face filled with cold loathing. “Let him go.”

  The man dropped to all fours, coughed and rubbed his neck, then struggled to his feet. With one vengeful glance back at Jake, he turned and fled down the alley.

  “What did you learn?”

  “The hunters were indeed here,” Pierre replied, his eyes upon the now-empty alley. “They have traveled on to Gibraltar.”

  Chapter Six

  Jake returned to Mass the next morning, trying hard not to hope for a repeat of the previous day’s revelation. Still, when he remained untouched by the liturgy, he could not help but feel disappointment.

  After the service, Pierre’s mother motioned for him to remain behind while her husband exited the church. A familiar figure rose from one of the side alcoves and approached. Despite his surprise, Jake noticed the respectful greetings and formal half bows with which many people greeted Jasmyn. Madame Servais smiled sadly at the dark beauty, patted Jake’s arm, and joined her husband outside the church.

  Jake followed Jasmyn back to the side alcove. When they were seated and alone, she asked him quietly, “Do you believe in God, Colonel Burnes?”

  “That’s a strange question to hear in this place,” he replied. “And the name is Jake.”

  “I come here to see Pierre’s mother,” she said, “and to know a moment’s peace. That is such a hard thing to find in my life that I dare not doubt or question or search too deeply.”

  As gentle as the beat of dove’s wings, as powerful as the rain, Jake felt a gift of words descend into his mind and heart. In the instant of receiving, he knew that by sharing the words he could make the Invisible real. “Perhaps if you dared to search and question, the peace would not be so fleeting.”

  “I see you have answered my question,” she said softly.

  But the giving was not yet complete. “True peace carries with it the gifts of healing and of forgiveness. Not for an instant, but for a lifetime.”

  She was silent for a time, then asked, “And what if the forgiveness I seek is not from God? What if I pray to be forgiven by one who can never do so?”

  Jake waited, but further words did not come. Instead, his heart filled with a silent compassion. For her, for Pierre, for a world awakening from the tragedy of war. He tried to make the feeling live for her as well by giving words of his own. “Then I will pray for you both.”

  “I wonder if Pierre understands,” she said softly, “just how special a friend you truly are.”

  To that Jake had no reply.

  They sat in shared stillness for a moment until she asked, “I have heard of your conflict with the smugglers yesterday.”

  “How?”

  She waved it aside. “I will speak to friends. Pierre’s family will be guarded against attack. Can you tell him that?”

  “I don’t see how,” Jake replied. “Not without telling him about you and—”

  She interrupted him with, “What will you do now?”

  Jake sighed acceptance of her refusal. “We have heard from the smugglers that the hunters have traveled on to Gibraltar. Pierre wants to leave tonight on the train for Madrid, and travel on from there as swiftly as we can.”

  She thought for a moment, then decided. “I shall take a compartment well away from yours.”

  “How?” Jake looked down on her. “From the sound of things, unless you have a military pass, seats on the international trains are booked solid for months.”

  She rose to her feet. “I have very few contacts in Gibraltar, but perhaps another pair of eyes and ears will be of help. And if your way leads from there to Morocco, I will be able to do more for Pierre.”

  “You still love him,” Jake said quietly.

  “Love?” Sorrow filled every pore of her being. “Last night I dreamed of holding his hand once again. I knew contentment for the first time in years. As I sat there, I looked down at the hands in my lap, and I could not tell which fingers were my own.”

  “Pierre,” Jake said, then stopped. He was going to say, Pierre is a lucky guy, but caught himself just in time.

  “Pierre,” she sighed, and reached out one hand to steady herself upon the back of the pew. “Pierre was more than a part of me. He was all of me.”

  “Then why—”

  “If I hear of something, I will search you out,” she said, and raised the hood to veil herself once again. “The shadows have become my friends, Colonel Burnes. There is a chance that I can find what remains hidden to you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Beyond the Cerbère border station, the track changed gauge. All passengers alighted and carried their bags through customs before boarding the Spanish train. The French customs’ search was perfunctory. The Spaniards’ inspection was anything but. Fascist soldiers in gleaming black leather and funny feathered caps watched over the scowling customs officers. Above them all hung a brooding portrait of General Francisco Franco, undisputed leader of fascist Spain.

  The mountainous terrain was far more arid on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees. Beyond Barcelona they entered the vast plains of the Spanish heartland, which baked under a sun already eager for another summer.

  At Madrid, before boarding the Gibraltar-bound train, Pierre and Jake scoured the area for food. Like many of the Spanish towns through which their train had passed, Madrid was a patchwork of normalcy and war-torn destruction. For several blocks they saw little indication that the country had recently suffered through a horrific civil war. Then scars emerged, destruction so severe Jake doubted if the country could ever recover.

  The streets near the city’s central station were so jammed with people it was almost possible for Jake to lift his feet and be carried along. Police and black-belted military were everywhere. The atmosphere was tensely unsettling, yet without any clear indication that anything was wrong. The entire region held a sense of forced gaiety, like the laughter heard at a wake.

