

### WAR TO THE DEATH

By

Richard F Jones

SMASHWORDS EDITION

To my wife Meg, our friends Ken and Dee and our Spanish friend Pilar Mendizabal, whose tireless efforts made the publication of this book possible.

Also to Paddy Woodworth whose book 'The Basque Country' was a major source of reference.

ISBN: 978-1-4523-6263-2

© 2010 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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* * * * *

### PROLOGUE

Clouds scud across a half moon. Out in the bay there's a light, nothing more than a dot really. In the gloom I can't see the boat. At my feet is a travelling bag containing a couple of shirts, change of underwear, socks, shaving things, not much else. Then, from the seashore, a torch light flashes on and off, three times. It's our agreed signal. Time to go. I pick up the bag and head for the shore.

'We're going to have to hurry,' Macklin says when I reach the shoreline. 'The coastguard cutter is about.' Macklin was the one who'd flashed the torch. He was sitting in the stern of a tiny dinghy, bobbing up and down on the water, like a cork.

'That's all we need,' I reply.

He beckons me to get on board. Between the outcrop of rock I'm standing on and the dinghy, a churning chasm of water sloshes menacingly. For a moment I stand still, breathing heavily. Then I make a move and stumble clumsily, nearly turning the little craft over as I get on board.

'Steady on man, for Christ sake,' Macklin says. 'You'll have us in the drink before we start.'

'Sorry. Not much good on boats,' I say.

'Now's a fine time to tell me that.' He grunts, says no more and begins rowing. The boat is anchored out in the bay, a cabin cruiser about thirty feet long.

'Are you sure it'll get us there?' I had asked.

'She'll get there all right,' Macklin said. It was his boat and we'd negotiated a fee in the bar.

'That's a lot of money,' I replied when he told me the price.

'I have to get back as well,' he'd grumbled. 'I'm the one who's taking the risk. If I lose my boat I've lost everything.'

'I thought you said there wouldn't be a problem?'

'There shouldn't be, but you never know with the sea. That's my price. Take it or leave it.'

I was in no position to argue. He was the only one I could trust, the only one who didn't gossip. He was Scottish and couldn't speak much of the language. He had his boat and he fished. When he wasn't fishing, he drank whisky and mended his nets. Then he was usually too bad tempered to converse, so nobody bothered. Which made him my best bet.

We were on the South East Coast of Spain. How had it got this crazy? Why was I putting myself through all this? Those were the questions I posed to myself as I awkwardly clambered aboard the boat.

### CHAPTER ONE

Now when I look back I can see clearly that a trail had been set out for me. Not a wide open trail, like a road or a highway. It was more akin to the narrow, twisting, rugged tracks of the Western Highlands of Scotland where I have a home. And with the benefit of hindsight I wouldn't have wanted it any other way, for therein lies the tale I am about to tell.

One morning I was standing at the front gate of my Highland dwelling. The vista there isn't an ordinary view by any stretch of the imagination. I live in an area that encompasses the mountains, corries and glens of the deer forests of Kinlochewe, Torridon and Sheildaig. At my front gate I can stand and look straight ahead at the long ridge of Beinn Eighe. Throughout the day clouds scud across the three lofty summits, beguilingly changing the hues of the surrounding landscape by the hour. Outside the gate travels the narrow road that runs down to the loch. Halfway there it cuts through a gap, between a wood of pine trees. To my left, on a clear day, you can just see the Atlantic Ocean. The next stop after that is America. The prevailing wind comes that way. Sometimes it brings the warming relief of the Caribbean Gulf Stream; at other times catastrophic gales hammer in and attack the landscape. It's all very spectacular, challenging and occasionally frightening, but never, ever, boring. Living up here you tend to take it all for granted. Occasionally, it requires a visitor or a passer-by to spell out how good it is. 'Some spot you've got here mister', someone will say, or something like that, as they walk past. Then for a while you tend to stop and gawp, rather than get on with what you are supposed to be doing.

On that particular Thursday morning the sun was out and I was certainly in a gawping frame of mind. I'd been idling at the gate, taking in the view and pondering on the day ahead, when a small blue Peugeot, with a high powered, noisy engine, pulled up in front of me. The passenger window lowered and a young woman with blonde hair, a creamy complexion and dark blue bewitching eyes, leant across from the driver's seat.

'I'm trying to find the home of Mister Ray,' she said confidently.

'You're looking at him,' I replied.

She turned off the engine and got out. The tasks I'd been contemplating suddenly vanished into thin air. Getting down to my correspondence was a chore I could happily put off, for approaching me was the most delectable female form I had seen in a long while. Unfortunately living in the wilds of the Highlands brings about a certain monastic existence; not necessarily out of choice.

'I'm Caroline Carson,' this potential goddess said, while walking towards me. The accent certainly wasn't local.

'Pleased to meet you, I'm Gerald Ray,' I replied.

'Oh good. I do apologise,' she continued. 'I should have phoned, but my mobile kept going out of range in the mountains. Then all of a sudden I was here.' She possessed the figure and strut of a fashion model, plus a glossy magazine-cover smile.

'Well I'm very glad you're here,' I said.

For a moment we both looked at each other; stared in my case. Hers was a face I'd seen, or half knew, but couldn't identify.

'Do you know who I am?' she asked.

'Caroline Carson,' I said. She giggled. Spidery laugh lines appeared at the corner of her eyes.

'I'm a television reporter. London Weekend News.'

'Oh, sorry,' I said feeling embarrassed. 'Can't get it up here. No reception; the mountains you came through I'm afraid. Here it's either Grampian with lots of snow on the picture, or Sky with lots of rental, so I don't bother much.'

Her smile broadened again. It was becoming addictive.

'Very wise,' she interjected, then shook her head. The blonde hair swayed like a pony's mane. 'No I shouldn't say that, 'cause that's why I'm here,' she added quickly. 'That really is some view. Could I please come in for a minute?'

'I'm sorry, you must think me very rude,' I said. 'You've caught me off guard. Please,' I pleaded and opened the gate.

My nineteenth century cottage is small but modernised. Big enough for my possessions yet compact for ease of maintenance. Triple glazing, thick insulation and central heating helps to keep out the winter raw. Log burning stoves in the lounge and kitchen are an inconvenient sop to the romantic Highland idyll; quite useful on cold damp summer evenings, providing they light first time and you don't have to chop the wood. Anyway it's a suitable nook for a single man, who attempts to make his living by writing.

She needed to use the loo, which gave me the opportunity to tidy the lounge and put on the kettle. 'Thank you,' she said when she came out of the bathroom. 'I needed that. My last port of call was outside Inverness.'

'Aye, it's a long way up here,' I said. 'I've made some tea.'

'That's kind of you. You didn't have to.'

She followed me into the lounge. While I deposited the tray and fiddled with the cups, she moved to the window to admire the view. Outside the sun was still bright and it shone through her short, blue, polka dot dress and delayed my questions. Even now, all these years later, the poise of her stance remains imprinted in my brain. It's one of the visions I call upon on a bleak day. She was a youthful thirty-ish, I guessed. A figure of athletic agility, legs of fashion model slenderness and neck length blonde hair, like silk.

'That really is some view. Is it like it all time?' she asked and turned around to face me.

I could have repeated the question about her but I resisted temptation.

'No, it's never the same for more than a few minutes,' I replied. 'Mind you, when the cloud is down you can't see the mountain at all. Sugar?'

'No thank you. Well it's very beautiful.'

I beckoned to the armchair and sat opposite her.

'You must be wondering why I'm here?' she asked, then picked up her teacup.

'With your looks I don't really care, but yes, it did cross my mind.'

She gave me another photogenic smile, took a sip of her tea, then looked at me intently. 'You're a writer aren't you?' she said sternly. 'You wrote 'Early Dawn'?'

'Guilty on both counts,' I replied. 'I have written other stories as well though.'

'I know. I've read most of them.'

'Thank you. I'm flattered,' I responded.

Suddenly business was intruding on our flirtation and usually I didn't like reporters or journalists when they began to pry. Already my internal defence mechanism was cutting in.

'If I have it right,' she said. 'In 'Early Dawn', the plot includes a Spanish terrorist group known as 'The Sons of Tyranny'?' Her words were left in the air as a question. She had slender hands with long delicate fingers and used them expressively as she talked.

'That's correct,' I said. 'Although there were other characters who were perhaps more central to the story.'

'Yes I know that too,' she replied almost condescendingly. 'But it's 'The Sons' in particular that are my reason for coming here.'

Suddenly I was becoming edgy. My Highland abode was my bolt-hole from the madness of the London literary and publishing world. Few people know of my address up here and I wondered how she'd found me. And I didn't like small features of my work being picked upon. My novels were usually full-blooded political thrillers, involving lots of outlandish characters in historical situations. Individual characters, except the main principals, weren't that central and only, I hoped, added to the local colour and political landscape at the time. That was my intention anyway with 'The Sons of Tyranny'.

'What's the problem with 'The Sons' then?' I said rather tetchily.

She finished drinking her tea, put the cup down, and then continued. 'It seems they've reformed and are seeking out their former enemies.'

I laughed out loud, a coarse, silly, raucous laugh. 'That's ridiculous,' I said. 'They must all be dead by now. What I wrote about happened over sixty years ago.'

'Early Dawn' was set in Spain in the nineteen thirties, and covered some of the events of the Spanish Civil War, leading up to the time Hitler invaded Poland. The Civil War was, for Spain's military leaders, and particularly their dogmatic General, Francisco Franco, a battle against what they saw as the infiltration of Communism. They were backed in their cause by the political establishment and the Roman Catholic Church. On the other side, for the Republican Government, the conflict was a struggle against Fascism. 'The Sons' were part of General Franco's private army. Their tasks included eliminating his enemies by whatever means was necessary. In the novel I had used some of their more dastardly deeds as colour and mentioned the names of a few of their more illustrious protagonists. I had ensured however, that those mentioned by name were dead and buried a long time ago. But in no way could any of them be considered major players in the overall story.

Caroline Carson crossed her legs. Her tights made a swishing sound; silk on silk. She said. 'My research indicates that 'The Sons' are somewhat similar to the Protestant Orangemen in Northern Ireland, in that they continue to hold meetings, annual parades, and that sort of thing. Except of course 'The Sons' are Catholics,' she added quickly. 'Now, in certain parts of Spain,' she continued, 'they have a bit of a cult following. There's related punk music and inflammatory rhetoric, which has inspired the younger elements, probably as a macho exercise, to exact revenge on those who were against their forefathers.'

I chuckled before I spoke again. 'Well what's that got to do with me?'

Her eyes hardened in on me. For the first time I felt on the defensive. 'Because we've picked up a story from a Spanish news agency about them,' she said. 'It confirms that you are on their hit list.' I stared at her. She continued. 'At work, my colleagues had never heard of you, but, as I said, I've read your books. You're the only British author, in recent times, who's dabbled in that genre. Maybe they want to make an example of you. I don't know, but I promise you the threat could be real.'

I sat upright in my chair and drew in a deep breath. For a few moments I didn't know what to say. She must have noticed my dilemma, so she spoke again. 'I am telling you the truth, honestly,' she said. Through the window behind her the sun was highlighting the edges of her hair.

'But I repeat, why me? What's it got to do with me?' I said.

'Who knows,' she responded while shrugging her shoulders. 'These people, as well as being vindictive, are also probably sick, but that's not going to help you.'

From a pocket in her dress she pulled out a folded up collection of newspaper cuttings and without saying anything further handed them across to me. They were written in Spanish, but I knew enough of the language to get their drift.

Each article contained the report of a murder. There was a story about a man who had been dumped in the sea off Barcelona with a concrete block chained to his body. Another piece depicted the death of a man found with a burning tyre around his neck. A body was pushed from the fourteenth floor of a tower block in Madrid. All of the reports were headed by the words 'The Sons of Tyranny'. Caroline Carson watched me in silence as I read through them all.

'Ok,' I said, when I put the last one down, 'but all these atrocities happened in Spain. They're hardly likely to come all the way up here looking for me. Even 'The Sons' would be hard pressed to find this place, and I haven't seen a Spaniard within five hundred miles of here. They don't usually travel that well,' I added with a chuckle.

A half smile crossed her eyes but the intensity of her expression remained on her face. She was beginning to make me nervous.

'But you have an apartment in Spain,' she cut in quickly, 'and I'm told you are about to go back there soon.'

Now I was annoyed. 'Who told you that?' I snapped back.

'Your agent,' she replied and slowly allowed another smile to slide across her pouted lips.

'Oh him,' I said. 'Did he tell you my address up here as well?'

'No, he just said you lived in Scotland. I found out the rest for myself.'

Out of the proceeds of my earlier novels and the advance for 'Early Dawn' I had purchased a small apartment in the South East of Spain and during the worst, damp months of the Highland winter, while writing the story, I escaped there to its more temperate climate. I tend to function better in reasonable warmth and being in Spain also meant I was on hand to carry out research on the subject matter.

'That bloody man will be the death of me,' I responded about my agent.

'I wouldn't say that. When we spoke he seemed most concerned for your welfare.'

'Ha,' I replied rather flippantly.

I watched her take a good long look at me. I concluded that this was no facile bimbo. Clearly she was a professional woman who had done her homework and knew what she was about.

'Ok,' I said, 'so what brings you here? There must be bigger stories for you people to get involved in than the measly problems of an itinerant author?'

She said nothing for a few moments. There was an intake of breath, her pupils expanded and I watched the rise and fall of her chest. 'Our information,' she began, 'is that 'The Sons', the current version that is, have connections with al-Qaeda. I'm an investigative news reporter. If we can tie up their involvement there may be further leads appertaining to the Madrid railway station bombings. As you rightly infer, I haven't come all this way just to taste the Highland air. I'm a career woman and nowadays you're only as good as your last scoop, and this may be a big one. With your knowledge of Spain and its past terrorist activities you could be very useful to me.'

I swallowed hard.

### CHAPTER TWO

Caroline Carson didn't stay with me long on that first meeting. But the impression she made and the things she said to me over those few hours became my guiding light for some time. A writer, living on his own in the back of beyond, doesn't regularly get the opportunity to talk at length on worldly matters, to someone of similar volition. Caroline, while she was there, provided me with a much-needed outlet. And of course I was also hooked by her looks.

The nearest restaurant to my cottage is twenty miles away, so at lunchtime I cooked bacon, egg and chips for us both. She certainly possessed a healthy appetite. Afterwards we walked down to the loch. 'If I can really make some inroads into this investigation,' she'd said on our walk, 'they may allow me to make a documentary. If that's the case I could bring you in on it. There could be a fee for you, which may be substantial, in view of the danger and your expertise on the subject. It would be up to you though. I repeat, it could be extremely dangerous. You'd have to think very carefully about it,' she'd said.

Over the next hour we talked more on that and many other matters as well. When late afternoon arrived she made tracks to leave. There was a hotel at Inverness awaiting her and then a long drive next day to London. I stood at the gate and watched her car pull away. Even at that early stage I could feel my heartstrings tugging with every yard it travelled. When she was out of sight I went straight inside and phoned my agent.

'Bracewell you old bastard, I've caught you in for once,' I said when he answered.

'H'm. Oh it's you,' he responded.

'Yes it's me, who did you think it was, John Grisham?'

'H'm,' he repeated. He had a habit of doing that when he was stuck for something to say. It made a sound as though he was humming to himself.

I first met Erskine Bracewell about twenty years before on the Bob Bank at Ninian Park; home of Cardiff City football club. At the time I was working as a journalist for the Western Mail in Cardiff. Bracewell was a moderately successful local radio broadcaster in the same city. During those years we were both keen supporters of 'The Bluebirds'. Unfortunately, we had the misfortune to watch them slide from the then second division, down to the lower depths of the leagues. I gave up when they reached the bottom of the fourth division, although I think Bracewell persisted for a while longer. Anyway, our acquaintanceship ended at that point.

We met up again ten years later at a literary party in Chelsea. My first novel was about to be published and I was looking for an agent. My publishers had sent me to some woman who was a cross between Claire Rayner and Anne Robinson. Since our last meeting Bracewell had moved to London and set up shop as a literary agent. For the rest of that evening in Chelsea we discussed the merits of all the Cardiff players we'd watched over the years and after that he became my agent.

'How's the book coming along?' he interjected.

'It's coming,' I replied. 'Why, are you getting short of money?'

'No, just interested. Your publishers have been ringing me wanting to know. You're on a deadline you know.'

'I'm aware of that. What are you going to do when I give up writing?'

'Find a more affable client.' I heard him sigh and take a deep breath. 'You were ringing me I think. How can I help?'

'What's this with you giving out my address to television reporters?' I said.

'What?' he replied.

'Caroline Carson,' I responded.

'Oh, her. I didn't give her your address. When she told me about this business with 'The Sons', I just told her you had an apartment in Spain. It seemed relevant, but I didn't release your address.'

'But she found me up here. You must have said where I lived?'

I heard another deep intake of breath. 'No I didn't. She said she wanted to contact you. I told her you were incommunicado, writing your new novel. She said where, in Spain? I said no, somewhere in Scotland, but I didn't say where.'

'She's very persistent then,' I responded.

'Seems like it.'

'Well what do you think?' I asked.

'About what?'

'About the bloody 'Sons',' I shouted, getting exasperated.

'I don't know what to think Gerald. She sprung it on me, just like I guess she sprung it on you.'

'Well do you think it's OK for me to go over to Spain? You know I'm in the middle of selling up out there. I was planning to visit in a week or two to tidy things up.'

'H'm,' Bracewell responded. It did annoy me when he made that sound.

'Well?' I said impatiently. I heard him draw in another deep breath.

'You'd better leave it with me,' he said eventually. 'I'll get in touch with your publishers. I expect they're used to this sort of thing nowadays. Salman Rushdie and all that.'

I was getting angry again. 'I'm not concerned with Salman Rushdie thank you. I'm concerned with Gerald Ray. Anyway that was a completely different thing.'

'I'll get back to you,' he said. 'Get on with that bloody book,' he continued.

'Piss off,' I replied and hung up.

* * * * *

I suppose, being the only son of a Spanish mother, led to my fascination with that country, although I was born in Cardiff, where I spent my formative years. My father, Gordon Ray, was a Scottish seaman out of Glasgow, whose ship would regularly call into Cardiff. There he met Maria Zabaleta who was living with her uncle and aunt, Victor and Helenna Gomez, in Tiger Bay, near to the city's docks.

My mother and father's relationship began in the early nineteen forties. When the war ended they married and set up home near to her relations. When I arrived on the scene my father was working as a ship's pilot in the docks and then later on he got work at the nearby Tremorfa steel works.

So I was schooled locally and afterwards joined the Western Mail newspaper as a cub reporter. My early jobs there involved covering funerals, weddings, fetes and charity events; although in time I did go on to better things. My initial foray into Spain was a typical Costa holiday with my pals, when I was in my early twenties. Sun, sand, sea, sangria and whatever sex we could get, were, I'm afraid, our principal desires in those youthfully energetic times. However, once my mother learnt of the impending trip she began, for the first time in my life, to recount details of the scarred history of her homeland. Those scattered snippets inevitably fired my journalistic curiosity. At the time Franco still ruled Spain with an iron fist, but on holiday, when I journeyed inland, away from the Costa sin-spots, I found the simple agrarian lifestyle of the hinterland people idyllic. Their customs, traditions and fiestas fascinated me. The engrossing colours of the rural landscape and the surrounding mountains I found beguiling. And so my annual holiday trips became more than just an excuse to test my alcohol dependence and the ardour of my libido. Gradually I began to dig into the history and the culture of the country and more specifically that of my mother's homeland territory of the Basque country. And, over the years, bit by bit, I was able to extract from her more about the torrid times of her upbringing.

Eventually she revealed to me that when she was nineteen years old, Franco's henchmen had murdered her mother and father because of their Republican leanings. At the time Franco had launched a purge of ethnic cleansing against anybody who had connections with the Republican movement; he maintained they were all tainted with communism. In similar vein to the Nazi's, he also wanted to rid his country of any possible hereditary legacy. So, many of the children of Republican people were murdered as well. My mother came into that category and for her own safety she had to flee to South Wales and live with her relations. Another family member smuggled her across the Spanish border, to Biarritz, and then somehow or another she managed to get on a boat bound for Cardiff.

She never went back to Spain. There was no record of her parent's death or their place of burial. With tears in her eyes she would tell me about the happy times of her younger childhood. 'I would dearly love to know my parent's final resting place,' she said to me many times in her later years. Tragically she died of cancer before I was able to complete 'Early Dawn'; my father having died some years before with a heart attack. I had though inherited her dark Iberian colouring, black hair and feisty manner, although my father's Scottish height and bone structure were also prominent features of my make up.

Fortunately my journalistic career prospered. Throughout those years and using the newspaper's facilities I attempted to make more enquiries about my mother's background. However, whenever I made any inroads, there was always a curtain of silence in Spain pulled tightly across such matters. Writing 'Early Dawn' did provide the opportunity to take matters further. While undertaking my research I was able to go to the Basque country and metaphorically dig around. Most times though, I encountered the same wall of silence. Nobody would say much on past deaths, officially or unofficially, and what little I discovered was a blanket of misinformation.

So for many years there had been a welter of unanswered questions in my mind about my family's roots. So Caroline Carson's call to my home that Thursday reactivated a veritable hornet's nest that had lain dormant for a long time.

* * * * *

A biting wind hit my face like a slap. The eerie, plaintive cry of a lone buzzard echoed around the valley below. When I stepped off the icy summit, a stag in velvet, was standing still, glaring at me some twenty yards away. The shock of seeing him made me lose my footing and I slipped onto my backside and slid down the steep slope, over loose rocks. 'Shit,' I cursed. The stag continued to watch my antics with what looked like mild amusement. When I was back on my feet he moved off and I didn't see him again.

Within a short drive of my home I am lucky to have numerous Munros; mountains over 3000ft, at my beck and call. Given the right weather, the scenery from the top of any of them is spectacular and the strident exercise involved is usually a more than adequate cure-all for the bodily ails of a writer who's been slumped most of the day over a laptop, under a deadline from his publishers. Concentrating on my work was difficult after Caroline Carson's revelations and my barney with Bracewell, so I'd stomped off in the direction of a mountain. Part of the pathway there, was, in times of yore, an old drover's route. Elements of its original stone surface still jut through the grass and mud of the track. My walks up there as well as being therapeutic, in terms of physical endeavour, also occasionally brought me into contact with some of the cultural aspects of my neighbourhood. Travelling the byways, I had come to meet many of the locals who also traversed those routes. Mainly they were crofters; unfortunately a dying breed, gathering their sheep and cattle, which grazed on the common land. I was never going to be accepted in their midst, but once they discovered I was half Scottish and half Welsh/Spanish, I did, just about, qualify for a little more than the usual cursory nod, or incoherent catarrhal grunt, they reserved for incomers. In time they became curious about me. 'Where did I come from?' 'What did I do?' 'Was I married?' 'What was I doing living up there?' Were some of the questions constantly pumped at me in their soft, lilting voices. However, trying to extract anything concrete from them on their individual backgrounds would have presented even the KGB with a formidable challenge. A wall of silence similar to the one I'd faced in Spain was the usual response to my intimate questions. I was however able to learn from them about the cloud formations that eddied around Beinn Eighe, and, in time, and with practice, I could just about make a reasonable attempt at forecasting the local weather for that day.

Most of the men I met were in their retirement years and happily they would relate to me about times past; tales of the brutal weather; stories of strength, endurance and fortitude, involving local characters. Incidents that occurred before proper transport came to the Highlands. Times when the men from the village had to walk ten miles to work, in all weathers and ten miles back again afterwards. At each meeting I would try and prise a little more out of them.

That day though I saw nobody and my mind had nothing to work on but the matters Caroline Carson had related. Part of me still dismissed any threat 'The Sons' could make as arrant nonsense. Why would those guys want to bother with me after all this time, I asked myself? Sales of 'Early Dawn' had peaked at least two years back. And in the book I had never actually criticised 'The Sons' activities. My Spanish apartment did however, present a problem. I could leave the clearing up there to my agent, but there were people I needed to see, plus some outstanding bills to sort out. What whetted my appetite about going back though was the possibility of undertaking more research into my family's fateful past and with Caroline Carson's assistance, maybe writing a new blockbuster novel on the subject.

When I was back in my cottage I checked on my e-mails. A missive from Bracewell came up and I pressed the relevant key. 'I've spoken to your publishers,' his e-mail began. 'They're still bitching about the imminent completion date of your new book. However, I told them of your plight and they put me onto some guy at the Foreign Office. It seems there is a standard procedure now for this sort of thing. He told me these idiots you wrote about could be serious. The FO has been monitoring their activities for a year or two now. He's e-mailed me a form that you will have to complete if they are to take you under their wing, so to speak. I warn you, it's ten pages long and you have to complete all of it if you want their help. I'm sending it as an attachment to this e-mail. The man's advice is that you shouldn't even consider travelling to Spain. He says there's recently been a spate of killings and atrocities attributed to your mates and you could be in danger. Much the best thing, I think, is to stay up there and get your head down on the new book. You can e-mail the form back to me when you have completed it if you want and I'll send it off to the FO.

Best wishes

Erskine.

'Fucking Hell,' I swore out loud. Ten page form; e-mail attachment; what did Bracewell think I was, a bloody computer geek. I'm a writer. I pay him to look after all that sort of nonsense for me, was my initial response to his mail. I was furious. I had a good mind at that moment to telephone him back and give him a bloody good bollocking. Who did he think he was telling me what to do and what not to do. Without me he'd starve. Then I remembered Caroline Carson's words on our walk by the loch side. Her perfume was still lingering hauntingly in my lounge. 'This could be huge for both of us,' she'd said. Before she left we'd agreed that I would contact her if I wanted to proceed with my involvement in Spain. She'd written her mobile number on a scrap of paper and at that moment it was on the small oak table by the lounge window. Every time my eyes wandered in its direction I was tempted to pick the phone up and dial the number. I did manage to resist, although I spent the rest of the day on the Internet checking the flights to Spain.

* * * * *

Over the next few days I made concentrated attempts at my work. In between, I indulged myself with more energetic forays along my favourite mountain tracks. I'd chosen 'Ardwyn', for the name of my dwelling up there, which roughly translates as road to the hill, mainly because of those facilities. It was also at least a fifteen-hour drive from London, usually entailing an overnight stop. The rail and bus excursion being even more prohibitive. So, my aim of peace and solitude in which to write coupled with a vast unspoilt landscape in which to indulge my walking hobby is satisfied. The major drawback, as I mentioned before, is the lack of company to act as a sounding board when needed. And being on your own for long periods in the Highlands can sometimes get to you. Occasionally, the desolation, the vast emptiness, the days when swirling mists hover in lonely glens, can affect your mind. In certain weather conditions a ghostly atmosphere prevails and unexplainable things do happen.

One winter evening I was walking along the loch side road after dinner. A full moon was up. The tall shore side pine trees were casting eerie shadows, like New York skyscrapers across the still water. Above my head a million twinkling stars danced in the night sky. Then, from nowhere, the figure of a man dressed in the full regalia of a sea captain approached. Momentarily I was taken aback. His face bore a full set, white beard. On his head he wore a peaked officers cap with lots of gold braid. 'Good evening,' he said to me when he was near. I responded in the same manner and he passed me by. After a few seconds I turned around to look back and he wasn't there. At that spot, the road along the loch side is dead straight for some distance and there's no pathway off it anywhere. It couldn't have been more than five seconds since he'd spoken to me, but he'd gone.

A few days later I mentioned it to one of the crofters on my walk. 'Och that's old Albert,' he responded with a chuckle in his voice. 'He was a sea captain who used to live around here at the turn of the century. He came home from the sea once, and found that his wife had disappeared. Rumour has it she was murdered while out on a walk in the woods. So when he retired from the sea, Albert would go out every night in the woods and look for her. The old locals say he eventually went mad. Sometimes my wife sees him outside the kitchen window when she's making the late night drink. First time it happened she screamed the house down, but he's quite harmless,' my acquaintance added.

### CHAPTER THREE

I was sitting at my desk by the window reading an e-mail from Jasmine Browne, my editor. Although her missive contained a sting in the tail about an approaching deadline, she was quite complimentary about the fifty pages of my new novel that I had sent her. Looking out at Beinn Eighe I noticed a pink edged cloud had engulfed the summit. My daydreaming was broken by the telephone ringing.

'Is that you Gerald?' Caroline Carson responded to my reply.

'It is,' I said defensively, guessing what might be coming next. Initially we exchanged pleasantries about the state of our respective health and the weather in the Highlands. A vision of her creamy skin, silky hair and the stark clarity of the blue eyes formed in my brain as we talked. 'Gerald, I thought you'd like to know,' she said eventually, 'that I'm making real progress on the matter we discussed. As a result I'm flying out to Spain at the end of next week. I will be going to Madrid first, but looking at the map, I notice, that via the motorway, it's not that much of a trip down to where you have your place. I was wondering if we could meet up down there?'

At that exact moment Jasmine Browne's e-mail about the looming deadline was facing me on the laptop screen. And, lodged in the back of my mind were Erskine Bracewell's revelations about the likely intentions of 'The Sons of Tyranny' if they ever caught up with me. So my initial response to Caroline Carson wasn't quite as enthusiastic as it might have been.

'I'm not sure at the moment Caroline,' I began. 'I'm on a deadline with my novel.'

For a few brief moments there was a silence on the other end of the line. Then I heard an intake of her breath. Hearing it close to my ear made my toes curl.

'Well it's up to you Gerald,' she retorted firmly. There was another slight pause. 'I just thought the likelihood of a good fee for a documentary about this would be of interest to you, not to mention the novel you could write. You'd have the al-Qaeda connection all to yourself. No-one else would know about it.' There was another pause on the line while I listened to a further impatient intake of her breath. 'But of course it's entirely up to you,' she added.

Every word she spoke, every nuance she emphasised, severely chipped away at my resolve. The rebel-rousing oration of a coach for the Welsh rugby team, about to play the English, wouldn't have had a more dynamic effect. Temporarily I was stunned into confusion and unable to form a suitable reply. 'Gerald, are you still there?' she said.

'Yes, I'm still here,' I responded.

'Well what do you think?' she cut in quickly.

'I think I'm going to have to think about it,' I said, gruffly. 'I'm in the middle of writing at the moment. Give me your mobile number again and I'll get back to you when I've completed the bit I'm doing.'

She sounded deflated and petulantly rang off. Afterwards I sat in my study, gazing out through the window at the mountains. The train of thought regarding my novel was gone. Her call was really the last thing I needed at that particular moment. My participation in her offer could involve danger, maybe torture, possibly death and probably an uncertain future, not to mention the wrath of my publishers. But the carrot Caroline Carson had dangled in front of my nose was far too irresistible. For distraction I switched on the radio. A familiar pop tune, with a lilting romantic melody was playing. For a while I hummed along but before the chorus began the announcer cut in and spoilt it. Afterwards, I couldn't remember the title. It was something that vexed my mind all the rest of that day.

The peaks of the North West of Scotland have a capacity to put your problems into perspective. When you're up top, looking down, everything below appears minimal, almost inconsequential. I once mentioned this to one of my crofter friends. 'Aye, the mountains are always there for you when you need them,' he'd replied. Later on that day, about three-quarters of the way back along the track, from one of those peaks, the decision to meet up with Caroline Carson, in Spain, crystallised. When I got back to my cottage I dialled her mobile number.

### CHAPTER FOUR

'Looky-looky,' a voice calls out to me. I'm walking down the main street. It's night -time. Rain is sheeting down like a monsoon. Huge droplets are bouncing several inches high up off the pavement in front of me. I'm in South-East Spain and because of the rain I'm wearing an anorak with a hood. I look around in the direction of the voice.

'It's only me Babayo,' I call back.

When he recognises my voice, radiant white teeth light up his black face like a lamp being switched on. 'Bwana, you have come back,' he says when he catches me up. The smile gets broader; water drips off the wide rim of a yellow baseball cap.

'Yes, only for a while though,' I say. 'Have things held this year?' I add, referring to a cellar wall. Babayo and about ten other similar coloured guys from North West Africa, are known locally as the 'Looky-looky' men; a phrase they use to attract potential customers. They all used to live together in a cellar under the harbour wall. The previous autumn a storm, of tsunami-like proportions, hammered our bay during the 'Gota Fria', a few days in late autumn when we receive almost our total annual rainfall. At that time of year, the cold air stream from the North meets the overheated Med and produces torrential downpours. Often there are floods. Sometimes structural damage occurs. It's happened since time immemorial, but each year it always seems to catch the locals out. That year was a particularly nasty one. The normally dry riverbeds overflowed with the unexpected volume of water, bursting their banks. Walls collapsed, properties were flooded to a depth of several feet and roads were blocked for many days. In the flooding cars were washed out to sea, never to be seen again. In all fifteen hundred vehicles needed to be written off in our town alone. The guys in the cellar lost most of their possessions. Afterwards, some of us gave them old beds, chairs and odd bits of furniture. And to try to prevent the cellar flooding again, we helped them divert a drain and re-point a wall. Then, one morning, a message, written in huge letters in the sand on the beach, proclaimed, 'Looky-looky. Muchas Gracias.' After that they did whatever they could for us.

'So far boss, so far,' Babayo replies, referring to the cellar wall and crosses two of the fingers on his free hand. In his other hand is a display tray full of expensive wristwatches.

'What about a new watch boss?' he asks.

'No thanks old chap,' I say. 'Another time maybe.'

A reluctant smile crosses his face, he sighs and starts to move away. 'Oh boss, I nearly forgot,' he said when he had gone a few paces. He turned back to face me. 'There was a man looking for you a week or so back. Spanish guy. Old, with grey hair. He knew you by name. Knew you were a writer. He approached me one day when I had set up outside your block. I said I hadn't seen you in a while. Hope that was OK.'

His remark caught me unawares. For a moment I said nothing. He waited while I thought. 'Yes that's OK,' I eventually replied. 'Thanks for letting me know anyway. Take care old chap,' I said. Rhythmically he loped away down the other side of the street.

I'm making my way to Toni's, a bar/cum restaurant and my local watering hole near the harbour, two blocks away from my apartment. In there you can drink most things, smoke, more or less what you like, and order anything from a piece of toast to a five course meal, from eight in the morning until the early hours of the following day. The establishment also serves as a small pension, with four acceptable en-suite bedrooms. The owner, of the same name, is an irascible character of local notoriety. In his younger days he used to sing in a dance band. Now, when the midnight hour approaches, he can occasionally be coaxed into a few melancholic melodies for the late night customers. When I enter he's standing just inside the front door, watching football on a television screen that's perched high up on the opposite wall. I remove the wet hood of my anorak and am instantly recognised.

'Ah Señor Gerald,' he says enthusiastically and extends his arm for a handshake. 'You have been away a long time. It is nice to see you again.'

I return the handshake. 'Yes, it's been a while,' I reply. 'The trials of authorship I'm afraid.'

'It is nice to be busy, though, eh?' Toni says. He is a gregarious, stocky man of medium height. Despite his fading middle age, he retains a shock of dark curly hair, still carefully coiffured in the wavy style of his singing days. What catches your attention most though is the brown smouldering eyes. A lady's man is your instant diagnosis. 'What'll you have?' he asks me. 'Your usual?' he adds as he guides me over to the bar with an outstretched arm.

I have not been in that place for at least six months. In that time this man will have served hundreds of customers of all nationalities, yet he still remembers my name and my usual drink.

'Yes please,' I reply as we walk. 'While I'm here you'd better let me know what I owe you as well.'

'Alfredo, the usual for Mister Ray,' Toni says to the barman, then moves off into his office behind the bar. For established customers Toni does let you run up a bar bill, which saves you having to carry lots of travellers cheques and cash when you're on a short visit. This is one of the debts I needed to clear up. Magically, without anybody actually mentioning the mix, Alfredo places my scotch and soda, with ice, on the bar top.

I look around. Near the bar there are stools, small wicker tables and chairs. The lighting is subdued. Pictures of celebrities, film stars and football teams, some autographed, are scattered haphazardly on the surrounding beige walls. From there the room widens into a more formal dining room, with groups of tables and high backed mahogany chairs; the front windows overlook the harbour. Chandeliers and large cooling fans overhang the entire area. For a mid-week night the place is quite full. Around the bar football is the main attraction for the locals and I recognise a few familiar faces. Beyond, a United Nations of differing nationalities populate the dining area. The waiters, mostly young, energetic Spaniards, scurry to Toni's commands. Toni's is never empty.

'Ah, I knew I had it here,' he says emerging from his office. He's brandishing a piece of his headed notepaper. 'I did not realise it was so much, or I would have posted it to you,' he adds with a jokey grin. 'You pay this now and I let you have a drink on the house, for old times sake,' he says and hands over the paper. I am also surprised by the amount. I fish into my pocket and hand over a wad of Euros.

'While I remember,' Toni says, without bothering to count the Euros, 'there was a man in here a few weeks back asking after you. He was Spanish and knew you were a writer. I said you were away. I hope that was all right.'

I looked at him for a second. 'Yes, that's OK,' I reply. 'Thanks for letting me know. You can't keep fame a secret for long,' I jest. He laughs.

'You've also missed all the fun while you've been away,' Toni says.

'Oh, what's happened now?' I ask.

'A few weeks ago one of the fishing trawlers caught the body of a dead man in their nets. They had to discharge the fish they'd caught and return to the harbour with him.'

'Never,' I said.

'Si,' Toni continues, 'When they did an autopsy they found a bullet hole in the back of the man's head.' By then Toni's eyes were alive with excitement. 'The Guardia won't confirm it, but the rumour is that it was the work of 'The Sons of Tyranny'.

His words hit me like a knockout punch. 'I'll have to make sure I lock my doors at night then,' I respond, a little too jocularly. He laughs again and I move off to a small table in the corner near the bar. His revelations have instantly undone the relative state of calm I had managed to acquire since landing at Alicante airport. Of course the person Babayo mentioned and the one Toni referred to could have been two completely unrelated incidents. Sometimes Spanish people, who've read my work, do try and seek me out when I am living there. But deep down I doubted it on this occasion. For an hour or so I while away the time, drinking some scotch and eating tapas while watching the football on the television. In between I talk to a few of the locals I know. Unfortunately my prolonged absence from the area has meant that my Spanish has become rusty and the conversations are therefore somewhat stilted.

Later I stroll back to my apartment. The rain has stopped, although the pavements are still puddle strewn; the streetlights reflect in them like spotlights; but at least the air is warm. When I get near my block I spot a man standing across the road from the entrance lobby. I particularly notice him because when he sees me he appears to jump back into the shadows. At the lobby door I turn around quickly to look for him but he's nowhere to be seen. Travelling up in the lift I wonder. Before entering my apartment I switch off the landing light. Inside, I ignore the light switch and go over to the spare bedroom window, which overlooks the road outside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, away from the window, I can see the same man back on the pavement, looking up in the direction of my apartment. A cold shudder creeps down my spine.

Afterwards, in my lounge, having closed the bedroom door, I put on the lights and switch on the TV. I have just settled when my mobile rings. Hesitatingly I press the on button and mouth 'Yes,' cautiously into the mouthpiece, then hold my breath.

'Gerald, at last I've managed to get hold of you,' I hear Caroline Carson say. My heart resumes beating and I respond about not having my mobile switched on until half an hour ago. She tells me about her flight to Madrid. 'It was delayed by half an hour and it took ages to go through customs,' she says. Gradually I begin to relax to her chatter. She wants to stay on in Madrid for a few days, she says. There are appointments there with people who matter, she tells me. Then she wants to drive down to where I am. She has an appointment nearby with 'someone who has important information', she tells me. 'Can you book me in somewhere local to stay?' she asks. 'I'm on expenses, but don't go mad,' she adds with a giggle in her voice. For a quarter of an hour or more we jabber away like old friends catching up on the gossip. Afterwards I switch on the radio and that same familiar pop tune is featured on a Spanish station. Unfortunately it fades into the finish again before I can recall the title.

For the next few days I attempt to keep a low profile and away from Toni's. I have my laptop with me, so I'm able to get on with some work, although I do telephone him to book a room for Caroline. Visiting my selling agent I discover that the sale of my property is progressing at the speed of a sun drenched lizard recovering from its siesta. Also I make an effort to start tidying up my personal belongings in the apartment. There is no further sign of the man outside my window and I almost begin to relax.

A couple of days pass without further incident. Then one afternoon I'm inside my flat unloading some groceries after a visit to the supermercado. The day had turned out warm and sunny and I'd drawn back the patio doors. The vista from the balcony is out across the promenade to the beach, and the Mediterranean beyond. To my horror, on the promenade, I spot the man who'd been dancing in and out of the shadows the other night. He is balding with a halo of grey hair around his ears and the back of his head. He's wearing a green anorak and brown trousers. In his early sixties I guessed. He wasn't actually looking in my direction, but he was in the right spot to observe my every move. I froze, then tried to look nonchalant and went back into the depths of the living room. At that moment the walls seemed as though they were closing in around me.

Caroline Carson was arriving in town that evening. In the late afternoon, she phoned me on her mobile, from somewhere on the motorway. I gave her directions to Toni's and said I would meet her there later on. When we'd finished speaking I relaxed a little, although throughout the day I kept watch out over the balcony and periodically caught sight of my familiar friend.

At around eight o'clock I made my way down to Toni's bar. It was a dry night, the stars were out, the moon was high and seagulls were flying around the harbour in hair-brained circles. Being the close season there weren't many people about. I was wearing soft-soled shoes. As I walked towards Toni's I could hear the echo of leathers behind me on the pavement. Fortunately I knew the town quite well. When I rounded a bend in the street I ducked down an alleyway and hid back in a doorway. For a few moments I stood there holding my breath until I saw my friend striding down the road, past the turn off, with an agitated expression on his face. When he'd gone I cut down another alleyway, and took a round about route to Toni's.

'Ah Señor Gerald,' Toni said greeting me with a dazzling sparkle in his eyes. 'Your visitor has arrived,' he adds excitedly and winks at me. 'I have just taken her to her room. Very nice. Very pretty. I wish someone like that would come to visit me.'

'You be careful with her,' I reply. 'She's a television reporter. She'll dig up all your murky past.' He laughs. 'Could you ring up and tell her I'm here please,' I said. He went into his office and I could hear him in there oozing verbal charm into the telephone. I was annoyed with myself for being late. I had wanted to get there before Toni had the opportunity to slaver all over her. For ten minutes or more I sat in the bar, sipping on a whisky and soda until Caroline eventually appeared. I'd forgotten how devastatingly attractive she was. When she walked in the bar every male head turned to look at her.

'Gerald I'm sorry to keep you waiting,' she said, as she moved towards me. 'I was desperate for a shower.'

I rose out of my seat and she angled her face for a greeting kiss. Evocative perfume immediately attacks my senses. 'It's not been a problem,' I reply. 'Toni's been keeping me amused.' She was wearing a diamanté studded top, a short grey skirt and black and grey striped tights, all of which I found very stimulating. We exchange pleasantries. I order a round of drinks and some tapas and let Toni fuss over us for a while. Madrid was her sort of city Caroline tells me; noisy, with endless nightlife, she elaborates. I wondered how she would fare in my seaside backwater. Noisy it certainly wasn't and the only nightlife was here at Toni's. In time we moved over to the dining area. I ordered a bottle of Cava and we ate lobster and paella. Initially we talked about her work in television and I quickly learnt a lot about the greasy pole of that profession.

'And what despicable little goodies have you been able to unearth regarding my friends 'The Sons'? I ventured once our plates had been cleared away.

'A particularly nasty bunch of thugs all round,' she began. 'As you said, practically all the original crew are now dead and gone, although there are one or two decrepit godfather types who are still hanging on. The Police department in Madrid, who monitor them, say there is now a younger element centred around the 'Ultra Surs.'' The 'Surs' are a bunch of fanatical supporters who follow Real Madrid football club. Known world wide for initiating violence they are always looking for any excuse to indulge themselves. Real were Franco's club and he was a football fanatic.

'Really,' I responded and looked surprised. 'What about the al-Qaeda tie up?' I ask. 'Have you got anywhere with that?'

'That's a bit more difficult,' she replied. 'The bombings are still a touchy subject in Madrid.' Her tongue licked across her lips, leaving an erotic gloss coating. 'As you know,' she continued, 'the incident caused Aznar, who was then Prime Minister, to lose the forthcoming election. Many of the Police Department though are still loyal to him, and there remains an on-going investigation into the bombings. I haven't really got in to see the right people on that yet. The local Television Company has been helpful, as we have a tie up with them. But their journalists are like me, still digging into the background of those they arrested. There are plenty of innuendos, but no real hard proof of a connection. And what about you? What about your trouble?' she asks me. 'Do you think you're going to be safe in Spain?'

'Don't know,' I reply half jokingly. 'I expect I'll find out over the next few days. If things really get rough I'll have to get Toni to call out the boys.' She looked at me inquisitively.

'In his singing days,' I continued, 'they say Toni had contacts with the Mafia in Italy, through the nightclubs he worked in. I'm told that now they're all gents hairdressers here in town.'

For the first time she laughs properly and I find it totally invigorating. 'You must take it seriously Gerald,' she says. 'These guys are no ordinary gang of kids. I've discovered that much.'

