The Sands of Time (2 page)

The Guardia Civil, the paramilitary rural police, decked out in green uniforms and black patent-leather hats, were trying in vain to control the hysterical mob. The Policía Armada, stationed in provincial capitals, were also helpless in the face of the mad spectacle. People were struggling to flee in every direction, desperately trying to avoid the enraged bulls. The danger lay less with the bulls and more with the people themselves as they trampled one another in their eagerness to escape. Old men and women were knocked down under the feet of the running mob.

Jaime stared in dismay at the stunning spectacle. “It wasn’t planned for it to happen this way!” he exclaimed. He stared helplessly at the carnage that was being wreaked, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight.

The truck reached the outskirts of Pamplona and headed south, leaving behind the noise and confusion of the rioting.

“Where are we going, Jaime?” Ricardo Mellado asked.

“There’s a safe house outside Torre. We’ll stay there until dark and then move on.”

Felix Carpio was wincing with pain.

Jaime Miró watched him, his face filled with compassion. “We’ll be there soon, my friend,” he said gently.

He was unable to get the terrible scene at Pamplona out of his mind.

Thirty minutes later they approached the little village of Torre, and skirted it to drive to an isolated house in the mountains above the village. Jaime helped the two men out of the back of the red truck.

“You’ll be picked up at midnight,” the driver said.

“Have them bring a doctor,” Jaime replied. “And get rid of the truck.”

The three of them entered the house. It was a farmhouse, simple and comfortable, with a fireplace in the living room and a beamed ceiling. There was a note on the table. Jaime Miró read it and smiled at the welcoming phrase:
“Mi casa es su casa.”
On the bar were bottles of wine. Jaime poured drinks.

Ricardo Mellado said, “There are no words to thank you, my friend. Here’s to you.”

Jaime raised his glass. “Here’s to freedom.”

There was the sudden chirp of a canary in a cage. Jaime walked over to it and watched its wild fluttering for a moment. Then he opened the cage, gently lifted the bird out, and carried it to an open window.

“Fly away,
pajarito,
” he said softly. “All living creatures should be free.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Madrid

P
rime Minister Leopoldo Martinez was in a rage. He was a small, bespectacled man, and his whole body shook as he talked. “Jaime Miró must be stopped,” he cried. His voice was high and shrill. “Do you understand me?” He glared at the half dozen men gathered in the room. “We’re looking for one terrorist, and the whole army and police force are unable to find him.”

The meeting was taking place at Moncloa Palace, where the prime minister lived and worked, five kilometers from the center of Madrid, on the Carretera de Galicia, a highway with no identifying signs. The building itself was green brick, with wrought-iron balconies, green window shades, and guard towers at each corner.

It was a hot, dry day, and through the windows, as far as the eye could see, columns of heat waves rose like battalions of ghostly soldiers.

“Yesterday Miró turned Pamplona into a battleground.” Martinez slammed a fist down on his desk. “He murdered two prison guards and smuggled two of his terrorists out of prison. Many innocent people were killed by the bulls he let loose.”

For a moment no one said anything.

When the prime minister had taken office, he had declared smugly, “My first act will be to put a stop to these separatist groups. Madrid is the great unifier. It transforms Andalusians, Basques, Catalans, and Galicians into Spaniards.”

He had been unduly optimistic. The fiercely independent Basques had other ideas, and the wave of bombings, bank robberies, and demonstrations by terrorists of ETA, Euzkadita Azkatasuna, had continued unabated.

The man at Martinez’s right said quietly, “I’ll find him.”

The speaker was Colonel Ramón Acoca, head of the GOE, the Grupo de Operaciones Especiales, formed to pursue Basque terrorists. Acoca was in his middle sixties, a giant with a scarred face and cold, obsidian eyes. He had been a young officer under Francisco Franco during the Civil War, and he was still fanatically devoted to Franco’s philosophy: “We are responsible only to God and to history.”

