Chapter 26
Barcelona, Spain, September 1999
In Spain Jack Ropell was again sitting in Ramon Garcia's office drinking coffee when the satellite phone rang. It was Janet Romsey on the scrambler with the co-ordinates and time for the drop. He took the opportunity to ask how Peter Romsey was doing and was told, somewhat brusquely, as well as could be expected, which told him nothing. He did not push it any further assuming that it was probably her way of dealing with her grief and worry for her father. He rang off and turned to Garcia.
"Got them?"
"Yes. Tomorrow night. Where is the map, Ramon, because if my memory serves me right this is some distance from the last drop?"
Garcia was already poring over the map tracing the lines with his fingers to get the cross bearing from the piece of paper Ropell had passed to him.
"You are right. This puts the pick up zone slightly north of Barcelona and about five miles off the coast. If those bastards are using the same boat they must have known about this for at least two days to get it that far up the coast, as I doubt if they move it by day. Not with a fifty millimetre cannon stuck on it. A lot of people would recognise it was a gun, I think."
"That's out of your jurisdiction, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I think we will be going up there my friend even if its not our boats involved." He picked up the phone. "I will just arrange our invitation with the Colonel. He may even come himself."
Twelve hours later Ropell was sat in an old Nissan hut on the edge of a military airfield on the outskirts of Barcelona. It was painted in a dull green inside and out and had obviously been unused for some time before tonight's mission. It had the usual ceiling fan, which was only stirring the turgid night air without in any way bringing comfort to the occupants. On a table was a thermos of black coffee, but what was really needed was cold water. Both he and Garcia were dressed in flying coveralls and had helmets on the table in front of them. Garcia was guarding carefully what looked like a metal camera case of the sort used by professional photographers, except this was about three times as long and painted dark green. When Ropell had asked him what was in it he had just shrugged and told him it was insurance. Ropell was half convinced that it was an inflatable life raft, but there was only a number Stencilled on the container, which gave him no clue as to the contents.
It was twelve thirty in the evening and they had been there for about an hour waiting for the operation to start, and even in the lightweight coveralls they were both sweating. On the brighter side, the coveralls did provide a measure of protection against the mosquitoes, which were hunting in packs from the unkempt grass outside the hut. The hut was tucked away in a far corner of the airfield and it was for that reason it had been selected. Security. Ropell thought glumly that this was probably the first time it had been used in years. According to Garcia they were only to be observers while the whole operation would be co-ordinated by the Colonel, who had allowed their presence only so that they would have the satisfaction of seeing the capture. Because of this they would be in a Coast guard helicopter that was only providing backup, the real work would be carried out by a Navy helicopter, two pursuit launches and a Corvette.
The Colonel walked into the room and they all stood up. He nodded and went to the front of the room. The rest of them, two helicopter crews, Garcia and Ropell, stood in a semi circle in front of him and a large wall map of the coastal region around Barcelona. He smiled at them.
"Well gentlemen, it begins. Thanks to Señor Ropell's organisation we have a second chance tonight to nail these people and make sure that they kill no more honest men."
It was, Ropell thought, an overly dramatic statement. The Colonel continued.
"This is how we are going to do it. The Corvette will stay several kilometres out to seaward, running along the main shipping lane some ten kilometres behind the dropping ship, which logical deduction tells us is a Panamanian freighter of some eight thousand tonnes called the San Antonio."
He went on.
"The Corvette has an extremely efficient radar set up and will be the eyes for whole the task force. The operation will be co-ordinated from there. The two helicopters will be the ones who actually approach the pick up vessel. It is the Navy's view that the fifty millimetre cannon on board the pursuit craft is there solely for sea action and cannot be elevated more than thirty degrees from the horizontal. Therefore we will use the helicopters to make the interception and like sheepdogs they will herd the pickup craft towards the Corvette. The two pursuit launches will only come into action in an emergency, or to board after they have surrendered. After all, it is the Coast Guard's job to arrest drug traffickers even if we are extremely grateful for some help from the Navy."
He stared around and fastened his gaze directly on Garcia.
