During the war, Lawton had learned to read the sounds of battle long before he reached the battleground itself. Even in open country, without even seeing the front lines, he could tell whose cannons were firing and from which direction, and whether the rifle fire that followed came from the Boer commandos or his own side. From Mata’s apartment, he could hear shots and explosions emanating from different parts of the city, and by midday it was obvious that the security forces were winning. Most of the exchanges were short, consisting of undisciplined and ragged bursts of small arms fire followed by coordinated volleys and artillery barrages.
From time to time he was tempted to go out and see what was happening, because it was a mournful thing to while away the hours in a murdered man’s apartment, listening to the sounds of war and knowing that his wife and children were expecting him to come on holiday with them. But he knew that he needed to remain alive if he was to have any chance of bringing Mata’s murderers to justice, and he would be foolish to do anything that might prevent him from meeting the Frenchman that night. He spent the day pacing the apartment or sitting in the gallery, and tried to distract himself by reading some of the old magazines and newspapers in Mata’s study. One of them was a Catalan magazine called ¡Cu-Cut! that contained a number of articles by Mata, and there were also clippings of his articles from other publications spanning more than twenty years.
Most of them were written in Catalan, and even though he could not understand them in detail, the language seemed close enough to Spanish to glean something of their subject matter. In addition to crimes, bombings, and murders, Mata had written about art, poetry, music, and restaurants. He had commented on the Spanish-American war; on Spanish and Catalan politics; on Arthur Conan Doyle, and a poetry festival called the Floral Games. Some of the clippings and journals contained his own poems celebrating mountains, Barcelona, and the Mediterranean, and one poem was dedicated to his wife.
Bernat Mata was a big man, Lawton thought, who lived in a world that was much bigger than his own. A man like that should have grown old to see his grandchildren playing around him. Instead he had been shot down like a dog because of an investigation that Lawton had brought with him to the city. Even now his family would be waiting for him to join them, and soon they would return to an apartment that already echoed with his absence. Whatever happened that evening, Lawton promised himself that he would not leave Barcelona until justice was done. And if the law could not deliver justice then he would administer his own.
It was half past nine when he stepped once again into the darkening street and walked back toward the Ramblas. The gas and electricity had still not been restored, but the fires still cast enough light to see by. As he drew alongside the Plaza Catalunya, he heard another brief exchange of shots from the other side of the Ramblas, and he saw lines of soldiers queuing up for food or standing around braziers and lanterns while their horses fed on piles of fodder.
Lawton was conscious of the revolver in his belt and the bullets weighing down his pockets as he walked on through the dusk, past the few pedestrians and the police, Civil Guards, and soldiers who had taken up positions up and down the promenade. He found Bonnecarrère waiting outside his hotel, smoking a cigarette as though he had just stepped outside to take the evening air.
“Good evening Harry,” he said. “So you managed to keep out of trouble?”
“I took your advice.”
“Very sensible. The army went into the Raval today. I saw some of the fighting from my hotel room. Snipers on the rooftops shooting at the soldiers. Soldiers shooting back while their comrades entered the buildings—it reminded me of the Commune! But this was a little more crazy. I even saw a young man dancing with the corpse of a nun. While someone played the violin! A very strange city, Harry. Thank God the army has taken down the barricades, and the strike is coming to an end.”
“What about the docks?”
“They were calm enough when I went out this morning.”
“So you didn’t take your own advice?”
Bonnecarrère grinned. “I’m luckier than you are Harry. My guardian angel keeps a close eye on me. And unlike you, I actually listen to her.”
There seemed little risk of being shot now, as they strolled down the central thoroughfare toward the port. The forces of law and order had clearly regained the upper hand, and the police, Civil Guards, and soldiers exuded a confidence that Lawton had not seen for the last few days. At the bottom of the Ramblas detachments of cavalry and infantrymen were standing guard outside the barracks and another building overlooking the sea. On the other side of the Columbus Monument, just behind the burned-out skeleton of a customs shed, a small group of soldiers guarded the entrance to the port. None of them seemed interested in Lawton and Bonnecarrère as they walked away to their right until they were out of sight of the soldiers, and then turned in toward the railway sidings.
