THE ENGLISH WITNESS (9 page)

“So now there are two subversive priests
in the picture,” interrupted Julio in a low voice, barely audible over the road
noise and the steady pulse of wind through the broken windows.

“Three, if you count Father Goyo, who set
up my rendezvous with Gato. And there’ll be more by the time the story’s
finished,” replied Jack with a smirk. “But seriously, all through my travels –
with that one exception at Lóyola – I met simple, hardworking priests prepared
to risk everything to side with the underdog against the crushing power of the
state. I’ve little patience with Catholic dogma, but their people impressed
me.”

“So where did you head next?” asked Miguel
impatiently, his pen hovering unsteadily over Julio’s notepad as the Viano
bounced along the uneven surface.

“Before we come to that, there was an
incident along the route. It reveals…”

“Will it actually help my investigation?”

“It will help me keep the story moving
forward. And it shows the Legion’s reach. And their methods.”

“The Legion? I thought this was about the
security services.”

“Then you haven’t been listening properly.
The distinction is illusory, but I can’t believe that you don’t already know
that. Everything that happened, happened because Franco’s security services
were riddled with fascist paramilitary groups. They provided quick and dirty
solutions for the regime: wet work, to use modern jargon. And in return, they
used the state to serve their own ends: to eavesdrop, to keep track of
opponents, and to promote one another into senior positions. I was naïve enough
to imagine that the system had been purged since Spain became a democracy, but
in view of what I’ve seen in the last few hours I’m not so sure.”

“Have you quite finished?” asked Miguel
drily. “Then can we have some peace and quiet until we’re back at the house? I
can’t take proper notes in these conditions. And besides, I need some space to
think.”

It was not until after a quiet, rather
self-conscious lunch that they reconvened in the lounge at the safe house. It
was Julio’s turn to supplement the audio record with written notes. Miguel
seemed more relaxed but was still morose and uncommunicative.

JAMES

Having been told by my reluctant helper at Lóyola that my destination
was only an hour’s drive away, I expected to be there by nightfall. But the
terrain was far more rugged than I’d expected. As daylight faded, I was still little
over half way and dropping with fatigue. And eventually I took a foolish risk.

The little bar-restaurant I passed looked
warm and inviting, and the smell of food was like a magnet. There was still some
stale omelette and dry baguette in my backpack, but I didn’t think it could
hurt to stop for something warm before I spent the night in another cold, damp barn.

By the time I came to settle the bill I
was bloated with food and somewhat inebriated. For the first time in days I
felt relaxed. My internal alarm bells had gone silent. The man behind the bar
was friendly, amusing and clearly interested in knowing about me. And when he pointed
to a sign on the wall announcing that rooms were available, I thought how nice it
would be to spend the night in such a safe, welcoming place.

I had a blissful hot bath along the
landing from my room, which was upstairs in an annexe behind the bar. Then I
turned in for the night and nodded off very quickly. But something disturbed me,
and as I lay there trying to get back to sleep, with the events of the day
going round in my head, I began to get nervous. The barman had seemed very friendly
and trusting. But he’d plied me with drink and got me talking, and I was afraid
I might have given too much away.

Without turning on the light, and wincing
at every tiny creak from the floorboards, I climbed out of bed and peered through
the shutters. At first there was no sign of life, but as I kept watch there came
a series of flashes on the horizon followed by an uneven shimmer of light. I
knew I was seeing a small convoy of vehicles cresting a hill and coming along the
winding road.

I knew then that I had been betrayed.
Thinking back to my own journey along the same deserted stretch, I reckoned
that it was no more than three kilometres back to the last ridge. Even allowing
for the poor road, I had no more than five or six minutes to get out. Thankful
that I’d slept in my clothes, I pulled on my boots and went to the door—only to
find that I was locked in.

The window offered no chance of escape; it
was nailed shut and there would have been a bone-crunching drop to the ground
below. I tried the door, but it was made of solid wood and opened inwards. Then
in desperation I tapped on the side walls, and to my surprise they seemed to be
built of nothing but wooden studs covered with painted plasterboard. It was a
cheap, amateur conversion that must have allowed every sound to filter through
from the adjacent rooms.

Looking out through the shutters again, I
could see from the moving firefly of a burning cigarette that the barman was
standing outside. He was over by the road, however, and I thought the outer
walls were thick enough to conceal the noise of a breakout. In contrast, anyone
staying in the next room was in for an unpleasant surprise.

