wizened face and, surprised that he felt the same, assured her, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘We have two cars that are road worthy,’ Rosa offered. ‘This one belongs to Valentino,’ she indicated an old Citroen, ‘and that little Honda Civic is mine. Make use of either one.’
The battered Citroen looked as though it would be lucky to make it to the training camp, so the Honda was the only choice. ‘Is the Civic fully legal?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to get pulled over by the police because of something stupid like faulty brake lights.’
‘With the exception of a broken heater, that Honda is in perfect shape,’ Rosa assured him.
‘Good, I’ll take that one, and a road map if you have one - I need to leave at first light,’ he informed the old lady.
Message in hand Darren strolled over to the little Honda. Once alone he slowly re-read his instructions, decoded them fully and consulted the map he found in the glove box. 13X99KLC was the authentication code direct from the boss in Belfast. The rest informed him that he had to meet a known contact at Barcelona airport the following evening.
‘Shit - Barcelona. That’s over two hundred and fifty miles from here. I hope that Honda makes it,’ he mumbled whilst lighting a cigarette. He used the same match to burn the message then he tossed the ashes, grinding them into the dirt with his boot.
10
Catalunya: The Road Trip
Darren was up at dawn the following morning but Rosa was already in the kitchen to supply a hearty breakfast. He exaggerated a yawn to cover the tears he felt coming to his eyes as he was reminded of his mother. He hadn’t time for such sentimentality today. He ate quickly and then went to check out the car. The road map occupied the passenger seat, T he Killer, his pocket, and the .45 automatic pistol sat under the map. He was ready to leave. Rosa gave him a few basic directions, a packed lunch that would feed a family of four, a flask of coffee, then waved him on his way.
As he left the farm-track and pulled onto the main road he shivered. The early morning chill in northern Spain was vicious. Glancing down at the heater he tried each of its three settings, patiently waiting for a much-needed blast of hot air that never came. ‘Shit. Cold, very cold and fucking freezing,’ he grumbled. Still, everything else was working fine. ‘The sun’ll be up soon. I won’t need a heater then,’ he comforted himself.
He pulled onto the main road and overtook a farmer who was repairing his old tractor. Shivering in the cold plastic seat he wiped the condensation from the windscreen. His eyes fixed straight ahead, he paid no attention to the farmer who, as Darren passed, reached down for the handset of his military radio.
The drive was long and uncomfortable, taking around ten hours. Darren was used to the winding roads of Ireland but the Spanish system seemed even worse and the little Honda, valiant though it was, struggled with the never-ending bends and ever-changing gradient. Thankfully, from the outskirts of Barcelona, the airport was well signed and he finally drew into the rough, pot-holed, parking area. He rushed into the terminal building to check on the arrival of Dublin flights. His coded message had been brief, meaning he’d have to figure out some of the details for himself, but the information board greeted him with the good news that there was only one Dublin flight due that evening. Great, that was helpful. The not so helpful news was that it had been cancelled. Fuck. Now what?
The airport already seemed to be closing for the night and he was unable to find any information for the following day, so he just had to assume that his contact would arrive on the next available flight. Should he try to find a hotel or stay where he was? Much as he hated the idea, a night spent in the car seemed to be the sensible option so that he was already in position for the following day. He walked stiffly back to the Honda
‘We have two cars that are road worthy,’ Rosa offered. ‘This one belongs to Valentino,’ she indicated an old Citroen, ‘and that little Honda Civic is mine. Make use of either one.’
The battered Citroen looked as though it would be lucky to make it to the training camp, so the Honda was the only choice. ‘Is the Civic fully legal?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to get pulled over by the police because of something stupid like faulty brake lights.’
‘With the exception of a broken heater, that Honda is in perfect shape,’ Rosa assured him.
‘Good, I’ll take that one, and a road map if you have one - I need to leave at first light,’ he informed the old lady.
Message in hand Darren strolled over to the little Honda. Once alone he slowly re-read his instructions, decoded them fully and consulted the map he found in the glove box. 13X99KLC was the authentication code direct from the boss in Belfast. The rest informed him that he had to meet a known contact at Barcelona airport the following evening.
‘Shit - Barcelona. That’s over two hundred and fifty miles from here. I hope that Honda makes it,’ he mumbled whilst lighting a cigarette. He used the same match to burn the message then he tossed the ashes, grinding them into the dirt with his boot.
10
Catalunya: The Road Trip
Darren was up at dawn the following morning but Rosa was already in the kitchen to supply a hearty breakfast. He exaggerated a yawn to cover the tears he felt coming to his eyes as he was reminded of his mother. He hadn’t time for such sentimentality today. He ate quickly and then went to check out the car. The road map occupied the passenger seat, T he Killer, his pocket, and the .45 automatic pistol sat under the map. He was ready to leave. Rosa gave him a few basic directions, a packed lunch that would feed a family of four, a flask of coffee, then waved him on his way.
As he left the farm-track and pulled onto the main road he shivered. The early morning chill in northern Spain was vicious. Glancing down at the heater he tried each of its three settings, patiently waiting for a much-needed blast of hot air that never came. ‘Shit. Cold, very cold and fucking freezing,’ he grumbled. Still, everything else was working fine. ‘The sun’ll be up soon. I won’t need a heater then,’ he comforted himself.
He pulled onto the main road and overtook a farmer who was repairing his old tractor. Shivering in the cold plastic seat he wiped the condensation from the windscreen. His eyes fixed straight ahead, he paid no attention to the farmer who, as Darren passed, reached down for the handset of his military radio.
The drive was long and uncomfortable, taking around ten hours. Darren was used to the winding roads of Ireland but the Spanish system seemed even worse and the little Honda, valiant though it was, struggled with the never-ending bends and ever-changing gradient. Thankfully, from the outskirts of Barcelona, the airport was well signed and he finally drew into the rough, pot-holed, parking area. He rushed into the terminal building to check on the arrival of Dublin flights. His coded message had been brief, meaning he’d have to figure out some of the details for himself, but the information board greeted him with the good news that there was only one Dublin flight due that evening. Great, that was helpful. The not so helpful news was that it had been cancelled. Fuck. Now what?
The airport already seemed to be closing for the night and he was unable to find any information for the following day, so he just had to assume that his contact would arrive on the next available flight. Should he try to find a hotel or stay where he was? Much as he hated the idea, a night spent in the car seemed to be the sensible option so that he was already in position for the following day. He walked stiffly back to the Honda
Similar Books
