"But not why you're interested in me. Supposing you let me in on that." The colonel shrugged lightly. "We're going to kill Francois Morel, Mr. Churchman."
"Bully for you! I wish you the best of luck."
"And you are going to help us, Mr. Churchman."
"I'm afraid that's out of the Question. I've got quite enough demands on my time as it is."
"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you, Mr. Churchman."
"Oh? Then let me tell you to go to hell, Colonel." Phillip struck Peter at the base of the skull with the muzzle of his gun.
"Speak in a civil manner to the colonel," he said, as he lowered Peter's sagging body into a chair.
"We aren't murderers in the usual sense, Mr. Churchman. We are executioners."
"Ah, yes," Peter said. His head ached. He was paying little attention to Colonel Brissard. His thoughts spun dizzily about Grace; the inside of his head was a cave of shimmering fantasies. Grace, in a picture hat and long white gloves mixing explosives! No!
"Francois Morel isn't his name," the colonel said. "However, it will do as well as the one he dishonoured. Morel was a member of the OAS. So was I. And so was Phillip. Morel betrayed our general when things went badly. The details aren't important, but they may help you to understand us. Only one officer was allowed to know the whereabouts of the general's headquarters in Algiers. Morel and two accomplices tricked that officer into joining them at a house in the hills above the city. They overpowered him, bound him with ropes. Then they lowered the unfortunate man into a cesspool where rats fed. After twenty-four hours, with half his face eaten away, he told them what they wanted to know, Morel and his friends sold that information to the government to save their hides. Our general was captured and shot. In time we found Morel's accomplices. One was hiding in Aden, the other in Casablanca. We punished them with Biblical severity. An eye for an eye, isn't it, Mr. Churchman? We let rats feed on them until they died. It was disagreeable but so is treachery."
"The morality of this seems cloudy to me," Peter said. "You betrayed your country. Morel betrayed you. Where's the real difference?"
Phillip stood facing him, huge hands swinging free at his sides. The colonel now held the gun. "Speak civilly to the colonel," Phillip said gently.
"Never mind, Phillip. He's entitled to that question. Yes, we were rebels, Mr. Churchman. But it wasn't an easy decision. I knew St. Cyr as a youth. Verdun as a young man. I served under marshals who lighted the sky like gods." He sighed faintly. "It takes considerable resolution to forget such memories. But as I watched the great forts of the empire falling one by one not to arms but to political considerations I joined a group that called such things monstrous. True, we lost faith in our leaders; but we kept faith with the glory of France. And now this is a paragraph of history, already blurred and obscured by the dust of time. But before the page is turned and the book closed forever, we will add a footnote concerning Francois Morel."
Peter asked what he considered to be reasonable questions. "Why not just go ahead and kill him? Why involve me in all this?"
"The woman Morel travels with is a thief. We know her reputation. We also know Morel got in touch with you several days ago. You met with Morel and his woman on at least three occasions. Then you came here to Pamplona. We assume you intend to steal something. We don't care what. You have our word, we won't touch your share of it."
"Now that's decent of you."
"Spare us your sarcasm, please. If you were a thief, that would be all that mattered to you. Money. But I don't think you're a thief. We made inquiries of you in the village. You've lived there six years, you own a business and so forth. So if I'm correct, you're being forced to co-operate. But not by Morel, obviously."
"Why "obviously"?"
"Because we are familiar with his past, and we know his family, his friends and acquaintances. You didn't meet Morel until last week. Therefore it's the woman." The colonel shrugged, certifying and dismissing this conclusion. "What we want is Morel's share of whatever you're planning to steal. Our general's family is living in poverty, and we feel it would be appropriate if Morel made a material restitution to them before he dies. If you refuse to help, we shall kill him immediately, of course." He smiled pleasantly. "Then, Mr. Churchman, what will the woman do when she learns that you allowed us to kill her lover?"
"But you intend to kill him, in any case."
"Ah, but she doesn't know that."
