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By C. Michael Bennis
Chapter I – SPHINX
San Sebastian, Spain. It was a rainy Friday in early May 1977. This was once the Queen of Spanish resorts then she became tired, weary and very dangerous. The tourists and the businesses avoided her, and everyone exited who could. Sadly, not long ago the Basque homeland was inseparably beautiful on both sides of the frontier. Now terrorists trained in the pretty countryside over the French border in St. Jean de Luz, and they brought death whenever they crossed the frontier into northern Spain.
This morning’s north wind ran down the coast from France with the angry abandon of a powerful stallion and a shocking wave of whirling debris followed in its path. It was as if the winged horse Pegasus was galloping along the coast but instead of inspiring spring to burst forth, the hoofs threatened chaos and destruction.
Jorge Juan Jimenez Arguinano looked toward the darkening horizon as boulder-sized clouds rolled overhead with misleading softness. Before him, numerous small boats were scurrying toward the safety of the bay as their small wakes acquired foamy phosphorescence in the blue-green water. In the moments before the summer storm, he could see the blue-black wall of the thunderhead move alarmingly toward him, portending the first crashes of thunder. The spring-like weather fled in awe, and the early morning pedestrians were bent against the wind, attired in heavy sweaters and nylon jackets.
As he watched the approaching storm, one obsessive thought controlled every part of his being. He needed 3,500,000 Pesetas to make the prototype. Admittedly, he would later need a lot more money, but for the moment he was stymied; he could not proceed without the prototype, and time was running out. The problem was raising money for a concept that was virtually impossible for people to understand. His dilemma was how to convince people that his formulas were more valuable than they could ever imagine. He was desperate, otherwise he would never have asked for money from people who robbed and killed to achieve a separate nation. He hoped they would realize how his formulas could transport their tiny dream into the forefront of world attention.
The waiting by the beautiful bay of San Sebastian before the storm seemed predictive of what was about to occur. There were three choices: They could pay what he asked; they could insult him and walk off; or they could kill him. There was something in the approaching storm which seemed to say it would be the last possibility. Any normal man would have run away but he had no choice but to stand and wait; this had been his last hope.
He could hear the green Mini as it pulled into one of the parking spaces behind him, and from the sound of the two quickly closing doors, they would come at once. There was no need to turn around.
Would they kill him with a bullet, crunching into the back of his skull, or would they do it to his face? Then he realized there was another possibility: They might take him for a drive.
They had a certain odor that was beyond mildew and dirty jeans as they stood before him looking older than their age, more tired than their peers and extraordinarily resolute in their intentions. They feigned casualness, but smelled of fear. One of them had an open jacket. Would there be a 9 mm Parabellum inside?
"Come, shit-boy!"
It would be the drive. He looked again to the horizon, and tried to see beyond the sea and the sky.
"Did you hear what I said?" At once two powerful hands caught him about the shoulders and snapped him backward. He had been thinking about something, but strangely he had forgotten what it was.
"How about breakfast?" asked the one holding his arm and smiling falsely.
"We'll have it there," replied the other with a glint of humor.
They walked the short distance to the Mini, where a young woman waited in the back seat. She had strong broad shoulders and a heavy chest. There was something about her that was neither friendly nor mean. She had the pronounced Basque nose, and she avoided the lipstick, makeup and mascara that would tip her into a possibly alluring feminine attractiveness. It was she who would do the killing.
He was forced into the backseat beside her, yet she refused to move. "What is your name?" he asked.
She looked out the window and ignored him. He then remembered what the hunters called their kill. They called it the piece and the piece could be a quail, a deer, or a mountain goat. Whatever it was, it was always the piece, and it was always dead when they referred to it. He was already the piece for these three.
"What did the boss say?" he asked.
"You'll find out," snapped the driver.
"It's incredible the pain I feel!"
Silence.
"What I really want is stupidly simple!"
The two men in the front seat of the car squirmed nervously. The early morning traffic was heavy.
"This country," he blurted out, "is a great piece of shit!"
The girl struck him hard across the face with the back of her hand. Even the driver turned partly around and swiped at him with his open hand, the way a father might have done to a child for perverse behavior.
"It’s stupid! You kill one another uselessly without knowing why, but you continue to do so out of fear!"