"Is everybody clear on their role in this matter?"
There was a chorus of Si Señors from the assembled men. The Colonel saluted them.
"Good hunting, gentlemen. Take off in fifty minutes and you tune in to the Corvette's wavelength."
He left the room and some seconds later they heard his car drive away. Jack went to the large thermos and poured himself and Garcia some more coffee. He took it back to the table and sat down.
"You look pensive, amigo."
Ropell looked up.
"Sorry, Ramon. But I was just wondering where it will all end. We get this lot and then someone else comes along and it all starts again." He smiled quickly. "Sorry my friend. Not the time to express doubts."
The Spaniard eyed him curiously.
"Jack, you know here in Spain we have a saying about anyone who feels extremely strongly about anything. We call it the Fuego del Sangre. It means, Fire of the Blood. It applies to football fans, bullfighting and even policemen trying to stop our young people ruining their lives with Cocaine." He raised his hands and put them on Jack's shoulders looking him directly in the eyes. "Until today, my friend, I saw it in you, this fire in the blood, but now it seems the flame has burnt low." He looked concerned. "What has changed, Jack? What has happened in the last few weeks to put your fire out?"
He dropped his hands back to his sides, but remained there, staring intently down at him. Ropell waved to the chairs they had been occupying.
"Sit down, Ramon. Sit down and I will tell you about it. Its time I told someone."
He sat down in his own chair and holding his coffee cup in both hands, stared down into it as if he was seeing pictures there. When he started to speak his voice was so low that Garcia had to lean forward to hear it all.
"I killed a man a few days ago. Shot him once in the chest and then right through the head. Spread the back of his head into a corridor and all over the wall."
Ramon raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Ropell turned to face him.
"First time I ever killed anyone in my life."
"Then in your job you have been very lucky, Jack."
"Oh I have been on operations where people got killed. I have even been in charge and given an the order that caused people to get killed." he was thinking of the inflatable in the river Dart, "but its the first time I have deliberately shot a man to death."
He nodded his thanks as Garcia filled both their cups with coffee and then brought out of his pocket a miniature bottle of cheap brandy, pouring half into each cup.
"I apologise for the quality of the brandy, but I do assure you it is quite good enough to improve stewed coffee." He waved a hand. "Continue."
Ropell sipped his coffee and grimaced.
"That's it."
Garcia looked at him for a moment and then he leaned forward across the table.
"Listen to me, Jack. You are my good friend, but I have to tell you that I think you are not telling me everything."
Ropell fidgeted for a moment and then drained his cup.
"There is this woman."
Garcia sighed. Now they were getting to it.
"I think I am serious about her."
"So, what is the problem?"
> "She doesn't like my job."
"My wife doesn't like mine either, but she knows it is necessary."
"But she has already lost one husband."
Garcia nodded slowly as it became clear to him.
"And she doesn't want to lose another one."
"She is also Peter Romsey's daughter-in -law."
Garcia laughed.
"You certainly know how to complicate your life, Jack. I am glad it is your problem."
He stared hard into the others face as he saw the anger flaring there. He lifted a hand to stop the outburst the other threatened.
"You listen to me, Jack. This business we work in, is it of our making? Is it us that who sneak around in the night supplying this poison? Is it us who get fat from the misery of others. Was it us who killed that young girl the last time you were here?”
He lifted a forefinger and used it to emphasise his next point.
"As for is it worth the fight? If you and I don't fight this thing it will become a holocaust. Millions would die if it weren’t controlled. The people who provide this shit don't care if some die as long as there are others to fill their place. He made his hand a fist and shook it.
"I fight these scum for my children and everybody else's children. If that is not reason enough for you then you are in the wrong job. As for the woman, that is your affair. Whether she is worth changing your life for is a decision only you can make. You must think about it."
He patted Ropell twice on the shoulder and then stood up and went to speak to the helicopter crew, leaving him to stare into the bottom of his empty coffee cup. He was brought back to life by the phone ringing. He watched as Garcia picked it up and handed it to one of the pilots. The pilot listened for some seconds and then put it down again. He gave the others a brief smile.
