The village seemed empty. As we motored slowly down the main street a man stood in the doorway of an inn, glass in hand. He was fat and bull-necked and eyed us with hostile curiosity. With mounting tension, we parked the car and approached the inn. “Has Garmendia been here?” Javier asked. “Garmendia?” “Angel Garmendia. The Basque separatist. You know who I mean.” “Yes,” the barman said from the depths behind. “ Yes, I know who you mean and he has been here.” “Has?” I croaked. “ Has? Where is he now? Who went with him. Who.…” “What about the Villada’s?” Javier asked. “Have they been here?” The heavy jowled man at the door shook his head. “ You can take your feuds elsewhere. Don’t drag Cotanes into it. We want no part of it.” “But what’s happened?”
