by Lex Lander
Moving that premise forward, he wouldn’t have called it off, merely delayed it while he prepared a new plan. His agents would have reported no defensive preparations had been taken. If that was still the situation, say, two or three days from now, he could safely assume that the British and Gibraltar governments were either supine or had simply dismissed the notion of an invasion as fantastical.
Which still left me with the means and the will to put a stop to it, but no knowledge of the date and hour. Breaking into the tunnels every night until Irazola made his move was not the most practical proposition.
Meanwhile, I took the rifle apart, stuffed it in my backpack. The few inches of barrel that protruded from the top, I camouflaged with a strip of bubble wrap bought for that purpose. With no means of getting back to the hotel by road I made for the cable car. The occasional vehicle passed me, but I kept my thumb retracted. I was just a backpacker out for a stroll.
Then my cell phone chirped. It was a short sweet call from the Governor’s secretary, ordering me to report to his office right away. The reason my presence was required was easy to guess. A dressing down for my alarmism over an invasion-that-didn’t happen.
I almost didn’t go. My credibility had been trashed by Irazola’s failure to turn up at the head of his divisions. They might even arrest me for disturbing the peace.
The larger of my two suitcases at the Caleta Hotel would just about accommodate the rifle barrel wedged diagonally from corner to corner. The rest of the weapon easily fitted in the smaller case. Both cases had combination locks, and that was about as secure as I could make them. I stowed them back in the closet. The room reminded me too much of Linda so I left as soon as I was done, without even bothering to change from my sniper’s outfit of black jeans and T-shirt, with sneakers.
The reason for the summons turned out to be unconnected with my warnings, but very connected with the invasion threat. Sir Gilbert was in his usual office, in the company of several people in civilian clothes and a high-ranking British army officer, introduced as Brigadier Hemingway-Towns. Oh, and Toby, looking severe. They were seated around an oval conference table. As I entered they looked me up and down sniffily, not impressed by my mode of attire.
I was presented as ‘Mr Warner’. No first name.
‘Sit down, Warner,’ the Governor said.
The only empty chair was between Toby, my only possible ally, and a pinstriped clone. I sat in it.
‘About the invasion –’ I began.
‘Hold on, André.’ This from Toby, a restraining hand on my arm. ‘There’s been a new development. A certain Comandante Navarro contacted us last night, on behalf of your General Irazola. The big man himself has asked to meet up with the Governor, here on the Rock.’
Although stunned by this piece of news, my mind immediately started sifting through the opportunities this would create.
‘Great. Arrest him.’
All present goggled in varying degrees.
‘Arrest him?’ the Brigadier boomed. He was a big man all over, and his uniform jacket a shade too small. ‘On what grounds, pray?’
‘On the grounds of plotting to invade Gibraltar.’
Now all present groaned.
‘He is coming here,’ the Governor said, in slow and measured tones, ‘precisely to refute the rumours of an invasion that have been circulating. And to give us his absolute guarantee that no invasion is being planned or will take place.’
‘What a relief,’ I said without attempting to mask the sarcasm. ‘Now we can all sleep peacefully at night.’
‘André …’ Toby’s unspoken warning made no impression. In any case, I was done with the Governor, the British government, and the British army. My solution was the only solution and I now knew how to apply it.
‘Goodbye, gentlemen,’ I said, getting up. ‘In a manner of speaking, you are all absolutely right – there will be no invasion. But it won’t be for the reasons you think.’
My piece thus said, I took my leave and went to retrieve the rifle from my hotel room.
* * * * *
Because of the gun, I couldn’t cross the border by car or on foot. I took a cab to the marina, complete with suitcases. On board I transferred the rifle parts back to my backpack, disguising the barrel as before. Then I retraced my wake to the marina at La Línea. A wad of euros changed hands and secured me a berth for twenty-four hours. More euros, from the cache of cash I kept on board, went into my pocket. The Aston was where I had left it, unmarked and unbroken into. I loaded the rifle in its box as supplied by Keith Jupp into the trunk and drove into town in search of a book store, where I bought a map and a child’s ruler. Next I drove to the edge of town, where a motorcycle dealer called Motomocion was based. I parked the Aston a couple of streets away. Shouldered my backpack and went to visit the dealer.