"Time to go."
Twenty minutes later they were airborne out over the sea. The night was inky black with almost total cloud cover and Jack wondered how the helicopter pilots could have any idea where they were. He knew they were flying on instruments, but that kind of blind faith just wasn't in his system. To him it seemed no different from driving down the M5 at eighty, wearing a blindfold and with only the directions of a passenger to guide you. He shuddered and putting the thought away from him, concentrated on the voice in his ear on the radio net that was co-ordinating the efforts of the task force. It was all in Spanish and with the crackles and the distortion he was losing touch with what was happening. He touched Garcia's arm and when he turned to him, lifted his hands palm upwards in an expression of inquiry. Garcia put his helmet against Ropell's so that his voice would be transmitted through the plastic and bellowed to him above the racket of the engine.
"The freighter must have dropped her load by now as she has returned to the correct sea lane for this bit of the coast. We are now waiting for the pick up craft to arrive, when it does, the other helicopter will go in and pin it with its searchlight. They will be given the choice of surrender or be sunk. That helicopter carries air to surface missiles."
Ropell looked at him in disbelief.
"I don't remember any of this at the briefing." He was screaming above the racket of the engines. "When the bloody hell was all this decided?"
Garcia's teeth showed as a pale gleam in his face as he grinned. He shouted the answer.
"About two days after they killed our sailors. This time they will not be given the chance to do it again." He punched Ropell on the arm. "Personally, I hope the bastards run for it."
Ropell punched him back to regain his attention.
"Won't they hear these bloody things and refuse to make the pick up?"
Again he saw the pale gleam of teeth.
"We are hovering almost at sea level some fifteen kilometres away from them. These birds can travel at two hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. That means we can be there in under five minutes, so the moment we think they have started loading, we go."
Even as he spoke the helicopter turned and surged forward, the engine note rising and to Jack's surprise the cabin became suddenly quieter as the vibration eased as the engine revolutions climbed. The cloud cover suddenly broke and the moon shone through, showing the surface of the sea some three hundred feet below them. The helicopters raced through the night with the radio chatter coming too fast and furiously for Ropell to understand, although Garcia seemed happy enough. Another burst of distorted Spanish and Garcia clipped his lifeline to a ring bolt indicating that Ropell should do the same and then slid open both the doors, locking them back with their nylon straps. He then opened the metal case he had been guarding so carefully and took out an object that in the intermittent moonlight looked like a length of four inch, plastic drainpipe. He lifted it up so that Ropell could get a decent look.
"Insurance."
With a start Ropell realised what it was. A wire guided, hand held missile. He beat Garcia on the arm to get his attention and then put his helmet touching the others so they could talk. Garcia held up a hand and switched to the internal radio net. He nodded to let Ropell know he could continue.
"If the other helicopter is armed with missiles what the hell do you want that thing for?"
Garcia smiled at him.
"The Colonel doesn't think the Navy are taking these people seriously enough. They don't consider the Coast guard to be as good as professional sailors and they think that's why they got themselves killed the last time. However, if that cannon on that boat can elevate they are going to get a shock in that other helicopter, armed with missiles or not. We, on the other hand, will not be surprised." He patted the tube fondly. "Insurance."
By this time the moon had broken completely clear of the clouds and was lighting up the sea below in brilliant detail. Their aircraft suddenly rose and went into the hover and the pilots voice crackled on the RT. Ropell nodded at Garcia to show he had understood. He pointed out through the door to where five hundred feet below and some five hundred meters away, a launch could be seen like a small insect on the silver, moonlit sea. Suddenly a brilliant beam of light stabbed down out of the black sky above it as the lead helicopter switched on Its searchlight from immediately over the launch. With the complete absence of colour and no noise apart from the beating of their own rotors, it was like watching an old, silent, black and white movie. Nothing happened for some thirty seconds and then colour entered the scene with a vengeance. A bright trail of red fire left the launch and stabbed directly upwards into the belly of the Navy helicopter. There was no following explosive ball of fire as Ropell expected, just a bright crimson glow and then the helicopter turned slowly on its side and fell down into the sea.
