The Basque Decoy

By Sean Keefer

Boston journalist Xavier Bentley travels to Spain to write a story about Holy Week in Southern Spain. However he quickly becomes entangled in an unstable and volatile political scene, due to the recent death of Spain’s dictator, Francisco Franco.

Politicians from the North to South of Spain are on edge as a struggle ensues between the national and regional autonomous parties for control. The Northern Spanish Basque separatist group, ETA, has disrupted this process, seeking revenge for the decades of repression for their culture.

All of this occurs with the backdrop of the newly installed King, Franco’s successor, who must force the Conservatives and Socialists to set a timetable to write the first Constitution since the 1930’s without allowing the country to tear apart. Political backstabbing, alliances and threats ensue.

Xavier, having befriended the Interior Minister and his daughter, Emilia Blanco, becomes a critical component of protecting the security and stability of this new and fragile constitutional democracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781716079160

Book preview

The

Basque

Decoy

A Novel

By Sean Keefer

The Basque Decoy

A Sant Arcangelo Book

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, are used fictitiously, or intended to allow the reader a better understanding of the historical context in which the novel takes place. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Copyright © 2021 by Sean Keefer

Cover design by Canva

Published by Sant’ Arcangelo Press

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One is born Basque, one speaks Basque, one lives Basque and one dies Basque. The Basque tongue is fatherland, I had almost said religion.

-Victor Hugo

Preface

T

he poet Federico Garcia Lorca once wrote, In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. The presence of these ever-present dead materialized after the 1975 death of Francisco Franco, dictator of Spain, after 36 years of rule. Although Spain collectively exhaled after decades of repression, leaders and the populace as a whole woke up the next morning searching for its identity in the wake of this political vacuum.

Historical Context for the Novel

Alphonso XIII served as King of Spain from 1886 until April 1931 when he was forced to flee the country for various reasons including an election of anti-monarchist politicians along with stagnant economic conditions. With that departure, these republican political leaders absolved the monarchy, and ushered in a more liberal and progressive Spanish Second Republic. Shock and horror overcame the political and military traditionalists who saw Spain as a conservative country. A group of Spanish conservative military Generals, including Francisco Franco, set a plan in motion to take back Spain by ending the Second Republic, and removing the anarchists, socialists, and communists from power. They started a coup d'état launching the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. El Caudillo, as Franco was known, successfully won the war mostly due to the inability of the republican forces to organize along with military support from European countries like Italy and Germany.

Franco spear-headed efforts to revive the economic, political, and moral character of Spain through implementing a series of restrictive reforms. He re-instituted the ban on divorce and created harsh penalties to those who tried to push anti-Catholic agendas. Economically, he tried to convert the mostly agrarian society of Spain into a striving industrial and technological power in Europe. Lastly, politically he created the Moviemiento Nacional or FET de las JONS which was the only lawful political entity in Spain. FET de las JONS was a combination of the Falange Espanola Tradicionlistas and the Juntas de Ofensivas Nacional Sindicalistas, whose main goal was to mandate that all regions of the divided country to accept both the language and government of Spain as the only legitimate option.

After decades of rule, in 1973, Franco finally relinquished most of his power to a good friend and one of the few men he trusted, Admiral Luis Carrero Blanco. He proved a failure, and the regional groups of Spain started to assert themselves in the absence of Franco’s day-to-day leadership. The Catalonian nationalists and anarchists of Barcelona were troublesome to manage, but more so were the Basques of Northern Spain who truly stood in his way of unifying the country. The Basque Region consisted of seven provinces of which four (Bizkaia, Araba, Nafarroa, and Gipuzkoa) rested in the Northeast corner of Spain, and three (Lapurdi, Baxe Nafarroa, and Zuberoa) in the Southwest corner of France. This culture had its own identity, successfully fighting off enemies from the Romans to the Moors, and its language was and still is the oldest living language in Europe. The language was not a derivative of Spanish or French, but a compilation of many people groups from many regions. The Basque or Euskera language was a sense of identity and pride, especially to the younger generations. Franco in his attempt to unify Spain, made it illegal to speak Basque.

