Revenge on the Camino Dos

By Ken Privratsky

Revenge on the Camino Dos is the second book in a trilogy spanning the Camino de Santiago and featuring FBI Agent Ward Crimmons. After helping Spain's Civil Guard solve revenge killings around Burgos (as told in Revenge on the Camino), Agent Crimmons resumes walking the Camino in memory of his deceased wife. Once again, he finds himself on the trail as more serial murders baffle the Civil Guard. Action unfolds against the backdrop of beautiful scenery and rich legends along the famous pilgrimage route, revelations about Spain's complicated history, and current challenges facing the country in its fight against drug traffickers. As police rush to identify and locate the killer, additional concerns develop because of postings on the Dark Web about Agent Crimmons. While he helps investigators, Crimmons also becomes a target as this next installment in the trilogy builds toward another riveting climax, this time in Galicia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350944945

Ken Privratsky

Ken Privratsky was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. After graduating from Eastern Washington University, he served over three decades in the U.S. Army and rose to the rank of major general. He earned multiple graduate degrees and received an honorary doctorate from his alma mater. He has edited or authored several books, including a best-selling history published by Pen & Sword, Logistics in the Falklands War, which is recommended reading for U.S. Marines and other military services around the world. In 2023, Pen & Sword published his latest history, The Norwegian Merchant Fleet in the Second World War, the first book written in English about Norway's vital help to the Allies. Ken and his wife, Kathy, live in Alaska but travel widely. Spain has become one of their favorite countries to visit. They co-authored the book Every Step Together on the Camino de Santiago after their first of three walks across Spain on the Camino. Those walks became the inspiration for Revenge on the Camino, published in 2021, the first book in a trilogy. Revenge on the Camino Dos is the second book. The third book currently is in the works. Ken and Kathy will be walking the Camino again in 2025.

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Copyright © 2024 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: 979-8-35094-493-8

eISBN: 979-8-35094-493-8

Printed by BookBaby

Pennsauken, New Jersey

Contents

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Epilogue

Acknowledgements

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

Prologue

A woman in sunglasses sat by herself with a paper cup of coffee in one hand at a table in Plaza Eduardo de Castro at the edge of Old Town Astorga. She wore black slacks and a brown V-neck sweater, a common color combination in many European towns. Chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail and a lightly tanned face added to her natural beauty. The sunglasses hid dark eyebrows and sparkling blue eyes that turned heads on occasion. One might have guessed she was no more than thirty. She sat with an air of confidence and concentration, her other hand resting on a pair of clear plastic gloves on top of a paper bag. The woman had pushed an empty bottle of orange juice and the remains of a croissant into the center of the table. Trees shaded most of the plaza, making it an appealing rest stop most days. An umbrella advertising Estrella Galicia beer helped block her completely from the first rays of the sun. Several tables away, two couples also were enjoying coffee in the plaza and speaking softly with each other. By eight o’clock in the morning, the temperature already had reached eighty. It looked to be another blistering late August day in northern Spain, although a brief downpour a few hours earlier quelled the heat momentarily. Behind the woman rose the magnificent Episcopal Palace of Astorga, designed in 1889 by Catalan architect Antoní Gaudí at the behest of the town’s bishop to replace the previous building destroyed by fire. Its granite façade and four cylindrical towers glistened in the early sunlight because of the rain. In less than an hour, a queue of visitors would begin forming to tour the palace and its museum of artifacts. Although not as revolutionary as Gaudí’s other masterpieces in Spain, the palace remained a main attraction for those interested in architecture.

Beyond the palace, one could see the top of Roman walls surrounding the city that provided a formidable barrier to anyone meaning harm centuries ago. Those traveling to Astorga by car caught sight of these walls from miles away. Others approaching on foot over the famous pilgrimage route Camino de Santiago not only saw the old walls but also the intimidatingly steep stairway leading up to the entrance of Old Town. Astorga was a place where most pilgrims overnighted before continuing their walks. Those who took time to tour the museum inside the palace discovered an artifact of much significance further up the Camino at Cruz de Ferro, a heaping pile of stones beneath a tall wooden pole with a small cross on top. It becomes a sacred stop for most. Many pilgrims add stones to the pile, say a prayer beneath the cross, and snap pictures, not knowing that the cross on top is a mere replica of the one erected there a thousand years before by a hermit named Guacelmo. The original is on display in the museum in the Episcopal Palace of Astorga. How it came to be there remained a mystery.

