Free Codename Eagle by Robert Rigby Page B

that he was no fool.
    Inigo lived alone in a small, dilapidated cottage not far from Odile’s house close by the river. He earned his living by repairing and restoring bicycles. The tiny backyard was stacked with bits of bike: wheels, frames, handlebars, saddles, chains. Inigo was expert in mixing and matching items from unwanted bikes to make a perfectly serviceable machine.
    Bits of bike somehow found their way into most rooms in the cottage. Inigo was often at work indoors, so as well as the dominant smell of garlic, there was a background aroma of old leather and grease.
    “So, Inigo,” Odile said, as the Spaniard deftly balanced the sliver of sausage on the blade of his razor-sharp knife, “will you help us? I’m sure our friend would be safe with you.”
    Inigo offered the sausage to the elderly woman, who smiled and shook her head. “Too strong for me.”
    The glinting blade was turned in Josette’s direction, but she also quickly declined.
    The small man shrugged and popped the meat into his own mouth, chewing slowly and savouring the taste as he considered Odile’s question. “Well, Madame Mazet,” he said after swallowing, “since I came to Lavelanet you have always been a friend to me. And you’ve always called me by my name.”
    “What else would I call you?” Odile said.
    “Spaniard,” Inigo said, “or the Spaniard. Do you know, I’m not even Spanish – or not what my people would call Spanish.”
    “You’re a Basque,” Odile said.
    “Correct!” Inigo was delighted that his visitor remembered that he came from the region in the north of Spain where the inhabitants considered themselves a separate nation. The Spanish government believed differently. “But few bother to find out my name,” Inigo continued, “and if they do, they still can’t be bothered to use it. So I respect you, and I also admire you. Many people in Lavelanet admire you.”
    Odile was well liked in the town, but she was immune to flattery and, like her granddaughter, famed for her straight talking. “But you haven’t answered my question,” she said, looking Inigo in the eyes.
    “I keep myself to myself these days,” he said, “and I’m not looking for trouble. I’ve had enough of that in the past. And hiding someone from the authorities sounds like trouble to me.”
    “I decided to ask you partly because you keep yourself to yourself. And because I believe I can trust you.”
    “Thank you, Madame Mazet, that means a great deal to me, but even so, I don’t think I can help.”
    “And what if I were to tell you that the person who needs our help says that the men who took away his wife were not gendarmes at all, but German soldiers in disguise?”
    Inigo had been toying with the knife, but now his fingers tightened on the grip, his knuckles whitening. “Germans? Nazis?”
    “Our friend thinks so, and we believe he’s right. They are certainly not police officers from around these parts; my son has already checked.”
    The Spaniard turned to Josette. “I hate Nazis, do you know that?”
    “My grandmother told me,” Josette answered quietly, startled by the sudden fury in Inigo’s eyes.
    “And did she tell you why?”
    Josette shook her head.
    “They killed my family in the Spanish Civil War, the fascists of General Franco and his Nazi supporters. We lived in a town called Guernica, have you heard of Guernica?”
    “I’m sorry, no, I haven’t.”
    “One day, everyone will know of Guernica. My brother and I were away fighting when the German Luftwaffe and the Italians, all Franco’s allies, they came and bombed the town. No warning. They killed hundreds of defenceless civilians. Children, old people, blown to pieces. My parents, and my sister too.”
    He stared down at the knife clenched tightly in his hand.
    Josette started to say something, but saw her grandmother give a slight shake of her head.
    In the silence that followed, Josette’s thoughts turned to Paul. His father had died at the hands