Revenge on the Camino

By Ken Privratsky

The famous pilgrimage route Camino de Santiago becomes the setting for vengeance by two brothers and a former Basque terrorist. Their killings frighten villagers and interrupt the pilgrimage of FBI Agent Ward Crimmons, who is walking the Camino in memory of his deceased wife, along with his brother-in-law, a general in Spain's famous Civil Guard. As victims multiply and Spanish police search for clues, Ward learns some of the country's dark history and becomes unexpectedly involved in trying to find the killers.
Revenge on the Camino is the first book in a trilogy introducing Agent Crimmons and spanning the Camino de Santiago. He arrives in Europe as the first brutal murder takes place over a hundred miles away. Readers walk the trail with him, experiencing the captivating scenery and legends of the Camino while, elsewhere, investigators try to get inside the minds of the killers. Story lines merge and lead to a riveting climax, leaving us to wonder whether Ward himself could become a target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098350451

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Copyright © 2021 by Ken Privratsky

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission by the author in writing.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, institutions, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, real or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-09835-044-4

eISBN: 978-1-09835-045-1

Printed by BookBaby

Pennsauken, New Jersey

For my wife, Kathy, who has been by my side for more than fifty years, including two walks across Spain on the Camino de Santiago

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The man sat on the ground smoking a cigarette at the end of a long plateau as he peered through binoculars. There were expansive views in all directions, but he focused on the small dirt path from the east crossing feet from where he was sitting before descending westward toward the small village of Hornillos del Camino. The late July sun was sinking toward the horizon at the end of another scorching day. Had he been here earlier, the man would have seen dozens of pilgrims making their ways along the trail, packs on their backs, some in small groups talking or laughing, others alone enjoying solitude. More would pedal past and nod when they noticed him and his bicycle. All would be heading across northern Spain on a route known as the Camino de Santiago, which had attracted pilgrims for more than a thousand years.

Late this afternoon, though, silence engulfed the Meseta. He viewed a lone pilgrim, about a mile east walking toward him across the long plateau, the horizon broken by a few clusters of sagebrush siding the path. Others had started their pilgrimages around daybreak to avoid the ninety- to hundred-degree temperatures and were now settling in small hostels in villages to the west.

The Meseta owned a reputation for being the most unforgiving part of Spain, the high plain of the autonomous community of Castile and León beginning after the regional capital of Burgos. It extended over a hundred miles westward past León to Astorga, an endless array of hills and valleys sparsely blessed by groves of trees providing welcome relief from incessant sun in summer and frequent high winds year-round. Its few villages cherished populations counted in dozens. Some walking this part of the Camino underestimated challenges of the terrain, weather, and occasional long distances between villages, where potable water proved in scarce supply. They did so at their own peril. Many memorials stood over these miles for victims of the tortuous conditions. The year before, a cyclist like himself suffered a stroke and died a short distance from where he was sitting.

The man had hung his helmet from the handlebars of his bicycle and still sported the head wrap he had been wearing underneath. He appeared like any other cyclist who might have passed that day and decided to take a break, although the jammers he wore and the cargo bags behind the seat of his bike were not nearly as dusty as one might expect after a full day’s ride.

He fixated on the approaching pilgrim until he felt a vibration from the phone in his breast pocket. He dashed out his cigarette on the ground, pocketed the filter, answered with a simple Yes, listened, and then responded, Very good. See you soon.

Fifteen minutes later, the pilgrim, shouldering a backpack and dressed in lightweight clothing to cover his arms and legs for protection against the sun, slowed his pace as he neared the cyclist to the left of the trail. A brimmed sunhat shaded his face. Sunglasses protected his eyes. Like many others, he used walking poles to ease the weight of his pack and provide stability in rough stretches. "Buen Camino," he greeted courteously when he passed and raised one of the walking poles to touch the brim of his hat. He was about twenty years older than the man he was passing. The cyclist did not respond. The pilgrim continued onward at his slow pace in the center of the narrow dirt path as it started downward toward the village, leaving room on either side for anyone wanting to pass him.

After a few minutes, the cyclist stood and unsnapped a cargo bag on the back of his bicycle. He briefly surveyed the ground where he had been sitting, glanced backward at the empty trail and across the barren landscape. Then he mounted his bike and began coasting downhill toward the pilgrim, slowly gaining speed. As he approached, the cyclist reached back and withdrew a long blade from the cargo bag. The unsuspecting pilgrim, likely deep in thought and looking down instead of ahead, never sensed the cyclist had left the hilltop let alone come up behind him. He did not have time to turn as the cyclist came alongside, cocked his arm with steady concentration and yelled, Rot in hell, Father! with his eyes focused on the back of the pilgrim’s neck. The silver blade he gripped flashed in the sun while he swung, slicing into the pilgrim just above the backpack through his neck and catapulting his sunhat high above. The pilgrim’s body lurched forward, blood spewing from the stump of his severed neck, as his head rotated twice from the force of the blow and bounced backward onto the path, then rolled and stopped at the pilgrim’s feet about the same time as his hat settled nearby.

