Chapter 1

My mission was simple: Kill Gabrielle d’Aubigny before she reaches Canfranc Station.

Normally such an operation demanded contingencies, redundancies, an exfiltration plan and other such elements. Normally, I would recite the plan to myself again and again, like a nun at her Lauds, until it became reflex like breathing, blinking, or pulling the trigger. That was how I survived when others did not, why they trusted me with this task.

But none of those things mattered to me for this mission, so I did not bother. If that sounds crude and even fatalistic, that is because it is. That is the point. The pain in my heart had become too unbearable to bear, so I needed an out. So, I would do my last mission, I would kill Gabrielle d’Aubigny. And then I would wait for the fascists to kill me. No exfiltration required.

I spotted her on the third platform in Madrid’s Atocha station while waiting for the sleeper train to Canfranc right where I expected her to be. She was traveling alone, which she had been told to do so as to not invite any attention, though there was a lot about this woman that invited attention anyway. She was beautiful and tall, and walked with the elegance of a film star, because she was, of course, a film star before the war. Her hair was full and the color of chestnut in Autumn. She would flick it whenever she looked this way or that, which she did a lot of, and she wore a blue knit beret that matched the color of her eyes. For her effects, she carried a black Hermès handbag. A porter handled her luggage.

When the train arrived, and the arriving passengers streamed off, staff members greeted her, and assisted her aboard the first class car.

If I had my weapon I would have seized the opportunity and walk right up to her and put two bullets in her chest. But I did not. Atocha was swarming with Guardia Civil, and even as a woman, I would not have been able to smuggle a gun through their checkpoints. Instead I arranged to receive my weapon from a contact inside the station. He found me just as my target disappeared into the train.

He wore the olive green uniform of the Guardia Civil, though like me, he once fought under the Republican flag. Our eyes met. As he passed, I tilted my purse forward for him to slip an Astra 300 pistol into it, then I boarded the train.

I shared my couchette compartment with a couple that did not talk. The wife was knitting a wool cap, which looked to be the size for a child. The man was reading the paper. On the front page there was a headline about Franco sending wolfram to Germany for the manufacture of weapons. I might have once sneered at the news, but now I did no such thing. Instead, I turned my attention out the window to watch the conductor assist a latecomer board with her luggage, then blow his whistle. The train lurched into motion.

It would be twelve hours until Canfranc. Twelve hours for me to kill Gabrielle d’Aubigny, which was plenty enough.

I opened a book and read it for an hour or so. Out the window, the war torn city gave way to golden hills peppered with olive trees and cows, soaked in a straw-colored sunset. I put away my book to watch the country roll by for a while until I decided it was a good idea to find the dining car. I needed a good red wine to watch my last sunset with.

When I slid the dining car door open, I froze. At the far end sitting contemplatively and alone was my target. Her face was bright in the sunset glow. She wore, I now noticed, a ruby red lipstick, and gentle blush on her cheeks that seemed put there by kisses from the sun. Her chestnut hair shimmered with a halo glow.

Instinctively, I reached into my purse to touch the grip of the Astra 300.

If there was ever a moment to commit to the deed, it was now. This was the moment to walk right up to her, put the gun to her chest and squeeze the trigger. But she noticed me standing in the doorway and smiled at me. The smile… and her eyes… they arrested me. They stopped me drawing my weapon.

I blinked, returned her smile and took the nearest empty seat. The waiter, a man with an impeccable pencil thin mustache and a straight posture came by for my order.

“A red wine please,” I said.

“We have a few excellent choices, Señorita,” the waiter said with a preened voice. “If I may suggest a few: A Marqués de Riscal, a reserva of great elegance, a lighter Clarete from Navarra, and a robust Priorat of the proud tradition of Catalan.”

I stared at the waiter for a moment. He watched me patiently. I wasn’t prepared for such a choice, so I struggled to land on an answer.

“Try the Priorat. It’s wonderful.”

