Big City Jacks

Eighteen

Karl Donaldson opened his eyes. Warm, tawny sun filtered through the latticed shutters, spreading a glow across the room. He sat up slowly, rubbed his caked-up eyes and breathed deeply, blinking to try and focus. He looked at his own body, saw he was naked, saw how battered it was and knew he was fortunate to be alive.

Slowly he got to his feet, steadied himself and padded across the cold marble floor to the shuttered window, which he opened.

The view made his lips purse in wonderment. A beautiful valley, a river snaking through the floor of it and far away in the distance the shimmer of the sea in the heat haze. Rays of sunshine flooded in, caressing his body like a warm massage as he stood there gazing down the mountainside. Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he was dead, maybe this was heaven.

There was a soft tap on the door.

Donaldson turned slowly, his aching joints not allowing quick action.

The door opened to reveal a beautiful girl standing on the threshold, long golden hair cascading across her shoulders, a dark Mediterranean shade to her glowing skin, wide brown eyes, dark eyelashes. A simple dress covered her, but also accentuated her full figure, her breasts pushing up against the fabric.

Yes, I am dead, Donaldson thought. I have gone to heaven and this is my angel.

The clothes were rough, well worn, but clean and cared for. The girl carried them in front of her. She crossed to the bed and laid the items carefully on it, together with a pair of shoes she placed on the bedroom floor. Her eyes stayed low, looking away from Donaldson’s nakedness, though they did occasionally flicker in his direction.

‘I heard you moving,’ she said, drawing back to the door, Donaldson watching her open-mouthed. ‘There is a towel there’ — she pointed to a rail — ‘and the shower is down the hallway.’ She smiled nervously.

She held up a finger, silencing Donaldson, who was about to speak. She shook her head. ‘Get a shower, shave if you like, then come out on to the terrace. You’ll find it.’

‘Just one thing,’ he said quickly.

She nodded impatiently.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Two days.’

‘Two days? What the hell has been going on?’

‘You’ve been recovering,’ she said. ‘You had a fever, then you slept and now. .’ She shrugged.

‘One more thing. . are you Spanish?’

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘English.’ With that she closed the door, leaving him alone. He stretched, standing in the sun, feeling it warm his bones, but also feeling aches and pains inside him. He closed the shutters and walked back to the bed, reaching for the towel, which he wrapped around his waist.

The shower, down the hall as described, worked very well. It was hot and powerful and Donaldson revelled in it, soaping himself gently, allowing the heat of the water to permeate through his tired muscles, helping to ease their tension. As he showered, his mind worked back to everything that had happened to him. It was as these thoughts rearranged themselves into order, he started to panic.

‘Give me an hour,’ Lopez had said to Donaldson. The hour stretched forever as the big American sat in the restaurant in Ciudad Quesada, drinking cafe solo, hoping the huge quantities of caffeine would keep him alert and ready for the worst. He was beginning to think this little unauthorized jaunt might not be such a good idea after all. No one in the office knew where he was, he hadn’t even told Karen, though at least Henry knew something. But because he was in Spain very unofficially, it also meant there was no chance of being armed and at that moment he was feeling very vulnerable indeed.

Midnight came, went. Diners filtered away from the restaurant, leaving him and a couple of other hangers-on to annoy the waiters who were clearly desperate to wind up for the night.

Donaldson had nowhere to go.

Even the other two stragglers asked for their bills, paid up and left.

A chill descended on the night. The waiters began stacking chairs. One sauntered hesitantly up to him and said, ‘Senor?’ with a shrug. ‘We are closing now.’

Donaldson nodded. ‘Si. . la cuenta, por favor,’ he said, much to the man’s relief. It looked like Lopez was a no-show. He counted out his euros on to the saucer, was about to stand and leave when a large black Mercedes, with tinted windows and a driver, drew up outside.