There was no sign of any activity either on the railway line or at the docks themselves as they made their way past the stationary railway cars and the piles of crates, sacks, and boxes that lined the loading bays and the wharves. As far as Lawton could see, nothing was being loaded or unloaded anywhere in the harbor. Beyond the line of boats and ships at the water’s edge, a thicket of masts bobbed gently in the darkness and Lawton could see the moonlight reflected in the ocean beyond the seawall.
Bonnecarrère had already located the San Bertran wharf during his visit to the port, and Lawton followed him through the rows of sheds, wagons, and railcars till they reached a stack of crates that gave them a vantage point over the pier. For the next hour and a half they stood in silence, smoking Bonnecarrère’s cigarettes and listening to the creaking ships and the water lapping against the wharf. From time to time Lawton heard shots coming from the city, but the docks themselves appeared deserted. It was nearly midnight, when Bonnecarrère pointed out to sea, and Lawton saw the white sails curving toward them. From a distance it looked like a large fishing boat, but as it came closer he saw that it was a two-masted cutter, about thirty feet long, of the type that the Royal Navy used for harbor defense. Even as the ship drifted in toward the wharf, Lawton saw a group of men coming toward the pier from the main entrance to the docks, one of whom was carrying a lantern.
Bonnecarrère drew his FN automatic and moved toward another pile of crates nearer to the edge. Lawton followed close behind him with the Smith & Wesson in his hand, and the two of them peered at the ship as a voice shouted something from the deck. Lawton could see the crew members moving around on deck now, and the man with the lantern shouted at them to throw down ropes in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. Lawton was still trying to think where he had heard it as his companions attached the ropes to the cleats. The crew had just lowered a gangway when Lawton heard the sound of a motorcar, and he looked back to see a pair of headlights driving slowly along the water’s edge toward them, followed by a team of four mules pulling a canvas wagon.
Bonnecarrère pointed toward a small fishing boat lying on the pier about fifteen yards away from the ship, and crouched down and ran toward it. Once again Lawton followed close behind. He dropped down behind the Frenchman and watched the Delaunay-Belleville approach the man with the lantern. It was not until the motorcar came alongside them that he recognized the malarial anarchist who had thrown Mata out of the Athenaeum on the first day of the strike. There was no time to think what this could mean, as the man in the photograph of Foulkes’s Greenland expedition got down from the Delaunay-Belleville and shouted at the crew members in German.
Lawton could see lights moving around on deck now, as the crew began to carry boxes and crates down the gangway, which they loaded into the wagon. His driver remained in the front seat with the motor running and the headlights on while Klarsfeld stood in the headlights next to the anarchist from the Athenaeum. The loading continued for about half an hour before Klarsfeld returned to his car, and his driver began to wheel the vehicle around. The car was about halfway through its turn when the headlights fell on the place where he and Bonnecarrère were concealed and a voice from the cutter yelled, “Dar is jemand! Hinter dem boot!”
The driver abruptly stopped, leaving the headlights pointing directly toward their hiding place. Even as Lawton crouched down a shot smashed into the top of the boat above his head. He heard voices shouting in Spanish and German as Klarsfeld and his men began to spread out. Shots were coming at them from different directions now, and Lawton knew that they could not remain where they were. He was just about to fire back when Bonnecarrère laid his hand on his arm and shook his head.
“We need to separate,” he said. “Try to find out where they go.”
Before Lawton could reply the Frenchman leaned around the boat and fired. Lawton heard the pop of broken glass, and another round of shots followed as the Frenchman ran back toward the row of crates they had come from earlier, firing as he did so. In the same moment Lawton wriggled away on his stomach in the opposite direction toward a pile of nets and ropes. Behind him Bonnecarrère had reached the crates safely, and Lawton saw that he had shattered the car windshield. The crew members and Klarsfeld’s men were still firing at the Frenchman when Klarsfeld’s driver wheeled the car around, training the headlights at the crates where Bonnecarrère was hiding.
“Da drüben!” shouted a voice from the ship.