'You're quite right,' I say. We dawdle over our coffee, while she tells me about the man we are seeing in the morning. My interest deepens when I discover that he is a former Basque Judge, who lives further up the coast near the town of Denia. Could he help with my family search I wonder to myself? It's a subject I've never discussed with Caroline. I'm impressed though by her ability to make inroads into her enquiry in such a short time. We eventually say good night in the reception at Toni's, with him avidly watching and listening nearby.

There is much to think about as I walk back to my apartment. My concentration is broken though by the familiar sound of shoe leather behind me. This time I don't bother playing any games and go the direct way ignoring the footsteps. When I open my apartment door I find an envelope on the mat inside. Awkwardly I tear it open, then stare at the printed words on the accompanying notepaper.

'NOW WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE,' is written in bold black letters. Underneath the words is the logo of 'The Sons of Tyranny', a hand wrapped around a cross. I hurry over to my spare bedroom window and look out. And there, sure enough, under the lamppost, looking up in my direction, is the man I have seen before.

### CHAPTER FIVE

Toni is fussing around Caroline when I arrive there after breakfast. She is dressed in a smart, black, two piece business suit with a white blouse and carrying what looks like a laptop case.

'Señor Gerald. Good morning,' Toni says when he notices me. 'You are a very lucky man indeed to have such an attractive companion for the day. Me, I have to sort out the chef and arrange for the cellar to be cleaned. Such is life I guess,' he says and ends his words with a shrug of his shoulders as he turns back into his office.

Caroline and I smile at each other. 'Did you sleep OK?' I asked.

'Like a top,' she replied. 'That's one problem I don't have.'

Her hired car, a Hyundi Getz, is outside on the street. As I lower my frame into the passenger seat, I spot, across the road from the car park, the same man again, watching me, while pretending to read a newspaper. With a screech of tyres and cloud of exhaust fumes Caroline swings the car around and out into the road. I was soon clutching my seat belt for support.

We are going to see a man named Luis Garay. His home is about twenty miles away, up the coast, on the outskirts of the harbour town of Denia. It didn't take us very long to get there. A high, pale gold, stone wall surrounds the elegant villa. I got out of the car somewhat shakily and pressed on the button of a gate intercom. In response to my statement of Caroline's name, two huge, wrought-iron black gates slide quietly aside. We follow a yew hedge fringed driveway to a white three-storey building drenched in sunlight. Red shutters encase the windows. At the main door a butler, in a waistcoat, white shirt and striped trousers is waiting for us. At least six foot four, he looks menacing, with a dome shaped bald head. Dark piercing eyes scan us both. About his girth there was an unbecoming corpulence. Surprisingly he spoke proficient English. 'Senator Garay is expecting you,' he regally stated after I repeated our names. He then led the way with assumed pomp to a sun filled garden patio, where Garay was resting in a wicker chair. In front of him was a manicured lawn, surrounded by highly cultivated borders. Beyond was a glorious view out to sea. He was puffing on a large cigar and reading a newspaper. Despite the warmth of the day, a multicoloured blanket was draped over his knees. He obviously hadn't heard our arrival.

'Your guests are here Señor,' the butler said formally while ushering us in front of the Senator. Garay remained seated.

When he looked up I was totally unprepared for his facial appearance. At a guess I would have put him in his early nineties. He was very frail and obviously had difficulty moving. He shuffled in his seat as a gesture of greeting to us. An enormous pair of sunglasses covered half his face. What took me by surprise though, was a broad red, painful looking vertical scar on his right cheek. It must have been about three inches long and completely disfigured that side of his face. His hair was greying, although much brown was still evident. He wore a green cardigan over a check shirt and a blue cravat. Peeping out from under the blanket were moccasin slippers. Lines and wrinkles streaked what you could see of his face.

'Miss Carson and companion,' he stated in a husky voice and pointed to two wrought iron chairs alongside a small white table of similar material. 'What can I offer you both to drink?' he asked. Like the butler his English was very good.

'Oh something cool and non alcoholic please,' Caroline replied and I nodded my head. He looked at the butler who then moved off towards the house. 'It's good of you to spare the time to see us Senator,' Caroline said. He raised his hand in acknowledgement. 'As I explained on the telephone,' she continued. 'I am a television reporter attempting to make a documentary about terrorism in Spain. 'Mister Ray here,' she pointed at me, 'is helping me with my research. He is an author who has written on the subject and in particular about 'The Sons of Tyranny'. Garay nodded at me and moved the newspaper off his lap onto the table.

'A writer. Good. I always wanted to be a writer,' he said and puffed at his cigar, then looked away from us towards the sea and said nothing more.

'Well,' Caroline began again. 'The journalists I met in Madrid said you may be able to help us with our enquiries, particularly about 'The Sons' misdeeds in the Basque country.'

For a few moments he made no reply. The butler returned with a tray containing iced water, fruit juice and two glasses and after setting it down returned to the house.

'Please help yourselves,' the Senator said. 'I have had my morning drink. ''The Sons' did this to me,' he said suddenly and pointed at the scar. I busied myself with the drinks as he began talking.

'Do you mind if I use this?' Caroline interjected and held up a small recording machine she had taken out of her laptop bag. He nodded his head and she switched it on.

'They were difficult times during and after the civil war,' he began dogmatically. 'Especially if you lived in my part of the world. I'm sure you both know about the atrocities at Guernica and the troubles thereafter.' Caroline and I again nodded our heads. 'The Sons' were Franco's henchmen,' he continued. 'When I lived there I was employed in the Judiciary. But I was also paid by 'The Sons' to turn a blind eye to the crimes they committed against my people. In those days Franco ruled Spain by terror and intimidation. World War Two was looming. Nobody knew where anybody stood. In my land brother was fighting against brother, father against son, depending on your point of view. They were crazy days.' He took another deep long draw on the cigar. I didn't know what his ailments were but he looked a sick man. 'In the end I just couldn't take the money any more,' he then said with an air of despair. 'The contradictions in principles were just too great, even for my lapsed conscience. Eventually I refused to turn a blind eye. Where justice was required I began to penalise where necessary.' He stopped talking for a minute, looked out to sea again, and continued. 'Then they murdered my wife and did this.' He said and pointed again at the scar.

'So what did you do?' I asked.

'I got out,' he said starkly. 'Ran like a coward and moved down here. Eventually they gave me a job in local government, earning a pittance. I made the money to buy this place in a card game,' he chuckled and spread his arm around at the surrounding grounds. 'Then, when Franco died, I stood for election to the Valencian counsel. Eventually I was elected to the national assembly. Now I am called a Senator,' he chuckled, 'but my assembly days are finished a long time ago. I had a stroke three years back.'

'It's really 'The Sons' we are both interested in, Senator,' Caroline interrupted. For a moment he looked away from us again towards the sea. The bright sunlight suddenly highlighted the ugly scar. I surmised it must have been a vicious blow.

'I repeat they were terrible times,' Garay said. 'Violence predominated. If you two dig around too much, you may find a whole can of worms you'd rather not have unearthed,' he stated firmly.

'We are journalists, Senator,' Caroline said. 'Our job is to dig around. Unfortunately that's how it is these days, if you want to remain a journalist. In a way it's a bit like your dilemma all those years ago.' He took another long draw on his cigar and appeared to think again for some moments.

'I could let you have a lot of dirty secrets,' he said eventually. 'They're no use to me now. As you see I am a sad old man, with not long to live. If they come for me now they may be doing me a favour and put me out of my suffering. But you are both so young. You still have lots to look forward to. If they come after you it will ruin your lives, I promise you.'

Caroline and I both looked at each other. I let her reply.

'Well that's a chance we'll have to take,' she responded. I nodded. He drew again on the cigar and glanced once more out to sea. This time he replied more quickly.

'I have it all written down,' he said, 'Most of the details that I know about anyway. I told you a few moments ago that I always wanted to be a writer. Well that's what I did. Wrote it all down, with the intention of one day writing a book about it. But of course I didn't,' he sighed. 'As old age sets in you think, oh what the heck anyway and don't bother.' He took another draw on the cigar and looked sternly at us. 'And now you two have arrived here,' he said. 'The question is, do I have the courage this time to divulge it all?' After a few moments, when it looked as though his answer wasn't going to be forthcoming Caroline interrupted.

'Senator, Mister Ray is a novelist. He can do your writing for you. He's already produced a novel involving 'The Sons'.

'Have you indeed,' he replied enthusiastically. 'I must read it. Tell you where you've gone wrong.'

'I'll bring you a copy.' I said and chuckled.

'Good. I'll look forward to it.'

'So will you help us, Senator?' Caroline asked. He hesitated again before responding.

'I'll have to think about it,' he said eventually. 'The dossier is not here anyway. It's locked away in a box in the vaults of my bank. I couldn't risk getting it found here. I must think on it,' he said and paused. 'Now you'll have to excuse me. I am very tired. I'm not used to company. I need to sleep. That's the trouble with these tablets they give me. They make me want to sleep all the time.'

'Would it help if we took you to the bank?' Caroline asked.

'No. Alberto can go,' he said. 'He has the Power of Attorney to sign for it. And it will give him something to do. He loves to drive the Mercedes and get away from me for a few hours.' A crooked smile crossed the old man's face and he leant across the table to press a push bell attached to its side.

'It has been good to see you both,' he said next. 'Especially the pretty lady,' he added and pointed at Caroline. 'I may be old, but my eyes are still quite good,' he said.

In a few moments Alberto reappeared. 'My guests are leaving,' Garay stated. Alberto looked at us as both as though we were a couple of tramps who'd been creeping around the back door, begging for scraps. We made our farewells to the Senator and promised to telephone him in a few days for his decision. Then, with the gait of a funeral director leading a hearse, Alberto led us to our car.

### CHAPTER SIX

'Well what did you make of all that,' Caroline said to me. We were in racing mode again, on the road away from the villa.

'I have a feeling he may have been stringing us along,' I replied.

'What makes you say that?'

'He looked a wily old bird to me,' I responded, whilst clasping tightly to my seat belt. 'There are scores of old devils like that in the Highlands,' I continued. 'You can see their brains working all the time when they talk to you. What's in this for me, they're asking themselves. From what I saw back there, Garay was asking himself the same sort of question.' I paused and held my breath while she audaciously manoeuvred to overtake a red Seat. Once we were clear I breathed out and continued. 'He's admitted to us that he made his fortune from playing cards. That means he's good at bluffing and holding out for the highest stakes,' I look across at the speedometer, the recorded speed gives me palpitations. 'To him we come into the category of cheque book journalists.' I add with a sigh.

'But if he's really got all that information does it matter,' Caroline said. I closed my eyes as we slewed half way across the road round a right-hand curve.

'Firstly,' I continued breathlessly, 'it depends on how deep your TV Company's pocket is. Secondly, we could possibly get the same information from somebody else for nothing. And thirdly has he really got the type of details we need or is he bluffing?'

'I'm glad I've got you with me,' she said, looked across at me and flashed a smile. I appreciated the compliment, but I would have much preferred it if she'd kept her eyes on the road. Thankfully it didn't take us long to get back to my town. She had work to catch up on her laptop and went back to Toni's and I walked over to the supermercado to stock up on some supplies.

Somewhere between the fish counter and the fresh vegetables a voice from my past made me jump. 'Mister Ray, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you had been avoiding me,' the voice said. Even before I turned around I knew it was Gayle. Gayle Deavers had been my girlfriend when I lived at my apartment, while writing 'Early Dawn'. Originally from Newcastle, she wrote black comedies that were as virulent as her mood swings. For a brief period we lived together at her villa further up the coast. Unfortunately two competing egos under the same roof were a recipe for disaster and I moved back to my apartment to complete the novel. I took a deep breath before replying to her.

'Gayle, how lovely to see you.' I responded with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

'Don't you try to flatter me Gerald Ray,' she said. 'You forget I know you better than that.' Time hadn't altered Gayle's raunchy appearance. Originally a nineteen seventies drop out to Spain, she still retained her own independent style. Jet black frizzed hair; a cream leather buckskin jacket, with dangling fringes; the obligatory blue jeans, genuinely faded by age, and a long pair of brown boots encased the slender legs I used to know so well. There was a knowing grin on her face. 'Are you here to write?' she asked.

'No, I'm here to sell up actually,'

'Oh,' she looked surprised. 'Have you written a follow up yet?'

'I'm in the middle of something at the moment.' I found that I was staring at her wantonly.

'You must be missing my inspiration Gerald,' she says, perhaps reading my thoughts.

'Something like that,' I said and sniggered. 'Let's just say our arguments used to stimulate my imagination.'

'You're being very unkind,' she says and brushes some hair out of her eye line. 'How long are you over here for?'

'Oh, a week, maybe ten days at the most.'

She looks at me intently. 'That's good,' she replies, pauses for a few seconds and appears to be thinking. 'While you're here,' she says coyly in a way that once used to turn me on, 'could I ask you a favour? Just for old times sake, of course.'

'What's that?' I say defensively.

'Don't look at me like that. It's not going to be that awful.' A precocious smile spreads across her face. 'I've just finished a new novel,' she continued. 'You were always my severest critic. Would you read it for me Gerald, while you're here. Let me know what you think, before I send it to my publisher. Just as you used to do. I really would value your opinion.'

'Huh,' I responded. 'You only valued my opinion when it suited you.'

When we lived together we used to edit each other's work. Usually it ended up in a row, but it meant we both got an unbiased opinion and by and large it was a useful exercise.

'Don't be like that,' she said. 'I'd be most grateful.'

'Oh all right,' I replied with a sigh. 'If you think it'll help.'

'Thank you Gerald,' she said and the smile became genuine. 'Can I bring it round to you when it's convenient.'

'Yes, I suppose,' I said with another sigh. I considered it would be safer at my place, rather than risk her 'Shangri-La' further up the coast. If I went up there I was sure we'd end up in bed together, and that would only deepen my problems.

I could see she wanted to talk some more but I began to edge towards the vegetable counter and made some excuse about having to see my property agent, and we parted. Afterwards, as I walked home, I had time to dwell on the vagaries of our former relationship. We'd met at a writer's forum in town. It turned out that we were the only two published authors there, so we left early and sought the sanctuary of the nearest bar. There was an instant attraction and soon our affair exploded into a succession of passionate encounters. Then we moved in together. The honeymoon lasted about three months, before the inevitable one-upmanship intervened and separation became inevitable. Still, I enjoyed her writing and for old times sake I reckoned I owed her one or two favours.

When I got back to my apartment there was another piece of paper lying face down on the hall mat. Struggling with my groceries I'm unable to read it until I get into the kitchen. When I eventually turn it over I see it's in the same handwriting as the other note. 'STAY AWAY FROM GARAY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED,' the words boldly state. Underneath again, is the ink stamp I know only too well as the logo of 'The Sons of Tyranny'. I read it over two or three times, letting the words sink in, then chuck it on the worktop. On my way to the bathroom I go into the second bedroom, stand well back from the window and look down onto the promenade below. Sure enough, there is my friend, sitting on a bench seat facing my apartment block. I feel my body starting to shake.

Massaging a hot mug of coffee I desperately try to put the peculiarities of my situation into context. What Bracewell, Caroline and the Foreign Office had related was now plainly no idle threat. Staring up at me from the kitchen worktop was all the evidence I needed to dispel any doubts. My concern was that I was now not only endangering myself but also Caroline. I hadn't told her about the previous note, but obviously we had been followed on our journey to Garay's villa. Which meant they would also know she was staying at Toni's.

My anxiety caused me to arrive there early for our luncheon date. I think my friend with the leather soles may have followed me, but at that stage I wasn't that bothered. Toni was in the bar sorting out the lunchtime tables. 'This business with the body in the sea you mentioned?' I asked when he spotted me. 'Did they ever actually arrest anybody locally connected with 'The Sons of Tyranny'?' I continued.

'No!' he responded. 'They never prosecute anybody with that lot. Too many old friends in high places,' he said looking up at me.

'Is it likely some of them may live in the area?' I said.

He stopped arranging the cutlery and stood up straight to address me. 'That is something no-one would ever know my friend,' he said. 'See that man over there.' He pointed to a man sitting at the far end of the dining room, well out of earshot, who was puffing on a cigar, with a croissant, coffee and a newspaper in front of him. 'He could be one of them. You would just never know. One of my waiters could be one of them. The traffic warden on the street. The man who drives the dustcart, they all could be involved. You would just never know. Outwardly they are normal people like you and me. But what goes on in here,' he said pointing to his head, 'is another matter,' he concluded with a shrug of his shoulders and reverted back to the cutlery.

'Could you buzz up to Miss Carson and say I'm here please.' I said. He finished the place setting and then went to the internal phone behind the bar.

* * * * *

Caroline came downstairs wearing a short, revealing, floral summer dress. We decided to eat at one of the restaurants down by the harbour. The sun was warm. Fishermen were mending nets, spread out along sections of the promenade. I had chosen a quiet diner owned by a local family I knew from previous visits. Caroline proved to be a major attraction for the waiters of the several restaurants we passed on the way as they laid the outside tables for lunch. Once we'd settled in the restaurant and taken a few sips of wine I decided to break the news about the man following me and the notes pushed through my door. She listened intently.

'Gerald that's terrible,' she responded when I'd finished. 'Why didn't you tell me all this before?' she said. We were sitting in direct sunlight and she was fanning herself with the menu card.

'Because I didn't want to alarm you unduly. And I suppose I wanted to be sure it was for real.' I replied. 'But the fact they know about our visit to Garay confirms all my worst fears.'

At that moment the waiter appeared to take our order. We both ordered langoustines and sea bass. When he was gone she continued.

'Have you heard anything more from the Foreign Office?' she asked.

'No. They don't know I'm here. Their advice was not to travel to Spain.' She looked at me stony-faced.

'Well do you want to call it a day and go home?' she asked. 'I can carry on with what I'm doing in Madrid. It's not me they're out to get. We could meet up again in the UK once I've completed all my research.'

'Having been to see Garay with me means you are implicated.' I said. She fanned herself more energetically with the menu card.

'Well what do you think we should do?' A worried frown had creased the normally placid sensuous skin of her forehead.

'I think we should lie low for a short while,' I replied. 'Perhaps it might be better if you went back to Madrid and carried on with your research there. We'll let Garay stew for few a days. Then I'll phone him, find out if he's bluffing or not.'

'Well that might be all right for me but what about you?'

'I can get on with the sale of my property. Do that and a bit of writing. These threats may still only be warning shots.'

'But Gerald you may not be safe!' she said, getting agitated. Fortunately at that moment the waiter arrived with our langoustines. When he had gone again, I tried to reinstate some reality into our situation.

'What happens to me could have happened anyway without me knowing much about it. I was coming out here to sell my property even before I knew about any imminent danger.'

'But would you have come out knowing what you now know, without my encouragement?' Her voice still had an agitated edge and she was waving her fork at me in time to her words.

'I came out here of my own free will, because I was fascinated by the project. At least now I'm on my guard,' I said as I peeled the shell off a langoustine. Biting into the succulent flesh fired my taste buds. 'Perhaps I'll give my agent a call, see what he suggests,' I continued while chewing. 'He's the one who's spoken to the Foreign Office. But I do think it would be better if we split up for a while.' She stared at me.

During the course of that lunch I somehow managed to persuade her to return to Madrid the next morning. In the evening I thought it safer for us both to dine at Toni's amongst people I knew. Then we both retired early. My excuse was to crack on with some writing and phone Bracewell, but my reasons really went deeper than that. In her company I was beginning to feel horny. I was afraid that if the evening dragged on longer I would end up making a pass at her. Then, I knew I would be in even deeper trouble.

* * * * *

Once again the familiar tap-tap of leather soles was on the pavement behind me as I walked back to my apartment. I deliberately went by a round about route, just to be awkward. When I was upstairs, I looked out of the spare bedroom window and there, sure enough, was my friend, standing across the road under the street lamp. I immediately phoned Bracewell.

'I've been trying to contact you. Where the hell are you?' he responded when I got through.

'In Spain,' I replied.

'In Spain!! In Spain!!' he shouted down the phone. 'You're not supposed to go anywhere near Spain. That's why I've been trying to contact you. I've had a message from the Foreign Office. When they received your form they issued you with a Red Alert. That means you're in extreme danger in Spain. That's the last place you should be.'

'Too late, I'm here,' I said. 'What do you think I should do?' I continued awkwardly

'Get the hell out of there pronto,' he shouted, then sighed heavily. 'Gerald, you're being stupid,' he continued in a more measured tone. 'You don't seem to realise the danger you're in. You must get yourself to the airport now, this minute, and wait there until a seat becomes available on a plane to get you home. You should at least be safe at the airport with all the security they have there.'

I spent the next ten minutes or so trying to placate him by telling him about my involvement with Caroline Carson on the project. But he was having none of it. He interrupted most of my sentences with counter claims about the imminent threat I was under. 'I suppose you're staying at your apartment?' he said to one of my unrelated statements.

'Of course I'm staying at my apartment,' I replied. This produced a further explosion of expletives about my incredulous nature. Our call ended in acrimony, with Bracewell threatening to 'wash his hands of me'.

For some time I sat in the darkness of my unlit lounge, supping on a whisky nightcap and pondering on my likely course of action. Before I went to bed I took one last look through the second bedroom window; my pal was still there. 'Doesn't he ever sleep,' I can remember thinking to myself.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

The previous night Caroline and I had agreed, over dinner, for her to download her notes and the recorded tape of our meeting with Garay, on to my laptop. That way, with two copies, there was a chance of our research being available if something untoward happened to either of us.

Just after nine o'clock there was a buzz on the door intercom and she breezed in, much as she had done on our first meeting in Scotland. Her hair was tied back in a bun. She was wearing a black cardigan over a white blouse, tight fitting black slacks and shiny black shoes. I decided there and then that she could wear anything and still look gorgeous.

'I do hope you're going to be all right by yourself,' she said to me as we began to download the relevant folder. I was enjoying standing close to her.

'I'll be fine,' I replied. 'I have to see my selling agent before I leave anyway. Then at least that aspect will be wrapped up, no matter happens afterwards.'

At that moment the bell on the internal door to my apartment rang. It made me jump and for a moment I froze wondering whom it may be. Usually the outer door buzzer warns me beforehand of any arrivals.

'Seems like it's my day for visitors,' I said to Caroline and hesitatingly moved towards the door. Before I opened up I looked in the inset spy hole. Outside, I could see Gayle's face, shaped in the wide angled spy hole, like an egg-head. When I opened the door she barged in, clutching a sheaf of manuscript papers. A pale green top and beige slacks made her look very smart.

'How did you get in?' I asked.

'Someone was coming out of the front door when I arrived,' she said, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Caroline. 'Now I can see why you haven't got on with the new book,' she said loudly. 'You must be his new muse,' she added looking directly at Caroline. Caroline chuckled. I introduced them to each other, describing Caroline as a TV reporter.

'That's a good one Gerald,' Gayle responded with a caustic laugh. 'At least you didn't say she was your niece.' I tried to interrupt, but by then Gayle was in her element. 'Well I am sorry to intrude on this love nest so early in the morning. It's just that I was in town and you did say you'd have a look at this for me,' she continued, holding up the manuscript in front of me. 'But of course if I had known....,' Gayle began.

'I said I would look at it for you Gayle, and I will,' I interrupted before she had a chance to say more. 'It's just that Caroline is going back to Madrid today and we wanted to reconcile our notes before she went.'

'Of course you did,' Gayle said sarcastically with a smirk on her face. 'I won't interrupt any more. I am well aware that three's a crowd. I'll leave this,' she said putting the manuscript down on the table, 'and withdraw gracefully,' she added.

'Thank you Gayle,' I said as I followed her to the door. When I opened it she stopped and turned around to face Caroline.

'If I remember correctly, he usually likes a blow job before breakfast,' she said.

'Does he now,' Caroline responded. With that Gayle was gone and I puffed a sigh of relief as I closed the door.

'Caroline I do apologise,' I said. 'Gayle is another writer. You can see now what an odd lot we all are. And as you may have also gathered, she used to be a girlfriend. But it was all a long time ago.'

Caroline chuckled again and we continued with our computer machinations. When that was done she made tracks to leave. It was agreed that I would make contact with Garay. Her safety still continued to worry me. If they had followed us to Garay's home they would know her car. It was a long trip to Madrid. Anything could happen on the way there; these people were cruel, vicious and vindictive; her car may have already been doctored with a bomb! And what was I going to do about my own situation? In her presence that morning I had put on a show of bravado to keep up our spirits. But Bracewell's words to me the previous night had dug deep into my psyche and I was really in a quandary about what to do.

To occupy myself that morning I went off to see my selling agent. He confirmed that the sale of my property was proceeding, albeit slowly. While I was with him we went over the items of furniture I would leave as part of the deal. My solicitor there had a power of attorney to act for me and I told the agent I would arrange for a cleaner to tidy up the apartment on my departure. In that respect therefore, there was nothing else for me to do, except leave and hand in the keys when I was ready to go.

All three hundred and eighty nine pages of Gayle's manuscript were looking up at me from the table when I got back to the apartment. Allowing my eyes to wander over the first page I soon picked up on her inimitable caustic style. I hadn't read any of her stuff for a while, and out of the blue like that I was soon enjoying the early pages. To assist matters I got up and poured myself a large scotch and soda, found a pencil, then settled into the cushions of the settee. For the best part of an hour I was lost in the intricacies of her work. Only a call of nature forced me to stop. On my way to the bathroom, almost out of habit by then, I glanced out of the second bedroom window. What I saw instantly alarmed me.

My usual friend was standing on the promenade, but this time he was talking to four other tall men, gathered around a big black Mercedes SUV, with dark tinted windows. The other guys looked a totally different proposition from him. Thuggish, was a description that immediately entered my head, and much younger. All four of them were well over six feet tall and thickset. Two had stubble growth faces and skinheads. They all wore dark leather clothes. My pulse raced frantically when I saw my follower point up to my apartment window. I watched in panic as the other four all turned around to look in my direction. At that moment I realised I was in big trouble. I hurried on to the toilet. As I stood facing the bathroom mirror I could feel the pounding of my heartbeat in my head.

I stayed hidden from the outside window for some time, wondering what to do. Tortuously I recalled every word Bracewell had said the previous evening and the events Caroline Carson had shown me in the newspaper articles. My earlier bravado was by then disappearing with the speed of a rat going down a drain. I poured myself another large scotch and gulped half of it down in one slug. Gayle's manuscript, half-open on the lounge table, did however, inspire the possibility of a temporary lifeline.

* * * * *

Quickly I threw some clothes into a holdall, packed my laptop then rang for a taxi. I used one of the local firms regularly and they were familiar with the way round to the back of the apartment block. There, alongside the dustbins and the cleaner's room, was the exit door of the fire escape. Having witnessed the gathering of the troops outside, I decided there was no point in hanging around just to get bumped off. So I continued to scurry round the apartment, collecting items and turning off the power. An old anorak used for trekking in the mountains and a baseball cap, which was about two sizes too big, would provide a temporary disguise. I grabbed that day's newspaper, Gayle's manuscript, the holdall and my laptop, then ran down the fire escape stairs to the exit door.

Unfortunately there was no time for sentimental goodbyes to my Costa Blanca dwelling. Downstairs, standing inside the exit door I waited until I heard the engine of the taxi outside. 'Sound two short beeps on the car horn,' I'd told them on the phone. When I heard the beeps I pushed open the door and dived into the back seat. Once I had given the driver the address I sank low in the seat, held up the opened newspaper in front of my face and pretended to be reading, while we drove out of town. On the main road north I started to breathe a little easier.

A pot holed track, dotted with medium size villas, led to a dead end, where a post and rail fence protected a cliff-hanging drop down to the sea. The taxi lurched and swayed over the bumps until I could see Gayle's Suzuki parked outside her villa. 'You can drop me here,' I said to the driver before we reached it. On the roadside, after paying him off, I gathered together my meagre belongings and headed towards her gate. A rampant bougainvillea covered the front wall. I hid my bags to one side of the glass porch entrance and rang the doorbell. The look of astonishment on her face when she saw me was worth the effort of getting there.

'You asked me to read it,' I said holding up her manuscript in front of me.

'I didn't expect this kind of service,' she responded.

When she stood aside to let me in, I picked up my other bags and barged inside. 'Are you planning to stay?' she asked.

'It looks like a long book,' I said.

'Do make yourself at home,' she added sarcastically and extended her arm to usher me through to the lounge. A kaleidoscope of memories hit me when I walked into that room. As ever, books, paperbacks and newspapers were scattered untidily, on chairs, over the settee, the tabletops and the windowsills. Table lamps, which she usually left on day and night, glowed in each corner. A bizarre collection of perfume scented houseplants, any horticulturist would envy, struggled with the rest of the clutter for space. Two large canvasses featuring Gayle's provocative nude body, adorned the wall over the fireplace and the long back wall behind the settee. In those days her dark curled hair hung down her back, almost to her waist. Her friend Miguel, who lived in the village, had painted both pictures; I guessed she'd been his muse before I arrived. 'You always were very beautiful, Gayle,' I said to her, while looking up at the one over the fireplace. 'I remember that much very well,' I added. In that room we'd argued, fought, loved, read out loud to each other and settled the affairs of the world. That day it felt comforting to be back there again.

'It's too late for flattery Gerald,' she replied. 'I won't fall for that one again.'

I was standing by the settee, running my hand along the smooth texture of its backrest, reliving the memories of the sensual moments we'd shared on it's cushioned splendour. 'I had to get out of my flat,' I said. 'The purchaser wanted to come in to do some decorating,' I lied. 'Could you put me up for a few days, please.' She looked at me with a stunned expression.

'What's happened to your girlfriend?' she responded.

'She's not my girlfriend. She's gone back to Madrid. I told you she was only here for a short time. She's making a TV documentary.'

'I am impressed. Is Toni's booked up?' she questioned. She always looked more beautiful when she was being awkward. That day she was wearing a tight fitting white t-shirt and jeans and was barefoot. I was beginning to feel aroused.

'I promise you it will only be for a few days,' I replied. 'I have to meet up with Caroline again shortly. I'm helping with her research. The documentary is about Spain.' The look she was giving me was still filled with questions. 'Gayle, I can't afford a hotel,' I continued. 'I'm almost broke. But I'm waiting on an advance for the current book and I've virtually sold my property. If you can put up with me for a few days I can get on with the book, here in peace, till my next meeting with Caroline. Obviously I'll pay for my housekeeping and I'll read all your manuscript.'

She remained looking at me with the same questioning expression. 'You've got a damn nerve,' she said eventually. There followed a protracted argy-bargy about our past and current relationship, in which I was forced to concede on virtually every point. Eventually she agreed to accommodate me, 'for just a few days', in the tiny spare bedroom on the third floor. A room she used mainly as a storeroom for her manuscripts and out of date books. There was however, a single bed in there, a small desktop and a window with a view over the sea. 'You can work and sleep here,' I was told curtly, when we were upstairs looking at the room.

'Thank you Gayle,' I responded.

Gayle suggested we go out to lunch after I had organised my few possessions. There was a bar we used to frequent nearby but I declined, again pleading poverty. Really I didn't want to be seen in public, just in case. Instead I gave her some cash and asked when she was shopping to get in some provisions for me. 'I will cook it myself,' I added; something I used to do anyway when we lived together.

* * * * *

As soon as Gayle left the villa for her shopping trip I rang Caroline on my mobile. Thankfully she'd made it safely to Madrid without mishap and was busy with TV people. I told her I'd moved out of the flat but didn't say to where. Then I phoned Garay's villa. Alberto's sententious voice answered.

'I'll see if the Senator can speak to you,' he said in a terse manner, after I'd given him some explanation about who I was. Eventually Garay's hoarse voice came on the line. I asked if he had got the dossier from the bank.

'Ah, the dossier. Of course you're the writer,' he said in response. I guessed he was stalling for time. 'Oh dear, I'm afraid I haven't,' he continued. 'My memory is so bad these days. I'm sure it's the tablets they give me.'

'Would you like me to go with Alberto to collect them?' I suggested.

'That will not be necessary,' he replied. 'He gets a bit touchy with strangers in the car. It would not be pleasant for you or him.'

I sighed. 'Well my colleague, Caroline Carson, the pretty lady you met with me the other day, is only in Spain for a few more days.' I said sharply.

'The pretty lady. Ah yes, I remember the pretty lady very well,' he said in a croaking drawl. 'You mentioned a TV documentary and a possible book when you were here,' he stumbled on. 'I was going to write the book you know, to help fund my retirement. But now, as you saw the other day I am too sick and too old to do that. But you are much younger. You could write the book and make a lot of money.' He paused and I could hear his breath croaking again down the phone. 'If I released the details to you would there be any advance payable to me?' he asked.

'I don't know Senator,' I replied quickly. 'I would have to ask Miss Carson that. The TV Company is the only one who would have any money. I am just a poor writer, living on the bread line and Miss Carson is their employee.'

'Of course. I realise that,' the old goat responded. 'But you could ask Miss Carson, who could ask the TV Company, could you not?'

'I certainly could,' I said, and smiled to myself.

'Your reply might just jog my memory to send Alberto to the bank,' he said.

We made a few more polite remarks to each other then ended our call, with me promising to telephone him back.

Straightaway I rang Caroline and told her the news. Her initial response was succinct and impious. She did however agree to talk with her people. I told her I would contact her again on one of my walks and confirmed I was still trying to keep a low profile. 'Gerald you must take care,' were her parting words to me.

Afterwards I tried to re-concentrate on my writing, although it was difficult. When Gayle returned to the villa, I purposefully kept my head down on the laptop screen and let her come up the stairs to see me in the bedroom.

'I'm very pleased to see you working,' she said when she entered the room. She stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen. 'Page one hundred and twenty seven,' she added. 'I've noted that and will be keeping a check on your progress each day.'

I smiled. 'I'll start reading your manuscript after we've eaten,' I said, still attempting to keep the peace.

* * * * *

And so at Gayle's villa a kind of quasi pact was established between us, although I knew from past experience that any little thing could blow her up without warning. I cooked the sardines she'd purchased on her shopping trip, in lemon and white wine, which we ate with fresh bread rolls. It really was quite strange having her around me again. Most of the time I felt awkward and self-conscious and continued to keep my remarks uncontroversial.

Later on I went out for a stroll and some fresh air, while Gayle got on with her writing. From her villa there is a steep path, by the side of the fence at the end of the road, that leads down to the rocks and the sea below. I struggled down its slippery surface and for some time sat on the smooth, curved arc of a boulder, while the water splashed merrily below my feet. Was I being stupid, I contemplated, continuing to involve myself in all this madness. I already knew that my life could be in danger. I also knew I could get a taxi to the airport that afternoon, and board the first available plane for Scotland and the safety of my highland retreat. That's what any sensible person would do, I said to myself. At that juncture I owed Caroline Carson, or her TV Company, nothing. But my writer's instinct and my inquisitive journalistic nature kept tugging me in the other direction. And constantly, at the back of my mind, was my mother's desire to know the real truth and the final resting-place of her beloved parents. They'd both been abducted from their home in the middle of the night. That was the last she'd ever seen of them. Over her final years the anguish it caused her came out more and more. 'Helpless,' she'd said was how she'd felt about it. These thoughts and others continued to rattle around in my head until I heard the sound of a fishing boat as it rounded the headland into the bay. I sat still and watched as the skipper hauled in some lobster pots. I recognised the fisherman as old Macklin, a Scot, who worked out of the harbour near my apartment. I waved at him, but much as I expected he ignored me and continued to drag in his pots. After he'd gone I walked back up the steep path to Gayle's villa.

Inside she was still working at her desk in the lounge; a scenario you interrupt at your peril. So I tiptoed by and took her completed manuscript upstairs to read. It was well over an hour before I heard her feet on the stairs coming up to my room. I had been engrossed in her story and hadn't realised the time. The plot was really quite good. There were a few odd comments I'd made in the margin but they were mostly about minor contradictions in the pages, not actual style or format. Gayle had her own way of writing and usually it entertained. I passed the manuscript over to her when she came into the room.

'I expected you to find something wrong,' she said caustically when she saw my pencilled notes.

'You did ask me to read it for you,' I replied with a sigh.

There followed some minor bickering as she turned over the pages. 'I think I'll get some air,' I said before the comments became too silly. By the time I had changed and was heading out of the front door Gayle was downstairs and back at her desk, with the manuscript in front of her. 'I'll be about twenty minutes,' I said. She ignored me.

It was a warm evening and I took the cliff path in the other direction. Out across the sea I could just make out the hazy outline of the Isle of Ibiza. I put in a call to Caroline. She said she'd managed to speak to her TV people back in London. 'They may be prepared to put up a few thousand quid on this,' she went on to say. 'Somewhere between three and five thousand to be exact. But it depends on the quality of the details and if it's suitable for us to use. They'll rely on my judgement on that,' she said, 'but we have to see the material first. What do you think Gerald?' she asked me.

I replied by saying that I would telephone Garay and get back to her. She'd agreed that she could come back down to Denia if required. Alberto answered again. When I got through to him the Senator was pleased that there could be some money on offer. 'How much?' his catarrhal croak wheezed down the phone. I gave him a figure in Euros, roughly half way between the two amounts Caroline mentioned.

'That's not a lot,' he scoffed.

'Times are hard,' I responded quickly. 'There's a recession on.'

We haggled over the matter for a few more minutes before I cut in. 'Well, Senator,' I said brusquely, 'that's the best offer we can come up with. There is some urgency in this, so I will phone you tomorrow for your decision. It's up to you.' He continued to prevaricate but I stopped him by saying I had 'to go to an appointment' and 'would telephone him in the morning.'

Walking back along the cliff path towards Gayle's villa I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I had to tell her something of my current predicament and the real reason for me staying at her place. I felt I owed her that much at least. She had taken me in and given me shelter, for old times sake, and I could be putting her life in danger.

* * * * *

'You've made some good points,' she said to me when I walked into her lounge. She was stretched out on the settee and had changed into a waist revealing tight fitting blouse and cut off slacks. By her side, on the floor, was a drink with ice in it. 'I'd forgotten I'd said that earlier on,' she added, pointing with a pencil to a page in the manuscript.

'There, you see, I do have my uses,' I replied.

'Fix yourself a drink,' she said, 'and come and sit over here.'

On the far side of the room was a large oak sideboard, topped at one end by a selection of drink bottles. I poured a stiff neat scotch and added some ice cubes from the ice bucket.

'You don't think I need to say that either then do you?' she asked when I walked over towards her. She was pointing at another pencilled note. When I stooped to look down I picked up on the aroma of her perfume. It was different from the one she'd had on earlier.

'You've said just about the same thing in the previous chapter,' I responded, moving away to a nearby armchair. Our conversation then continued about various points in her work.

'I can see there's a lot of amendments I'll have to make. I'd better have another drink please,' she said holding out her glass.

After I'd replenished it I sat back slowly in my chair and said,' Gayle, there's something I have to tell you.' She turned her head to look at me while swirling the ice round in her drink.

'You've got this girl you've been seeing pregnant,' she responded immediately. I laughed out loud.

'No, nothing like that. I've told you already, I hardly know her. It's strictly a business arrangement regarding her research in Spain. Her involvement does have a relevance though to what I'm about to say.' I added and then went on to tell her something about my problems with 'The Sons of Tyranny'. She was of course familiar with their activities from reading 'Early Dawn'.

'Gerald, that's terrible,' she said and sat up straight in the settee.

'I'm afraid that's the real reason I left my apartment. You were the only one who could possibly help me. The only one I could trust. Nobody would think or know of me being here. I'm sorry if you feel I misled you. Once you'd let me stay I knew I had to level with you. I hope you're not angry with me?'

It took her a few moments to reply. 'Angry,' she said eventually, 'of course I'm bloody well angry.' I waited for the explosion, but it didn't happen. Slowly a genuine smile spread across her face. She got out of the settee and moved towards me. I was still half expecting to be attacked, either physically or verbally. Instead, she sat on my knee and draped her arms around my neck. 'Gerald you are such a clown,' she said. 'Why didn't you tell me before?' Her face was close to mine. Her body had slipped into the comfortable position we used to adopt in this situation before, with her curves resting in the soft tissues of my frame.' I just don't know how on earth you manage to get yourself into these scrapes?' she continued. 'You really do need someone to take care of you.'

'You could be in danger too, if I continue to stay here,' I said.

She pulled her face away from my shoulder to look at me. 'It was the aspect of danger that attracted me to you in the first place,' she said almost mockingly.

'You mean you think I'm exciting?' I said with a chuckle.

'Oh no,' she said while still looking at me. 'Definitely not exciting. Just dangerous. To yourself and everybody else around,' she added and kissed me on my lips.

It had been a long time since I'd tasted anything as good. We sat cuddled up together while I related more of the events that had happened to me since my arrival in Spain and how I became involved with Caroline. She kept repeating, 'Gerald, that's terrible, you must be careful,' to everything I described.

'Well what do you think?' I said in conclusion.

'I think you're round the bend, but I wouldn't change you for the world,' she said and kissed me again. I chuckled again afterwards.

'I won't stay here long, I promise' I said. 'Just till I can get this information from Garay. Then I can leave the rest to Caroline.'

She looked at me sternly, 'Answer me one thing?' she said.

'What's that?' I replied.

'If she hadn't contacted you in Scotland, would you have got involved?'

I hesitated over my reply. 'I guess not,' I said eventually.

'Ha!' she exclaimed and walked off to the kitchen.

* * * * *

I wouldn't say that night was the best sleep I've ever had. To ward off intruders, either Gayle or 'The Sons', I made sure to turn the key in my door before I turned out the light. Waves crashing in on the shore below woke me several times, and I repeatedly listened for the sound of strange noises.

In the morning, after breakfast, I walked along the cliff top again and phoned Garay. He growled back down the phone that he still wasn't sure about releasing his dossier for the small amount of money I'd mentioned. I reiterated that Caroline and I would be going home soon. His response was for me to telephone him again, the next day, to see if he had withdrawn the documents from the bank. I then rang Caroline and she agreed to come down to the coast if required. Afterwards I walked back to the villa and continued with my writing. For most of the day Gayle was in an agreeable mood and we managed to get by without too many altercations. After lunch I finished reading her manuscript, which kept me in her good books. I went for my late afternoon stroll while she was still busy altering text. For the evening we dined together in the living room and for once a feeling of felicity existed between us. Perhaps our relationship was better without the sexual entanglement, I surmised. So I went to bed that night in a more relaxed state of mind.

'Alberto is going to the bank today,' Garay responded tetchily to my telephone inquiry next morning. 'Will Miss Carson be bringing the money?' he then asked. I could feel the avaricious aspect of his nature oozing down the line. 'I will want cash,' he added.

'Miss Carson will not be bringing any money with her,' I fired back. 'We need to see the details first, before a decision is made on that aspect. If we visit tomorrow can I assume that the dossier will be available for us to see?' I said.

He grumbled some more. Eventually he confirmed that the next morning would be suitable. I promised to phone him early on just to check and then called Caroline. My revelation to Gayle that I would be leaving the following day to meet up with Caroline resulted in the acrimonious response I had been anticipating.

A taxi picked me up at Gayle's next morning after I had made the necessary telephone calls. Denia has a small tree lined, pretty, town centre. There is an ancient half ruined castle overlooking the harbour, but most of the beach is not holiday attractive. The car ferry to Majorca and Ibiza periodically sails in and out of the wide harbour entrance. When in port its presence dominates all the other activities. Caroline was waiting in her car at our agreed meeting place when my taxi pulled up. Large sunglasses were resting in her hairline as she looked at me through the car window. Her greeting smile helped to ease some of my nerves and I was hoping my anonymity in the area remained preserved.

'I'd forgotten you were that pretty,' I said to her as I got into her car. She was wearing a pink cotton dress revealing a lot of flesh.

'Sometimes men can say the nicest things,' she responded. 'How do you think this is going to go this morning?' she then added quickly.

'I think Garay will probably try and squeeze every last Euro out of us that he can,' I replied with a chuckle. 'I also wonder how useful, if at all, this material will be.' I put on my seat belt. 'As I said before, he looks a bit of an old codger to me.'

Caroline looked across at me but said nothing. Her driving hadn't improved. We drove the ten or so miles down the coast road to Garay's villa in cavalier style while she updated me on her progress in Madrid. 'Something really exciting has come to light,' she said as we approached the villa's entrance. 'I'll tell you about it after we've seen this guy,' she added, then announced our names into the gate intercom. Alberto was waiting at the front door. This time he led us to a glass conservatory at the far end of the villa. The heat in there was like a sauna. A riotous jungle of coloured vegetation, dripping with moisture, filled most of the space. The Senator was sitting at the far end in a high-backed deck chair, smoking a cigar. Alongside him, on a white plastic table was an old black deed box as well as an array of glass jugs filled with various liquids.

'I must apologise for the heat,' he said when we were near. His scar was still distressingly evident. 'My blood is of necessity very thin and I do suffer from the cold. Today is a day when it has affected me badly. I have however provided plenty of liquids,' he said, pointing to the drinks alongside him. Then I was sure our meeting was going to be a ruse. Thin blood, feeling cold. A likely tale I thought. It was all contrived to make us feel uncomfortable and keep the proceedings short, I surmised.

He indicated for us to sit opposite him. Even though we were indoors he still wore his sunglasses and the blanket was over his knees. 'What can I offer you to drink?' he asked. Caroline and I both pointed to the jug of water and Alberto served us with his customary disdain. This time he didn't leave us. He took two paces backwards and remained standing impassively by the table.