He thought they were now beyond striking at him. It might cause attention. Or perhaps they had changed plans? Perhaps they could already see him begging for the bullet that would end the pain?
"What is wrong with what I want?"
Silence
"Of course it's expensive, but then you have to look to the future ...," and his voice broke off. He suddenly realized no one expected to see the future. They had visions only for the violence of the morning and for the ashes of the afternoon. Someone else was supposed to see the future. That was the trouble. That was really the reason why they would execute him.
"It's too much what you ask ...," started the man in the front passenger's seat.
"Shut-up!" snarled the driver.
Yes, he thought, it was too much. It was crazy to suggest that they invest in tomorrow; they were too busy destroying today.
The car hesitated by a red light which refused to change, and he looked at her. There was nothing soft or feminine about her, and yet she had dressed in a skirt. It was sort of unprofessional, he reasoned. Perhaps she was new? But the reasoning did not fit. The girl had the look of one who had already witnessed life's morbid surprises. Her emotions seemed just as detached for the killing as they were for the bedroom; she had already given everything.
His eye caught the skirt again. He kept coming back to it. Why would she wear a skirt? And why did she have her legs drawn tightly together? The skirt fell below the knees, and on looking down, all he could see were the tops of her boots. There was something ... He might easily find her attractive with a summer skirt and rope-soled shoes; which explained the unappealing outfit--the organization didn't want its commandos momentarily diverted because of some passerby's sexual urge. Yet there could only be two reasons (excluding the fear of sexual advances from him) why she should have her legs pressed tightly together; she either had her menstruation and was unprepared; or she had something between her legs.
The light changed to green and as the Mini spurted ahead, the one in the passenger's seat seemed more relaxed. With smug satisfaction, he lighted a cigarette and then dropped his arm across the driver's seat.
He reasoned they would seem so natural for those seeing them from outside the car. Moving casually, the car easily slipped through slower traffic, and worked effortlessly toward the place where they would kill him. Even his death would be natural, for murder was commonplace. No one would miss him, and the idea would die.
There was a faint dry click which came out by itself from the back of his throat, and the two men in the front seat and the girl turned toward him with mild surprise. It must have been the rage. It came so fast there was no warning, only a second dry click slipped out from the back of his throat.
Swiftly, he caught the relaxed arm by the wrist and with a sweeping motion, he bludgeoned the taunt elbow with his open palm, turning and twisting the gristle until the trapped elbow joint was painfully dislocated. And then he drove his fist in hammer fashion between the girl's legs. The blow was more powerful than he intended and it nearly shattered the bones of his fist when the collision drove the Parabellum into the soft pudenda.
The girl groaned in animalistic short breaths and although she grabbed for the gun, she was too late. It was now pressed sharply against her temple. Her eyes closed when the hammer clicked backward.
"What is my crime?" he screamed in a high-pitched voice, "What have I done?"
The eyes of the driver bulged in the rear-view mirror, as the man beside him looked through teary, painful eyes that focused the barrel of his weapon into the shit-boy's forehead. People walked beside the car, looked inside and then continued on their way. The congestion of angry drivers brought a clamor of honking.
"Give me the Parabellum!"
"No! Let me out!"
"Not possible, shit-boy."
In a screaming, almost hysterical voice he pleaded, "What is my crime?"
"You're nuts!" said the driver, "You’re too crazy to be trusted!"
"And what I told you I could do?"
"No one wants it shit-boy!"
"No one understands it," said the girl with a shaky, almost feminine weakness. "There's no one in the organization who understands you or your impossible proposal."
"Give me the gun, shit-boy!"
"No."
"Give me the gun, or I'll blow you into the fifth carajo!"
"Blow, carbón, blow! Do you hear me? Blow, blow, blow ... “The girl trembled and although she pressed her eyelids tightly together, a tear escaped.
”Do it," she whispered.
What was to have been a simple garbage disposal, now became complicated. The man in the front seat who suffered extreme pain had killed before. He had an incredible appetite to do it again, however he knew he would take the cretin to the trash along with a comrade. It was a loss they had been trained to take. Yet the girl was a good soldier ... and the man he would take out with her was dangerous to any form of society. It would be an unfair sacrifice.
