Jack Ludlow - A Broken Land

If they wondered at the desk why he wanted more food sent up to his room, they did not ask; guests were always odd, it did not need a war on your doorstep to make them act strangely.

Driving to his destination he was stopped twice and required to use the set of forged papers he had bought, which went with the press pass Peter Lanchester had provided him with; that was something he had learnt from his previous visit: no one moved around with greater ease than a foreign reporter — the Republicans saw anyone prepared to face their travails with them as friends.

He had parked and walked to where he now stood on a street corner just off the Calle de Atocha, a long avenue that bisected the city, in shadow, watching the arched, ecclesiastical doorway of a building as dark as every other in a city that feared to be bombed. Had this church been a place of torment during the Inquisition? It was possible, given its age. If so, it had been given a new lease of life to inflict misery for a different faith.

It was odd to think that a place where supposed enemies of the state were incarcerated, and very likely subjected to torture, had fixed hours of work, yet it just went to show how banal parts of what was happening in Spain could be. Guards worked in shifts and then went home, to wherever that was — in the case of the person he sought, an apartment he had taken over from a victim of one of his own purges, a short walk from the church.

He observed the new shift drifting in one by one, with a resigned gait; those going off for the night were more of a crowd — black-uniformed men who had turned the arrest, beating and starving of prisoners into a set of norms. No doubt it was sometimes thrown into turmoil by a sudden burst of suspicion, but on a day-to-day basis it was like clocking on and off in an office or factory.

The only person not doing that still had a fixed routine, and thanks to the rooting around of Tyler Alverson, Cal Jardine knew what that was. Somehow, being a creature of habit went with his personality, and right on cue, as the dial on Cal’s luminous watch slipped past eight, he emerged onto the steps of the church, taking a cigarette case from his pocket, extracting one, tapping it on the metal, then slipping it between his two middle fingers, before lighting up.

Manfred Decker never went anywhere without two armed guards — was it necessary, or an affectation? Cal did not know, but judging by their lack of attention it seemed the latter. Most of those in Madrid who could be suspected of being class enemies had either already been shot, imprisoned, had fled, or were very circumspect when it came to dealing with authority. Thus, many months after the insurrection of the generals, life had settled for these non-combatants into monotony.

Cal moved as Drecker moved, glad there was enough starlight to keep him in view without coming too close. If the Calle de Atocha was not busy, neither was it empty. The early hours of darkness tended to be less dangerous; even the Nationalist artillerymen stopped feeding their guns to feed themselves, so people were scurrying along, head bent into their shoulders in a way that had no doubt become habitual.

There was arrogance in the communist’s gait; he saw no need to hunch, instead he cast his eyes imperiously at those who passed him, in the imagination of the man following seeking to look into their souls for a hint of treachery. As people observed him getting close and took note of his garb — black leather coat, the pistol at the hip and that cap with the red star on his head — never mind the pair behind with slung rifles, they swayed away to avoid coming too close.

The door of the apartment block was deeply recessed, creating an area of Stygian darkness. Drecker had his lighter out, snapping it on to locate the keyhole, his two escorts waiting for the door to open. The flame went out, the key turned, and as Drecker stepped inside the darkened hallway, they followed. It was their job to shut the door, and it was as one turned to carry out his duty that the shadowy figure stepped forward and put a bullet from his Walther PP right in the centre of his forehead.

The phut of the silenced weapon barely registered; it was the door-closer being thrown backwards against his companion that made the second escort turn, what Cal could see of his face, really a pale blur, wondering what was going on. It was doubtful he had time to register it in his smashed brain.

That was when Drecker, switching the hall light on, heard the door slam and turned to see his two guards slumped on the hall floor and the assassin standing, feet apart with the pistol, the long barrel of the silencer too, pointing at his own head.

‘On your knees, hands behind your head.’

The overhead light obscured Cal’s face but Drecker’s eyes registered he had recognised the German-speaking voice. A hand went automatically to the flap of his holster, but the third bullet hit his forearm and broke it, driving his hand well away from the gun as the instruction was repeated. A shocked Drecker sank to his knees as Cal darted forward and took his pistol, before resuming his shooting stance.

‘I have come to make you pay for Florencia Gardiola.’ Drecker, who had been holding his wounded arm with his head bowed, looked up, trying to compose his face for an automatic denial. ‘As well as Juan Luis Laporta and, no doubt, hundreds of other innocents. You nearly had me killed too.’

‘I did not kill them — they died, and you were wounded, by an accidental discharge.’

‘No, you did not, but you gave the order, Drecker, to whoever fired that gun. Your mistake was to stay around in the shadows to ensure it was carried out. The first night after I met you, I saw you smoking a cigarette in the village square, and as you drew on it, the glow of the tip, because of the stupid way you hold it, lit up your cap badge. The night I was shot, I saw the same red star illuminated by a lit cigarette.’

‘You are wrong.’

‘No, Drecker, I am not. You waited to kill Laporta, and me too, marching up every night to keep his stupid attacks going and waiting till his own supporters were sick of it. Florencia was just a bystander, but what do you care?’

‘A victim — how many victims have there been on this front?’

‘Of their own side? You would know better than me. Now get on your feet.’

‘If I am going to die, I prefer to die here.’

‘You’re going to stand trial first, Drecker, I want the world to know you are guilty.’

In pain as he undoubtedly was, Cal could see the flicker in the pale-blue eyes: hope, the prayer that his potential assassin might be stupid enough to seek judicial revenge in a city where it would not be him who would be the victim. Cal Jardine was holding his breath; he would kill him here if he had to, but give a man a chance of life and he should take it, even if it sounded crazy.

‘Turn around. I am going to tie your hands, which will be painful. Do not make a sound.’

There was no gentility in what Cal did and he took pleasure in the whimpers of pain his actions caused, but the way Drecker did not cry out was promising; maybe he believed he was going to be handed over to a revolutionary court.

‘My car is outside and ten metres to the left of your front door. It is unlocked, go to it and open the back door. If you try anything I will put a bullet in the back of your skull.’

The lit hallway, when the front door was open, was a risk, but it had to be taken and they were over the corpses and out in less than two seconds, now in the dark recess, with Cal’s muzzle pressed against Drecker’s neck.

‘Walk at normal pace.’

That said, he dropped the weapon to run along his thigh, giving Drecker a slight shove to get him moving. The German did as he was asked, walked to the car, opened the back door and stood erect. With a quick glance to left and right to ensure no one was close, Cal hit him on the back of the head with the pistol butt, pushing him forward as he began to crumple, then leant down to heave in his legs. He had to close the door and go to the other side to drag him so he fell between the front and rear seats.