Sidney Sheldon - The sands of time

"No, but—"

"I'm sorry. The warden isn't seeing anyone this morning.

If you telephone this afternoon—"

"Tell him it's Megan Scott."

He took a closer look at her. So this is the rich American who's trying to get Jaime Miró released. I wouldn't mind having her work on me for a few nights. "I'll tell the warden you're here."

Five minutes later Megan was seated in Warden de la Fuente's office. With him were half a dozen members of the prison board.

"What can I do for you, Miss Scott?"

"I would like to see Jaime Miró."

The warden sighed. "I'm afraid that is not possible."

"But I'm—"

"Miss Scott—we are all aware of who you are. If we could accommodate you, I assure you that we would be more than happy to do so," he said with a smile. "We Spaniards are really an understanding people. We are also sentimental, and from time to time we are not averse to turning a blind eye to certain rules and regulations." His smile disappeared. "But not today, Miss Scott. No. Today is a very special day. It has taken us years to catch the man you wish to see. So this is a day of rules and regulations. The next one to see Jaime Miró will be his God —if he has one."

Megan stared at him, miserable. "Could—could I just look at him for a moment?"

One of the members of the prison board, touched by the anguish in Megan's face, was tempted to intervene. He stopped himself.

"I'm sorry," Warden de la Fuente said. "No."

"Could I send him a message?" Her voice was choked.

"You would be sending a message to a dead man." He looked at his watch. "He has less than an hour to live."

"But he's appealing his sentence. Isn't a panel of judges meeting to decide if—?"

"They've voted against it. I received word from them fifteen minutes ago. Miró's appeal has been denied. The execution will take place. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

He rose, and the others followed suit. Megan looked around the room at their cold faces and shuddered.

"May God have mercy on all of you," she said.

They watched, silent, as she fled from the room.

At ten minutes before the noon hour, the door to Jaime Miró's cell was opened. Warden Gomez de la Fuente, accompanied by his two assistants, Molinas and Arrange, and Dr. Miguel Anunción, entered the cell. Four armed guards stood watch in the corridor.

The warden said, "It's time."

Jaime rose from his cot. He was handcuffed and shackled.

"I was hoping you'd be late." There was an air of dignity about him that Warden de la Fuente could not help but admire.

At another time, under other circumstances, we might have been friends, he thought.

Jaime stepped out into the deserted corridor, his movements clumsy because of the shackles. He was flanked by the guards and Molinas and Arrange. "The garrote?" Jaime asked.

The warden nodded. "The garrote." Excruciatingly painful,

inhuman. It was a good thing, the warden thought, that the execution would take place in a private room, away from the eyes of the public and the press.

The procession made its way down the corridor. From outside, in the street, they could hear the chant of the crowd: "Jaime… Jaime… Jaime…" It was a swelling, bursting from a thousand throats, growing louder and louder.

"They're calling for you," Pedros Arrange said.

"No. They're calling for themselves. They're calling for freedom. Tomorrow they'll have another name. I may die—but there will always be another name."

They passed through two security gates and came to a small chamber at the end of the hallway that had a green iron door.

From around the corner a black-robed priest appeared.

"Thank heavens I'm in time. I've come to give the condemned man the last rites."

As he moved toward Miró, two guards blocked his way.

"Sorry, Father," Warden de la Fuente said. "Nobody goes near him."

"But I'm—"

"If you want to give him his last rites, you'll have to do it through closed doors. Out of the way, please."

A guard opened the green door. Standing inside, next to a chair with heavy arm straps that was bolted to the floor, was a huge man wearing a half-mask. In his hands he held the garrote.

The warden nodded toward Molinas and Arrango and the doctor, and they entered the room after Jaime. The guards remained outside. The green door was locked and bolted.

Inside the room, Molinas and Arrango led Jaime to the chair. They unlocked his handcuffs, then strapped him in,

pulling the heavy straps against his arms, while Dr. Anunción and Warden de la Fuente watched. Through the thick closed door they could barely hear the chanting of the priest.

De la Fuente looked at Jaime and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. God will understand what he is saying."

The giant holding the garrote moved behind Jaime. Warden

Gomez de la Fuente asked, "Do you want a cloth over your face?"

"No."

The warden looked at the giant and nodded. The giant lifted the garrote in his hand and reached forward.

The guards outside the door could hear the chanting of the mob in the street.

"You know something?" one of the guards grumbled. "I wish

I was out there with them."

Five minutes later, the green door opened.

Dr. Anunción said, "Bring in the body bag."

Following instructions, Jaime Miró's body was smuggled out through a back door of the prison. The body bag was thrown into the back of an unmarked van. But the moment the vehicle pulled out of the prison grounds, the crowd in the street pressed forward, as though drawn to it by some mystic magnet.

"Jaime… Jaime…"

But the cries were softer now. Men and women wept, and their children looked on in wonder, not understanding what was happening. The van made its way through the crowd and finally turned onto a highway.

"Jesus," the driver said. "That was spooky. The guy must have had something."

"Yeah. And thousands of people knew it, too!"

At two o'clock that afternoon, Warden Gomez de la Fuente and his two assistants, Juanito Molinas and Pedros Arrango,

appeared at the office of Prime Minister Martinez.

"I want to congratulate you," the prime minister said.

"The execution went perfectly."

The warden spoke. "Mr. Prime Minister, we're not here to receive your congratulations. We're here to resign."

Martinez stared at them, baffled. "I—I don't understand.

What—?"

"It's a matter of humanity, Your Excellency. We just watched a man die. Perhaps he deserved to die. But not like that. It—it was barbaric. I want no more part of this or anything like it, and my colleagues feel the same way."

"Perhaps you should give this more thought. Your pensions—"

"We have to live with our consciences." Warden de la

Fuente handed the prime minister three pieces of paper.

"Here are our resignations."

Late that night, the van crossed the French border and headed for the village of Bidache, near Bayonne. It pulled up before a neat farmhouse.

"This is the place. Let's get rid of the body before it starts to smell."

The door to the farmhouse was opened by a woman in her middle fifties. "You brought him?"

"Yes, ma'am. Where would you like it—er—him?"

"In the parlor, please."

"Yes, ma'am. I—I wouldn't wait too long to bury him. You know what I mean?"

She watched the two men carry in the body bag and set it on the floor.

"Thank you."

"De nada."

She stood there watching as they drove away.

Another woman walked in from the other room and ran toward the body bag. She hastily unzipped it.

Jaime Miró was lying there smiling up at them. "Do you know something? That garrote could be a real pain in the neck." ,

"White wine or red?" Megan asked.