  There was little automobile traffic. Jake saw a number of army transports, a few ancient cars hung together with rust and baling wire, the occasional overloaded truck, sporadic tired and wheezy buses. But in truth the streets belonged to the pedestrians and the bicyclists and the soldiers.

  There was little food to be had until Jake entered an apparently empty store and pulled out American dollars. Then everything was laid out before him—flagons of wine, a huge pie-shaped hunk of cheese, smoked beef, dried tomatoes, the season’s first fruits, bread still warm from the oven. What the shopkeeper himself did not have, he scurried out and obtained from his neighbors. Pierre and Jake filled two sacks, in case provisions were scarce in Gibraltar, and hurried back.

  As they entered the station, Pierre confessed, “I thought I would be leaving a great burden behind in Marseille, but I find I carry it with me still.”

  Jake swerved around a porter struggling to maneuver a bulky wheeled wagon through the crowds. “Why’s that?”

  “I have been so afraid,” Pierre said.

  The words sounded so alien, coming as they did from Pierre’s mouth, that Jake had no idea what to say except, “You?”

  “All the while that we were in Marseille. Strange, yes?” Pierre’s smile meant nothing. “Every time we went into town, I was filled with terror at the thought that this street, this cafe, this turning, would reveal her.”

  “Jasmyn,” Jake said, hating the subterfuge more than ever. It was there on his tongue to say that she was here, on the train, to push Pierre to go and find her, speak with her, make peace with her. But he could not. Something held him back. Amid the clamor of the Madrid station ca
me a calm understanding that they themselves would have to choose their own time, their own way.

  “So often I imagined seeing her,” Pierre went on, his eyes pained by the vision of what only he could see. “My mind would become filled with the sight of her, and I would be so terrified I could scarcely go forward. There she would be, walking toward me, looking as only she could look. And the thought alone would be enough to almost shatter my world. Break it into a million pieces that would never fit together ever again.”

  “You should have sought her out,” Jake said quietly.

  “You think so?” Pierre turned sorrowful eyes toward him.

  “You can’t go through the rest of your life like this.”

  To his surprise, Pierre did not object. Instead, he set down his sack like an old man releasing a too-heavy burden. Slowly he straightened and said, “There was a voice in my heart which said the same. But my mind would scream, what if I did and it destroyed me?”

  “It’s a risk you need to take,” Jake said, wondering at the strength that let him say such things with such confidence.

  “You speak as though it is still a possibility,” Pierre said. “Do you think I should give up this search for my brother? Return to Marseille and seek her out? Is that what you are saying?”

  There in a silent thunderbolt of power came the answer. Unbidden, unexpected, yet in his heart to be spoken, given, shared with one in need. “You don’t need to see her to forgive her,” Jake replied.

  The words seemed to strip Pierre bare. “Forgive,” he said.

  “It’s the only way you will ever leave the burden behind,” Jake said, knowing it was the truth, yet wondering still.

  “You know what she did,” Pierre protested.

  “I know,” Jake said.

  “Then how can you speak of such a thing?”

  “Because I want to see you healed,” Jake said. “If you punish her, you punish yourself.” As suddenly as the power had arrived, it departed, leaving him embarrassed for having spoken at all. He hefted his sack and walked away. “Let’s get on board.”

  Once the train was under way, he left Pierre in their compartment and maneuvered down the jammed hall to the back of the railcar. A narrow door opened onto a gangway connecting to the next car. The passage was metal floored and open to the wind and the heat and the train’s rattling roar. Jake stood with two other young men and swayed in rhythm with the train. It was far too noisy for conversation. The engine’s smoke blew past in great swirling puffs, except on the slower curves, when it forced its way into the gangway and made breathing difficult. The two other men soon had enough and returned to the train’s more protected interior.

  Jake stared out over the brilliantly lit Spanish landscape and felt ashamed for having spoken with such authority. Now that it was over, he wondered how he could ever have felt so sure of anything. Especially faith. Even more, how faith could be applied to someone else’s problems. First Jasmyn at the church, and now Pierre. Spouting off answers as though he knew everything, even though he had more questions than answers about his own life. Jake stared at the earth rushing by just below his feet and shook his head. It did not make any sense at all.

  Words chanted through his brain in time to the train’s rhythmic rattle. Sally is gone. Sally is gone. Jake rubbed his face, tried to squeeze silence in through his temples. How could he give advice about relationships when his own love life was in shambles? Sally is gone. Sally is gone. Sally is gone.

  Chapter Eight

  At the frontier between Spain and Gibraltar, Jake was jerked upright by the sight of an officer in American naval whites passing their compartment. The man was clearly as surprised as Jake to see a fellow American, for he was already out of sight before the facts clicked into place. He backpedaled, inspected Jake with widening eyes, then pushed open the compartment door. “Afternoon, Colonel.”

  Jake was on his feet. “Commander. Care to join us?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Seats are as scarce as hen’s teeth on this train.” He cast a glance at Jake’s medals, then said, “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

  “Official leave. First time in these parts. Like to introduce Major Pierre Servais, commander of the French garrison at Badenburg.”