Peter damned the sly old logicians of St. Cyr; the colonel had built a neat trap for him. "Well, I have no choice, it seems."
"That's right."
Peter straightened and looked thoughtfully at Phillip. "I might be able to use him, you know."
"Mr. Churchman, you had better understand one thing. You aren't using us. We are using you."
"Oh, it was just a matter of speaking," Peter said. "Morel was in my regiment," the colonel said. "Therefore I must keep out of this. But he doesn't know Sergeant Lemoins. Until the matter is settled, Phillip will stay with you. Get used to that: he won't let you out of his sight."
"That could be awkward- How will it look to Morel if I return from Pamplona with a great Gallic shadow at my heels?"
"I think you can figure out some explanation, Mr. Churchman. Considering what's at stake."
"Oh, I intend to, believe me," Peter said.
He sighed and slipped a foot behind Phillip's ankle. Then he slammed his other foot into Phillip's knee, and the big Frenchman sat down abruptly, a cry of anger and surprise exploding from his throat. The sergeant was a formidable animal, Peter noted with clinical interest; his body seemed made of hard rubber and steel springs. He rolled on to his shoulders, doubling his legs up swiftly, then hurled himself forward, hobnailed boots lashing out at Peter's face.
Peter slipped from the chair barely in time to avoid a broken nose and smashed cheekbones. Crouching, he said sharply, "Colonel! For God's sake! The door!"
When the colonel wheeled about, Peter stood, and, with a thumb and forefinger, plucked the gun from his hand.
"Now, let's establish some realistic ground rules," he said, the gun swinging back and forth between the two Frenchmtn, as evenly as the bar of a metronome. "You want to avenge dead comrades. I want to save live ones. I don't give one damn about your old glories and betrayals and defeats. Not one damn. I could shoot you both without turning a hair. Give me an excuse, and I will. Get up, Phillip. You look like an ass lying there with your boots in my chair."
"I'm sorry, Colonel," Phillip said, as he untangled himself and got to his feet.
"It was my fault, Phillip." The colonel looked thoughtfully at Peter, a bitter self-reproof in his hard features, a reluctant respect in his eyes. "I misjudged you, Mr. Churchman."
"Well, those things happen," Peter said. "Now then. I can do two things which will put an end to this nonsense. I can call the police and have you both locked up for breaking into my room; then I can call Morel and tell him you're on my trail. The next you know, he'd be in Brazil or Iceland or Timbuktu. But I'm not going to do either of those things, because I have a use for this big chap here. You can have your crack at Morel when my work is done. But not until. And not unless Phillip agrees to take orders from me as unhesitatingly as he would from you."
The colonel looked thoughtful. "May I have your word that you won't reveal Phillip's identity to Morel?"
"Yes, but only on the condition that you do nothing to Morel until I'm finished with him."
"You have my word."
"In that case, you have mine. Here. Put this away." He gave the colonel his gun and turned to study Phillip with an appraising frown.
"Stand up straight, Sergeant. Tell me. Are you as strong as you look?"
Phillip shrugged impassively. "I'm as strong as I need to be."
"Good. The job I have in mind is very demanding. Morel's not up to it, I'm sure. And I'll be busy with other things." Peter pulled a table from the wall and placed it between two straight-backed chairs.
"Sit down, P
hillip. Facing me. Are you familiar with arm-wrestling?"
The question brought a fleeting smile to Phillip's lips.
"Good," Peter said. "Let's see if you're up to what I have in mind."
They braced their elbows on the table and locked hands together deliberately and cautiously, adjusting and altering their grips for maximum power and leverage. "Colonel, will you give us the word?"
"Very well. Are you both ready?"
"Yes."
"Yes, Colonel."
"In that case commence!"
The table creaked with the sudden pressure of their arms. The colonel smiled faintly. "Sergeant, put Mr. Churchman's hand down on the table."
"Yes, Colonel."
It was over in a matter of seconds.
Phillip rubbed his shoulder and looked sheepishly at the colonel. "I'm sorry, sir," he said with a sigh.