She now cried openly. The shell of toughness had fractured, and there was no retaining the tears. Carefully, she opened her eyes and turned to look at him, but it was really the light coming in through the window that she sought. It was the light she would never see again. She heard him talking. "Don't cry, please don't cry," he said. Then she felt his hand caressing the back of her neck as if she were a child, and before her stupefied gaze, he handed her the Parabellum as he tucked her head protectively onto his shoulder.
There was a sudden silence which should have been broken. Everyone expected the pistol shot, everyone except the target. It was almost as if he had forgotten.
The man in the front seat released the hammer of his weapon and bent over in acknowledgement of his horrible pain and he bit his lips. He knew he would flinch when she did it. The shot did not come, and moments later, he turned painfully around. The idiot was still caressing the girl.
"You've got blood on you!" he said as he pulled away and stared at the spot on her skirt. "You've hurt yourself!" With childlike simplicity, he reached down and raised her skirt, seemingly oblivious to the cold metal which pressed tightly against his temple.
"For the love of God!" shouted the driver, who turned around to see him patting the girl's shoulder reassuringly, saying, "It's all right. Your mother will explain. I'm sure she can tell you."
The girl took a deep breath and lowered the gun. It now rested opposite his heart.
"What is your name?” She asked.
"Sphinx," he smiled, "Just call me Sphinx."
She had had him where he was one squeeze of the trigger from becoming garbage, yet she hesitated, and this had saved all of their lives! When their green Mini rounded the next curve, they unexpectedly drove into one of the numerous surprise government roadblocks where many armed Guardias in green uniforms and three-cornered hats were inspecting all of the cars.
She said, “I’ll kill you if you make a sound!
He looked strangely at her and said, "I'd best be going."
Almost absent mindedly he leaned forward and flicked the door open. "You see," he added, "you're going to kill me anyway. But if you do it now, we'll all be dust together. Do you understand? I won't say anything. If you trust me, you'll live." And they watched as he walked to the guards, showed his identity card, and then passed to the other side.
Once, his thoughts came smoothly and melted problems with white heat, but now his thoughts could become scrambled. He was very ill. He should go to a hospital. But then the beautiful creation might be lost in the treatment--it could retreat forever. No, it was best to struggle now with the slippery fish of invention before the fish unexpectedly disappeared forever beneath black waters. There was little time. He would have to find a new source to acquire the 3,500,000 Pesetas he needed to make his prototype. In the coming days, he would be alert for opportunities to acquire substantially greater funding for his project.
He had thought about it considerably before he walked into the terrorists’ bar--the one on the quiet street, which faced the Banco de Bilbao. How many times had they robbed the Bilbao?
With an authority which surprised him, he ordered a coffee with milk, adding, "Make it strong, old man!"
The old bartender turned and shambled to his three-handled Italian espresso machine. He was about to do an act he repeated a thousand times each day, only this time he shivered. There was something strangely threatening now, and for the first time, he sensed he was close to death.
Brusquely, the old man pushed one of the black handles to the left--a motion which freed the handle and its metal coffee receptacle from the espresso machine. Next, he slammed the receptacle part against a wooden drawer, where the spent biscuit of old coffee grounds popped out. The now empty receptacle moved below a coffee mill, where with a touch of a lever, the correct amount of powdered coffee grounds dropped into the receptacle. Subsequently, the grounds were tightly packed by forcing the receptacle against a chrome disc and now the new contents were returned to the espresso machine and locked into place with a twist of his wrist to the right. Lastly, a knob above the lever was depressed and the first drops of inky fluid began dropping into the cup, which was shoved professionally under the machine in just that instant. The elapsed time, from start to finish, was eight seconds.
The old man tried to appear relaxed, but his hand trembled as he steam-heated the milk. There were beads of perspiration on his upper lip as he poured the hot milk, and the trembling was even more evident at the moment he carried the coffee cup and saucer to the customer. The old man tried to appear normal, but his hand shook when he dialed the number that would bring the killers in green Mini. The Sphinx hoped the young woman with the broad shoulders would not be inside the Mini when it arrived.
The customer finished the coffee in three gulps, and then walked to the window, where he could see the reflection of the old man who was pouring himself a Pacharán liquor to calm his nerves.
Outside, a red armored truck was stopping beside the bank.
