men?'
'There are no existing shots of Leonid Revnik and only an old gulag shot of Yuri Donstov,' said Falcon. 'The rest should be on the CICO database.'
'We'll have to take shots of them when they arrive and send them to Vicente Cortes and Martin Diaz for identification,' said Ramirez.
'I'll bring a laptop,' said Ferrera.
'You'd better brief Cortes and Diaz,' said Falcon. 'And I'll talk to the CNI.'
They crossed the main road, climbed the ridge and dropped down to where the Guardia Civil were waiting for them on the outskirts of Cuevas del Becerro. They had a large-scale map of the area and some further intelligence. El Pulmon's gypsy friend had been seen in Ronda buying clothes and shotgun shells. The owner of the farm was touring up in the north and the place was being run by a manager, who had gone down to the coast with his family. There was a stable for twenty horses and the gypsy lived in a small cottage adjoining it. His job was to look after the animals. He was well known in the area and he knew the country like the back of his hand.
'Where do you think they're most likely to be at this time of day?' asked Ramirez.
'With any luck they'll be having a siesta,' said the Guardia. 'But they could be… that's a point – at the back of the stables there's a practice bullring for training the horses with bulls.'
'Is that what the horses are used for?' asked Baena.
'Yes. He's one of the best rejoneadors in the business. Fantastic horses. He goes all over Spain and Portugal with them,' said the Guardia.
'They won't be out in the fields, not at this time of day in this heat,' said the other Guardia.
'Those horses are going to be pretty valuable,' said Baena.
'So,' said Serrano, taking out his revolver, checking that it was fully loaded, 'we'd better not shoot any of them by accident.'
'Fuck, no,' said the Guardia. 'You do that and you'll have to find at least a hundred thousand euros per animal.'
'And the rest,' said Baena.
'Do you know the practice ring?' asked Falcon. 'How many ways in or out?'
The Guardia shrugged. Falcon decided they'd go in their two unmarked cars and not risk taking the Guardia in their green-and-white Nissan Patrols with them.
'When we get there,' said Falcon, 'Serrano and Baena will go into the stables and check them out. Ramirez and I will search the cottage. Ferrera will stay outside and keep watch. If there's no sign of them, we'll move to the practice bullring. The three of you will man the entry points and Ramirez and I will go into the ring.'
'Toro!' said one of the Guardia, and they all laughed.
The Guardia led them out into the country and pointed out the entrance to the Finca de la Luna Llena. The farm buildings were not visible from the road. There was a long two-kilometre slope up from the entrance gates and the main building could be seen at the top of the rise.
'If they're out and about, they're going to see us coming over this rise,' said Ramirez.
'That's if they're looking out for us,' said Falcon. 'El Pulmon isn't expecting anybody to find him out here.'
'Shotgun shells?' said Ramirez.
'That's the minimum he'd need to take on Nikita Sokolov,' said Ferrera.
The two cars coasted down the track, engines idling, into the farm buildings. The stables were behind the main house and the cars came to a halt in front. Silence. No movement. Too early in the afternoon even for cicadas. They got out, guns ready. Nobody slammed the car doors. Baena trotted up to the far end of the stable block, checked round the back, held up his thumb, went into the building at the far end. Serrano took the door next to the cottage. Ferrera moved silently between the buildings, listening for voices and movement.
The cottage was open. Ramirez took a quick look around, just three rooms. Empty. Falcon pointed to the ceiling. Went upstairs. Nothing there. Outside, Ferrera was waiting, told them she'd heard voices in the practice ring. Serrano came out of the stables and the four of them headed for the practice ring, guns out.
Falcon stood in the middle of the main entrance to the practice ring. There was a stone staircase on the outside wall of the ring where spectators could go up to watch from a roofed seating area above the main gates. Ramirez went right, Serrano left.
Two minutes. Ramirez came back at a trot.
'Serrano's positioned at the entrance for the animals, just in case; there's a small bull in there,' he said. 'The only other way out would be to run up the seating in the ring and then down the stone staircase here.'
An animal snort came from inside the ring.
'There's at least one horse in there,' said Falcon.
'Let's take a look,' said Ramirez.
Ramirez went up the staircase, crawled the last five steps, came back down.
'Two guys, both gypsy-looking, one horse. The horse is tied up. It's got padding around it. One guy, who looks like El Pulmon, has a cape. The other guy is holding a mock-up of some bull's horns.'
'El Pulmon practising his old moves.'
'There's a lance leaning up against the wall of the ring and there's a shotgun next to it.'
'This is the only way out on a horse, isn't it?' said Falcon.
'There's no way to manoeuvre a horse in the bullock pen.'
'All right,' said Falcon. 'Cristina, you go up to the seating area above and cover us. Fifteen seconds and we go in.'
Ferrera crept up the steps. Falcon nodded to Ramirez, who opened the door. They slipped in, closed the door behind them. The two men were facing away from them. The horse seemed to acknowledge their entrance with a nod of the head and a snort.
'Roque Barba!' shouted Falcon, gun out, pointing directly at the man with the cape. 'Police!'
It happened at lightning speed. The gypsy dropped the practice horns and in one leap was on the back of the horse. El Pulmon threw his cape up in the air and it came spinning towards Ramirez.
'Freeze!' shouted Ferrera, from above.
The gypsy slapped a button on the barrier and the main door to the practice ring sprung open. He slipped the rein and picked up the picador's lance. The shotgun was too low down for him. El Pulmon hesitated, thinking about reaching for it. The gypsy put the horse between El Pulmon and Falcon, dropped his head low to the horse's neck, tucked the lance under his arm. El Pulmon grabbed the padding at the side of the horse and kicked his feet up in the air. With a jab of the gypsy's heels the horse took off out of the open door. Falcon and Ramirez scrambled to one side; the steel tip of the picador's lance flashed past at face height. Ferrera let off a shot over their heads. It didn't stop them. In the space of twenty metres El Pulmon got his leg up over the rear of the horse. The gypsy chucked the lance and hauled his friend up behind the saddle. El Pulmon grabbed hold of his waist. The horse galloped the length of the stable block. Falcon and Ramirez ran out of the practice ring in time to see the horse getting into its full stride, kicking up dust and heading for the fields above the farm.
'What a fuck-up,' said Ramirez.
'I didn't want to risk shooting the horse,' said Ferrera, from above.
They were all watching the galloping horse when from the far side of the stable block came another rider on a black stallion. The gypsy's horse was badly encumbered by its protective padding, and the black stallion, which was a beautiful beast, had no difficulty in catching up.
'Fuck me,' said Ramirez. 'That's Baena.'
Baena was ducked low by the horse's neck, arse up in the air, looking every bit the professional rider. He reached out and grabbed El Pulmon's fluttering shirt and yanked it hard. El Pulmon had no stirrups and came straight off the back of the horse. Baena pulled up and was on him, gun in his face, his other hand hanging on to the stallion's rein. El Pulmon had landed on his back and was badly winded, rolling around and cycling his legs in the dust, trying to get some air into his remaining lung. The gypsy reined in the padded horse, which came up on his hind legs, while its rider stood up in the stirrups and did three or four complete turns as he looked back. Ferrera ran for the car, picked up Falcon and Ramirez and they joined the gasping El Pulmon. Baena calmed the stallion, which had been alarmed by the rush of the arriving car.
'I didn't know you could ride, Julio,' said Falcon.
'I went to riding school for years when I was younger,' he said. 'I fancied myself as a rejoneador but, you know