El Caudillo viewed speaking Euskera as outright sedition and a direct impediment to a full unification of Spanish culture. Franco outlawed the use of Euskera from all public institutions including both secular and religious schools as well as on the street. It left a mark on the youth of Euskadi, who as an act of defiance continued to speak the language. It was a romantic idea to be defiant, for being oppressed for the very thing that made them unique. Groups of Basque college students as well as small groups of patriotic Basque laborers began to launch protests against Franco’s harsh penalties for speaking Euskera. Franco arrested (or worse) these individuals which led to many Basques searching for a way to fight back.

Basque separatists grew tired of going nowhere with their fights of autonomy and turned to violence as a matter of political expediency. The group was known as ETA an acronym for Euskadi Tau Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Freedom). Franco’s choice of Luis Carrero Blanco for premiership proved even worse when ETA implemented "Operación Ogro" and successfully assassinated him, leaving a gaping hole in leadership. However, Franco, still in firm control, granted the premiership to Carlos Arias Navarro.

In Spring of 1976, in which the novel takes place, Arias fails miserably to set up economic and political reforms and is dependent almost exclusively on Franco’s handpicked successor, King Juan Carlos I (referred to in this novel as King Juan Ferdinand) to restore the monarchy and preside over the drafting of a new Spanish Constitution.

The proceeding story is a fictional work that looks to explore the political landscape in Spain the few months following El Caudillo’s death. There was a battle by newly formed political parties to gain control of the Spanish minds and souls, as well as have a voice in the construction of a new democratic form of government.

With the first Constitution since the Second Republic in the 1930’s, King Juan Ferdinand, was the chosen successor by Franco to succeed him after his death, a move that led to much dissension and hatred towards him. Franco saw Juan Ferdinand as continuing in the same policies that he had begun, but had not ultimately completed. However, Juan Ferdinand proved to be a moderate and sympathetic diplomat in unifying the country who had to navigate twenty newly created political parties and four regional languages.

In this fictional time, the Conservatives still were holding on by a small majority, but ultimately needed the regional parties such as those in Northern Spain to vote with them. The political pressures thrusted on Basque political leaders, still with bruised sentiments, coupled with ETA working at times separately from these officials led to an explosive atmosphere after Franco’s death. The assassination of a Prime Minister as well as the inability for the newly placed Prime Minister, Arias, to create economic stability, forced a show down between the Socialists and Conservatives to fight it out on who should rule over the Spanish citizens.

SK

Chapter 1

Vitoria (Gasteiz), Basque Region of Spain

Tuesday, March 9, 1976 (11:30 A.M.)

"C

heckmate!" Colonel Carlos Montiel blurted out, grinning at his younger rival in the dimly lit pub. He buttoned up his sweater and leaned towards the fire as the last few breaths of winter found entry through a crack in a nearby window.

The man across the table, General Francisco Àngel, stared at the chessboard, rested his palm on his chin with a look of bewilderment. That can’t be…

I am sorry, but wisdom comes with age, countered Montiel, chuckling with great satisfaction as he reclined back in his chair.

It was not too common of a sight. In fact, it had not happened for months.

You old fool, how did you do it?

Montiel gazed out of the window, watching a handful of workers walking towards the bar from the nearby beet sugar mill and metal factory. The pub had been unusually empty due to roaming workers’ strikes in recent weeks. A few fishermen sat in the pub, passing the time as they waited for the hour-long bus ride to the ports of San Sebastian and also the estuaries north of Bilboa from the Bay of Biscay.

Vitoria, the Basque Capitol city, situated in the extreme north central part of Spain, was one of the largest industrial cities in Spain. It was a city rich with history, dating back to its founding in the 6th century by Visigoth king Leovigild. Churches, bars, and factories interspersed the city as the 14th century Gothic church of Santa Maria towered over it.