Lopez climbed out and trotted up the restaurant steps, nodding at the waiters. He walked confidently across to Donaldson’s table and sat down, beckoning a waiter. The man scurried over, all tugging forelock and bowing and scraping. It was plain to Donaldson that Lopez was well known to the staff.

‘Do you wish for anything more?’ Lopez asked Donaldson.

‘Espresso.’

Lopez barked the order, then turned and regarded Donaldson.

In the records which Donaldson kept on Lopez, he was known only under the codename ‘Stingray’. Lopez did not know this, but it seemed an appropriate name for him as his lips reminded Donaldson of those of a stingray. It was a horrible, pale mouth, pink and bloodless, shiver-inducing. Donaldson did not like or trust him, but he was willing to become bedfellows with anyone who gave him a chance of nailing Mendoza.

Lopez had approached him in the first instance and had provided good information initially, but never quite enough. He realized that Lopez was playing his own game here, too. Quite what it was could only be guessed at. Maybe he would find out more tonight. . and even as Donaldson considered this, his instinct warned him: ‘Be very careful here. This man is an informant and he is meeting you out in the open on his turf. . what does that signal?’ Though it had been Donaldson’s idea to meet here, he would have respected Lopez’s decision to meet somewhere more discreet.

The American’s whole being came on the alert.

Showered, shaved, fully clothed — although no garment actually fitted him properly, everything just too small because he was a large, broad man — Donaldson took a deep breath and wandered through the house, walking out of the kitchen and emerging on to the terrace, which had the same view as his bedroom, only without the frame. There was a large wooden dining table, six chairs, a stone-built oven; beyond was a swimming pool.

The girl was sitting at the table, reading a novel. She placed it down and raised her face to Donaldson, smiling with perfect teeth. Donaldson squinted, shading his eyes from the beating sun.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

He paused, blew out his cheeks, gave her a cautious sideways glance, smiled himself.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Confused and very, very sore.’

‘Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten for days.’

‘Now you come to mention it, I’m ravenous.’ On cue, his stomach roared like a lion. Both laughed.

‘I’ll do something simple,’ the girl said, standing up. She was backlit by the sun filtering through the thin cotton of her dress. Donaldson caught his breath, reminded of the famous early photos of Diana Spencer. It was clear that this girl knew, as Diana had, the effect she was having. She was fully aware he could see her body. She grinned coyly, moved past him, closer than she needed to. He trailed her into the kitchen. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast?’ she asked.

‘Wonderful,’ he responded.

She set about the task in the spacious, simple room. Slicing bread from what looked like a home-made loaf, cracking and whisking four big, brown eggs, adding sprinkles of herbs, cheese, salt, ground pepper and some creamy milk.

‘I’m at a loss,’ he admitted. ‘I kinda know why I’m here, but the finer details escape me. It’s been a bit of a haze.’

‘You’ve been ill. . anyway, my father will be back soon,’ she told him. ‘He’s down in the orange grove. . he’ll tell you everything.’

‘Right, good.’ He watched her, busy at the range, turning the thick toast under the grill, stirring the eggs which began to harden, boiling a kettle. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Maria.’

It had to be, he thought. ‘Last name?’

‘Elliot.’

‘I’m Karl Donaldson.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘You work for the FBI.’

‘That’s a point,’ he clicked his fingers. ‘My things.’

‘All washed — what was left of them. They were in a bit of a mess, but Dad found your wallet and it seems OK.’

‘Good. I need to contact some people. Was there a mobile phone?’

‘No.’ She spooned out perfect scrambled eggs on to perfect toast. ‘It’s ready.’

With equally perfect coffee, Donaldson sat and consumed the plain but delicious meal at the table on the terrace. Each mouthful made him feel better and better, his energy flooding back.

Maria busied herself in the kitchen, taking sly glances at him.

When he finished eating, he sipped the coffee, gazing at the view.

The situation he had brought about put his defences up: Lopez in the open, talking to a stranger, and it did not feel right. Donaldson’s eyes constantly roved, seeking danger.

‘What’s happening?’