The one that spoke was Gabrielle. Her voice was seductively husky, exactly how it is in the pictures that made her a celebrity. The waiter bowed in polite concurrence.

Any wine in a luxury dining car being well beyond my comprehension of taste, I ordered the Priorat.

The waiter brought the bottle and uncorked it and splashed a bit in a wine glass. I took a sip and nodded, and he poured to fill the glass. The wine was ruby red in the light of the dying sun, and cast a ruby shadow on the white tablecloth.

I glanced at Gabrielle. She smiled and lifted her glass and said ‘salud.’

I lifted mine to return the toast and sipped. The wine went down smoothly. It certainly was a wonderful wine.

Taking care to not make a show of too much interest in my target, I forced a gaze out the window at the passing hills. The hills cast long shadows, and the ridge tops shimmered.

Six hours now until Zaragoza. I could do it now. I could do it while still in my seat even, considering how close Gabrielle was to me now. I was a good shot, so I would not miss, and in case I did, I had six more rounds loaded in the clip to make up for it. And when she was dead, I could simply stay seated and enjoy the last of my wine while I waited for them to come for me. And then, I would ensure they do not take me alive.

“To where are you headed?”

I turned to Gabrielle, who had asked the question and blinked.

Gabrielle pressed her lips together as if to smooth out freshly applied lipstick, then repeated herself. “To where are you headed? Will you be getting off in Zaragoza, or are you connecting in Canfranc?”

“Oh.” I thought about the question for a moment, before remembering I had an answer prepared. “I’m connecting in Canfranc. My destination is Pau.”

“I see. Parlez-vous français?”

She took out a thin cigarette. The waiter came over with a lighter and she leaned for the fire with the cigarette in her mouth, then thanked him when she had a light. She rested her elbow on the table, holding the cigarette between two fingers near her lips, and turned her eyes back to me to wait for my response.

“Assez pour me mettre dans les ennuis, pas assez pour m’en tirer,” I replied. Enough to get me in trouble, not enough to get me out.

That answer made Gabrielle grin. She tapped the cigarette in the ash tray and said in French, “Is that seat free, or are you saving it for someone?”

I straightened my back, smiled. My heart pounded.

To my shock, the words that came naturally from my mouth were: “I was saving it for you.”

“Perfect,” she said. She walked over with her wine.

However beautiful she appeared in her films, they did not do her justice. She was tall, and her legs were tall, and she walked with a floating grace in her heels that looked both natural yet acquired only after years of practice.

“Its a long way to Pau,” she said as she took the seat across from me.

“It is,” I answered, my throat dry. I took a sip of wine. “To where do you go?”

“Paris,” Gabrielle answered.

“Much farther than Pau. Flying would have taken you there much more quickly.”

“Yes. But I much prefer a slow rail journey. Nothing beats the romance of a country passing by.”

She peered out the window. “Its quite romantic, isn’t it?”

Her eyes touched mine momentarily, causing me to blush and turn my eyes back out the window. The hills were silhouettes now and the sky was lavender and dotted with stars. I knew that the answer she gave wasn’t entirely the truth. I knew that she had been instructed by her minders to take the train and to meet them in Canfranc. But she was right. There is a romance to watching a country slowly passing by.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“María Aurora. But please, just Aurora.”

“Aurora… lovely name. I’m –“

“Gabrielle d’Aubigny,” I interrupted. She cocked her head in amusement.

“I’ve seen your films. You are wonderful in them.”

“That was another life entirely. Are you from Madrid?”

“Madrid is a fascinating city. A city in which I could very much see myself living.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. It was a truthful answer, given what the fascists have done to it, but one that I was surprised to have let out.

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. I stammered for the words to clarify my abrupt answer in a way that made sense. “I’ve lived in Madrid all my life….”

“The city is dear to me,” I added. “But it could do with a few less scars.”