Acoca was a brilliant officer, and he had been one of Franco’s most trusted aides. The colonel missed the iron-fisted discipline, the swift punishment of those who questioned or disobeyed the law. He had experienced the turmoil of the Civil War, with its Nationalist alliance of Monarchists, rebel generals, landowners, Church hierarchy, and fascist Falangists on one side, and the Republican government forces, including Socialists, Communists, liberals, and Basque and Catalan separatists, on the other. It had been a terrible time of destruction and killing, a madness that had pulled in men and war materiel from a dozen countries and left a horrifying death toll. And now the Basques were fighting and killing again.

Colonel Acoca headed an efficient, ruthless cadre of antiterrorists. His men worked underground, wore disguises, and were neither publicized nor photographed for fear of retaliation.

If anyone can stop Jaime Miró, Colonel Acoca can,
the prime minister thought. But there was a catch:
Who’s going to be the one to stop Colonel Acoca?

Putting the colonel in charge had not been the prime minister’s idea. He had received a phone call in the middle of the night on his private line. He had recognized the voice immediately.

“We are greatly disturbed by the activities of Jaime Miró and his terrorists. We suggest that you put Colonel Ramon Acoca in charge of the GOE. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. It will be taken care of immediately.”

The line went dead.

The voice belonged to a member of the OPUS MUNDO. The organization was a secret cabal that included bankers, lawyers, heads of powerful corporations, and government ministers. It was rumored to have enormous funds at its disposal, but where the money came from and how it was used and manipulated was a mystery. It was not considered healthy to ask too many questions about it.

The prime minister had placed Colonel Acoca in charge, as he had been instructed, but the giant had turned out to be an uncontrollable fanatic. His GOE had created a reign of terror. The prime minister thought of the Basque rebels Acoca’s men had caught near Pamplona. They had been convicted and sentenced to hang. It was Colonel Acoca who had insisted that they be executed by the barbaric garrote, the iron collar fitted with a spike that gradually tightened, eventually cracking the vertebrae and severing the victim’s spinal cord.

Jaime Miró had become an obsession with Colonel Acoca.

“I want his head,” Acoca said. “Cut off his head and the Basque movement dies.”

An exaggeration,
the prime minister thought, although he had to admit that there was a core of truth in it. Jaime Miró was a charismatic leader, fanatical about his cause, and therefore dangerous.

But in his own way,
the prime minister thought,
Colonel Acoca is just as dangerous.

Primo Casado, the director general of security, was speaking. “Your Excellency, no one could have foreseen what happened in Pamplona. Jaime Miró is—”

“I
know
what he is,” the prime minister snapped. “I want to know
where
he is.” He turned to Colonel Acoca.

“I’m on his trail,” the colonel said. His voice chilled the room. “I would like to remind Your Excellency that we are not fighting just one man. We are fighting the Basque people. They give Jaime Miró and his terrorists food and weapons and shelter. The man is a hero to them. But do not worry. Soon he will be a hanging hero. After I give him a fair trial, of course.”

Not we. I.
The prime minister wondered whether the others had noticed.
Yes,
he thought nervously,
something will have to be done about the colonel soon.

The prime minister got to his feet. “That will be all for now, gentlemen.”

The men rose to leave. All except Colonel Acoca.

Leopoldo Martinez began to pace. “Damn the Basques. Why can’t they be satisfied just to be Spaniards? What more do they want?”

“They’re greedy for power,” Acoca said. “They want autonomy, their own language and their flag—”

“No. Not as long as I hold this office. I’m not going to permit them to tear pieces out of Spain. The government will tell them what they can have and what they can’t have. They’re nothing but rabble who…”

An aide came into the room. “Excuse me, Your Excellency,” he said apologetically. “Bishop Ibanez has arrived.”

“Send him in.”

The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You can be sure the Church is behind all this. It’s time we taught them a lesson.”

The Church is one of the great ironies of our history,
Colonel Acoca thought bitterly.

In the beginning of the Civil War, the Catholic Church had been on the side of the Nationalist forces. The pope backed Generalissimo Franco, and in so doing allowed him to proclaim that he was fighting on the side of God. But when the Basque churches and monasteries and priests were attacked, the Church withdrew its support.

