Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  She looked at her watch.

  Abruptly then she snapped the clasp of her handbag, slung it from her shoulder on its thin leather strap. She went out of the room. Slim, elegantly dressed, with that expensive perfume to seduce the thoughts of men, she might have been a moneyed tourist, a rich girl from New York or London or Paris enjoying the unaccustomed sensation of roughing it for a few days in the little pension. She went quickly down the stairs; there was no question of paying her bill—better that as many people as possible should think she intended remaining in Ronda, or at least intended coming back, and when they found her personal belongings in her room that would be what they would think. She let herself out of the pension and walked away, across the narrow bridge running high above the tremendous rocky gorge that splits Ronda. As she walked a car came up behind her slowly, and stopped a little way ahead. There were two men in it. The man beside the driver slid out to open the door for her, and she got into the back.

  When she was in the man made as though to climb in beside her, his dark eyes lecherous and searching. She stopped him. “In front with Garcia,” she said curtly.

  The man protested, smiling at her now ingratiatingly, white teeth visible in the dark face. “But, señorita—”

  “Out!” She spoke quietly, but there was steel in her eyes. “I do not wish to be pawed all the way to Vercín by you, Massias, my friend!”

  Sulkily the dark man backed from the door and got into the front seat again. As he did so Karina noticed the snout of the sub-machine-gun wedged down beside the seat. That was comforting. Neither of the two men spoke again; they knew their orders. They drove at normal speed through the difficult streets of Ronda; when they were outside the city limits Karina leaned forward, eyes hard.

  “Fast now,” she said harshly. “We may have little time. But drive carefully also. I do not wish to end up smashed against a tree like the others.”

  The driver inclined his head. The car gathered speed, became a scarlet, silver, and black bullet descending from the dark heights of Ronda to the thin white strip of roadway which wound away beneath them.

  Shaw, speeding out from Torremolinos for the frightening hairpin bends of the San Pedro road, was still a long way behind when the headlights of Karina’s car swept on to the wreckage around that cork-oak below Vercín, and sent the night-birds soaring in a whirl of wings.

  At a word from Karina her driver eased down and stopped alongside the wreck.

  Karina looked out at the broken, twisted bodywork of the car. She saw no movement; the wreckage was empty and lifeless. The dead men had gone, probably taken by the Civil Guard up to Vercín at the same time as the man Ackroyd. Karina felt contempt for the two dead Spaniards—it had been their own fault for travelling at such speed on that shocking road, when by using the San Pedro road to Ronda they would have in fact made better time, even if the distance was greater -—and would have been alive, and she and Ackroyd away from Spain by now. She had no pity. Her face was like a mask, then—expressionless. As she watched a red lantern winked from out of the scrub off the roadway to the right, and animation came back to her. She reached out a hand and switched on the car’s interior light briefly—once, twice, three times. One more answering flash came from the red lantern.

  Massias dropped a hand towards the grip of the automatic. As he brought the weapon up to his knees Karina said with contempt, “Massias, you are quite safe. It is only El Caballero.”

  Massias muttered something about every one being bandits’ meat in Spain, kept his hand on the gun. Karina’s window was wound down now, and she leaned out, feeling the cool night air on her cheek. She saw a man approaching out of the shadows, mounted on a thin, scraggy horse—a mere bag of bones, it looked; behind him, their faces dimly visible as lighter blurs against the dark countryside, were more mounted men. Moonlight brought up silver streaks on the metal fittings of rifles, on bandoliers. Karina called softly:

  “El Caballero?”

  “Si, señorita.”

  The voice was calm, deep, authoritative. The kind of voice which expects, and gets, obedience. Karina had never met El Caballero, but she had heard plenty about him. She studied him as he dismounted and came up to the car window. He appeared to be a small man, thin and wizened. A thick white thatch of hair waved on his head in the light breeze as he came forward, giving him a ghostly aura, making an almost spectral figure on that lonely road, a road where even in daylight the number of cars passing in as long as a week could be numbered on the fingers of a hand. His face was strong, and burnt almost to blackness by years of exposure on the Adalusian hills, in fierce sun and sometimes in biting wind and cold and snow.