I put all my energy into kicking at one of
the flimsy sidewalls, and in less than two minutes a sizeable chunk of it lay
in a pile of ripped cardboard and white dust on the floor. Fighting a violent
coughing fit, I hunched down and pushed my backpack through the jagged hole
into a mirror image of my own room. More plaster showered down as I pushed
through after it, then I raced to the door. Putting my ear to the timber I
could hear no one outside, and to my relief it opened without a sound.

Mercifully there was no one out on the
landing, and I tiptoed cautiously along to the stairs. Emboldened by my progress,
I crept down to the ground floor and listened again at the door to the outside.
But now I could hear a gentle scuffle on the gravel—the sound of a cold, tense
man fidgeting from foot to foot.

Turning my back on the outside door, I
explored the lower corridor and found a bathroom with a small but passable
window at the back of the building. It took only moments to open the window,
push my belongings through and ease myself out headfirst after them. The
landing was hard on my head and shoulders, but then I was up and picking my way
across the yard in the darkness. I reached the perimeter and clambered over a
wire fence just as I saw the wash of headlights and heard the crunch of tyres
on gravel.

There was no sound of voices or slamming
doors, but the lights cast frightening shadows as men mobilised around the
site. I slipped away into an orchard and light woodland beyond, the sliver of
moon giving me enough light to see obstacles without making me feel exposed. The
terrain was steep and uneven, but I kept going.

For hour after hour as the
drink wore off, I trudged across muddy fields or picked a crooked path through dank
and treacherous woodland. I clambered in and out of slimy ditches and forded freezing
streams. My hands were cut and scratched, my clothes wet and torn. At one point
I heard engines revving all too close at hand and wondered if my efforts had
been in vain. But I used the mercifully visible moon and stars to keep heading
roughly south, and eventually I came to a narrow, sunken lane that seemed to
head away from immediate danger.

It was two days later that I climbed down from the back of a farm truck and
set foot on the hallowed precincts of Alzaibar. I was light-headed from lack of
food and water, exhausted by my trek, and chilled to the marrow from the two nights
I had spent in derelict shepherds’ huts high up in the summer pasture. All the
same, I was ecstatic. The vista that unfolded as the truck climbed up into the
mountains had been spectacular, but nothing could have prepared me for the
spectacle before my eyes.     

I’d known that my destination was some
kind of hilltop monastery, but the picture in my mind as I travelled had been
of something traditional in style and modest in size. What I actually found was
a sprawling complex of modern buildings daringly cantilevered over a deep and
gorgeous ravine. The central structure, circular and somewhat resembling a
crashed flying saucer, seemed to rise diagonally out of the depths of the rift.
Its high, curving prow overshadowed a broad, kidney-shaped plaza adorned with a
fountain, a row of cloisters and a slender, tapering bell tower. It was an
impressive monument to faith and ambition, but beyond the grounds the mountain
continued its interrupted rise, culminating in a serrated crest that humbled
the man-made structure at its feet.

For all its unsettling visual impact, and the
rampant trade in religious artefacts and tacky souvenirs, I can never forget
the sense of peace and wellbeing that permeated the place.  Within a
couple of days I’d learned enough to pass myself off as a certain Brother
Esteban, and by the end of a week I could imagine myself staying there
indefinitely. In fact, forty years on, there’s still a small part of me that
never left.

Less happily, I was kept under close watch
by the Office of External Relations. Their role embraced both visitor
management and security, and they made sure that I had minimal contact with the
community’s inner life. I was a welcome guest, they assured me, but it was my
responsibility to avoid attracting attention from insiders or outsiders alike.
And before long, without any warning, my time there came to an abrupt end.

My last morning unfolded as usual,
lunchtime passed without any variation to the routine, and I was on my way to
Lectio Divina. At the leader’s request I’d chosen a short passage of scripture
to recite from memory, and I’d been rehearsing it under my breath throughout
lunch. I was still muttering it to myself as I crossed the plaza in front of
the cloisters. Then I noticed that the precincts were quieter, less bustling
than usual.