1

Ward Crimmons stood by the baggage carousel at the Biarritz Airport anxiously waiting for his bright yellow duffel bag to drop off the conveyor belt. He had chosen that color because it would be easy to recognize. Although it was early afternoon, he was exhausted from multiple connecting flights starting nearly twenty-four hours before from his home town of Spokane, Washington through Seattle to New York, then landing in Paris, and now in this small seaside resort town touching the Atlantic in western France near the border with Spain. The quaint town supposedly had benefited in recent years from investments by many Russian oligarchs. He was interested in neither those guys nor the town itself. He only wanted to secure his bag and catch a taxi to a hotel in Bayonne a few miles away, while trying to stay awake as long as possible. International travel in years past had taught him the best way to kick jet lag was to try to get into the sleep cycle of the new time zone, rather than to crash as soon as he reached his hotel. It seldom worked for him though. Jet lag always kicked him hard for at least the first few days. He did not know how long he would last today. Fortunately, he had been able to get a few hours of sleep on the plane. For now, the most important thing on his mind was his yellow duffel.

Ward’s travels were not over. The next day, he intended to board a train to the small French village of Saint Jean Pied de Port, the most popular starting point for a pilgrimage route known as the Camino de Santiago. For over a thousand years, people had been walking from there to the city of Santiago in Galicia, Spain. Many believed the cathedral there held the remains of Christ’s disciple James, who had traveled to the Iberian Peninsula after the crucifixion to spread the gospel to pagans. It was not an easy venture for James. He was not accepted readily in many places and often had to hide to save his life. When he returned to Jerusalem a decade later, Herod had him beheaded. Stories vary as to how his body arrived back on the coast of Spain. Some believed it washed up on a beach, where a follower found the body among scallop shells and buried it for protection. Several centuries later, a hermit discovered the mounded grave and notified a local bishop, who somehow authenticated the body to be that of Saint James. Years later, a small church that later became a magnificent cathedral marked the spot and became the centerpiece of a town that took on his name, the English for Santiago meaning Saint James. The Cathedral of Santiago became the destination for millions of pilgrims over the years to pay homage to the saint.

Ward was going to become one of those pilgrims. His duffel held all of his provisions for weeks ahead, including the Osprey backpack he had worn during training hikes over the past couple months to get in shape. Many of the things inside he could replace, but he was particularly concerned about securing his pack because he was not sure he could find another in the tiny village of Saint Jean Pied de Port. He had walked hundreds of miles with his pack already, and it fit him well. He planned on carrying it for 500 miles from Saint Jean to Santiago and from there to the Atlantic Ocean on an even more ancient pilgrimage route. His walk was not for religious reasons. Ward saw himself as a spiritual man; however, he had fallen away from attendance at church in the past like many others because he was tired of the scandals and corruption. Rather, he was walking to get his head on straight because of the loss of his wife, Sofia, to cancer, six months earlier. They had been married for over twenty-five years. Her loss had devastated him. He was hoping that walking across northern Spain would help him come to grips with his loss.

The duffel was one of the last bags to drop off the conveyor onto the carousel, much to Ward’s relief. He grabbed it, exited the controlled area for baggage pickup, and followed signs with pictures of cars and buses. Being in a foreign country did not intimidate him like it did some. Anyone seeing him might have sensed his confidence not knowing exactly why. He had traveled a lot over the years on several continents, both for business and pleasure. Now, although having spent nearly an entire day in airplane seats, he did not look weary. His lightweight, wrinkle-free shirt and pants were designed for travel, and they fit him well. Although in his early sixties, he remained trimmer and fitter than many young people. Ward walked effortlessly through the exit door with the duffel in his right hand as he hailed a taxi with his left. A light breeze ruffled his thinning auburn hair.

A half hour later, the taxi driver pulled up to the hotel a dozen yards from the confluence of the Rivers Nive and Adour. He paid the driver and stood out front, looking across the rivers to the old section of Bayonne with its streets lined by buildings older than America and the dual spires of the Cathedral of Saint Mary rising high above the roofline. Bayonne was a small city, less than 50,000 residents, and it shared the richness of two cultures, one from Spain’s Basque country and the other from France’s Glascony region. It was quite different from the Pacific Northwest, and today, it was quiet because it was a Sunday. Ward liked what he saw. He intended to walk around the old town after he settled in his room and located the train station.