It's the same, he thought. Just the same way the old man made coffee. That was what he had to remember; there were so many unacknowledged coincidences in life. The green Mini was approaching in the distance. How much time, he wondered, would he be allowed to wrestle with the slippery fish before it disappeared forever beneath the blackness? To loose the fish, he reasoned, would be worse than death.
He walked through the front door and stood on the curb, watching the Mini station itself directly across the street. It was wonderful, they were one short. He smiled knowing she had not come. Relax; he said to himself, it's the same as making coffee.
They seemed to hesitate. Perhaps it was too easy? Then he saw the driver point the Parabellum. He held it in his left hand, resting it on the car door. For a right-handed man it was a bold gesture (but then he had been trained in France by experts). He obviously knew what he was doing.
The guard from the armored truck came out of the bank carrying two bags, one in each hand. The driver would be waiting in the truck. Now the door of the bank opened and the bank guard took several steps until stopping at a point where he could surveil the transfer. But what luck! The bank guard was taking out a cigarette.
The old bartender was the only person who had a perfect view.
He was standing at the window looking out beyond the young customer standing on the curb when it happened. He saw the youth crouch slightly and then explode off with a quick start. He might have seen two quick flashes from the Parabellum before he felt himself sinking to the floor, falling onto the pieces of window glass, feeling the bothersome stabs of piercing numbness as his legs kicked uncontrollably and propelled his face across the sharp fragments on the floor.
Opposite the bar, a scene continued with its own momentum. The cigarette fell from the bank guard’s lips when he saw the pistol flashes. Crouching, he quickly drew his revolver and took aim. Before he could fire, a shotgun blast erupted from the armored truck, and seconds later, the driver exited from the Mini with gobs of flesh missing from his face and with blood spraying from his eyes as he ran--more dead than alive--in frantic, screaming circles.
The bank guard hunted for the other terrorist. He saw something flash behind the mini and he fired twice. The bank guard winced when the alarm began wailing, and momentarily, he turned to look toward the one carrying the bags. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash. The bullet caught him in the neck with such force that he whirled backwards, falling with crazy spasms until settling inertly into an unflinching gaze, almost as if he were listening to the distant sound of approaching sirens.
The Bilbao money bags rested where they had first been placed, and the man who carried them out of the bank now crouched with his gun drawn beside the armored truck. He heard the driver shout at him, and unexpectedly, someone pushed him violently from behind, and he tumbled awkwardly out into the street. At once the exposed man began rolling; seeking to return to the protection he had left. And he rolled and rolled, but he must have sensed something was wrong before his kneecap burst with numbness. Then he felt something shatter his collarbone and he stopped breathing.
The driver of the armored truck could not believe what was happening. He had heard someone running when he yelled to his friend to jump into the truck. And then in disbelief, he watched as his friend seemed to jump out into the street. Through the protective window, he could see his friend roll toward the outstretched weapon that flashed once and then twice.
Later, he would remember that he never aimed the pistol barrel which protruded beyond the iron door. He had just pointed at the killer and before he squeezed the trigger, he knew the man was dust.
Then there was the awful sickening silence. Occasionally, a horrible sound would come from the blind terrorist who still moved in tiny circles. The sirens arrived, and with them, the people reappeared in the streets. In moments, angry car horns seemed to arise from everywhere. And in the confusion, no one could recall how one of the bags disappeared.
The evening news was alive with the incident, where someone had reportedly slipped away with 5,000,000 Pesetas, and the man on the street was being blamed for opportunistic behavior.
What shook many people, and especially the strong hands holding a trembling newspaper, was that 1,500,000 Pesetas was returned to the Banco de Bilbao, later in the afternoon. The money was thrown through the bank's window inside one of the bags from the morning’s robbery.
Occasionally, one of the trembling fingers rose to chapped lips. The teeth had to select from few fragments of fingernail, for spots were already chewed well past the quick. These were the hands of a young woman whose loins now burned with an old hurt.
Now she could hear the car door open. She would have some explaining to do. The door closed softly. There was a rumor that this one got an erection when he asked for explanations. They said he was a sadist and that dead traitors were always found with a rubbery grimace of horror.
She could hear his step at the stairway. She shuddered and her nipples grew taut in apprehension. It was 1977 and she was 27. Why had she refused to go with her comrades on that fateful morning?
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