At that moment, more than a dozen brothers
from External Relations jogged past in formation, heading towards the main
entrance. They were always impressive and more than a little intimidating, moving
around with military precision and bearing. They dressed in regular monastic
garb and carried wooden staves rather than rifles, but on that day they looked
more than ever like soldiers on manoeuvre.

Bemused by what I’d seen, not realising
the implications and still reciting the memory passage to myself, I made my way
to the study room only to find it deserted. And as I turned to make my way back
to the cloisters, I could see the Director of External Relations hurrying
towards me. “James, you must leave,” he announced breathlessly. “We were looking
forward to having you with us for a little while longer, but it’s not to be.
You need to fetch your belongings quickly and go to the main gate.”

“Why? Have I done something that…”

“Please understand, this is through no
fault of yours. But we can’t talk now. You need to hurry.”

I ran up to my cell as fast as my clinging
habit would allow, and hastily changed into a freshly laundered tee-shirt and
jeans. Then I retrieved my backpack and headed for the main gate as directed.
It was a sad moment, but I was much stronger physically and mentally than I had
been when I arrived. A man I had seen around the complex before – I think he
was a doctor – was waiting in his car just beyond the gateway, which was being
guarded by the security detail I had seen heading this way earlier. The car’s
engine was already ticking over. The driver pointed at the passenger seat as I
approached, and no sooner had I climbed in than he was accelerating down the
hill.

JACK

“So now it’s not just a couple of dodgy priests; it’s a whole army of dodgy
monks and a dodgy doctor. Good Lord, if this is all true you know how to suck
people in.” Miguel was looking fixedly at Jack and for the first time Julio was
twiddling the pen round his fingers in a gesture that Jack interpreted as a
sign of irritation.

“Hey, I’m telling it the way I remember
it,” he snapped. “I’ve told you it’s not easy, and it’s going to get harder as
time goes on. If you don’t want to hear any more that’s absolutely fine by me.
Just drop me off at the nearest station and I’ll take my chances from there.
But if you want me to carry on then for God’s sake let me.”

“Yes, please go on.” There was an
unusually conciliatory tone in the detective’s voice now, and he looked across
at Julio’s notes as he spoke. “But this monastery… Alzaibar. The whole place
seems to have been sympathetic to your situation, is that right?”

“I think it was more than that,” replied
Jack. “I hope it’s safe to say this now that things are so different
politically, but I think the whole establishment was dedicated to preserving
the Basque culture and language—keeping it safe underground until the storm was
past. And to speak still more plainly, I’m sure I wasn’t the only undesirable they
were granting asylum to. In fact I’ve never got over the feeling that providing
a sanctuary for well-meaning outlaws was their main purpose in life.”

“That sounds too far-fetched to be true.
After all, they threw you out.”

“That’s too harsh. They helped me as long
as they could, but I think there were bigger fish to protect. And they had no
fortifications, no weapons. Their only armour was the political repercussions
of a frontal assault on a holy shrine.”

JAMES

As we headed down the mountain I tried hard to find out what was going
on, but my companion met every question with polite evasion. Then, as we neared
the town in the valley below the monastery, he shouted over my incessant
questions: “Quick, get down!”

Unencumbered by a seatbelt, I was able to
twist myself round and kneel in the foot-well with my torso hunched over the
seat. The driver pumped the brakes until we were down to a more sedate speed,
and shortly afterwards I felt the car buffeted as two or three vehicles raced
past up the hill. I longed for him to put his foot down, but he proceeded at a
steady pace for another couple of minutes before accelerating again.

“I think you can get up now,” he said eventually.
“Thankfully the curve in the road allowed me to see them in time, but how they
got here so quickly is a mystery.”

“So this is about me, isn’t it.” It was a
statement, not a question.

He did not answer for a few moments, then
he nodded. “Only in a manner of speaking. Actually, it’s about local history,
if that’s any comfort. You’ve just found yourself in the wrong place at the
wrong time.”

“Will the Brothers be alright?”

“I expect there’ll be shouting and perhaps
some threats bandied around. But only a madman would assault the sanctity of
Alzaibar.”

I didn’t feel reassured that the monastery
and its extended family would be safe, and for most of the journey I sat in
thoughtful silence. Meanwhile the driver kept up a brisk pace all the way to
the city of Vitoria. Parking in front of the railway station, we walked into the
ticket office where he bought me a
carnet kilométrico
—a voucher good for
three thousand kilometres’ rail travel.

