“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.”