It was only a small outfit and I found myself negotiating with the owner, a Señor Ramirez. From his selection of used bikes I went for a five-year old Kawasaki that was overpriced but in good shape. Reliability being more valuable to me than euros, I took it for a spin around the block, leaving the Aston keys as security.
We agreed a price. So far, so satisfactory. Then I discovered that buying the machine was the easy part. To be able to drive it away I needed to go through the new owner registration process.
‘Muy bien,’ I said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
‘Lo siento, Señor, no es posible hasta mañana.’
Why it wasn’t possible until tomorrow didn’t interest me. I spread ten hundred-euro bills on the laminated top of his counter.
‘Is it still not possible?’
Apparently even money couldn’t buy the necessary re-registration, but it could buy the turning of a blind eye. For a thousand euros he would stick trade plates on the bike, and I could ride off to my destiny. That old talking money thing again.
At 1.20pm. I set off for the hills and the encampment of General Irazola and his thirty thousand men.
* * * * *
Scrub and bushes screened me from the bustling encampment below. From my elevated position I could make out the details of tanks, trucks, and field guns. There were many comings and goings, vehicles kicking up dust, and general hubbub. No airborne patrols, for which I was grateful, though several helicopters stood around.
The map and the ruler enabled me to calculate my approximate distance from the camp. Over eight hundred and less than nine hundred meters. For the purpose of setting the optics of the telescopic sight it was accurate enough.
Close to the lake a long, low dais, like a stage had been set up since my last viewing. A microphone on a stand stood in the centre; a soldier was tinkering with it, a toolbox at his feet. Aside from the mike and the soldier, the dais was bare.
The sun was high in the heavens and the air was motionless. The gorse bush in whose shadow I lay didn’t create much shade, so I roasted gently and sipped sparingly from my water supply. Two jeeps were parked on the trail at opposite ends of the camp, each occupied by two troopers. They would be on patrol duty, keeping the camp and its approaches clear of intruders. My bike was a few feet behind me, as good as invisible in the undergrowth.
At some point during the afternoon, despite my best efforts, I dozed off, eventually coming awake to a bugle’s refrain. My watch told me it was five minutes before five o’clock. Twelve hours that seemed like twelve days since the invasion that never was. The back of my neck was sunburned and sore. Down in the camp all was hustle and bustle, with troops assembling en masse in front of the dais. Seeing them all together like that brought home to me the sheer numbers under Irazola’s command. They would steamroller over any opposition Gibraltar could drum up. The outcome was not in doubt.
Through a gap in the ranks a line of men in single file approached the dias, like a boxer and his seconds on their way to the ring. Through the rifle scope I counted eleven, with the erect figure of Irazola in the lead. All but one of the other ten wore the braided peaked caps of general rank. My gue
ss, given the numbers of troops, was a major-general for each of the three divisions, six brigade-generals for the six brigades, and a lesser rank, bringing up the rear. I focused on him and brought the face of Comandante Navarro, the General’s aide de camp, up close and personal.
The eleven mounted the dais by a short flight of wooden steps and took up position, side by side, Irazola centre stage behind the mike. The men had fallen silent amid an air of expectation of an announcement that was going to change lives. Movement in the undergrowth behind me, hopefully not a snake. A small bird with blue and gold feathers landed on a branch of my bush, only to rebound into the air immediately, tweeting alarm or annoyance at my presence, or maybe just happy to be alive and on the wing.
If Irazola was intent on being assassinated he couldn’t have made it easier for me. He stood there, fists on hips, back straight as a plank, and at exactly five o’clock began to address his men.