  Karina knew, from all she had heard, that El Caballero was a man of culture. Once, before the Civil War, he had been Professor of Russian History in Madrid University; he had been a gentle man, and kindly, with a wife and three sons whom he adored. He had kept open house in his Cha-martin home for a variety of friends and colleagues who were, like himself, liberal-minded men and women, and among whom was represented a fair sprinkling of the arts; he had enjoyed the theatre, the opera, good reading, and afternoons spent lingering over the paintings in the Prado; he had been a Member of the Academy of History and a Knight of the Order of Alfonso XII. But with the Civil War all that had very quickly gone—had changed, in fact, almost overnight, and the Professor of Russian History had become an outcast. His wife, the three boys—all had disappeared in the first fighting, and to this day El Caballero did not know what had happened to any of them. Sometimes even now, when things were bad with him and he lay sleepless on some lonely hillside or in the comparative comfort of the cave in which he and his companions lived, he would think horrible things, his mind would be filled with dreadful imaginings, visions of small bodies on the points of bayonets, of a once beautiful woman held at the mercy of the soldiery, drunken men, under the ceaseless sound of the guns.

  After his tragedy had happened, the gentle professor had turned man of war. He had fought with extreme gallantry at Teruel; and later, when the Civil War was over, with the Falangista firmly in the saddle, a price had been placed on the head of the former professor who had by then taken to the hills. He had been in the hills ever since, and he was still there; still the almost legendary, revered leader of a dwindling band of some two dozen outlawed men—many of them men of learning like himself—men who were now bandits, brigands who shared that mainly frugal, occasionally spendthrift, existence fraught with danger to their lives. They kept themselves going by pillaging isolated farms and tiny villages for food for themselves and for their stolen horses, and occasionally attacking the opulent cars of the few —the very few—tourists who ventured upon that road, which was really no more than a track, from Ronda to San Roque via Vercin, and happened to stop or fall into an ambush near El Caballero’s operating base; which was simply a series of interlinked caves in the rocky hillsides.

  His cave was now as much home to El Caballero as had been the comfortable house in Chamartin so many years ago. It even had rough bookshelves on which El Caballero had rather more than the, nucleus of a good library, and on the stony walls were fine hanging of Granada cloth and one or two quite good pictures. He and his band were reasonably — safe from interference, for, though the Madrid Government would dearly have loved to have cleaned up these isolated and so-persistent ‘pockets of resistance’ who regarded themselves in some odd way as soldiers still carrying on the Civil War, El Caballero was free with his pesetas when he had any, and the local authorities, such as they were, had become quite compliant as a result. And Vercin was such a very long way from Madrid. And the local authorities spent much of the day in siesta anyway, while during the waking hours there were more important things to attend to than rounding up a few brigands—things such as sitting in the shade drinking an aperitif, or making love to one’s wife, or someone else’s wife—or even attending to the civic affairs of the locality. And, of course, even in Madrid, that comparative hive of industry, they appreciate
d that there was such a thing —always, always such a blessed thing—as mañana.

  All of this Karina knew.

  El Caballero had a rifle levelled at the car as he came up. It was an old-fashioned thing, that rifle, but in excellent condition. El Caballero, whose life so often depended on his weapons, always kept them well greased and free from rust and ready for instant use, as he had been trained to do by English instructors in the International Brigade. Now a heavy odour of some wonderful scent met him as he lowered the rifle and saluted the face at the car’s window. By the Holy Virgin, he thought, it is a beautiful face—and with that so delightful perfume . . . nombre de Dios! Almost it reminded him of the old times. Bringing his heels together, he bowed formally.

  “El Caballero, señorita, at your service. I am instructed to assist you, and it will be a pleasure to carry out those instructions.”

  “That is kind of you, señor,” she answered. “The—other man, he has not come? No other car has come here before me?”