"Well, it's more a trick than anything else," Peter said, and gave Phillip a consoling pat on the back. "Don't worry about it. You'll do fine."
As Peter started to rise, Phillip sprang to his feet, stepped around the table and held his chair. There was something in his expression which brought a faint and rather wistful smile to the colonel's face.
"I hope I deserve your confidence, sir," Phillip said to Peter. "I hope so too. For your sake and mine. Now let's discuss our problems realistically. It's all very well to say you want Morel's share of the loot. But getting it will be another matter. Angela is no fool. I'm assuming Morel isn't either."
"No. He has an instinct for survival," the colonel said. "Therefore we need a sound cover story for Phillip. I am planning to steal certain precious stones from the Banco de Bilbao next week. But Phillip, you can't let on you know that. We mustn't get into the business of shares. Angela will question you, shrewdly and carefully, but you must convince her you think we're only after money. You don't know the details of the job. All you can reveal to either of them is this: that I offered you a sum of money, two thousand American dollars, to do something requiring great physical strength. It's dishonest, but you don't give a damn. Got it?"
Phillip nodded slowly. "They'll learn nothing more from me, I assure you."
"All right. Point two. When I hand over the jewels, I receive in return an object of no material value. Its nature isn't relevant. But it compromises friends of mine. Now let me say one more thing: The jewels have a sacred and historical value, and disposing of them may be impossible. I'm being fair with you your general's wife probably won't realise a sou from them."
The colonel smiled. "If that's true and we will make certain it is we will return them to their owners."
"And kill Morel with pleasure," Phillip said. "Then we understand one another."
"But I don't understand you," the colonel said. "You're risking your life for nothing?" The colonel smiled and turned to the door. With a hand on the knob he looked back at Peter. "You know, you're quite a remarkable person, Mr. Churchman. In another situation, I would like to be your friend. I think we might have interesting matters to talk about. But do you mind if I tell you something?"
"Please do."
"You have a disease which frequently attacked my finest officers."
"And what's that?"
"You want to die, Mr. Churchman."
The door clicked and they were gone.
***
The colonel's diagnosis jarred Peter. He didn't want to die. He wanted Grace, he wanted to live. What the devil did the old Frenchman know about it?
Troubled and unhappy, Peter went out to look for Grace.
He searched hotels and bars, cafes and restaurants, and looked for her shining blonde head in the streets and plazas of the old town. But he found no trace of her at all.
At last he gave up. He stood on the old battlements and stared down at the streets and buildings below him, and his mood was as grey as the soft gloomy dusk that was spreading over the city. Everything was quiet and peaceful now, but next week this would be the arena in which he must fight for his life.
Peter made his final preparations. He went to a crooked street where a carpenter lived and gave him money and instructions. Then he booked a hotel room with a view of the river and the bull pens. Finally he spent an hour in the reading room of the Museum of Archives, looking at blueprints of certain architecturally interesting buildings in the old quarter of the city. These precious yellowing documents, protected by sheathings of transparent plastic, gave Peter a scale view of the substructure of Pamplona. He made notes while the gently garrulous old curator explained the characteristics of the Roman sewers and canals which run under the older part of the town to drain into the River Argo. Peter drew the curator's attention to a particular building, and let him ramble on about it. He copied down a few more figures, thanked the old gentleman sincerely, and returned to his hotel room.
There he made an entry in his journal, a quite formal and explicit one:
Dear God. The others were for You. The passion, the innocence, the money, it was all for You. You look with favour, I'm told, on engineers who build bridges in Your Name, and on football coaches who win games for Your greater glory. Well, You know what I did. And why.
But this one is strictly for me. Can I have one for myself? Okay?
There was no answer in the faint street noises drifting up to his room, no friendly encouragement or permission in the gentle stir of the curtains, the efficient drip of the faucet in the adjoining bathroom.
Well, no news is good news, Peter thought without cheer. He made himself a mild drink and began to pack.
