identification," said Hurtado. "I want you to see him close up. We've got to be certain he is Luis Bueno, our deputy prime minister in charge of defense, and no other. Go ahead, Julia, it's the last time."
"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.
Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the massive church door. She fell in among other worshippers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.
A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA—the underground Euskadi Ta As-katasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization—two years ago.
When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman—too much nose and jaw, too short and sturdy (he had always preferred the more dehcate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)—he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their sexual encounters had usually been for physical release and fim. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.
He consulted his wristwatch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's assassination.
Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the comer of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.
Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little bastard will pay for it.
Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought -- go and pray, you bastard, for the last time.
Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in hell alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.
It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming hell.
Hurtado could not deny that the assassination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a classical Basque assassination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.
In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spam's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin
"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.
Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the massive church door. She fell in among other worshippers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.
A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA—the underground Euskadi Ta As-katasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization—two years ago.
When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman—too much nose and jaw, too short and sturdy (he had always preferred the more dehcate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)—he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their sexual encounters had usually been for physical release and fim. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.
He consulted his wristwatch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's assassination.
Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the comer of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.
Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little bastard will pay for it.
Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought -- go and pray, you bastard, for the last time.
Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in hell alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.
It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming hell.
Hurtado could not deny that the assassination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a classical Basque assassination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.
In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spam's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin
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