“We could all do with fewer scars, couldn’t we? Say, why don’t we toast that?’ Gabrielle said and raised her wine glass. “To a few less scars,” she said. I clinked my glass to hers, echoing, “to a few less scars.”

We sat a moment in silence. She kept her eyes on mine, and I could not help but keep my eyes on hers. There was something quite magnetic about them and they stirred a comfortable warmth inside me. Or I had mistakenly attributed that comfortable warmth to her eyes, and that it was only the wine that affected me so. In any case, I could not look away from her.

Admittedly, I was curious about her. I was told barely anything about her, so, I broached the silence to ask, “so you have many scars, Gabrielle?”

She nodded. “Mm. Many small ones, and one very big one. They’re all psychological scars mind you. I have no physical ones, fortunately.”

“The psychological scars are often worse,” I replied. “May I ask, what is the big one?”

Gabrielle smiled weakly. She inspected her wine glass, which was empty. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to talk about that scar… well, Aurora, it seems I’m out of wine. And yours is almost finished. Would you have another with me?”

I finished my wine quickly and said yes. I found the comfortable warmth too addictive. She proposed that we share a bottle, and I said yes to that as well, so she called the waiter for a bottle of Clarete, which she insisted was more conducive to a conversation.

The waiter came and apologized because they were closing the dining cart for an hour to prepare for the dinner. He asked if we would like to move to the lounge car to enjoy the wine instead. In turn, Gabrielle asked me, “would you prefer to join me in my compartment? It’s private.”

I recognized the opportunity for what it was: perfect for a discrete assassination. An opportunity I would revel in if I cared about escaping with my life, which I did not, so it was trivial. What was not trivial was how thirsty I was for more wine, so I followed Gabrielle to her private compartment. The waiter followed with the Clarete in a silver ice bucket.

Her compartment had the solemn coziness of a confessional booth to it. The green wallpapers gave the impression of a secret forest grove. On the bulkhead was a bureau of polished oak carrying a lamp with an embroidered lampshade that gave off a candlelight glow. On the aft side of the cabin, there was a blue velvet banquette seat with high backs facing inwards with the intimacy of a tête-à-tête, designed as such so as to fold down into a bed when needed.

Gabrielle took a seat in an elegant sprawl on the banquette. I hung up my coat and my purse conscious of how heavily it hung on the hook with the pistol hiding within, then I went to pull out the stool stowed beneath the bureau to sit near my purse, but Gabrielle clucked her tongue, made room for me on the banquette, and patted the spot next to her, on the far side of my purse. Begrudgingly, I sat where she wanted me to sit.

The waiter spread a white linen on the bureau, and atop the white linen, placed the Clarete in its bucket. Beads of condensation crawled down the bottle. He wiped the neck with a white serviette, pulled the cork and poured for a taste.

“Please pour the rest,” Gabrielle said without tasting, and the waiter did so, then left, sliding the compartment door shut.

I was nearest to the bureau, so I handed Gabrielle a glass, then grabbed the other for myself.

“Spanish wines are perfect for long train rides.”

“Mmm, agreed,” I replied, taking a sip, feeling the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the track, and the vibration, and the gentle shaking, and finding that the wine made it all feel supremely pleasurable, which I suppose was what Gabrielle meant.

“But I am surprised that they have such nice wines in these hard times,” I remarked.

“I’m not. I know why. The owner of this line is a very close friend of your generalissimo. I know the man personally. He has atrocious manner, but an impeccable palate. These are not hard times for everyone, you know.”

Gabrielle finished her glass quickly then motioned for the bottle. I went to pour her glass, but she took the bottle from me, and she poured herself more than a full glass and took another long sip. Then she cleared her throat and said,

“Aurora, I’ll have to confess something to you. The dining car was not the first time I saw you.”

“No?” I tensed a little.

“I noticed you on the platform in Atocha.”

“I suppose it’s hard not to notice another woman traveling alone in Spain anymore,” I said, the rim of my wine glass still to my lips.