The Sands of Time. Sidney Sheldon

       Chapter Two

      Madrid

      

      Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez was in a rage. He was a small, bespectacled man, and his whole body shook as he talked. ‘Jaime Miró must be stopped,’ he cried. His voice was high and shrill. ‘Do you understand me?’ He glared at the half dozen men gathered in the room. ‘We’re looking for one terrorist, and the whole army and police force are unable to find him.’

      The meeting was taking place at Moncloa Palace, where the Prime Minister lived and worked, five kilometres from the centre of Madrid, on the Carretera de Galicia, a highway with no identifying signs. The building itself was green brick, with wrought iron balconies, green window shades, and guard towers at each corner.

      It was a hot, dry day, and through the windows, as far as the eye could see, columns of heat waves rose like battalions of ghostly soldiers.

      ‘Yesterday Miró turned Pamplona into a battleground.’ Martinez slammed a fist down on his desk. ‘He murdered two prison guards and smuggled two of his terrorists out of prison. Many innocent people were killed by the bulls he let loose.’

      For a moment no one said anything.

      When the Prime Minister had taken office, he had declared, smugly, ‘My first act will be to put a stop to these separatist groups. Madrid is the great unifier. It transforms Andalusians, Basques, Catalans and Galicians into Spaniards.’

      He had been unduly optimistic. The fiercely independent Basques had other ideas, and the wave of bombings, bank robberies and demonstrations by terrorists of the ETA organization, Euzkadi ta Azkatasuna, had continued unabated.

      The man at Martinez’s right said quietly, ‘I’ll find him.’

      The speaker was Colonel Ramón Acoca, head of the GOE, the Grupo de Operaciones Especiales, formed to pursue Basque terrorists. Acoca was a giant, in his middle sixties, with a scarred face and cold, obsidian eyes. He had been a young officer under Francisco Franco during the Civil War, and he was still fanatically devoted to Franco’s philosophy, ‘We are responsible only to God and to history.’

      Acoca was a brilliant officer, and he had been one of Franco’s most trusted aides. The Colonel missed the iron-fisted discipline, the swift punishment of those who questioned or disobeyed the law. He had gone through the turmoil of the Civil War, with its Nationalist alliance of Monarchists, rebel generals, landowners, church hierarchy and the fascist Falangists on one side, and the Republican government forces, including Socialists, Communists, liberals and Basque and Catalan separatists on the other. It had been a terrible time of destruction and killing in a madness that pulled in men and war matériel from a dozen countries and left a horrifying death toll. And now the Basques were fighting and killing again.

      Colonel Acoca headed an efficient, ruthless cadre of anti-terrorists. His men worked underground, wore disguises and were neither publicized nor photographed for fear of retaliation.

      If anyone can stop Jaime Miró, Colonel Acoca can, the Prime Minister thought. But there was a catch: Who’s going to be the one to stop Colonel Acoca?

      Putting the Colonel in charge had not been the Prime Minister’s idea. He had received a phone call in the middle of the night on his private line. He recognized the voice immediately.

      ‘We are greatly disturbed by the activities of Jaime Miró and his terrorists. We suggest that you put Colonel Ramón Acoca in charge of the GOE. Is that clear?’

      ‘Yes, sir. It will be taken care of immediately.’

      The line went dead.

      The voice belonged to a member of the OPUS MUNDO. The organization was a secret cabal that included bankers, lawyers, heads of powerful corporations and government ministers. It was rumoured to have enormous funds at its disposal, but where the money came from or how it was used or manipulated was a mystery. It was not considered healthy to ask too many questions about it.

      The Prime Minister had placed Colonel Acoca in charge, as he had been instructed to, but the giant had turned out to be an uncontrollable fanatic. His GOE had created a reign of terror. The Prime Minister thought of the Basque rebels Acoca’s men had caught near Pamplona. They had been convicted and sentenced to hang. It was Colonel Acoca who had insisted that they be executed by the barbaric garrote vil, the iron collar fitted with a spike which gradually tightened, eventually cracked the vertebra and severed the victim’s spinal cord.

      Jaime Miró had become an obsession with Colonel Acoca.

      ‘I want his head,’ Colonel Acoca said. ‘Cut off his head and the Basque movement dies.’

      An exaggeration, the Prime Minister felt, although he had to admit that there was a core of truth in it. Jaime Miró was a charismatic leader, fanatical about his cause, and therefore dangerous.

      But in his own way, the Prime Minister thought, Colonel Acoca is just as dangerous.

      Primo Casado, the Director General de Seguridad, was speaking. ‘Your Excellency, no one could have foreseen what happened in Pamplona. Jaime Miró is –’

      ‘I know what he is,’ the Prime Minister snapped. ‘I want to know where he is.’ He turned to Colonel Acoca.

      ‘I’m on his trail,’ the Colonel said. His voice chilled the room. ‘I would like to remind Your Excellency that we are not fighting just one man. We are fighting the Basque people. They give Jaime Miró and his terrorists food and weapons and shelter. The man is a hero to them. But do not worry. Soon he will be a hanging hero. After I give him a fair trial, of course.’

      Not we. I. The Prime Minister wondered whether the others had noticed. Yes, he thought nervously. Something will have to be done about the Colonel soon.

      The Prime Minister got to his feet. ‘That will be all for now, gentlemen.’

      The men rose to leave. All except Colonel Acoca. He stayed.

      Leopoldo Martinez began to pace. ‘Damn the Basques. Why can’t they be satisfied just to be Spaniards? What more do they want?’

      ‘They’re greedy for power,’ Acoca said. ‘They want autonomy, their own language and their flag –’

      ‘No. Not as long as I hold this office. I’m not going to permit them to tear pieces out of Spain. The government will tell them what they can have and what they can’t have. They’re nothing but rabble who …’

      An aide came into the room. ‘Excuse me, Your Excellency,’ he said apologetically. ‘Bishop Ibanez has arrived.’

      ‘Send him in.’

      The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You can be sure the church is behind all this. It’s time we taught them a lesson.’

      The Church is one of the great ironies of our history, Colonel Acoca thought bitterly.

      In the beginning of the Civil War, the Catholic Church had been on the side of the Nationalist forces. The Pope backed Generalissimo Franco, and in so doing allowed him to proclaim that he was fighting on the side of God. But when the Basque churches and monasteries and priests were attacked, the Church withdrew its support.

      ‘You must give the Basques and the Catalans more freedom,’ the Church had demanded. ‘And you must stop executing Basque priests.’

      Generalissimo Franco had been furious. How dare the Church try to dictate to the government?

      A war of attrition began. More churches and monasteries were attacked by Franco’s forces. Nuns and priests were murdered. Bishops were placed under house arrest, and priests all over Spain were fined for giving sermons that the government considered seditious. It was only when the Church threatened Franco with excommunication that he stopped his attacks.

      The