William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Phillip was doing quite well, Peter decided; he sat with his huge hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed neutrally on the shining sea beyond the terrace, composed and at ease.

Francois smiled at him. “They didn’t fool you with their talk of glory and patriotism, I can see.” He gave the big sergeant a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad to find you’re intelligent. A man chooses well or badly, that’s all there is to it. One choice makes a man a hero; the other makes him a traitor. Loyalty and honour are accidents since the verdict is delivered after the choice is made.” Francois smiled at Peter. “You don’t agree with me, I know. You believe in noble gestures. Loyalty to old comrades, regardless of risk or danger.”

The glance that Phillip flicked at Francois’s back was as swift and murderous as a flung knife. Peter noted it with alarm. He strolled past Phillip and gave him a small, warning headshake.

“Ah, you look troubled,” Francois said complacently. “What does that mean? That you’re not sure? That you have doubts about loyalty? About honour?”

“Francois, you bore me greatly.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Yes. You have a rash of conscience, and you can’t stop scratching it.” Peter hoped desperately to create a climate of emotional turbulence; he didn’t want to give Francois and Angela the opportunity to inspect Phillip with detachment. He didn’t know whether Angela had spotted that revealing flare of anger in Phillip’s eyes; she was reclining on the lounge, wearing a white bikini that was not much larger than the jewelled sun-glasses which concealed her eyes. Peter couldn’t tell what she was looking at, but he knew from experience that she was a precise judge of nuance and atmosphere.

“Peter, why are you trying to make Francois angry?”

“I came here to discuss business. Not to listen to tiresome justifications of the rat act.”

“But you’re seldom so rude, darling.”

“He feels he is indispensable,” Francois said angrily. “We’ll see how important he is when the job is over.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Francois, shut up! You too, Peter. Let’s get down to work.”

“Very well,” Peter said. He had brought the films of San Fermin; the projector and screen were already in place. “Phillip, will you draw the drapes?”

“Yes, sir,” said Phillip, springing to his feet.

The room became dark. Peter snapped on the machine. They all settled back and watched the flamboyant crowds in the Plaza de Castillo; the huge Cabezudas bobbing and turning high above them; fighting bulls tearing through the barricaded streets.

Peter froze the action at the square in front of the Ayunta — when to... “Let me tell you what happens in Pamplona each morning of the fiesta,” he said. “At the stroke of six a bomb is exploded near the river. That means the bulls have left the corral. When they form an encierro and start running, another bomb explodes. We will synchronise our blasting with those explosions.”

Angela’s eyes shone like a cat’s in the darkness. “Oh, Peter, how clever you are!”

“Yes. The sound of our blasting will be completely drowned out by the roar of the bombs. We have twenty-six feet of stone and brick to get through. I estimate our progress at four feet a day; which means that on Sunday morning, the seventh and last day of the fiesta, we will reach the vaults of the bank.” He walked to the screen and pointed to a passageway at one side of the square. “Now listen carefully. This leads to the basement of the warehouse adjoining the Banco de Bilbao. Each morning Francois and I will set off two charges in that basement. On the second one, the bulls will be running. Our job is to get back into the square, and clear out as fast as we can. We’ll have about seventy seconds; we will need every one of them.”

Francois swallowed with evident difficulty; the sound was quite harsh in the silence.

“Yes, Francois? What is it?”

“Good God! What about the bulls? They’ll be on top of us.”

“Yes, but that’s the charm of it. The bulls are pure gold as far as we’re concerned. Every eye will be on them. No one will notice us.”

“But that’s insane. Why not wait till they’ve gone by?”

“Because it won’t work. The instant the bulls charge from the square, policemen and workers spring up. To handle the crowds and remove the barricades. We’d be spotted leaving the basement, or coming down the passageway.”

“But what in God’s name is to prevent our being gored? Or killed?”

“For my part I intend to run like the devil. If you think up anything cleverer, let me know. But, Francois, since my hide is just as vulnerable as yours, I’ve studied the possibilities very carefully. If our timing is precise, and no one panics, there’s an excellent chance of bringing it off. Phillip, you can open the drapes now.”

Sunlight splashed into the rooms. The white oval of the sea beyond the terrace was like the eye of a giant staring up at the sky.

“Now we come to your part, Angela. I want you to get up on Phillip’s shoulders, and stand there till I tell you to get down.”

“Are you serious?”

“Please do as I say. We have an enormous lot to do, and damn little time.”

Phillip spread his legs wide, crouched slightly and gave Angela a hand.

She put a foot against his thigh and swung up on to his shoulders, as easily and gracefully as if she were mounting a horse. Phillip cupped his hands behind her knees to brace her swaying figure. When he straightened to his full height, she gasped nervously.

“You’re all right,” Peter said. “Phillip, move about now. Skip and dance a bit.” He glanced at his watch. Let me know when you’re tired.”

“Very well, sir.”

Angela shrieked as Phillip commenced to caper about the room with an air of elephantine gravity. She clutched at her bra and hissed questions at Peter.

“What’s this for? What’re you trying to prove?”

“Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

The telephone rang and Francois answered it.

“It’s for you, Peter. Your bar-keep, Mario.”

Peter experienced a quick stir of hope and excitement. He had called Grace’s villa three times this morning, but she hadn’t been in. The maids had not been helpful; in fact, they seemed to have no clear idea of where she was, or when she might be back. All they knew was that she had not returned from Pamplona. This had added to Peter’s confusion and apprehension. He was still shaken to the depths by the astounding implications of that slim little knife with the Ace of Diamonds attached to it. If it meant what he thought it did, how could he ever trust his judgment again? Or regard the world as anything but a crazy house of mirrors? But what else could that knife mean? He recalled the spiteful hiss as it whizzed past his ear. The metallic thunk as it struck the wall. And how it quivered there like a tuning fork, inches from his eyes. Had she tried to hit him? Or miss him?

And where is she now? That was the most maddening thing of all.

He snatched the phone from Francois. “Mario? Did she call?”

“No, no. But Mr. Shahari is here. You said you wanted to talk to him.”

“You’re sure Grace didn’t call?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

He sighed. “Okay. Put Mr. Shahari on.”

“Good morning, Mr. Churchman. What can I do for you today. Some money to change perhaps?”

“When are you returning to Gibraltar?”

“This afternoon.”

“All right, I’d like you to do me a favour. I need a set of walkie-talkies. You can get them at Purdy’s, I think.”

“You wish me to buy them for you?”

“Yes. I’ll be over to Gibraltar to pick them up tomorrow or the day after. I need a first-rate set, Mr. Shahari.”