Taking his gaze off the workers, and back to the chess board, Montiel put his hand out to his friend, Well don’t seem that surprised. I used to beat you regularly!

That was a few years ago my friend, Àngel jokingly jabbed back, sipping his café con leche.

Every Tuesday the two friends met to play chess, talk politics, and share remembrances of their time serving in the Spanish Civil War in the 30’s. When they first began to meet regularly, they spoke very little of the war, and for good reason. They each had done many horrible things; things that normal men would never have been able to recover from. War had brought out the best and worst in them, and to dwell back into that era, was to dredge up those memories. However, times were different, and with the power vacuum left with Francisco Franco’s death six months ago, they frequently alluded back to the parallels they saw from the war and now.

Carlos Montiel, in his early eighties, still suffered the physical and psychological effects of the war. He dressed in typical Northern Spain attire wearing a navy beret, brown pants, a cream-colored shirt, and a dark pea color cardigan.

Francisco Ángel, in his mid-sixties, was still in his military uniform, having returned from a ribbon cutting event of a new military base in Pamplona about an hour away.  He was due to retire at the end of the year but was still very active in his duties as senior member of the National Security Council, reporting into the Prime Minister.

Would you like to play another Francisco? Carlos asked.

I wish that I could, Ángel continued, "but my wife will be upset if I don’t make it back before almuerzo! Plus, I am due to travel again this afternoon"

Francisco saw the disappointment in his eyes and quickly replied, Just think Carlos, next year we can come here every day, and not have to deal with a schedule.

Carlos smiled at that prospect, Well Francisco, let’s get another coffee before the shift ends, or what remains of it.

"Get me a small tostada con jamón oh, and some queso also," Carlos said.

Francisco Ángel walked towards the bar and sat down on an empty stool. He towered over the other men, standing well over six feet tall. His well-starched suit and black polished shoes were much nicer than the clothes worn by the factory workers and fishermen that frequented the bar. However, he was not out of place as men from all classes stood around the U-shaped bar.

A few of the workers gave concerning glances at him, as emotions were still raw as six days earlier in the city, armed police, at the order of the Interior Minister, opened fire, killing six workers that were protesting for improved working conditions. 

As Francisco waited for his order, he glanced back at his old friend and when their eyes met, he saw a sad smile meeting him back at the bar. Carlos was a lonely man, his wife dying of a stroke nearly ten years ago.

The bartender walked right past Francisco, and yelled, "Dos café con leches, tostada con jamón y queso."

The bartenders, as in most European cities, were very professional. They did not take tips, unless excessive, and were impeccably dressed from head to toe. The bartender nodded his head, and noticed Francisco looking at the sugar jar.

The bartender asked, "Azúcar?"

Yes, in both.

The bartender went back and filled the sugar jar, and without eye contact yelled, "200 pesetas." He then asked the cook to make the sandwich and began preparing the coffee. He washed out the old coffee grounds and refilled them. He then toasted the bread, sliced the ham from a cured leg as well as cut the cheese off the wheel. As he was in the middle of that, he took two more orders from bar patrons. He was accustomed to using his ears, and not eye contact for service.

As the order was read, and before Francisco could lay his money down, the bartender quickly wiped the counter with a damp towel, and repeated back the order, "Dos café con leches, tostada con jamón y queso, 200 pesetas por favor. The bartender put out his hand, took the two hundred pesetas, nodded his head and said, Muy amable."

The second shift was about to begin at the factory and the men began to filter out of the bar.  Francisco waited for some of the men to pass him, and he carried the saucers back to the table. He walked slowly, so as not to spill the small cups of coffee. He laid the cups down and walked back to the bar to pick up the tostadas.

Francisco uncorked a glass container of olive oil and poured it on the toast.  Francisco took out a leather pouch he used to carry his cigarettes. He opened up the pack and held them out to Carlos. Carlos outstretched his trembling hand and took a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and stuck his neck out towards Francisco who held the lighter out for him.