Women at the hotel desk welcomed him to Bayonne and gave him directions to the train station, which proved to be much closer than Ward anticipated. His room was three floors up. He shouldered his duffel and took the stairs, quickly wishing he had opted for the small elevator instead. The stairway was narrow and steep, like many others in old European buildings. As his duffel brushed against the wall several times, he thought that must be the reason pictures never hung on walls in such stairwells. His room was small but quite adequate. He slung his duffel onto the floor, opened the window to let in fresh air, and noticed it was drizzling a little. Bayonne still looked magnificent across the rivers. Ward grabbed his rain jacket and soon was out on the street again.

The train station was two blocks away and easy to find. He bought a one-way ticket to Saint Jean for the next morning, tucked it in his pocket, and headed back in the direction of his hotel. He spotted some places conveniently close for dinner in a few hours and soon was strolling across Pont Saint-Esprit Bridge to the old section of town. Families were out enjoying walks on the mostly deserted streets this Sunday afternoon. After an hour of exploration, Ward found himself a seat outside a bistro and ordered a beer. When it arrived, he noticed that the year on the brewery label of the mug was 1128 and shook his head in amazement.

Ward sat in a corner covered by a canopy, checking messages on his phone. By the time a second beer arrived, most others had paid their checks and departed. He selected a number from his contact list, raised the phone to his ear, and listened to several rings before a familiar voice answered with a cheerful "buenas tardes, amigo!" It was his brother-in-law Martin Espoñera, now living with his family in León. Martin’s wife, Maria, was the sister of his deceased wife, Sofia. The two had grown up in Pamplona, where their parents were buried. One of Sofia’s few requests had been to be reunited with them at her death. She remained proud of her heritage and country. Families had converged there for her interment a few months before. Children on both sides attended. They too had grown close over the years. As painful as the gathering was, the get-together of his family and the Espoñera family helped ease everyone’s sorrow.

"Isn’t it ‘buenas noches’ now? I thought that was the greeting for evening," returned Ward.

"Nope. We Spanish go by the sun. That doesn’t start until after sunset. We still stay ‘tardes’ until then, he said with a laugh. So you got in okay. Did all your stuff arrive?"

Yep. It arrived okay. Ward returned. I was concerned about checking a bag with most of my stuff in it. That was a big relief. I’m checked into a hotel and have my train ticket to Saint Jean for tomorrow morning. I have a room booked for a night there in what looks to be a nice place. It’s been around for a long time and has great reviews. I’ll start walking the following day.

Walking the Camino had been Martin’s recommendation during their recent gathering in Pamplona after they had seen some pilgrims passing through the city. He had made the journey himself in his younger years and thought it could help Ward deal with his grief. When he returned home after the interment, Ward started reading about the Camino. He knew that Sofia, a staunch Catholic all her life, would have jumped at the opportunity to walk the route before her cancer diagnosis. The idea of making the pilgrimage for her piqued his interest, but he remained undecided about taking on the challenge until Martin committed to joining him. Martin hoped to get at least two weeks off and maybe more depending on work requirements.

Great! exclaimed Martin. What’s your game plan? Today’s Sunday. You’ll start walking on Tuesday. I’ll arrive in Pamplona on Friday and should be at the hotel no later than five o’clock. Where will you be stopping?

I’m taking it easy the first day. My first stop will be at Orisson, about five miles away from Saint Jean. I don’t plan on stopping in Roncesvalles as most people do. Instead I will continue on to Burguete on Wednesday, spend the night, and then head to Zubiri. That should enable me to get into Pamplona by midafternoon on Friday if everything goes okay. I want to go visit Sofia.

That will be nice, Ward. How’s the weather looking? From what I’ve seen, there won’t be any problem taking the Napoleon Route over the Pyrenees. You might get some rain, but the weather looks good, probably not too hot either.

That’s the same as I’ve read. I’ll keep checking it. There’s not much we can do about it. This time of year, the path rarely closes though.

Okay. I look forward to being with you, Ward. I’ll see you in Pamplona Friday afternoon.

Ward put his phone back in his coat pocket and sat looking across the Nive as he continued sipping his beer. He really liked Martin. They were the same age and had become like brothers. They met at a military staff college in Kansas in the early 1990s. Both were majors in their respective armies. Ward was still a bachelor at the time. Martin was an exchange student from Spain and arrived with his wife, Maria, and two daughters. Sofia visited them early in the school year, and soon thereafter she and Ward got together. That seemed like yesterday in many ways to him now as he sat in Bayonne, but it had been over twenty-five years ago. Theirs had been a fun romance. They married within a year. Two children followed. After the arrival of their second child, he and Sofia decided to settle down. Ward left the army and joined the FBI, where in years following, he steadily rose to levels of higher responsibility in the Pacific Northwest, being able to maintain a home in Spokane and still pursue cases in adjacent states.