“Go to Madrid,” he said brightly as we
paused at the barrier. “All the scum of Europe ends up there. The police have
their time cut out with real criminals. If there’s anywhere in the country you
should be safe, it’s on Franco’s doorstep.”

JACK

“Madrid?” muttered Miguel. “You didn’t say anything about Madrid
yesterday. I know we were rushed, but…”

“I can’t win, can I?” Jack grumbled in
response. “One minute I’m giving you too much information; the next, I’m
leaving things out. You asked the questions yesterday, and I answered them. Anyway,
I was only there for one night. I was planning to stay until I felt it was safe
to head up to the border, but I had an unpleasant experience…”

Miguel made to interrupt, but at a look
from Julio he held back as Jack continued. “I checked in at the youth hostel,
which was a big mistake.”

The detective could no longer control
himself. “Of course it was a mistake. You’d been warned not to use paying
accommodation.”

“That wasn’t the problem. I knew it was
dangerous, of course, and I was knotted up with fright. I had no doubt that I
could pass myself off as a Spanish national in a brief conversation, but I knew
I’d be unmasked by anyone who wanted to chat about football or the local attractions.”

“Documentation was a more serious threat,”
commented Julio.

“It was. I had no passport and no idea
whether my name or description were on some kind of hot-list. Fortunately the
receptionist made no attempt to engage me in conversation, and using the
Spanish identity card still in my possession I registered as Carlos Echeverría.”

“A serious criminal offence, whatever else
you were innocent of,” said Miguel drily. “I could still arrest you for it
today.” He turned to the driver. “Julio, that’s our best lead yet. If Carlos
Echeverría was the name on the
documento nacional
that Jack picked up at
the murder scene, then it’s a real name that ought to cross-check with old case
files. Can you follow that up right away?”

Julio nodded but made no move to go over
to the telephone or the MacBook that sat on a small desk in the corner. Jack
wondered, not for the first time, what the professional relationship was
between the two off them. Julio was clearly more than a chauffeur or personal
assistant. While Miguel freely issued orders to him, the younger man had a mind
of his own. And the guy fought like an all-action hero.

“You can carry on,” said Miguel, when Jack
failed to launch back into his story.

“Sorry,” replied Jack. “I’m trying to
decide how much about Madrid to leave out. Most of it, I think. The doctor made
a good call in advising me to stay there. But one night in the stinking,
unsanitary, bug-infested slum of a youth hostel – the unpleasant experience I
was about to mention before you jumped in – left me feeling so unclean that I couldn’t
face another night. I spent a couple of hours hunting for somewhere else to
stay, then gave up and headed back to the station.”

“And your next port of call was…” Miguel
consulted his own notes from the previous afternoon. “Córdoba. I’ve heard it’s
a lovely place.”

“That’s not why I chose it. I simply took
potluck on the first train heading south. But you’re right. It was such an
extraordinary place, and I was feeling so confident that I’d left my troubles
behind in the Basque Country, that I booked into a cheap hotel and began to
enjoy myself.”

“Clearly you hadn’t left it all behind,”
muttered Julio. “Weren’t you worried at all?”

“Of course I was. And for the first two or
three days I was constantly looking over my shoulder. But as the days went by I
felt more and more relaxed. And after a week with no sign of trouble, I was
sure my problems were sorted. So much so that I abandoned my plan to head for
the border and bought a ticket to Granada.”

JAMES

I approached the youth hostel in Granada with some trepidation. My
experience at the sister establishment in Madrid had quite literally left its mark
on me—I’d been bitten from head to foot. And a still greater worry was that the
staff would be more vigilant. But in the event it was spotlessly clean and
nobody looked too hard at my ID. The three-night rule was rigidly enforced, but
an idea for another interesting detour was already growing in my mind.

It was a happy and carefree interlude. I
hooked up on the first evening with a strikingly attractive and sweet-natured
German girl named Ursula. Over the next two days we developed a strong mutual
attraction, and who knows where it might have led if I hadn’t needed to leave
in a hurry.

JACK

“Why are you telling us all this, Jack?” Miguel was now firmly back in
the driving seat.

“Why are you asking?” responded Jack
impatiently.

“I’ve already told you. I’m taking a
statement in a murder investigation. We haven’t got time to listen to your
memoirs.”