At the first sign of the missile trail Garcia had leaped into action. Screaming directions at the pilot on the RT he braced himself in the doorway and brought the tube to his shoulder with the eyepiece of the sight firmly against his eye. Ropell leapt forward to give assistance, but Garcia snarled at him to go away and keep his fucking head clear of the blowback. Ropell suddenly understood why they had opened both doors. It was to let the missile exhaust a clear path out of the bird.
Their helicopter was now racing across the sea at a slight angle to the launch, which itself was travelling flat out as its crew realised the first helicopter was not alone. The moonlit water was racing by as they came up to it, slowly dropping until they were less than one hundred feet above the sea. Ropell thought about the cannon on the launch and the fact that they might have a second missile and prayed that Garcia and the helicopter crew knew what they were doing.
Five hundred meters left to go, now three hundred meters. The cabin lit up as Ramon fired the missile. At the last moment the launch's helmsman, by some instinct, swerved the boat sharply to the left to avoid the missile, but Garcia followed its turn and kept the sight centred. In the heat of the chase none of them realise that their angle to the motorboat had changed. There was a noise like giant hailstones hitting a tin roof. Bits of the fuselage sprayed into the cabin and the helicopter dipped and swayed, t
hrowing him and Garcia to the floor. Garcia sobbed in agony and rolled about clutching his left wrist. Ropell thought they had hit him. He bent over the writhing figure, but Garcia's voice in his ears stopped him in his tracks.
"Never mind me. Get the fucking missile launcher. The bastards are getting away."
Ropell picked up the launcher. The chopper had stabilised, but was giving the motorboat a wide birth. He sat there not knowing what to do with it. Garcia spoke in Spanish, obviously talking to the pilot. Then he switched to English.
"You will have to fire it." He waved away the expected protest. "It is not difficult to use. It was made for the infantry and if they can use it so can you. You just put it on your shoulder and get the boat in the eyepiece. Then you pull the trigger and keep the boat in the eyepiece until the missile hits. You will know soon enough when that happens."
He switched to Spanish and spoke two sentences. The helicopter swooped down to sea level and began to travel flat out.
"We are going to hit him at our top speed of just over two hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. We are going to get him between the moon and us. We will jink about coming in at him until the last one thousand metres when we will go straight at him. Keep the sight on him all the time both before and after you pull the trigger. For God's sake do not miss him Jack or as we pass he may shoot our arse off."
The chopper swung in a giant arc and then headed straight down the silver path the moon was painting on the sea. After thirty seconds Ropell could sea the motorboat. It looked like a toy racing across the ocean. It became rapidly larger and Ropell wondered what had happened to the jinking about Garcia had promised. He centred the boat in the eyepiece and watched it expand. Garcia's voice sounded in his ear.
"Now." He pulled the trigger.
They had caught the boat by surprise. It tried to change direction, but because they were coming at it from the side it made little difference. Ropell kept the eyepiece tracking as the boat's helmsman brought it to come straight towards them. Hoping to give his gunner a clean shot as they passed. Garcia's voice sounded gently in Ropell's ear again.
"Steady, Jack. Steady".
This time when it came the explosion was massive, as the fuel tanks and probably another surface to air missile blew up. A blinding sheet of flame leapt into the night sky that was seen ten kilometres away on the Corvette. It lasted some four or five seconds before it collapsed and died, leaving the sea completely empty except for a few pieces of debris. Their pilot did not waste time looking for survivors from the launch, but headed immediately for his own colleagues. They arrived just in time to watch the other helicopter slip below the waves as the last bubble of air that was keeping it afloat belched out of the broken cabin. One helmeted head in Its lifejacket waved an arm to them, but of the other crew members there was no sign. They kept station until the first of the Coast guard launches arrived and then headed back to the airfield. On the journey back to the airfield neither man spoke.