'Is the dossier in there?' I asked, pointing at the deed box.

'It is indeed my friend and what a catalogue of crime and violence it represents,' Garay said. 'I haven't read through those notes for many years, but I spent last evening and half of the night going through them. I'm afraid they make a horrific tale. I think, perhaps, that has to do with my malaise today. So many terrible memories.' The last sentence was said with a sigh, and a shake of his head, but the look of cupidity on his face was there again.

'Is it possible for us to see?' Caroline cut in. The Senator took a long draw on his cigar before replying.

'There was the matter of a small payment for my trouble,' he then said, leaving the question in the air while he expelled the tobacco smoke. The atmosphere in there was claustrophobic enough without the cigar adding to it.

'My instructions are that a fee may be possible,' Caroline responded. 'But we have to see the information first and be satisfied that it is suitable for our purposes.'

'What sort of amount of money are we talking about?' Garay queried. Alberto shuffled from one leg to the other and put his hands behind his back. Caroline mentioned the lower of the figure she had told me, in Euros. The Senator smiled and puffed on his cigar again. Alberto shuffled back onto the other foot, covered his mouth with his closed hand and coughed.

'It was hardly worth me making the effort for that amount,' Garay said with a degree of scorn.

'Well there is room for negotiation,' Caroline replied. 'But I repeat, it depends entirely on the quality and the detail of the information. Mister Ray and I have to be satisfied that there are enough accurate details to put into print and produce as evidence in a factual TV documentary. And the facts have to be verifiable,' she stated boldly. I was impressed by her rhetoric. They both stared at each other intently. Garay drew again on his cigar, then motioned to Alberto, who produced, from his pocket, a large old-fashioned key and theatrically opened the deed box. Inside was a sizeable sheaf of yellowing paper, tied up with blue ribbons, which he passed to the Senator. The old man appeared to have trouble holding onto the weighty bundle. I felt a trickle of liquid run down my neck onto my shirt collar and I gulped at some water.

The ribbons were tied tightly and at first Garay had difficulty undoing them. When they were free he flicked through the pages. 'Some people would be prepared to kill for this.' he said. 'Believe me. If I pass these over to you, your lives could also be in danger.'

'We are aware of that Senator,' I responded. He issued a very big sigh.

'I repeat I am not prepared to part with any of it without payment,' he stated categorically. Alberto shuffled again exaggeratedly from one foot to the other and once more stiffened his back. I felt more moisture on my neck and had to use my handkerchief to stem the flow. Then with an air of reluctance Garay passed the papers to Caroline. I shuffled my chair closer to hers.

The paper was brittle. All the details were hand-written in black ink. Fortunately they were in bold, upright letters, not long hand. More importantly, to my dismay, they were scribed in Spanish. I looked at Caroline, who looked back at me, but said nothing. She turned over a few pages, then handed some to me. I could see that each page was headed by a year. 1933,1934 etcetera. Then in the left hand margin was a date 3rd Enero(January) and the like, before paragraphs of writing. I could see names of people and knew enough Spanish to understand some of the text, but not enough to make a detailed study.

'We are going to need an interpreter,' I said.

'No we're not,' Caroline cut in quickly. 'Hablo Español,' she added. 'I was the company's Madrid correspondent for two years.' For the first time since we'd met a genuine warm smile spread across the Senator's lips.

'Not just a pretty face,' he said. 'You can always tell class when you see it.' Caroline returned his smile. I dabbed again at my neck and gulped down more water.

'Is there somewhere we can sit quietly and read through this?' I said to Garay and held up the bunch of papers in my hand. He thought for a moment and drew on his cigar.

'Alberto will accompany you to my study,' he said. 'I am afraid though he will have to stay with you as I am not prepared to allow the papers out of our sight.'

'What happens if we pay for them?' I asked.

'You may then photocopy them. I have a machine here, but the originals will stay with me.' I looked at Caroline and she nodded her head. Garay then spoke to Alberto in Spanish.

'If you would care to follow me and bring the papers with you,' the butler said regally. Caroline and I followed his imperious gait out of the glass house, leaving the Senator in his chair.

The study was a large, high ceilinged room near the front entrance of the villa. Fortunately it was cooler than the glass house. Furnished with leather high-backed chairs, and a large oval desk, the room was tastefully decorated in white, with many objet d'art on small tables by each chair. Alongside the desk I noticed a photocopier. A larger mahogany table was also situated under a wide window. Two of the walls were book lined and the floor was mosaic tiled. Alberto directed us to the table and scraped two of the chairs across the floor. 'I trust this will be suitable,' he said. Caroline and I nodded in response and he then moved slowly to the door and stood there purposefully, with his bulk blocking any possible exit. We sat gingerly on the chairs, spread the papers out on the table and began to inspect them more closely.

Caroline picked up the first sheet, read it, then passed it on to me with a brief explanation of the contents. While she read the next one I applied my pidgin Spanish to the one in my hand and attempted to assimilate as many of the details as I could. We kept our voices low, although Alberto would have heard most of what we said. From the outset I realised, we had, in those bleak, faded sheets of paper, all the chapter and verse we would want. There were dates, venues, names and events, all relating to murders, bombings and similar atrocities. What we had in front of us was historical dynamite. It didn't take us long to realise that there was enough material on those ageing pages to make a whole television series, let alone one documentary. In all there were about a hundred pages, but after Caroline had read through twenty or so she turned and looked at me and said, 'I think we've seen enough, don't you?' I nodded in agreement.

'Could you take us back to the Senator?' I said to Alberto. He came over to the table, snatched up the papers, including the ones we were holding and strode ahead of us back to the glass house.

The Senator appeared to have been dozing. Our footsteps must have stirred him. He brushed cigar ash from his cardigan as we approached and beckoned us to the chairs.

'The details in those documents are of interest to us,' Caroline said pointing to the bundle which Alberto was impatiently tidying into a neat pile on the adjacent table; breathing heavily, like a pig scoffing at its food, all the while.

'I thought you might be impressed,' Garay replied.

'I think we may be able to conduct some business with you,' Caroline said. 'But I will have to speak with my superiors first. I did say also that the facts have to be verifiable. Could I just jot down a note of two of the incidents. My police contacts in Madrid should be able to tell me if they are relevant.'

He stared at her for some moments. At first I thought he was going to refuse, but then he waved his arm in the air in agreement. He spoke to Alberto in Spanish, who gruffly returned the top two pages to Caroline. She wrote the details she required in her notebook and handed them back. Alberto snatched at them again and returned them fussily to his neat pile.

Soon afterwards we made to leave, promising to return in a day or so with some money. While we were saying our goodbyes to the Senator, Alberto disappeared, to answer what sounded like the buzzer on the front gate intercom and we had to make our own way out of the villa. Three-quarters of the way down the driveway there was a car parked in a pull-in. Alberto was standing alongside it, talking to the driver. Ahead of us the gates were open. As we drove past the car Alberto ignored us, but I instantly recognised the man in the driver's seat as the person who had been on the promenade outside my window.

The coast road to Denia is a twisting tortuous route of hairpin bends and steep slopes. At various points along the way, on the seaward side, there are deep precipices down to the Mediterranean, protected only by two bars of motorway type barrier fencing. Caroline's exuberant driving had already given me enough palpitations to require a prescription for valium on the outward journey. The return trip was much the same and soon I was clinging on to the seat belt and repeatedly closing my eyes. Suddenly she appeared to put her foot further down on the accelerator. The car surged like a jet plane on a runway and I began to cringe; we were on a narrow road with not much room for passing traffic.

'I'd like to get there in one piece,' I said.

'There's some idiot on my tail,' she replied. 'I'm going to try and lose him.'

I pulled down my sun visor and angled the vanity mirror onto the rear window. To my horror I could see a big black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows clamped up behind us.

'Get lost, you silly bugger,' Caroline shouted. Her reckless driving deteriorated further.

On the hairpin bends our wheels screeched, the car swayed and I could feel the brakes straining. Vehicles coming towards us had to swerve away to avoid us.

'Come on Caroline, don't be silly,' I said. 'Let him pass.'

'Spaniards have no patience at all,' she responded.

When we reached one of the few straight stretches she eased up on the revs. In the vanity mirror, I spotted the Mercedes pull out to pass us. Thank God I thought. As it drew alongside I was convinced it was the vehicle I'd seen on the promenade, outside my apartment. The tinted windows though prevented any inspection of the occupants.

The straight stretch of road ahead was less than fifty yards long. The SUV seemed to hover adjacent to us without getting past. 'Come on you silly bugger, get on with it then,' Caroline shouted. In front, another tight hairpin bend was looming. A two bar metal barrier was the only protection to the drop beyond. We were rapidly getting nearer. 'Get on with it you bastard,' I yelled loudly at the Mercedes, but it remained planted alongside us. The bend was nigh, then without warning the Mercedes cut right across our bows. Caroline slammed on the brakes. We were still travelling at speed. The Mercedes remained at an angle just in front of us, then when we were right on the arc of the bend it deliberately swerved further right. There wasn't time or space to pull back and we hit the barrier sideways on. I heard the sound of crunching metal before anything else.

* * * * *

We were lodged stationary against the metal barrier. The Mercedes had disappeared down the hill and out of sight. 'Bastards!!!' I shouted then looked from my side window at the agonising drop below the crash barrier.

'What the hell was all that about,' Caroline retorted. 'They nearly killed us.'

My mouth was dry, my body was shaking. Caroline's face was white with fear. I didn't have a chance to get the number; Spanish plates are also complicated numerically.

'Are you OK?' I asked.

'I think so,' she replied and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. I placed my hand on her arm. It was the first time we had touched affectionately. Her skin felt like smooth glass.

'What about you?' she said. 'You took the brunt of it. And the poor car? Whoever was in that Mercedes must be crazy.'

Stuck there on the bend we were causing an obstruction. Spanish drivers usually have no intention of stopping on their journeys, whatever the distraction, so they all hurtled recklessly around us. My door wouldn't open. I had to extract myself over Caroline's seat. On inspection, the passenger door and front wing were bent, and severely dented. Fortunately the front tyre was intact and all of the damage was on my side. The car looked OK to drive. As I stood there my eyes kept reverting back to the drop and sea below the badly buckled barrier.

'Are you all right to drive?' I asked Caroline.

'I guess so,' she replied.

'There's a taberna at the bottom of this hill,' I said. 'Let's see if this thing will start up. We can go down there, have a drink and gather our wits.'

* * * * *

We were sitting under the shade of a grass roofed loggia, both sipping at brandies, with two cafe negros on the table in front of us; our bodies were still visibly shaking.

'I was wondering when something like that might happen,' I said to Caroline.

'What do you mean?' she replied.

I went on to describe some of the more recent events around my apartment and the sighting of the Mercedes on the promenade.

'You think it was the same Mercedes up there?' she said pointing back up the hill.

'I can't be absolutely sure, but I think it's a pretty safe bet.'

'So what do we do now?' she asked

I took a big gulp of the brandy and thought for a few moments. 'Well, we are still both alive,' I began. 'We have that in our favour to start with. I may be wrong but I have a suspicion that what happened up there could have been just a warning shot. If they had wanted to kill us they could have done so quite easily, one way or another.'

'That's comforting to know,' Caroline said with a snigger. I let a wry smile cross my lips then continued.

'At the present, except for those brief notes you have in your handbag, we haven't actually got the information we need. Until we get the complete set of papers from Garay we are not really that much of a danger to them.'

'Hence the warning shot,' she interrupted.

'Correct.' I responded, then I mentioned about seeing my follower in the driveway with Alberto.

'So you think he may be one of them?'

'I do. Your ex-host Toni said to me once that however long you live here you'll never really know for sure who in your area is one of them.' Caroline raised her eyebrows. 'If Alberto is part of 'The Sons', or any other silly organisation,' I continued, 'he will know when we have the papers. Then we will be in real danger.' Her eyes widened and became scared looking.

'Well what do we do then? I am not too keen to die just yet,' she said.

'Maybe, just maybe, I have an idea for a plan,' I replied.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

We ordered two more café negros and took our time deciding what to do next. Caroline wanted me to go back with her to Madrid. The revelation she had been itching to tell me about was a lead she had been given that might reveal an al Qaeda tie-up with ETA and the Madrid bombings. An Arab man who lived in one of the downtown barrios was prepared to see her. I advised caution.

'You may be walking into a trap,' I expounded. 'These people will stop at nothing, we know that much already. If you're not careful you'll just be another murder statistic.' She looked at me again with that wide-eyed expression. 'Let's try and cross one bridge at a time,' I said quickly before she responded. 'We're dealing with live dynamite here.' I continued. 'Let's just try to sort out this matter first. Otherwise we'll get caught in our own crossfire.'

I watched her struggle to hold back the pained grimace that was about to form on her face. Quickly, I described my plan to get hold of Garay's papers, without alerting Alberto and his mates.

'But Gerald, that's bordering on dishonest,' she responded when I'd finished.

'You have to fight fire with fire,' I replied. 'The details in that deed box need to see the light of day. They're war crimes and also an important part of Spanish history. That's what journalism is for, you should know that. Garay, by his own admission, is pretty close to death. When he does go Alberto will burn all the evidence, if he hasn't already done so after our visit, and that will be the end of it. No-one will ever know the truth of what happened and no one will be left alive to tell.' For once I had quietened her exuberance, so I carried on talking. 'If it will ease your conscience we can send the old boy his blood money once we are in a position to publish. In the meantime I'd prefer them to believe we are not going to use it.' She looked at me wide-eyed again. Her gaze caught me off guard. Again there was this attraction and I had to look away quickly.

Part of my plan involved a trip to the city of Valencia further up the coast. After we had eaten some tapas we drove there in the battered car. It took us some time to find exactly what I required but in the end we had what I needed.

It had been a long and difficult day. To try and preserve the secrecy of my hiding place I decided to catch the autobus back from Valencia to Gayle's villa. Caroline dropped me some way from the bus station and I dodged around many of the city's streets and alleyways en route, just in case I was still being followed. She was going to book into a hotel in the city and organise the car hire company to deliver a replacement. It was late in the day when I arrived back at Gayle's villa, somewhat exhausted.

* * * * *

'You must have been having a good time for you to stay out this late?' was her greeting when I walked in.

'A good time wouldn't exactly be my description,' I responded. For her own protection though I was reluctant to tell her too much detail. If we became implicated together, the less she knew the better. So I said we'd been to see the Senator and then had to go on up to Valencia to visit another source. The details I omitted.

'Where's your lady friend now?' she asked when I'd finished.

'In a hotel in Valencia, as far as I am aware,' I said. 'She may have a boyfriend there for all I know.'

'Huh,' she replied in a huff.

'We are going to have to meet up again tomorrow with Garay for another interview,' I continued. 'Most of it's all pretty gruelling and laboriously boring, I promise you,' I added. It was late, I was tired and made an excuse about wanting to get to my bed. Really I needed to practice my actions for the following day's meeting with Garay. So again I took the precaution of turning the key in my bedroom door.

In the morning, on the cliff path, I put in a call to the Senator. Once I'd got past Alberto's obduracy I asked Garay if he could see us that day. He wanted to know if we were bringing any money with us. 'I understand that is Miss Carson's intention,' I replied.

'Make sure it is cash,' he stated categorically.

Then I rang Caroline. She had managed to change her car and was about to go out to sort out the other matter we'd discussed. We arranged a meeting time, which would allow me to catch the bus again to Denia.

Gayle was in the kitchen, floating around in her night-dress, while organising her breakfast, when I got back to the villa. 'You were out early,' she said as soon as she saw me. 'Something troubling your conscience?' Each cupboard door she opened was slammed closed noisily. Cups and plates were banged down on the table and the chair was dragged screeching across the tiled floor.

'No, nothing in particular.' I responded. 'It's just that I have to meet up with Caroline later on and I thought I would get some air beforehand,' I added, while watching her performance.

To avoid more rancour I decided to leave early. Once she had disappeared to the bathroom I made myself a strong coffee, grabbed a bread roll and then went upstairs and organised my things for the day. When she reappeared I told her I would be on my way and hoped to be back later on. Her look was sufficient to kill me off without any involvement from 'The Sons'. I walked to a bus stop about a mile or so away.

Caroline was driving a brand new pink Corsa when we met up. The colour matched the shade of the low cut dress she wore, the skirt section being little more than a pelmet. Her blonde hair was pinned up to reveal all of her neckline. I was feeling nervous, but despite the previous day's incident her application on the accelerator remained unabated.

At the big house Alberto ushered us into the conservatory, where Garay was waiting. The temperature in there continued to be tropical. Deliberately, this time, I wore only a shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and light slacks. Garay greeted us with a wave of his cigar. We were offered liquid refreshments. Again we both chose water, which Alberto dealt with in his perfunctory style. He then stood impassively alongside the table guarding the deed box. I could feel my pulse racing and gulped at the glass of water.

'You have decided to go ahead?' Garay said.

'We have,' Caroline replied. 'For better or worse.'

Garay smiled back at her and added. 'You are both very brave.'

'And I have brought the cash,' she said, then withdrew from her handbag a canvas cash bag folded in half. She put her hand inside and drew out a smaller bundle wrapped in a plastic denomination folder. On top you could clearly see a hundred Euro note. 'I have the total amount you asked for,' Caroline said and quickly stuffed the bundle back into the bag. Garay nodded his head and sucked on the cigar, 'But before I hand it over I will need to read all the pages involved,' she continued. 'When I was here last time I only looked at the first twenty or so, Alberto can confirm that.' We all looked at the butler, who shrugged his shoulders. 'My employers have insisted that I see it all before parting with the money. I think that's only fair, don't you?' she said and angled her head coyly to look at the Senator. Eventually he nodded. Caroline continued. 'You said we could photocopy the papers. As I have to read them all as well it may well take some time on this occasion.' Garay looked at her intently. I could see question marks forming in his brain. My nerves were still jumpy. He took a long draw on the cigar and for a few moments twirled it round and round in his fingers. Moisture started to trickle down my back. I gulped at some more water.

'That is no problem. Alberto will stay with you,' Garay said eventually. Alberto stiffened his shoulders, then extracted the papers from the deed box, in the same theatrical manner as before and we followed him to the study. I had taken note of the photocopier when we were there before. One of my tasks in Valencia was to get an operating manual on that model. The previous night, in my bedroom at Gayle's, I had read up on it.

My palms were sweating and I was praying that I could use the thing on my own without interference from Alberto. He switched on the machine, then untied the blue ribbons holding the papers together and gruffly passed them to Caroline. She was, by then, sitting demurely in the short pink dress, with her slender legs provocatively crossed, alongside the mahogany table, some ten or twelve feet away from the photocopier. Slowly she began to read through the first page.

After a few moments reading she looked up at Alberto coyly and said, 'My Spanish isn't quite as good as I thought. Perhaps you could help me out with this,' she added pointing to a place on the page. He snorted and moved to stand behind her. His position gave him a full view down her wide cleavage.

'Ah, si,' she said when he made the translation. Then she handed the sheet to me and I moved across the room with it to the photocopier. My praying began in earnest when I had loaded the first sheet in and pressed what I hoped was the right button. Thankfully the machine whirred and while it was printing Caroline asked Alberto for another translation. While they conversed I carefully placed the copied page down on the desk beside me.

Slowly we continued that way until all the pages were duplicated. Sometimes Caroline would ask Alberto for two or three translations on the same page. Occasionally, after his reply, she would jot something down in her notebook. All the while he watched her intently, breathing heavily while I got on with the copying. Even from where I was standing I could detect the tantalising extra dab of perfume she'd applied in the car before we got out. She managed to drag out the whole performance to perfection. When we were done Alberto's bald dome was glistening with moisture. His handkerchief mopped at it as he came over to switch off the machine.

'Nice copier that,' I said when he was alongside. He grunted. I gathered up the papers in front of me, while he clumsily retrieved the originals. Caroline was reading her notebook as we began to leave the room. 'H'm,' she said loudly and sighed as Alberto walked past her. He looked at her questioningly and we followed him back to the conservatory.

Garay was sitting upright and alert when we reached him. 'Is everything satisfactory, my friends?' he asked as we sat on the chairs in front of him. I still had the copy papers in my hand. My head was pounding with excitement. Caroline continued to consult her notebook. Alberto clutched the original papers, with the three bits of blue ribbon dangling from his hands.

'I'm not sure Senator,' Caroline began. He looked surprised. 'Having read through all the pages,' she continued. 'I'm not sure if it's exactly what we want.'

The scar on his right cheek jerked like a slice of raw meat. His jaw dropped open.

'But why?' he said. The look of astonishment persisted. Alberto shuffled around and began to breathe heavily again. 'You were satisfied before. You've brought the money with you.'

'I repeat, I hadn't seen all the information last time,' Caroline replied. 'I was assuming it all had the same validity, but I don't think it does.' She paused, took a sip water. Incredulity remained on the Senator's face. 'I said at the beginning it had to be verifiable,' she continued. I looked across, watching her Oscar winning performance intently. 'You remember that last time I was here I made a couple of notes about two incidents for my police connections to check,' she said.

'I do indeed,' Garay responded.

'Well what I gave them could not be traced. Their opinion was that the information was of little factual value.'

'Of course it can't be traced,' Garay cut in angrily. 'That's the whole point. Franco's henchmen destroyed all the evidence to avoid any follow up investigations.' He was gesticulating wildly with his hands. 'Whoever has this information will have to dig around. Talk to people off the record. Speak to the families. Somebody, somewhere will confirm it. That's the only way. The police won't be interested, they're part of Franco's hierarchy. They want everything to remain under wraps.' Plainly he was agitated.

'Well Senator, unfortunately it's not my money we're dealing with. It's my employer's,' Caroline said holding up her handbag. 'And they are only prepared to pay out for details that can be verified and used in a factual TV documentary. I'm sorry.'

Garay looked crestfallen. Alberto continued to breathe heavily. 'And what say you sir?' Garay said addressing me. 'What about your book? You could dig around. Write it all as fiction. It's all in there,' he said pointing to the photocopies. 'All it needs is putting together.' I knew the answer to that all right but I couldn't say.

'I have no money Senator,' I replied. 'Only Miss Carson's TV Company has the sort of money you require and her decision on that aspect is final.'

'So this has all been a waste of time?' Garay said, waving his hand in the air.

'Unfortunately it seems that way.' Caroline said.

Garay puffed out his cheeks. I handed him the clutch of photocopied paper and hoped that my plan had worked or indeed, it would have all been a waste of time.

'Now the truth will never come out,' Garay said. 'Justice will not even be seen to be done,' he lamented still scowling.

We left him slumped in his chair alongside his deed box, looking crestfallen and deflated, a sad tired old man. Alberto escorted us to the door with even more disdain than usual. My shirt was sticking to my back with moisture as we followed him.

Caroline and I said nothing to each other until we were outside the gates of the villa.

'Well, do you think we've done it?' Caroline said.

'Won't know until we connect up with this thing,' I responded and reached behind to the back seat for my jacket. In the pocket was a small wireless recorder. Then I removed the wrist watch that had cost me a small fortune in Valencia, connected the two together, pressed the switch on the side of the watch and listened to the whirr as the video downloaded onto the recorder. It didn't take long. In front of me images of the photocopied sheets magically began to revolve on the LCD screen.

'I think we'd better go somewhere quiet and look at this together,' I said.

* * * * *

When you've just done something thrilling and exciting, like climbing an inaccessible mountain peak, or winning a trophy at sport; or even, I guess, finalising on a million dollar deal, there is often an after rush of adrenaline, similar, I suppose, to taking a big dose of an ecstasy drug. That's how it was for me anyway as we drove away from Garay's villa. The accomplishments of our endeavour; the trophy if you like; the video recorder with the information we required, was in my hands. And alongside me was a beautiful, equally excited young woman.

'Where do you think it's safe to stop,' Caroline asked me as we batted along in the Corsa. I thought for a few moments.

'Where are you going to stay tonight,' I responded.

'Don't know,' she said. 'I haven't thought about it. I don't need to be back in Madrid until late tomorrow morning.'

At that moment we needed to look at the video together and download it onto Caroline's laptop for printing at some later stage. A motel I knew on the outskirts of Denia provided us with the privacy we required. Afterwards I thought I could get a bus back to Gayle's and Caroline would have a place to stay for the night.

In the car park of the motel Caroline reached into her handbag and drew out the canvas bag. 'This should be just about enough to pay for a room,' she said. I sniggered while she ripped open the plastic wallet. Flamboyantly she grabbed the hundred Euro note from the top, then proceeded to tear up the sheets of copy paper that were packed in underneath.

We hired a standard room. Set up the video recorder on a table and then like a couple of kids about to peruse their exam results, we watched excitedly as the pages of Garay's notes rolled out on the LCD screen in front of us. 'We did it,' I said and moved towards her to hug her out of gratitude.

Then, inexplicably one of those surges of adrenaline rush happened. I guess to both of us at the same time. Together, up the road in the Senator's villa, we had accomplished something complicated, difficult, daring and extremely dangerous. The outcome was highly successful. I was feeling, elated, almost bullet-proof. And in my arms was this gorgeous, nubile young woman, dressed to kill, in her revealing femme fatale outfit. And so I did what any normal red blooded man would do, or try to do anyway. In this instance I was fortunate enough to have a willing accomplice.

The video continued to roll as we tore the clothes from each other's bodies. The unused bed was nearby and we fell onto it. The recording of Garay's documents played away merrily on the LCD screen in its entirety without either of us noticing. Later on when I got up to fetch some water, I plugged the video recorder into Caroline's laptop. While it whirred away, downloading the tape onto her machine, we carried on where we'd left off. Exhaustion and sleep eventually overcame us. No way could I make it back to Gayle's that night.

### CHAPTER NINE

The Basque country is a region in Northern Spain and South West France that lies around the Atlantic, the Pyrenees and the Gulf of Gascony and is bounded by the Ebro and the Garonne rivers. It has approximately three million inhabitants and according to some theories, Basques may be the least assimilated remnant of the Stone Age peoples of Western Europe. Their culture can be traced back to Roman times. Euskera, their language, is one of the oldest in Europe. The provinces include Álava, Vizcaya, Guipúzcoa and Navarre on the Spanish side of the border and Lapurdi and Zuberoa on the French.

In the early part of the twentieth century, the traditional industries were agriculture in the north and fishing, steel, mining and shipping in the south; the latter three mainly in and around Bilbao, the region's largest city. More lately modern technological industries have come in and this has encouraged the younger and the better educated members of the community to remain in the region. Those familiar with Wales, Scotland and Ireland will find many similarities. The fight to preserve the language, the desire for self-government and the preservation of the culture. The Basques struggles have been notoriously exemplified by the terrorist organisation known as ETA, formed around 1959, whose sole purpose was to obtain sovereignty and self determination for the peoples of the region, by whatever means it took. Their symbol, a snake wrapped around an axe, says it all; 'Sharp like an axe, quiet like a snake.' Franco's attempts to repress the Basques began in the civil war, when many people in the region sided with the Republican army. Thereafter, their language and national anthem were banned and their cultures suppressed, which led to the troubles. In all there are approximately two thousand political refugees who have attempted to leave the region, to escape from Franco's henchmen. My mother being one of them.

* * * * *

'That was a long meeting,' Gayle said to me in a tone laced with heavy sarcasm. It was late morning on the following day. I had just returned to her villa after a bus journey from Denia. Caroline had set off to Madrid after dropping me off near the bus station.

'It was late by the time we finished,' I replied. 'And as there was no bus for me at that hour I put up in a motel.'

'I thought you couldn't afford to do that,' she snapped back. 'You said that's why you were staying here?'

'And I'm very grateful Gayle,' I responded. 'Last night there was no choice I'm afraid. Anyway, Caroline's TV Company paid for the accommodation.'

'Ah well, one room is cheaper than two, I suppose,' she said and stalked off to the kitchen.

I withheld the impulse to respond. Time was pressing. I needed to check the playback of Garay's documents on the video recorder and download it to my laptop. The bus journey back from Denia had also given me time to think of matters other than the erotic pleasures I had enjoyed at the motel. If my escapade at Garay's villa had worked, it meant I had bought myself a little time. I was hoping, no praying, that we had perhaps convinced them that we were no longer interested in the documents and thereby posed no immediate threat. I still believed the Mercedes incident was just a warning shot, and the fact that nothing untoward happened after the charade with the photocopier tended to justify my theory. So, for the first time, having a slight advantage over my pursuers, it was important to use it quickly. Caroline and I had parted that morning in more or less business like terms. The passion of the previous day appeared to have embarrassed us both. In the cold light of day I guess neither us were sure if it was the real thing, or as I had previously conjectured, just an adrenaline rush caused by the excitement of our escapade at Garay's villa. Despite my previous ogling of her, there had been no warning of it about to happen. No touching of hands, or arms; no long, lingering shared eye to eye contact. In the morning once we had showered and dressed it was back to the matter in hand, ending with a parting peck on both cheeks. Without either of us saying it, I think we were prepared to leave it lie for another day.

Upstairs, in the confines of Gayle's spare bedroom, I accomplished the downloading task with haste. The details were clearly readable. There wasn't time to take any of it in, but I could see names, dates, places and descriptions of the catastrophic events. In that jumble of words I wondered if there may be some clue to my grandparents demise, but I was unable to tarry and look properly. While I was at it I also made an extra copy of the document on a CD. Then I went downstairs to face Gayle.

'You will be relieved to have me off your hands today,' I said to her. She was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with her back to me. When she turned around to look at me pain was etched on her face. 'I have been most grateful for your hospitality,' I added quickly trying to dislodge her expression. 'I said at the beginning that for your sake I hoped it wouldn't be long. Now, I think, for your safety it would be best if I left.' I paused and drew in breath. 'Before too long one of them will spot me around here and that's what I am trying to avoid,' I continued.

Her facial expression didn't alter, but she said, 'I suppose you're running off with your young girl.'

'No I'm not. In fact I'm going to keep well away from her for a time as well, for the same reasons,' I said. 'Yesterday's work may have put me one step ahead of my foes and I'm trying to keep it that way.'

'Gerald I do wish you didn't lead such a devious life. You're not the sort to cope with it. Where are you going then?'

'Again for your own safety, I'm not going to tell you. Except to say that I'm about to phone for a taxi to take me to the airport.' She shook her head, then without saying anything more turned around and continued chopping the vegetables and I went back upstairs to my room.

There I made two telephone calls; one to the taxi firm and the other to Caroline. Her response to my revelation about leaving was in many ways similar to Gayle's. 'But we've just got going on this,' she berated. I took some minutes to explain my reasons. I told her I would be back soon, but it would be under cover. 'Our work will continue,' I said, 'but more discreetly, until we've marshalled all the facts.' I would be in touch by e-mail I added. She was not best pleased and there were no lover's words of parting for me before she put down the phone. Afterwards I packed up my few belongings, hid the CD I'd produced under the mattress of the bed and waited for the taxi. Farewells with Gayle were always difficult and argumentative so I kept it short, blaming the waiting taxi outside. I did however, manage to suitably express my grateful thanks for her kindness and wished her luck with the new book.

### CHAPTER TEN

A flurry of snow, like a scattering of confetti was drifting gently across my front window. The freezing temperature outside had already bitten into my bones. I'd been back about six hours and spent most of that time sleeping. For almost two days I had hung around Alicante airport waiting for a seat on a flight. Then, I could only get one to Manchester, which required another up to Inverness and then a bus ride from there. In all that time I had only eaten snacks. There was not much left in my cottage to rectify that but at least I had the central heating turned up fully.

My laptop was on the desk in front of me and I was scrolling through the pages of the video, with a Spanish phrase book and dictionary to hand. Travel bleary eyes didn't help, but at last I was able to make a proper inspection of what we had acquired. The regional variations included in Garay's writing and my incomplete understanding of the language meant it was a slow process. On foolscap notepaper I firstly attempted to edit each incident into English. Further sub-editing would be needed later, to group the details into towns or specific areas and then into families. There would be difficulties with that as there were many inter-marriages. Reading Garay's text it appeared that almost everybody mentioned was a distant cousin, aunt or whatever, to everybody else. 'Cousin of Alonso Reyes,' or some such appendix, would often be added in brackets after the name. The murder of a relative was a common occurrence. 'Shot dead in the street by his uncle......' was one such remark. Often the details were also interspersed with some of the verbal slogans the Basque people adopted in their struggle. People who had committed a crime, often quoted 'It is better to die on our feet than live on our knees'. After an hour or so my eyes gave out and I had to stop. I also needed to get myself to the shops. Up here you can never be too sure about travelling when snow is around and I didn't want to become cut off without food in the house.

Out of the tourist season the West Highland roads are mainly deserted. You can often go many miles without seeing another vehicle. The mind, therefore, sometimes tends to drift when you're driving. On the way down to Inverness, rather than concentrating on the road, I find myself watching the jagged wings of buzzards, gliding around the surrounding mountain peaks and thinking about Caroline. On a couple of occasions I needed to steer quickly off the roadside scrub as my Saab's wheels scuttled on the undergrowth while rounding a bend. At the supermarket I stocked up with enough provisions for a siege and quickly head home.

With two chunky bacon and egg sandwiches and a large pot of coffee for company I'm soon back at the laptop, scrolling the video and translating. Neck and shoulder ache, some hours later, eventually brings the session to a close. I'm pleased though to have made such progress. Outside it's dark, the snow has stopped. There's a clear moonlit sky. Donning an anorak I escape to my front gate for air. Facing Beinn Eighe, taking in copious gulps of the lung invigorating moss and pine, the revitalising effect is instantaneous. My eyes water with the cold air and my hair bristles, but the brain fug soon clears.

Turning around to look north, I spot, far away in the sky, a mammoth orange glow, which at first appears to be cloud cover. Up at Cape Wrath, on the north-west point of the peninsular, there's a military firing range. Regularly, at night, NATO exercises ensue and the blast of rockets and the like exploding is often plainly visible. But this light is no NATO exercise and it's heading south towards me. Suddenly, vapour like plumes of varying dazzling colours begin to emerge from behind the cloud, swirling around like snakes in the dark night sky. As it gets nearer, reds, golds, yellows and greens, emanate from the cloud cover and compete in startling brilliance. When it is overhead, the main plume shapes into the form of a giant bird, flapping its wings energetically. 'Oh my God,' I shout to myself at the performance. I realise that the Northern Lights are happening above me. Aurora Borealis is a phenomenon of the Northern Hemisphere, caused by solar particles colliding with gases in the Earth's atmosphere. I remain transfixed while it passes over me with a whooshing sound.

When it's tracked out of sight I run inside and e-mail Caroline, describing it just as I have done here. While I'm typing out the message that same familiar pop tune roams around my head. I hum it to myself but I still can't remember the title. In the e-mail I enquire if she has made the visit to her Arab contact. I was not happy about her doing it on her own and it's something that's worried me since our parting. On the laptop there are e-mails from Bracewell wanting to know 'where the hell are you', and a longer one from my publishers demanding more text and spelling out the consequences of me going over my deadline. I decide to put in a telephone call to Bracewell.

'I've just seen the Northern Lights,' I say when he answers the phone.

'Where from? An al-Qaeda prison camp,' he responds caustically. I ignore his barb and tell him about my current situation and briefly about the tape I have on the Basque atrocities.

'Gerald that was a very foolish and an extremely dangerous thing to do. Your life is in danger, surely you must realise that.'

Ignoring this remark as well, I rabbit on excitedly about a possible novel and an accompanying TV documentary.

'Gerald you're under contract to complete your current novel. Your publishers are on my back every other day about the imminent deadline date. It's only a few weeks away and so far they've only got fifty pages. What the hell's the matter with you man? If you don't make the date they'll drop the book and cancel your contract. Which means there will be no money. Gerald, am I getting through?'

He was right of course. Since leaving Gayle's villa I had done no writing on the novel. At that moment I was still riding on a self-centred high after my night of passion with Caroline and from our escapade with Garay. Therefore Bracewell's words of wisdom were passing over my head just as quickly as the Aurora had done some minutes before.

'I do hear you Erskine,' I responded lamely, then continued to prevaricate on about the other matters in my head. Throughout my monologue he continually sighs and intermittently issues his humming sound. When we'd finished our call I went straight back to work on the tape and remained at it until the early hours of the following morning.

The next few days were spent in similar fashion. The weather had settled into winter mode with regular flurries of snow, preventing any excursions into the mountains. My daily exercise therefore was curtailed to forays around the loch and the adjoining countryside. Traffic on the through road was sparse and passers-by infrequent. It took four long, tiring days to translate all the tape and as each day passed I felt myself being sucked more and more into the life of the Basque people. Their fight to retain their culture intrigued me. 'Yes to Fiesta-Yes to the struggle,' was another oft quoted remark used in Garay's writing. Gradually I began to feel an affinity with him. The slow and painstaking task of editing his text into specific localities, then into identifiable families was even more interesting. There were various references to people with my mother's family name, although of course they may not necessarily have been related. From the data I knew I had the basis for a new novel. During those four days the folder on my laptop, pertaining to my current novel, remained unopened. Each day I checked my e-mails for a reply from Caroline. Nothing appeared and I started to get worried. Our pact had been not to phone each other in case the calls were being monitored. By the fourth day however, my patience gave out and I rang the London number of her TV Company. There were many transfers through different departments until I got to somebody who knew something about her. I explained who I was and about our tie-up together on the research in Spain.

'We have not heard from her for some time now,' the female assistant said.

'Have you tried her hotel?' I asked.

'Yes, but they have not seen her recently either. They say her room has been unoccupied for a few days.'

I explained about her visiting a possible al-Qaeda contact in the Arab community.

'Could you try the TV Company in Madrid she was liaising with?' I queried. The woman said she would and I asked her to come back to me with the reply. I repeated my concern for Caroline's welfare, thanked her and then rang off.

Gazing through my front window, at the snow capped peaks, I became conscious, for the first time, of the emotional tie I now had with Caroline Carson. Up until that moment there hadn't been the time or space for the consequences of our night of passion to properly sink in. We'd parted early the next morning to embark on more pressing matters and, in between, travel fatigue and my excitement over the tapes had kept my mind on business. However, using her name with people she knew, imagining her bright, shiny face and realising the danger she may be in was like plunging a dagger into my heart. No longer was our encounter just a one-night stand of sexual lust. In my heart and mind she was now my woman and therefore my responsibility. Instantly the possible consequences of her enquiries sent my over active imagination into free fall. I was worried and of course I blamed myself totally for anything that may happen to her.

So there wasn't quite the same enthusiasm when I reverted to my editing task. Overlaid, in my mind, on each translated incident was a picture of Caroline's face. In my sub-conscious she was sitting alongside, laughing and joking with me as I worked, with her long legs dangling over the edge of the chair. Progress on the task in hand therefore became slower. At one point my concentration wavered so much I had to stop. For a break I opened up the folder of my current novel. Re-reading the last few pages I'd written revealed that the story was no longer in my head. Sighing heavily I reverted back to my editing. At the end of that day I came to the conclusion that I had to do something positive about Caroline's situation. My mind was plagued with worry and sitting on my haunches in my Highland retreat, I concluded, wasn't helping anything.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

Four days later I walked cautiously out of the complex at Barajas International Airport in Madrid. With each step my brain subconsciously calculated the danger I may be walking into. For the previous four days, in Scotland, my mind had gone over the circumstances a thousand times. Each time I came back to the same answer. And as if to prove it to myself, here I was, on Spanish soil again, prepared to jeopardise my writing career, my fast disappearing monetary capital and more importantly, perhaps my life.

Over those four days at home I had managed to finish the editing task on Garay's documents. Deliberately I had left them in Scotland, just in case I was picked up by somebody involved with either 'The Sons', ETA, al-Qaeda, or any other maniacs who wanted to take me out. During my final sub-editing, into families and districts, I had been able to associate three or four names in the Irùn district, up north, who could have been part of my mother's family. Their brief details I had written in the address section of my laptop, disguised under another Spanish surname and a different unrelated town, down south, well away from the Basque region.

Madrid wasn't much warmer than the Western Highlands. I shivered as I got into a taxi; whether it was from the cold or fear, at that moment I wasn't sure. Nobody in the world knew I was there. I hadn't told Bracewell, Gayle or anybody else. The lady I'd spoken to on the phone at Weekend News did come back to me regarding their Spanish counterparts, but there was still no news of Caroline. She gave me the name of a man in their Madrid offices and he was going to be my first port of call next morning. It was early evening when my taxi pulled up outside the small hotel I had booked through the internet. Once settled I walked to a nearby bar for some much needed sustenance and to consider my plan of action.

It had been a long and tiring day from the Western Highlands and the contrasts in the surroundings couldn't be more diverse. While sipping at a warming glass of red Rioja, I was surrounded by busily chattering people, winding down after their day's work. A decadent whiff of expensive cigar smoke drifted across my nostrils. Outside, car horn honking traffic, bright flashing lights and music prevailed. I didn't hang about in the bar for long as I badly needed a good nights rest and I was still conscious about keeping a low profile. Madrid was the centre of Franco's former hierarchy. God knows what may happen to me if those people discovered I was there, I conjectured.

Lorenzo Sancho was the contact name I was given at the Spanish TV Company. I had telephoned him from Scotland and explained who I was and my connection with Caroline. I had also told him about 'Early Dawn' and its implications with 'The Sons'. On the phone he'd sounded sympathetic. We met up just after ten o'clock the following morning at the TV centre. He was a dapper guy in his early forties, of medium height and build, with thick bushy dark hair, and eyebrows turning to grey. Wearing an open necked pale blue shirt and grey slacks, he looked pleased to see me. Fortunately he spoke good English and possessed a sharp inquisitive mind. When he looked hard at you his brown eyes appeared to squint, but I realised later on that it was just a habit he had when concentrating on something.

After shaking hands he expressed his distress about Caroline's disappearance. In our telephone conversation I had outlined some of the facts and before we met up he had done some scouting on the matter. He guided me to a small office alongside the reception area, ordered coffee for us both, then filled me in on his findings.

'I've managed to discover the name and the address of the person Caroline was going to see in connection with her al-Qaeda inquiries,' he began while squinting at me. He said he'd also registered Caroline as a missing person with the Guardia and with them he had visited her hotel room. There really were no clues there, he told me. When she left the room for the last time she'd taken her laptop, mobile phone and her recording equipment. All that remained were her clothes, make-up and suitcase, which he'd bagged up and taken to his own home for safe-keeping.

I listened intently then explained about the details of the Garay notes on her laptop. 'If she is caught with that in her possession she would be carrying with her the fuse of her own demise,' I said. He looked worried, squinted again and shook his head.

'I did advise her to take someone with her,' he responded.

'I'm afraid I was the one who was going to go with her,' I replied, then went on to explain a bit about my situation with 'The Sons' and my hasty retreat to my Highland home. He was still squinting at me. 'So you see Lorenzo,' I added. 'I blame myself for this,' He shook his head again.

From my small briefcase I took out a copy of 'Early Dawn' and passed it across the desk. 'That seems to be the root cause of my trouble with 'The Sons,' I said. 'You may have that copy.' He picked it off the desk, looked at the front and back cover, then thumbed through the pages.

'Is it a good read?' he asked with a smile.

'I think so, but I suppose I am biased.'

He chuckled. 'I will try it during the siesta.'

Lorenzo looked a decent bloke, so I confided in him a little more. 'I'd be grateful if you didn't tell the Guardia of my arrival here,' I said and went on to stress the work I still needed to do in respect of Garay's transcript. 'I will go to the barrios myself tomorrow to try and see this man,' I then said. He looked horrified.

'Gerald that would be extremely dangerous,' he responded loudly.

'It doesn't matter,' I replied. 'I repeat, I blame myself for Caroline's disappearance.' He still looked troubled and scrunched his eyes up again.

'I will come with you then,' he said. 'I cannot do it today as I have work to do but tomorrow morning I will come with you.'

'You don't have to do that.'

'I do, because I was partly responsible for giving her the leads which must have led to this contact she went to see.'

And so we parted on good terms. The delay meant I had time to kill for the rest of the day, so I got on the Metro and toured the city's attractions. My first stop was the Atocha Railway Station, the scene of the bombing. Everything there of course had been tidied up a long time ago, although for me there was still an eerie feeling about the place; similar to the sensations I sometimes get on cold misty days in the Highlands. A memorial, a hollow cylinder, containing messages of grief is now there as a permanent reminder. From there I went on to the Forest of the Departed. One hundred and ninety-one trees have been planted in a garden as a tribute to each one of the murdered. After that I toured some of the beauty spots; the Royal Palace, the City Hall and ate my picnic lunch in gorgeous parkland. Later on I went to the National Library and despite my limited Spanish, viewed a selection of books on the Basque Country, with particular reference to the Irùn province. By the end of the day I was somewhat exhausted, but at least I felt I had done the leg work for whatever we discovered on the following morning. Unfortunately my fears for Caroline's safety had deepened.