Life had taken Martin and Maria onto a similar path. Martin left the Spanish Army about the same time, returned to Pamplona, and started a career in law enforcement at the end of the century when Spain was battling terrorists as well as higher levels of crime. He gained a reputation for getting results and making neighborhoods safe. In the past year, he had received a promotion to the rank of brigadier general in the Civil Guard with responsibility for policing rural areas in the entire autonomous community of Castile and León.

Ward grabbed his phone again after realizing he had not told his two daughters he had arrived in France. He knew they would worry about him on his adventure across Spain. Alison, the oldest by less than two years, lived in Colorado with her husband, daughter, and son. Kerry along with her husband and son lived in Texas. All three of his grandkids were on summer vacation from elementary school and would be tracking his progress on maps of Spain that he had mailed them. He expected to share updates regularly during his walk. Ward sent brief messages to let them know he had arrived safely and all was well. He did not expect a response right away with the time zone differences.

As it was starting to get dark, Ward paid his tab and walked back across the bridge toward his hotel and the restaurants that caught his eye earlier. The first place he entered was only serving drinks at the bar. He discovered it would be another hour before the restaurant opened. He had forgotten that in Spain people ate much later than in the States. This was something he would need to plan for in weeks ahead. He ambled across the street to the other establishment and received the same news. The proprietor, however, invited him in for a few bar snacks and drinks as the staff finished eating their meals before the restaurant opened to the public. He was a jovial guy who spoke English like an Englishman. He had lived most of his life in Gibraltar before moving to Bayonne five years ago to open this restaurant with his wife, who happened to be from the city.

They talked off and on as Ward enjoyed more beer. Before he knew it, the restaurant opened with people arriving and taking seats for dinner. After he sat down in the dining room, he struck up conversation with a younger couple sitting at the table next to his. To his surprise, they asked him if he was in Bayonne to take the train to Saint Jean.

I am, Ward replied. Are you walking the Camino as well?

We are, they responded in unison. They introduced themselves, and the man explained that it was their second time walking the Camino. The first time they started walking from Pamplona, and this time they wanted to complete the entire French route by starting in Saint Jean. Ward was flabbergasted to learn they had already been walking for nearly a month after starting in southern Germany and crossing France to Bayonne. Soon they were in conversation about the Camino, with Ward picking their brains on several topics and listening intently. By the time they finished dinner, Ward was really pumped about what he was about to experience.

You’re going to love it, they said as the three of them left the restaurant. It’s an amazing experience. We’ll see you tomorrow at the train station.

Walking back to his hotel, Ward marveled at the coincidence of meeting such nice people. Talking to them had kept him from thinking about how tired he really was. Back in his room, he removed his pack and hiking poles from the duffel, checked the contents for the umpteenth time over the past week, and, seeing that nothing had changed, went to bed with anticipation of the weeks ahead. Before long, he was fast asleep.

2

Lieutenant Colonel Manuel Garcia snuffed his cigarette on the pavement with his shoe and pulled open the door. He was a small man in stature, well-built with graying hair, thick eyebrows, and dark piercing eyes. Today, he was sporting the dark green dress jacket with epaulets marking his rank and signaling to many he was the commandant of the Civil Guard in Burgos. Garcia maintained his fitness, which was getting harder these days as he had few opportunities to be out of the office. Major Antonio Salazar, his chief investigator, was waiting in the hallway. A much larger man and balding although ten years younger, he wore the field uniform consisting of a dark green short-sleeved shirt with cargo pants and held a baseball-type cap with the emblem of the Civil Guard. Garcia had been in a meeting in León with other commandants. He had excused himself as soon as he received the call about the grizzly murder.