‘This is unacceptable,’ Lopez said. ‘You have caused me great problems. When you called me, I was with him.’

‘You handled it OK.’

‘Maybe, but whatever. . I am no longer your informant. Our relationship is terminated.’

Even though Donaldson was half-expecting this, it still punched him like a fist in the solar plexus. Without Lopez, Mendoza would be far more difficult to bring down.

‘I don’t think so,’ Donaldson said. ‘You’re in too deep.’

Lopez shook his head. ‘It is over,’ he said, as though ending an affair. ‘I do not need it any more.’

Desperation made Donaldson say the next words. ‘What would Mendoza think if he knew you and I talked?’

Lopez grimaced. ‘Threat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this the way you treat informants if they begin to waver, if they wish to withdraw their services? Is this the way the FBI works?’

‘It’s the way I work.’

‘I have given you all I am going to give.’

‘Lopez. . I’m. . I need to get Mendoza and if you will not help me, then as far as I am concerned, you’re back on the shit pile with him. I can’t — or won’t — protect you any more.’

The expression in the Spaniard’s eyes almost froze Donaldson’s arteries.

‘I’m afraid, Karl, that I cannot afford for you to make threats like that. My own game plan is coming together now and I no longer need you. You were part of it once, but now it’s time to cut free. Coming out to Spain was a miscalculation on your part.’ He smiled the smile of a stingray.

Heavy rain suddenly began to fall on the street outside.

Donaldson shivered, heard a noise and turned quickly, plucked from his memories. A man walked out of the kitchen door and on to the terrace. Late fifties, he looked healthy and tanned, slim and fit. Donaldson stood up as the man thrust a hand at him.

‘John Elliot,’ he introduced himself.

‘Karl Donaldson.’

‘I think I may have just saved your life, Mr Donaldson.’

Two guys were behind Donaldson before he could react.

‘They are armed, Karl, and they will shoot you in the back without hesitation should I nod my head, or should you do anything idiotic.’

The men dragged Donaldson to his feet and quickly searched him, then forced him back on to the chair. ‘He’s clean,’ one said.

The men sat down at an empty table, maybe ten feet away. A manageable distance for a handgun — if that’s what they were armed with.

Lopez relaxed.

‘What’s this about?’ Donaldson asked, a wave of his hand indicating the new arrivals, but really meaning the whole situation.

Lopez looked pained. ‘Ambition, greed, power, lust, money, women. . you name it. . conspiracy of the highest order.’ He shrugged. ‘All those things.’

‘All in relation to you?’

‘Yes. . I either have them or crave them, I don’t mind admitting that. . and I have been conspiring to collect them all. It doesn’t really matter that you now know, because soon you will be dead and my words will go with you to your grave — if you can call it a grave.’

Outside, the rain beat down heavily.

‘Is this about you and Mendoza?’ Donaldson guessed, knowing it was a rhetorical and quite naff question, but he was working out how best to take on the two hoods sitting behind him.

‘Very much.’ Lopez warmed to it, shifting excitedly in his chair. ‘A bit like a Greek tragedy, only we are Spanish.’

‘So, a Spanish tragedy?’

Lopez laughed. Donaldson weighed up flight or fight options.

‘I have been scheming for years,’ Lopez admitted, ‘because I want what he has and now the time has come for me to make my move. I can hold back no longer.’

‘Is this a wise conversation?’ Donaldson gestured by tilting his head back towards the heavies behind him.

‘They were brought up on the streets of Madrid, fighting and killing for their very existence. They are merely brainless hoodlums, working conscientiously for whoever pays them at the time — and at the moment I pay them.’

‘Greed, lust, power, money. . my, my, my. . you have some things to tell me then?’

‘Nothing that will surprise you, I suspect.’

‘Try me.’

‘You were just a pawn in the game, to coin a phrase.’

‘Now to be dispensed with, I guess.’