At ten o'clock next morning there was a buzz on my hotel room doorbell. Cautiously I checked the spy-hole. Lorenzo was standing outside. When I opened the door he greeted me with a wide smile. Alongside him stood a huge hunk of an Arab looking man with a well rounded face, skinhead and stubbled growth, who he introduced as Kazim. 'He speaks Arabic and knows the Carabanchel Barrios well,' Lorenzo said. Kazim shook my hand with a bone crunching grip and grunted something I didn't understand. I ushered them both into my room while I collected my jacket. I was also wearing my special wrist watch.' The quickest way to get across the city is the metro,' Lorenzo said. Soon we were strap hanging as the train clattered through the labyrinth of burrows that are the city's main arteries. Carabanchel is almost at the end of the line.

Throughout the journey Kazim remained silent while Lorenzo jabbered actively to me about life in his city. I kept an eye on the big man. Clearly he didn't want to become involved with idle chatter. At Carabanchel the pavements bustled noisily with people, many of immigrant origin. Rowdy traffic, honking car horns and revving engines filled the roads. On the distant skyline, modern new tall apartment blocks could be seen, but where Kazim led us, the edificios were old and mostly four storeys in height. We walked about a quarter of a mile, then he pointed at a block and said a name I didn't understand. Shops took up the ground floor, with apartments on the three storeys above.

'That's the address,' Lorenzo said to me. 'Third floor.' Thoughts of Caroline being on her own in this district worried me. Despite the relative warmth of the day my body shivered.

At the main entrance Kazim pressed one of the intercom buttons and spoke to somebody in Arabic. The door opened and we made for the elevator. A long sparsely lit passageway, strewn with rubbish and graffiti covered walls greeted us on the third floor. Kazim led us half way along and pressed on a doorbell. I looked at Lorenzo, who scrunched up his eyes.

'This is the neighbour of the man Caroline was supposed to see,' he said, then gabbled something to Kazim in Spanish.

A short, swarthy Arab man opened the door. He had dark curly hair and a round unshaven face. He was dressed in a check shirt and blue jeans. He looked in his early thirties. Kazim spoke to him in what I guessed was their native tongue. The man pointed down the hallway. He talked in a quick dialect, shaking his head all the while. Their conversation lasted some moments before Kazim turned to Lorenzo and spoke in Spanish.

'The man Caroline came to see lives four doors down,' Lorenzo said to me. 'This man tells us the guy involved has been away for over a week now, although he may be back at the weekend.' Lorenzo reminded Kazim to tell the man that we were looking for a female English journalist who was supposed to have visited there a week or so ago. He related it to the other man. This time their conversation was more agitated, almost an argument. The man went inside leaving the door open. The interior of the apartment was very dark and most of the blinds were drawn. He was soon back, carrying a small bunch of keys and led the way down the passageway, jabbering at Kazim all the time. While he unlocked his neighbour's door Kazim spoke again to Lorenzo. The gist of it was that the man had seen no English women around the apartment block. It was not the sort of place they'd usually venture, he'd said.

That apartment was, if anything darker inside, all the blinds were drawn. Our friend switched on the hall light. There were only four rooms. Clothes were scattered everywhere. There was also a fair amount of garbage and it smelt. When my nostrils adjusted I detected hashish in amongst the other odours. No way could it be described as a pleasant abode. We were allowed into each room. All the furniture was either broken or home made from odd pieces of wood and looked rickety. Lorenzo and Kazim spoke to each other again in Spanish. It didn't take long to complete the guided tour. There was definitely no sign of an English woman, or any of her apparel or journalistic equipment. I was glad to get outside. Kazim and the man spoke argumentatively as he locked the door. Lorenzo and I thanked him in Spanish while we walked back down the passageway. He didn't reply. Either he didn't understand or he didn't want to know.

On the way down in the lift Lorenzo suggested coffee. There was a small cafe with a cheap chrome frontage at the end of the road. Kazim seemed to be known in there. The other customers and the proprietor were all of Arab origin. Kazim spoke to the owner in rapid tones and gestured to a seat in the corner. From his leather jacket pocket he drew out a packet of cigarettes. I declined the offer of one but Lorenzo accepted. Fumes from their combined puffs were bad enough to send a camel into a coughing spasm.

The coffee was black and very strong. When we'd been served Kazim spoke in rapid tones to Lorenzo, who was squinting again as he concentrated on the Arab's words. A few times he interrupted with quick questions, but Kazim did most of the talking. Each time he paused to sip at his coffee Lorenzo interpreted for me in English.

'Kazim says,' he began, 'that this area and that apartment block in particular are notorious for drug related crime. The area is also a hot spot for terrorist activities. They get the drugs from Afghanistan or Pakistan to sell to the locals, who then go into debt. When they can't pay up it means the terrorists have a hold on them to carry out tasks.' I watched Lorenzo's eye scrunch up again. 'Kazim reckons that there's al-Qaeda, Hamas, Fatah, Islamic Jihad, all living in that block or somewhere close by. He says Caroline was foolish to even think about going in there on her own. If she has really gone missing, he thinks it is doubtful that she will still be alive.' I felt my heart sink. 'They don't bother with hostages nowadays,' he continued. 'There's no political capital in it anymore. If somebody gets in their way or too close to damaging information, it is simpler just to kill them.'

I stared into the black pool of my coffee and felt my face drain of colour. When I looked up Lorenzo was staring at me with sympathy. 'I'm afraid it's a fact we both have to face, my friend,' he said.

Kazim downed his coffee and said he had to go. He promised to continue to make inquiries about Caroline. There were other people he knew in the area. If he could persuade them to talk they would certainly know about an English woman being around there. He would keep in contact with Lorenzo he said, but we must not try to do anything on our own he stressed. It was far too dangerous. He shook hands with us both and then was gone.

'He is a good man,' Lorenzo said afterwards. 'He used to be a radio reporter for one of the local Arab stations. Now he works as a freelance journalist and for a charity organisation, raising money for the homeless kids. I have known him for some years and I trust him and he knows the territory.'

I looked at Lorenzo while he finished his coffee. After the first sip I hadn't touched much of mine. 'What he said about Caroline makes me feel useless.' I said.

'I know my friend. Me too. I will get onto the police again when I get back to my office.'

'And I had better tell her TV Company in Britain about the grim possibilities,' I responded.

Lorenzo paid the bill and we walked back to the Metro. All the way I was mentally berating myself for allowing Caroline to venture into all of this on her own. I considered myself selfish and complacent. My heart was also in serious despair.

* * * * *

From my hotel room I telephoned Caroline's employers on my mobile. Initially I spoke to the same female assistant, but once I'd told her the grim facts of Caroline's situation I was transferred to a more senior man. Bob Glanville was her editor. ' Oh Lord,' he responded. 'I did warn her that this was a possibility,' he said when I'd given him the details. 'Trouble is she's so headstrong. When she's onto something she won't let go.'

I mentioned that Lorenzo was contacting the Spanish police. Glanville said he'd inform the Foreign Office and the British Embassy in Madrid. He mentioned his company did have a Madrid correspondent and he gave me the man's local number. 'Let's just pray she is alive somewhere. We'll keep in touch,' he finished with, after I had told him the name of my hotel and my mobile number.

Then I was in a quandary. I'd travelled all that way and to some extent put my life in danger, but for what. How to make a positive contribution without lousing up the situation further was my dilemma. Sitting around a hotel room in Madrid wasn't going to achieve much so I rang the Madrid number Glanville had given me. A broad Scottish accent replied and gave me hope. Alastair Stewart was from the border country; around Melrose to be exact. I found out later that when he was younger he'd played rugby for the local team, in the second row. After University he'd started as a journalist in Edinburgh, then Scottish TV, before moving south to London and the Weekend News. He'd been their Madrid correspondent for just over a year. He knew Caroline and a bit about her disappearance and I filled him in on the rest.

'Och that's terrible Gerald,' he responded. 'We have to try and do something. I only met her once. Cracking looking lassie though.' He gave me the name and directions to a bar not far from my hotel and said he would meet me there in an hour.

I arrived early and dragged out the contents of a cafè con leche while I waited. Unmistakable when he strode in, he could have just returned from selling a few sheep at a Border country market. At least six foot five, he possessed ginger hair, body weight going onto seventeen stone and carried a distinguished nose that revealed much about his rugby exploits. He wore a green check shirt under a brown short sleeve pullover and green cords.

'This is a bad business Gerald,' he said to me as he grasped my hand in another bone crushing grip. Steely light blue eyes challenged me when they held my gaze. After we had exchanged courtesies I elaborated on a few more facts. He knew that Caroline was making a TV documentary and its subject matter. I explained about my involvement and the background of 'Early Dawn' and also our meeting with Garay. I deliberately omitted to mention the threats I'd been under from 'The Sons', as I didn't want to saddle him with any caution on my behalf. But I did mention the transcript of Garay's documents being on her laptop, which hadn't been found. He shook his head and issued a couple of descriptive Scottish expletives. He ordered cafè negro and afterwards I told him about Lorenzo, Kazim, the Arab man and the police involvement.

'Trouble is everything out here is so slow,' he responded. 'Sometimes I think they're all on permanent siesta. By the time they get round to doing anything it's usually too late.' He said and took a deep breath. 'Can you remember how to get back to this Arab man's apartment?' he asked

'I think so. It wasn't far from the Metro.'

'And you say that this guy she was supposed to meet there was going to be back at the weekend.'

'That's what I gathered from the translated conversation,' I replied

'Well we'd better get ourselves over there on Saturday then,' he said dogmatically. I looked into the steely blue eyes. They didn't waver. He said it all as though he was calling for a five yard scrum, rather than a line out, in front of the opponents try line. My spirits lifted immediately and I responded with the same enthusiasm.

We spent the next ten minutes explaining our Scottish connections to each other then he had to go. An appointment with a Government official was already overdue. 'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'Everybody here is always at least an hour late. You'll get used to it.' I laughed. We arranged to meet outside the Metro station near my hotel at 10am on Saturday. We shook hands, then he was gone.

My laptop revealed a couple of e-mails. One was from Bracewell demanding to know where 'the hell I was', and another containing dire threats from my publishers about the deadline on the novel. I didn't reply to either. Trying to kill time until the Saturday meant I spent long periods at the National Library reading up more on the Basque country. My lack of complete understanding of the Spanish language continued to make the task slow. I did however make copious notes and also used my special wrist watch to record some of the details. An idea for a book around the subject coupled with Garay's revelations gradually began to germinate in my head. Back in my hotel room I wrote out some rough early chapters. In between I visited more of the impressive galleries, magnificent museums and attractive parks within Madrid's 'golden triangle', as it's known.

Saturday morning I was awake early. Sleep hadn't been easy any night. As a result I was again too early at the Metro and had to cool my heels for some time until Alastair arrived.

'Gerald my apologies,' he called out in his broad Border tones from some twenty yards away when he eventually turned up. We were soon on the busy streets of Carabanchel. Keeping up with his giant strides was a problem 'This is no place for a young English woman to be out on her own,' he stated categorically as he marched along. Fortunately I was able find the apartment block without too much bother. Getting inside caused some delay but Alastair's forceful Spanish over the intercom eventually persuaded someone inside to press the door open for us.

On the third floor passageway I pointed out the door of the Arab's apartment. He ignored that and strode purposefully on past to the one four doors along, where he looked at me questioningly. I nodded and he pressed firmly on the doorbell. Initially there was no response. He pressed hard again. Next we heard shuffling from inside, then after some moments the door opened by just a few inches. A jet black face with wild green eyes appeared. The rest of him was hidden behind the door. Alastair growled out in Spanish that he was a TV reporter. He'd been told, he said, that one of his colleagues, an English woman, had been here on an enquiry. Could he come in and talk, he asked with determination.

The man inside shook his head and said in Spanish 'I know nothing,' and began to close the door. A size ten, or maybe eleven work boot, encasing a heavy Scottish foot, jammed itself in front of the rapidly closing woodwork. 'I have to talk to you. It won't take long,' Alastair growled, like a bear, in Spanish and at the same time shoved his shoulder against the door. The force took the man inside by surprise. The door sprung out of his hands. The man stood back. We could see him properly now. He was short and thin, West African I guessed. He possessed a black shaven head, wore a gaudy yellow and green shirt and jeans. The big wide green eyes looked frightened. Alastair towered over him.

'Can we come in,' Alastair growled some more. Whether the guy wanted us in or not didn't matter. Alastair's shove had taken him over the threshold. The little man stood back and still looked afraid. 'I am sorry about this,' Alastair continued in Spanish to the African. 'But it is vital we speak with you now.' By then they were both standing in the centre of the hallway. I had followed hesitatingly inside. It was very dark. The air smelt again of hashish and I detected movements from one of the other rooms. I really didn't know what to expect next. Alastair switched on the hall light and told me to close the door. He repeated to the coloured man of his need to find Caroline. From inside his anorak pocket he produced a photograph of her and stuck it in front of the man's face. 'I'm told she had an appointment with you?' he growled, again in Spanish and jabbed his index finger at the little man's chest. While they were talking I rolled up my sleeve, switched on my photo watch and attempted to point it in the direction of the two of them.

The man shook his head again in reply, the wild eyes expanded. 'I know nothing,' he repeated. His body was shaking. Alastair took another step forward and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. 'I have to find her,' he bellowed, with his face an inch away from the other man's.

Alongside us, the creak of a door opening made me jump out of my skin. I took a step back towards the outside door. The face of a young woman, equally black, equally frightened, peeped out from the narrow gap she had created in the doorway. Alastair didn't budge. His hands remained clutching the man's shirt. His head was still pressed forward.

'They took her,' I understood to be the little man's response. His voice was choked with fear and emotion.

'Who took her?' Alastair fired back, still holding onto the man's shirt.

'The Arabs.'

'When?'

'Over a week ago.'

'Where?'

'I don't know. I swear,' the coloured man stuttered. 'First they kept her in an apartment further down the passage. Then when the story got out about her on the TV they moved her. I don't know where. Maybe the old jail, but I don't know. You must believe me.'

'Why did they take her?' Alastair's face was by then almost forced against the nose of the African.

'Somehow they found out about her coming here.'

Alastair relaxed his grip and withdrew his face a few inches. The woman's horror-filled eyes continued to peep through the open crack in the doorway, watching intently.

'How did they get her?' Alastair asked

'They took her when she stood outside my door. That door,' he pointed behind me. 'After she'd pressed the bell. I never got to talk to her.' His voice and his body continued to quake. Alastair let go of his shirt

'Did you have some information for her?'

'A little, not a lot,' the guy replied. 'A few names, who may have connections with ETA and the Arabs. That's all. She offered me money. We are very poor,' he said pointing at the woman behind the door who continued to stare wide-eyed. 'Please, you mustn't tell anybody around here. It is not safe to say anything.'

Alastair stood back. 'Ok,' he said in calmer tones. 'But you think they may have taken her to the old jail.'

The guy nodded his head. 'I don't know, but that's where they sometimes take people they want to hide or torture.' I winced when he said that. My Spanish was just about holding up on what they were both saying. The man started shaking his head from side to side. 'They may have killed her,' he said 'I don't know. I swear it was nothing to do with me. The lady contacted me, but I never spoke to her, except on the phone. You must believe me.'

'Ok, Ok.' Alastair said. 'I'm sorry about this,' he continued and looked across at the woman. From his pocket he pulled out a wad of Euros and stuffed them into the man's hand. 'I have to find her,' he shouted. 'She is my work colleague,' he added. The man seemed to understand what he meant.

'Could we find our way into the jail?' Alastair asked pointing at me.

'Yes, but it is very dangerous,' the little man replied. 'There are rats, and hobos doss down there. Some live there all the time.' I shuddered some more. After that we made to leave. I switched off my watch. Alastair thanked the man and repeated his apologies to both him and the woman.

The jail at Carabanchel, is, to many Spanish people an infamous edifice. The area where it now stands was the scene of fierce fighting during the 'Battle of Madrid', in the Civil War in 1936. The prisoners held there afterwards were forced to construct the jail between 1940 and 1944. Then it was used to house Franco's political 'detainees'. After his death ETA terrorists were kept there until 1988 when it was closed and abandoned by the Government. Heavy looting of its structure followed and in time it became a sanctuary for homeless people from the marginal communities, seeking shelter. Decoratively elaborate artistic graffiti now covers nearly all the walls. There was talk of converting it into a hospital, but I was informed that the locals wanted it preserved as a memorial to their struggle for democracy.

On the pavement outside the apartment block Alastair stopped and turned to look at me. 'Let's go and have a look at this wretched place,' he said. He'd taken me by surprise. For a few moments I hesitated with my reply.

'Hang on a second,' I said as he started to move away. 'Let's think about this first.' I had to reach out and hold onto his arm. Turning round he gave me a disdainful look. 'The two of us aren't going to achieve much on our own,' I chipped in quickly. 'Firstly I'm no use in a show down. I've been a coward, in that respect, all of my life, especially under pressure. And we don't know for sure if Caroline is in there. And if she is how many people are guarding her? I repeat the two of us can't do this on our own!'

Thankfully he stood still for a few seconds. 'If she's in there and alive every second counts,' he fired back at me.

'Yes, but if we go plundering in and disturb things they may shoot her and be done with it.' I pleaded.

'Well what do you suggest?' he said angrily.

I began to explain about Kazim and Lorenzo. 'Kazim knows the territory,' I said. He also knows the people and he's a big tough looking guy who can handle himself. The sort of guy you'd need on your side in a situation like this.'

Alastair looked at me intently. 'OK,' he said reluctantly, 'but I think as we're this close we should just go and take a look at the place. It's not far from here.' I knew there was no way I was going to stop him, so I followed on, as he marched down the street to the Metro station. By the entrance was map showing that the prison was only a few stops away.

The domed roof of the hospital block, towering defiantly on the skyline, was clearly visible as we approached. A wire perimeter fence, then a high brick wall festooned with gregarious graffiti in multitudinous colours and designs surrounded the exterior. Fortunately there were many gaps in the wall and fence which allowed us to walk inside unhindered. What we discovered in there astonished me. A prison is a prison anywhere, but this place was a giant mausoleum; a massive scary monument to the atrocities committed within its boundaries. It reeked of torture, dictatorship and recriminations.

We entered the building proper through a tall ghostly tower, strewn with fallen masonry. 'Be careful,' I whispered to Alastair as he began to walk up the rickety structure of a spiral metal staircase. He ignored me, so I followed on, gingerly. The smell of untreated sewage tainted the atmosphere. At regular intervals, on each floor, there were wide, long, graffiti covered passageways leading off at right angles. 'Just look at those colours,' I said in a hushed voice, although my words still echoed back off the surrounding concrete.

'Modern day cave artists,' Alastair responded, as he stepped carefully over the rubble. Decay and ruin was everywhere. Yet the horizontal shafts of light glinting through the broken apertures of the old windows somehow created a strange mystical quality on the ménage of graffiti, creating a semblance of hope out of what once must have been total despair. This mass mural of colour, painted by countless unnamed street artists, provided the final edifying sense of revulsion to what had happened there before. At that moment I could see why the locals wanted it preserved.

'For Christ sake don't go across,' I called out to Alastair. He was about to traverse one of the crumbling cement viaducts that spanned the passageway. 'His weight will collapse the whole thing,' I said to myself and closed my eyes. When I opened them again he was on the other side, so I had no option but to follow. Along that passageway the individual cells were more or less intact, although the metal bars were rusting with corrosion and age. As I walked past I could sense the years of deprivation and pain emitting from their cramped interiors. Remnants of damp cardboard beds, old clothing and the charcoal remains of bygone fires littered the floors.

We'd been roaming around for about a quarter of an hour. Endless passageways led in all directions. To explore them all would have been impossible at that juncture. I whispered to Alastair 'Stop! I can hear voices.' We both stopped moving and listened. Somewhere in a far off gangway there was definitely the sound of voices.

'I don't think we should go any further,' I said. 'We may disturb them.'

'Och come on Gerald, don't be a cissy. Let's just take a peek.'

'I'm not being a cissy,' I replied, trying to contain my agitated response into a hushed whisper. 'I just don't want to blow the whole thing until we have reinforcements. We're not equipped to take anybody on. And if we disturb them now, they will either kill Caroline, if she is here, or move her on to somewhere else.'

He stood and looked at me in silence for some moments. I knew he could see I was right. Eventually he raised his right hand in silent acknowledgement. Quietly and carefully we made our way back the way we had come. As we walked out I looked down on the old exercise yard below. An area where thousands of lonely feet must have once plodded their daily patrol on its sombre surface. It had become overgrown; grass and weeds poked up through the cracked cement as though the dead prisoner's souls had risen again.

On the Metro Alastair and I politely argued about how we were going to proceed. His loud voice and gung-ho spirit dominated the dialogue. However, I was not prepared to back down. My fears were for Caroline's safety. 'One false move and we are jeopardising her life,' I continued to insert into my side of the disagreement. By the time we emerged from the underground I had more or less won him over.

'Let's find a bench over there,' I said pointing in the direction of one of the nearby parks. 'I'll phone Lorenzo while you're with me.' I added. He nodded his head although I could see he still wasn't happy.

A herbaceous border filled with colourful spiky plants dazzled alongside the park bench as I dialled Lorenzo's number. He wasn't best pleased when I told him about our morning excursion. 'That seems a bit foolhardy to me Gerald,' was his initial response. 'Don't you think we would be better leaving that side of it to the police.' My hand was encasing my mobile close to my ear to keep his response out of Alastair's hearing. 'I'm sure they'd have more expertise at that sort of thing,' Lorenzo continued.

I went on to describe Alastair's proposal for Caroline's rescue. 'If we had Kazim with us there would be four of us,' I added. 'That way, we may be able to surprise her captors, if they are there. You know what the Guardia are like. They'd turn up with sirens blazing and tyres screeching.' I said.

'I just don't know Gerald. It sounds very dangerous and a bit silly to me. I'll have a word with Kazim. See what his feelings are. Remind me of your number. I'll get back to you.' He rang off after I had quoted it.

'He's going to contact Kazim,' I said to Alastair. We parted after that and I promised to phone him that evening when I'd heard from Lorenzo.

I returned to my hotel room and spent the rest of the day trying to organise my notes from the Library into some coherent form. That research, plus what I already had at home was enough for me to be able to begin the story I had in mind. By then my other novel had completely disappeared from my head. I didn't dare look at my e-mails, fearing more detrimental blasts from my publishers and Bracewell.

It was early evening when my mobile rang. Concentrating on my endeavours I'd lost track of the time. 'I don't know why I let myself get talked into such nonsense,' Lorenzo said when I answered. It seemed Kazin possessed the same gung-ho spirit as Alastair, although Lorenzo thought we were all 'raving idiots,' to get involved in such matters. I let him ramble on a bit and get it off his chest. The decision was that he and Kazim would meet us outside the jail next morning at 8am. 'I'm telling you though Gerald, at the slightest hint of trouble I'm phoning the Guardia,' he said and rambled on a bit more about 'being too old for this sort of thing', before ringing off. I telephoned Alastair and he agreed to pick me up in his car, outside my hotel, at seven in the morning.

'If we do find her we'll need a car to get her away,' he said. Afterwards I sat back in my chair and pondered. Really it was totally unlike me to get involved in such things. I concluded that associating with Caroline must have released an unknown side of me. That silly tune drifted back again into my head and I still couldn't remember the damn title. Sleep that night was difficult. What little I managed was filled with crazy dreams of terrorist gunmen and the like.

* * * * *

I was up at dawn and ate very little breakfast. Alastair phoned me just before seven from his car to say he was waiting outside the Hotel. 'If we get there early we may take them by surprise,' he said when I ducked into the passenger seat a few minutes later.

'I just pray we're doing the right thing,' I responded. Talk between us was at a premium until we got near the prison. We were still ahead of schedule when we arrived at the jail. In the distance we could see Lorenzo and Kazim waiting on the pavement. Lorenzo looked worried and unsure. Kazim seemed prepared and up for it. Alastair turned the car around to face the way we had just come and parked in a convenient spot. When we got out I made the introductions. Alastair explained about the location where we had heard voices the previous day. Then Kazim spoke to us all in rapid Spanish. He knew of an entrance around the back, where we wouldn't be seen going in. Before we moved off Alastair reached into the car and pulled out two truncheons, handing one to me and the other to Lorenzo. 'Stick these under your jackets,' he said. 'You may be glad of them before the morning's out.'

'I'd be happier with a bullet proof vest,' I replied. Lorenzo squinted at his truncheon, unsure of what to do with it. Then Kazim led us down one of the side streets. Alastair moved quickly to catch him up. Lorenzo and I followed along behind keeping quiet. I was frightened and could feel myself shaking. What the hell would I do with a truncheon, I thought.

Artistic graffiti like a floral display was rampant on the wall alongside us as we walked down the street. Soon a suitable gap appeared in the fence and wall, which we could go through. Kazim then led the way towards a small tower block. The fittings that remained indicated it could have been a kitchen. Concrete debris was everywhere. Constantly we had to pick our way over piles of cement rubble. Two flights of stairway took us to the top of the tower block, where it opened out onto a big gangway. Quietly we all tiptoed along the corridor. On either side more flamboyant graffiti covered the cement structure in between the individual cells.

We'd gone about fifty yards when Kazim held out his arm, instructing us to stop. Somewhere ahead we could hear music. Gabbling Spanish voices were intermingled in between music tracks, indicating a radio station. Kazim unzipped his leather jacket. Underneath, strapped across his body, was a small automatic rifle. I looked across to Lorenzo who just shook his head. To my amazement, Alastair then produced a pistol from inside his pocket. We'd come to a spot on the landing where a passageway led to the left and another to the right. The music appeared to be coming from the right.

'If they are ahead we have to surprise them,' Kazim said slowly and quietly to us all in Spanish. 'We must be absolutely silent. Alastair and I will go first to see what we can find. You two wait here,' he whispered and pointed at us. Lorenzo and I weren't going to argue with that.

The two of us stood, waited and watched while Kazim and Alastair disappeared down the passageway to the right. We could hear their feet scuffling through the debris, then for some time the music and chatter from the radio was all that was audible. Lorenzo and I made whispered conversation to idle away the time. 'At least the music will give them some cover,' I said nervously. 'If somebody is sitting with their ear next to that racket they're not going to hear our guys.'

'I have the police number on my mobile,' Lorenzo said, holding up his phone. 'The first sign of problems and I'm ringing them.' I tried to smile at him reassuringly.

We stood there alone for some time and I was beginning to get worried. Suddenly and without warning a flapping sound behind me nearly gave me a heart attack. I turned my head and watched a pigeon flying away from us down the passageway, cooing to itself as it disappeared. Lorenzo and I just smiled at each other in exaggerated relief. Then I heard scuffling feet on the nearby concrete. I stuck my head cautiously around the corner just to check. To my relief it was the two of them and I issued a thumbs-up back to Lorenzo.

'There's definitely something going on three quarters of the way down that passage,' Alastair whispered when they reached us. 'There's an area cordoned off around two cells with curtains. We couldn't see in but that's where the radio is coming from.' At that moment Kazim was adjusting the sights on his rifle and clicking the mechanisms.

'Don't you think we ought to call the police?' Lorenzo whispered back. 'Somebody could get killed.'

Kazim spoke next, forcefully in Spanish, while continuing to fiddle with the rifle. 'If we call the Guardia at this stage it is likely that someone will get killed,' he said. 'There will be sirens and feet on the stairways. The captors would know they were coming long before they got this far. At the moment we have the element of surprise on whoever is in there,' he continued. We all looked at him. 'She is your work colleague. It is up to you?' He said and shrugged his shoulders.

'Come on let's do it,' Alastair said. 'Caroline's been missing for a long time.'

Lorenzo and I looked at each other. He shrugged his shoulders and held his arms out wide in resignation. I waved my right arm upwards to indicate for us to go ahead.

'We have to be very quiet,' Alastair said. 'You must be careful with your feet. There's lots of loose masonry further down the passage. One touch and it'll tumble off the balcony and make one hell of a crash.'

I drew out the truncheon from inside my coat and Lorenzo did the same. Carefully we followed the other two down the passageway cautiously picking our way around the fallen masonry. Kazim held his rifle out in front of him menacingly. Alastair held the pistol pointing upwards in his right hand. We were getting nearer to the music. After we'd turned a corner I could see the curtains in the distance. They were held up by rope tied across the passageway from the bars of the cells to some old light fittings. Kazim made a sign with his hands and arms for us to slow down and keep quiet. The last twenty yards we literally tiptoed and listened for any voices. The radio was covering our sounds but it also prevented us from hearing anything else inside the curtains.

Five yards away we all stopped, crouched and listened hard, trying to detect movements ahead. We stayed like that for some moments. How many were in there we didn't know. The noise of the radio made it impossible to tell. Kazim gestured for Lorenzo and I to stand still. He and Alastair were going in. The two of them moved closer, to where the curtains joined. For a split second they both paused. Kazim counted out one, two, three with his fingers, then they both pounced forward with their guns pointing. 'Manos arriba,' I heard Kazim call out loudly. From behind the curtains there was the sound of furniture scraping across the concrete floor; a chair hit the deck with a crash. Kazim's voice continued to bellow out orders in an Arabic language. Everything was happening too fast for me to follow. Other voices inside were shouting in the same language. Suddenly a large item of furniture, perhaps a table, crashed on the floor. Then a burst of automatic fire dramatically echoed around the whole block. My legs were shaking. My hands gripped the truncheon like a vice. More strident voices bellowed from inside. The radio continued to play. After the gunshots, movements and the voices quietened. Lorenzo and I could only stand, wait and hope. We could hear Kazim's voice continued to issue commands. At least he was still alive I thought and appeared in control. It was many minutes before Alastair's head appeared around the curtain. He beckoned us in. Lorenzo and I tentatively moved forward clutching those stupid truncheons.

What I saw inside the curtain astonished me. Outside the cells were two men, both small and stocky and Arab looking, sitting on chairs with their hands tied behind their backs. Kazim was covering them with his rifle. I discovered later on that he was the one who had fired the rifle, as a warning, when one of the men had tipped over the table. The radio was on the floor and continued to blare. Alastair bent down to switch it off. The air around us reeked of cordite. On the floor around the overturned table there were also a couple of thermos flasks, some cups and two mobile phones. A pile of newspapers and some packets of biscuits lay about as well but not much else. When I looked across to the cell in the corner, half hidden, behind another curtain which covered most of the bars, looking terrified, was Caroline. Her face lit up when she recognised Lorenzo and me.

'Now I am going to phone the Guardia,' Lorenzo said.

I ran to the cell and pulled down the covering curtain. Caroline's hands and half her arms were already stretched out through the bars towards me. 'Oh Gerald I never thought I'd see any of you again,' she cried. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her hair was unkempt, but she still looked beautiful to me. We grabbed out at each other's hands, tried to kiss, but our lips couldn't touch with the intervening bars. I yanked at the cell door but a padlock held it firmly closed, so I kissed both of her hands instead.

'Have they got the keys?' I shouted to Kazim and pointed at the two tied up men. Kazim bellowed at them in Arabic and waved the automatic rifle. The one with a dark goatee beard nodded towards a jacket, which was slung across another chair by the second cell.

'We did wonder if we were going to see you again old girl,' Alastair said to Caroline. He'd been to the jacket and found the keys. 'We were almost beginning to miss you,' he added, with a grin, while he fiddled with the padlock.

As he pulled the cell door aside I took one pace forward and she fell into my arms, sobbing and crying. Her body felt as thin as a rake. Her face was pale like a white sheet. I stroked her hair. Her legs were caving in under her and slowly she began to collapse in my arms.

''We need a chair,' I shouted to Alastair. He threw the captive's jacket off the spare one and guided it underneath her folding body. It looked as though she was about to faint. 'Is there any water,' I shouted. Alastair searched about. In the other cell he found a small water bottle, half full. Liberally I doused the contents onto my handkerchief and applied it to Caroline's forehead. Her body was weaving about on the chair like the branch of a tree in the wind. Alastair held her steady while I continued to mop her brow.

'The Guardia are on their way,' I heard Lorenzo say. 'I've asked them to bring an ambulance as well.'

### CHAPTER TWELVE

The memory of the hour or so we spent in Carabanchel prison that day is still implanted in my brain, like a horror movie. The desperate, trembling terror I felt as I walked along the passageway towards Caroline still brings on a cold sweat whenever I think about it. The terrified resignation of impending doom on the faces of her captors in response to the intensity of Kazim's forcefulness haunts many of my nightmares. Caroline's helpless, expression when she reached out through those prison bars for my hand replays over and over in my mind a thousand times. I guess they're visions that will never leave me.

Caroline continued to drift in and out of consciousness while we waited for the Guardia. Her pallor changed from ghostly white to pale yellow and back again as I continued to apply the little water we had to her forehead. Sirens wailing in the street below announced the arrival of the emergency services and eased my panic. The two captors had become restless, shuffling in their seats and continually arguing with Kazim in their own language. Alastair was helping me while Lorenzo was on the phone to his TV Company. That was one scoop he was not going to miss out on.

Soon metal boots echoed on the concrete and then the Guardia poured into our enclave, brandishing automatic weapons. Some of them wore bullet proof vests and flak jackets. Two paramedics followed behind them with a stretcher. Lorenzo had phoned one of the District Officers of the Guardia who he knew and this man was with us and in charge. He spoke mainly to Lorenzo. Alastair and I helped the paramedics with Caroline. Kazim continued an argumentative dialogue with the two captors, continually prodding and poking at them with the automatic, much to the annoyance of the Guardia who were trying to handcuff and search them.

One of the paramedics connected Caroline to an oxygen mask. I said I would go with her in the ambulance to the hospital. Lorenzo and Kazim would travel back with the Guardia to their offices. The captors were taken down to an offenders van. Alastair said he had work to attend to but would meet up with us at the hospital later. When I got outside the TV people were waiting with cameras, microphones and reporters. While Caroline's body was stretchered into the ambulance I tried to hide my face away.

At the hospital she was taken straight into an emergency room. A Guardia officer sat outside while I paced up and down the passageway. It was some time before one of the doctors came out to see me. 'She is suffering from shock and stress,' he said to me. 'We will have to keep her in for a few days. She needs lots of liquids and building up with food. I don't think she has eaten anything in over a week. She'll be on a drip feed most of the time she is here.'

'Can I see her?' I asked.

'No, not for some time. Probably not today. We have sedated her now and we will occasionally give her oxygen. In view of what you have all been through, perhaps it would best if you went home and came back this evening. We will have a better idea by then of how things are going. '

'Is she going to be all right?'

'Oh yes, but it will take time,' the doctor said. He was tall, with dark hair and wore a white tunic and silver spectacles. In his early thirties I guessed.

Reluctantly, after phoning Alastair and Lorenzo on their mobiles, I took the doctor's advice and wearily made my way back to my hotel. In my room I ordered a large brandy, switched on the TV and saw myself alongside the ambulance, outside the prison, on the news programme. One side of my face was plainly visible to anybody who might recognised me.

Badly I needed rest so I retired to my bed, although proper sleep was a long time coming. The events of the morning graphically rambled around in my head, but eventually I did manage to doze off. When I awoke the cold sweat of fear encasing my body was making me shiver. Quickly I got under the shower and dosed my body with alternate cold and hot spray. Mentally I was still reliving what we had been through and it wasn't going to be easy to clear it out of my mind. Afterwards I ordered another large brandy and some tortilla. I wasn't particularly hungry but I did need some sustenance. More coverage of the morning's events at the prison continued on the TV when I switched it on. Just as I was about to settle into the tortilla the hotel phone by my bedside rang.

'I've bloody well tracked you down at last,' the voice at the other end said. It was Bracewell!

'How did you find me here? Nobody is supposed to know I'm here,' I responded.

'Don't make me laugh,' Bracewell said caustically. 'If you don't want anybody to know where you are, what's your name doing all over the media in connection with some fracas involving Arab terrorists at a Madrid prison.' I heard a big sigh. 'Gerald, why don't you just stick to writing the novels? You don't have to act them out as well. Leave that till your books are made into films. Please!'

I then had to suffer a tirade about my failure to respond to his calls or his e-mails and a dressing down about my lack of commitment to my chosen profession and my indulgence in pretty faces young enough to be my daughter. I was too weak to argue with any of it. By then it was early evening and I was anxious to get back to the hospital. I have to admit I had been ignoring his attempted phone calls as well as his e-mails. When his name came up on any of my text messages or missed calls I had not answered and deleted them.

'I had better come over there and sort this out for you,' he said next.

'What do you mean sort it out for me?'

'Gerald you're in a mess. Your publishers were going to throw you out. But now, because of the publicity surrounding you they don't know what to do.'

'I don't want you out here. I've got to be at the hospital for Caroline.' I said and explained a bit about her situation.

'That doesn't matter,' he responded. 'You can't be at her side twenty four hours a day. She has to sleep even if you don't. We can talk then. Just you stay at that hotel, I'll be out tomorrow.' He failed to take notice of any of my pleas.

'Bloody hell!!' I swore after I'd put the phone down. The thought of Bracewell faffing around me in Spain was enough to set my nerves on edge again. Even when I had my own apartment out there, he never came to visit. His attitudes and demeanour just weren't commensurate with Latin temperaments. Quickly I gobbled down the tortilla, gulped the remains of the brandy and then set off for the hospital.

Alastair was sitting outside Caroline's room with a different Guardia policeman when I arrived. 'What's the news?' I asked

'She's still heavily sedated,' Alastair replied. 'They reckon she'll remain like that until well into tomorrow.'

'Have you been able to see her?' I asked impatiently.

'No, but I told them you were her boyfriend and would probably want to when you arrived.' I looked at him. He was smiling. 'I'll go and see if I can find the doctor,' he continued. He turned away from me and headed down the passageway. I looked at the policeman and we nodded at each other. He reverted to reading his newspaper and I began to pace up and down.

It was some ten minutes or so before Alastair returned with the same white-coated doctor I had seen before. 'I understand you would like to see your friend,' the doctor said to me in good English.

'If it's possible,' I replied.

'OK. But you must understand that she cannot be disturbed. If she is asleep you mustn't wake her. She needs continuous rest for some time to deal with the trauma.'

'I understand,' I said.

'You can come in with me then, but it won't be for long.'

From a side desk he picked up a white cap and gown and handed it to me to put on. Then he made a gesture with his fingers on his lips to be quiet and I followed him through the door into the emergency room. A nurse was sitting alongside Caroline's bed and rose out of her seat on seeing us. The doctor put his index finger over his lips again, for silence.

What I saw disturbed me. Caroline was lying out with tubes and drip feeds connected to both her arms. Alongside the bed, numerous monitors were registering the beats and pulses of her body. An oxygen mask was affixed to her face. The doctor stopped me when I started to get too close. I stood there in silence for some moments and watched her. She looked in a bad state. Inwardly I continued to chastise myself for neglecting her when she needed me.

For a few seconds her eyes opened. She obviously recognised me, for although her eyes quickly closed again her left hand lifted upwards an inch or two off the bed. Tentatively I moved forward and held onto the fingers for a brief time and felt them move around mine. The doctor waved me away then ushered me outside.

'As you see she is very weak,' he said in the passageway. 'She is going to be all right but I repeat it is going to take time, a lot of time.'

'Can I stay?' I asked.

'You are welcome to stay if you want, but I don't see any point as you will not be allowed in to see her again until tomorrow. She will be sleeping all of the time. It is up to you, but I think you need rest as well. You've all been through a lot of trauma. We will phone you if there is any major change.'

For some moments I remained looking at him nonplussed. Eventually I agreed with his judgement, left my mobile number at the desk and went off with Alastair for a drink.

* * * * *

'Have you heard from the other two?' I asked him as we both sipped Don Carlos in a nearby bar.

'No. I expect they're still at the police station,' he replied. 'The Guardia can be very pedantic.'

I said I would ring Lorenzo's mobile when I got back to my hotel. 'I'll phone you if there is any news,' I added. I also mentioned about Bracewell's imminent arrival. He said if there was no news from the other two by the morning he would go into the TV studios and see Lorenzo himself. We finished our brandies then made moves to leave, me back to my hotel, him back to his apartment. It had been a very long day. Before we parted, outside on the pavement, I shook his hand. 'I thought you and Kazim were brilliant in that jail this morning,' I said. 'I could never have done anything like that on my own. I have a lot to thank you both for.'

He smiled at me. 'She is my friend too you know,' he said coyly. I nodded back, then he was gone.

The doctor had been right. When I got back into my hotel room I felt totally exhausted. I tried one quick call to Lorenzo's mobile, which produced no reply, before I crashed out on the bed, fully clothed. The Don Carlos had done its work and I slept for something like twelve hours.

* * * * *

Next day I was on the hotel phone, speaking to the kitchen, trying to organise a club sandwich. They were having extreme difficulty in understanding my pidgin Spanish description of bread, lettuce, tomato, egg, bacon, mayonnaise and butter. While I was speaking to them my mobile rang and I had to abandon the recipe in mid sentence. I wondered what sort of concoction would arrive. 'Digame,' I said cautiously into the mobile phone.

'Gerald I've managed to get you at last,' Lorenzo responded. He had been trying to contact me for some time but obviously my sleep had been deeper than I imagined. He told me that he and Kazim had been held at the Police Station for some hours the previous day. Kazim's automatic rifle had caused serious concern. Lorenzo said they were almost treated as terrorist suspects and were kept apart. The rifle was confiscated. It appears only Lorenzo's connection with the local officer in charge saved them from a night in the cells. He told me it took a long time to persuade him that they had been rescuing a work colleague. He said that the Guardia also wanted to interview Alistair and me. 'What about the real terrorists?' I intervened. 'What's happened to them?' They were still in captivity Lorenzo confirmed, although he hadn't seen either of them. Before he and Kazim were released they were allowed back together and given a stern warning by Lorenzo's friend, the officer. 'You cannot take the law into your own hands. It is a criminal offence to carry such a weapon in a public place,' the officer had stated. Caroline would also need to be interviewed at full length as soon as she was well enough to talk, he had also said. Lorenzo mentioned that he was forced to give the Guardia the name of my hotel.

I sighed. 'Lorenzo I am sorry to have dragged you and Kazim into all this,' I said.

'At least Caroline is safe,' he responded. 'That's the main thing,' After that we ended the call.

As soon as I put the phone down there was a knock on my door. Fearing it was the police, Bracewell, or even terrorists, I hesitatingly moved across the room and opened it by a few inches. To my relief, standing outside was a waiter wearing a short white jacket and bearing a small silver tray, covered by an even smaller silver dome. I signed the chit and gave him a tip. Sitting on the edge of the bed I removed the dome. Underneath was a tiny square cake, lacking any resemblance whatsoever to a club sandwich. Fortunately I was starving and scoffed it down in one, although it tasted sickly and sweet.

* * * * *

A different Guardia policeman was sitting outside Caroline's room when I arrived at the hospital. On seeing me approach her door he got out of his chair to bar my way, so I side- tracked off towards the desk and asked the attendant nurse about Caroline. Firmly she told me to take a seat and she would phone the doctor. I was not to go into her room. I was told forcefully.

When I eventually settled on a vinyl chair the policeman sat back down, but he continued to eye me with suspicion. I certainly wasn't going to volunteer my identity to him. If they wanted to interview me they could come and get me at the hotel. About twenty minutes later the doctor, who I had met before, came down the passageway towards me. 'She is coming along. But is still not strong enough to talk,' he said to me. 'If you want to see her I will take you in again, but only for a few moments. If she is asleep though you mustn't wake her. Do you understand?' I nodded my head.

The oxygen mask had been removed and this time I could see all of Caroline's face, which looked a little more relaxed. The frown lines had gone from her forehead. I stood there just staring at her for some moments. She looked beautiful again. Briefly she opened her eyes, obviously saw me and I was rewarded with a weak smile. Just as quickly her eyes closed and then the doctor ushered me out.

'She will be like this for a few more days,' he said to me in the passageway. 'It perhaps would be best if your visits were confined to this length of time until then,' he added.

'I would like to be with her when the police start to interview her,' I said. He nodded. 'Will you telephone me please when that is likely to happen?' I asked.

'I will do that my friend,' he said. 'And how are you?'

'Recovering,' I replied. 'I'll be better when I know Caroline is fully mended.'

He smiled. 'I repeat it will take some time,' he said and moved away, back to his work.

* * * * *

My heart sank when I got back to my hotel and walked into reception. Standing at the desk, sorting out his room, I instantly recognised Bracewell's bulky form. 'Now there'll be trouble,' I muttered to myself under my breath. I went and stood close behind him. He needed a haircut. His dark curly hair was beginning to sprout over his shirt collar. About six foot two he still carried his body upright, despite his corporation paunch. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt. At his feet was a decorous carpet bag and a briefcase. The desk clerk was having trouble understanding his English. Bracewell hadn't seen me. 'They let you through customs then,' I said. He kept his back to me although he'd obviously recognised my voice.

'I'm surprised they haven't locked you up by now,' he responded without turning to face me. He picked up his room key and signed the card before turning around.

'Erskine, how lovely to see you,' I said extending my hand. He looked at it sceptically before accepting the handshake. His face looked flushed. He possessed a large bulbous nose, which over the years had grown redder as a result of his alcohol consumption.

'Save your lies for the police,' he said with a sardonic expression on his face.

Together we took the elevator to his room. Enquiring about his trip only produced non- committal grunts. 'When I've unpacked can we get something to eat? I'm starving,' he said when we reached his door. I gave him my room number and said I would await his presence. 'H'm,' he responded.