Lawton could see the Frenchman illuminated in the headlights now as he fired back at the car. He continued to wriggle away, till he reached a smaller pile of boxes that was almost in line with the canvas wagon. Once again no one had seen him, but he could see Klarsfeld resting on an open door firing at Bonnecarrère through the shattered windshield. Lawton was thinking how easy it would be to shoot him when the Frenchman broke his cover and ran out onto the pier. Once again the driver spun the Delaunay-Belleville around to face him. Bonnecarrère raised one hand to shield his eyes from the headlights as he stood at the edge of the wharf and fired back at the motorcar. In the same moment Lawton heard the crack of a rifle and the Frenchman dropped his pistol and stepped back as if he were about to fall over.
He looked up just in time to see the silhouette kneeling on deck aiming the rifle, and then another shot sounded and Bonnecarrère toppled sideways into the water. Lawton cursed under his breath and ran the last few yards to the back of the wagon. He climbed over the wooden rim, crawled into the space between crates and boxes, and lay on his back holding Mata’s revolver in both hands, ready to shoot the first head that came through the canvas flap. A few moments later the wagon creaked and swayed as the driver and his companion climbed on board. Lawton heard the driver click his tongue and flick the reins, and even as the wagon followed the Delaunay-Belleville out of the harbor, he knew that Monsieur Bonnecarrère’s luck had finally run out.
They had not gone far when the wagon came to a halt once again. Lawton knew they had been stopped by the soldiers, and he heard Klarsfeld explain that the wagon was carrying a special shipment for His Excellency the Count of Arenales.
“What was that shooting?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Nothing to do with us, Sergeant,” Klarsfeld replied. “Just some anarchists fighting each other. You know what they’re like.”
“Don’t I just!” The soldier laughed. “Well on you go then. Can’t keep His Excellency waiting.”
Klarsfeld thanked him, and Lawton wondered if money had just changed hands as he heard the motorcar pull away. He thought they were going toward the Estación de Francia, but a few minutes later the car accelerated and the engine faded away. Soon it disappeared altogether and he lowered the revolver. He continued to lie still, as the smell of tobacco came wafting in from the front of the wagon and mingled with the smell of dung. After about twenty minutes the wagon swung left and began to climb. Soon the road became steeper, and the driver cracked his whip to urge his animals forward. Lawton sat up and drew the flap back just long enough to see the dark outline of trees and the sprinkling of stars, and then he lay back again. They had been traveling for about an hour when the road flattened out, and shortly afterward it descended down a rutted track that made their progress even more laborious.
Lawton could feel all his accumulated aches and bruises now as the wagon bumped and careened down the road and the boxes pressed against him. Finally the track began to level out again and he heard the driver call out a greeting and the sound of dogs barking in the distance. He sat up once again and peered out through the canvas flap. Behind him he could see a high wall and gate with two armed sentries sitting beside it, and he knew that they had arrived at their destination. He waited until the sentries were almost out of sight before lowering himself over the wooden flap. Even as he dropped to the ground he half expected someone to shout, but there was no sound except for the barking dogs. He ran toward a clump of trees and crouched down in the darkness to catch his breath. Once again he heard the dogs barking and he hoped they were chained up. Yet even as he gripped the wooden handle of the Smith & Wesson in his sweating hand, he felt more curious than fearful, and he sensed that he was close to answering the questions that had brought him here.
Ruben left the Franciscan monastery in Poblenou through the kitchen door, carrying a sack on his back. The building was still burning, and even though the crowds were long gone, the flames lit up the surrounding streets, and Ruben held the Beretta in his free hand, because he had no intention of getting shot for looting. Nor did he want to arouse the suspicions of his Poblenou comrades and set off any rumors that might get back to the Invincibles. Because the strike committee had given specific orders not to burn churches and religious institutions, and he himself had passed on those same orders, he had even visited some of the buildings that were being burned and told the crowds not to burn them.
At the same time he had also helped himself to any cash, silver, and articles of value he was able to get his hands on. Already he had a substantial collection of silver chalices, plates, and candlesticks in Matilde’s room, ready to sell when the moment presented itself. Now he could add the cutlery, glasses, and a silver tray that the Franciscans had tried to hide. All in all it had been a profitable three days, in which he had managed to add to his wealth whilst simultaneously enhancing his reputation. Not many people were clever enough to do both things at once, but not many people were as clever as he was.