‘I have been planning long-term the fall of Carlos Mendoza. . and you were simply one of the devices I used.’ Donaldson could see the eyes in Lopez’s head twinkling. Power-crazed bastard, he thought. ‘It’s been a long haul,’ the Spaniard sighed. ‘Planning, negotiating, influencing. . killing, even. It has taken time and guile to back Mendoza into this corner, one from which he will be unable to escape.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ Donaldson said genuinely. This was a story he wanted to hear before he worked out how to get free of this deadly situation — and take Lopez with him.

John Elliot had a pleasant expression, as though he was always on the verge of breaking into a grin of self-satisfaction. He seemed content and at peace with the world around him. Sitting next to Donaldson at the table on the terrace, the American found himself to be a little envious of the man who, it seemed, had everything he wanted out of life.

‘I’m a retired cop, actually. Been here since the day of my retirement, just over seven years ago. This place was really run down and it’s only in maybe the last eight, ten months that it’s all come together. Been real graft.’ Elliot sipped from his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a little misty-eyed at the memories.

‘You seem to have it sorted.’

‘Mm,’ he agreed, ‘but I couldn’t have done it without the pension behind me. I’ll never make any money from this place, unless I sell it, but that’s not the point, is it?’

‘Any regrets?’ Donaldson asked.

‘Maybe one. . the wife couldn’t stand it. The hard work and discomfort that renovating the place took. No shops within twenty miles. She upped and left four years ago. Haven’t heard from her since. Not even sure if I’m divorced or what.’

Donaldson regarded Elliot. Perhaps he hadn’t got everything.

‘Maria decided to stay. I couldn’t have pulled it together without her, but I think she’s restless now, which is fair enough. I don’t intend to hold her back if she wants to leave.’ He sighed wistfully.

‘How do you make money, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Pension — as I said. Olives and lemons. I write articles occasionally about British ex-pat life on the Costas and I paint a little. Started selling the odd canvas. . it’s not much. Maria teaches English as a foreign language down in Torrevieja, so we make ends meet.’

‘Sounds a good life.’

‘It has its ups and downs like any other.’ Elliot finished his cold drink. ‘So, Mr Donaldson, now you’ve had a potted history of my life, how did you end up half-drowned in a flooded river bed?’ He turned to him, waited for an explanation.

Lopez had stepped on to an unstoppable train now as he shared his Machiavellian scheming.

Donaldson had witnessed this type of ‘opening the floodgates’ from felons before. At times when they felt comfortable, they would reveal all, hoping that the recipient would let them bask in the limelight and fuel their already outrageous egos. Lopez obviously felt he could blab to Donaldson, which he actually found very worrying. It was like the Bond villain explaining his master plan to the secret agent whilst Bond was pinned to the circular-saw table, because the villain knew that Bond was about to die a most horrible death.

For James Bond, substitute Karl Donaldson.

‘Where should I begin?’ Lopez said thoughtfully. ‘Not at the beginning. That is too far back. All you need to know is that Mendoza worked his way up the crime ladder until he was doing business with the Cosa Nostra in Sicily. They loaned him money to carry out operations for them, he paid them back and both grew rich. . a happy situation. I have known Mendoza for many years. We were gang members in Madrid as kids, running protection rackets, stealing, hurting people. I followed him up the tree until I was well placed in the’ — Lopez shrugged here — ‘thing that he calls his organization.’

Donaldson pretty much knew the history of Miguel Lopez, but he let the man talk uninterrupted.

‘But I always wanted what he had, always believed I was the better man, and that is how my campaign started. Manoeuvring and manipulating him carefully and skilfully into positions where he was made to look, shall we say, less than competent? Situations in which the Mafia paymasters would start seeing him as a liability. . without, of course, him suspecting I was the one responsible for doing it.’ He grinned at his own brilliance. ‘I was always the better brain.’

‘I’m sure,’ Donaldson said sincerely. ‘Examples?’