Within quarter of an hour his ring on my doorbell made me jump. Still wearing the same dark suit his agitated demeanour hadn't altered. Rather than risk the cost of the hotel's small dining room I guided him to a nearby restaurant, where the menu looked within my meagre budget. I had already guessed that I would be paying. Watching him trying to get his head around a continental menu written in Spanish was amusing. My attempts at guidance were met with limited response, except for his annoying 'H'm.' We both settled for fish. John Dory in his case, Dorada in mine. I chose a decent bottle of white Rioja, which I hoped might soften his taciturn manner. 'I don't think you can go wrong with roast beef and two veg myself,' he said after I had given the order to the waiter, 'but they don't seem to have that here,' he added.

'Try living a little dangerously for once Erskine,' I replied.

'Thankfully I am happy to leave all that macho stuff to you,' he said sarcastically and took a large gulp at the Rioja. After he'd set the glass back down on the table, he said 'Now Gerald, for Pete's sake, will you please tell me what the fucking hell is going on.'

For the next hour or so I related some of the low-down on my recent activities. He listened, mostly in silence, except for the occasional 'H'm', in between large mouthfuls of fish and copious gulps of Rioja. The first bottle disappeared without much help from me, so before our main course arrived, I was forced to order a second.

'Well it seems to me old chap that you're up the bloody river without a paddle, ' he said when I'd finished my tale. He wiped his mouth on his napkin, having just devoured all of the John Dory.

'Coffee?' I asked.

'No tea I suppose?' he replied.

'Doubt it. If there is it won't be very good,' I said. He shrugged his shoulders and I called the waiter over and ordered two cappuccinos. When he'd gone Bracewell went to town on me. Verbally he lambasted out the matters he considered where I was completely out of line. These included, 'being in complete shit with my publishers'; 'being in a foreign country and out of Foreign Office protection, after ignoring their advice not to travel to Spain', and 'now in trouble with the Spanish police for taking part in an unauthorised armed rescue'; amongst other things. He counted out each item on his fingers and concluded each one with the words, 'up the bloody river without a fucking paddle.' At the end of each point he also spread his arms out wide. All I could do in response was grunt and nod my head, much as he had done when listening to me. He concluded with, 'So you see Gerald that's why I am here. At the moment I am still your agent and because of a few of the good times we have enjoyed together in the past I felt I owed you one last chance.' He paused for breath. 'However, I have a new contract here,' which he withdrew from his inside jacket pocket as he spoke, 'in which I have increased my commission rate by five per cent. Hoping, of course, that one day we may have a book to sell, on which I might earn some commission. So, if you want me to continue to act for you I will require you to sign it here and now,' he continued putting the contract papers and a pen down on the table in front of me. 'Otherwise, there is a flight back to London this evening at eight o'clock, and without your signature on this now!' he said pointing at the contract, 'I shall be on it.' He paused again briefly. 'The old contract required me to be your literary agent. This new one covers the cost of me being a child minder to a fucking prat.'

For some moments I sat there looking at him not knowing how to respond. The waiter returned with the cappuccinos. Bracewell said nothing more. There was not even any wine left for me to sup on for solace; he'd devoured it all long ago. Looking down at the paper and pen and back up at his face brought about no change in his uncompromising expression. I was indeed 'up the river without a paddle', as he'd succinctly put it. Without saying anymore I reached my hand out across the table for the contract and began to sign.

'Good,' he said. 'Perhaps you'll now order us two large brandies to wash down this revolting coffee. Thanks for the lunch anyway,' he added.

* * * * *

The Guardia Civil officer, in charge at the prison, who'd introduced himself there as Mendes, another uniformed policeman and a plain clothes man, who Mendes said was a detective officer specialising in terrorist activities, were all waiting for me in reception when Bracewell and I got back to the hotel. 'We need to talk to you about the events at the jail in Carabanchel,' Mendes said to me. Bracewell turned to look at me.

I felt embarrassed. The three policemen were standing around me. Everybody else in the lobby was watching. 'Perhaps we had better go to my room,' I said and introduced Bracewell as my agent, adding that I would like him to be present at any interview. Mendes looked at him briefly and nodded.

'Seems like I'm going to be earning this unpaid commission already,' Bracewell said. 'I'll need to fetch my briefcase,' he continued. 'You go ahead, I'll join you in a few minutes.'

Four bodies cramped into my small hotel room was a squeeze. Two of the Guardia men sat on the bed. The other uniformed one was there to take notes. He also switched on a small tape recorder. I opened the window to let in some air, then sat on the only available chair; Mendes remained standing.

'Firstly can you tell me please, Señor Ray,' he began. 'What is your relationship to Miss Carson?' I hesitated slightly before replying.

'I suppose I would say she is my girlfriend, although she may dispute that,' I said. 'So, let's just say that there has been some romantic involvement. However, my initial arrangement with her was over a proposed TV documentary about the bombings at the railway station, here in Madrid.' Mendes frowned and looked at the detective, whose face remained impassive. At that moment the doorbell rang. I got up and let Bracewell in.

'Crowded in here,' he said. The two men on the bed shoved up and he sat on the end with his briefcase on his lap.

With prompting from Mendes I went on to describe my work arrangements with Caroline without mentioning our meeting with Garay. I explained that I came back to Madrid when I learnt she had gone missing. 'I had felt guilty at not accompanying her to see the contact she had made at Carabanchel,' I added.

'Why did you go home to England without accompanying her to Madrid then?' Mendes asked. I hesitated again.

'Scotland, actually,' I replied, playing for time to think.

'Perdone?' Mendes questioned.

'Scotland is my home. I live in Scotland, not England. Escocia.' I emphasised. Bracewell shook his head in wonderment. Mendes frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He was a stocky, smart man, with sleeked, swept back, black hair, dazzling teeth and romantic brown eyes. I looked across at Bracewell and wondered how much I could still rely on him in all this. I had only related brief details to him so far about the proposed Basque novel when I'd phoned him from Scotland. I also hadn't mentioned anything about Caroline and I being forced off the road, or that I had acquired the details of Garay's dossier by devious means. Also, bearing in mind Caroline's words about the Madrid Guardia still being loyal to the old ideals, I didn't want to reveal anything to them about writing a book related with their former leader's atrocities. So I began hesitatingly in response to Mendes's original question. 'The British Foreign Office, via my agent,' I began and pointed at Bracewell, 'had advised me not to remain in Spain. Rumour had got out that 'The Sons of Tyranny' have a sort of Fatua out on me because of details I had written about them in my previous novel 'Early Dawn'. So if I remained in Spain my life could have been in danger. And secondly I am up against a deadline from my publishers on my current novel and I thought I could get on with it better at my home.' I looked across at Bracewell who looked down at his feet.

'But you came back to Madrid anyway?' Mendes questioned, looking at me sternly.

'As I said before, there was some romantic involvement between Miss Carson and myself and I'm afraid I allowed my heart to rule my head. As a man of the world I'm sure you can understand that.' I detected a softening in his eyes. I looked again at Bracewell who had lifted his eyes to look up at the ceiling.

At that moment I am glad to say though that he intervened on my behalf. From his briefcase he extracted the Foreign Office documents he had received about me and cut in. 'I have been most concerned about my client's welfare since receiving these from our Government,' he began and handed copies of the papers to everybody in the room except me. His monologue went on to describe my importance as a successful author of modern Spanish history and the extent of my book sales in Spain. I was therefore a celebrity in their country, whose life had been threatened, and should be treated as such, he said. His résumé about me went on for some minutes. Even I was impressed. Smiles gradually broke through onto the previously stern countenances of the three Spaniards.

'But you cannot take the law into your own hands,' Mendes responded looking at me and reinserting his former demeanour.

'We know that now.' Bracewell interjected quickly. 'But as you have seen my client is a writer of fiction and unfortunately also an eternal romantic. You have to make allowances I'm afraid.'

A semblance of a smile returned again to the officer's face. However, for the next half an hour or so I was interrogated further about how we had made contact with the Arab man at Carabanchel and the African. To try and get myself further off the hook I showed them my special wristwatch and played back the conversation Kazim had with the first Arab we'd met there. That impressed them somewhat. Bracewell shook his head again in wonder when he saw the watch. The Guardia wanted to keep it for a day or so, to record the details of the conversation. Fortunately I had already deleted Garay's documents and therefore handed it over willingly. Mendes said, in view of the Foreign Office details he would give me some protection, 'But only for a few days,' he added. 'If your Government advises you not to be here, then you shouldn't be here!' He stated firmly. 'You must leave the country soon.'

I nodded my agreement. 'As soon as Miss Carson is able to travel I will go home with her,' I said. For a moment he looked at me, then with a degree of reluctance he nodded his head.

Eventually they left, and when Bracewell and I were alone again in the room he said, 'What the hell made you buy a watch like that?'

'I thought it would come in handy for recording the research I did at the Library.'

He shook his head again. 'Gerald I'm getting worried about you,' he said.

I was indebted to him though. Without his intervention at that meeting I would have been in deep trouble. The Foreign Office documents had got me off the hook. 'Erskine I am grateful for your help,' I said.

'Don't worry old chap,' he replied quickly. 'It'll all come out of my new commission rate,' he paused for a second. 'Tell me one thing though, how am I going to earn any commission if you haven't written anything?'

I thought for some moments before replying. As he had repeated to me many times in those last few hours, at that moment I was completely up the river without a paddle. Publishers these days are not much interested in unproductive authors. There are too many others looking for a chance. If I was going to get myself out of the mess I was in I knew Bracewell was the only one I could turn to for help. I realised therefore that I had to confide in him.

'I bought the watch you saw for a purpose other than the one I described a few minutes ago,' I began.

'Go on, surprise me some more. What now, you haven't murdered somebody have you?' he said sarcastically.

'No,' I replied and then, bit by bit, I related the details of our meetings with Garay, the copying of his dossier and the makings of the story I had. He listened in stony silence, periodically shaking his head until I'd finished.

'H'm, so that makes you a thief now as well?' he said. I chuckled with embarrassment.

'Not exactly. I do plan to pay Garay his due before any book is published. But I promise you Erskine this story is going to be a cracker. The stuff I've got on it already is mind blowing. If it ever sees the light of day it'll spark a revolution. I promise you.'

'H'm,' he hummed and shook his head again. 'What about the novel you've already been writing?'

'I'm afraid for the time being that's dead in the water. At the moment my head's too full of what I've discovered on this trip. I'm going to write it all out as a novel Erskine. There is also a possible tie up with my mother's family.' Briefly I told him about her background and the reasons for her flight to Wales.

'So what do you expect me to tell your publishers?' he said when I'd finished.

'What I've just told you. You mentioned that the media back home were full of this story about me being involved with Caroline's kidnapping. What more free publicity could they want? You and I both know it's publicity or a scandal nowadays that gets a book off the ground, not the story. Initially anyway. Go and convince them of that Erskine. Nobody can do it better than you. You'll get fifteen per cent of the royalty don't forget.'

He sighed, a long, almost painful exhalation of air and stared at me. 'H'm,' he began, then pointed his index finger at me. 'Don't you ever dare say to me again that agents don't earn their money. Ever!!' he added loudly and wagged the finger several times in my direction.

'I won't Erskine, I promise.'

'H'm,' he sighed again. 'Before we leave here then you'd better provide me with some blurb that I can feed them on this story. You know, snippets of whatever chapter and verse you've discovered. And some background details. What you told me about your mother, etcetera. Perhaps a sample first chapter. I'll need all of that at least if I'm going to have any chance of winning them over. Publishing contracts don't come easy these days.'

'I'll start work on it now, Erskine.'

'Good. Get on with it then. I'm going down to the bar for a large pink gin.'

When he was gone I wiped the back of my hand across my moist brow. It had been a long, long day. Just as I settled into some work there was a ring on my doorbell. Checking the spy hole revealed a uniformed Guardia officer standing outside. When I opened the door, he introduced himself as Hernandez and said that if I gave him a chair he would remain in the passageway until I went out. He told me his instructions were to accompany me wherever I went.

* * * * *

Later in the evening Hernandez travelled with me, in a taxi, to the hospital. A nurse allowed me to peep inside the doorway of Caroline's room. I could see her sleeping form, but I was unable to communicate with her. That night I also slept a little better. Perhaps the thought of a nursemaid outside my door for protection allowed me to relax.

First thing in the morning after some breakfast I repeated the journey to the hospital. My usual doctor friend was on his morning rounds. 'We are going to try and get her to sit up a bit today,' he told me. 'Perhaps if you come back mid afternoon she may be conscious enough to see you. She will still be sedated though, so don't expect a complete change.'

The news cheers me up and I head back to my hotel with fresh heart to start work on the 'blurb' material Bracewell required. That day I had a different Guardia minder, who I discovered, on the journeys back and fore to the hospital, was a Real Madrid supporter. On our trips I quizzed him about 'The Surs.' I told him about their tie up with 'The Sons' and the possibility of one of their order taking me out. He was not amused by my revelation and thereafter nervously fingered the gun on his waistband when he was out with me. Bracewell and I met up again for lunch and later I went back again to the hospital.

Caroline was propped up with pillows and was semi-awake when the doctor guided me into her room. Her eyes opened briefly when she heard me. Then her hand hesitatingly stretched out towards me and I moved forward and kissed her. 'Gerald there you are,' she said in a stuttering voice. 'I thought I was never going to see you again.'

'I've been here a few times but you've been asleep,' I replied as I stood over her at the bedside.

She smiled at me some more. 'I don't know what they're giving me here but I have these most marvellous technicolour dreams,' she said with a faint smile. I bent down and slowly kissed her forehead, which produced an even better smile. Her face was still very thin, although no longer gaunt looking.

'Well you're safe in hospital now,' I said, 'and I'm staying nearby if you need me.'

Many of the few words she managed afterwards were jumbled and lacked coherence but I didn't care. To see her responding to me with some normality again was great. Before long the doctor started to usher me away.

'How long is it going to be like this?' I said to him when we were outside in the passage.

'A couple more days. The Guardia are pressing me to talk to her,' he said. 'But I want our trauma people to have a few sessions with her before they see her. We need to test how her mind responds to what she's been through.'

I nodded. 'You will let me be with her when the Guardia see her?' I said.

'I've promised you that,' he replied, 'but you must not quiz her or mention anything about her ordeal until the trauma people have dealt with her.'

Thereafter my days developed into a regular pattern. I would visit the hospital at least three times, morning, noon and night. Each time there was a gradual improvement in Caroline's condition. In between visits I would write up the details on my book and then meet up with Bracewell for lunch and dinner. He was anxious to get away but wouldn't leave without taking me with him. On a couple of occasions Lorenzo or Alastair would join us for a meal and afterwards one of them would take Bracewell on short tours of Madrid. A first chapter for the book was forming and that kept me mentally occupied and on my toes. Bracewell was acting as pseudo editor and although his pickiness almost drove me to despair his contribution was, by and large, useful. A different Guardia minder appeared each day and continued to shadow me, although I only went outside the hotel, to the hospital and a couple of nearby restaurants.

On the fifth day of Caroline's hospitalisation the doctor called me to one side. 'The trauma people have had two or three sessions with her and I can't keep the Guardia away any longer,' he said. 'They will be here at ten in the morning if you want to be around. One of the trauma people will be sitting in on it, but I won't let it go on for more than half an hour at the most.'

'I'll be on time,' I replied.

By then Caroline was some way back to being her normal self. At each of my visits she was awake, either sitting up in bed or in a chair. I usually brought flowers, chocolates or magazines. They had reduced the tranquillisers and she was speaking coherently again. We kept our conversations to practical matters like weather, the city of Madrid, my writing and descriptions of Bracewell's pedantic British antics, which made her laugh. I was greeted on every occasion like her lover and received many lingering kisses on my departure.

The following morning I was at the hospital in plenty of time. The trauma physician Katerina, a tall blonde, attractive lady in a white coat, was sitting with Caroline. A valium tablet was administered while I was there. 'If you feel at any time you are going to break down or cry you must stop immediately,' Katerina said to Caroline. 'I will be on hand to watch,' she added.

In the passageway, outside the room I could see the doctor talking and wagging his finger at Mendes, who had just arrived. Only he and the same detective who came to my hotel room were going to be allowed in. Caroline, was in a bed side chair and I sat alongside her on the bed and held her hand. Katerina stood by the door facing Caroline.

Mendes introduced himself to Caroline and the other man as Gonzalez, who would ask most of the questions. He was a tall thin man, with receding fair hair, a long hollow cheeked face, and a dimple in his chin. He wore a green sports jacket over an open necked blue shirt and corduroy trousers. Mendes said he would take the notes and 'if there was no objection,' Gonzalez would use a small recording machine. Caroline looked at me and I nodded my approval.

He began politely, apologising for the need for the interview at this difficult time, but said, 'their job was to arrest those responsible for her captivity as soon as possible.' Therefore her prompt evidence was vital. 'Every hour they are free makes it more difficult,' he added. He spoke quite good English and when he faltered Mendes filled in.

He wanted to know how Caroline had made contact with the man we now knew to be African? Who were her original contacts and what were their names? I squeezed her hand and in a faltering voice she told him that the lead came via a journalistic friend in Madrid. She said she couldn't remember his name. Their conversation was brief and on her mobile phone. Gonzalez pressed her. 'This is important,' he said.

'With everything that's happened since I just can't remember,' she replied with a degree of force. 'His phone number would be on my laptop and maybe the name, but they took that from me and my mobile.'

'Why did you go alone to see this man?' Gonzalez pursued. Caroline thought for a few moments.

'Because this story was my scoop, and the trail was hot,' Caroline responded. 'I didn't want any other reporter cashing in on it. I work in a very competitive business.' I squeezed her hand again. She then explained to them about the possible TV documentary, linking al-Qaeda with ETA on the bombings. Mendes issued a heavy sigh as he scribbled that down in his notebook.

Gonzalez explained that both the Arab man and the coloured African person and his woman had subsequently disappeared from the apartment block. 'Now, can you tell me what happened when you got to the front door of the African's apartment? We've discovered by the way that his name is Salem,' Gonzalez revealed.

Caroline asked me to pass her the glass of water on the bedside tray. Taking her time, she sipped at it slowly before replying. Katerina was watching her closely.

'It all happened so fast,' Caroline began. 'I rang the doorbell but there was no response. I rang it again, then before I knew it they were on me, from behind. Three of them, I think. They all wore hoods, with slits for the eyes and they all had on woolly gloves. I could feel the texture of the gloves on my skin when they handled me. Before I could do anything a blindfold was fastened around my eyes and a gag on my mouth. I was terrified. I couldn't see, I couldn't scream. My first thoughts were that they were going to rape me. I felt my briefcase being wrenched out of my hands and I was lifted off my feet and virtually carried upright along the passageway. Then they bundled me into another apartment. Arabic voices were bellowing in my ear all the time. Nobody spoke to me in English or Spanish. I realised I was being carried into a room. They forced me onto a chair, then taped my legs and arms to it. Later on I discovered it was a bedroom. Afterwards they walked away from me and I heard a key turn in the door lock and then their excited voices outside.'

By then Caroline's voice had become emotional. She sipped again at the glass of water, which had remained in her hand. 'I just didn't know what to think,' she said next. 'It must have been half a day or more, oh ages, before two of them came in, still wearing hoods and gloves. I felt them roughly undo the blindfold. They towered over me and shouted at me in Arabic. I still didn't understand a word they were saying.'

At that moment tears started to roll down her cheeks in big droplets. Katerina got up, moved over to the other side of her and held her other hand. In Spanish she requested the Guardia to stop. Leaning over her, she wiped Caroline's tears, and asked if she was prepared to go on. Caroline nodded her head.

Gonzalez then asked her if she could describe the men.

'Not really,' she replied. 'I was in such a state of panic and terror. As I said they were all hooded and looked hideous.' Gonzalez nodded his head. Each time after he'd spoken he'd press the pause button on his recording machine, then restart it again for Caroline's reply.

'What happened then?' he persisted.

'Eventually I was brought some food. Rice and water but I couldn't manage anything except the water.' She told Gonzalez that at that stage the gag and the straps to the chair had been removed, but the door always remained locked. She said there was a bathroom attached to the bedroom, which she was able to use whenever required.

'I just didn't know what was going to happen to me,' Caroline stated next, in a hostile tone. 'Nobody said anything to me I could understand. It continued like that for what must have been a week, I guess. I ate hardly anything they brought me. There was a bed in there, but I rarely slept. The blinds to all the windows were locked closed. I couldn't see out and no light came in. Only a weak bedside lamp enabled me to see anything. Most of the time I wished they would get on with it and kill me. I really would have preferred that to what I was going through. All the time I just cowered on the bed or the chair.' She paused and sipped again at the water. I squeezed her hand tighter. Katerina continued to watch her intently.

Gonzalez asked some more questions about the room and the men who came in, but Caroline's replies were sketchy. He changed the tape in his machine for a new one and started off again, 'So what happened when you went to the prison?'

'It was night time when they moved me,' Caroline said after sipping some more water. 'Two in the morning. I still had my watch on so I knew that. Three of them came into the room, shouting at me in Arabic. They tied my hands behind my back, strapped a gag round my mouth and pulled a long Arab smock over my body which they arranged so it covered most of my face. Then they frog marched me out of the apartment into the passageway, then the lift and then outside into the back of a car. All the time I could hear them mumbling at each other in Arabic. This is it I thought. This is really the end. They're taking me somewhere to kill me.'

The car journey was brief, Caroline said. 'I now realised they were driving me to the prison,' she continued. 'When the car stopped, I was manhandled, by two of them, with my feet off the ground, over what I could tell by their stumblings was rough ground. I really thought I was being taken somewhere to be shot,' she said and sniffled. 'I was sat down on a chair. When the smock and gag were removed I saw prison bars and the concrete cell and I screamed for dear life. After that I don't remember much. I may have fainted. When I was compos mentis again I saw a curtain had been draped over all the bars, blocking out everything outside the cell. There was a radio playing, although their voices outside the cell were mingled in with it. I think sometimes there were three or four of them and other times just two, but my mind was all over the place. I was in a desperate nightmare. I couldn't tell you how long I was there or whether I slept or ate, or drank, or went to the toilet. I just don't know.' At this point Caroline began to crack up. Tears trailed again down her cheeks, and she began to sob and shake. 'Then, thank the Lord, Gerald and my friends arrived to save me,' she blurted out and turned her body towards me and buried her head into my chest.

'Ok that's enough,' Katerina said and got up. The doctor who had been watching outside the room marched in.

'That's it for today gents,' he said. 'Everybody out please.' He went over to the window and opened the top pane. We all gathered outside except for Katerina who remained with Caroline. The Guardia said they would need to see her again. 'The day after tomorrow then,' the doctor said impassively. The Guardia men looked resigned.

'We will also need a signed statement from you Señor Ray, before you go home,' Mendes said to me. I arranged for them to come to my hotel next day. Briefly I was allowed back in to see Caroline, before they sedated her.

She was kept in the hospital, under guard, for another four days. During that time they continued to make her eat a lot and got her up to walk around regularly. The second meeting she had with the Guardia was similar to the first, although by then Caroline was stronger and dealt with it more calmly. There were no tears or breakdowns that time. She wasn't really able to tell them a lot more. It had been impossible for her to identify anybody, as her captors had worn masks all the time in her presence. The detective prepared a statement for her, which she signed the following day. Thereon in I was allowed to stay with her as long as I wanted. The Guardia took my statement in my hotel room with Bracewell present. Part of it entailed identifying the two captors who were with Caroline at the prison. A photograph of each of them was attached to two separate sheets of paper and I had to sign each sheet below the photograph. Bracewell was required to witness my signature and include his name and address. He hummed 'H'm' all the time he was writing it out.

Caroline's TV company had booked her on a flight from Madrid to London and Bracewell and I were included on the same ticket. Lorenzo and Alastair and a police minder accompanied us to the airport. In London the TV Company took us straight to a hotel, where we were given adjoining rooms. They wanted to interview us together for the main news. Next day we both put on our bravest faces and struggled through the broadcast, holding hands. Later that evening we sat together in my room at the hotel watching the replay, cringing at our replies and ourselves.

Next day Bracewell was in contact by phone. He said he'd been haranguing my publishers after the broadcast and the resultant media follow up. 'I've been stressing the publicity angle and the consequences of a new book on the very subject,' he told me. 'A new contract could be imminent,' he said to me, 'but you will have to produce something damn good. They're still not pleased with your recent efforts.'

After a week at the hotel I caught a train to the highlands and Caroline went back to her London apartment. She was granted extended leave from work and remained on Valium for some time and then anti-depressants. A trauma specialist, home visitor, also called in on her every day. And during my time in London our relationship had blossomed into a full love affair.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alone again in Scotland I found it difficult to come to terms with my situation, albeit that there was plenty of work for me to get on with. Bracewell constantly bombarded me with e-mails about the new novel, questioning its progress and boring me to death with the machinations of his dealings with my publishers. By then I was well into the early chapters. Mostly I ignored his telephone calls. Repeatedly I told him I needed peace, quiet and no interruptions to write. The weather around was stormy, with regular gales sweeping in from the west. This curtailed my exercise to walks near the cottage.

However, the trauma of that last week or so in Spain was still locked into my psyche. Reflecting on the terrifying excitement of our foray into the jail at Carabanchel continued to ferment in my head like a fever. At the hotel in Madrid I was too preoccupied with everything else that was going on around me to completely assimilate what had happened in those crazy moments with Alastair, Lorenzo and Kazim. On my own though, safe in my West Highland hideaway, I constantly re-lived, every second of the excruciating drama and tension of that morning. My night-time dreams, or more honestly my nightmares about the same subject, accompanied all my sleeping hours. Caroline's terrified face, looking out through the bars of the prison cell were regularly the main feature. Her gaunt, pale, fragile body in the hospital bed was another prominent vision. But more painful than all of that, was the big empty space alongside me. Holding her hand while she lay in the hospital bed. Walking around the wards with her in the days that followed, trying to make her laugh and more particularly our time together at the hotel in Madrid and later in London, had caused me to fall head over heels in love with her. The way she spoke, the way she laughed; the way she moved, the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled accompanied my waking hours. The longing ached like hell every moment since we'd been apart. Physical pain I could just about cope with, but this was different. Many years had passed since I'd last really been in love. In the intervening time I had forgotten the all-consuming enormity of its grasp. So, although I struggled to apply myself to the writing task in hand, I found the days and particularly the nights very long and very, very lonely.

Then one evening, after I had finished my meal, the phone rang. Thinking it was Bracewell again I answered it in a rather laconic manner.

'Is that you Gerald?' the voice at the other end responded. It was Caroline.

'Caroline!' I replied enthusiastically. 'I've just been thinking about you. How are you?'

'I'm OK, I guess,' she said, 'but I've been missing you.' Hearing her husky voice stunned me into temporary silence so she continued. 'I'm so bored here,' she said. 'Without my work there is nothing to do. And all my friends want me to tell them everything that happened in Madrid. But retelling only brings it all back and upsets me. So I've been trying to avoid them. Unfortunately London isn't a place you can hide in for long.' I hear her pause for breath. 'Gerald, I was considering coming up to see you for a while. At least until I can go back to work. What do you think?'

Once more I was stunned into silence. 'Gerald can you hear me?' she was forced to say.

'Yes I can hear you fine,' I eventually effused. 'I couldn't think of anything more wonderful. I'll come and fetch you.'

'No, I don't want you to do that. You must get on with the novel. I'll drive up. Then I can get back under my own steam when I need to.'

'Are you well enough to do that?' I asked 'You know what a hell of a journey it is.'

'It will do me good,' she responded. 'Something else to concentrate on apart from my own phobias. I'll book a hotel somewhere halfway.'

We talked a lot more, mostly about the practicalities of the journey and my concerns. But before she rang off the matter was settled. She would drive up and stop for the night somewhere near Glasgow. After we'd finished speaking I was ecstatic with delight. Until I went to bed I hummed to myself that silly tune, although again I still couldn't remember the title or the words.

For the next two days I set about my work with the zeal of a dervish. I began at eight in the morning and with only interruptions for food, I stuck at it until ten in the evening. I took no breaks for exercise or any form of relaxation. By the end of the second day I had just about got a hundred pages on paper. As midnight approached I e-mailed a copy to Bracewell with instructions. It was only a first draft, I told him. He was to read it, edit what he could and then send it back to me with his comments. I wanted a second look at it before releasing it on to my publishers. That night I went to bed feeling relatively pleased with myself. Next morning I was up before daylight spring cleaning the cottage. I had done little in that respect since returning from Spain. As the hours ticked by I was on tenterhooks awaiting Caroline's arrival. She had phoned the previous evening, from near Glasgow, confirming her safe passage to the hotel there. The weather outside remained gloomy and cold. When I finished cleaning I turned up the central heating to a tropical level. Later in the morning I sat glued to the front window, peering out for any sign of her car. I was there for some time, then I saw the blue dot of her Peugeot on the road about a mile away. I donned an anorak and ran outside to the front gate. I could hear the racy engine echoing hauntingly around the glen. Soon I was standing in the middle of he road waving frantically. Flashing headlights and a bellowing horn told me she had seen me. I ran down the road towards them.

When the car was close Caroline got out and ran as well. Eventually we tumbled into each other's arms in the centre of the narrow road. She was crying as I smothered her damp face with kisses. The Peugeot's engine throbbed passively to itself a few yards away with the driver's door open, blocking the way for anything that may have wanted to pass.

'I've missed you so much,' I said to her while continuing to kiss her face. It was some time before we got into the car and she drove the short way to the cottage in her usual flamboyant style.

'God, the air is good up here Gerald. I'd forgotten that,' she said as we got out at the front gate. I'd prepared salmon for lunch, which we had with bread rolls and white wine. While we ate I marvelled at the effect her happy face had on me. It's former colour and vitality had been regained. The blonde hair had a sheen. The dark blue eyes bewitched me as she talked. She was wearing a pale blue, fluffy jumper and a grey skirt and appeared to have put back on most of her normal weight. We talked about London and her recuperation. Then she wanted to know everything about my book. The characters, the plot, the scenes of violence and where they were set. I hadn't talked so much since being back in Scotland. Afterwards we went to bed and remained there until well into the evening. All the loneliness I'd endured since returning to my cottage seemed to dissipate with every sublime moment.

Later in the evening we settled around my laptop and for the first time together, we dissected my copy of Garay's documents. 'I feel terrible about losing my machine containing all this.' she said.

'What about the interview with Garay on your tape? Did that go as well?' I asked.

'Yes, I'm afraid it did,' she replied. 'I needed the machine to interview the African man. I should of course have stored Garay onto something else and then rubbed it off before going there, but I was in too much of a hurry. I just pray he isn't going to have problems because of my carelessness.'

'Only time will tell on that one,' I said. 'If the Arabs have got all your gear I don't think they will be much interested. But if they're in contact with 'The Sons' they may sell it on to them.'

Caroline wanted to compare the chapters in my novel with Garay's notes. Like the trained researcher she was, she meticulously checked the families, places and incidents with what I had actually written in my story. It was therefore very late when we finally went back to bed.

* * * * *

By morning we were comfortable in each other's company again. Breakfast was a leisurely affair as we teased and joked with each other without rancour. There had been no other female in my life since Gayle and, as I mentioned before, that relationship brought neither of us a lot of satisfaction, except perhaps in the physical sense.

'Now I'm going to keep out of the way until lunchtime,' Caroline said as we cleared away the dishes. 'I don't want you to stop your work just because I'm here. So I'm going to look through your larder and make a list of the things we need. Then I'm going to find my way down to Inverness and do some serious shopping.'

'Oh,' I responded.

And so that's how it was on that first morning. I settled at my laptop while she fiddled about in the kitchen and the bedroom. Within half an hour or so she'd changed into a tight pair of jeans, brown calf length boots and a black leather jacket. Looking like that I knew work would have been impossible if she'd stayed around the cottage.

'You won't be gone too long, will you?' I said as she bent across me to kiss my cheek.

'You concentrate on the book,' she replied and then she was gone. I heard the Peugeot rev up outside, and then I tried to get my head down on my work. It was lunchtime before she returned.

While I finished off the section I was writing she cooked pasta for us both. 'This afternoon I'm taking myself off for some exercise,' she stated positively as we ate. Outside the weather was still not good, but my remarks about the danger of Highland conditions were met with scorn and after clearing up the lunch things I was once more left alone with only my laptop for company. And that's the pattern of life we settled into. Usually it would be getting dark by the time she got back from her walks and I had started to worry. Despite it's scenic attractiveness, my part of the world is a dangerous place to be out alone in winter conditions. And Caroline didn't really know the territory. But I was able to work ten hour days, without much interruption. The book was flowing well. In the evening we would sit cuddled up together on the settee and she'd read what I'd written that day. Often she'd bring up points of issue, which were mostly creative. Bracewell also sent e-mails commenting on the hundred pages I had sent him and usually his cryptic remarks were also constructive, by his standards anyway. Afterwards Caroline and I would retire to bed and create our own adventure story.

Life continued in that manner for over a week. Then one day I was working on in the late afternoon. Looking out of my window I could see a gale had got up and it was already dark. I must admit, being so engrossed I hadn't noticed the change in the weather conditions. The clock showed it was approaching five o'clock. Caroline had been out since just after two. Peering into the bleakness outside I could see trees swaying alarmingly. A serious storm was brewing.

I rushed to the front door. Outside the cottage the gutters were flapping like chattering teeth. A gale of hurricane proportions was howling down the valley, straight off the Atlantic. Loose debris and foliage were flying through the air. When those conditions prevail, structural damage and sometimes loss of life is a possibility. You can't argue with nature. Many in these parts have tried and failed. When it's like that it's best to seek shelter and keep your head down.

I was seriously worried about Caroline. I called her mobile number but there was no response. That could mean anything. Unfortunately, mobiles will very often go out of signal range in the glens and mountains. Sometimes you can round a bend and the signal will come back on, so I left the phone ringing. The major problem was I didn't know where she'd gone. Those afternoon treks of hers had become a feature of her day. She would come back exhilarated, with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. And usually by the time she left, after lunch, I was too engrossed in my work to enquire where she was heading for.

Where to start to look for her was therefore a major dilemma. The road outside the cottage only goes two ways, north or south, for quite some miles. Thereafter, either way, there are many long, narrow winding tracks off the main road. Most of them are uninhabited and lead eventually up to the foothills of the mountains. To cover them all would be impossible in one night. And this was no night for Caroline to be out on her own.

Quickly I donned my boots and anorak and grabbed a torch. Which way I pondered again once I had started up the car? When I poked its nose out of the driveway the force of the gale made the normally sturdy Saab shudder in response. I turned right and headed down the glen towards Inverness, the road she used for shopping. It was only a chance but I had to do something. Before I got going I switched on my mobile, placed it on the dashboard and let it ring out continually on her number. I was praying she hadn't been involved in an accident. Up here, out of season, the locals get used to empty roads and drive like idiots. What with that and her rally style of motoring I imagined the worst as my eyes tried to focus in the dark and gloom.

About ten miles or so along the road there was a turn off I knew which meandered up a long valley for about twelve miles to a waterfall. She'd mentioned it once after one of her walks. A mile or so down that narrow track my mobile went out of signal. The sky around was black as ink. Even with headlights and the spotlights on main beam I had difficulty picking out the way. The stream, emanating from the distant waterfall was in full spate and cascaded voraciously alongside the track as I drove. Along its banks, spindly birch trees swayed like drunken men in the storm. Sometimes their flaying branches brushed scratchily along the roof of my car. It was one hell of a night all right. My progress was slow. Several times I had to get out of the car to remove debris from the road before I could go on. Each time I got out the force of the gale made it difficult to stand upright and I was buffeted almost uncontrollably back into the car. I'd turned on the local radio station. Their regular bulletins said trees and power lines were down all over the district.

That evening, the raw might of nature was certainly venting its spleen. There'd be no hiding place if Caroline was out in it. The incident with her on the road at Denia, the debacle of Carabanchel and now this, all hovered in my mind as I drove slowly on. Our relationship seemed to be permanently stretched on the tenuous thread of a succession of nightmares, I concluded.

I had been out for over an hour. By then I must have been about six miles up the glen. Wild rain continued to lash on the windscreen adding to the difficulty of vision. Then, after rounding a bend, in the distance, I spotted a ghostly, bedraggled figure. Immediately thoughts of spooks, the sea captain and the like went through my mind. It was that sort of night. But as I got closer I realised that this was no spook. The small frame, struggling in the wind and rain, with arms waving frantically, was Caroline. I drove on towards her. She began to run towards me but progress for both of us was slow and difficult. Eventually, when I was close enough, I stopped the car, got out and ran. Like rugby players in a tackle we collided in a clinging embrace. Words were useless. Whatever we mouthed was carried away, past our ears and down the track on the unrelenting force of the gale. The headlights from my car highlighted the water running down her face. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes bore the look of a frightened animal, just as they had done at Carabanchel.

Bound together for strength we struggled against the hurricane back to the car. I held the door open while she got in, slammed it closed and fought with the driver's door before I could get in alongside her. The effort involved caused us both to sit there for some moments and gasp for breath.

'About four miles up,' she began breathlessly, while pointing ahead. 'There's a big tree down right across the road. I tried phoning you but my mobile was off signal.' Her teeth were chattering with the cold and I tried to remove some of the tangled hair from her face. 'Gerald I am sorry,' she said. 'I knew you'd be frantic with worry,' she stuttered while her body shivered.

'What about your car? Is your car all right?' Outside the noise of the wind was still buffeting, making conversation difficult.

'Yes, but nothing can get past.' she replied. 'The tree is blocking the whole of the road and there was nowhere for me to turn around. I would have had to reverse half a mile or more back to do that and it was far too dark to see anything going backwards,' she said.

'Did you lock it up?'

'Yes, I have the key.' She produced it from her pocket and held it up for me to see.

'Well I think we should get you home and dried off,' I said shouting to make myself heard. 'I'm sure there's nobody living up there, so nothing's going to go up or come down this track before morning. I'll phone the police as soon as we get home. They'll arrange for the council to go up in the morning and remove the tree. Then we can pick up the car.' I looked at her bedraggled form. 'How long were you out walking in all this?' I asked.

'Oh I don't know for sure. Well over an hour I think.'

I started the Saab's engine, turned the heater onto full blast and reversed cautiously down the lane for some time until I found a suitable spot to turn around in. Caroline had a lucky escape. She continued to shiver and shake uncontrollably by my side as we drove home. The light anorak and jeans she wore were soaked through to her skin. A few more hours out in those conditions and she would have been just another statistic, an unprepared hiker who had ignored the potential savagery of the highland weather. Mentally and bodily she still hadn't completely recovered from her time in Madrid. I was worried about hypothermia. I pressed on for home with all haste.

In the cottage I ran a hot bath. While she soaked in its warmth I rang the police and explained the situation. They were helpful. Said they would close the road first thing in the morning and advise the council. Even after her bath Caroline remained shaky. I made hot drinks laced with brandy, prepared a hot water bottle, organised two paracetomols and got her into bed. That night we slept close up. Outside the gale continued to howl and rain lashed incessantly on the bedroom window, making a sound like grit as it hit the glass.

* * * * *

In the morning Caroline remained in bed after I got up. She was still shaky on her legs and continued to shiver. Outside the cottage the gale raged on, although the rain had eased. The local radio station itemised a veritable catalogue of blocked roads, fallen trees, abandoned cars, cancelled ferries and damaged property. Fortunately my snug dwelling had seen out many a highland storm and remained as tight as a nut even in those extreme conditions. It was late morning before I received a call from the council to say the tree had been removed. Leaving Caroline in bed I drove carefully down the glen to where her car had been abandoned. Trees and fences were down all along the route. Telegraph poles leaned at irregular angles and the road was littered with the resultant debris. Gusting cross winds still made driving perilous. Foliage and rubbish flew around in the air like demented birds. It took me about an hour to reach the small gang of yellow-jacketed workmen, busy with chainsaws, around the beleaguered tree trunk.

'Some night?' I shouted to one of them over the buzzing whine of the saws when I got out of the car.

'Aye that was a good one, right enough,' he replied. On his head was a woolly bobble hat and the dibby end of a mostly finished cigarette dangled precariously from his lower lip as he spoke. I explained who I was and where I lived and that I would have to park the car somewhere in a pull-in until Caroline was fit enough to drive.

'Ach there is no need to do that,' he replied. 'When we've finished this, one of us will drive one of the cars and the rest will follow on in the lorry. We've got to go that way anyway.'

And so, in convoy, back to the cottage, I drove Caroline's Peugeot, one of the gang drove my Saab, while the lorry, with the decimated tree trunk on board, trailed behind. My experience in the Highlands has been that in an emergency, the locals will always turn out to help you, even if you're an in-comer.

Caroline was still asleep in bed when I got in so I let her be. After making myself some lunch I settled down again to work on my novel. Outside the gale persisted. It had been a real West Coast couple of days.

* * * * *

It was sometime in the early evening before I was conscious of movement behind me. I swivelled around in my desk chair and saw Caroline padding towards me barefooted. She had on a pink dressing gown. Her hair was still tangled but she looked gorgeous.

'What time is it?' she asked yawning.

'Coming up to six thirty,' I replied. 'How are you feeling?'

'Not sure yet. I feel as though I've been knocked out.' She moved to sit on my lap. 'Did you manage to move the car,' she said and yawned again.

I told her the story about the council men. She responded by draping her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips. 'You always seem to be rescuing me, from one disaster or another. How will I ever repay you?' she said through various yawns.

'Don't worry,' I said, 'I'll think of a few ways.' She smiled and continued to kiss me.

'What do you want to eat?' I asked when I came up for air.

'Oh anything. I'm starving.'

While she changed I lit the wood burning fire in the lounge, made soup and fried some bacon and eggs. 'I think I've just about got as far as I can go on the book without going over to the Basque country.' I said when we were eating. Her eyes shot up and looked at me intently. She was wearing a chunky brown sweater and cream slacks. A modicum of colour had returned to her cheeks.

'What do you mean by that?' she said.

'I've got to the stage where I need to go over there and walk a bit of the territory. Try and get a proper feel of the place.' She looked at me quizzically. I continued. 'Do you remember when we saw Garay and you said that the facts weren't verifiable.' She nodded her head. 'Well I know you were only kidding him, as part of our plot, but the more I work on the documents, the more I realise that there still could be an element of doubt in what he's written. If I am going to make this novel totally realistic I need to do what he suggested. I need to talk with some of the families. Get it straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak. The book's too important for me not to get it completely right.'

For many moments she looked at me in stony-faced silence. Concentrated attention had suddenly replaced the outward appearance of infirmity. 'But how are you going to do that Gerald?' she responded. 'You're effectively banned from Spain. If you go back there you may be stopped by the Guardia, or at the customs, or worse still by 'The Sons'. It would be far too dangerous.'

'I know that. But if I loused up on this book I'd never forgive myself. I'd prefer to die trying than not try at all. It's that important to me.'

Her eyes sparkled as she stared at me.

'Well if you're going, I'm damn well coming with you!!' she responded forcefully.

'Don't be stupid Caroline,' I said 'For one thing you're not fit enough to travel. You're still under medication and treatment. And where I'm going there are still old scores to settle. If people became aware of what we were doing, as you just said, our lives could be at risk. You're also too damn attractive and British looking. You'd stand out in a crowd. Nobody would notice me.'

That did it. Inadvertently I'd opened up the floodgates. Sick or not, her immediate response was comparable to a fisherman's wife on a Friday night, berating her husband for drinking away that week's wages before coming home. A male chauvinist pig, a cavalier amateur and an inconsiderate partner were among the descriptions aimed in my direction over the course of a few choice sentences. I hadn't seen her in full flow like that before. In a matter of seconds the delicate, frail, sickly woman had transformed into a fuming prima donna.

'But what about your employers?' I retorted, trying to stem her flow. 'You're supposed to be signed off on the sick. What are they going to do if they find you've gone back to Spain with me? Tell me that?'

She looked at me again with total disdain. 'I wasn't planning to tell them. If you or they think I'm going to skulk around doing nothing for two months you're both mistaken.'

We were having our first proper argument and I wasn't winning any of the rounds. 'To go there would be dangerous and stupid,' I said.

'That's why you're going then, is it?' she replied.

'You have your career to think about. My job is to write about this one subject. This is only a small matter in your overall career.'

Our discourse continued in much the same manner for some time without reaching agreement. That night I slept fitfully by myself in the spare bedroom listening to the gale rattling the gutters. I was awake early next day and decided to check into my e-mails. Caroline was still in the other room.

'Oh hell. That bloody man!!' I shouted out loud when I read the e-mail from Bracewell.

Caroline must have heard me. Soon she was padding into the lounge, wearing her dressing gown.

'What's the matter?' she said.

'That bloody man has sent my manuscript on to my publishers,' I replied. 'I specifically asked him not to do that. It's not ready yet. One day I'll swing for him. I bloody well swear I will.'

Caroline came and stood behind me and read Bracewell's e-mail over my shoulder. In it he effused about how pleased the publishers were with 'the first draft'. According to him they were already talking about a five figure fee. 'The man's impossible,' I said. 'It's not a first draft, it's an incomplete manuscript!'

'Oh dear,' Caroline said. 'Do you want some coffee?'

What got you up this early anyway?' Couldn't you sleep?' I said. She was already padding off towards the kitchen. After a few reflective moments I followed on.

