The Trojan Sea by Richard Herman Page B

insisted she join the group.
    “Have you heard about the others?” she asked.
    “I heard they were arrested and are in jail.”
    “They’ll die there,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into Spanish. “The bastards will execute them in their cells.”
    “Were we betrayed?” Eduardo asked.
    “Of course we were,” she snapped. “How else—” She fell silent as the waiter returned with her espresso. When he left, she continued. “Our country will never be free.” She fought back her tears. “Not in our lifetime.”
    Eduardo was moved by her tears and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His eyes flashed with passion, and he spoke in Spanish. “Do not lose faith. For every one of us they cut down, four more will arise in his place. We will free our country of this evil, this abomination to God and humanity. Our children will return to their homeland and not have to live under the cruel tyranny that has driven us into exile.” He stopped talking when Luis Barrios and Francisco Martínez arrived. Like Eduardo, they were in their mid-twenties.
    Luis Barrios, the group’s leader, slumped in a chair and mumbled a few words of deep despair for their jailed comrades. Then he talked about their struggle to win the freedom of their country. Slowly his own words renewed his spirit and filled him with purpose. The movement was not dead, and as the Semtex explosive had been delivered, they had work to do.
    Eduardo called for their bill.
     
     
    The waiter scoffed at the small tip Eduardo left behind and scooped it off the table in disgust. A tall, very pretty woman with dark hair sitting at the next table caught his attention. She often came to the café, always alone, and most of the waiters thought she was either an FBI or a CIA agent. But as he always pointed out, beauty attracted attention, and that was bad for an agent. Personally, he thought she was attracted to Latin men or just practicing her Spanish. Perhaps both. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Sophia James said in passable Spanish. “Are they really freedom fighters?”
    “Them?” the waiter said in disgust. “They’re from Puerto Rico, not Cuba.” She couldn’t hear the accents. At least she’ll leave a large tip.
    She did.

4
     
    RAF Cranthorpe
     
    Inside the hangar, Shanker and Seagrave sat in deck chairs nursing monumental hangovers while Eric played in the Lightning’s cockpit. The boy’s dark blond hair kept bobbing out of sight as he fought his version of the Battle of Britain. Outside, a cleanup crew of volunteers swept up the trash from Saturday’s air show. “The bastards,” Seagrave kept grumbling over and over. “She’s too good a bird to turn into scrap.” He fell into a pit of deep remorse. “I should have mowed the bastards down.”
    “A kill is a kill,” Shanker muttered, each word a pile driver of agony spiking his headache.
    A silver Bentley drove up and stopped in front of the hangar. The chauffeur popped out and held the rear door open. Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika climbed out, stretching his tall frame. Seagrave stood and walked, a bit unsteadily, over to meet the Saudi prince. They knew each other from the time Seagrave had trained Saudi pilots in the Lightning. “So, my friend,” Turika said, “you have problems.”
    Seagrave told the prince about the unauthorized flight and how, in retaliation, the CAA had ordered the Lightning to be salvaged for scrap. “All my fault,” he admitted. “I should have killed the fools on the runway.”
    Turika walked around the jet. “Very good,” he admitted, admiring the immaculate restoration work. “You did this all with private contributions?” Seagrave quoted the figures in pounds sterling and the estimated number of man-hours that had been volunteered. “It sounds like a labor of love,” Turika said. Eric stuck his head out of the cockpit and quickly climbed out. Seagrave introduced Eric and then Shanker, telling the prince how Shanker had flown