Gibraltar Road (20 page)

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 appreciated 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.

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 efficiency 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.”

Some fifty miles away by road Mr Ackroyd was in an attitude of listening.

Goats trailed along the high, narrow streets of Vercin, stinking to heaven, an ancient man and a boy chivvying them along in the rear as their sure feet took the stone steps easily. Every now and again they stopped, to have their dugs stretched into buckets outside the dwelling-houses, their restless bells adding to the chattering clamour which was Vercin waking up to another day.

Goats apart, the air at this height was beautifully fresh and invigorating, with the wonderful tang of the early morning in a hot land; the sun was up, but not yet strong enough to bring more than a friendly warmth into the bones. Everything stood out sharply in the clear, crystal mountain atmosphere, though there was a light mist in the valley below the old walled town, a mist which the mounting sun would very soon chase away. The goats moved on from below Mr Ackroyd’s window, taking their smells and bells with them, those bells that tinkled slowly and enchantingly away into the distance down the steps of the street. Voices floated up now—raucous, shrill, and happy and full of life as the stall-holders began setting up the market beyond the end of the street, in the flatness of the town’s main square.

A cacophony of badinage and back-chat heralded an old woman with withered, yellowed cheeks, shrivelled and wrinkled into a million little ingrained seams, drooping from high cheekbones beneath the white hair and the black shawl which fell from her head. She came slowly from the square towards the steps, making for the doorway of the house where Mr Ackroyd lay. The news had gone right through Vercín like a flash of summer lightning four days before that there had been a spectacular car crash, that two men had died, and had been left alone for the routine (and eventual) inspection by officials; and that one—here was the important thing— had lived, but was out of his mind; and, even more important than that, that he now resided in that room in the Calle Salamanca where he was being looked after by no less a personage than old Señora Gallego herself.