Carlos lit his cigarette, and began to speak, So, how is the transition going?

Francisco lit his cigarette, took a deep puff, and exhaled. He put his elbows on the table and ran one of his hands through his hair and said, Not well.  Our Conservative alliance will probably keep power in the Cortes, but the numbers do not show support for Prime Minister Arias’ economic proposals. I don’t know if we can hold on before the next election.

Montiel nodded in agreement. Francisco continued, There is too much pressure from the socialists, and then lowering his voice, and Basque resistance against us.

Francisco continued, The King is toying with a public call for a vote of no confidence or vote of confidence…who knows what he is calling it. It is a gesture to the public that their voice matters. There is even talk about a joint session of the House and Senate in the same Chamber, really an unprecedented and, in my opinion, reckless disregard for the traditions. As you know this would determine when the general elections would be held and more importantly would coincide with the creation and ultimate signing of the Constitution. It could backfire as we have the power right now to write this document our way. I think, anyway.

Carlos leaned in closer and whispered, I’m more concerned with the Basque interference, personally.

Carlos ashed his cigarette and with his other hand took a sip of coffee. He growled, The Spanish people will not stand for those extremists. I respect King Juan Ferdinand, but I have to ask, what is he thinking?

Montiel paused and looked to his left and right and softly said, Whatever the case, what is the government doing about the Basque problem?

Francisco said, I have to give a briefing tomorrow to the three new members of the Security Council about the increased numbers of terrorist acts around Spain. They are going to start going after party leaders, if not King Juan Ferdinand himself.

Montiel mockingly retorted, "That is too bad to hear. It wasn’t like that while El Caudillo was alive."

Ángel slightly nodded his head and continued, There were a few terrorist acts, with the Mayor of Galdakao being gunned down by ETA. Most have been kidnappings or ransoms in San Sebastian or Bilboa. We are trying to curb it before they spread into Central and Southern Spain.

ETA, or Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Liberty) was a separatist terrorist organization that pushed for autonomy of the Basque Country. With Franco’s crackdown of Basque language and culture, ETA became more radical. Whereas Basque political parties worked through the Spanish political system, ETA used military and gang tactics to intimate public officials to seek separation from Spain.

Francisco said, The current Interior Minister, Javier Galega, was forced to resign due to the recent events here. He was going to retire later this year, but this accelerated it. The New Minister was announced yesterday but has been working with the security council for some time now due to his current role. He is well aware of the threat, working on plans to safeguard the new leaders in Madrid from terrorism. He also has worked with French officials to slow down terrorist activities in the Southwestern Basque borders in France.

What is his name? Carlos asked.

Javier Blanco, Francisco replied as he wiped a few crumbs from the toast off the table.

Carlos nodded his head in acceptance, "Wasn’t he the Attorney General who convicted the two Basque separatists who tried to assassinate Franco? He is a good man, and if I am not mistaken still a member of our conservative refuge, the Falange political party."

Francisco did not respond but smiled at his unwavering patriotism. He said, Unfortunately there are not very many loyal people here. Everyone in Madrid is trying to get a seat at the table and take credit when we get around to writing the Constitution. Those in power are falling over themselves and will be bed fellows with anyone to get a piece of the pie.

Carlos impatiently asked, Who are the other two members?

Francisco put his head down and hoped Carlos would not recognize them as he said, Minister of National Security Roberto Oscurenzo and…

Carlos had been out of politics for a while, but still read the newspaper daily. He lightly scratched his chin pensively as the name sounded familiar.

Carlos said, Oscurenzo? Yes, I remember. I met him at a dinner party in Madrid several years ago.

Francisco rubbed his eyes and said, He used to be a security advisor for foreign diplomats under Franco, and recently was elevated under the Prime Minister’s advice to fill the vacancy in the new National Security post.