‘The loan he made to a gangster in the north of England. Marty Cragg. . a loan which would never have the chance of being repaid. . I made it happen. The loan was made with borrowed Mafia funds and in the end he was forced to kill Cragg and transfer the loan to his wiser brother, Roy. A man who now languishes in prison, unable to pay it back.’ Lopez grinned, shook his head sadly.

Donaldson scowled, remembering the murder of Marty Cragg. It had taken place at the same time and place as the murder of Donaldson’s undercover operative, Zeke. Both men had bullets put into their heads underneath a motorway bridge in Lancashire.

‘I know what you are thinking. Was I there?’ Lopez placed the palm of his hand against his chest. ‘Am I correct?’

‘Yep.’ Donaldson swallowed.

Lopez held Donaldson’s stare. ‘I was there when Verner killed Marty Cragg and the FBI agent,’ he confirmed.

Donaldson felt something surge through him.

‘Mendoza ordered the killing. Verner did the deed. And the knock-on was that the Cosa Nostra was very unimpressed by the way in which Mendoza dealt with the whole situation. Killing a federal agent is frowned upon and they became very twitchy.’

‘And you were there?’

‘I was there.’

‘OK.’ Donaldson held himself back from launching himself across the table and strangling him, but he did weigh up the odds of success. ‘Carry on.’

‘Whilst all this was going on, I was ingratiating myself with our Sicilian colleagues, whilst subtly destroying Mendoza’s reputation. Little by little. Then I gave you Verner on a plate. One of our best killers, killed himself by an unknown assassin. . you, I guess, Karl.’

Donaldson’s teeth ground loudly.

‘What was the story with the illegal immigrants and the drugs?’

‘The next big opportunity. Another Mafia-financed operation. Millions of pounds worth of cocaine and twenty illegal immigrants. At first I thought I would give them to you, then I changed my mind. I had something in place which I thought would be more effective.’

‘Hence the phone call telling me the lorry had changed.’

‘Hence that.’

‘I really need to make contact with the outside world.’ Donaldson said, sipping more coffee, freshly ground, tasting amazing, rich and slightly bitter. Donaldson looked at John Elliot. ‘I think my mobile phone went down the river. Can I make a call from the house phone, please?’

‘Under normal circumstances, you could,’ the ex-pat said. ‘However, the storm yanked down all the phone lines and we don’t have a mobile phone between us.’

‘Oh.’

‘That doesn’t mean to say we can’t still help you.’

Trapped by his own foolhardiness and now he was going to pay the penalty. He was still listening hard to Lopez, hoping he would remember everything, but the other part of his mind was formulating his escape plan.

‘I’ve been grooming people,’ Lopez boasted, ‘moving people into positions. . when I was in Manchester two, three years ago, I met a man with ambition. He wanted to become a major dealer, or should I say, I contacted such a man. Very ambitious, very determined. I began to deal with him. He had a good organization.’ Lopez chuckled at that thought. ‘He was sure he could set up the necessary infrastructure — he and I have been building up his business and suddenly he was ready for the big one — which I put his way, although he and I have never met, nor does he know my true identity.’

‘The drugs in the lorry?’

‘They were Mendoza’s drugs destined for another big Manchester dealer with whom there have been business ties for several years, a man called Sweetman. I let my ambitious man into the secret and suggested he might like to help himself.’

‘Making Mendoza look a fool.’

Lopez nodded sagely. ‘And also ensuring that my own man will come out of this. . not well.’

Donaldson looked puzzled.

‘My plan is now very simple, Karl,’ Lopez explained. ‘Very simple indeed. I am about to take over Mendoza’s organization on my terms. A management buy-out, you might call it.’

The vehicle was a battered old Land Rover. It bounced along the deeply rutted track, throwing the two people about inside it like balls in a bagatelle.

Donaldson held on to the door frame as his backside jolted out of the seat.

Maria gripped the steering wheel, holding the black rim grimly.

Donaldson eyed her, a mock-worried expression on his face. She caught his look, smiled radiantly.