  “Major.” He nodded toward Pierre, then offered Jake his hand. “Harry Teaves. Adjunct to the supply depot on Gibraltar.”

  “Jake Burnes. I run the Karlsruhe base.”

  Commander Teaves seated himself, asked, “So what brings you fellows to Gibraltar?”

  Jake cast a glance Pierre’s way. The Frenchman’s mobile features furrowed momentarily before he gave Jake a single nod. Jake turned back to Teaves. “It’s a long story, Commander. Might take awhile.”

  “We’ve got half an hour before we arrive. If the train’s on time, which it hasn’t been since sometime last century.”

  Jake recounted their search, beginning with Lilliana’s disclosure. Harry Teaves proved to have two of the most expressive eyebrows Jake had ever come across. By the time Jake finished his explanation, the eyebrows had crawled up so high they were almost touching his hairline.

  “That’s some tale,” Commander Teaves said, looking from one to the other. “So you think maybe there are a couple of thugs hunting your brother in Gibraltar?”

  “We do not even know if my brother is alive,” Pierre replied. “But the barkeeper in Marseille did say they were coming here.”

  “Got any description?”

  “Again, we’re not sure, but they might be the same people I was warned against,” Jake replied.

  “By the woman who just happens to find you in the middle of the night, did I get that one straight?” Teaves shook his head. “Lemme tell you. If you two weren’t about the soberest looking officers I’d ever met, with a string of ribbons suggesting you’re on the up and up, I’d say it was time to pop you in the loony bin.”

  “I realize the chances are long,” Pierre said. “But I must at least try to check this out.”

  The commander nodded as he mulled it over, then said to Jake, “Mind if I ask what’s in it for you, Colonel?”

  “Pierre is a good friend,” Jake said, then after a struggle he went on. “I lost my own brother at Normandy. If it was Jeff we were talking about here, I’d travel to hell and back on the breath of a chance.”

  “Not me,” Teaves replied conversationally. “My brother sat out the war in a cushy office, pushing papers for the war effort. We never got along.”

  “You saw action?” Pierre asked.

  “Little bit. Here and there. Joined up in ’41. Got to see some too-hot Pacific islands I don’t ever want to visit, not ever again.” He inspected Pierre. “You?”

  “North Africa. Then the push through Belgium.”

  “Heard it was nip and tuck there for a while.”

  “As you say,” Pierre replied, “I have no desire to retrace my steps.”

  “What about you, Colonel?”

  “The name’s Jake. I spent more time than I wanted walking Italian back roads.”

  “Between the three of us, we’ve got just about the whole world covered,” Teaves said. “Sounds like a pretty good reason to offer my help. That and the fact that you’ve told me the biggest whopper I’ve heard since getting assigned to shore duty.”

  “It’s the truth,” Pierre declared. “All of it.”

  “It better be,” Teaves said, his tone easy. “One thing I discovered while dodging incoming shells was life’s too short to go goose hunting unless there’s a goose to be caught.”

  * * *

  Even in its tatty post-war state, Gibraltar was a monument to British imperialism. The official buildings were strong and sturdy as the cliffs towering overhead. Porticoes were supported by great pillars atop flights of steps fifty feet wide. Sweeping parade grounds of immaculate green were bordered by flowers and flagpoles. The air was a strange mixture of Spanish spice and British formality. Uniforms were everywhere.

  Teaves le
d them to the main British depot. Beyond endless rows of squat warehouses stretched the combined might of the Allied navy. The war-gray battleships were too numerous to count. Flags fluttered in the strong sea breeze. Klaxons sounded their whoop-whoop in a continual shout of comings and goings. Tugs worked frantically to maneuver the great warships to and from anchor.

  He left them at the main gates and returned a quarter hour later to announce, “Admiral Bingham of the Royal Navy wants to check you out.”

  As they followed him down the rank of weary buildings, Jake asked, “How do we handle it?”

  “Straight as an arrow. Bingham is rumored to keep a set of bone-handled skinning knives for people who waste his time. I’ve been careful not to find out if it’s true.”

  They were ushered into a room dominated by a crusty old warrior with a manner as clipped as his moustache. “Teaves reports you are here on unofficial business.”

  “Strictly, sir,” Jake agreed, remaining at rigid attention.

  “May I be so bold as to see your papers?”

  Together he and Pierre handed over their leave and travel documents. The admiral inspected them carefully before announcing, “They appear to be in order.” He raised his eyes. “Very well. I’m listening.”

  Jake went through their story much more concisely with the admiral. When he was through, Bingham inspected them thoughtfully for a moment, then declared, “I am in full agreement with Commander Teaves. Yours is an admirable quest. Nasty business, this destruction of families. How can I help?”

  Jake was caught flat-footed. “To be honest, sir, I don’t have any idea. This was the last thing we expected.”

  “Well, if something arises, don’t hesitate to contact me through Teaves here.” He looked at the commander. “I assume you were going to assign them berths.”

  “With your permission, sir.”

  “See to it.” He turned back to Jake. “The governor is giving a little do this evening. Seven sharp. Did you bring a dress kit?”

  “Yessir.”