Sidney Sheldon - The sands of time

"I really came here to assist you," Megan said. "It occurred to me that while we have a few factories in Spain,

we're not using nearly enough of the potential that your country has to offer."

He was listening closely now, his eyes shining. "Yes?"

"Scott Industries is thinking about opening a huge electronics plant. It should employ somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred people. If it is as successful as we think it will be, we'll open satellite factories."

"And you have not decided in which country you wish to open this plant?"

"That's right. I'm personally in favor of Spain, but quite frankly, Your Excellency, some of my executives are not too happy with your civil rights record."

"Really?"

"Yes. They feel that those who object to some of the policies of the state are treated too harshly."

"Do you have anyone in particular in mind?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Jaime Miró."

He sat there staring at her. "I see. And if we were to be lenient with Jaime Miró, we would get the electronics factory and—"

"And a lot more," Megan assured him. "Our factories will raise the standard of living in every community they're in."

The prime minister frowned. "I'm afraid there is one small problem."

"What? We can negotiate further."

"This is something that cannot be negotiated, Miss Scott.

Spain's honor is not for sale. You cannot bribe us or buy us or threaten us."

"Believe me, I'm not—"

"You come here with your handouts and expect us to run our courts to please you? Think again, Miss Scott. We don't need your factories."

I've made it worse, Megan thought, despairingly.

The trial lasted six weeks in a heavily guarded courtroom that was closed to the public.

Megan remained in Madrid, following the news reports of the trial each day. From time to time, Mike Rosen telephoned her.

"I know what you're going through, friend. I think you should come home."

"I can't, Mike."

She tried to see Jaime.

"Absolutely no visitors."

The last day of the trial, Megan stood outside the courtroom, lost in a crowd of people. Reporters came streaming out of the building, and Megan stopped one of them.

"What happened?"

"They found him guilty on all counts. He's going to get the garrote."

At five A.M. on the morning scheduled for the execution of

Jaime Miró, crowds began to gather outside the central prison in Madrid. Barricades set up by the Guardia Civil kept the swelling mob of onlookers across the wide street, away from the front entrance to the prison. Armed troops and tanks blocked the iron prison gates.

Inside the prison, in the office of Warden Gomez de la

Fuente, an extraordinary meeting was taking place. In the room were Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez, Alonzo Sebastian,

the new head of the GOE, and the warden's executive deputies,

Juanito Molinas and Pedros Arrango. Warden de la Fuente was a heavyset, grim-faced middle-aged man who had passionately devoted his life to disciplining the miscreants that the government had placed in his charge. Molinas and Arrango, his hard-bitten assistants, had served with de la Fuente for the past twenty years.

Prime Minister Martinez was speaking. "I would like to know what arrangements you have made to ensure that there will be no trouble in carrying out Mir у's execution."

Warden de la Fuente replied, "We have prepared for every possible contingency, Your Excellency. As Your Excellency observed when you arrived, a full company of armed soldiers is stationed around the prison. It would take an army to break in."

"And inside the prison itself?"

"The precautions are even more stringent. Jaime Miró is locked in a double security cell on the second floor. The other prisoners on that floor have been temporarily transferred. Two guards are stationed in front of Miró's cell and two guards are at each end of the cell block. I have ordered a general lock-down, so that all prisoners will remain in their cells until after the execution."

"What time will that take place?"

"At noon, Your Excellency. I have postponed mess hall until one o'clock. That will give us enough time to get

Miró's body out of here."

"What plans have you made for disposing of it?"

"I am following your suggestion, Excellency. His burial in

Spain could cause the government embarrassment if the Basques should turn his grave into some kind of shrine. We have been in touch with his aunt in France. She lives in a small village outside Bayonne. She has agreed to bury him there."

The prime minister rose. "Excellent." He sighed. "I still think a hanging in the public square would have been more appropriate."

"Yes, Your Excellency. But in that case, I could no longer have been responsible for controlling the mob outside."

"I suppose you're right. There's no point in stirring up any more excitement than is necessary. The garrote is more painful and slower. And if any man deserves the garrote, it is Jaime Miró."

Warden de la Fuente said, "Excuse me, Your Excellency, but

I understand that a commission of judges is meeting to consider a last-minute appeal from Miró's attorneys. If it should come through, what should I—?"

The prime minister interrupted. "It won't. The execution will proceed as scheduled."

The meeting was over.

At seven-thirty A.M., a bread truck arrived in front of the prison gate.

"Delivery."

One of the prison guards stationed at the entrance looked in at the driver. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Where's Julio?"

"He's sick in bed today."

"Why don't you go join him, amigo?"

"What?"

"No deliveries this morning. Come back this afternoon."

"But every morning—"

"Nothing goes in, and only one thing is going out. Now,

back up, turn around, and get your ass out of here before my pals get nervous."

The driver looked around at the armed soldiers staring at him. "Sure. Okay."

They watched as he turned the truck around and disappeared down the street. The commander of the post reported the incident to the warden. When the story was checked out, it was learned that the regular deliveryman was in the hospital,

a victim of a hit-and-run driver.

At eight A.M., a car bomb exploded across the street from the prison, wounding half a dozen bystanders. Under ordinary circumstances, the guards would have left their posts to investigate and assist the wounded. But they had strict orders. They remained at their stations and the Guardia Civil was summoned to take charge.

The incident was promptly reported to Warden de la Fuente.

"They're getting desperate," he said. "Be prepared for anything."

At nine-fifteen A.M., a helicopter appeared over the prison grounds. Painted on its sides were the words La

Prensa, Spain's prominent daily newspaper.

Two antiaircraft guns had been set up on the prison roof.

The lieutenant in charge waved a flag to warn off the plane.

It continued to hover. The officer picked up a field telephone.

"Warden, we have a copter overhead."

"Any identification?"

"It says La Prensa, but the sign looks freshly painted."

"Give it one warning shot. If it doesn't move, blow it out of the sky."

"Yes, sir." He nodded to his gunner. "Put a close one in."

The shot landed five yards to the side of the helicopter.

They could see the pilot's startled face. The gunner loaded again. The helicopter swooped up and disappeared across the skies of Madrid.

What the hell is next! the lieutenant wondered.

At eleven A.M. Megan Scott appeared at the reception office of the prison. She looked drawn and pale. "I want to see Warden de la Fuente."

"Do you have an appointment?"