CHAPTER SIX
On the morning of his return from Pamplona, Peter arranged a meeting with Angela and Francois at their hotel. He took Phillip along with him. At first Francois was as tense as a cat facing a mastiff. But after several cautious questions he relaxed and accepted Phillip with a relieved smile "So you weren't in Algeria at all?"
"No. My unit was in Lyons."
"You were lucky. In Algeria you never could tell who'd give you a knife in the back the enemy or your own comrades. Of course, you knew about the revolts there, the OAS, that sort of thing?"
"Yes, but it wasn't my concern. I had a good job in the arms depot, and a reasonable commanding officer. Since I wasn't a professional soldier, it meant nothing to me that the generals in Algeria were squabbling among themselves."
Phillip was doing quite well, Peter decided; he sat with his huge hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed neutrally on the shining sea beyond the terrace, composed and at ease.
Francois smiled at him. "They didn't fool you with their talk of glory and patriotism, I can see." He gave the big sergeant a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'm glad to find you're intelligent. A man chooses well or badly, that's all there is to it. One choice makes a man a hero; the other makes him a traitor. Loyalty and honour are accidents since the verdict is delivered after the choice is made." Francois smiled at Peter. "You don't agree with me, I know. You believe in noble gestures. Loyalty to old comrades, regardless of risk or danger."
The glance that Phillip flicked at Francois's back was as swift and murderous as a flung knife. Peter noted it with alarm. He strolled past Phillip and gave him a small, warning headshake.
"Ah, you look troubled," Francois said complacently. "What does that mean? That you're not sure? That you have doubts about loyalty? About honour?"
"Francois, you bore me greatly."
"Oh? Is that so?"
"Yes. You have a rash of conscience, and you can't stop scratching it." Peter hoped desperately to create a climate of emotional turbulence; he didn't want to give Francois and Angela the opportunity to inspect Phillip with detachment. He didn't know whether Angela had spotted that revealing flare of anger in Phillip's eyes; she was reclining on the lounge, wearing a white bikini that was not much larger than the jewelled sun-glasses which concealed her eyes. Peter couldn't tell what she was looking at, but he knew from experience that she was a precise judge of nuance and atmosphere.
"Peter, why are y
ou trying to make Francois angry?"
"I came here to discuss business. Not to listen to tiresome justifications of the rat act."
"But you're seldom so rude, darling."
"He feels he is indispensable," Francois said angrily. "We'll see how important he is when the job is over."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Francois, shut up! You too, Peter. Let's get down to work."
"Very well," Peter said. He had brought the films of San Fermin; the projector and screen were already in place. "Phillip, will you draw the drapes?"
"Yes, sir," said Phillip, springing to his feet.
The room became dark. Peter snapped on the machine. They all settled back and watched the flamboyant crowds in the Plaza de Castillo; the huge Cabezudas bobbing and turning high above them; fighting bulls tearing through the barricaded streets.
Peter froze the action at the square in front of the Ayunta-when to "Let me tell you what happens in Pamplona each morning of the fiesta," he said. "At the stroke of six a bomb is exploded near the river. That means the bulls have left the corral. When they form an encierro and start running, another bomb explodes. We will synchronise our blasting with those explosions."
Angela's eyes shone like a cat's in the darkness. "Oh, Peter, how clever you are!"
"Yes. The sound of our blasting will be completely drowned out by the roar of the bombs. We have twenty-six feet of stone and brick to get through. I estimate our progress at four feet a day; which means that on Sunday morning, the seventh and last day of the fiesta, we will reach the vaults of the bank." He walked to the screen and pointed to a passageway at one side of the square. "Now listen carefully. This leads to the basement of the warehouse adjoining the Banco de Bilbao. Each morning Francois and I will set off two charges in that basement. On the second one, the bulls will be running. Our job is to get back into the square, and clear out as fast as we can. We'll have about seventy seconds; we will need every one of them."
The Caper of the Golden Bulls Page 7
