Less than two minutes later, the steel shutters on the terrace level of the villa began to roll up slowly. As the light flooded in, Skinner could see that the upper floor comprised one large sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and armchairs and a long coffee table. In one corner of the room stood a huge television set, near which, silhouetted against the western window, were a twin-pedestal desk and low-backed chair. Vaudan sat down in the chair, his briefcase on the desk before him with lid upraised. Then, flipping it closed, he moved across to the north-facing patio doors and threw them wide, allowing him to roll out two white plastic loungers and a matching refectory table. With the terrace furniture arranged to his evident satisfaction, the Frenchman stripped off his shirt and settled on a lounger.
Skinner lowered the field-glasses and nodded to the man at his side. The young policeman picked up his radio and muttered a few words of Spanish into the mouthpiece.
The green Nissan Patrol made even more noise than the V12 Jaguar, as it hauled itself up the steep hill. As it approached and swung round the bend, Skinner trained the binoculars on Vaudan on the terrace. At first, the man did not react to the sound. Then, as it drew closer, he propped himself on an elbow to look over the mock battlements and the perimeter wall. As the vehicle drew to a halt, Skinner saw a frown crease the Frenchman's forehead. The man stood up, grabbed his shirt, and slipped it on.
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. `Senor?' He pointed towards the grotesquely trapped Vaudan. 'Es morte?'
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.'
`Si, mi amigo. I guess they were.' As Bob picked up his beer and drained it in a single swallow, Carlos thought he saw a very slight tremor in his hand.
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.