'Now I will definitely have to get myself over to Spain,' I said. She was standing with her back to me, attending to the boiling kettle. My inclination was to go and drape my arms around her waist, but I wasn't sure how the political temperature would be that early in the morning, after a row. My time with Gayle had taught me that, so I remained a few feet away and continued. 'Now they've got that much of the book and if they are genuinely going to put up a big fee, they'll pretty soon want to put out some preliminary publicity. If they do that any underground research I want to do will be snookered,' I paused for breath. 'I'm going to have to go over there as soon as possible,' I added.

Caroline kept her back to me as she poured the boiling water into two cups. 'Gerald you don't speak enough Spanish to make yourself understood with those people in that part of Spain. It's not like the Costas up there. Nobody up there speaks much English. On your own you're not going to get very far. With my Spanish we could get by without anybody knowing.'

She had a good point. Instantly I knew she was right. Then I moved close up behind her and slid my arms around her waist. 'Do you think we could do it?' I asked.

'Of course we could,' she said and turned into my arms. We kissed passionately and then carried the steaming coffee cups back to my double bed.

It was later in the morning before we were up properly. The gale seemed unabated, although I detected a change in its direction, which later on in the day brought a lowering of its intensity. After we had showered and breakfasted I rang Bracewell.

'Who gave you permission to send my manuscript to the publishers?' I demanded when he answered.

'Gerald it's nice to hear from you as well,' was his initial response.

'I specifically said in my e-mail that the manuscript was incomplete and that you were to send it back to me,' I continued angrily.

'My dear boy I had to strike while the iron was hot. They've been pushing me for the last few days. I had sent them the blurb you'd given me and it whetted their appetite. They wanted more. I thought what you sent me was damn good, so I sent it on. They were mightily impressed I can tell you. At the moment we're talking money.' His words did placate me somewhat. I was getting desperate for money, especially if I was going to embark on another trip to Spain, so I humoured him a little.

'When might I see the colour of it then?' I said.

'All in good time dear boy. You know times are tight at the moment. Just give me a few more days and I may have a contract for you.'

'It's money I need Erskine. Cash, to pay the bills. You know, for food, electricity, gas, that sort of thing.'

'Well if you will go gallivanting around Spain with an expensive young woman that's your business not mine,' he responded, which put me on the back foot again.

'I'm going down to London to see her in a couple of days,' I lied. 'Perhaps you could organise a contract for me to sign to coincide with that visit. London isn't cheap these days.'

'Don't tell me,' he replied. 'I know. I live here. That's why I am trying to get you some money, so that we can all eat.'

We grumbled at each other some more then rang off. I related the gist of the conversation to Caroline who was by then up and dressed. For the rest of that day we discussed the practicalities of a trip to the Basque country. With the aid of the internet we discovered that we could get on a package holiday flight to Biarritz, hire a car there, then quietly cross the border into Northern Spain as tourists. Caroline said she could dye her hair black or get a black wig to make her look less conspicuous and apply some darkening foundation cream. 'If we go back to London I could buy some Mediterranean winter clothes, wear a beret perhaps,' she said and giggled. 'You could have your hair cut as a number one and grow some designer stubble. Nobody would recognise us then.'

'God forbid,' I said.

When she was in that sort of excited mood she could uplift even the worst case of depression and doubt. And so we made our plans along those lines. On the following day we both needed fresh air so I took her out for the first time since the night of the gale. By then the gale had gone, although the trail of damage created by its furore was evident everywhere. Massive trees in their prime had been uprooted. Their forlorn prone trunks made a harrowing sight along the roadside.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As soon as Caroline had recovered sufficiently we drove down to London in the Peugeot. Her expensive apartment, in St. John's Wood, was decorated and furnished in bright eclectic taste. Costly art works, pictorial and ornamental were prominently displayed in all the rooms. I concluded that my highland home must have looked very shabby in comparison. In a large bedroom was a big circular bed. My libido, already stimulated, began to strain with anticipation as soon as I saw it.

During our days there we shopped and sorted out the practicalities of our trip to Spain. Instead of dying her hair Caroline decided to have it cut fairly short, then settled on the purchase of two wigs of black hair. Various ointments and potions were acquired, which I was told would alter the complexion of her face, eyebrows and whatever else. I understood little of the descriptions and just smiled. She eventually persuaded me to grow what was my pathetic attempt at designer stubble. Each morning I would look in the mirror and grimace.

While we were in town I called in on Bracewell. 'My God, what have you been doing to yourself now?' he said when he opened his front door to greet me. I was two and a half days into my attempt of stubble growth. 'Is that really what's required nowadays to attract younger women nowadays,' he commented. I ignored his barb and followed him inside.

His home, a Victorian terraced house near Notting Hill, had decoratively seen better days. Being a bachelor, the interior tended to veer between clutter and chaos. His study, near the front door being a prime example. An expensive oak desk, chairs, table and cupboards were all covered in dust and littered with paper, books, manuscripts, as well as weeks of out of date newspapers, magazines and the like. He had to remove a pile of them from a chair for me to have a place to sit.

'To what do I owe the honour of this visit?' he began when we were settled. His bushy untidy eyebrows twitched at me as he spoke. He had poured us both a brandy.

'I am staying at Caroline's.' I said. The remark made his eyebrows twitch violently upwards. I didn't dare mention that she'd been staying at my cottage for the past week or so.

'H'm,' he responded humming. 'Do you think that's wise? What about the book? You must keep concentrating on the book Gerald.'

'The book's coming along fine, as you've seen. I've been working on it everyday since I got back home. It's that I've come to see you about.'

'H'm,' he hummed again and lit up a small panatela.

'Are we any nearer getting some sort of advance Erskine? My money pot is very low.'

'H'm,' he hummed once more and reached over to the other side of the desk, upended a pile of paper and delved underneath for what I recognised as a contract. 'We're in the final stages of negotiation,' he said, holding it up. 'There are just one or two little points I wanted settled before I got you to sign it,' he added while looking at the pages of the document.

'How much?' I asked tentatively. He hesitated before replying.

'Ten thousand.' The eyebrows twitched again, he puffed on the panatela. 'Five now and five on completion of the work.'

I sighed with satisfaction. 'Well done Erskine.'

'My fifteen per cent comes out first remember,' he added.

I spent the next quarter of an hour persuading him to let me sign the contract as it was. He argued to the contrary but I persisted and eventually he handed me a pen and I attached my signature. He had my bank account number and I asked him to e-mail me when the money was being transferred. 'You know how communications are in the Highlands,' I said and told him about the recent gales. He listened attentively, while finishing off the cigar and occasionally issuing a 'H'm.' We parted on reasonable terms, but I hadn't dared mention anything about a trip to the Basque country.

* * * * *

A sense of trepidation clouded our enthusiasm when Caroline and I flew out of Gatwick airport for Biarritz. A pleasant flight amongst chattering holidaymakers passed quickly. Thankfully there were no customs problems at the airport. My EU passport was hardly glanced at as we walked through the arrival gate. Outwardly the town betrayed no evidence of terrorist or Basque Separatist activities. There are many tall apartment blocks and nineteenth century hotels, clustered around attractive bays. A catwalk on a rocky peninsular takes you out across the foaming ocean to a dramatic vantage point. Beds, rampant with colourful shrubs accompany the promenades along the Atlantic coastline. It was hard to imagine my mother setting sail from there all those years ago in such trying circumstances. We had booked into a hotel, near the sea front for one night. From there we hired a car for our journey into Spain. That one warm, sunny day was like a short honeymoon. We walked, arm in arm, along the promenade, watching the surfers test the Atlantic swell. Later we wandered in amongst the pointed roofs and attractive spires of the town houses. Deep down, however, we both knew the perils that could be waiting for us a few miles down the road on the other side of the border.

* * * * *

Next morning we breakfasted early. By then my hair had been cut in a style, the barber in London described, as a cross between 'a number two and a number three'. My so-called designer stubble was also a few days in growth and had thickened up. I was not impressed though and hardly dared to look at myself in a mirror. Caroline complained that the whiskers scratched her face when we embraced. She drove the eleven miles to the Spanish border at the Santiago Bridge, which crosses the Bidasoa River, near the town of Irùn.

Irùn, where my mother's family lived, is of Roman origin and a major town in the province of Guipozcoa. It is said that Basque people were painting masterpieces on caves around there long before the Spanish nation was formed. We considered that I might not be quite so conspicuous if I travelled to the border in the passenger seat. That plan went out of the window when uniformed customs officials approached our vehicle from each side at the crossing.

'What is the purpose of your visit to Spain?' a swarthy looking, peaked hatted man said, when he ducked his head into my window. I swallowed hard and tried to sound confident.

'Tourism,' I replied. He took my passport and several times looked back and fore between me and the picture therein.

'Where are you visiting?' he then said as he read through the details.

'Northern Spain, across to San Sebastian,' I responded getting worried. There was a moment of silence, while he read through my passport again. On the other side Caroline had been dealt with speedily. I held my breath. The man took another hard long look at me. Why do they always pick on me, I thought to myself.

'Ok,' he said after what seemed an age. As we drove away I let out a deep sigh.

Green is the predominant colour of the rural areas in that part of the region, except when the sun goes in and then all the greens fade into a dull grey. The Basque country is complex in its component structure. Each region has its own differing definition of what it means to be Basque. What they consider to be Basque in Biarritz bears no resemblance to that theory twelve miles down the road in Irùn. On the previous day we had decided to book a hotel, for the next night, in the more cosmopolitan city of San Sebastian. Irùn, despite its importance as a road, rail and air link between Spain and France is still very much Basque orientated and I didn't want us to stick out like sore thumbs. We also hoped that San Sebastian would be a safer haven for us to escape to at the end of the day.

The Basque flag, 'Ikurriña', which looks like a red, white and green Union Jack, was evident on many public buildings as we drove into Irùn. Caroline parked the car and we got out and walked. The town runs along the banks of the Bidasoa river. I had been there before of course in my youthful journalism days, but so much had changed. Now there are still many impressive old buildings and medieval river bridges, but a modern industrial complex has been added and there's a massive fairground. The railway station dominates a part of town; the defending Republicans in the civil war burned the original one to the ground; their theory being that the Nationalists would use it as a military depot if they took control of the area. These days it's an important rail centre, where standard gauge track meets broad gauge. It's a working town though and I didn't detect the same carefree holiday atmosphere we'd noticed in Biarritz. I purchased an A-Z street map and we took some time sitting by the river establishing our bearings. What remains of the old fortified town is architecturally interesting. The sixteenth century Church of Juncol, with its pointed spires, dominates the skyline. Out of town a green agrarian landscape leads up to the massive presence of the Peñas de Haya mountain. For an hour or more we foot slogged around the streets, then ate some tapas in a bar for our lunch. When Caroline tried out her Spanish, the locals understood, but their replies were phrased in the dialect of 'Euskera' . Often they had to repeat themselves in Castilian for her to understand. For the most part though, the people we came across were friendly enough.

'This isn't going to be easy,' I said as we walked back to our car afterwards.

'Did you think it would be?' she responded.

Later we drove to our hotel in San Sebastian, a much larger and more exhilarating city. I explained to the receptionist that I was trying to trace my distant family and she lent me a telephone directory that covered the Irùn district. In our room, while I read out names from my edited lists, Caroline scoured the directory for the associated surnames. We tried to tie names down to the districts Garay had mentioned in his notes, but it wasn't easy. The problems we faced soon became evident. We persevered though until it got dark and our eyes became too tired to concentrate anymore.

'I don't know if we'll get very far this way,' I said despondently afterwards as we went out in search of a meal.

'We have to start somewhere,' Caroline replied. 'If we don't dive in, nothing will happen. That's the essence of research work. You have to give it a go, get your feet wet and hope you get some luck. You won't find out anything, if you don't dive in somewhere.'

That night my heart was heavy as I tried to sleep. I worried that I may have brought us both all that way and put our lives in danger on a fool's errand. But deep inside me there was still a deep desire to make the book a success as well as trying to trace my mother's family. Caroline was fast asleep alongside me as I pondered.

We rose early in the morning. After breakfast she began to apply the potions and make-up she'd brought with her for the purpose of disguise. I watched as the colouring on her face changed. 'You should see what they do at the make-up department in work,' she chuckled while sitting in front of the dressing table mirror. 'This stuff can cover a multitude of late nights,' she added. I laughed. The clothes she'd bought in London and one of the wigs were added. A pair of black, shiny knee length boots and the black beret completed her attire.

'All you need now is a string of onions around your neck and you're in business,' I said. She laughed loudly.

I was feeling nervous as we drove into Irùn. My future and perhaps my time with Caroline depended on the success or failure of the next few days. In the night, during one of my sleepless spells, I thought we might begin our day at the local newspaper office. The telephone directory had given me its name as 'Berria', and with aid of the A-Z and a few roadside questions we were able to find its base in the old part of town. A sandstone building with a shop frontage downstairs was therefore our first port of call.

I explained, with the aid of Caroline's more fluent Spanish, to a pretty young receptionist, my aspirations regarding a novel and the tracing of my family. The dark haired young lady, dressed in green, with black slacks, guided us up to the first floor to meet Don José Gonzalez, the local reporter.

I began, again with Caroline's translatory assistance, to explain the background of my mother's flight from Irùn and watched a frown form on his forehead. He possessed a rugged rotund face, stocky body and a goatee white chin beard. His hair was also white and thinning and his clothes casual and predominantly light brown. When we'd finished speaking he shook his head and the frown persisted.

'They were very difficult times,' he responded. 'The government destroyed many of the local records when the Civil War ended. Franco set up an administrative department called the Ministry of Special Tasks, and they dealt with all the records from that period. I have a feeling that a match was put to many of the papers regarding past families,' he said with a sigh.

I mentioned my mother's family name. He shook his head again.

'In most cases there was no record kept of deaths,' he said. 'Mass graves were dug and bodies were just dumped into the ground and covered up with earth or worse still tipped over the cliffs into the sea. It is a point of contention to this day. The people of this district are at the moment pressing the Government to have these graves opened up. It remains a touchy subject, my friend.' he said.

'Is there anybody we could contact, who could help me?' I asked in my limited Spanish.

He shook his head again before he spoke. 'Not many people around here want to talk about it,' he replied. 'I am sure you know of the separatist organisations in these parts. People are afraid to talk in case of retribution. We are a close knit community. During the civil war members of the same family fought on different sides. The related sores it caused remain open wounds to this day. It doesn't take much to start the bleeding again.' He sighed again. 'Maybe I will ask a few people I know to see if they are prepared to help you, but I don't guarantee anything. It is a problem,' he added and shrugged his broad shoulders. 'And what about your novel my friend? What is that about?'

Briefly I explained. I mentioned nothing about Garay or his documents. I centred my synopsis on my mother's escape and her problems with tracing her family. I was trying to be circumspect.

'You must be very careful my friend,' he responded. 'We have a saying here; don't go too deeply into the water if you don't want to drown.' He shook his head once again.

It was not long before he made excuses about appointments to keep and our time together came to an end. He did however promise to phone me if he found anybody who was prepared to talk.

'What do you think?' Caroline asked once we were outside on the street again.

'Difficult,' I said. 'He was very cautious. As he said it's a touchy subject and we don't know which side he is on. I don't expect we will hear much more from him.'

'You never know,' Caroline responded. 'Where next?'

'Where indeed,' I said.

We walked back to our car and consulted the list we had prepared the previous day. Many of the families with my mother's name seemed to be living in the centre of town. That day I was driving. My nerves were on edge enough without having Caroline's in traffic racing mode to contend with.

We parked at a convenient spot and began to walk, trying to appear as tourists. Caroline had brought her small camera with her to add to our pretence. In my hand I had the A-Z and the list of names and addresses we had prepared. I was praying that word of our exploits in Madrid hadn't reached this far North and if they had that no one would recognise us. At that moment I wasn't sure that what we were doing was going to work. In our path a mixture of properties, old and new faced us. It was about twenty minutes of foot slogging before we came upon a street name we recognised that coincided with our list.

'Let's knock on the door of this one,' I said to Caroline, while pointing at the name and number I had written down. 'You'd better do the talking,' I added.

Around us women were cleaning the front steps of their houses, going about their shopping and gossiping in little groups. Most of them looked inquisitively in our direction. I guess we stood out as 'extranjeros'.

With a degree of false bravado I banged the metal knocker on a tall oak door; the number thirty-two was displayed alongside. The noise it made echoed around the narrow street. 'Here we go,' I said to Caroline. For some moments nothing stirred. Then I could heard heels click-clacking on a marble floor inside. The door was pulled open and facing us was a short, stocky woman who would have been in her mid sixties. She had dyed brown hair and wore a grey jumper over a blue skirt. Her face was lined with wrinkles. 'Si,' she said abruptly.

I heard Caroline swallow hard beside me then begin a spiel we had practised together, in Spanish. The gist of it was that we were on holiday in the region and trying to trace my mother's family, whose name was the same as the owner of that house. I had also brought with us a couple of old photos of my mother and while Caroline talked I passed these over to the woman. All the while a frown creased her forehead. It appeared she was having difficulty in understanding all that Caroline was saying. She looked at the photos with complete disinterest and handed them back to me almost immediately. When Caroline finished talking the woman shook her head, said something in Euskera, which I took to mean that she didn't understand us and didn't particularly want to. Then she closed the door in our faces. For some moments we stood there feeling humiliated.

'I said this wouldn't be easy,' I remarked as we walked away and down the street.

'Don't give up yet. That was only our first attempt,' Caroline replied. 'You have to persevere.'

At that moment I was prepared to pack up the whole exercise, go back to our hotel and think of another approach, but fortunately Caroline possessed a stiffer back bone. We called on another residence three streets away. The result was similar. Then like candidates for the local election we spent most of that morning knocking on doors. In most cases we received the same reaction, although to be fair the occupants were usually more pleasant and amenable than on our first attempt. One said they thought their grandmother may have known my family. 'Could we meet your grandmother?' I got Caroline to ask. The woman laughed and replied that 'her grandmother had died many years ago.'

By the middle of the day we were both footsore and thirsty. In all we had called on ten dwellings, spread over an area of approximately five miles, without any modicum of success. So we found a bar, gulped on some beer and ordered tapas.

'We don't seem to be getting anywhere.' I said, while rolling the empty beer glass round in my hand. 'Do you think we should try another tack?'

'What other tack have you in mind?' she responded.

'What about visiting the local town hall? There may be records relating to what we're looking for there.'

She shook her head. 'Garay said, and the journalist repeated this morning that, the official records of any of the deaths for that period have been destroyed a long time ago. I don't think that would get us very far.'

'What do you suggest then?' I said bad temperedly.

'I think for today at least, we should continue what we're doing,' she responded. 'We'll get a break somewhere. It's a matter of keeping your patience. That's what research work is about. Patience, reading and foot slogging. We've done the reading, now we're doing the foot slogging.'

'Do you want another beer?' I said with an air of despondence. She shook her head.

When the bar owner, a man in his late fifties with a shock of grey hair and a wide girth, brought our tapas I decided, in my best Spanish, to quiz him about my mother's family. I showed him one of the pictures, which he took and smiled. I don't think he'd completely understood. Caroline repeated my questions in her more fluent style.

'Ah si!' he responded. Caroline continued to describe my mother's flight from Biarritz to South Wales.

'Ah Gwales!' he said, looked at the photograph again and shook his head and said some more sentences I didn't understand. After he'd taken my beer glass away to refill, Caroline's translation told me that nobody around the town talked about those times. 'It was a bad period in our history,' he'd said. When he came back with the drink I'm told he said that there were no records kept relating to deaths of the people in the civil war. Then he added one word as an explanation. 'Franco!!' He spat the word out in disgust and shrugged his shoulders before walking away. After we'd finished eating Caroline and I traipsed back out into the ever present sunshine to recommence our inquiries.

We moved the car to another locality and continued to work through the list. Unfortunately by then we were well in to the siesta period and our door calling either produced a bad tempered response, or nobody answered at all. At that time of the day, some of the men folk were home and answered our knock. In those cases we were often subjected to terse abuse. After dismissing our inquiry a man shouted at us in Euskera as we walked away. I became wary and felt we were in an alien environment. Despite Caroline's unabated enthusiasm and desire to go on, by four o'clock I had had enough.

'If we continue like this we're eventually going to arouse suspicion,' I said. 'These families are interrelated.' And so we walked back to our car.

I drove us back to the hotel without saying much. When we got there Caroline went upstairs to shower and I went to the bar and bought another beer with a whisky chaser. Halfway through the drink my mobile rang. It was Gonzalez, the newspaper reporter we had met that morning. My understanding of his mixture of Spanish, Euskera and English was not good, but I managed to gather that he'd found a local historian who was prepared to talk to us. He suggested that we meet up at his office at ten in the morning. He said the person involved did not want to be seen talking in public about the troubles. In the evening Caroline and I strolled the town, found somewhere to eat and then retired for an early night.

* * * * *

Before we set off for Irùn again I gathered together the full copy of my notes from Garay's documents. If this man knew all the local history I might as well throw everything I had at him and see what came out. I didn't tell Caroline about my plans until we were in the car. That morning she drove.

Pablo Mendia was a short, wrinkly-faced leprechaun of a man in his mid sixties, with a pencil slim moustache. He had a bald pate with tight, curly, dark hair, providing a margin around his ears and the back of his neck. He wore predominately light and dark blue clothes. Gonzalez made the introductions then said he was going out and didn't expect to be back until late afternoon. 'If you tell Elena when you have finished she will lock the door,' he said. Then he was gone and the three of us were alone. Fortunately Mendia did speak a little English, so with that and Caroline's Spanish we were able to converse quite well. When he'd introduced us Gonzalez mentioned that Mendia had been a lecturer in Basque history at the local University.

I began by showing him a copy of my book, 'Early Dawn', and started to elucidate on the plot. Before I got too far he interrupted.

'Yes, I have read the book,' he stated categorically. For a few moments I was taken aback.

However, with Caroline's translatory assistance I tried to drag him into some conversation on the story line, but his replies remained taciturn. I couldn't make out if he liked the book or not. Even Caroline, with her practised interview techniques failed to soften his attitude. He asked if he could smoke a cigarette and lit up immediately after we agreed.

Changing the subject I went on to describe the new book, using the synopsis I had prepared for Bracewell and my publishers. That seemed to interest him more. His smouldering brown eyes hardened in on me. I took my time about it and regularly required Caroline's intervention. He didn't interrupt but grunted in response each time I paused. Whether this was in satisfaction or disagreement I still couldn't tell.

'For this book I have done a lot of research on the problems of the area at the time,' I said cautiously and then introduced the subject of my mother's family, her parent's death and her subsequent passage to South Wales. Then I had his attention.

'What was her family's name?' he asked. I told him. His eyes lit up. He stubbed out the cigarette and sat more upright in his chair. 'And you are their daughter's son?' he said. I nodded. Instantly he reached into his jacket for another cigarette. I paused and looked across at Caroline. She nodded her head so I continued.

'And I have these details as well,' I said handing him a copy of my edited notes of Garay's documents, 'which I am trying to work into the story,' I added.

He took the papers haphazardly and at first studied them with mild curiosity. I watched his attention concentrate as he read down the page. The hand holding the paper began to shake. 'Where did you get these details?' he asked, while drawing on the cigarette.

'I acquired them from a source who now lives in the South of Spain,' I said. 'He worked in the judiciary when he lived up here,' I said. A thousand questions filled his eyes. 'This is very dangerous information,' he replied and drew hard again on the cigarette.

'Do you think it is factual?' I asked.

'Yes, it is factual,' he said. 'Unfortunately the records of these happenings were buried like the bodies, a long time ago, so nobody could ever find them. How do you propose to work them into your novel?' He lit up another cigarette. The sheet of paper was still quivering in his other hand.

Briefly I explained more about my mother's family and her flight of escape from Biarritz. He grunted when I finished speaking, then said. 'Let me tell you that if you publish a book and include these details, you must not stay around here for long, or for that matter any other part of Spain. You would be a marked man. If you write about this,' he added holding up the piece of paper, 'you must change the names at least.' I nodded and looked across at Caroline. A frown had formed on her forehead.

'Let me also tell you another thing,' he then said and paused for another pull on the cigarette. 'About your mother's family. I am a nephew. Twice or maybe three times removed, from her parents. There are a lot of large families in this part of the country.'

I sat upright in my chair. For the first time I could see warmth form in his eyes; a fragmented smile began to spread across his lips. I got up out of the chair and moved towards him. He rose as well and we hugged each other like old comrades. For a few moments a well of emotion overcame me. I could feel moisture form in my eyes. I looked down at Caroline who was still sitting alongside us. A wide grin had replaced the frown she bore a few moments before. When Mendia and I finished our embrace she got up and embraced me.

The mood of our meeting had changed. 'Did you ever meet any of my mother's people?' I asked him.

'I may have met some of their relatives at family weddings or funerals perhaps, but not specifically, no. As I said earlier, the civil war divided so many families, it still does.' We had all sat down again by then. He had lit another cigarette. What I needed to do at that stage was to get this man to add all the background he could to my notes. Over the next two days I found out that his family had been involved. and that some of them had also been murdered by the fascists.

'Would you help me with all of this,' I asked him eventually and pointed at the notes. He looked down at the copy he held in his hand, grunted, drew on the cigarette and looked at me with a piercing stare, so I interjected. 'The man who provided me with these details said to me that this could be the last chance for these facts to ever get out.'

Mendia continued to look at me stony-eyed. I was holding my breath, trying to anticipate his response.

'I will try,' he said eventually after several short sucks on the cigarette. 'But we have to be very careful. You must promise me that you will never ever disclose my name or that I have ever had anything to do with the book. They would kill me if they found out. And for your own safety you must change the names and the places of the events in the book. I will help you, but I repeat that there are no official records of any of this anywhere.' He held up his copy of the notes, 'and most of the people who were involved at the time have died. One way or another,' he added acidly.

At that juncture I could see we were not going to achieve all I needed in one meeting. I asked if we could meet up again. At first he seemed reluctant. There was more drawing on the cigarette, more grunting. 'You had better come to my house,' he said eventually. So we agreed to meet up again there next morning. He had to sketch me a map. 'A lot of the old town was destroyed by the Nationalist's shelling during the war,' he said as he sketched the route. 'They pounded the town for days with sixteen cannons they had up in the hills near So Marcial and later on the bombing continued from the air and the sea. Would you believe they started the shelling on a fiesta day,' he scoffed. 'As though it was something to celebrate,' he added with scorn. 'Then Franco's pals also bombed Durango and Guernica as I'm sure you know. Twenty-eight German Luftwaffer bombers and Italian aircraft strafed those towns mercilessly. The man was a maniac.'

That morning we carried on our discussions for another hour then he left. I suggested that I treated him to some tapas. He refused, reaffirming his desire not to be seen to be communicating with me in public. 'People notice everything around here,' he said. 'These towns are like villages. Everybody knows everybody. Someone will see us in a bar and wonder why I'm eating with extranjeros. Then one way or another the reason will get out and there will be trouble. That's what it's like if you live here. You must take very good care of those notes,' he added. 'Do not leave them lying around anywhere, for all our sakes.'

When he had gone Caroline and I walked to a local bar for some lunch. Afterwards I decided to drive around the area to take a look at a few of the places where the atrocities had been committed. Seemingly there is no real evidence relating to any of them. At Guernica there is a small tree in the square, propped up with wooden stakes, which has become a patriotic symbol. At a few of the other places there were tiny memorial plaques, which if you weren't specifically looking for you wouldn't notice. Very occasionally, there were clusters of bunched flowers on a roadside, or on an embankment. Some of them may, however, have been commemorating recent road accidents. When we stopped the car to look at something specific, passers-by gave us funny glances so we quickly moved on. Eventually we headed back to San Sebastian.

'Do you feel better about this trip now?' Caroline asked. We were sitting in the bar of our hotel, sipping on a couple of strong drinks.

'If we can get this man to fill in some background, yes. But I'm beginning to get jittery about our safety.'

'Maybe he is the bit of luck I mentioned we needed,' she responded and smiled at me. 'Just relax Gerald,' she added.

We ate out again and later back in my room I tidied up my notes and entered up on my laptop the details Mendia had told us about that day. Overall his descriptions of the clinical nature of the violence horrified me. And as Garay's documents had revealed, sometimes brother was fighting brother; father fighting son. According to Garay, 'War to the Death', was a phrase regularly heard on both sides of the divide and Mendia had repeated the quotation. His descriptions were beginning to verify the authenticity of Garay's work.

By then a tight lovers bond had been established between Caroline and myself, so despite our tiredness, that night, we managed to once again actively consummate our relationship under the sheets.

* * * * *

Next morning we spent two hours with Mendia at his home. Situated in a narrow street, it was a spacious, terraced villa in the old part of town. Tall oak front doors opened into a central internal courtyard with a stone floor that led ahead to a large rear garden. The main living rooms were each side of the courtyard, but he showed us upstairs to his study, a large high-ceilinged room on the first floor, overlooking the colourful herbaceous garden. He offered us coffee and cake. While we talked he drank copious amounts of the coffee, which brewed constantly on a percolator by the side of his large desk and he chain-smoked all the time.

The information he gave us that morning, allied to Garay's notes, became the basis for the more lurid chapters of my novel. Without Caroline's presence I would not have been able to understand so much of the detail. Her timely translations were required by both of us. Mendia's father had lived in Irùn during the time of the civil war. He'd told him that everybody in the town was in a dilemma about the fighting. He'd said that at one time 'there were Christians on one side of the Plaza in the centre of the town and Reds on the other. I was a Christian,' he told his son, 'but I didn't want to get shot so I went with the Reds, as there were more of them.' And that is how it often was, Mendia added.

'What do you know about my mother's family?' I asked him.

He drew on his cigarette and those smouldering eyes looked at me intently. 'As I said before, not a lot,' he began defensively. 'They were a distant family. I knew that her father was a journalist.' I smiled at that. 'We can't be sure, but we guess that's what caused his death,' Mendia continued with a sigh. 'From what little I know he was arrested and later shot for writing an article that said Madrid would never fall to the Nationalists.'

I stared at him in horror. 'But why would they kill my grandmother as well?' I asked.

'Many wives were murdered for complaining about their husbands being unjustly arrested,' he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. 'They were known locally as the wives of the Reds'.

'Would you have any idea of where they may have been buried? My mother said there are no records anywhere of their death. She was of course only a young girl at the time. Another member of the family took her to Biarritz and she never came back to Spain again.'

Once more he looked at me sternly. At first I thought he was going to be negative in his response, but perhaps he detected the look of yearning in my eyes. 'There is a place where perhaps they may lie,' he began uncertainly. 'I assure you though it is only a family rumour. There is no factual evidence to confirm it or not ,and as I have tried to explain rumours play a big part in the way of life here.'

'Could you take us there?' I asked. He looked stern again.

'What purpose would it serve? It wouldn't prove anything one way or another.' He replied.

'But it was my mother's dying wish that I try to find out.' I said. He shrugged his shoulders once more and lit up another cigarette. Caroline shuffled around in her chair.

He grunted, sucked some more on the cigarette, then after an interminable silence said. 'Ok,' adding a flourishing wave with his arm. 'But you must take me in your car and I will sit in the back with my hat on. I will show you the spot where it is rumoured they may be, but you must then park the car down the road ,well away, and if you want to see it you must walk back there by yourselves.'

I agreed to all of that, and after we had finished our session he sat in the back of our car while Caroline drove, to his directions, through the green agrarian landscape on the outskirts of town. As we travelled he talked some more about the civil war.

'You see what happened here was really ethnic cleansing,' he said. 'Franco launched a crusade against Communism. In that crusade he gathered alongside him the Catholic Church, the Spanish establishment and also the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. So you can see where he was coming from. Anybody who had anything to do with Socialism or Communism was considered to be vermin and should be exterminated. Even if you knew someone who was of that belief you were considered to be tainted and similarly dealt with, just as Hitler did with the Jews.'

In time we came to a long straight stretch of road, bounded on both sides by fields. About half way along he shouted, 'There, there, on the right, there!' he pointed over my shoulder to a shallow ditch on the roadside, between the tarmacadam and the dry-stone wall boundary of the field. Caroline slowed the car to a crawl. 'There! Somewhere there!' he said and pointed directly at the hollow again. There were no markings, no signs, no flowers, just a grassed over dip in the earth, where water would collect after a downpour of rain. Caroline stopped the car.

Mendia continued, 'In the villages around here men and sometimes their wives were shot in hundreds by the revolvers of the Falange and the Guardia Civil. Then they had to get rid of the bodies. This was the simplest solution.' He lit up a cigarette. The resultant fumes caught the back of my throat and I coughed. 'Now if you two want to look you must drive further on,' he continued. 'There is a pull-in to a farm track. You can stop there and walk back. But you mustn't stay long and if anyone approaches you, you must come away and pretend you are looking at the scenery. If a car slows down near you, you must move away immediately.'

Caroline and I left Mendia smoking another cigarette in the car at the pull-in. Rain had begun to spit fitfully out of a cloud filled sky as we walked cautiously, hand in hand, back down that road. Occasionally a car or lorry passed by but we kept our heads down. I had also donned a baseball cap to complement Caroline's beret disguise. As Mendia had intimated, at the spot, there was absolutely nothing to see but grass and a few daisies.

However, standing there I began to feel waves of emotion fill up my senses. Under my feet, I was led to believe, lay the bodies of my mother's dear parents, murdered for writing words in a newspaper. We heard a car approach. I squeezed Caroline's hand and we turned and walked slowly back to the pull-in and I was glad of the pattering rain to disguise the moisture in my eyes.

The following morning we checked out of our San Sebastian hotel and then spent another period of just over one hour with Mendia at his home. There wasn't much more ground to cover but he did provide some more background information. As he had refused a couple of invitations to lunch I had brought him an expensive bottle of Don Carlos I, which he seemed pleased with. We parted on good terms and he promised to buy a copy of the book, when the Spanish version came out.

'Now you two must take great care,' he said sternly as he guided us down the stairway to the internal courtyard. 'What you have in that briefcase could be your death warrant.'

Afterwards we left for the border. Caroline drove. All the way there a vision of my grandparent's grave remained with me. At Biarritz we deposited the hired car and then boarded the holiday flight home, I'd booked the previous day from the San Sebastian hotel. I was glad to get away. We had achieved much in a short time, but it had left an emotional scar.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Caroline and I split up again on arrival in London. After picking up my things from her apartment I caught the overnight bus from Victoria for Scotland. She wanted to get back to her work, while I needed peace and quiet to complete the novel. Our time together in the Basque country had brought us seemingly even closer as a couple, so parting was a wrench, although, unfortunately a necessity.

It was dawn when my bus drew into the Glasgow terminus. A taxi to Queen Street railway station got me there in time for a train for Inverness. Then another bus took me to my cottage. In all, the journey was a day and a half from Biarritz. I was exhausted when I got in and after telephoning Caroline I crashed out on my bed.

While eating breakfast next morning I caught up with my e-mails. Bracewell had been in touch, confirming the deposit of my share of the publisher's advance into my bank. There were also numerous messages from them, wanting publicity information for the new book, as well as prompts requesting the rest of the manuscript. And surprise, surprise, another mail, this time from my Spanish agent, telling me he had received a deposit for the sale of my flat and that completion was imminent. Checking on my bank account revealed the two credit transactions, saving me from an overdraft and the accompanying purgatory interest charges.

So, with a relatively clear head and relaxed demeanour I soon set about making further inroads into the novel. Outside, for once, the sky was clear. It looked a good day but I had to ignore it, get my head down and apply the notes from the Basque trip to my story. My thoughts however, were still clouded by the vision of the unmarked roadside grave. If anything it added an inflamed acidity to the prose.

That first day I wrote for ten hours with only breaks for food. Before I retired for the night I phoned Caroline to let her know of my progress. She in turn told me that she had been in contact with her work place about going back in. To her acute annoyance they were still reluctant to let her restart. It seems they had received implied threats from various terrorist organisations in Spain after her activities there.

'It's stupid Gerald,' she began. 'I'm perfectly fit and well now. I don't see how all that business can stop me working around the UK. I'm utterly fed up stuck here at home,' she added irritably.

'What did they say to that?' I replied.

'Oh some nonsense about me needing to have the complete recuperation period I was signed off for. They said coming back early could undo the good that had been done, particularly with these threats hanging over me.' I listened to her frustrated sigh. 'What drivel,' she continued. 'Good job I didn't mention that I'd been to Spain with you,' she added and giggled.

After we'd finished our call I was worried about her. She just wasn't the sort of girl to hang around doing not very much all day, especially when she was physically well. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that she would take off to Spain to carry on with the work on the documentary by herself, I conjectured. I did consider inviting her to stay with me again, but I needed to press on with the book and except for walking there would be even less for her to do in the Highlands than London. But I missed her badly.

For the next week I wrote continuously, except when the pangs of hunger gripped at my stomach. I only ventured outside for brief periods, usually very early in the morning and before turning in around midnight. Those are the best times of day, in this country, to catch sight of the various wild animals. Deer usually come down to lower ground overnight, scavenging for food and fresh water. My garden shrubs appear to be a particular favourite. Many times I have caught one in the act. Then the beast usually stands and looks at me defiantly, before loping off, over my garden wall with effortless grace. Wild cats, and foxes rifling my dustbin are other common sights and sounds during those inhospitable hours. At the end of each day, before I went to bed, I would e-mail Caroline and Bracewell with my days writing. Their comments were usually available for me to read when I stopped for my lunch break next day.

Working daily in that manner I soon reached the concluding chapters of the novel. It was not going to be a long tale, about two hundred and eighty pages in all was my most recent estimate. There was however, going to be a twist in the ending and I needed to take a break, to think it all out properly, before committing words to paper. My publishers were also pushing me for a title to accompany the publicity; something at that date I had given little thought to.

To try and rectify the matter, on one clear and sunny day, after my lunch break, I decided to take myself into the mountains. Out on the hillside the fresh wind nipped at my ears and fingers. I mentioned earlier that the hills and peaks of the Highlands have a facility to put your problems into perspective. And so it proved to be on this occasion. Half way up the Munro an idea for my novel's ending began to form in my head and by the time I reached the summit I had it pretty much all bagged. With my mind occupied on more important matters I'd hardly noticed the normal lung-busting ascent. In my anxiety to transfer my ideas on to the laptop I half ran, or should I say more accurately, stumbled all the way down the mountain. Back in my cottage there was no time for a meal. I made some toast, brewed a large pot of tea and attacked the keyboard. It was somewhere around two in the morning when the story was complete. Shattered, I collapsed on my bed fully clothed and slept until dawn.

In the morning I read it through again. Then, when I was satisfied, I sent copies to both my co-conspirators with specific instructions for Bracewell to return it to me for final appraisal and alteration. A suitable title still remained illusive, but I felt pleased with myself and for once I had completed a novel in record time. Facing bankruptcy had certainly been a motivating influence, but my mother's story and the details of the atrocities committed to her people, had provided the drive and the passion to get it all off my chest. Caroline's glamorous assistance had also prodded me onward. I felt I was a better writer for the experience.

Checking my larder revealed cupboards almost bare of anything except dust. I had done no shopping since returning and felt in need of a celebratory blow out. A trip to Inverness was therefore required. Hoping that the mountains may again provide some inspiration, this time, in respect of a title, I decided on the way back, to take a trip up to the waterfall where Caroline had been stranded.

The Saab's boot was stuffed with venison, a bottle of MacAllan whisky, a decent Burgundy and enough other supplies for a week, as I turned off the main road and drove up the narrow track to the hills. It was another clear, bright, yet cold day. Fallen trees, still lying prone, like tumbled guardsmen, were prominent reminders of the force of the last storm. The accumulated residue of sawdust, from the council workmen's chainsaws, also still remained on the track where the big tree had lain.

It took over half an hour, through the twists and turns to reach the waterfall. I thought of Caroline negotiating her way up there by herself and the even more dangerous journey afterwards, back down on foot. As I approached, spray from the cascading fountain of the waterfall dampened the windscreen. Moisture formed on my face as soon as I got out. The thunderous roar of water crashing on the rocks echoed around me. Its glistening foam shimmered in the sunlight. All the colours of the rainbow were caught in shafts of oblique light at the edge of the spray. Walking closer was like being in a light rain shower. Below my feet a deep rock pool lapped with opaque, peat brown tinted water. Hesitatingly I dangled my hand in and let it's silky smooth liquid balm my skin. As I did so that silly tune came into my head again. Quietly I hummed it to myself amid the surrounding roar.

At the side of the fall I could see a steep track leading upwards to the top. Gingerly I climbed the awkward path taking care not to slip. I was blowing hard by the time I made it. Looking down I could see the overflow from the rock pool winding down the valley, alongside the track I had just driven up. At that moment I decided to put in a call to Caroline, to remind her of her visit.

When I dialled her home number there was no reply. Surprisingly her answer phone didn't cut in either. Usually it was on all the time when she was out. I tried her mobile number. Again, no response. That was also unusual. Even if she was unable to answer it, her voicemail was usually connected. Suddenly I was concerned. From the waterfall top there was a path meandering upwards towards the mountain. I decided to go up some of the way. I still hadn't a title for the book. Humming that damn tune I strode up the hillside, although my mind wasn't as settled as it had been a few moments before. This time the magic didn't work. Perhaps my thoughts were more on Caroline. After half an hour or so I turned back for the waterfall and drove home.

After I had unpacked the shopping I tried her numbers again, but the response was identical. Next I checked on my e-mails, hoping for some comments on the final passages of my book, but there was no reply there either. I sent another message asking her to get in touch. Reluctantly I decided to give Bracewell a phone call. Initially I was forced to deal with a barrage of questions about the ending to my book. Most of my replies received a 'H'm' and more infuriating humming. In frustration I eventually asked. 'But do you think it's a good ending?' There was a long pause.

'Well yes. But I wanted to get those few matters clear in my head before I replied.'

I sighed heavily. 'Don't you dare send it to the publishers,' I said. 'I want the final say on it myself.'

Quickly, before I lost my patience with him I changed the subject. 'Erskine, I'm a bit worried about Caroline,' I interjected.

'Oh, why?'

'I can't raise her on the phone, which is unusual. You wouldn't happen to be going near there in the next day or so would you?' He knew where she lived after our combined journey home from Spain.

'I wasn't planning to,' he replied. I knew that would be his initial reaction. Whenever I wanted a favour he loved to drag it out. Make the most of it, so in the end I would be almost pleading with him to help me. I told him about her employers not wanting her back in work yet and her resultant petulance. 'In that mood she's just mad enough to go off and do something silly by herself.' I said.

'Like someone else I know,' Bracewell interrupted.

'Maybe yes,' I said. 'Perhaps that's why we get on so well. But it would ease my mind to know she was OK and around her home somewhere. So I'm asking you, as a favour, if you could call there in the next day or so, please.'

'This fifteen per cent commission looks like a bargain on your part to me,' Bracewell replied sarcastically.

'I'm sure you're right about that Erskine. But could you just do it for me, please?'

'Remind me of the address,' he said with a heavy sigh. He knew the address all right but I had to humour him, so I spelt it out then ended the call.

My concern for Caroline had dulled my appetite somewhat for the venison. Glancing across the room at the bottle of MacAllan, sitting temptingly on the sideboard, I decided to see if its claimed powers of restoration would revive the ravenous hunger I'd felt earlier. Straight away I poured a large slug and sipped at the brew, letting the warm golden nectar trickle tantalisingly down my throat. The benefits were instantaneous. Later on, after a couple more slugs I was able to contemplate the roasting of the venison. I still had the completion of my novel to celebrate and when it was cooked, several glasses of MacAllan later, I was able to do so in reasonable manner, with the assistance of the mellow Burgundy.

* * * * *

The resultant hangover slowed my start next morning. Bleary eyed and with fingers like stubby thumbs I checked on my e-mails, but there was still nothing from Caroline. Once more I dialled both her telephone numbers, without response. After some alcohol absorbing toast I tramped down to the loch, hoping the brisk air would clear my head. There was a fierce breeze up, white horses were scudding across the normally calm surface of the water.

Standing on the loch side, shivering with each intake, I drew in deep, lung filling gulps of cold Highland air. Then something moving in the middle of the water caught my eye and I concentrated my early morning watery pupils in that direction. Eventually I could detect twenty or more sets of antlers poking up above the choppy water, like a flotilla of Loch Ness Monsters. A herd of deer was swimming for the far bank. They would have been returning to the hills, after their lower ground night-time foraging. I could see does and their young swimming alongside the males; about forty or fifty of them in all. I watched them intently until they reached the far bank; it was marvellous spectacle. Then I was cold and jogged back to my cottage, stopping occasionally to watch the herd make their way up the far off mountainside.

Feeling suitably re-invigorated I got stuck into re-reading the final chapters of my book. I really would have liked Caroline's views before downloading the final draft to my publishers. However, time was pressing and I knew they would be soon on my back again. Later on I spent time tending to their publicity requirements; the cover blurb and those types of details. They were also nagging me about a front cover, but I couldn't engage in that until I had a title. In between my work I continued to ring Caroline's numbers, again to no avail. Later I rang Bracewell to ask if he'd managed to visit her flat.

'H'm, you don't give a guy much chance to eat do you,' he responded.

'I'm sorry Erskine,' I said. 'It's just that I'm very worried. There's still no reply on her phones.'