  “None.”

  The woman studied him intently. He was smiling at her now, kindly. The lined, leathery face, mahogany in the light from the car, had an old-world distinction still. And his manner seemed gentle: Karina wasn’t used to this. An old fool, very likely, she thought, an old fool who’d been good enough in his day but had lived too long—just an old-fashioned liberal who had never really earned the name of Communist; Karina had no respect for liberals. However, this was an old fool who had managed to cut the telephone line into Vercin, and who had been well recommended, so she must make such use of him as she was able to.

  She asked, “You know what it is I want?”

  “The madman who was taken to Vercín.” He added: “The dead were left for official examination, but I buried them.” He pointed to a patch of ground concealed by scrub. “I respect the dead, and I do not like officials!” He twinkled. “Now I will come with you to show you the road to Vercín.”

  “That will not be dangerous for you?”

  He laughed. It was a rich, deep laugh that seemed too youthful for the wizened old frame. “If it is dangerous, señorita, then it will be my penance for having been—shall I say, employed elsewhere?—when the madman’s car hit the tree. By the time you enter Vercín the sun will be coming up above the mountains. I shall leave you before then. Naturally, it would not do for an old man to put his head too obviously into the lion’s den.”

  Karina nodded, and her eyes narrowed. Curtly she said, “It is possible that this other car will yet arrive along this road. It will probably pull up near here, when its driver sees—this.” She indicated the wreckage.

  El Caballero bowed. “I understand that the señorita does not wish the occupant of this car to reach Vercín. Those were the orders.”

  Karina smiled briefly. “Correct. But that is not quite all.” She reached out, took the old man’s arm. “Señor, the man in this car, if it comes—I think you know he will be a tall man, thin. You were told he would look like a Spaniard, and as such indeed he will probably be dressed. But—he is in fact English, an English gentleman—you understand me?” She was distraite, she took a deep breath, and despite herself she found that she was trembling a little, and she even noticed a slight mistiness before her eyes . . . this looked a dangerous old fool in many ways, trigger-happy. When she went on her voice was urgent: “I do not wish him to be killed. Only taken. You will see to that, señor?”

  “As you say, señorita.” In the car’s light she could see the twinkle in his eyes; she’d betrayed herself a little, and not only to El Caballero—until this moment Karina had scarcely realized herself that she still had this feeling for Shaw, and the suddenness of it seemed to shake her. El Caballero went on, gently, “That I already understood, for my orders said he was not to be harmed, since you had a use for him. What do you wish me to do with him, after he is taken?”

  She said hurriedly, “Only hold him until I return from Vercín. Then hand him over to me.”

  “I will make quite sure, once again, that my men understand.” He walked away towards the watchful little group in the darkness, leading his horse. As he went Karina spoke to the man beside her driver.

  She said, “I have something to do before we go, Massias. You and Garcia, get out.”

  The two men got out stiffly, flexed their muscles in the fresh, cool air. Karina indicated the veiling scrub where the corpses lay so unlawfully buried. She said harshly, “Start digging the bodies out. Use your hands—anything—perhaps these bandits will have some kind of implement, but do not let them come too close. I am looking for something—a small, thin piece of metal which must not pass to anyone but me.” At that moment there was something horrible about her; it was something in her expression. “Tell me when you have reached the bodies.”

  The men stared at her, muttered. She stared back; her voice was cutting, icy, as she said, “Do as you are told, Garcia and Massias, or you will join those bodies.” The jewelled pistol nosed at them. The heavy weapon was still in the car, and Karina, keeping the pistol levelled, groped for it. By the time she had it in her hands the two men had begun work, pale and trembling in the silver moonlight as they scooped the fresh earth from the shallow graves. Karina left her car, moved towards the wrecked one, keeping the sub-machine-gun with her. What she sought might be in among that twisted metal, could have fallen from a pocket.

