Martin Walker - The Crowded Grave

“Get him out, fast as you can,” said Bruno, forcing himself to think above the raw, warrior delight in victory that still flooded him. “Before the fuel tank goes up.”

Another jeep appeared, bringing a soldier wearing a Red Cross armband. The wheels of the Range Rover had finally stopped spinning. Then Carlos was on the ground, his head lolling, the medical orderly working on him. Bruno restrained himself from going over to stamp his foot into the face of the man who had killed his dog.

The orderly looked up and shook his head. “He’s had it, sir,” he addressed the major. “The splintered shaft went through his ribs and into his heart.”

Somewhere behind him, Bruno heard the clatter of an approaching helicopter. He shivered, the delayed shock of being shot at finally hitting him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He’d never take Gigi hunting again, never watch him search the woods for truffles, never feel that familiar warm tongue lick his face when it was time to wake up. Beneath the stink of oil and manure and shattered metal he could almost taste the scent of the fresh-turned earth, the hesitant green buds of the vines and the smell of a hard-ridden horse. He felt a nudge at his shoulder, and he turned to see Hector gazing at him. He buried his face in Hector’s warm neck, feeling guilty that he’d forgotten this morning to put any apples in the pockets of his best uniform.

“Here,” said the major, handing Bruno a carrot. He spoke loudly, above the sound of the choppers. “I think your horse deserves this. But you can stand down now, it’s over.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Bruno, moving along Hector’s side to mount him again as the two helicopters passed overhead. “There’s a missing professor to be found, a friend of mine. They kidnapped him to make his brother help them.”

“Want a hand?”

“Probably. I’ll let you know over the radio.”

“Where’s that dog of yours?”

“That bastard shot him,” said Bruno, jerking his head back to the wrecked Range Rover. “He’s paid for it now.”

He turned Hector’s head back up the lane and settled into a steady trot that ate up the distance. He could see the helicopters flaring in for their landing, and he felt rather than heard his phone ringing. He answered it, wanting to put a hand to his other ear but needing to hold the reins.

“Bruno, is that you?” he heard Pamela say.

“It’s me,” he said. “But it’s also helicopters. Hold on, they’ve landed and the noise will stop.”

“How’s Hector?” he heard her ask, after a pause.

“Magnificent, a hero horse, I’m riding him now,” he said, as the rotor blades slowed and halted. The noise died away and men scurried out as others saluted. He was about to tell her of Gigi’s death, but with a great effort that Pamela would never know he forced himself to hold his tongue and to think of Pamela. She had enough to cope with. “How’s your mother?”

“No change, well, there is some change for the worse. She’s still in a coma, but she’s had a brain scan and there’s some damage. It looks as though there’s not much hope of a recovery.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The sound of her voice triggered a different memory, of Isabelle in his arms the previous night. He shook it off. “Do you want me to come?”

“No, I want you to stay and look after the horses and take care of things for me there. Are you busy?”

“A bit,” he said. “But it’s all right. You must be tired, you’ve probably sat up with her all night.”

“There was no point,” she said. “But it’s not easy sleeping. And I miss you.” She paused. “I presume those helicopters involve something you have to attend to. I’ll call again, take care.”

As she hung up, his phone buzzed again, and he heard the familiar voice of the retired veteran from the military archives, saying he’d faxed a copy of Captain Carlos Gambara’s file from his time at Eurocorps.

“It’s an interesting file, more for what it doesn’t say than for what it does,” he said. “No names of parents, which is unusual even for orphans. His education is listed as a church-run orphanage in Tarragona, and he joined the military as a boy-soldier at the age of fifteen, just like you.”

“Thank you,” Bruno said, remembering that Tarragona had been the orphanage where Teddy’s father had been raised. “We’re just clearing up a terrorist incident here in which Gambara has died. You may or may not read about this, that’s not my decision. But would you have any contacts with your opposite number in the Spanish archives?”

“I’m afraid not. But I’ve got a contact in the NATO registry who deals with them all the time.”

After asking for any more information that could be obtained from NATO, Bruno hung up and rode into the stable yard with the ambulance following him, Carlos’s body inside. At the top of the steps, the double doors to the salon were closed, and Isabelle sat on the balustrade outside, holding the small stone pineapple that Carlos’s Range Rover had knocked from its pedestal. She put it to one side and rose to her feet as Bruno dismounted and climbed up the steps toward her.

She looked weary beyond exhaustion, her hair tousled and her face frighteningly pale. He dragged his eyes away to look through the doors to the salon where Gigi had died. It seemed to be full of security men and medics bending over prone figures, blood smeared on the floor. Men were shouting, radios crackled and from a distance he heard ambulance sirens. He had steeled himself to see the body of his dog, but it wasn’t there.

“If it wasn’t for Gigi he could have shot us both,” said Isabelle.

He saw the tears in her eyes as he took her in his arms. She seemed to slump against him and from deep inside himself came a spasm of grief that turned into a sob so heavy it almost choked him. It felt like a release, that at last he could acknowledge the sense of loss. And his own tears spilled down his cheeks at the memory of Gigi, shot in the back but refusing to relax the grip of his jaws on the man who had attacked his master. He took a long breath, and caught the familiar scent of her.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. “I never thought that swordstick was real.”

“Nor did I,” she said into the hollow of his neck, “until it worked. The bomb was in the flower urn.” She paused. “I had Gigi’s body taken away to be wrapped. You don’t want to see him.”

“We can bury him at home, just behind the chicken coop where he used to go into the woods. It’s a good place,” he said. The rage he had felt at Gigi’s death had become something sadder and forlorn, a hollowness in his chest.

“I’ll get you a new hound,” she said.

“You’d better talk to the mayor about a puppy from his next litter. That’s where Gigi came from.” He paused, still holding her close, remembering Gigi clambering onto their bed and squirming to try to make a place for himself between them. “Where’s Jan, the blacksmith?”

“Dying, but he’s told us where to find his brother. And he told us about the dynamite theft and the bomb at the foie gras factory. That was apparently Carlos’s idea, to distract us, like the bomb in his car. He set it himself, and sent one of our own people to start his car and get blown up.”

She let him go and sat again on the balustrade, wincing as she straightened her bad leg. She leaned her cane against the stone and Bruno had a sudden recall of another stone balustrade on another day when Carlos had eaten his foie gras on the day they had met. Bruno asked where they would find Horst.

“In an empty house they were using in St. Chamassy where Jan had installed a wrought-iron circular staircase. He knew the owners were still in Holland. He told us that the kid is armed who’s watching him, Galder, so we’re bringing in the hostage specialists.”