'H'm,' he began again. 'Well, despite my other commitments, I have actually been to her address this morning. I was just trying to grab a bite to eat before calling you. Now I suppose I'll have indigestion to see me through my backlog of work.'

'I am sorry Erskine. What did you find?'

'Nothing at all. There was no reply. I rang the doorbell several times, but nothing. I asked the neighbours who were in and they hadn't seen her for some days. The concierge said he saw her going out one morning with what looked like a travelling bag but he hasn't seen her since.' He paused for a large intake of breath. 'He does though have a key to the apartment and he went inside to look for me, but she wasn't in there. Everything looked neat and tidy he said.'

'What do you think?' I asked Bracewell.

'You know her better than me. Perhaps she's taken off for a few days break. You said she was bored. Maybe she's gone to the seaside, or a health farm.'

That was a possibility I suppose but I knew she wanted to read the final chapters of the book and I felt sure she wouldn't have gone off without telling me. I finished my call with Bracewell and decided to phone her Television Company.

Firstly I was passed from one person to another, but eventually I managed to make contact with Bob Glanville, the editor I had spoken to before. I asked him if he had heard from Caroline recently.

'Not since we advised her not to come back into work,' he said

I told him about her apparent disappearance and my worries on that score.

'Well I mentioned before how headstrong she can be. I had my ear chewed off when I said she shouldn't come back to work,' he said.

'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'Health wise she's much better now. Couldn't she have worked on something in this country?' I heard him sigh.

'Caroline is a high profile personality,' he responded. 'If she came into work she'd have to broadcast. I don't know whether or not she told you, but the company has received veiled threats about her. All right, these days we get something similar all the time about one of our lead people, but in her case it's different. A terrorist group has already captured her once. If the same thing happened again, while she was at work, we would be liable as well as looking pretty stupid. We do try to take care of our employees Mister Ray and Caroline is a young woman with a big future in television. She's not losing out. She's still on full salary.'

We talked some more, but in all I had to agree pretty much with most of what he said.

I finished by saying, 'I just hope she hasn't gone off and done something stupid by herself.'

'And me,' Glanville replied.

Then I was in a real quandary. Desperately I needed to get the final draft of my novel off to my publishers. But I also wanted Caroline's comments on the ending before doing so. She had been with me throughout the whole of the journey and possessed the journalistic knack of succinctly getting to the crux of the subject matter. Her contribution in that respect had been a major factor in getting on with the story so quickly. If my ending wasn't sharp enough Caroline would tell me.

I decided to hold fire for a day. Bracewell had mentioned that she might have taken herself off for a few days break. Maybe a family matter had to be dealt with? Despite our closeness I knew little about that side of her life. She'd told me that her parents were still alive and there was a married sister somewhere, but that was about all I knew.

Those following few days were riddled with frustration. I tended to my novel like an old hen clucking around her brood. I dealt patiently with Jasmine Brown's corrections to the early passages and other publishing matters, while repeatedly phoning Caroline's numbers. In between I tramped the countryside attempting to pound out some of the anxiety.

Then a strange thing happened. I was in the kitchen sorting out my evening meal when the house phone rang. A crucial stage had been reached with the vegetables and the grilling of the hake so I was a few moments turning down the hobs. By the time I lifted the receiver the line had gone dead, only the buzzing sound filled my ear. I cursed. Had it been Caroline? Quickly I dialled 1471, the recent calls number. 'The caller left no number,' was the response. I went back to my cooking wondering. That night, when I was in bed and asleep the phone rang again; my bedside clock told me it was two thirty. I have an extension in the bedroom, so this time I was able to pick up the receiver almost immediately.

'Gerald is that you,' the voice said at the other end of the line.' It was Caroline. Instantly I sat upright.

'Hello Caroline. Hello. Where are you!!' I stuttered, but suddenly the line went dead. Once again I was left with just the buzzing sound in my ear.

Suddenly I was wide-awake. 'Oh hell,' I said to myself. Where was she? Why had the line been cut off? Was she in danger? Had she been kidnapped? I tried the 1471 number again but the answer was as before. Afterwards I sat upright for many hours wondering. Throughout the assembling and writing of that particular novel, a fear that something awful would happen to one of us had constantly lurked at the back of my mind. The incident on the road at Denia. The notes through my apartment door. Garay, Paulo Mendoza, Don Josè Gonzalez, the Guardia in Madrid, Bracewell and Caroline's television colleagues had all warned me of the possible consequences of dabbling in such a controversial subject. All along though I thought I would be the likely target, not Caroline. Then I recalled how clever these people were. Threatening me with her safety would produce the greater impact. Perhaps they guessed I might adopt a more devil-may-care attitude regarding my own life. Threatening Caroline however, would make me stop and seriously consider the situation and maybe even cancel the publishing of the book.

That novel was the most important piece of work I had written. It was also a mission on behalf of my dear mother, whose family life had been destroyed by the tyranny of evil people. Having been presented with the ammunition it was a cause I couldn't dodge. And as Garay had said, mine was probably the last opportunity to reveal the intimate details of the extent of those atrocities.

Until the dawn peeped through my curtains I remained in my bed going over every possible scenario. The final pages of my manuscript were alongside me on the bedside table. I picked them up and flicked them through my fingers. Was all this worth risking a life for, I asked myself? With daylight my mind was no clearer. Perhaps I could withhold sending those final pages to my publishers for a few days, I conjectured. Caroline's safety was my real dilemma. Would Bracewell help? I doubted it, not if he knew lives were at risk. His advice would be to leave it to the authorities. Caroline's employers would follow much the same line. Maybe I should just go it alone. But where was Caroline making that call from I continued to speculate? Bracewell had mentioned that the concierge at her flat had seen her leaving, with a small holdall. And she'd switched off her answer phone and voicemail. I had to guess that she did that voluntarily, Certainly her voice on the phone, to me, didn't sound desperate.

In my kitchen I brewed some coffee and threw some bread into the toaster. After washing, shaving and checking my e-mails I decided to make an early morning trip to the local village, Kinlochewe. Rain was lashing down heavily when I got outside and the surrounding gloom matched my mood.

I knew Inspector Archie Alexander through our joint activities locally with The Royal Society of Protection for Birds and the Nature Conservancy Council. On many occasions we had stood, side by side, on a windswept moor or mountain, discussing matters pertaining to both organisations. If there was anyone connected to a police force I could call upon for a favour it had to be him.

'Ach, it's nice to see you Gerald,' he said extending his giant hand when I was ushered into his bare office at the police station. Archie's proportions are all giant. He stands six feet seven and erect as a guardsman; his mass weight must be in excess of eighteen stone. Arms like tree trunks, a dome of a head with bushy grey hair and very pale blue eyes, he asks me, 'Are there new books in the pipeline?'

'In throes of one at the moment,' I reply. 'That's partly why I've come to see you.' He points to a simple wooden chair and sat in a similar one opposite me, which creaked with his weight when he rested on it. 'What I've come for is going to take a bit of explaining, so if you've got to rush off somewhere I'll call on another day,' I said.

He turned back to his desk and flicked through a couple of pages of a black leather appointment book. 'I'm OK for three quarters of an hour,' he replied in a lilting West Highland accent.

'I hope it won't take that long,' I began, then as briefly as I could, told him some of the problems with my book, Caroline's part in my task and her recent disappearance.

'That's enough for a book in itself,' he said, when my preamble was finished. I then went on to describe the two recent phone calls and asked, 'I'm wondering, if there is any way you may be able to trace where the calls were made. You see I'm desperately worried about the girl. She put herself out on a limb for me even though she'd just been through all that trauma in Madrid. At the moment there is no trace of her anywhere and frankly I'm worried sick. I'd consider it a big favour if you could help me.'

Archie was never a man of many words and so far I'd done most of the talking. He stroked his chin with his giant right hand before replying. 'Are there any other Police Forces involved in this.'

'No, not to my knowledge. Not as yet, anyway,' I said.

'And you say you're her boyfriend?'

'Well that's my interpretation of our relationship. She may disagree of course.'

'Has she family?'

'Parents and a sister I think, but I don't know where.'

He rubbed his chin again. 'You see if I register her as a missing person, her family would have to be informed. And as you said earlier that may cause unnecessary concern if she's just gone away for a few days. At this stage I don't think it would be a good idea to do that. You'd better leave it with me Gerald,' he said. 'Give me your telephone number and the time and the date you received those calls.' I provided him with the information then left after thanking him.

Driving home I wondered if perhaps I was becoming paranoid about everything. I questioned whether the events in my novel weren't mentally spilling into my private life and creating the mayhem that was constantly swirling in my head. When you're a loner, living by yourself in the wilds, it's difficult sometimes to evaluate these matters and put them all into perspective. Really I needed someone to bounce my thoughts off, someone I could trust, someone who'd give me an impartial answer. But who? I could do nothing however until I'd heard from Archie.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Two long days passed before Archie got back to me. 'I don't know whether this is going to help you or not,' he said when I answered his call.

'Any clue will do,' I responded.

'Well I can't trace a number I'm afraid. The technology for a simple inquiry like this doesn't stretch that far. If we registered her as a missing person I might be able to get more, but for an off the cuff search I'm limited.'

'Well I'm grateful for anything you can do.' I said.

'As far as we can make out the call was made from somewhere on the Caribbean,' Archie continued and then paused. 'That's about as specific as I can get,' he added.

That did surprise me. For a few moments I could make no response, Archie intervened to take up the silence. 'I hope it's been of some help Gerald.'

'I never expected that,' I said.

'I thought you may be surprised.'

I spent a few minutes thanking him and then rang off. Afterwards, for some considerable time, I sat at my desk looking out across to Beinn Eighe with a multitude of thoughts flashing through my mind. 'The Caribbean,' I kept repeating to myself out loud. 'What the hell is she doing in the Caribbean?' Surely no gang of terrorists would take her to the Caribbean I conjectured further. If she wasn't captured, what was she doing there? Taking a few days off maybe, as had been suggested, but why hadn't she told me she was going? She knew I was at a vital stage in the book. 'What the hell was going on' I said to myself and reached for the bottle of whisky.

* * * * *

Suddenly I desperately needed the help of my local therapy clinic. Within the hour I was tramping up the steep, slippery, stone sliding slopes of Sgurr Bán. Too late in the day to make for the top, but I was counting on its mystical qualities to clear my head and facilitate some of the missing answers. Caroline's location continued to baffle me; unfortunately the mountain provided no answers on that one. Regarding my book though, I did reach some conclusions. I considered it an important piece of work and I wanted to get it in print before anything untoward happened to me. There is an oft used phrase, 'Publish and be damned' and those words circulated through my head as later on in the day I downloaded the final chapters to my publisher. A suitable title had also surfaced on my walk and I attached it to the download. Afterwards I sat in my lounge nursing a large tumbler of MacAllan, toasting the hoped for success of 'War to the Death'.

The following afternoon the phone rang. I ran to answer hoping it may be Caroline. However, it was only Bracewell's upbeat voice that responded. 'I've just had word from your publishers,' he began. 'They're delighted with your ending and the title. They've passed it on for immediate proof reading. I guess it will only be a week or so before you get the galley back for checking,' he said excitedly.

'Great,' I responded, although perhaps with not a great deal of enthusiasm.

'Well you don't have to sound so bloody excited about it. Isn't that what you want?'

'Yes of course it is,' I said. 'It's just that I still haven't heard from Caroline. There's a rumour she may be in the Caribbean.' His response was to laugh cynically out loud.

'Erskine I'm worried about her,' I shouted back.

'I know you are, but I've said all along that any such relationship would only distract you from your work.'

Sleep came reasonably quickly that night but when I awoke in the early hours another problem train of thought seeped awkwardly into my dozing brain. In my dawn slumbers my conscience had been pricked about the devious means I had used to smuggle out Garay's notes. Once the book was in print in Spain I guessed it wouldn't be long before he got to hear about it. Deep down inside I knew I owed the man some compensation for his courage and trouble. There and then I decided something had to be done quickly to rectify the matter. It would be at least a week or so the before the galley would be sent back to me for final checking. At that moment my bank account was reasonably flush with funds and more was expected when the full proceeds from the sale of my flat came through. I therefore had a small window of opportunity to sort something out. If only I knew what was happening regarding Caroline, I would have felt more relaxed about matters.

Anyway, that day I made arrangements to fly out to Alicante. I also made a telephone call to Spain, which I knew was going to be difficult. 'Hello Gayle, it's Gerald,' I said when she answered.

'Gerald, my God where are you?'

'In Scotland at the moment.'

'Well thanks very much for letting me know that you got back safely. It was much appreciated,' she replied with scorn. 'How's the book?'

'I am sorry Gayle. You already know I'm a total heel. The book's about to be published. What about yours?'

She went on at length to tell me of its progress. Evidently she was having difficulty with her editor. Half-heartedly she said something about wishing I was with her to help out with the problem. Her innocent words gave me the opportunity I was looking for.

'Well actually Gayle I may be able to do something for you in that respect,' I responded, took a quick deep breath and continued before she had time to counter. 'I have to come over there to sort out one of the matters I got involved in last time and I was wondering if .........' She interrupted me before I completed the sentence.

'Don't tell me, I know. You want to stay here?'

'Please,' I pleaded, 'I could perhaps look at your editing at the same time.' A short silence followed before she responded.

'I've said it so many times Gerald, I'm almost sick of repeating it. You've got a damn nerve. I don't know why you think I'm so gullible to fall for it all again. I thought it wasn't safe for you to be around here?'

'It isn't, but it's better that I sort the matter out now before my book gets published. Then it certainly won't be safe. It will only be for a day or so at the most. I would deem it a big favour.'

'How many is that now?' she replied.

'More than I could ever count or deserve I'm sure.'

For some moments I had to endure an earful about my treatment of her as a doormat. To each point I could only reply, 'I know Gayle.' Finally however, she did say 'When are you thinking of coming?'

'The day after tomorrow, if that's all right with you.'

'Do you really care if it's all right with me or not?'

'Yes Gayle, I do. That's why I'm saying it's a big favour.'

'And if I got shot or blown up for harbouring you?' She left the question open in the air.

'I don't plan to be there long but I'm sure it won't come to that,' I replied.

'H'm. Thanks for the confident reassurance.'

Another bout of verbal abuse followed before she agreed I could stay there. Her acid words had scored many points and for the rest of the day I walked around like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Later on I arranged a transfer of funds to my Spanish bank account to cover my expenses for the trip and what I was prepared to pay Garay. The following day I drove to Glasgow, left my car at the airport and got on a flight to Alicante. Several times during the journey I rang Caroline's numbers, but there was still no reply.

Driving the cheapest Seat Marbella I could hire, the trip to Gayle's took about an hour from the airport. Three long rings on her doorbell were required before she came to let me in. I had expected something similar or maybe more; her greeting confirmed my presumption.

'I was out on the terrace. Have you been ringing long?' she said with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

'It's not been a problem,' I replied. She was topless, illustrating an even suntan and her hair was tied back.

My flattery about her appearance failed to produce a smile, or any other indication of delight at seeing me. 'You know where your room is,' she said pointing upwards. 'I want to try and get the last of this sunshine before it disappears,' she added and without another word, turned on her heels and headed back towards the terrace, leaving me to trudge up the stairs to the room I'd used before. I slid my hand under the mattress. The disc I'd left on my last visit was still there.

Gayle was lying out still sun bathing and reading when I got downstairs. 'It's a good spot you've got here,' I said standing alongside her topless body. From the terrace there was an uninterrupted view out to sea. Two small yachts were scudding around the bay. Above us, the predominantly blue sky was peppered with a few wispy light clouds.

'I've got no complaints,' Gayle responded without looking up at me.

'How've you been Gayle?' I asked, trying to ingratiate myself with her.

'Do you really care how I am Gerald or are you just making polite conversation?'

'Of course I care. What about your book? You said you were having problems. Perhaps we could look at it together when you're ready.'

'Have you eaten?' she asked.

'Not recently, no.'

'Well there are eggs and some spaghetti in the kitchen if you want to help yourself. I'll finish this chapter off while the sun lasts,' she said holding up the book she'd been reading.

It didn't take long for me to prepare what I needed to eat. When I'd nearly finished and was supping on a cup of tea Gayle came padding barefooted indoors. The bikini top had been reinstated, but she still looked spectacular.

'Thanks Gayle, I needed that,' I said referring to the food.

'I'll fetch my manuscript,' she said. 'Do you want a drink?'

' A bit early for me I think. I have to keep a clear head for what I'm going to have do tomorrow.'

In a few moments she was back with the papers of her book, her laptop and a large bacardi and coke, loaded with lemon and ice and sat alongside me at the kitchen table. With our legs just about touching we started to look at the contentious issues in her manuscript. It took us about an hour.

'So you think I should query those we've marked?' she said, while tidying up the papers afterwards.

'I certainly do,' I replied. 'It's your book. It's going out with your name on it and you have to be happy with what's inside. If it were me I would fire back an e-mail on those points.'

She smiled at me; a first since my arrival. 'Are you going to risk that whisky now?' she said.

'A small one please,' I replied and we moved to the lounge.

'What's this business you have to do tomorrow?' she asked.

'I think I said before that it's probably best for both our safety if you don't know too much. I have to see the man who lives near Denia.' She had fixed two drinks and we sat side by side on the settee. 'He provided a lot of the background details for the book,' I continued. 'I owe him some monetary compensation for the information and I've been feeling guilty about it.' She looked at me quizzically and then shook her head.

'Gerald I don't know how you manage to get yourself into such scrapes. I don't think I know anybody else like you in that respect.'

'You once told me that you always wanted an exciting man.'

She chuckled scornfully. 'Exciting yes. Not stupid! You must be careful though,' she said. 'From what you've told me you're playing with your life.'

'Maybe, but I owe this guy and it will be impossible for me to do this errand once the book is out. At the moment I have the element of surprise on my side.'

She shook her head again in exasperation. I went on to tell her about the story line of 'War to the Death', and some of the details. Before it got too late I put in a call to Garay's villa. Alberto's pompous tones answered. He instantly recognised my voice, as though he'd been half expecting my call. I said I wanted to see the Senator, next day if possible. 'I will see,' he replied and I heard the phone clank on a table. I had almost given up holding on by the time he eventually came back to me. 'Tomorrow at eleven,' he said gruffly and rang off.

Afterwards Gayle brought me up to date on all the local gossip. That evening I enjoyed her company. Later we made our separate ways to our individual beds.

* * * * *

While driving to Garay's home next morning that silly tune rappeared again in my head and I found myself humming it for most of the way there. Caroline's whereabouts still disturbed me, but I also knew I was running out of time to clear this debt. Over the previous few days I had thought carefully about how I was going to approach the matter.

The wrought iron gates were closed when I pulled up at the villa. I pressed on the intercom, stated my name and without any acknowledgement the gates opened with an accompanying squeak of the machinery. Bathed in sunlight the house remained as splendid as I'd remembered. Light blue wisteria, rampant in flower, cascaded over the front façade. It was some moments before Alberto answered my ring on the doorbell.

'The Senator will see you in the conservatory,' he said with total disdain, closed the door behind me, then turned on his heels and led me that way, without saying another word.

The heat in there again hit me instantly. The jungle foliage dripped of moisture adding to the humidity. Once I'd taken a few paces sweat secreted from my body. The Senator was sitting at the far end, with cigar and newspaper in hand, a rug over his knees and a jug of water and drinking glasses on the white table alongside him.

'Senator Garay it is good to see you,' I said when I was near. He didn't look a well man. The scar on his right cheek remained unattractively visible.

'It is good to see you too, amigo,' he replied. We exchanged a brief handshake, his grip was almost non-existent. He beckoned me to one of the spare chairs. 'A drink perhaps?' he asked. I nodded to the water. Alberto huffed and puffed in pouring it. 'No beautiful young lady with you this time?' Garay said.

'Unfortunately no. She is away on other matters,' I replied and took a sip of the water.

'A shame,' Garay said. 'Such an attractive, intelligent woman.' He forced a smile and I responded likewise.

'I'm on my own this time,' I began. ' I've brought you a copy of my last novel, 'Early Dawn', as a peace offering, for letting you down at our last meeting,' I said and handed it over.

'You are most kind,' Garay said and turned the book over in his hand. 'I will read it with interest.'

'Good. I hope you will enjoy it.' I paused for breath, supped some more water and wiped my damp forehead with the back of my hand. Alberto remained with us and stood alongside the table. 'You see I have now decided to go ahead with a book on my own based on your notes,' I said. 'Miss Carson won't be able to start her documentary for some time.' I took another sip of water then continued. 'Recently I have managed to secure a small advance from my publishers for the project and if possible I would now like to purchase the documents we saw last time we were here.'

Garay looked surprised. He sat up in his chair. For the first time I saw more than just the bare spark of life in his face. Alberto cleared his throat, put his hand over his mouth as he did so and rocked from one foot to the other.

'The documents have gone back to the bank,' Garay said next.

'I guessed that.' I said. 'But when we were here last time, you may recall, that Miss Carson made photocopies. Those copies would be perfectly suitable for my purposes, if you still have them. I know they are authentic as I saw them for myself and assisted in the copying. Isn't that right Alberto?' I said and looked up at him. He grunted. Garay put down his cigar and fingered his facial scar.

'The copies are also in the bank,' he said. 'Are you able to pay me for them?' he then asked.

'Yes, but not the full amount you talked about. I am doing this out of my own pocket, from the advance I received from my publishers. I haven't the resources of a TV Company behind me as was the case last time we were here. I can only pay you three thousand euros. That will wipe out two thirds of my advance. It's the best I can do. Take it or leave it,' I said.

The scar throbbed with tension on the side of his face. He looked at me with steely eyes, picked up the cigar and took a long draw while I waited a long time for his response. I had made up my mind to say nothing more at that point. I'd given him my best offer. It was up to him. I knew of course that I already had the information I needed. Garay had mentioned on one of our previous meetings that he'd won this villa in a card game. Well, he must have been one hell of a card player, because for many minutes, I was made to wait and guess what his response was going to be. We were staring each other out in silence. Desperately I was trying not to let my face reveal that I already had the aces in the bag. While Garay and I remained eyeball to eyeball, I could sense Alberto shuffling alongside me, breathing heavily, like a pig snuffling around its trough. All the while my body leaked moisture like a damp sponge.

Garay sucked again on the cigar, letting the resultant smoke exhale slowly through his nostrils, creating a temporary cloud around his head. 'I will send Alberto to the bank this afternoon,' he said slowly and very quietly, while nodding his head in affirmation.

'Thank you,' I responded. Alberto coughed, shifted noisily on his feet and coughed again. I saw a fractured, weak smile break out on Garay's face. 'As a gesture of goodwill,' I said, 'I will write a cheque out for the amount now.'

Garay shrugged his shoulders and drew again on the cigar. I gulped the remains of the glass of water then reached inside my pocket for cheque book and pen. 'I'll have some more water please,' I said to Alberto and started to write out the cheque. At first he ignored me, until Garay barked out the order. 'Can I return tomorrow to pick up the papers,' I asked. He nodded his head in agreement. When I'd signed the remittance I lifted my refilled glass in toast and said. 'War to the Death'. Garay did likewise and responded emotionally with the same words. Alberto coughed again and continued to snortle profusely. 'You must send me a copy.' Garay continued.

'I promise I will do that,' I said.

We talked a little more, mainly about some of the places he'd lived in up North and then I made my excuses to leave. Alberto escorted me brusquely away. By then my shirt was like a damp rag, my hair almost liquid with sweat. At the door of the conservatory I turned around to look back at that tired, wizened, dying old man, slumped in his red and white striped deckchair, with the tartan blanket half hanging off his knees. I realised then I owed him a great deal. Before I left he raised his arm in a half wave and forced a smile. It was the last time I saw him alive. He was a very brave man.

In the hall Alberto abruptly pointed towards the front door and said. 'The outside gates are open,' then ignored me completely. When I turned to close the outer door I could see him in one of the rooms off the hall, lifting the receiver of a phone.

* * * * *

Revving the Seat up to the limit of its 800c.c I drove quickly away, anxious to put time and space between me and any cohorts Alberto may have been in contact with on that phone. In case I was being followed I planned to detour off to Denia before returning to Gayle's. My plan was to lose myself in the town's busy streets, find a quiet cafe or bar for an hour or so, then catch the bus back to Gayle's home. I could pick up the hired car next day on my way to Garay's villa to collect the papers.

That plan dissolved into thin air. Five minutes from Garay's front gates, I saw in the rear view mirror, the big Mercedes SUV that had previously driven Caroline and me off the road. Frantically I jammed my foot hard down on the accelerator. Unfortunately neither the road, nor my car were built for speed. On the hills the Seat struggled while the Mercedes gained. My pulse soon began to pound like a hammer drill. We were approaching the bends where they tried to crash us before. My body temperature, which still hadn't cooled from the conservatory, was rising to tropical proportions. Mentally I was in panic mode.

On rounding a bend I caught up with a big delivery lorry lumbering along in a low gear. I knew there was no way could I overtake that until I'd driven through Denia. I got dangerously close behind its rear bumper. I thought if I kept close the Mercedes wouldn't be able to pass me. One jerky braking movement though by the lorry driver and I'd be piling into his backside. The Mercedes was bearing down on me; its front grill filled up my rear view mirror. We drove like that, nose to tail, around blind hairpins for several kilometres. I knew the outskirts of Denia were approaching. If I could just get to the town in one piece I believed that the Mercedes wouldn't try much there; too many people and other cars around as witnesses, I hoped.

Suddenly I felt and heard a violent thump on my rear bumper. The force of it nearly jolted the Seat into the rear of the lorry. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. Then another thump hit us again. My foot was still on the brake pedal. This time the Seat slewed right, dangerously near to the precipice. Somehow I managed to straighten up, then another thump followed. They were trying to ram me off the road. Ahead the road dipped downhill. The lorry put on some speed and I did likewise. For a few moments I was able to put distance between the Mercedes and me. They soon caught up though and the buffeting continued, even more violently. The downhill force was giving their hits even greater propulsion. Each thump jarred my neck and my back. My hands had to grip the wheel like a vice to fight its involuntary gyrations.

Every yard though brought us nearer to the town. The lorry was putting on more speed, providing intervals where I could inch ahead of the Mercedes. By then my knuckles were rigid white, my hands numb. We were however, beginning to reach built up territory. The occasional villa occupied the land along the road. Round every bend I hoped it would be the last, but there always seemed one more, followed by one more thump on my rear bumper.

I did make it though. God knows how. Somehow I managed to reach the main roundabout of Denia. There the Mercedes gave up. I took the road straight ahead into the town centre, while they took the right hand turn towards the ring road. My hand relaxed slightly on the wheel when I saw them disappear. Sweat was streaming into my eyes. My bruised and battered neck and body screamed with pain. It was a struggle to twist my neck to reverse the car into a parking space when I reached the centre of town. For some time I sat there shaking, mopping my brow and trying to compose myself. Was a damn book really worth all of this I asked myself?

* * * * *

The back bumper and boot of the Seat had been dented copiously in several places. Fortunately I had taken out full insurance. Somehow, despite my aching neck and back, I managed to walk to a cafe in the main street. I must have looked in a sorry state, for the tall, dark, curly haired, waiter asked me if I was 'feeling OK?' when he approached.

'I've had a bit of a bump in my car,' I responded in Spanish, then ordered a large whisky, a pot of coffee and some toast, which he brought in sequence, each time expressing his concern.

There and then I decided it was time to stop all this 'gung ho,' Sean Penn stuff. I just wasn't cut out for it, nor did I possess the courage. My conscience regarding Garay was satisfied. He had my cheque, no way was I going back there to collect the documents. I had the information I needed and the story was already recorded with my publishers.

The waiter continued to fuss around me like an old hen, with the toast and coffee, but in between I was able to resume with my thoughts. I reckoned I still had a slight advantage over my foes. As far as they and Alberto knew I still didn't possess the documents and was going to return for them the next day. So I knew I had to get out of Spain as fast as possible. My tenuous roots with my mother's country would regrettably have to be severed forthwith. I was still, however, conscious of protecting Gayle. The last thing in the world I wanted was to have her implicated by my foolish deeds. As I finished off the toast and gulped down the coffee I made the decision not to return to her villa. Those guys could still be on the lookout for me. The road from Denia back to her place had many quiet spots where I could be ambushed without any problem, and they knew the car.

'Take care amigo and don't you drive too fast,' the waiter said as I counted the money for the bill into his hands. I thanked him for his concern and added a large tip.

Outside the cafe door I cautiously looked up and down the busy street, looking out for the gang of thugs who I'd seen alongside the Mercedes at the harbour wall in my town.Further down the street, to my right, I could see a bus stop surrounded by tourists and housewives with shopping bags. Safety in numbers I thought and headed that way to join the queue. Within five minutes a bus arrived. I got on with the others and paid a fare to take me to the bus stop, in my town, just outside Toni's restaurant. Throughout the journey I kept a look out for the Mercedes.

'Señor Gerald you have returned?' Toni said, greeting me with a puzzled look when I walked into the bar.

'Only a flying visit I'm afraid. Have you a room?

'Si', he responded.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Having no luggage I ran up the stairs to my room carrying only the key Toni had given me. I wanted to check the streets below to see if I had been followed. Standing behind the curtain I craned my neck right and left looking for trouble. Fortunately none was evident.

Lying out and resting on the bed my nerve ends continued to jangle. My neck and back were sore, my hands trembled when I fiddled with my mobile phone. How to get out of Spain without being spotted was occupying my mind. The conventional routes, airports, bus and railway stations, were the obvious places to avoid. I had to think of something original, something no one else would consider. And then there was Gayle. No way could I go back to her place and involve her. I owed her that much for sure. I lay there for some time, thinking.

Later in the afternoon, around about four o'clock, through my bedroom window I could see the local fishing boats racing each other back to harbour. Their practise was to leave early, about six in the morning, for the deep water fishing grounds, then return in the afternoons with their catch. On the quayside was a large ice plant and the first to use it would be first in front of the buyers at the adjacent fish auction. A cloud of seagulls milled above each boat. The men on board were busy dumping the waste elements of their catch into the sea. Dumping is not allowed within the harbour walls, so the seagulls were getting a free meal.

What I saw made me think of Macklin. He wasn't part of the local fleet as he didn't own a deep-sea trawler. Lobster from the surrounding bays provided his living. But he did own a bigger ocean going boat. Rumour had it that he'd sailed down from Scotland on it by himself. We were acquainted, mainly through my drinking exploits, when I was writing 'Early Dawn'. Being part Scottish he would sometimes converse with me and he liked to reminisce about the 'Old Country', as he would put it. Nobody in the world would think of me getting out of town on his boat I thought. But to where? Anywhere Spanish was fraught with danger. Then I had a brainwave. Gibraltar, I thought! That's British and it's not that far if Macklin's boat was seaworthy enough. Down the east coast of Spain, across the south coast and we'd be there, safe or safeish anyway, in British territory. Regular flights to London flew from Gibraltar. Simple I thought, all I had to do was persuade Macklin.

* * * * *

'There's been a spot of bother,' I said to Gayle when she answered her phone.

'Oh my God, what now?' she replied with a sigh.

'I'm all right. 'You're not to worry.' Briefly I went on to describe some of the details of the day. I didn't want to alarm her too much so I said that I had been tailed by a car from Garay's villa. 'I managed to lose them though,' I continued, 'but I'm not going to risk coming back to your place.'

'Gerald where are you?'

'I'm staying at Toni's but it won't be for long, I have to get away.'

'How will you go?'

'Not sure yet but I have an idea.' Before she could interrupt and ask about it I quickly continued. 'Gayle, my few clothes and things are at your place. Also under the mattress in my room there is a CD on which is recorded the details of the murders in the Basque country I've written about in my book. That's what all this fuss is about. For your sake and mine I don't want either of us to get caught with it. Will you promise me that you'll post it to my Scottish address today.'

'If that's what you want. What about your clothes?'

'We mustn't be seen together,' I emphasised. 'If you go to the Post Office in town, there are left luggage boxes in the main hall. Can you leave my holdall in one of those, then take the key to my estate agent. I will pick it up from there. I know I'm asking a lot Gayle and I know I don't deserve your help, but it's the safest way for both of us.'

'Have I ever denied you anything?' she replied.

'No you haven't Gayle. At this moment I don't know how, but some way or another I will try and make it up to you.'

'I've heard that one before,' she responded.

I thanked her, spelt out my Scottish address and the name and location of my estate agent, then rang off. Just out of curiosity I rang Caroline's numbers again but there was still no response.

* * * * *

For the next few hours I lay low in that room in Toni's pension. In the early evening I rang downstairs for him to bring me up some food, making the excuse that I was feeling a bit under the weather. Really I didn't want to be seen in the restaurant or anywhere else in public. When it was well into the hours of darkness I ventured gingerly outside, taking care to keep my eyes peeled for any signs of trouble.

The bar Macklin used to frequent at the end of the harbour wall, was a scruffy Spanish owned taberna called Mario's, patronised mainly by the fishermen off the trawlers. On my way down there I passed the boys of the local samba band, pumping out a medley of tuneless rhythm outside the restaurants. There were five of them in all. One played trumpet, another the saxophone, the accordion guy was round like a barrel and the man on the bongos moved in time to his rhythm like a rap dancer. The fifth went inside the restaurants with the hat, collecting the money. Whatever you may say about their musical ability they always looked as though they were enjoying themselves. I waved as I walked past and received a blast on the saxophone in response.

Cigarette smoke hung like a cloud in Mario's bar when I walked in. The décor and fittings were of nineteen fifties vintage; wooden chairs and tables. The hubbub of excited Spanish conversation vibrated in my ears as I peered around looking for Macklin. I spotted him sitting in a corner, by himself, with a bottle of whisky on his table and the inevitable self rolled cigarette dangling off his lower lip. He had a slim build and face, pointed nose and no teeth, which accentuated his pointed chin. On his head, at a cockeyed angle was a dilapidated tam o'shanter.

'Can I buy you a drink?' I asked when I stood near him. He looked up at me, shook his head and pointed to the bottle. When I returned from the bar with a whisky he pulled one of the high backed wooden chairs alongside his table and gestured for me to sit with him.

'How are you keeping?' I asked.

There followed a tortuous preamble about the aches and pains in his body, the downward spiral of the pound and the fractious state of the fishing industry. 'How's the old country?' he eventually asked. 'Have you been in those bonny hills recently?'

I knew I was on safer ground then so I told him about the recent storms and the snow on my nearby mountains at home. 'God knows what you want to come down here for when you've got all that on your door step,' he responded.

'How's your big boat these days?' I asked

'Ach, the boat's fine. She'll see me out that's for sure.'

I knocked back a large gulp of my whisky, took a deep breath and said, 'I've got a proposition for you.' He grunted unenthusiastically, but I continued to tell him about my proposed boat trip to Gibraltar. 'Would you be able to take me?' I asked in conclusion. For some moments he looked at me in astonishment, poured a large slug of whisky into his glass and from the same bottle topped up mine. I waited for his response.

'That's a long way,' he said. 'What do you want to go there for, by boat?'

'I'm in a spot of bother with the Spanish over something I've written in one of my books,' I replied. 'It's nothing to do with money or anything like that but it's better I get away in the next day or so and under cover if possible. I'm willing to pay if you can take me there quickly.' He continued to say nothing, but his gaze remained fixed on me intently. 'If you're interested, you work out a price and let me know,' I continued, 'What do you think?'

He slugged back most of the whisky in his glass, banged it down on the table. 'I'll see,' he said. 'As you're a fellow countryman it's possible, but it will cost you.'

'Doesn't everything?' I responded.

We drank some more of his whisky and talked around the idea before I made steps to leave. We agreed to meet the following evening, after the fish auction. On my way back to Toni's the boys of the band were sitting on the harbour wall arguing over the evening's takings. Their conversation appeared heated so I said nothing as I walked past.

In the morning I slept in late and took breakfast in my room. Sometime later on I received a text on my phone from Gayle telling me she had taken the key to my estate agent. I phoned her back to express my thanks and promised to send her the fee when I got back to Scotland.

'A likely tale,' she responded.

I pretended to Toni that I was suffering from a chill, hence my continued occupation of the room. I explained however, that I did have to go out to see my estate agent and asked if he could lend me a coat and hat to ward off the chill. Really I wanted a disguise for my trip around town. He looked at me with more curiosity than normal, but as was his wont, to satisfy any customer, he found me a jacket with a velvet collar and a large fedora, which made me look like a Russian spy.

'Hola, que tel?' my estate agent said, greeting me like an old friend. I had removed the fedora once I was inside his shop. He enthused about the impending completion of the sale of my flat. Promising that the money 'would be safe in my bank account within a couple of days.' I mentioned the possible arrival of a safe deposit box key?

'Ah, si, I have it here,' he replied producing it from under the counter. 'And this also arrived for you the other day,' he added, handing me an envelope with my name written in ink on the front. When he saw the curious look on my face, he said, 'I do not know who delivered it. I was out at the time.' I thanked him for his trouble and while I was there we cleared up all the outstanding matters in relation to the property.

On my way to the Post Office I found a bench seat, pulled the fedora over my face and sat down to open the envelope. Half expecting trouble, I wasn't disillusioned. In the same handwriting as on the envelope, the following words were scribed in bold capital letters. 'WE KNOW YOU HAVE THE SENATOR'S DOCUMENTS. YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S LAPTOP IS IN OUR POSSESSION AND EVERYTHING ON IT JUSTIFIES OUR DECISION TO KILL YOU.' Underneath the message was the familiar logo of 'The Sons'.

For some time I sat on that bench seat letting the enormity of the message sink in. I concluded eventually that there was no point in me hanging around there just to get bumped off. If Macklin couldn't help me I had to find some other way out of there, and quickly. I retrieved my holdall from the Post Office and made my way back to Toni's, keeping careful watch around me as I walked. In my room, in amongst my clothes, I found a note from Gayle.

'Gerald, I'm sorry things have worked out like this for you,' her note began. 'It seems that you are a man who attracts controversy. To me our times together also seem to have resulted in similar friction. You are very brave to proceed with your book and I wish you every success with it. You have always been in my heart. Gayle.'

Afterwards I rang down to the bar and ordered some food. When I had finished eating I donned the fedora, the jacket and a pair of sunglasses and cautiously made my way to the harbour. By then it was early evening and I found Macklin at his familiar perch, accompanied by a bottle of whisky. Questions were evident in his expression when he noticed my garb.

'I'm trying to keep a low profile,' I said. He sniggered. 'Have you been able to give any thought to our arrangement?' I asked tentatively. Some more moments of staring by him continued before he replied.

'You'd better fetch yourself a glass,' he said. 'You can have some of this,' he added pointing to the bottle on the table.

'As you're Scottish I'll take you on your trip if that's really what you want,' he began when I got back to the table. 'The boat will get there right enough but it will cost you. I'm going to lose nearly a weeks fishing and the current price of fuel is frightening. So this is my price and I'm not prepared to barter on it.' His chin jutted acutely in my direction as he related the sum of money.

The amount he quoted shook me rigid. I resorted to a substantial gulp of whisky before replying. 'Is that the best you can do?' I said.

'It is,' he said.

I knew I was in no position to argue. The alternatives were fraught with too much danger. Macklin provided the only way for me to get out of there, incognito, with my life in tact. Before we agreed the price, I did however manage to secure two more slugs of his whisky while we discussed details. He wanted half the money in cash, before we set off, so he could fill up with fuel. He also told me that we would need to make a stop half way along the coast to top up.

* * * * *

We'd organised to get away the next night so I had a day to kill. I spent most of the time in my room, ordering my meals and trying to occupy myself. At mid morning I made a visit to the bank to withdraw the cash to pay Macklin and also enough to settle my bill with Toni. While I was there I also made arrangements to close the account and remit the balance to my UK bank. I told Toni that I would be leaving in the night with some friends, to avoid the traffic, as we were driving to the UK. He looked at me curiously but I was still unwilling to trust anybody with the knowledge of my planned escape route.

While in town I purchased a waterproof anorak suitable for a sea voyage and a warm pullover. As I walked around the streets I continued to keep a low profile, dodging in and out of shop doorways, with my head down under the fedora. A trip to the internet cafe was also a necessity. I wanted to check up on my e-mails and I also needed to book a flight out of Gibraltar. The fedora was well down over my eyes as I keyed in.

Opening up my inbox revealed a collection of mails. Three from my publishers, two from Bracewell, various others on assorted business matters and lo and behold one from Caroline!! I chose that one first. What I read astonished and saddened me.

Hi Gerald, the mail began.

I expect you've been wondering why you haven't been able to contact me for a while. Firstly I have to apologise for that. Truth is I don't really know how to begin to explain properly. As you know I was totally fed up hanging around my apartment. Repeatedly I tried to get my Company to let me go back into work but they wouldn't. I told them I was prepared to do anything, even make the tea and answer the phone, but they wouldn't budge.

Then one day in town, when I was shopping, I met, by chance, an old friend. Well an old flame to be honest. He took me to lunch and told me that a group of them were going on holiday that week to Jamaica. I knew all those who were going, both the boys and the girls. We were old mates, some from University and we're all about the same age. I'm sorry, I realise I should have let you know, but I only had a day or so to organise everything and I didn't know quite how to tell you. I didn't take my laptop either. I just wanted to get away from all that for a break. When I was in the Caribbean I did try to phone you but each time I couldn't get through properly and then I thought how am I going to explain everything to you in a quick call over the phone.

Well now I feel bad about it and that I've let you down. Your book was important to me. But as I have said I was feeling so low and desperate and the temptation of a few days fun and laughter in the sun, was, I'm afraid, too big to resist.

I am also afraid to tell you that I have now gone and fallen in love again with my old boy friend. His name is Tom. Not that you'll want to know that. I am sorry Gerald. You and I had some great, exciting times together, but I knew it could never last. Tom is my own age and we share a lot of history from the past.

I hope you won't think badly of me. I reiterate my regret at not informing you of this before, but I wanted to explain it properly, not in some garbled phone call. I hope the book will be the gigantic success it deserves to be and I will certainly buy a copy when it's out.

Love, Caroline.

For some moments I couldn't really believe what I had just read. I could feel sweat forming under the brim of the fedora. I removed it and mopped my brow. This had to be some bad dream I said to myself quite a few times. Perhaps I was in some whisky induced nightmare, I wondered. By the third reading of Caroline's e-mail I realised that wasn't so.

Anger was my initial reaction. 'The cheating little hussy,' were the words I wanted to scream out. 'How dare she do this to me.' was another one of the phrases that followed. I was tempted to fire back an e-mail telling her to 'get lost.' Fortunately I resisted, more from not wanting to sound jealous than any other concern. Quickly I changed the screen to the other e-mails. The ones from Bracewell and my publishers I could deal with when I got home. If I got home I thought. Then I put Caroline's mail back on the screen.

Repeatedly I reread it, looking for any hidden meanings; any nuances I had missed in my anger. Maybe there was more to it than met the eye. Something, anything to convince myself that it wasn't totally the end of our relationship. But there wasn't. It simply was a 'Dear John' letter to a former lover. There was no mistake about that, I eventually concluded.

Brooding on my fate, looking out of the cafe, onto the main street, with Caroline's e-mail still on the computer screen in front of me, another moment of horror flashed past the window. Walking casually along the pavement was the man who'd been watching my apartment. I recognised his receding grey hair. He was the same guy who'd also been talking to Alberto before Caroline and I were driven off the road near Denia. Instinctively I reinstated the fedora and pulled it back down over my eyes. No way was I going out into the street with that guy around, so I ordered another coffee, sat tight and worked on my flight booking. Troubles seemed to be piling up on me like an infection. Caroline, Alberto, Garay and now a gang of 'The Sons' were closing in on me again.

* * * * *

After a suitable period of time I stealthily made my way back to Toni's, dodging in and out of shop doorways and trying to mingle amongst the other pedestrians. Toni was in reception when I walked in. I guess by then that his curiosity regarding my reclusive behaviour must have got the better of him. I was of course still wearing the fedora, a pair of large sunglasses and his jacket with the velvet collar.

'How is your chill?' he asked as I approached.

'I think it is more hay fever, than a cold,' I lied in response. 'Just won't go away.' I added.

'My wife, she suffers from the same,' he replied. 'She has to stay indoors all day when it is bad.'

'That's it.' I said and tried to move on, but he persisted.

'When you were last here,' he began,' with the beautiful young lady.' I watched his eyes sparkle at the thought of Caroline, 'We talked about 'The Sons of Tyranny.'

'We did indeed.'

'I mentioned at the time that a body had been found in the harbour.'

'Yes, I remember,' I said trying to sound nonchalant.

'My friend the Commander of the Guardia now believes the murder was carried out by them.'

I raised my eyebrows, still trying to look noncommittal.

'He's says there is definitely a gang of them living in this area. They are under his surveillance at the moment he told me.' Toni said. The sparkle was still in his eyes.

'Oh gosh, I'll have to make sure my door is locked at night then.' He chuckled loudly.

I started to move away then stopped. 'There is one favour you can do for me though if you would,' I said, turning back to face him.

'What is that my friend?' he said.

'You may also remember about that time, you told me that while I was away in Britain, somebody called in here looking for me.'

'Yes I do.'

'Well if that guy, or anybody like him, calls asking again, I'd be grateful if you didn't tell them I am staying here.'

'Of course. Is there any trouble?'