‘How far before we get to a road?’ he shouted over the din.

‘This is a road,’ she teased, then relented. ‘Another mile.’

Donaldson worked it out, guessing that Elliot’s farmhouse was about four miles away from a real road, up narrow, treacherous lanes. ‘You do this journey often?’

‘Four days a week.’

‘Ahh — Torrevieja, teaching.’

‘It’s great for the bum,’ she shouted, hitting a boulder and pitching the Land Rover sideways.

Lopez had finished, told Donaldson everything he wanted to say. He stretched. ‘My men will now deal with you, Karl. Goodbye.’ He stood up.

‘This seems to go against your policy of killing federal agents.’

‘Not policy, Karl, best practice. . but having said that, no one will find your body, so no one will actually know if you are dead or alive. I’m sorry things did not work out for us, but you were simply an avenue I was exploring. It proved to be a dead end, not what I wanted from my perspective.’

Lopez clicked his fingers. As if on cue, there was a flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a deep roar as thunder rent the atmosphere. The rain suddenly became torrential, beating down loudly on the roof of the restaurant. ‘The storms from the mountains have joined us,’ Lopez said. He coughed. ‘My men will deal with you cleanly and effectively. I owe you that much.’

‘You’re very kind. . but do you think you’ll get away with this? My people know where I am, who I’m seeing.’

Lopez shrugged indifferently. ‘I don’t really care. That’s a bridge I’ll cross when I come to it.’ He nodded to his men.

‘Up!’ a harsh voice ordered from behind Donaldson.

Donaldson glanced over his shoulder. Both of the heavies were on their feet, guns in hand, pointed at his back. They were big-calibre revolvers, unwieldy, but probably reliable and deadly at close range. Donaldson rose slowly, a cynical, defeated expression on his face.

‘You think you’ll take over from Mendoza?’ he sneered.

Lopez nodded confidently. ‘I have everything in place. It will be my inheritance. He would not have achieved anything had it not been for my business skills anyway. It’s only right that I now assume control.’

‘Somehow I doubt it,’ Donaldson said. Lopez shrugged, but a dark line of puzzlement crossed his face. ‘He’s too smart.’

‘Unlike you, my friend,’ Lopez said, dismissing the comment. He pointed at him for the benefit of his men and said, ‘Finish him,’ in Spanish.

They did not do it in the restaurant. They should have done, but they didn’t, and once Donaldson realized they were not going to blast him there and then, that they intended to drive him somewhere isolated, kill and dispose of him, he knew he had a chance. Their mistake.

He was in the back seat of a car, a big old Peugeot. Child locks were on and he was sitting directly behind the driver, one of the two guys from the restaurant. The other man was sitting in the front passenger seat, twisted round, his piece aimed lazily at Donaldson’s body mass. His forefinger was on the trigger and the gun looked dangerous.

They were confident guys. They had done this before, that much was apparent. Probably to some dumb hood or another, maybe more than once. They kept quiet, speaking only when necessary, the one in the passenger seat keeping constant vigil on Donaldson.

The car headed out of Ciudad Quesada, then turned inland towards the weather. The wipers struggled against the volume of rain. The headlights, on main beam, hardly seemed to penetrate the darkness ahead. They left the main road and began to climb.

Donaldson considered going for the driver. He could lunge, arms going around the headrest, hands on either side of his neck, and snap the neck within four seconds. Too long. Four seconds was a lifetime in these situations. It would be long enough to see two big, nasty bullet holes in his chest.

He also thought about the pros and cons of going for the one with the gun. He was a fraction too far away. It could be done, but the angles were not favourable.

He would have to wait. . and there was also the problem of the car. Where would it veer to? Peering out into the rain, feeling the car go higher up steep mountain roads, there was a good chance that if he did try something, they would end up over a precipice. Donaldson wanted to come out of this alive. . so he waited.

The road became narrower, winding around hairpins, rising all the time against the atrocious weather.