The Nissan hut was very quiet. Ropell's helicopter had been the first back and they had been told by the Colonel's adjutant to wait for him. They were sat at one of the tables listening for the sound of the helicopter that would bring him back from the destroyer. Ropell's mood was swinging between despair that they had lost more men and a fierce and deep satisfaction that they had blown the bastards to kingdom come. He was surprised at the second emotion, as he had always thought of himself as too professional to have such feelings. He glanced across at Garcia. His left wrist had been strapped up by one of the helicopter crew.
"How is it?"
He nodded at the wrist. Garcia looked down at it.
"Its not broken, just a sprain. At least it is my left hand."
He indicated the slight bulge under his jacket where his gun lay.
"At least I can still use this if I have to."
Ropell was about to ask him why he thought he might have to when there was the sound of heavy diesel engines pulling up outside. This was followed by the tramping of feet and shouted orders in Spanish. The door burst open and twenty armed officers in combat uniforms complete with body armour and short stubby automatic rifles entered. They formed up at loose attention along the far wall.
Another racket announced the arrival of the Colonel's helicopter. The room waited for him to enter and start speaking. He spoke in a language that Ropell could not follow except for the odd word. He understood the word death and the fact that the Colonel was lividly angry. He also understood that he was winding his men up for action. The Colonel talked for ten minutes until as his voice rose to a crescendo he suddenly snapped to attention and saluted his men. They in return leapt to their feet and saluted him back with a shout. For some seconds they all stood like statues until the Colonel lowered his saluting arm and gestured to the door. The troopers moved out at the double and the sound of the big diesels came again. Thirty seconds after the last trooper exited the door they heard the transports move off.
The helicopter crew were now relaxed, their work obviously finished for the night. Garcia was in quiet conversation with the Colonel while Ropell sat at his table wondering what the hell was going on. The Colonel shook Garcia hand and turned on his heel and left without a second glance. Ropell waited until Garcia had returned to stand by the table before he spoke.
"Well"
"The Colonel is very angry."
Ropell gave a twisted smile.
"You don't say?"
Garcia ignored the sarcasm.
"He is going to take independent action."
Ropell looked at him steadily and Garcia looked away.
"Ramon."
Garcia looked back to him.
"What kind of independent action?"
There were several seconds of silence while Garcia made up his mind. Then he sat down at the table and put his head next to Ropell's so that only he could hear what he was going to say. He took a deep breath.
"The Colonel is going to take out Robert Crucero and his organisation. Wipe them from the face of the earth."
"Tonight"
"Yes"
"How, they could be anywhere? What is he going to do? Run around Barcelona with two lorry loads of armed soldiers until he finds him? For God's sake man that is ridiculous. And what about the law? What about fair trials and justice?"
Garcia exploded.
"Justice? You talk about justice? Where was the justice for the men who died tonight?, those men who were doing their lawful job. Where was the justice when they were murdered? What about all the people these filthy vermin have murdered with their shitty drugs? What about all the young people who have died in back alley's in filth and squalor? What about the poor parents who can only grieve for their dead children. What about justice for them?"
During in tirade Garcia had risen to his feet and by the last sentence he was shouting. He looked up and saw the helicopter crew staring at him. He lifted his hands in apology for his outburst but the three men merely stood and gently applauded him. He coloured and sat down again. Ropell waited. His voice was back to its previous level when he continued.
"Look, Jack. Crucero does not know yet that we, you, that is, blew his boat to pieces tonight. He still thinks they will be bringing him nearly one hundred kilos of Cocaine. We had him followed tonight, after all, he does not know about our informant in Colombia. He thought he was being clever and sent his Mercedes of with a decoy in the back to lead us to his nightclub. But because of tonight's operation we had two cars watching his place and the second car saw him leave an hour later in a bog standard Seat. He has gone to a disco he owns on the edge of one of the industrial parks. It is a huge place. It has parking for over five hundred cars. The place itself is in the middle of the car park. It is built to look like a castle complete with battlements. It has three floors which all play different music. It can hold nearly three thousand people."
Ropell blinked at him in disbelief.
"They are going to take him out in front of three thousand people?"
Garcia shook his head.
"Of course not. The place is only open Thursday through to Sunday. This is Wednesday.
Ropell nodded.
"So why is Crucero going to an empty disco on a Wednesday night?"
