“I’m on his trail,” the colonel said. His voice chilled the room. “I would like to remind Your Excellency that we are not fighting just one man. We are fighting the Basque people. They give Jaime Miró and his terrorists food and weapons and shelter. The man is a hero to them. But do not worry. Soon he will be a hanging hero. After I give him a fair trial, of course.”
Not we. I. The prime minister wondered whether the others had noticed. Yes, he thought nervously, something will have to be done about the colonel soon.
The prime minister got to his feet. “That will be all for now, gentlemen.”
The men rose to leave. All except Colonel Acoca.
Leopoldo Martinez began to pace. “Damn the Basques. Why can’t they be satisfied just to be Spaniards? What more do they want?”
“They’re greedy for power,” Acoca said. “They want autonomy, their own language and their flag—”
“No. Not as long as I hold this office. I’m not going to permit them to tear pieces out of Spain. The government will tell them what they can have and what they can’t have. They’re nothing but rabble who…”
An aide came into the room. “Excuse me, Your Excellency,” he said apologetically. “Bishop Ibanez has arrived.”
“Send him in.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You can be sure the Church is behind all this. It’s time we taught them a lesson.”
The Church is one of the great ironies of our history, Colonel Acoca thought bitterly.
In the beginning of the Civil War, the Catholic Church had been on the side of the Nationalist forces. The pope backed Generalissimo Franco, and in so doing allowed him to proclaim that he was fighting on the side of God. But when the Basque churches and monasteries and priests were attacked, the Church withdrew its support.
“You must give the Basques and the Catalans more freedom,” the Church had demanded. “And you must stop executing Basque priests.”
Generalissimo Franco had been furious. How dare the Church try to dictate to the government?
A war of attrition began. More churches and monasteries were attacked by Franco’s forces. Nuns and priests were murdered. Bishops were placed under house arrest, and priests all over Spain were fined for giving sermons that the government considered seditious. It was only when the Church threatened Franco with ex-communication that he stopped his attacks.
The goddamned Church! Acoca thought. With Franco dead it was interfering again.
He turned to the prime minister. “It’s time the bishop is told who’s running Spain.”
Bishop Calvo Ibanez was a thin, frail-looking man with a cloud of white hair swirling around his head. He peered at the two men through his pince-nez spectacles.
“Buenos tardes.”
Colonel Acoca felt the bile rise in his throat. The very sight of clergymen made him ill. They were Judas goats leading their stupid lambs to slaughter.
The bishop stood there, waiting for an invitation to sit down. It did not come. Nor was he introduced to the colonel. It was a deliberate slight.
The prime minister looked to the colonel for direction.
Acoca said curtly, “Some disturbing news has been brought to our attention. Basque rebels are reported to be holding meetings in Catholic monasteries. It has also been reported that the Church is allowing monasteries and convents to store arms for the rebels.” There was steel in his voice. “When you help the enemies of Spain, you become an enemy of Spain.”
Bishop Ibanez stared at him for a moment, then turned to Prime Minister Martinez. “Your Excellency, with due respect, we are all children of Spain. The Basques are not your enemy. All they ask is the freedom to—”
“They don’t ask,” Acoca roared. “They demand! They go around the country pillaging, robbing banks, and killing policemen, and you dare to say they are not our enemies?”
“I admit that there have been inexcusable excesses. But sometimes in fighting for what one believes—”
“They don’t believe in anything but themselves. They care nothing about Spain. It is as one of our great writers said, ‘No one in Spain is concerned about the common good. Each group is concerned only with itself. The Church, the Basques, the Catalans. Each one says fuck the others.’”