Navarre, near Tudela; dusk.
A dusty wind tore across the old Roman road, rattling shutters in whitewashed hamlets and carrying the faint reek of burnt hay.
Two covered trucks crawled along the ruts, their black-painted flanks bearing no insignia.
Only mud-caked license plates and a sullen cluster of local Guardia escorts gave any clue they were official at all.
Inside the lead truck, under a canvas rig, wooden crates stenciled with blocky Gothic script were wedged tight in straw.
Rifles, submachine guns, sealed tins of 8mm Mauser rounds; all still slick with factory grease from somewhere east of Vienna.
A broad-shouldered German in a drab field tunic watched the countryside slip by. Ernst Röhm's wolves had arrived.
He ran a finger over the silver wolfsangel badge on his collar, then adjusted the riding crop across his knees.
Beside him, a wiry Spaniard in the faded green of a Guardia lieutenant lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