"Exactly. And why also have half the Ladrones in Barcelona arrived in the last couple of hours?"
"Ladrones?"
"Thieves and robbers, Jack. Every well known crook in Barcelona is at that disco tonight and yet there seems to be no music so what is going on?"
He tapped a finger to the side of his nose and nodded.
"You think they are there to take delivery of the drugs and split them up, don't you."
"Yes I do and so does the Colonel. He intends that Crucero will never leave that disco except in a body bag."
"Jesus Christ, Ramon. He is taking some chance isn't he?"
Garcia shrugged.
"A small one, amigo. In Spain we put all disco out in the industrial areas. This prevents them interfering with peoples sleep. This one is way over to the north of the city well away from any living quarters and we have twenty special troopers we can use. Come on, or we will miss it."
"We?"
It came out as a squeak.
"Yes. Do you not want to see them finished?"
Ropell hesitated. He was playing with his career here. He had already gone beyond anything he had been authorised to do when he had taken out the boat. However, he could justify that on the grounds that the opposition had shot down an official helicopter, but what Garcia was talking about now was murder. Garcia saw his hesitation.
"You can stay here until its over, Jack if you would prefer."
Garcia's look told him that he had thought he had bigger cojones than that.
Ropell thought about it. Was it really a lack of balls that was stopping him or was it because he didn't believe in taking the law into his own hands? Hadn't he committed himself to this when he had picked up the missile launcher and taken the boat out? He also realised that if he didn't go Garcia would have to find some one else to drive him with his left wrist in that condition. He made a decision, in for a penny in for a pound. He slapped Garcia on the shoulder.
"Come on, Ramon. Lets go."
They were parked alongside a small restaurant about three hundred metres from the entrance gatehouse. Ramon had been right about Crucero's disco. It was a huge place. A Disney castle set in a sea of tarmac that made up the car park. The whole area was surrounded by a two-metre fence and with a gatehouse that looked like a bunker. He was about to ask why when Garcia told him.
"The people pay at the gatehouse and they stamp the back of their hand with a special ink that shows under infra red so the people at the disco know they haven't climbed the fence. It keeps the money in one place and prevents any rip off. That is why the place looks like a bunker. It is to protect the money. On Fridays and Saturdays there could be up to three million pesetas taken at that gate."
Nearly fifteen thousand pounds Ropell realised plus whatever they took in the bars. Do that four nights a week and fifty-two weeks a year and you were talking about well over three million pounds. So why does the greedy bastard need to deal in drugs? That was it, wasn't it? Sheer bloody greed. He began to feel better at what was to happen.
Garcia nudged him. He pointed and Ropell could see movement on the far side of the car park where it was darkest. A group of a dozen or more figures came across the car park at the double. Once more it was like watching a black and white film except for one golden square of light on the third floor of the castle. He watched the figures scale up the side of the building and realised that they were using grappling irons over the convenient battlements. To far to throw them and he had heard no noise so they must be using compressed air to fire the things that high. A second smaller group crossed the tarmac and took up positions all around the building.
The last figure made the roof and disappeared. For five minutes nothing happened. The figures surrounding the building stayed stationary. Then there was movement on the roof and the soldiers came abseiling back down. They hit the floor and waited until everyone was down. They then disappeared across the car park the way they had come. Garcia stayed staring intently through the windscreen so Jack remained still. Then there was a muffled thud and suddenly flames could be seen through the mock arrow slits set into the castle's sides. They stayed watching for ten minutes until the place was obviously burning well. When the flames began appearing through the lighted window on the third floor Garcia tapped Ropell's arm.
"That will be the kitchen going up. There are probably half a dozen bottles of butane gas in there. It will look like one of them just blew. It happens here sometimes if the kitchens are not maintained properly."
There was another thud and then a major explosion that removed a large section of the middle floor. Garcia nudged him with his elbow.
"We can go now, Jack. Its over."
Ropell started the engine and pulled away from the restaurant without switching on his lights. He intended to keep them of until they were some distance away. He was just beginning to relax when Garcia right hand reached over and grabbed him.