Carlos squinted his eyes and put his hand over his head as he tried to remember the conversation, he had with Oscurenzo. He then turned his head slightly back and forth while he stared at Francisco, But isn’t he a member of the Socialist party?

Francisco, not fully supportive of the Prime Minister’s choice, still tried to put perspective on the subject, Yes I know what you are going to say, but times are different. They spent a good deal of time screening the candidates. His father was loyal throughout the civil war and fought for us against the republicans. He is the most qualified and has worked in the secret service under Franco for the last two years before his passing.

Carlos ignored his comment, and shook his head as he asked, Who is the third member? Carlos paused and said, Like it matters.

Francisco replied, Well, you know as well as I that with the increasing numbers of Socialists in the Cortes, it is a political reality. It is a divided Cortes. One member of the council has to be an elected official.

Carlos impatiently asked, Who the hell was chosen?

Francisco replied hesitantly, Vincente Baroja is the…

Carlos in disbelief replied, Are you joking? You are giving Socialist members of parliament security briefs? How naive are you? Baroja was a supporter of Marx for God’s sake! He practically worshiped the anarchists who ransacked churches and executed clergy in Barcelona during the war.

Carlos began to cough and held his chest trying to catch his breath. His face was red, and Francisco began to get worried. Even decades later, Montiel still felt resentment and hatred against those who supported the republican ideals from the civil war.

Francisco tried to diffuse the situation, and said, They are experts in their field, and are the most competent. Besides, the King is going out of his way to show the Spanish people how committed he is to reform.

Francisco watched the old man’s expression and knew that there was nothing he could say or do to convince him of the political realities of the day.

The old man laughed, Intelligence doesn’t mean anything in this business, only loyalty. You will see this will come back to bite those in power.

Francisco held his tongue, who knew Montiel only wanted to protect the country he loved. A long pause turned to an awkward moment. Carlos knew he had overstepped his as Francisco look at his watch and said, Well I must be off.

Carlos put his hand out, I’m sorry Francisco, this old veteran has seen too much.

Francisco stood up and helped Carlos out of the seat. They walked outside and saw the snow began to fall at a faster pace.

Francisco Ángel put on his beret, and shook the old man’s wrinkled and worn hand, Until next Tuesday, I say dear Carlos.

Carlos knew he had been too harsh, stood up and apologized again. The old man smiled and gave him a half hug. He began to cough and contemplated how many more Tuesdays he had left.

The two men walked towards their cars. Their shoes crunched the fresh snow, leaving a distinct trail of footprints. Francisco turned around, as he always did, and waited for Carlos to get in the car. He always enjoyed the old man’s search in trying to find his keys. Carlos always patted his chest to see if he left them in the chest pockets of his overcoat. Then he patted his sides, and usually felt the keys on one side. He then took one of his gloves off and reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. He took that same glove and used it to wipe off the snow that had accumulated on the windshield. He always turned around and held the keys up like a trophy to Francisco’s applause. Carlos opened the door, and waved goodbye. Francisco waved back, watching him drive up the hill and towards his house.

Francisco had parked behind the pub, and he walked down the stairs curving around the building, holding on to the cold metal railing carefully. There was some ice visible on the stairs, so Francisco took his time taking one step at a time.

It had been snowing the whole morning, leaving the car covered with snow. He put his hand on the car door and replayed the conversation he had with Carlos. He also began to think through his upcoming meeting with the National Security Council. He was in a daze as he opened up the car and sat down with the door still open. Snow was beginning to fall at a heavier pace, and Francisco moved his head out of the car to watch the snow come down. He put on his seat belt and took both hands and put them on the wheel. He took a deep breath and regrouped.

He looked down and put the key in the ignition, and as he was about to turn the car on, he glanced upward. He noticed that there was a small layer of ice on the windshield. He took the key out of the ignition and unfastened the seat belt.

