"Señor Bean" [Mr Martínez: Eleven]

The SUV kept going north-east, instead of back towards Ciudad Real. Even though the unit was Trafico, Martínez had expected the GC to double back to the Casa Cuartel in the city. Martinez studied the epaulets on the GCs’ uniform. Big Cop was a Teniente, a Lieutenant. He was driving the Trafico SUV. He should have been behind a desk or in a command and control vehicle somewhere. Skinny Cop, of course, had no rank insignia at all, a Guardia Civil. Like an Airman or Private, he was the lowest of the low. From what Martínez had seen of him so far, the only way was out, because up was not an option. The tie-wraps used as cuffs were uncomfortable, but they were no obstacle to getting his hands inside the rucksack: no zips, just buckles.

‘Desk people should not be in the field, Teniente,’ Martinez had the Policia Local- issue pistol’s barrel between the head rest and the seat back, jammed at the base of the officer’s neck. He had no idea how many rounds were in it. Neither did the Teniente. Skinny Cop was bound to try something stupid, naturally,

‘Tell the boy why he should sit still, Teniente. And keep your foot on the gas.’

‘No te mueve, Cabrón. If he shoots me we’re all dead at this speed’

Skinny Cop stopped scrabbling at the flap of his holster and put his hands on the dashboard. Maybe he wasn’t entirely a coño.

‘Where were we headed,Teniente?’ Martínez asked

But Skinny Cop was too stupid to keep his mouth shut, ‘Madrid. CNI.’

‘Can’t you just shoot him?’ The Teniente said.

Martinez would have like to have been surprised, but the Centro Nacional de Intelligencia would have been too busy to send one of their own to pick up Martínez. Besides, no-one knew where he was, did they?

Skinny Cop was braver than Martínez thought, and not quite so dumb either, he went for the vehicle radio, but the Teniente’s bark made him drop the mic faster than an 80’s rapper at the end of a show. Martinez told the GC he was a good boy and watched the back of his ears turn red.

‘We’re going to pull over a hundred metres short of the next Emergency Telephone, the GPS says it’s only a few kilometros along from here. And then Señor Bean here is going to leave his gun and his radio with me here on the back seat. Then we’re going to drive Teniente, just you and me and we’re going to talk to pass the time.’

As they pulled away, Martinez took a glance over his shoulder, yeah, Skinny Cop really did look like El Tonto Ingles.

‘Where to, Martínez?’

‘What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Elizondo.’

‘You choose, then. You can go home to the Basque country or you can drive me to El Centro.’

‘I have no choice, my duty is to take you to El Centro.’

‘There’s always a choice. Are you really sure I’m who they’re looking for?’

‘You have Rueda’s cell-phone. That’s enough. And if you’re not the one… well, I think you’re quite dangerous enough to be listening to white noise between questions or whatever it is they do in El Centro.’

‘I could make you drive us anywhere.’

‘We’ll run out of gas, eventually. So, where are you going to run to, Senor Martínez?’

‘I’m going to run towards the white noise and questions, why do you think I kept the ‘phone?’