"Stop, Jack. There is some one in the gate house."
Ropell slammed the brakes on. Garcia was out of the car and running, pistol in his hand. Ropell pulled the car around in a U-turn but the road was not wide enough. He backed and took another bite at it. This time he made it. As he straightened the car, the view through the windscreen showed three men stood in the road. The one in the middle was Garcia. He had his hands in the air. The other two men were bracketing him. One was obviously holding a weapon. The other man drew back his arm and punched Garcia in the face. Garcia hit the floor hard. The puncher then held out his hand to the other man who handed him the weapon. He turned to give Garcia the Coup de Grace.
Ropell floored the accelerator and hit the lights. He only two hundred metres away from them and for a second or two the both men stood frozen like rabbits in the glare of the headlamps. Then they began to move. Ropell concentrated on the one with the gun and as he tried to dodge, swerved and hit him dead centre. The windscreen starred as the man's head made contact. Then it was gone, leaving only a dark red smear on the cracked glass. Ropell screeched into a hand brake turn, blessing the police driving school they had made him attend, and was instantly facing back up the road. Garcia had reached the kerb and was leaning against the car park fence. The other man was picking something up from the road.
"Gun!" thought Ropell and drove straight at him. For the second time that night a body hit the windscreen and then disappeared over the top of the car. He screeched to a stop and reversed to where Garcia was standing watching him opened mouthed.
"Get in, Ramon. Get in man."
Garcia opened the door.
"Help me."
"What?"
"Help me put them together. Make it look like a hit and run."
Ropell realised what he was saying and climbed out of the car after switching off the headlamps, but leaving the engine running.
Garcia was by the first body. Ropell saw him check his throat for a pulse. He then went to the second man and did the same. He then took an arm and waved at Ropell to help him.
"He is in the wrong place. If the same car had hit them both they would not be thirty metres apart."
Ropell took the other arm and they dragged the body near to the other. Garcia took another critical look at the spacing.
"It wouldn't fool the Guardia traffic cops, but I am sure they will be told to lay off if they ask difficult questions. Lets go."
They got into the car. Ropell got out again and using his handkerchief, cleaned enough blood from the windscreen to see to drive, being careful to put it back in his pocket when he had finished. Then they drove away.
When they were some ten kilometres down the road Ropell pulled into the forecourt of a garage that had long since closed for the night. He stopped the engine and turned to Garcia. Neither man had spoken since the incide
nt.
"What happened?"
"I saw some one leaving the gatehouse. I couldn't work out how they came to be there. Then I had a thought. Suppose the gatehouse is connected to the castle by a tunnel? It would be certainly a good security move. The takings could be taken direct to the castle at the end of the night without being exposed to hold ups. Then I realised that they had missed some one in the raid on the castle. I then wondered how many of the occupants would know about a tunnel. Only Crucero and his thugs."
He shrugged.
"That's why I took off after them like a rabbit with his tail on fire. I knew who that was leaving the gatehouse."
"Were you right?"
"Oh yes. It was Crucero all right. Trouble was I didn't see the second guy. Crucero was terrified I was going to shoot him until the other got the drop on me from behind and took my pistol. Then the brave bastard punched me in the mouth and put me down. He would have killed me too if you hadn't squashed him."
Ropell looked at him.
"Ramon, what would we have done with them if things had turned out differently? Would you have shot them in cold blood? And then what?"
Garcia shrugged.
"I don't know, Jack, but probably yes. I could hardly leave the bastard alive to tell the world what happened tonight. Could I."
Ropell thought that this was what happened when you took the law into your own hands. Up until he could justify his actions tonight. He could even have justified running two men down to save Garcia's life if they hadn't been involved in an illegal operation in the first place. He spoke without looking at Garcia.
"We have just killed two people and left them in the road. Our car has very obviously been in an accident and is covered in blood and God knows what else. What do we do now?"
Garcia grinned and picked up the radio microphone.
"We call the Colonel and he comes and tidies it all up."
"Just like that." Ropell snapped his fingers.
Garcia snapped his back.
"Just like that."