listen,” he urged. “Wait here
for two or three minutes, then follow me. Keep your distance. When you see me
go into a bar, you need to walk round the block before joining me there. And if
you see anyone suspicious, take off in the other direction.” He made me repeat
the instructions, then his back was receding from me at a brisk pace. I
wondered once again about Steve, but after waiting for exactly two and a half
minutes I set off in pursuit.
I followed Carlos from a distance of about
a hundred metres as he made his way down through the appropriately-named Gros district
and slipped into a dingy working men’s bar. Then I spent seven or eight minutes
strolling round in a circle as instructed.
On stepping into the grubby and
dilapidated bar, I was ushered to a corner table behind which sat a young
priest with a thin, sad face. I expected him to make the sign of the cross, but
he simply stood up and stretched out his hand.
“Good morning, Father Gato,” I said as
we shook hands, assuming him to be the man I’d agreed to meet. Neither of them corrected
me, and the priest simply returned my greeting. We continued to chat for
several minutes over coffee – about my course, my friends and my plans for the
future – without him giving anything away about himself.
In the end, however, he got down to
business. He lowered his voice before explaining that he was not Gato and neither
would he wish to be. “I’m not even a close friend of his—just someone he trusts
and thought you would trust. But he would be enchanted to meet you. Are you
free tomorrow in the middle of the day?”
“Not free exactly; I should be at college
until early afternoon. But yes, if I miss it they’ll just mark me down as
sick.”
The priest was about to reply when Carlos suddenly
leaned across and spoke to him. It was little more than a whisper, but I caught
the beginning of it clearly enough: “Goyo, he’ll have to go by himself. I can’t
be…”
A crash from the direction of the bar cut
off the rest of his words, and then the priest was speaking. “OK. I’m sorry
your friend Steve declined to meet us. It means you’ll have to go for quite a
long walk by yourself. Gato would prefer not to come into the city just now.
And the less time you spend in the company of his…” (there was a
noticeable pause as he flicked his eyes towards Carlos) “…friends, the better.
He’s a good man, but not popular with…”
The priest glanced around the almost empty
bar, and I waited for him to continue, but this time he did not complete his
sentence. Instead he gave me some simple directions and checked that I’d taken
them in: I was to take the funicular railway to the top of Monte Igeldo at
about midday, walk past the hotel and follow the track down the far side of the
headland. I would find Gato among the rocks.
Within five minutes of leaving the bar,
the conversation seemed unreal. I wondered what I was getting into, but pride
and curiosity pushed me on. I was no lover of violence, but I’d come to love
the Basque people, and the more I learned about their past the more I found
myself in sympathy. The thought of being on the inside – of being able to say
that I’d hobnobbed with a wanted activist – exerted a powerful draw. And what
about my degree dissertation? I’d been planning to write about the Basque contribution
to modern Spanish culture. What excellent field research this would be.
JACK
Jack
noticed Miguel frowning at this point, and he paused with a quizzical look on
his face. But Miguel ignored him and shot a glance at Alonso. “Do we have
anything on a paramilitary or organised crime figure named Gato?” asked the
detective.
“Not by that name, at any rate. I’m certain.”
“I didn’t have any other name for him,” said Jack. “Not
at the time, anyway. But I put two and two together later on, and I have one or
two other bits and pieces of information that might help you—when I get to that
part of the
for two or three minutes, then follow me. Keep your distance. When you see me
go into a bar, you need to walk round the block before joining me there. And if
you see anyone suspicious, take off in the other direction.” He made me repeat
the instructions, then his back was receding from me at a brisk pace. I
wondered once again about Steve, but after waiting for exactly two and a half
minutes I set off in pursuit.
I followed Carlos from a distance of about
a hundred metres as he made his way down through the appropriately-named Gros district
and slipped into a dingy working men’s bar. Then I spent seven or eight minutes
strolling round in a circle as instructed.
On stepping into the grubby and
dilapidated bar, I was ushered to a corner table behind which sat a young
priest with a thin, sad face. I expected him to make the sign of the cross, but
he simply stood up and stretched out his hand.
“Good morning, Father Gato,” I said as
we shook hands, assuming him to be the man I’d agreed to meet. Neither of them corrected
me, and the priest simply returned my greeting. We continued to chat for
several minutes over coffee – about my course, my friends and my plans for the
future – without him giving anything away about himself.
In the end, however, he got down to
business. He lowered his voice before explaining that he was not Gato and neither
would he wish to be. “I’m not even a close friend of his—just someone he trusts
and thought you would trust. But he would be enchanted to meet you. Are you
free tomorrow in the middle of the day?”
“Not free exactly; I should be at college
until early afternoon. But yes, if I miss it they’ll just mark me down as
sick.”
The priest was about to reply when Carlos suddenly
leaned across and spoke to him. It was little more than a whisper, but I caught
the beginning of it clearly enough: “Goyo, he’ll have to go by himself. I can’t
be…”
A crash from the direction of the bar cut
off the rest of his words, and then the priest was speaking. “OK. I’m sorry
your friend Steve declined to meet us. It means you’ll have to go for quite a
long walk by yourself. Gato would prefer not to come into the city just now.
And the less time you spend in the company of his…” (there was a
noticeable pause as he flicked his eyes towards Carlos) “…friends, the better.
He’s a good man, but not popular with…”
The priest glanced around the almost empty
bar, and I waited for him to continue, but this time he did not complete his
sentence. Instead he gave me some simple directions and checked that I’d taken
them in: I was to take the funicular railway to the top of Monte Igeldo at
about midday, walk past the hotel and follow the track down the far side of the
headland. I would find Gato among the rocks.
Within five minutes of leaving the bar,
the conversation seemed unreal. I wondered what I was getting into, but pride
and curiosity pushed me on. I was no lover of violence, but I’d come to love
the Basque people, and the more I learned about their past the more I found
myself in sympathy. The thought of being on the inside – of being able to say
that I’d hobnobbed with a wanted activist – exerted a powerful draw. And what
about my degree dissertation? I’d been planning to write about the Basque contribution
to modern Spanish culture. What excellent field research this would be.
JACK
Jack
noticed Miguel frowning at this point, and he paused with a quizzical look on
his face. But Miguel ignored him and shot a glance at Alonso. “Do we have
anything on a paramilitary or organised crime figure named Gato?” asked the
detective.
“Not by that name, at any rate. I’m certain.”
“I didn’t have any other name for him,” said Jack. “Not
at the time, anyway. But I put two and two together later on, and I have one or
two other bits and pieces of information that might help you—when I get to that
part of the
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