The Sands of Time (32 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

T
he converted 727 was flying thirty-five thousand feet over the Grand Canyon. It had been a long, hard day.
And it’s not over yet,
Megan thought.

She was on her way to California to sign the papers that would give Scott Industries one million acres of timberland north of San Francisco. She had struck a hard bargain.

It’s their fault,
Megan thought.
They shouldn’t have tried to cheat me. I’ll bet I’m the first bookkeeper they’ve ever come up against from a Cistercian convent
She laughed aloud.

The steward approached her. “Can I get you anything, Miss Scott?”

She saw a stack of newspapers and magazines in the rack. She had been so busy with the deal that she had not had time to read anything. “Let me see
The New York Times,
please.”

The story was on the front page and it leaped out at her. There was a photograph of Jaime Miró. Below it the article read: “Jaime Miró, leader of ETA, the radical Basque separatist movement in Spain, was wounded and captured by police during a bank holdup yesterday afternoon in Seville. Killed in the attack was Felix Carpio, another of the alleged terrorists. The authorities had been conducting a search for Miró since…”

Megan read the rest of the article and sat there for a long time, frozen, remembering the past. It was like a distant dream photographed through a gauze curtain, hazy and unreal.

This fight will be over soon. We’ll get what we want because the people are behind us…I would like you to wait for me…

Long ago she had read of a civilization that believed if you saved a person’s life, you were responsible for him. Well, she had saved Jaime twice—once at the castle, and again at the park.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them kill him now.

She reached for the telephone next to her seat and said to the pilot, “Turn the plane around. We’re going back to New York.”

A limousine was waiting for her at La Ouardia Airport, and by the time she arrived in her office it was two
A.M.
Lawrence Gray, Jr., was waiting for her. His father had been the company’s attorney for years and had retired. His son was bright and ambitious.

Without preamble, Megan said, “Jaime Miró. What do you know about him?”

The reply was immediate. “He’s a Basque terrorist, head of ETA. I think I just read that he was captured a day or so ago.”

“Right. The government is going to have to put him on trial. I want to have someone there. Who’s the best trial lawyer in the country?”

“I’d say Curtis Hayman.”

“No. Too much of a gentleman. We need a killer.” She thought for a moment. “Get Mike Rosen.”

“He’s booked for the next hundred years, Megan.”

“Unbook him. I want him in Madrid for the trial.”

He frowned. “We can’t get involved in a public trial in Spain.”

“Sure we can.
Amicus curiae.
We’re friends of the defendant.”

He studied her a moment. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes. Get on this.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Larry…”

“Yes?”

“And then some.” There was steel in her voice.

Twenty minutes later, Lawrence Gray, Jr., walked back into Megan’s office. “Mike Rosen is on the phone. I think I woke him up. He wants to talk to you.”

Megan picked up the telephone. “Mr. Rosen? What a pleasure this is. We’ve never met, but I have a feeling you and I are going to become very good friends. A lot of people sue Scott Industries just for the target practice, and I’ve been looking around for someone to take charge of all our litigation. Yours is the one name that keeps coming up. Naturally, I’m prepared to pay you a large retainer for—”

“Miss Scott—?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mind a little snow job, but you’re giving me frostbite.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then let me put it in legal parlance for you. Cut out the bullshit. It’s two o’clock in the morning. You don’t hire people at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Mr. Rosen—”

“Mike. We’re going to be good friends, remember? But friends have to trust one another. Larry tells me you want me to go to Spain to try to save some Basque terrorist who’s in the hands of the police.”

She started to say, “He’s not a terrorist—” but stopped herself. “Yes.”

“What’s your problem? Is he suing Scott Industries because his gun jammed?”

“He—”

“I’m sorry, friend. I can’t help you. My schedule is so tight that I gave up going to the bathroom six months ago. I can recommend a few lawyers…”

No,
Megan thought.
Jaime Miró needs you.
And she was suddenly seized by a sense of hopelessness. Spain was another world, another time. When she spoke, her voice sounded weary. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s a very personal matter. I’m sorry for coming on so strongly.”

“Hey! That’s what CEOs are supposed to do. Very personal is different, Megan. To tell you the truth, I’m dying to hear what interest the head of Scott Industries has in saving a Spanish terrorist. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

She was going to let nothing stand in her way. “Absolutely.”

“Le Cirque at one o’clock?”

Megan felt her spirits lifting. “Fine.”

“You make the reservation. But I have to warn you about something.”

“Yes?”

“I have a very nosy wife.”

They met at Le Cirque, and when Sirio had seated them, Mike Rosen said, “You’re better-looking than your picture. I’ll bet everybody tells you that.”

He was very short, and he dressed carelessly. But there was nothing careless about his mind. His eyes radiated a blazing intelligence.

“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” Mike Rosen said. “What’s your interest in Jaime Miró?”

There was so much to tell. Too much to tell. All Megan said was, “He’s a friend. I don’t want him to die.”

Rosen leaned forward in his seat. “I went through the newspaper files on him this morning. If Don Juan Carlos’s government executes Miró only once, he’ll be way ahead of the game. They’re going to get hoarse just reading the charges against your friend.” He saw the expression on Megan’s face. “I’m sorry, but I have to be honest. Miró has been a very busy man. He holds up banks, blows up cars, murders people—”

“He’s not a murderer. He’s a patriot. He’s fighting for his rights.”

“Okay, okay. He’s my hero too. What do you want me to do?”

“Save him.”

“Megan, we’re such good friends that I’m going to tell you the absolute truth. Jesus Christ himself couldn’t save him. You’re looking for a miracle that—”

“I believe in miracles. Will you help me?”

He studied her a moment. “What the hell. What are friends for? Have you tried the pâté? I hear they make it kosher.”

The Fax message from Madrid read: “Have spoken to half a dozen top European lawyers. They refuse to represent Miró. Tried to have myself admitted to trial as
amicus curiae.
Court ruled against me. Wish I could pull off that miracle for you, friend, but Jesus hasn’t risen yet. Am on my way home. You owe me a lunch. Mike.”

The trial was set to begin the seventeenth of September.

“Cancel my appointments,” Megan told her assistant. “I have some business to take care of in Madrid.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

Megan planned her strategy on the plane flying over the Atlantic.
There has to be a way,
she thought.
I have money and I have power. The prime minister is the key. I have to get to him before the trial starts. After that, it will be too late.

Megan had an appointment with Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez twenty-four hours after she arrived in Madrid. He invited her to Moncloa Palace for lunch.

“Thank you for seeing me so promptly,” Megan said. “I know what a busy man you are.”

He raised a hand in deprecation. “My dear Miss Scott, when the head of an organization as important as Scott Industries flies to my country to see me, I can only be honored. Please tell me how I can assist you.”

“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.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO

A
t 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 arrangemnts you have made to ensure that there will be no trouble in carrying out Miró’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?”

“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 Arrango, 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 Arrango. “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 Arrango 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.