In Poblenou he had helped bring the workers out on strike, and encouraged them to build barricades and defend the Republic. At the same time he took care not to be on the barricades himself when the army came into the streets. While his comrades in Poblenou believed that he was fighting in the Raval, the Invincibles believed that he was fighting on the barricades in Poblenou. In this way he had been able to live two equally heroic lives in two different places, while avoiding any situation that might have put his life at risk.
As a result the strike had been almost entirely pleasurable. By day he was Ruben the revolutionary. At night, he and Matilde lay in bed while the churches and monasteries burned and the army and the workers fought each other. The previous night he had amused Matilde by making silhouettes with his hands in the shape of monsters, animals, and reptiles, while the flames danced across the walls. Later he took her to the beach in the middle of the night. They walked together past the barricades and gasworks, and she took her shoes off and walked in the sea while he watched the Church of Sant Pere Pescador burning in the distance.
Even now, as he unlocked the main entrance to her building, he felt a thrill at the thought of her straddling him in the sand, lifting her skirt and easing him into her while the sea lapped against the beach behind them. He put the Beretta away now as he walked up the stairs. He hoped she was still awake, because his balls were beginning to ache once again, but there was no sound from her room. As soon as he opened the door, he saw her lying on the bed in the darkness. At first he thought she was sleeping and he wondered why she had the shutters closed. Suddenly she began to moan and he saw the gag over her mouth and the bonds on her hands and feet. In the same moment he felt the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck and a voice behind him growled hoarsely, “One move and I’ll blow your head off.”
Ruben caught a smell of absinthe as the gunman took the sack and drew the Beretta from his jacket.
“Take these.” The gunman handed him a candle and a box of matches. “Light it.”
Ruben did as he was told. It was only then that he recognized the bearded face of Salvador Santamaría, the old terrorist from the Sons of Whores. Santamaría reached into his sack with the pistol trained at his stomach and held up a silver cross.
“Found God have you?”
“Comrade, these aren’t for me!” said Ruben indignantly. “This is for the cause.”
Santamaría let out a rasping cackle that sounded as though he were being choked. “Of course it is. Let’s go up on the roof, shall we?”
“The roof?” Ruben said nervously.” What do we need to go up there for?”
“Someone wants to see you.” Santamaría gestured with the gun toward the door, as Matilde continued to writhe on the bed.
“You’re going to leave her like that?” said Ruben.
“She’ll be alright.” Santamaría opened the door. “But you won’t be if you don’t do what I say. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Ruben was beginning to feel seriously afraid for the first time now, as he walked slowly upstairs to the roof. The door was already open, and his fear turned to incredulity at the sight of his mother-in-law, sitting on the edge of the roof, calmly smoking a cheroot. Ruben saw to his alarm that she was holding a noose at the end of a piece of rope that was tied around the chimney stack. Behind her he could see the flames from Sant Pere Pescador, but now they no longer seemed as beautiful as they had the night before.
“Rosa? What’s going on?”
Señora Tosets said nothing, as Santamaría prodded Ruben toward the balustrade. “Sit down,” he ordered.
Ruben sat down next to Rosa Tosets with his back to the street as Santamaría slipped the noose over his ankles and pulled it taut.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You need to answer some questions, cabron,” his mother-in-law replied as Santamaría began to wrap the slack rope around his own wrist. “And answer them honestly.”
The sweat was pouring down Ruben’s back now and his bowels felt suddenly loose. “I’m married to your daughter!” he protested.
“And yet you allowed my son to be killed like a dog.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Where is Esperanza?” Señora Tosets asked.
“How the fuck should I know?”
Señora Tosets tied a cloth around Ruben’s mouth now, and Santamaría turned Ruben around so that he was kneeling over the balustrade and facing down over the street. Ruben was still howling into the gag when the old terrorist gripped his ankles and tipped him up so that he was hanging over the edge. Below him he could see the streets of Poblenou laid out in their neat blocks, and the lights from the burning buildings, and even as he writhed on the end of the rope with his hands outstretched like a diver, he was ready to tell them whatever they wanted to know.