Jaime motioned to the two men. “Come on.”
Felix Carpio picked up the guard’s gun, and they started downstairs. The scene outside was chaos. The police were running around frantically, trying to see what was happening and deal with the crowds of screaming people in the courtyard who were scrambling to escape the maddened bulls. One of the bulls had charged into the front of the building, smashing the stone entrance. Another was tearing into the body of a uniformed guard on the ground.
The red truck was in the courtyard, its motor running. In the confusion, the three men went almost unnoticed, and those who did see them escaping were too busy saving themselves to do anything about it. Without a word, Jaime and his men jumped into the back of the truck and it sped off, scattering frantic pedestrians through the crowded streets.
The Guardia Civil, the paramilitary rural police, decked out in green uniforms and black patent-leather hats, were trying in vain to control the hysterical mob. The Policía Armada, stationed in provincial capitals, were also helpless in the face of the mad spectacle. People were struggling to flee in every direction, desperately trying to avoid the enraged bulls. The danger lay less with the bulls and more with the people themselves as they trampled one another in their eagerness to escape. Old men and women were knocked down under the feet of the running mob.
Jaime stared in dismay at the stunning spectacle. “It wasn’t planned for it to happen this way!” he exclaimed. He stared helplessly at the carnage that was being wreaked, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight.
The truck reached the outskirts of Pamplona and headed south, leaving behind the noise and confusion of the rioting.
“Where are we going, Jaime?” Ricardo Mellado asked.
“There’s a safe house outside Torre. We’ll stay there until dark and then move on.”
Felix Carpio was wincing with pain.
Jaime Miró watched him, his face filled with compassion. “We’ll be there soon, my friend,” he said gently.
He was unable to get the terrible scene at Pamplona out of his mind.
Thirty minutes later they approached the little village of Torre, and skirted it to drive to an isolated house in the mountains above the village. Jaime helped the two men out of the back of the red truck.
“You’ll be picked up at midnight,” the driver said.
“Have them bring a doctor,” Jaime replied. “And get rid of the truck.”
The three of them entered the house. It was a farmhouse, simple and comfortable, with a fireplace in the living room and a beamed ceiling. There was a note on the table. Jaime Miró read it and smiled at the welcoming phrase: “Mi casa es su casa.” On the bar were bottles of wine. Jaime poured drinks.
Ricardo Mellado said, “There are no words to thank you, my friend. Here’s to you.”
Jaime raised his glass. “Here’s to freedom.”
There was the sudden chirp of a canary in a cage. Jaime walked over to it and watched its wild fluttering for a moment. Then he opened the cage, gently lifted the bird out, and carried it to an open window.
“Fly away, pajarito,” he said softly. “All living creatures should be free.”
CHAPTER TWO
Madrid
Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez was in a rage. He was a small, bespectacled man, and his whole body shook as he talked. “Jaime Miró must be stopped,” he cried. His voice was high and shrill. “Do you understand me?” He glared at the half dozen men gathered in the room. “We’re looking for one terrorist, and the whole army and police force are unable to find him.”
The meeting was taking place at Moncloa Palace, where the prime minister lived and worked, five kilometers from the center of Madrid, on the Carretera de Galicia, a highway with no identifying signs. The building itself was green brick, with wrought-iron balconies, green window shades, and guard towers at each corner.
It was a hot, dry day, and through the windows, as far as the eye could see, columns of heat waves rose like battalions of ghostly soldiers.