“And I’ve told you,” shouted Jack, his
face turning red, “I’m struggling now to put these events into some sort of
coherent order. I’m bringing out all the filth and the pain I’ve been keeping
inside for decades to try and help you, and you’re constantly working against
me. It’s got to the point where you’re wasting more time than I am. And if you
must ask, there is a point to this.”

Jack looked down at the floor, suddenly
quiet again. “There was something I’d been planning to do for years if I ever made
it down to southern Spain—somebody I’d been planning to visit. The troubles I’d
been through had put it out of my thoughts, but after a superb week in Córdoba
and an even better couple of days in Granada I was in the mood to go ahead with
it.”

“Fair enough’” answered Miguel, still a
trifle grudgingly. “But you can spare us more of the love story.”

Jack looked back at him with ill-concealed
anger, but continued. “The Alhambra Palace is the most beautiful and serene place
I’ve ever seen. It’s all about light and shadow. Every tiny shift in the angle
of the sun reveals fresh new detail in the carving. There’s womb-like sound and
unceasing movement from fountains and streams. And as you look beyond the
castle walls, the sky and the surrounding hills and even the mountainous
horizon seem part of the architecture. He paused, watching the detective’s
reaction. “Don’t worry,” he continued when he saw that a further interruption
was imminent. “That’s the end of the travelogue. But again it’s relevant,
because the magic of the place is part of the story.”

JAMES

It was the second and last full day of my stay in Granada. Ursula and I returned
from a second breath-taking visit to the Alhambra to find something that seemed
out of place in the heat and dust of ancient Granada. A big, dirty, greasy, rusty
British bike was standing in the shade of the male dormitory block. And over in
reception stood the Bikers from Hell, struggling to fill in registration forms
as the English-speaking clerk grappled with their Glaswegian dialect. Taking
Ursula by the arm and beckoning her to come with me, I went over to offer any
help I could.

One of the bikers was male and the other
female, but without the former’s beard and six feet of iron-pumping sinew it could
have been difficult to tell which was which. Their hair was plastered down with
sweat. Their skin was black with sun burn, wind burn, road dust and engine oil.
Their voices were cracked with thirst and fatigue. He introduced himself as
Dougal, and I think she was Sandy. They were very much in love, and it quickly
became clear that they were on their honeymoon.

For all their terrifying appearance, they turned
out to be terrific company and younger than they’d seemed at first sight: he
was in his mid-twenties and she might have been a couple of years older. However,
the camarero at the poolside bar took an instant and visible dislike to them, and
after one drink we strolled off in search of a friendlier atmosphere. “Ah, you two
look as much like newlyweds as me and Doogie,” giggled Sandy, as Ursula and I
sat holding hands across from them.

To save further interruptions I’ll skip the
rest of the evening, and now we’re getting to the interesting part. As soon as Ursula
disappeared into the women’s dormitory for the night, the manager came over and
drew me aside. “I know you have to leave tomorrow,” he began, “but let me tell
you something. I had a phone call earlier, asking me to describe the appearance
of a certain Señor Echeverría. Do you know anybody by that name?”

I shook my head in denial, startled at the
mention of a Basque surname so far south. A moment later, my heart sank as I
realised that I had given myself away. Echeverría was Carlos’ surname—the name under
which I’d registered.

“I thought not,” said the manager as he
handed me the incriminating identity card, which had been lodged in the safe. “I’d
already spotted that this isn’t you, but you’d better take it. I doubt if you
have any other means of identification, and I don’t think you’re the type to
deserve trouble.”

“Thank you. If you only knew. Did you tell
them I was here?”

“There was no point denying it; they had your
registration card. I’m sorry.”

“I suppose I’d better leave now, then.
Thank you for telling me.”

“There’s no point in going this late;
there’ll be no transport. My advice is to leave very early tomorrow, at five
o’clock or six at the latest. And don’t follow the road any more than you have
to. Go down the hill and you'll come to a gate in the goods yard. Go in through
the gate, follow the railway line, and you'll come to the station from the
inside. Stay on the platform with people around you until your train comes in."

I thanked him again and turned to go to
the dormitory, but he hadn’t finished. He put a hand on my arm as he continued.
“And will you do me a favour? If anyone should ask why you’ve taken that route,
will you please not mention me? Just say that it looked like a good shortcut.”