Bolivian, sir. I don’t know
if you know this, sir, but I trained the Bolivian Army for twenty years. I know what a Bolivian sounds like and they weren’t Bolivian, sir. They spoke Spanish like Spaniards.”
“Did you check with the Spanish Consulate here in Hereward? Did they tell you that any of their people were missing?”
“I did check with the Consulate, sir. None of their people are missing and, furthermore, there are no Bolivian Representatives there. The two men were lying, sir.”
“Curiouser and curiouser, Sergeant Major. So there are two Spaniards pretending to be Bolivians on the loose in Hereward.”
“That’s not all, sir,” Bratge added. “There were two more of the leader’s men waiting in the queue to enter the hotel. The leader signalled them to leave the queue,
which they did. I think that he suspected that I was onto him. I ordered two of my men to follow them at a distance. They reported that the two men went through the motions of looking for another
pub to go to, but they didn’t actually enter any of them even though several of them were not full. After thirty minutes the two men returned to the King Alfred and they waited
outside.”
“Where did they go after that?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Bratge shrugged his shoulders. “In the confusion following the explosion my men lost track of them, and they disappeared.”
“I see, Bratge,” Von Schnakenberg nodded and pointed his finger at the Sergeant Major. “Find them, Hauptwachtmeister. There can’t be that many swarthy-looking Spanish
looking types walking around Hereward. Find them and bring them here personally. I want to find out at first hand why a Spanish hit team has come to Hereward.”
“Jawohl, General-Major von Schnakenberg.” Bratge saluted, executed a perfect about turn, and marched smartly out of the office. At last, he thought to himself, the kid gloves are
off.
Chapter Seven
“They’re not coming, Miguel. Sergeant Borghese and Carlos are dead.”
“They’re not dead! The sergeant and Carlos are alive!” Miguel threw his hat across the room in frustration. “We just need to give them more time.”
“More time?” Private Alfonso de Cervantes asked incredulously. “More time to do what, Miguel? The dead need no more time. Borghese and Carlos are buried five metres under the
rubble of the hotel!”
“It’s Sergeant Borghese to you, you disrespectful bastard!” Corporal Miguel Pizarro slapped Alfonso backhanded across the face, sending him flying across the room.
De Cervantes lay sprawled on the floor in an untidy heap. He slowly raised himself onto his elbows and rubbed his red cheekbone tenderly with one hand. “Corporal Pizarro, whether you like
it or not, Sergeant Borghese and Carlos are dead. It’s time that we decided what the hell we should do.”
Pizarro sighed as if he was breathing his last breath and his shoulders slumped and sagged like a tired old man’s. “I know, Alfonso. You’re right. Sergeant Borghese and Carlos
are dead. The question is: what do we do now?”
“We find out if Sergeant Borghese and Carlos completed the mission and Scar Face is dead. If he is then we go home, and if he isn’t dead then we find him and we kill him,”
Alfonso said, with steel in his voice.
Pizarro straightened up in his chair and seemed to grow six inches. “Spoken like a true Legiónary, Alfonso! I knew that I could count on you!”
“I’m with you until the end, Jefe!”
“That’s my boy.” Pizarro had recovered his resolve. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll stay here in the safe house and observe the SS Barracks from this
window. We’ll be able to see who enters and who leaves the barracks. Sooner or later Scar Face will come out for air, and when he does we will kill him and avenge the deaths of Sergeant
Borghese and Carlos. Understood?”
“Understood, Jefe,” De Cervantes answered. “However, I have one question, Corporal: how long do we stay here before
if you know this, sir, but I trained the Bolivian Army for twenty years. I know what a Bolivian sounds like and they weren’t Bolivian, sir. They spoke Spanish like Spaniards.”
“Did you check with the Spanish Consulate here in Hereward? Did they tell you that any of their people were missing?”
“I did check with the Consulate, sir. None of their people are missing and, furthermore, there are no Bolivian Representatives there. The two men were lying, sir.”
“Curiouser and curiouser, Sergeant Major. So there are two Spaniards pretending to be Bolivians on the loose in Hereward.”
“That’s not all, sir,” Bratge added. “There were two more of the leader’s men waiting in the queue to enter the hotel. The leader signalled them to leave the queue,
which they did. I think that he suspected that I was onto him. I ordered two of my men to follow them at a distance. They reported that the two men went through the motions of looking for another
pub to go to, but they didn’t actually enter any of them even though several of them were not full. After thirty minutes the two men returned to the King Alfred and they waited
outside.”
“Where did they go after that?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Bratge shrugged his shoulders. “In the confusion following the explosion my men lost track of them, and they disappeared.”
“I see, Bratge,” Von Schnakenberg nodded and pointed his finger at the Sergeant Major. “Find them, Hauptwachtmeister. There can’t be that many swarthy-looking Spanish
looking types walking around Hereward. Find them and bring them here personally. I want to find out at first hand why a Spanish hit team has come to Hereward.”
“Jawohl, General-Major von Schnakenberg.” Bratge saluted, executed a perfect about turn, and marched smartly out of the office. At last, he thought to himself, the kid gloves are
off.
Chapter Seven
“They’re not coming, Miguel. Sergeant Borghese and Carlos are dead.”
“They’re not dead! The sergeant and Carlos are alive!” Miguel threw his hat across the room in frustration. “We just need to give them more time.”
“More time?” Private Alfonso de Cervantes asked incredulously. “More time to do what, Miguel? The dead need no more time. Borghese and Carlos are buried five metres under the
rubble of the hotel!”
“It’s Sergeant Borghese to you, you disrespectful bastard!” Corporal Miguel Pizarro slapped Alfonso backhanded across the face, sending him flying across the room.
De Cervantes lay sprawled on the floor in an untidy heap. He slowly raised himself onto his elbows and rubbed his red cheekbone tenderly with one hand. “Corporal Pizarro, whether you like
it or not, Sergeant Borghese and Carlos are dead. It’s time that we decided what the hell we should do.”
Pizarro sighed as if he was breathing his last breath and his shoulders slumped and sagged like a tired old man’s. “I know, Alfonso. You’re right. Sergeant Borghese and Carlos
are dead. The question is: what do we do now?”
“We find out if Sergeant Borghese and Carlos completed the mission and Scar Face is dead. If he is then we go home, and if he isn’t dead then we find him and we kill him,”
Alfonso said, with steel in his voice.
Pizarro straightened up in his chair and seemed to grow six inches. “Spoken like a true Legiónary, Alfonso! I knew that I could count on you!”
“I’m with you until the end, Jefe!”
“That’s my boy.” Pizarro had recovered his resolve. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll stay here in the safe house and observe the SS Barracks from this
window. We’ll be able to see who enters and who leaves the barracks. Sooner or later Scar Face will come out for air, and when he does we will kill him and avenge the deaths of Sergeant
Borghese and Carlos. Understood?”
“Understood, Jefe,” De Cervantes answered. “However, I have one question, Corporal: how long do we stay here before
Similar Books