“You must give the Basques and the Catalans more freedom,” the Church had demanded. “And you must stop executing Basque priests.”

Generalissimo Franco had been furious. How dare the Church try to dictate to the government?

A war of attrition began. More churches and monasteries were attacked by Franco’s forces. Nuns and priests were murdered. Bishops were placed under house arrest, and priests all over Spain were fined for giving sermons that the government considered seditious. It was only when the Church threatened Franco with ex-communication that he stopped his attacks.

The goddamned Church!
Acoca thought. With Franco dead it was interfering again.

He turned to the prime minister. “It’s time the bishop is told who’s running Spain.”

Bishop Calvo Ibanez was a thin, frail-looking man with a cloud of white hair swirling around his head. He peered at the two men through his pince-nez spectacles.

“Buenos tardes.”

Colonel Acoca felt the bile rise in his throat. The very sight of clergymen made him ill. They were Judas goats leading their stupid lambs to slaughter.

The bishop stood there, waiting for an invitation to sit down. It did not come. Nor was he introduced to the colonel. It was a deliberate slight.

The prime minister looked to the colonel for direction.

Acoca said curtly, “Some disturbing news has been brought to our attention. Basque rebels are reported to be holding meetings in Catholic monasteries. It has also been reported that the Church is allowing monasteries and convents to store arms for the rebels.” There was steel in his voice. “When you help the enemies of Spain, you
become
an enemy of Spain.”

Bishop Ibanez stared at him for a moment, then turned to Prime Minister Martinez. “Your Excellency, with due respect, we are all children of Spain. The Basques are not your enemy. All they ask is the freedom to—”

“They don’t ask,” Acoca roared. “They demand! They go around the country pillaging, robbing banks, and killing policemen, and you dare to say they are not our enemies?”

“I admit that there have been inexcusable excesses. But sometimes in fighting for what one believes—”

“They don’t believe in anything but themselves. They care nothing about Spain. It is as one of our great writers said, ‘No one in Spain is concerned about the common good. Each group is concerned only with itself. The Church, the Basques, the Catalans. Each one says fuck the others.’”

The bishop was aware that Colonel Acoca had misquoted Ortega y Gasset. The full quote had included the army and the government; but he wisely said nothing. He turned to the prime minister again, hoping for a more rational discussion.

“Your Excellency, the Catholic Church—”

The prime minister felt that Acoca had pushed far enough. “Don’t misunderstand us, Bishop. In principle, of course, this government is behind the Catholic Church one hundred percent.”

Colonel Acoca spoke up again. “But we cannot permit your churches and monasteries and convents to be used against us. If you continue to allow the Basques to store arms in them and to hold meetings, you will have to suffer the consequences.”

“I am sure that the reports that you have received are erroneous,” the bishop said smoothly. “However, I shall certainly investigate at once.”

The prime minister murmured, “Thank you, Bishop. That will be all.”

Prime Minister Martinez and Colonel Acoca watched him depart.

“What do you think?” Martinez asked.

“He knows what’s going on.”

The prime minister sighed.
I have enough problems right now without stirring up trouble with the Church.

“If the Church is for the Basques, then it is against us.” Colonel Acoca’s voice hardened. “I would like your permission to teach the bishop a lesson.”

The prime minister was stopped by the look of fanaticism in the man’s eyes. He became cautious. “Have you really had reports that the churches are aiding the rebels?”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

There was no way of determining if the man was telling the truth. The prime minister knew how much Acoca hated the Church. But it might be good to let the Church have a taste of the whip, providing Colonel Acoca did not go too far. Prime Minister Martinez stood there thoughtfully.

It was Acoca who broke the silence. “If the churches are sheltering terrorists, then the churches must be punished.”

Reluctantly, the prime minister nodded. “Where will you start?”

“Jaime Miró and his men were seen in Ávila yesterday. They are probably hiding at the convent there.”

The prime minister made up his mind. “Search it,” he said.

That decision set off a chain of events that rocked all of Spain and shocked the world.