  There was no repugnance, no hesitation. She struggled in, through the rear door, which was hanging on one hinge. The vehicle’s interior was a mass of dried blood; the steering column still had human flesh clinging to it. But Karina went through every inch of that car; and she found nothing. The madman Ackroyd would not, surely, have been clear enough in his mind after that crash to have thought of looking for that little flat piece of metal, even though it had been of such enormous importance to him that he had refused to talk about it despite his beatings; he must have been too injured to have got his hands on it in any case, so it must be on the smaller of those bodies still.

  Massias and Garcia were still shaking and feeling ill after El Caballero had joined the señorita in the back of the car and it was on the move again. Even their hardened stomachs hadn’t been up to the business of digging out the dead in the night, lifting out by the side of that lonely road poor mangled corpses who had been their friends in life, and who had died serving this terrible woman who now sat behind them holding the sub-machine-gun. Both of them could see her yet, kneeling beside those shallow graves, impatient, scarcely able to wait until they had lifted out the corpses before she began searching and plucking like a vulture, going through pockets—and cursing.

  Cursing because whatever it was she wanted to find hadn’t been there. Cursing at the dead, the dead of the Faith—and she an infidel.

  Karina’s face was pale and anxious, her mouth hard, as the car moved ahead in a great swirl of dust which billowed up before them in the headlights which pierced into the diminishing night. When they began the long, slow climb upward to Vercín dawn was already bringing out the mountain crests around them, and they could see the steep roofs of the little old town glinting back those early pearl-gold rays.

  Above them church bells rang out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That dawn, breaking over Gibraltar, found the Defence Security Officer already in his office, speaking in a clipped voice into the telephone. As Staunton slammed back the receiver and wiped sweat from his forehead John Harrison, A.D.C. to His Excellency, looked over at him questioningly.

  Staunton snapped, “Flag Officer—speaking from The Mount. He’s up early too, it seems.”

  “Anything fresh?”

  Staunton answered obliquely, “He wanted to know if there was any news from Shaw. That’s what they all want to know.” He made a gesture almost of hopelessness. “Apparently that bloody machine’s speeding up all the time.”

  “Seventy-two hours was the last estimate, wasn’t it?”

  Staunton nodded.

  Carefully, as though the effi
ciency of his action was somehow important, the A.D.C. stubbed out a cigarette, blew a last trail of smoke. Avoiding Staunton’s rather baleful eye, he asked, “You know something, Major?”

  “What?”

  “We aren’t going to keep the civilians quiet much longer. So far, they’ve been magnificent, but . . .” He shrugged, rumpled up his fair hair with long and rather sensitive fingers. “There’s not a soul among ’em now that doesn’t realize something’s up. They want to see some action being taken. Can’t blame ’em. If only we could tell ’em when the evacuation’s due to start-”

  Staunton rounded on him. “Dammit, I’m not H.E. Go and tell him that.”

  “People have been telling him that ever since the trouble started, old boy.” Harrison was gloomy, too gloomy to turn a hair when Staunton had snapped at him. “And the old chap’s been magnificent. I’ve been with him most of the time and I know. Admitted, he’s badly bitten by the security bug—but he’s carrying a responsibility that would’ve cracked a lot of senior officers before now.”

  “I know that, and he’s absolutely right about the security. Don’t imagine it’s just his years telling him to go cautious.” Staunton paced the room, his dark face lined with worry. “Look, Harry—it’s not my job to make the executive decisions or to worry about the technicalities. My job’s the security side and liaising with Shaw . . . and he's not doing much good as far as I can see.” He was silent for a minute or so, then he stopped his restless pacing, swung round to face the A.D.C. “But I’ll tell you this much—the Flag Officer was going to get on to H.E. after ringing me.” Staunton walked back to his desk, ripped open a packet of cigarettes, jerked one out, and lit it. “His opinion is that the whole bloody lot’s quite likely to go up in less than seventy-two hours if we’re unlucky. He’s going to tell H.E. that. So the civilians may get their wish about seeing action taken a bit sooner than we thought.” He added, almost to himself, “I hope they do.”