He smirked, snorting a laugh down his nose.

‘What you laughing at?’ the guy in the passenger seat asked.

Donaldson regarded him with a chill. ‘The way you’re going to die,’ he said. The man’s face dropped. He shifted, then smirked.

‘Don’t you mean the way you are going to?’

‘No.’ Donaldson turned away and looked out of the window, seeing dark trees rising through the heavy rain, liking what he saw. The elements were on his side and also the fact that two street-hardened tough guys were contracted to kill him. To him, that put them down as amateurs.

Twenty minutes later they stopped.

‘As Mr Lopez said, this will be quick. You will not suffer.’

‘Please thank Mr Lopez for that.’

‘You stay seated,’ he was ordered.

The driver climbed out and went to Donaldson’s door whilst the other guy covered him. Donaldson knew this would be the only chance he had — one in the car, the other outside.

The driver had his gun in his hand now, pointed at Donaldson through the window. He put a hand to the door, pulled it open a fraction of an inch.

‘Out!’ the guy in the passenger seat barked.

Donaldson sighed and nodded. He knew if he got out, acquiesced, and then gave them the chance to both be out, he was dead. But one in the car, one out, different story.

‘How much not to kill me?’ he pleaded.

‘You haven’t got enough, gringo,’ sneered the guy.

‘OK. .’ He placed his hand on the inner door rest and pushed the door. The guy on the outside, the one getting drenched and severely irritated by the delay, stepped away from the car. Donaldson paused again, letting him get wetter. ‘I’m an FBI agent, you know. They’ll come for you.’

‘Let them.’

‘Hey, you fuckers! Hurry up!’ the wet one bawled.

‘They won’t give up. You should let me go.’

‘Get out of the car.’

‘I’m going.’ He opened the door a little more. Rain dripped in. The sound of it hitting the car roof was incredible, like marbles being thrown down from the heavens by the million. He gazed up at the wet one. He was half-drowned by now, miserable, wanting to get on with this. Donaldson opened the door a fraction further. Rain cascaded in now, soaking his trouser leg. He needed to move before he too got weighed down by water.

He swung both legs out, but not too quickly, then stood in the rain.

Wet One backed off.

Donaldson bent back inside the car, feeling the rain hitting the back of his shirt. Surely it didn’t rain in Spain like this. He looked at Dry One, opened his mouth to say something further and got the desired effect. Wet One strode across and rammed his gun into Donaldson’s ribs.

‘Get out now. Stop fucking around.’

Donaldson nodded and slowly stepped away from the door, then slammed it shut.

One inside the car, one outside.

Dry One turned to open his door and join his companion, a movement which necessitated him having to look away for a few seconds. Donaldson stood upright, seeing Wet One stepping backwards away from him, the gun now out of Donaldson’s ribs and pointing towards the ground.

Donaldson’s right arm arced, his body twisted. The edge of his hand sliced through the air, blurred by the rain, almost impossible to see.

He connected with the side of Wet One’s neck with such force that the head sprung sideways as though he had been struck by the axe of an executioner. The blow sent him staggering to one side, knees sagging weakly. Donaldson’s follow-up was violent and decisive, as he drove the base of his right hand upwards to the man’s nose, smashing his septum up into the brain like the blade of a small knife. He fell hard, dead before he touched the ground — but as he dropped, Donaldson wrested his gun from him and turned to take on Dry One.

Dry One was only just standing up after getting out of the car. His gun swung upwards. He fired.

The flash and the sound in the rain was dull, making Donaldson think that the bullets in the gun were sub-standard. He returned fire, his finger squeezing the trigger back twice in quick succession — the double tap. But only the first shell left the muzzle, the second stayed where it was. A misfire. He pulled again. Another misfire. Defective or wet ammo — or empty. . whatever.

Dry One fired again — and his gun worked.

That was enough for Donaldson. He spun and ran low toward the dark edge of the road, plunging head first into what lay beyond the light.