‘Soldiers of the Republic,’ was his opening line, his voice clearly audible to me, reverberating across the valley. ‘Tomorrow will be a day to remember for Spain and for the memory of General Francisco Franco, our great leader to whom I dedicate the action that will follow.
‘You will all have been wondering why we are here, in this place, training for what is obviously a seize and hold operation. You will have heard different rumours. Always there are rumours. Sometime they are even right.’ He laughed into the mike and taking their cue from him the congregated troopers laughed too. ‘Well, I am here to dispel those rumours and turn them into facts.’ He paused, his head swivelling from left to right as he surveyed his forces. ‘Tomorrow morning, fellow soldiers, at zero five hundred we will cross the border into Gibraltar and annex the peninsula to Spain.’
The collective gasp suggested that the rumours, if they were accurate, had been discounted, that few of the thirty thousand had believed them. Then a single cheer broke the thrall, was joined by a second, then a third, then the whole vast body of men was cheering, flinging their berets in the air, many of them jumping up and down in delight.
The General let them off the leash for a minute or two before restoring order. I was impressed by the display of emotion. Returning Gib to Spain was a popular decision.
‘We do not expect any resistance,’ the General asserted with conviction. ‘The British were warned but we persuaded them that the warnings were false, and they have made no preparations to defend themselves. However, if there should be resistance, it will be dealt with according to the rules of war and the Geneva convention.’
Big of him. A largely unarmed population was going to get fair treatment. I clipped the loaded magazine in place. I worked the bolt and shunted a round into the breech. With the lake behind him and the blue skies up above, it was a dramatic setting for the General’s last rites.
* * * * *
Two rings was all it had taken to get her to the phone.
‘Hello … André?’ Husky, breathless.
‘Who else?’ Actually it could have been lots of people probably, particularly guys. She didn’t encourage male admirers, just attracted them by her classy good looks, her character, and her subtle sexy aura.
‘I love you,’ she said, her usual opening gambit.
‘I love you too, sweetheart,’ I said, my usual comeback.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Right now? Talking to my sweetheart, wishing she was here or I was there. How’s my other sweetheart?’
My other sweetheart was Maura’s daughter, Lindy, ten years old, a gorgeous blonde version of her mother and bright with it.
‘At school. She’s due home soon so if we talk long enough you’ll be able to chat with her. She still goes on about you all the time.’
That touched the sentimental side of me. While I was absorbing it, Maura went on, ‘I didn’t mean what are you doing right now, darling, I meant with your life.’
Our conversations always led back to that. My life. The taking of other lives, worthless though they generally were. Stop the killing and Maura would be mine again. If only they would let me, had been my constant refrain. Now, finally, they had let me, for a whole year.
On this occasion it wasn’t them at all. It was me, just me, and me alone. The imminent decision to kill would be on my head alone. It might avert conflict, even full scale war, and if Maura didn’t exist, I would have no qualms about going through with it. Certainly it wouldn’t trouble my conscience. Irazola was a soldier, he was about to invade another country. People, including innocent people, could die. If I could prevent it, it was my duty to do so.
Three choices were open to me. Let him invade Gib, leaving me to get on with my life, of which Maura would hopefully become a part. Or kill him and keep it to myself, which would mean lying to Maura. Or kill him and tell her, which would likely mean the final end of us as a couple.
The dot recticle was positioned on Irazola’s forehead, though I hadn’t yet decided where to hit him: head or chest. A chest shot would be more certain but somehow less satisfying. It was a choice that faced all assassins when shooting at long range. The head was smaller but more instantaneous. The chest was easier to hit, but two shots would be needed to ensure a fatal outcome.
The midday sun was giving the back of my neck a beating. Visions of Maura and memories of that phone call from a week ago were receding into the background, crowded out by more immediate challenges. I was once more the consummate pro, the human killing machine that could be relied on to deliver.
