‘Fifth most dangerous airport in the world,’ he said. ‘And not just because the road goes right across the runway. We have terrible cross-winds here. Not too bad this morning.’ He leaned forward to peer up at the Rock through his windscreen. ‘It’ll be windy up there, though. You can count on it.’ He glanced across at Mackenzie. ‘We’ve got armed uniformed officers on the way up by car. You and I are going to take the cable car. Much faster. I had to get the operator out of his bed. It’s not normally open for another couple of hours, and wind conditions this morning would usually mean a cancellation of service.’ He smiled grimly. ‘But needs must, eh?’
Lights turned green, the barriers lifted, and Greene leaned on the horn to augment his siren in forcing the traffic ahead out of his way. Mackenzie had the sense that he was enjoying this.
They accelerated through several roundabouts between tall buildings and passed broken-down sections of the old city wall. Dark space opened out on their right, and Mackenzie saw containers lined up along a dock, yachts in a marina, and the lights of Algeciras twinkling distantly eight kilometres away across the bay. The light of dawn cast itself in pale pink across the peaks of the mountains beyond.
Gibraltar old town lay somewhere off to their left, and as they passed the Trafalgar Cemetery Greene said, ‘Are you armed?’
‘No I’m not. You?’
‘Yes sir. I’m a trained firearms officer. And I checked out a sidearm before leaving base.’
Opposite an art deco fire station, he pulled in at the kerbside, and they jumped out of the car. Mackenzie glanced up to see huge pylons set into the hillside at precarious angles, support for the cables that would haul their car to the summit more than 400 metres above. He followed Greene into the docking station.
Cristina watched the tail lights of her taxi vanish over the brow of the hill to make its way back down to the town below. No need to wait for her. She knew she wasn’t coming back. The wind tugged at her hair and yanked at her clothes. It was fresh, almost cold in the first light of dawn.
Above her, the glass platforms of the Skywalk stood on two levels, constructed around an old stone watchtower where the British had once installed a Bofors gun. A lift, not functioning at this hour, climbed to the topmost level. Red and white tape was stretched across the stairs that led up to both, and a red triangular sign announced that the Skywalk was closed for maintenance.
Beyond it, the Rock fell sheer to an arc of coastline almost 340 metres below, the Mediterranean washing white along its contour. On the bay side, it dropped away steeply on a tree-covered slope to the lights of the town and the harbour reflecting in the bay. To her right, the Rock swept upwards on a knife edge to its second-highest peak. On her left it rose towards the cable car station and the highest point of this British overseas territory.
The stars were fading now in a sky that went from blood red along the distant eastern horizon, through the palest of turquoise to the darkest blue of the vanishing firmament.
Cristina breathed deeply. There was something invigorating in drawing on this fresh clean air in the final minutes of her life. Something, perhaps, almost poetic about dying in this most beautiful of places as the sun sent its light scattering across the sea, which had been such an ever-present through all of her days.
But still her heart weighed like a burden in her chest as she stepped over the red and white tape to climb the stairs to the platform above. And all she could think of was the son she was about to orphan.
She reached the lower platform which extended out across the drop. Tourists flocked here during the season to step gingerly over the glass and look at the terrifying drop that fell away beneath their feet.
There was no one there.
She climbed the steps to the observation platform above. It, too, was deserted. The wind battered her here, and she held on to the glass barrier wondering if somehow she had got it wrong. Was it not at the Skywalk she was supposed to meet Cleland? Or had she missed him? The Spanish coastline stretched away to the north, before sweeping eastwards. She could see the lights of Estepona, and more distantly the conurbation of Marbella. And somewhere in the dark fold of the hills lay Marviña. Her home. The land of her father and mother. Of her aunt. Another kind of fear gripped her. And she wondered if Ana was already dead.
Then she saw a light flashing from the southern peak, another 60 metres up. Once, twice, three times. A signal. She was certain of it. They wanted her to come to them. Perhaps it was too exposed here on the Skywalk. She slipped a torch from the pocket of her anorak, and in its beam saw steps carved into the rock six metres below. They wound their way up and along the crest of the Rock towards the summit. She climbed down to the foot of the stairs, and began the steep ascent into the dawn to meet her destiny.
Ana feels the wind wrapping itself around her, almost violent in its caress. It fills her mouth, and makes her sightless eyes water as though she were crying. Her hair is pulled back from her face like the repeated strokes of a brush fighting to remove every tug. She has to brace her feet firmly on uneven ground to keep from losing her balance.
The journey by boat had seemed to last for ever. She had not been on water since childhood, and although the sea was not rough, a heavy swell had made her feel quite nauseous. Cleland had sat with her, holding her hand for most of the journey, fetching her water when she asked for it and holding the container to her lips.
When finally they had disembarked, she’d had the impression of a great sense of open space around her. An industrial smell. The stink of motor oil and smoke. Solid ground beneath her feet again had come as a relief.
Then there had been the short journey by car. Climbing ever upward through bends that tipped them in their seats, one way then the other. Cleland’s hand ever-present.
Emerging from the car, she had immediately felt the force of the wind, and experienced a great sense of height. She could feel the difference in pressure, the temperature of the air. And then Cleland’s hand on her arm, guiding her up endless crooked steps that turned and twisted, up and up until her legs ached and her lungs were close to bursting. Apprehension grew with every step.
She knows that they have come to Gibraltar. Or, at least, that’s what he has told her, so now she assumes they are somewhere high up on the Rock. That great monolithic limestone promontory that so characterized the southern skyline of her childhood. She can picture it. It is exhilarating. And were she not so afraid, she would feel almost exultant to be standing here on the roof of the world.
Cleland’s hand has never left her, fingers firmly wrapped around her upper arm. She is not quite sure how, but she feels another presence, as if they are not alone. But with all her senses so assailed by the wind, she cannot be certain. Neither can she escape the feeling that if he let go of her, she would blow away. Fly off into the void, an escape to some gentler place.
‘Are we on the Rock?’ she asks, raising her voice because she knows that otherwise the wind will drown it. She holds out a hand for his response. He takes it. A single tap for yes, two for no, the code that has somehow evolved in the last twenty-four hours. He taps once.
‘Describe it for me.’ She wants to picture it in her mind, for him to paint that picture with words traced on her palm. But she can feel his hesitation. ‘Please.’
— We’re close to the top. 400 metres up. Dawn. Clear sky. A wall to our right, then a sheer drop to the sea. An old watchtower. Below and left, trees hide the road up from the town. In the distance...