The Land Rover emerged on to the main road, Donaldson sighing happily at the smooth flatness of the tarmac after the pot-holed terrain of the country track. A sign indicated Torrevieja and Alicante to the left.

‘Where should I drop you?’

‘Airport?’ he dared to suggest.

‘OK,’ Maria said brightly. ‘It’s about half an hour from here.’ She pulled the Land Rover on to the road. ‘You never really told us why you came to be where you were,’ she said. ‘You’ve been really vague with us.’

‘It’s best you don’t know,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘I told your father quite a lot, but kept the details sketchy. It’s better that way.’

A headlong plunge into the darkness, no idea at all of what was waiting there for him. Which was the more stupid? That or facing a man with a gun? Twenty metres into the forest he wished he had chosen the latter, something he’d had more experience with, as suddenly he lost his footing and the ground underneath him just disappeared, becoming a perpendicular drop of shale, rock and protruding branches. It was as though he had stepped off the edge of a cliff, which, in essence, is exactly what he had done.

He could not recall much of the fall, just covering his head, rolling into a ball and hoping for the best, as he bounced down the incline, his breath being driven out of him each time he smacked down. Then, just as suddenly as he had started the fall, it was over and he stopped rolling.

Breathless he lay there, panting, feeling the pain. The rain beat down on him, torrential and as hard as little stones.

‘I’m alive,’ he said to himself. He took a moment to work out whether anything had been broken. His feet moved, his knees could bend; he flexed his fingers, his hands and arms and rolled his neck. Everything seemed to be in order, though he felt like he had just been hammered in a street fight, beaten, maybe, but still in one piece. ‘Now if I can just get up.’ He groaned and moved at the same time, turning over on to all fours, his head lolling wearily between his arms. ‘Jesus, Jesus!’ he gasped, then slowly rose to his feet. ‘Made it,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I can stand. . that’s good. . I’m on my feet. .’

Still the rain battered down. He looked round into the pitch black, unable to work out anything at all. He had no conception of where he could be. He had fallen down a steep, rugged hill and miraculously hit the bottom relatively unscathed. Didn’t think anything was broken. Slowly his breath came back.

Then something made him cock his head to one side. A noise. A rumble. Something not part of the rain. He tensed up, fearing something, but not having any idea of what it was. The rumble grew louder. It had a sort of liquid sense to it.

That was his moment of realization.

He was standing in a river bed. A dry river bed. It had been raining in the mountains. . he recalled somebody saying that. Heavy rain, persistent.

As a wall of water hit him at knee level and scythed away his legs, the words ‘Flash flood!’ formed on his lips.

John Elliot found him next morning as he patrolled the periphery of his land, inspecting the damage caused by the storms and the flood. It was the first time Elliot had known the river bed to flood since he had lived at the farm, even though there had been bad storms in the past. In some respects the sight of a washed-up body on the banks of the river did not totally surprise him, nor did it panic him. Thirty-three years as a cop had made him immune to death.

Finding him alive was a bonus, but not a straightforward one. After conveying the bedraggled, exhausted man to his home, he would have preferred to call the emergency services, but all phone lines were down and he did not possess a mobile phone and the access lane was impassable at that moment, far too muddy even for the Land Rover. He and Maria were effectively cut off from the rest of the world for a time.

He knew of a retired doctor who lived in the next valley, but it was a four-hour hike, so he decided to tend the man from the river himself. There was no way he could accurately tell whether the man was badly injured internally, but he trusted to luck.

Elliot was reminded of the old cowboy movies where the patient fought a fever and either died or recovered. Donaldson was feverish for a day, then slept a deep, exhausted sleep for a further day before awakening to that wonderful morning sunshine and the delicious sight of Maria Elliot in her thin clothes.

Donaldson thanked Maria for the lift back to the airport. She said little to him as he alighted from the Land Rover, but her eyes said a lot.

Donaldson waved her off reluctantly. She drove back to her world as he walked into the terminal building and re-entered his.