Pujol, in full uniform, his gun in its holster by his side, stepped from the front passenger seat. Three other officers each carrying a machine-carbine identical to that which lay beside Skinner, followed his lead. The Commandante spoke to one of the three men, who remained beside the vehicle. Then he led the other two down the driveway and through the small gate to the terrace.
Vaudan stood waiting for them, the frown still lining his face. Although Pujol had his back to Skinner, the latter knew at once when he had spoken and, from the sudden widening of the Frenchman's eyes, what he had said. Through the glasses, the scene was that of a silent movie. He saw Vaudan's lips move, but caught not even the faintest sound. Then the Frenchman threw his hands wide, as if in appeal. A few seconds later he saw Pujol nod his head briefly. The Frenchman turned and walked back into the villa, moving across to the desk.
Skinner focused the glasses as sharply as he could. As he watched, Vaudan raised the lid of the briefcase very slightly and very swiftly, and took out a small dark object. Then he closed the case, spun its locks, and picked it up. . with his left hand.
Instinct made Skinner call out. 'Arturo! Gun!'
For an instant, Pujol looked back over his shoulder. Then, trusting what he had heard, he reached for the safety buckle on his holster. His gun was drawn as Vaudan stepped back on to the terrace. Skinner saw it move up to cover the Frenchman, but realised at once that it was too late. From the doorway, Vaudan fired a quick shot from a small automatic pistol.
`No!' Skinner shouted in anguish as Pujol fell backwards.
The Frenchman gestured urgently with his gun to the two other officers on the terrace. At once they threw their carbines over the mock battlements, and clasped their hands together, behind their heads. Vaudan gestured again, and they retreated into a corner of the terrace. As they did, he turned and sprinted through the gate to the driveway. Pujol's third officer was waiting, his gun raised, but stiff and frozen. Vaudan snapped off two shots. The young man spun round and fell face-down.
Skinner looked at the private by his side, and saw the boy's face transfixed and white with shock. He grabbed the machine-carbine, and looked quickly at its mechanism. He found the safety and flicked it off.
The Frenchman had reached the Jaguar. He tossed his case into the back and reached awkwardly, left- handed, for his keys.
The bellow from the hilltop froze him in his tracks. Vaudan! Drop the gun on the ground now, and raise your hands.'
The Frenchman looked up towards the sound of the voice and, as he did, Skinner realised that the sun was shining on the barrel of the carbine he held. Vaudan did not drop his pistol. Instead he swung it up towards the glint of light.
Skinner's single shot took him square in the forehead. For a second he stood stock-still; then, like a discarded marionette, he collapsed sideways against the car, his left shoulder wedging between the side mirror and the sloping windscreen. Thus jammed, he hung there, head lolling, eyes glazed, and blood trickling slowly down his nose from the hole just above its bridge.
The carbine hung loosely in Skinner's hands. He lay still on his mat, his face suddenly as bloodless as that of his young companion.
Eventually the green-uniformed private prodded him, gently. `
Skinner looked at him in silence for a few seconds, feeling his colour return. 'Oh yes, son. He's dead. He points a gun at me and he's fucking dead all right. That's the way it is.'
A slow smile crept over his face. He patted the young man on the shoulder, and pressed the carbine into his hands. 'That was a fine shot of yours,' he said in pidgin Spanish. He patted him again. 'Hero.'
The private looked back at him blankly.
The smile left Skinner's face. He stood up and motioned to the man to follow him down the hillside towards the villa, where nothing moved and a funereal silence hung in the air.
Eighty-three
‘The Commandante will be okay, si?'
‘Yes, Carlos. He'll be fine, thank Christ. It was a flesh wound. The bullet went through his side but missed all the organs. An inch or so to the left and it would have taken a kidney out. He's a lucky fellow, Arturo is. He's not cut out to be a gunfighter, though.'
`How about the other Guardia? How is he? Alive too, I hear.'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes, but not so lucky. He's paralysed. One of the bullets is lodged in his spine. The surgeons hope to remove it once he builds up some strength. He lost a lot of blood'
The two friends sat side-by-side on high stools at the end of the bar in La Clota. Carlos looked at Skinner's reflection in the big mirror which formed virtually the whole back wall.,
`You know, Bob,' he said softly, 'That must have been some shot by young Joaquim. Hit him bang in the forehead, yes?' He made a sign with his extended index finger touching the bridge of his nose.
Skinner nodded silently towards the mirror.
`It's a funny thing,' said Carlos. 'My sons, they know Joaquim. In fact sometimes they go rabbit shooting, in a crowd. Only Joaquim, he never takes a rifle. He says it's because he
doesn't want to shoot anything, not even a rabbit for the kitchen. My sons, they say that the other reason is that he is a lousy shot.' He looked sideways at Skinner. 'I guess they were wrong, eh.'
`
He slapped him on the shoulder. 'So what's it to be? You come here just to drink, or you eat? I get you a menu?'
`Don't bother with the menu. I'll have the duck. In honour of old Arturo — who forgot to. Meantime, Paquita, another beer, please.'
The duckling and the telephone arrived at the table at the same time. As the elegant waiter was serving Skinner's meal, Kathleen appeared at his side, holding out a small black cordless telephone.
`Bob, this is for you. It's Maggie somebody.' She smiled. `Who's this we don't know about?'
Skinner took the phone with a smile. 'Maggie, hi. What's up?'
`Nothing vital, sir, but it's the sort of thing I thought you'd like to know about, so hope you don't mind. Sarah gave me the number. She said it'd be all right to call.'
`Mmm. No problem, but make it quick or my meal'll get cold.'
`Okay. Leicester called this evening. There's trouble between Monklands and Lucan apparently. It seems they were allowed exercise today, and Lucan attacked Monklands. Took a punch at him and broke his nose. They've had to separate them. They're due in court tomorrow, so apparently they're going to send them in separate vans.'
`Do they know what it was about?'
`No, sir. Apparently, when they ask him, Lucan just swears in French. And when they ask Monklands, he just holds his nose and says it was an accident. Any idea what the problem could be?'
`No ideas, only guesses. Has anyone told them about Vaudan yet?'
Not as far as I know.'
`Well, get back on to Leicester and ask them to break the bad news to Lucan, then watch his reaction. They should be sure to have a French speaker handy when they do, just in case he lets something slip that we can use. And now, if you'll excuse me, this duckling needs my full attention. See you Monday.'
Eighty-four
He was cruising around the western outskirts of the city of Bordeaux when the shrill tone of his car phone mingled with the Latin rhythms of the David Byrne CD.