Garcia had lived his entire life around Burgos and worked his way through the ranks in the Civil Guard before being rewarded with his promotion to lieutenant colonel and selection as commandant. Happily married to him for all of that time, his wife, Carmen, had learned long ago that being married to a policeman meant many hours alone at home. Years before, he had held Salazar’s position in Burgos. Salazar had been on his team at that time, and Garcia was pleased that he had risen to be the head of investigations. They were good friends and had investigated many crimes together. With less than 400 murders annually throughout Spain, a country of forty-six million people, killings remained unusual, especially since the Basque nationalist and separatist party Euskadi ta Askatasuna, commonly known as ETA, had disbanded recently. Formed as a political party in 1959 promoting Basque culture and separation from Spain and France, ETA had evolved into its own paramilitary group and waged a violent campaign against the two governments. The organization admitted responsibility for hundreds of assassinations, deaths, and bombings over the years before reaching a ceasefire agreement in 2010 and ultimately disbanding in 2018. It had set off a car bomb next to the Civil Guard barrack blocks away in 1999, killing a couple dozen people including one of Garcia’s friends. Garcia had pursued its members in past years and came to appreciate the calmer years after the ceasefire. When he received the alert from Salazar earlier in the day, he knew that this murder was different and had potential to create concerns at high levels of the government like those previous ETA attacks. He therefore cut his meeting short in León and drove back to Burgos.

Good afternoon, sir. The team has started digging into this. We’ll regroup midafternoon to go over what we’ve found. You’re welcome to join us if you want. You’ll see that this case is unusual. The pathologist is waiting for us, said Salazar.

Very good, Tony. Tell me as much as you can as we walk to the lab. Addressing subordinates by first names was common with close working relationships. Garcia had never been a high-pressure supervisor, but he held everyone to high standards and did not suffer fools anywhere lightly. He genuinely liked the people who worked for Salazar. Several had been working with him when he left the office. All were highly trained, hard-working, and selfless.

Salazar had his leather notebook in hand but did not refer to it. The body was found just before dark last night on the Camino outside of Hornillos. Two Italian cyclists were finishing up their ride for the day. After they started downhill toward the village, they saw a mound on the trail. They were looking into the setting sun at the time and didn’t have a clear view. By the time they came up on it, they were almost next to the body, the head on the side next to the feet, the stump of the neck covered up by the pack, and lots of blood on the path. One of the guys rode into Hornillos looking for help while the other waited nearby. They said they didn’t know whom to call. A villager called our headquarters. Patrols were there within an hour and secured the area. As you know, we’ve got a good relationship with the pathologist, Doctor Ramos. We called her as we were leaving. She joined us at the scene. When we arrived, it was dark of course. It was bad. We put up lights and taped off the area. At daybreak, we put up a tent.

What did you find?

It was like the man just fell forward. His hands were still in the loops of the walking poles. Except for the head missing and at his feet, the guy could have been sleeping on his stomach with his pack on. There was no struggle. It appeared he didn’t know what hit him. We examined the area around the body as best as we could. Paths on the Camino get thousands of walkers each day as well as bikers. The trail was packed pretty hard, but there were still lots of different footprints on both sides as well as bike tire marks. Forensics took a few impressions. We took more pictures, though, especially when the sun came up. We were at the scene all night. No other people arrived on the trail, but we knew they would soon. We made the decision with Doctor Ramos to remove the body exactly like we found it. My team is still out in the village this morning talking to people.

What about the bikers who found the body? Garcia asked.

They’re at a hostel in Hornillos. We’ve got their IDs. We told them not to leave. They weren’t happy about that. We’re getting statements and then will release them.

What Salazar had said about the fast response made Garcia feel good. He pressed his people to respond to calls quickly and professionally. He took great pride in the Civil Guard, the oldest law enforcement organization in Spain and the only one to retain a paramilitary structure preserving military ranks. Its responsibilities included rural areas, smaller cities, waterways, and the sea. Law enforcement in Spain, however, came from several different organizations. The Civil Guard differed from the National Police, which focused more on crimes in larger cities and provincial capitals, and from the Local Police, which reported directly to community mayors to enforce traffic and combat petty crime. Direction to both the Civil Guard and the National Police came from the Ministry of the Interior but through different chains of supervision. The Civil Guard also reported to the Ministry of Defense because its responsibilities changed in times of war. All organizations cooperated generally, although sometimes the extent of this pivoted on personalities. Unlike in some countries, most police in Spain were well armed, especially the Civil Guard. The preferred hand weapon for them was the German-made Sig Sauer nine-millimeter. The multiple police forces confused many tourists, though, as they saw different names and uniforms, not knowing whom to call as problems arose. It became even more confusing if tourists traveled across Spain because some autonomous communities had their own police forces. Garcia used to laugh about it, but he had grown to respect all the organizations. Those in Burgos had worked closely together for years, largely as a result of Garcia’s outreach efforts, first as young investigator and now continuing as the officer responsible for all Civil Guard activities around the area. He also had worked hard to improve relations between the communities since police forces had developed reputations for brutality under the Franco years, particularly in this part of Spain. His efforts had paid off.

Okay. Good work, Tony. Let’s see what more Ana can tell us.

The two men scanned their electronic badges at