Francisco got out of the car and walked around the back and opened up the trunk. A cold blast of wind went right through him as he grabbed his shoulders trying to warm himself up. He took out the ice scraper and shut the trunk. He felt another cold breeze, and he put his hands in his pocket to take out his gloves. He scraped the ice off the car, and as he opened the door, he kicked the snow off his boots as he got in the car.

He was about to shut the door, when he noticed his wallet had fallen out of his coat while he had taken out his gloves. He shook his head impatiently, and with the car door still open, he put one leg out, and leaned over to grab his wallet. He brought his foot back into the car door and stomped the snow off on the carpet. He took out his keys and put the key in the ignition and slightly turned it. The radio was playing, as he thought through the rest of his day. 

Ángel was scheduled to fly out of Vitoria later in the afternoon and arrive at Barcelona around 5:00 P.M. He had already packed and was going to go to his house, eat lunch, pick up his luggage and leave. He turned the radio up a little louder listening to some music from Paco de Lucia. He began to tap the steering wheel trying to tap as quickly as the artist strummed on his guitar to a flamenco beat. As he was tapping, he turned the ignition on, and a small hissing sound came from underneath the steering wheel. It sounded like the battery was dead. The noise continued to get louder.

The engine did not start, so he turned the ignition again.

Oh great, just what I need, a dead battery. Francisco muttered aloud.

He got out of the car and walked to a public phone behind the building near the stairs he had walked down. He put in the money and called the number for a taxi service he had written on the back of a business card. He waited impatiently but no one answered. He looked at his watch and hung up the phone. He put his finger in the slot and took the money out. Francisco looked at his watch again and stared at his car.

He started walking back to the car and decided he would try it one more time. He quickly opened up the door and turned on the windshield wipers to push away the accumulated snow. He sat down in the car and turned the ignition.

He could hear the hissing noise again and moved closer to the dashboard to see if he could hear from where the noise was coming from.

In less than a second, a massive explosion erupted from underneath the car with such great force that it thrust the car into the air. The car was completely engulfed in flames, with Francisco Ángel’s listless body hunched over the wheel.

Moments later, the gas tank exploded leaving the car unrecognizable.

Chapter 2

Boston, MA

March 10 (8:00 A.M.)

X

avier Bentley stuck his hand between the subway doors and pried them open and found an empty seat to sit down. He took the half hour commute from Brighton, a small suburb southwest of Boston, to downtown. As the light rail car began to move forward, he collected his thoughts and put the finishing touches on his latest article. He was a journalist for the travel section of the Boston Herald and was on deadline for his latest assignment. He had a binder full of maps, photos and handwritten notebooks from his latest work assignment in Guatemala. He had spent nearly two weeks there, studying a recent archeological find.

Xavier left the station and quickly darted across a side street and walked towards his office. He walked into the elevator and moved up to the 36th floor of the Prudential office building in the heart of downtown Boston, overlooking the harbor.

He walked into the newsroom, and it was chaos as people were running around the room trying to finish their deadlines for the afternoon print edition. Due to his work on the Herald’s travel magazine and weekly newspaper articles for a Sunday feature, he was able to avoid the day in, day out grind of a newsroom.

He saw Peter Finch, news editor for The Daily Herald, and walked the other way.

Peter Finch jogged over to catch Xavier and said, Xavier, I haven’t seen you in the office for a while. What wild adventure is the paper funding this time?

He waited for Xavier to turn around and Peter Finch smirked, Ancient Chinese. Did they chew gum and walk at the same time?

Xavier let out an exaggerated, Ha! You will have to wait until Sunday to find out.

Peter Finch looked over to another journalist and laughed, He’s finally lost it.

Xavier continued to walk back towards his office thinking about Finch’s comment with a smile. He walked towards the office of his boss, Jeffrey Heath, lightly knocking on the door frame.

Heath had worked in journalism for fifty years, thirty of that for The Daily Herald. His first job was a delivery boy with the newspaper and knew the business better than anyone in the city.  He was a