'Not really. It's just someone who keeps pestering me about a book they've written which they want me to read. Happens all the time for well known authors I'm afraid.'

'I always make sure that my clients have complete privacy and my life long discretion when they stay at Toni's. And I guarantee you that,' he said.

I thanked him and although he kept looking at me with much curiosity I turned away and made my way to my room. Next I telephoned the car hire company and told them about the abandoned Seat in Denia. I said I had inadvertently backed it into a brick wall and was too worried to drive it again. As I had paid the full insurance they agreed to go and collect it. Afterwards I lay on my bed feeling despondent and attempted to put Caroline's e-mail into some perspective. I had to tell myself that I was being naïve to think a beautiful young woman of her age would want to become permanently involved with an ageing, penniless old duffer like me. However much I deceived myself, I guess the final outcome of our relationship was inevitable. As she'd said in her message, we'd shared some exciting times together. Many more than I could ever have possibly envisaged when we first met. Perhaps it was better for it to end this way.

At that moment I couldn't wait to get away from Spain fast enough. I just hoped that the weather would remain clear enough that night to allow Macklin to put out to sea. I still had my doubts about him. I really didn't know him that well. I'd only chosen him because of his reclusive nature. What he was really like as a person or how we'd react to each other on board a boat for three days or so, with no other company, was another indiscernible matter I didn't dwell on for too long.

I had arranged to meet him at Mario's, with the money for the fuel, when he'd finished his days fishing. Knowing my luck, I conjectured, he'd probably take my money and do a runner. He was ordering some tapas when I got there. 'Did you bring the money?' he asked gruffly as soon as I was alongside him. I nodded, ordered myself a whisky and we moved over to a table in the corner. 'Don't have too many of those if you're not used to the sea,' he said pointing to my drink as we sat down. 'And don't eat too much before we set off. If it's rough you're likely to lose most of it. ' I nodded again. 'On board there's drinking water, packets of corn flakes, plenty of chocolate and lots of coffee. It's not wise to consume much else, but if you want anything more you'll have to bring it yourself.'

Suddenly I realised that I'd never been further on a boat than a day trip from Cardiff to Weston. We talked some more about the arrangements. At that stage I thought it best to tell him a little about my problems. I said the Spanish had threatened me because of some things I'd written about them in my last novel. He looked at me in amazement. 'I'm glad now I charged the fee I did,' he said and held out his hand for the money. I passed over an envelope containing a wad of Euros. He opened it and flicked through the notes inside, mentally counting out the amount. Because of my problems I didn't want to be spotted around the harbour so he agreed to leave his boat out in the bay and come ashore by dinghy. There was a small rocky cove I could see from the window of my room at Toni's and the white outside lights of the bar were visible from anywhere in the bay. I described where my window was situated. Macklin agreed to bring the dinghy in there and flash a torch three times. When I saw his torch I was to switch my room lights on and off three times, then leave straight away. The walk to the seashore would take me about ten minutes.

* * * * *

My mind was still on the arrangements I'd made with Macklin as I walked back to Toni's. As a result, my normal outward antenna of concentration was distracted. So much so that I completely failed to notice my observer pal, on the pavement, walking towards me, until we were almost facing each other. Fortunately I was wearing the fedora, plus sunglasses and the jacket with the velvet collar. I kept moving quickly onwards. The sunglasses being wrap around allowed me one sly glance out of the corner of my eye, without turning my head, when my friend was alongside. He stopped in his tracks and turned sideways to look at me, so I kept hurrying on. When I reached a street corner there was a shop with a window on both roads. I turned the corner and looked backwards through the furthest window. My man had turned around and was heading after me.

Instantly I ran. Fortunately I knew most of the alleyways around there and ducked into the first one I came across. Washing hanging from balconies on the adjacent houses gave me some cover. I was determined not let him follow me back to Toni's. Sweat was forming under the brim of the fedora and running into my eyes, I was breathing hard. A couple more narrow alleyways led me to the centre of town. There the pavements were busier. I stopped running and tried to mingle amongst the pedestrians, dodging between groups of people. The fedora not only made me hot but also made me more identifiable from a distance, so I removed it as I hurried along.

The town bus station is situated alongside a shopping plaza, with an upper floor terrace of bars and cafes. I knew that from there I could look down onto the main street below. Frantically I ran up the main staircase. Up there I could not only see the road but also the approach to the staircase. While I gathered my breath I removed the jacket and half hid behind a Nestle's ice cream advertising hoarding. While I mopped my brow I surveyed the street below. From my vantage point I had a good view of both pavements. It was a busy time of day. Traffic noisily winged along the wide road, shoppers were afoot everywhere, having reconvened after the siesta.

It was a few minutes before I spotted my friend, striding purposefully on the opposite sidewalk, looking this way and that. Sometimes he stopped to look across the road to the other pavement. I ducked further behind the Nestle's sign. Clearly he had lost me. He crossed the road and stood on that pavement, with his hands on his hips, looked left and right. My heart was pounding. After some time he crossed back again and turned down one of the wide boulevards that led away from the plaza. I kept watching him until he disappeared out of sight.

Through the open stairway I had just run up, I could see a bus parked in the bay for the local route. Quickly I ran back down the stairs and got on board. It was some time before the bus left the depot and thereafter it followed a lengthy tour of the town, but eventually I was able get off, right outside Toni's restaurant.

Toni was in reception as I walked inside. 'Senõr Gerald,' he said. 'I am glad I have seen you.' He looked agitated. 'The man who came in last time looking for you, at least I think it was the same man, came in about an hour ago and asked if you were staying here. I told him I hadn't seen you recently,' he added. 'Was that OK?'

My pulse began to pound again. 'Yes, thank you Toni. Thank you very much,' I replied.

While we were together I paid my bill, adding a large tip and reminded him that I would be leaving in the early hours. Macklin's plan was to get out of our bay under the cover of darkness.

'You just click the door closed behind you as you go, my friend,' Toni said. 'It unlocks from the inside.'

* * * * *

That evening, sitting alone in my room at Toni's, the hours ticked slowly by like grains of sand trickling through an egg timer. Early on I ordered some toast and patè and coffee, hoping it would all digest before I got on the boat. Macklin and I had agreed we would set off about three in the morning. By then all the local bars would have closed and the streets should be deserted. There was a TV in my room, which only broadcast Spanish channels and I quickly became bored. A book I had borrowed from Toni's bookshelves didn't hold my attention much either and I couldn't go out again in case I was spotted. Even the bar downstairs was off limits in case my pal came back enquiring about me. So there was nothing else for me to do but lie on the bed and brood. My mobile phone had a built in wake up alarm, which I set for two am and tried to doze.

As soon as I closed my eyes all the details of this crazy escapade ran vividly through my head. Meeting Caroline outside my front gate in the Highlands of Scotland. How her vitality and glamour had lifted me out of the turgid treadmill of my life. The excitement of teaming up with her for the first time to meet Garay at his villa. The taping and recording of his documents, and then our time together as lovers afterwards. The desperation and hell I went through when she was captured and imprisoned at Carabanchel. The friends we made during those fretful few days. All of those events and more ran through my mind as I lay on my bed. How I was going to cope without her I wasn't sure. At my age the pangs of heartache shouldn't be troubling me, but they did and it hurt like hell. And now people were prepared to kill me for writing words in a book, just as my mother's father had been killed for his writing all those years ago. Eventually I must have drifted off to sleep for nightmarish dreams replaced my collective thoughts.

I woke up in a cold sweat and walked to the wash basin to splash water on my face. My watch indicated it was approaching midnight. I switched off the lights and out of morbid curiosity I peeped outside from behind the curtain. To my horror, sitting on the harbour wall, was my pal. Quickly I ducked my head back and returned to lie on the bed in the darkness.

While I lay there that silly tune came into my head again. This time, at last, I remembered its title. Originally a hit by the sixties group the Troggs and later recorded by boy band, Wet, Wet, Wet, I sang quietly to myself the few words I remembered of 'Love is all Around.' Thereafter it was the song I would always associate with Caroline.

I must have drifted off to sleep again for the next thing I remember is my phone alarm ringing. I padded over to the window and with the room light off, I peeped around the curtains. Thankfully I could see no sign of my pal, so I washed, changed my shirt and donned the new sweater. Outside the weather had looked calm. I packed my few bits and pieces into the holdall. Then I sat on my bed, in the darkness, with the curtains open, looking out at the bay, waiting for Macklin's signal.

Three o'clock passed without any sign. I began to worry. Perhaps my premonition about him running off with my money would be right after all. I started to tap my feet with impatience. Then at ten past three I saw his light three times. 'Bloody man. Trust him to be late,' I cursed as I got up and made to leave.

The street lamps outside were off which gave me some cover. As noiselessly as I could I clicked Toni's front door closed, then looked up and down the street both ways. Near the harbour wall I could see a parked car. Inside, there appeared to be a man sitting behind the driver's wheel. It was too dark to distinguish much, but I thought I recognised the grey hair of my observer pal; he appeared to be asleep.

Fortunately I was going the other way, so I pulled the anorak hood up over my head and set off, as quietly as I could along the road.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Whatever tortures 'The Sons' may have tried to inflict on me couldn't have been more painful or debilitating than my time on 'Pride of the Clyde', Macklin's boat. The whole trip was a nightmare from beginning to end. First off, I badly bruised my leg struggling on board from the dinghy. What I saw below deck when Macklin showed me to my bunk was another big shock. I wasn't expecting the facilities of a cruise liner, but everything down there was a total mess. Clothes, mostly unwashed, were strewn over the furniture. Empty food tins, dirty metal plates and mugs were scattered around in a similar manner. What looked like the original paint was peeling from all the side panels. A sweeping brush obviously hadn't been applied to the floor for some considerable time and the combined smell of fuel and stale fried cooking was enough to induce instant nausea. My bunk was a cupboard with a sliding door next to the galley.

I threw my holdall on the bed, massaged my scarred shin and quickly hobbled up the stairs to join Macklin on deck. He was taking up the sea anchor. 'If you want to make yourself useful, you can pump the bilges, then we can get away,' he said gruffly. Briefly he showed me where and how to do it. 'Keep pumping until the water stops coming out of the side,' he said. I began slowly. My sore leg didn't help and soon my back started to ache as well. It was some time before water stopped coming out of the side. When I had finished I clambered up to the wheel-house where Macklin was making preparations to leave. 'There's one on the other side to do as well,' he said pointing in its direction. More periods of painful pumping followed. 'That'll need to be done twice a day,' he mentioned when I returned again to the wheel-house. He was revving the engine and turning the boat seaward. A black cloud of belching fuel fumes was drifting in through the open wheel-house door filling my nostrils with its toxic effluence. Coupled with the sudden movement of the boat it began to make my stomach start to feel uncomfortable.

I tried some brief conversation but it was clear from the outset that dialogue wasn't going to feature much on this voyage. For a time I sat with Macklin, then, while we were travelling through the relatively still water in the bay, I went out and sat on deck. Above my head a veritable galaxy of stars lit up the rocky headlands on either side of the bay as I watched my Spanish home rapidly disappear from view. Looking back on it now those few moments were the best part of my cruise. Despite the aches in my body, the slipstream flowed refreshingly through my hair and for a short time I felt relatively relaxed.

Once we were out in the open sea Macklin put on speed. The engine fumes increased and the swell became more pronounced, making the boat roll with the waves. At point I considered my on-deck vantage point too risky for a landlubber. Rising from my seat I hadn't allowed for the force of the swell and tumbled sideways, hitting and badly bruising my other leg on the edge of a metal hold cover. Swaying like a drunk, clawing desperately to anything I could grab hold of, I began to climb the wheel-house stairway, only to trip on the second step and slip back downwards again. Battered and bruised I eventually slumped on the bench behind Macklin. 'It'll take a bit of time for you to find your sea legs,' he said. The lighted end of a cigarette was hanging, smouldering, on his lower lip. I was receiving the full intake of the smoke. In the distance I could see the lights of some big cargo ships. The boat was by then behaving like a roller coaster at a fairground. Rapidly the insipid concoction started to make me feel light-headed and nauseous.

It wasn't long before I forced to go down below. Soon I was on my hands and knees, retching into the toilet basin. The sickness went on for what seemed like an eternity. When it stopped I just about managed to stagger to my bunk and collapse. Regularly through that night I had to crawl out of that uncomfortable closet and stumble my way back to the toilet. Most of the time I felt as though I wanted to die. How many visits I made I haven't a clue. In between, sleep was fitful. I can remember once Macklin standing over me with a bottle of water in his hand. 'I told you not to eat too much,' I vaguely heard him say. 'You mustn't dehydrate, so drink plenty of this,' he added, thrusting the bottle out towards me. When he'd disappeared back to the wheel-house I guzzled on the water, which resulted in another session with my head over the toilet.

It was morning before I awoke properly. I could see daylight, my watch told me it was gone ten o'clock. Moving even a few inches in my bunk was painful. My head possessed the hammer thudding throb of a whisky-induced hangover, although not a drop had touched my lips since the day before. My palate and tongue felt like sandpaper and my body was shaking and sweating.

Trying to get up I lurched alarmingly into the cabin doorway. Whether it was the movement of the boat or my own lack of seaworthiness I couldn't tell, but I had to hang on to anything that came to hand when I got out into the galley. My eyes were unfocused and my brain was scrambled. The unrelenting throb of the engine echoed under my feet, and somewhere ahead I could just about make out Macklin's identifiable form in the wheel-house.

'Morning,' I said when I got near him.

He grunted in response then said, 'How are you feeling?'

My inconclusive description brought no further reaction. I asked about our whereabouts. The gist of his sparse reply was that we were rounding the bottom of Spain somewhere off Adra.

'I need to go below for a visit,' he then said. 'You take the wheel for a spell. I'll slow the engine. Just keep her on this course.' My blurred eyes struggled to focus on the figures he pointed to on the dial. 'And if you see a ship or any other type of vessel, shout and call me. Just hold the wheel nice and gentle. No big jerks or you'll put us in a tailspin. If you need to slow the engine pull this lever downwards,' he said pointing at the engine telegraph, and left me. My nervous system instantly reverted to panic mode.

Now, I've mentioned previously that my experience on any form of water craft was virtually nil. Up until that moment my only attempt at guiding anything that floats was limited to oaring a rowing boat on Roath Park Lake, in Cardiff, as a teenager, and then if I remember correctly, I think I crash landed it into the central wild life island.

As soon as Macklin disappeared my problems began. The swirling motion of the sea and the force of the waves instantly twisted the wheel violently in my hands. His instructions about gentle movements became meaningless. My jerky tugs, left and right, sent us into the beginnings of a tailspin. I pulled down the lever to slow the engine, nearly stalling it in the process. Increasing the speed again sent us racing off like an express train.

'Are you trying to sink us?' Macklin said angrily when he returned to the wheel-house. He clamped his large rough hands on top of mine on the wheel and firmly guided us slowly back onto the correct course, then readjusted our speed. 'It's like being a boxer,' he said, 'you've got to roll with the waves, just like they roll with the punches.' Unfortunately I had never been a boxer either. For a time he sat with me while I steered. My state of health was still not good though. My stomach felt desolate, my legs were wobbling and my brain wasn't contributing much either.

'I'll take over now,' he said when his patience with my efforts eventually ran out. 'You'd better go and see to the bilges,' he added in an equally bad-tempered tone. 'Afterwards perhaps you could make some coffee. I'll have a bowl of corn flakes and some biscuits as well,' he continued.

Pumping the bilges in open sea, with wobbly legs and a nauseated system was a decidedly more difficult experience than it had been in the sanctuary of the bay. Walking across the deck I repeatedly toppled sideways, bashing and bruising more sections of my body on the metal parts of the boat. The pumping action was exhausting. It took me a long time to complete the task and I went below feeling chastened and foolish, as well as bodily sick. The vomiting had stopped but there was still a retching sensation in my stomach.

Later I sat with Macklin in the wheel-house. The weather was good, but breezy, and we were travelling at a speedy rate of knots. Despite the ideal conditions my stomach soon began to react to the coffee and biscuits I'd tried for breakfast and once again I was back in my ungainly pose over the toilet.

* * * * *

We were heading into the wide bay of Adra by the time I surfaced again. Macklin said we needed more fuel. 'At a quiet little harbour like this we should be able to rest up for a while without having to pay a harbour fee,' he added. Tall apartment blocks and hotels stood out on the skyline as we approached. The weather remained good. Macklin had slowed down our speed in the bay, which helped with my stomach.

My skills at securing ropes to a bollard were no more proficient than anything else I attempted on that boat. Macklin was required to take over and make us secure, much to the amusement of the watching petrol attendant.

He hadn't slept since we'd set out, so once the refuelling was complete he went below to get his head down while I decided to get my feet on terra firma and rest up on a nearby bench seat. For a while I watched the comings and goings around the harbour. The sun remained warm and everything under me had stopped moving. Nearby there was an ice plant and a fish auction building, similar to the ones in my own town. After a while I decided to try and get some normality back into my legs by taking a walk. The wrong move on my part was to go back on board to collect my anorak. When I walked back down the gangplank onto the quayside two officers of the local Guardia Civil approached me. I had noticed their car at the rear of the harbour while I'd been sitting on the bench.

'Are you off that boat?' one asked me in Spanish, while pointing at the 'Pride'.

I confirmed that I was. 'Can I see your papers?' the policeman continued. Luckily my passport was in the anorak pocket. He looked at it warily. 'Where are you planning to go in the boat?' he asked next.

'Gibraltar,' I replied.

'What for?' he said.

'Sailing trip,' I responded. He looked at me grimly. He had shiny dark wavy hair and a moustache to match. The other one, who was short in height, went to look at our boat.

'Harbour voucher?' the one talking to me then asked, holding out his hand. We hadn't one of course. I shook my head. 'We have just come in for fuel,' I pleaded. 'Only ten minutes ago,' I added. He shook his head, then spoke to the other one who began speaking into his walkie-talkie.

Macklin spouted more verbal expletives at me when I aroused him with the details. The Guardia had followed me on board. They were on the upper deck looking around when we came up. The one who'd spoken to me asked Macklin if he was the owner of the boat. Then he wanted his passport and the ship's papers. I heard Macklin cursing some more as he descended below again to fetch them. Afterwards the policeman asked Macklin where we were going and why. Macklin repeated Gibraltar, then said he was dropping me off there so I could fly back to England. The policeman asked me why I hadn't told him that. I looked embarrassed. Macklin glared at me. His pursed lips shrunk even tighter into the triangle they made above his chin.

By then a police van had pulled up alongside the boat. At that moment I really believed they were going to take us off to jail. Another Guardia policeman, with a Spaniel dog on a flexi-lead, then appeared from the van. 'We will require to search the boat,' the one who had spoken to me said. 'Have you any drugs with you?' he asked us. Macklin and I both shook our heads. There followed a loud conversation between the policeman and the dog handler. While they talked the spaniel waggled his body as though he was about to go on his daily exercise.

The dog was let loose and for some considerable time, sniffing furtively, he searched in every nook and cranny of that boat. Fortunately nothing was found except pouches of Macklin's tobacco. The handler sniffed each one curiously before tasting a morsel in his mouth then spitting it out. Before they left Macklin was instructed to pay the harbour fee. He was gone over half an hour. When he got back he was not best pleased. He blamed me for the whole episode, demanding I reimbursed him there and then, with cash, for the amount he'd had to pay out for the fee. 'I don't know why I took on this f......ing,' trip he snarled at me when I handed it over. Then he disappeared down below to complete his siesta. I sidled off to a quiet corner of the upper deck to nurse my wounded pride.

Looking out over the harbour and the pretty town beyond I tried to rationalise the last few days. Discovering I had lost Caroline had been a body blow. When I was with her anything in the world had seemed possible. With her, I took risks and embarked on ventures I would never before have contemplated. Her vitality, her enthusiasm and her abundant talent, had taken me into unchartered territory. Perhaps the reaction to her loss had affected my judgement. Maybe I was mad to have embarked on this boat trip with a person like Macklin. I really didn't know the man well and certainly hadn't judged him accurately enough, although I'd always known he was difficult. Maybe I was also trying to prove to myself that I could still do these things without her. Should I go on with him or get off the boat there and then at Adra and find my own way to Gibraltar, was my quandary at that moment.

Central to my dilemma was the fact that nobody in the world knew I was on a boat with Macklin. He would also be aware that I was carrying with me the rest of the cash he required. I worried that there would be nothing to stop him, when we were out at sea, from bumping me over the head, taking the cash from my wallet, and then tossing me over the side. No one would be any the wiser. My last contacts on dry land had been Toni and Gayle and neither of them knew anything about a boat trip. If Caroline had been around I would certainly have discussed the matter with her and together we would have gone through the practicalities. I really did miss her badly. It wasn't only the physical thing. We were colleagues and partners as well. I still hadn't made up my mind what to do when Macklin emerged from below.

'We'd better get moving,' he shouted across the deck to me. 'Let's try to catch up on time before it gets dark,' he added. I looked at him and wondered.

'If you're as fed up with me as you've make out, would you prefer to call it a day here?' I replied. 'You could turn back and I could find my own way to Gibraltar by road.' I added.

He looked shocked. 'If we make good progress we could be there in a day and a half,' he said. 'I thought you didn't want to be seen on the mainland? You told me that was the reason for travelling this way.'

'It was and it still is, but I seem to be getting under your skin.'

'You take too much notice,' he said. 'The sea is a different way of life. I couldn't write a book. It's all the same really.' We stood staring at each for some moments. A fag end was again hanging precariously from his lips, his hollow cheeks sucked in and out as he puffed on it. Initially I didn't know how to respond.

'You're the gov'ner. It's up to you,' he said.

For many moments I wondered what to do. Maybe my sea-sickness had contributed to a bout of depression, I thought. We were out of my home area and I was still worried about being spotted by anybody who may have connections with 'The Sons'. A death threat is a death threat after all. And I could expect no protection from the Spanish police or the British Foreign Office. They had both advised me not to travel in Spain. Already I'd paid over half the money to Macklin and I knew I wouldn't get any of it back. There was also a deadline to catch the London flight I'd booked. A bus journey from Adra to Gibraltar could take longer than the sea trip, with connections and wait-overs. Why, I don't know, but I decided to carry on with Macklin by sea.

* * * * *

While he steered us out of the harbour and out through the bay I pumped the bilges. When we were in the open sea, he called me to take over at the helm. 'We might make a seaman out of you yet,' he said and sat behind me continuing to puff on his wretched cigarette, while I guided the boat. His attitude towards me appeared to have toned down somewhat and I relaxed a little as he tried to impart to me some of the basic elements of helmsmanship.

For the rest of the daylight hours I remained at the wheel. We talked about Scotland and his life up there before he came to Spain. He had been a Merchant seaman, he told me. Then he worked on a fishing boat out of Fraserburgh, earning big money in the nineteen-seventies. When the Scottish fishing industry began to collapse he used his savings to buy the boat and journeyed south, in search of sun, sea and adventure. All the time he was sitting behind me though I still had this funny feeling about my own safety. At any moment I half expected a thump on the back of my head and the ignominy of being tossed overboard. Fortunately before it got dark he went below to have some food and I was left alone up top.

My ability at the wheel had improved somewhat and as the Mediterranean narrowed, I could make out some aspects of the surrounding mainland. The Sierras were visible behind Granada on the starboard side and the Atlas mountains of Africa on the port. When darkness began to descend Macklin returned to take over the wheel. In the distance, ahead of us, for the first time that day, I could see the clouds of a gathering storm. I took my turn to go below and try my luck with some food and water. I wasn't going to risk much but I didn't want to continue on an empty stomach either.

While I was down there I noticed something different in the sound of the engine. Every so often its revolutions appeared to miss a beat and give out what I can only describe as a little cough. I listened closely for some moments then decided to tell Macklin.

'There's nothing wrong with my boat,' was his instant off-hand reaction to my description.

'Well you go down and listen then,' I replied.

I took over the wheel and he issued more uncomplimentary comments about landlubbers as he went below. The dark clouds I'd spotted earlier were by then bearing down on us. To me they looked menacing.

Macklin was gone for some time. When he re-appeared the black sky was almost on us. 'One of the cylinders is playing up,' he said. 'I've had to shut it down. We'll have to travel on three, which means we won't be able to go as fast.' I looked at him. 'I'll need to make some more minor adjustments,' he added.

'I thought you said there wouldn't be any problems. I've got to make that flight,' I responded haughtily.

'I told you that with the sea you never know.'

'Just like writing,' I replied.

I remained at the wheel while he went back down below to tend the engine. By then nightfall was coming in. The black blob in the sky was directly above us. A previously pleasant breeze had turned into strong gusts, whipping up the waves. The boat started to roll and dip alarmingly. I hadn't experienced anything like it before and became frightened. Macklin's ten minute instruction on helmsmanship was quickly becoming obsolete. I had to grip the wheel tightly to hold it steady and my legs were struggling to stand firm with the rolling motion.

Then a terrifying flash of forked lightning dramatically illuminated the sky in front of me. The resultant thunder announced the introduction of hell and the following hurricane gust hit us sideways on. I thought the boat was going over on its side. The wheel slewed in my hands. I had to wrestle with it, using all the strength my arms possessed. I needed Macklin back with me and quickly. Another gust hit us sideways on and from down below I heard a thud, like the sound of a hammer hitting a cardboard box.

'Macklin are you there? ' I shouted out. There was no reply.

Several more times I shouted his name but still there was no response. The wind had become gale force. Gust after gust hit the side of the boat, each time knocking it, and me, sideways. Continually I lost my footing and had to reach out for support. Rain was lashing, like pebbles, on the wheel-house windows. Intermittently the lightning and thunder flashed and echoed frighteningly above. What do I do now I thought. I don't know how to control a boat in a storm like this. My previous efforts in relatively calm, placid water had been poor enough. My first action was to slow the engine down using the lever, hoping that might bring Macklin back upstairs. This time I managed it without stalling, but there was still no sign of Macklin. In terms of location I hadn't a clue where we were. There was a radar in operation not far from my face, but the figures and maps on it were, to me, meaningless. God, how do I manage to get myself in these situations I pondered, recalling Gayle's words.

Before the storm began I'd noticed we were not far off the coast on our starboard side. Looking at the radar, or what little of it I understood, seemed to confirm that we weren't that far out. I guessed it would be safer, closer to land, so I attempted to steer us gently that way. I watched the images change on the radar and tried to follow them. Alongside the other controls was a two-way radio and mike. I had seen Macklin use it to call up the harbour at Adra. At least I could send out a MAYDAY call if we were about to sink, I thought depressingly.

Another hurricane gust again hit us sideways on. The boat again lurched at a crazy angle. Water spewed in through the open window and in an instant I was slithering around on the floor in a pool of slimy water. 'Macklin,' I shouted once more as my body hit the wheel-house door with a thud. I watched the unmanned wheel spin violently out of control. Struggling like a beached whale I stretched out with my wet hands to stop it and used it to try and pull myself up. I failed at each attempt and slipped and slithered around further in the mire of water. Grabbing the legs of a small table eventually got me upright. I had to fight the wheel to rectify our course. In time I got things back under a limited measure of control. Earlier, Macklin had shown me how to lock the wheel in one position. Fiddling with the catch was awkward with wet hands, but somehow I managed it. Through the darkness of the storm I couldn't see any land, but the radar, or what I guessed it was showing, seemed to illustrate we were moving that way. While I still had some control of my faculties I tried the radio. It required various attempts at most of the switches before the speaker crackled into life. At that moment everything around me appeared to be going at a hundred miles an hour; I was under pressure. But when sanity intervened, I realised I had radar; I had a radio; outside I couldn't see much at all, but occasionally the lightning lit up the sky and when it did there didn't appear to be any other ships around us. If we went in closer to shore, I thought we would avoid the big cargo boats and liners which tended to plough up and down the middle of the Med. Somehow though I had to get below to try and find out what had happened to Macklin.

I shut the wheel-house window, turned the engine speed down a little more, tightened the lock on the wheel, checked that nothing loose was lying around unsecured, locked the door to the outer deck and padded down below. The tiny engine room was only accessible through a floor hatch in the cabin. I could see a light on down there, but no sign of Macklin. The boat was still being thrown from side to side making any sort of movement difficult.

To descend to the engine room floor required going down a metal ladder. For me, under normal circumstances, it would have been a feat of considerable gymnastics, but to do it in those conditions was farcical. My every attempt at trying to get both my legs over the hatch and onto the ladder would have been comical to anybody watching. What with the constant roll of the boat and the thudding gusts of wind it was some time before I managed to lodge both feet on the top rungs, in the right direction, and begin a descent.

What I discovered when I reached the engine room floor sent the cold sweats of desperation racing through my body again. Macklin was lying flat out on the metal floor, with blood oozing out of a gash in his forehead, obviously unconscious. When the big gust hit us he must have been knocked sideways and smacked his head on the low metal beam, near where I was standing.

What the hell do I do now, I thought. I can't steer this boat in this weather and tend to a sick man at the same time. I tried shaking him gently and talking continuously, but there was no response, although thankfully he was still breathing.

Somehow, I managed to get back up that ladder, grab some plastic bottles of water from the galley and a towel. I threw the bottles down before I descended. Fortunately they rolled to a stop against Macklin's prostrate body. Then I shimmied down the ladder again bumping and hurting myself on every bit of protruding metal.

I lifted Macklin's head and poured water directly onto the gash. Blood still seeped out, staining his shirt and my trousers. Then I dragged him up some more until he was almost sitting upright and shook his shoulders. 'Come on man for God's sake wake up,' I shouted, 'I've paid you good money for this voyage.' I continued to shake him, while I tipped the remaining contents of the first bottle of water over his head. When I slapped his cheeks he coughed and spluttered most of the water out over me. I forced the second water bottle into his mouth and tipped more liquid down his throat. All the while the boat continued to roll from side to side as the waves hit us, moving Macklin and I this way and that across the wet slippery floor. Again Macklin regurgitated half the water he'd swallowed over me.

'What!! Where the fucking hell are we,' he spluttered while water spewed from his mouth.

'At the bottom of the bloody ocean.' I replied. 'Come on man get yourself up before we both drown.' I dabbed at the cut with the towel. That made his head jerk back with pain. 'I'm going to have to go back up top and check our position.' I said. ' At the moment we're drifting out of control.'

Whether he heard me or not I don't know but I didn't hang around to find out. More gymnastics were required to get my aching body back up to the wheel-house. Outside it still looked and sounded like hell. The wheel remained locked but the radar showed us to be zigzagging all over the place. I turned the engine speed down some more and prayed it didn't stall. My greatest fear was to drift too far in towards the coast and hit some off shore rocks. I didn't understand enough about the radar to decipher what it showed in that respect. Before I went back down to Macklin I tried to set some sort of course to starboard, then re-locked the wheel.

He was still sitting almost upright, dabbing at his gash with the towel and guzzling at the water bottle when I stuck my head down through the hatch. 'Come on man get yourself up here. I need you in the wheel-house,' I shouted. 'We're in the middle of a bloody hurricane.' He groaned and grimaced, shook his head and asked what happened.

'God knows,' I shouted back at him. 'Perhaps the beam above you tried to knock some sense into your head,' I was trying to rile him to get him moving. He made one attempt to get up and slumped back down again like a drunk. Blood was still oozing onto his shirt and trousers and around him on the floor. He was sliding around in the mire of it all each time the boat rolled. 'Come on man. Crawl to the ladder,' I berated.

Like a snail in its own dying trail he struggled that way on all fours. When he'd just about reached the ladder another roll of the boat caused him to slither away again. He cursed loudly. 'Come on Macklin, once more.' I shouted again. This time, when he got near, his fingers reached out just enough to grab hold of the bottom rung as the rest of his body slid in response to another wave.

'Now hang on there. I've got to go up and check the wheel.' I shouted and left him, clinging onto the ladder, with his wild scary eyes looking helplessly up at me.

Everything I did after that was pure instinct. If I'd had time to think about any of it I'm sure I couldn't have coped. The thunder and lightning had moved behind us, although, when the lightning flashed it still illuminated the area around us. The wind had abated slightly from hurricane force to a gale. The rain continued to lash on the wheel-house roof and the boat still rolled uncontrollably. The radar indicated, to my uneducated interpretations, that we were getting closer to land. I didn't dare alter our speed anymore; fractionally I adjusted the wheel and re-locked it.

Below, Macklin was still clutching onto the bottom of the ladder. 'Can you hear me,' I shouted. I was lying flat out, with my head peering down into the hold. He nodded up at me unconvincingly. His face was a lather of sweat, there was still a lot of blood around his forehead and his eyes were rolling. 'I can't come down there again,' I said. 'I have to try and keep the boat on course. If we are going to survive, you must try and climb up.'

I watched as he painfully struggled to force his body upwards. He wasn't making a lot of progress; his feet still weren't on the bottom rung. I leaned the top half of my body out over the side of the hatch as far I could and stretched my right hand and arm down to its limit. Another wave rocked the boat. The motion nearly sent me floundering on top of Macklin, but somehow we both held our positions. 'Come on, reach up,' I shouted. His right arm inched upwards while the other clung on to the ladder. Our fingers were just about touching. There was yet another roll of the boat, but amazingly we groped out for each other and connected. Every ounce of my energy went into that heave. Macklin moved upwards a couple of rungs, his feet were at last off the engine room floor and he struggled to position them onto the first rung of the ladder. We both hung on in that position while we gathered our breath. My shoulders and arms felt as though they had been pulled from their sockets. It took some time, but somehow, talking to him all the time, I managed to drag Macklin, inch by inch, rung by rung, up through that hatchway.

Exhausted we both lay in an untidy heap almost on top of each other on the cabin floor. The boat was still rolling violently. His blood was spilling over me, reddening my shirt, my face, my arms. Panting, breathlessly I tried to get up but only slid awkwardly in the mess on top of him again. He looked as though he had passed out once more. I hadn't time to waste though and staggered back to the wheel-house. The image on the radar screen was revolving drunkenly. I was just about ready to give up. I couldn't keep on my feet, my eyes were squiffy, my arms were numb. Outside it still sounded like hell.

Unlocking the wheel meant I had to instantly fight its wild movements. Every bone, muscle and sinew in my body screamed with pain and agony all the time. Behind me I heard a thump on the wheel-house door. Looking around I saw Macklin's wild blood stained face through the glass panel. He looked evil, cantankerous, like a devil. It frightened the life out of me.

'Take her to port,' he screamed at me when I opened the door to let him in. He almost fell inside. 'You'll sink us like that!' he added.

'Don't bloody shout at me,' I retorted lustily, 'if it had been down to you we'd be sunk already by now. I've kept this damn tub afloat by myself while you've been downstairs on your arse.'

That quietened him down a bit, although I could see clearly that he was in a bad way. He staggered towards me, almost knocking me over when he reached me. His blood stained body leant against mine while he guided my hands on the wheel to alter course. 'Try and keep her on that for a while,' he said nodding at the figures on the dial. He let go of me and lurched back onto the bench behind me. Constantly the waves continued to pound the boat from side to side, each time nearly bowling me over. My hands and arms were still covered with his blood and ached painfully from the effort of dragging him up that ladder. I longed for a rest, but if we were going to survive I knew I had no choice other than to carry on at the wheel. For an hour or so we travelled like that with Macklin barking out instructions from the bench, until the storm passed. Periodically he seemed to drift back into unconsciousness and I had to shout at him to wake him up. Eventually the sea calmed, the radar steadied. 'You can lock the wheel for a while, she should stay on that course,' he said at that point.

I went below, tore off my blood stained shirt and washed my face, body and arms. Grabbing more water, towels and a bottle of whisky I'd found in the cupboard, I hurried back to the wheel-house where Macklin had again passed out. I lifted his ungainly head, 'Drink this,' I said, slapped his cheeks and poured some of the whisky into his contracted mouth. More coughing convulsions followed, so I poured water over his face.

We cruised on slowly, with me periodically nursing him in between tending the wheel. By then I was in the throes of exhaustion. 'Is there somewhere we can stop and shelter?' I asked him. His eyes were still going in all directions when he looked at me, but he made an attempt to focus on the radar.

'We are in too deep water to anchor,' he replied. 'We'll need to go further inshore and find a bay.'

'How long will that take?'

He squinted some more at the radar. 'twenty minutes at least,' he said, 'maybe more.'

'What's the alternative?'

'Carry on for Gibraltar,' he said coughing.

I knew I wasn't capable of that, so following his directions I slowly guided us inshore. 'That should do it,' Macklin eventually said when we were in the shallows. I hadn't a clue where we were but looking at the radar we appeared perilously close to land. More bad tempered instructions followed from Macklin on how to release the sea anchor. When we heard it thud on the bottom, he switched off the engine. I said a silent prayer for the damn thing to start again when we wanted to get going.

I went below and spent many minutes looking for something to seal up Macklin's bleeding gash. The boat didn't run to a first-aid kit so I went back to the wheel-house with another towel and tied it tightly round his forehead. 'That's me done with,' I said afterwards. 'I have to sleep or I will collapse.' I picked up the bottle of whisky and took it down below with me. There I stripped off all my clothes, washed my bloodstained body, took a big swig of the whisky, slid the closet door closed and crashed out on my bunk, after hiding the bottle underneath. I didn't want Macklin drunk when I woke up.

* * * * *

I could feel and hear waves gently lapping against the side of the boat when I awoke many hours later. I could also see daylight through the gap I'd opened in the closet door. Gingerly I eased my painful body out of the bunk and plodded into the cabin. Macklin was sitting at the table with his head swathed in another bandage he'd concocted from the sleeve of an old shirt. He was topless and he'd changed out of his bloodstained trousers.

'We're going to have to get you to hospital with that wound,' I said as I approached him.

'Pah!' he responded. 'Take more than that to get me into hospital.' On the table, in front of him was the remains of a bowl of corn flakes and a pot of coffee.

'You must be feeling better? How long have you been about?' I asked.

'About an hour or so,' he said. I picked up the corn flakes packet, grabbed a dish and poured some in.

'Where's the whisky?' he said, looking at me sternly.

'By my bed. I needed it last night.'

'For a landlubber you did well,' he said. His face still didn't look a pretty sight, but at least his general health looked a little better. Some time later he managed to start the engine and we set off again, on three cylinders, with him at the helm. When I went up to the wheel-house I could see we had laid up about half a mile off shore, close to Marbella. Tall apartment blocks stood out in the distance. Macklin reckoned it would take us the best part of another day to reach Gibraltar, 'if the engine holds out,' he added. He said we'd cruise through the night to make up the time, if I didn't mind taking a share of the wheel. I replied that after the previous night anything would be a doddle. I pumped the bilges while we remained in shallow waters, then sat on deck and tried to let the sun heal the excruciating pain in my body. All my muscles and every sinew I possessed were aching like an abnormal toothache.

For the rest of that day we didn't say much to each other. We each took two hour turns at the helm, except late in the afternoon, when he slept longer, so he could take the watch through the hours of darkness. In between I received further caustic instructions on helmsmanship and also became more au fait with the intricacies of the radar. He showed me how to use the radio as well. Throughout the day the pain in my arms, legs and chest were almost intolerable.

The following morning, at dawn, when I walked up into the wheel-house, I recognised, in the distance, the Rock of Gibraltar, which meant there was still a possibility I could make my flight.

I suggested to Macklin that I radio ahead for an ambulance to meet us at the quayside for repairs to his head, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said he'd lay up there for a couple of days to fix the engine and use the time to visit the hospital and get the wound properly cleaned and dressed. I was worried about him, but he was a tough old bird who knew his own mind so I didn't argue too much.

By midday I was grateful to have my feet on the granite-like concrete of Gibraltar's harbour. Once I'd secured our mooring ropes I went back down below, washed and changed into my remaining clean clothes, then laid out the cash for the balance of what I owed him on the galley table.

'We made it then,' I said.

'We did. I told you we would,' he responded. 'And we'll have a wee dram to celebrate.'

I went to my bunk and retrieved the bottle. We downed a good slug each in toast to one another and shook hands. Afterwards I picked up my bag and headed for the shore. I was near the harbour gates, looking for a taxi, when there was two loud blasts from the 'Pride's' hooter. I turned around and waved back. Macklin was one of the strangest characters I've ever met. We never saw each other again.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was many days later before I was able to get back to my West Highland retreat. I just managed to make the London bound flight from Gibraltar. When an aircraft comes in or out of that unique airport they have to close the main road into town. Taking off from the narrow runway is like lifting off from an aircraft carrier. Constantly you feel as though you are going to be ditched into the sea.

At Heathrow I rang Bracewell and asked if I could stay with him for a few days. 'What the hell have you been up to this time?' he asked me when he opened his front door and saw my dishevelled appearance. I said something about a boat trip with a few friends out of Brighton.

'I've never known you do anything like that before,' he responded.

'I needed a break after finishing the book,' I said. 'I knew the galley would take ten days or so to appear, so I took the opportunity with a couple of old friends while it existed,' I lied. I didn't dare mention about another trip to Spain or any of the problems surrounding it.

'I suppose your young woman went with you?' he said

'No she didn't. Actually I think it's all over between us.'

'Well that's the most sensible thing I've heard you say recently,' he replied.

The days I spent with him enabled me to catch up on matters with my publishers. They also wanted to talk about a publicity bash to coincide with the book's release and for once I was able to be in on the details. My previous attempts at such matters usually ended in fiasco as they tended to organise affairs that were totally unsuitable for my reticent personality. And while I was in town Bracewell arranged some interviews with the TV, press and media people, regarding the book. It was time well spent and we were able to cash in on my involvement with Caroline's kidnap at Carabanchel.

By the time my galley was ready for checking Bracewell and I had begun to grate on each other's nerves, so I headed home to the peace and quiet of Kinlochewe to carry out the task. Journeying back, through the mountains and glens, I marvelled at their grandeur and recalled Macklin's words. 'Why the hell do you ever want to leave that place,' he'd said many times. Maybe he was right I conjectured.

My snug home was a welcoming sight. As I turned around to close the front gate behind me I looked up, just to confirm that the peaks of Beinn Eighe were still in view. I nodded at them and said, 'It's good to be back.'

The final proof reading took the best part of a week. There were a few amendments which I downloaded back to my publishers. In between I took myself off into the mountains for some retrospective thought. With the benefit of hindsight writing 'War to the Death', was a life changing experience, which, despite the trauma and danger I wouldn't have missed for the world. I had met some fascinating people, encountered love with a beautiful girl, and identified with the people of my mother's homeland. And at last I had carried out her life long desire to retrace her family, as best as I could anyway. If I ever went back to Spain, I wondered if I would stay up there in the Basque country.

After I had sent off the last amendments I made a telephone call to Spain. 'Hello Gayle, how are you?' I said when she answered. The sound of my voice obviously took her by surprise.

'Gerald where are you? I've been so worried about you,' she said excitedly.

'In Scotland. I haven't been back long, but I promised I would call.'

We then talked avidly for some minutes. 'There is some bad news though,' she said.

'Oh what?' I replied.

'That man you went to see, Garay.'

'Yes,' I asked expectantly.

'He was found dead in his villa. It was all in the local paper. At first they thought it was a stroke. But now they think he was poisoned. They say his butler has disappeared.'

'Oh Lord,' I said. The news was a nasty shock to me. I knew he wasn't a well man who didn't have long to live, but realising my actions may have brought about his early demise hit me badly. Unfortunately it's something I will be forced to live with forever. Suddenly I remembered his weak smile when I last waved him goodbye. And then I remembered his words. 'If they come for me now they may be doing me a favour,' he'd said. He was a brave man. I shall never forget him.

'Gayle,' I said. 'Why don't you come over here and stay with me for a few weeks. I need cheering up.' Again I'd surprised her. 'Do us both good,' I said. 'Give you a break and I promised you I'd repay you for the left luggage ticket.'

'You mean stay at your place?'

'I do. The money from the sale of my apartment has come through at last so I'll pay for your air ticket. You can get a flight from Alicante to Glasgow and I'll pick you up there. Come on what do you say?'

'Oh Gerald, do you really think we will be all right together again. It's been a long time.'

'We can only try it and see,' I said.

It didn't take me long to persuade her. She had to meet up with her London publishers and said she could tie that in with a trip to Scotland. Then a day or so later I received an e-mail, which knocked me right off course. It was from Caroline.

Dear Gerald

I have just seen the advance publicity for your book and managed to catch one of the radio interviews you did. It all sounds very exciting and a great book. It was also great to hear the sound of your voice again.

I knew you could do it and am so pleased it's completed.

What I would like to do, if possible, is to film a piece on it for the Weekend News and also an interview with you.

If you are happy to do that perhaps you can e-mail back to me and also arrange for your publishers to send me a copy of the book, when it's in print.

Love

Caroline

Phew, I thought. Now what?

For some time I sat staring at the screen, reading Caroline's words over and over. It wasn't long before I decided that a trip to the mountains was required. Up there, in the rain, hail, sleet and snow is another world. Thankfully, it's a world a million miles away from all the madness. Phew.......

### THE END

### ABOUT RICHARD F JONES

If you have enjoyed this book Richard has three other published novels, A Flight Home, Dancing with the Devil and Time on their Hands, details of which can be found on his web site http://www.richardfjones.net

Richard was born in North Wales, but he has also lived in the highlands of Scotland, the Wye Valley, Spain and Majorca. All his page turning novels are set in places where he has had a home.