As Irazola wound up his address with a rousing ‘Viva España! Viva la republica!’ the massed ranks responded by chanting ‘Ir-a-zo-la, Ir-a-zo-la …’ over and over. Irazola, the new Franco, saluted them, true Fascist style. The revered leader of thirty thousand men, sworn to restore Gibraltar to its rightful owners. And if blood must be shed to make it happen, he was the man to shed it. The cause was just, the methods a necessary evil.
As I stroked the trigger Maura’s image returned to superimpose itself over that of General Irazola. I hesitated for a couple of beats only. This thing was bigger than the thing between Maura and me.
I squeezed the trigger, an act so natural to me it required neither thought nor effort.
The stab of flame from the muzzle and the sharp report as the small calibre bullet sped on its way, were unseen and unheard by the uniformed mass who witnessed the result. A red bubble popped up in the centre of Irazola’s forehead. For an extended moment he remained standing, his face set like a stone carving, his eyes still open. Then his legs buckled and he toppled in slow motion off the front of the dais onto the steps, where he came to rest, his right arm still flung out in a salute to his own demise.
That’s from Elena, General. A goodbye kiss to her padrastro.
A great stillness descended on the gathering. Every man in the basin of the valley froze, became an army of waxworks. First to react was Navarro. He took an uncertain step towards his dead master. It was his last step on earth. I had made him a promise when he presided over that humiliating striptease the day Irazola’s lackeys hauled me off the street. I’ll get you for this. I let him have it in the chest. One-two and down he went. Easy. Satisfying.
Reaction was belatedly setting in among the throng. The brass on the dais converged on Irazola, the troopers began to surge backwards, instinctively distancing themselves from the target zone. Two of the generals stooped over their Commander-in-Chief. I worked the bolt, took out one, then the other, emptying the magazine. Changing magazines was a two-second job. The other generals, belatedly coming aware that they too were targets, leapt off the dais on the lake side. One of them stumbled and I finished him. Even when the surviving generals mingled with the troopers they were easy to identify by the gold braid on the peaks of their caps and their red lapel tabs. They went down, one after another, as they milled about in panic, like chickens with a fox in the coop. The second magazine emptied. I reminded myself that the men down there were a disciplined force, who would be quick to recover and organise a counter-att
ack. Already troopers to the rear, closest to me, were fanning out into the scrub, preparing to hunt me down. Any delay in quitting the scene would give them
I abandoned the rifle and its accessories, keeping only the Ribble-supplied VP-70 for self-defence. The line of bushes formed a screen between me and the troops as I scuttled to where the bike lay under its concealing foliage. I dragged the foliage off, and mounted up. Prayed the engine wouldn’t let me down. My prayers were answered.
It wasn’t until I emerged from the scrub, already travelling at fifty kph, that I was spotted. A great roar went up, followed by a ragged fusillade of shots. But the range was extreme and I was bent low over the bike’s tank, making a small target, weaving frantically over the rough ground.
The dirt track came up and I hit it at a forty-five degree angle. I opened the throttle and the bike responded, thrusting me from fifty to a hundred in seconds and almost dumping me in the road. One of the patrolling jeeps was on the track ahead of me, seemingly oblivious of the furore down at the lake. I veered away from the track and the jeep carried on with no change of course.
The gunfire dwindled to nothing. I reckoned they would need a minimum of ten minutes to get a chopper in the air and another five for the chopper to catch up with me. By then I would be back in La Línea, the bike abandoned in a side street, and me just another visiting tourist among hundreds of the species.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The morning after I stopped an invasion single-handed I breakfasted on the terrace with Toby. It was in the nature of a farewell meal, as he was due on the daily flight to Gatwick later in the day. No news had seeped through about the events at the lake. The Spanish papers were mute on the subject.
We chatted about nothing of substance while we ate – bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages et al. Only when the coffees had been served did he venture to talk “shop”.
‘It’s been a frustrating business,’ he said, tapping the rim of his cup with a teaspoon. ‘You did some excellent work, but ultimately results are what count.’