The woman had no interest in that cross or Cruz de Ferro. She had sat in the plaza the previous afternoon watching people entering and departing Hotel San Miguel on the opposite side of the square from Gaudí’s building, as if she were expecting someone. She was not as surprised as others might have been by the attire of those booked to spend the night, a mixture of suits, slacks, shirts with ties, and summer dresses contrasting with sweaty t-shirts, shorts, and dirty hiking shoes. It was not a cheap place to stay. Guests included businessmen and women from around Spain as well as affluent travelers and well-to-do pilgrims walking the Camino. Soft beds, a spa, and fine dining contrasted sharply with bunkbeds, shared bathrooms, and communal meals in hostels favored by those on tight budgets. This morning, she sat watching the entrance again and sipping her coffee. Except for visitors, hardly anyone was out on the streets in villages of Spain at such an hour and this morning proved no exception, especially since it was Sunday. The sidewalk that ran along Calle Los Sitios in front of Hotel San Miguel remained empty.

Moments later, a middle-aged brunette wearing a yellow, long-sleeved hiking shirt, tan shorts, and trail runners caught her attention when exiting the hotel with a blonde friend. The two women were talking loudly, and their voices carried across the street into the plaza, causing folks to look up briefly. Both were sporting daypacks and carrying hiking poles. They laughed at something, then took a last look at Gaudí’s palace as they stood outside the hotel.

I never get tired seeing Gaudí’s buildings. They’re so nice, but my favorite by far remains La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, commented the brunette. Her companion nodded her head in agreement and mentioned how much she loved Barcelona as they started walking west on the sidewalk. At the end of the block, they motioned in unison toward a yellow arrow on a building across the street and turned left out of sight.

The woman waited a few minutes, finished her coffee, and stood, briefly stretching her shoulders before patting something in a pocket hidden by her sweater. She put the cup, bottle, and remains of the croissant into the paper bag, then put on the gloves. There was a trash receptacle nearby. She walked over and dropped the bag inside, crossed Los Sitios onto the sidewalk, stepped into the hotel, and surveyed the scene. At the far end of the large entryway, beyond the reception desk on the right, she spotted a half dozen backpacks stacked together. Receptionists were engaged with guests checking out and paid her no mind. There was a bustle of activity in the dining room off to the left, now almost full. She glanced inside to find waitstaff carefully sidestepping tables as they crisscrossed the room balancing trays of breakfast carefully above their heads. She walked directly toward the backpacks, each containing a tag with paper attached. She flipped over two of the tags before settling on the one fixed to a bright blue Deuter pack. She unsnapped its top flap, took a small packet from beneath her sweater and put it inside, then refastened the cover. When done, she turned and walked out of the hotel as casually as she had entered. No one noticed.

An hour later, a small van pulled up in front of Hotel San Miguel. The driver, unshaven and in his sixties, reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed what appeared to be an invoice of some kind as he opened the door. He left the van running when he stepped outside, walked to the rear, and unlatched the cargo door. A dozen backpacks and suitcases stood inside. He entered the hotel and returned lugging two backpacks in each hand, which he added to the others. He made another trip for more packs, then closed the cargo door, and returned to the driver’s seat as he grabbed a cell phone from his back pocket.

I’ve got the last bags and am leaving town for Rabanal, Jose. I’ll let you know when I’m heading to Molinaseca, he said to the person who answered his call. Then, he put the van in gear and headed away from the hotel.

Two blocks later, he turned off Los Sitios onto another street leading downhill toward an exit through the old Roman wall. He had just passed the wall and started accelerating when a cat scurried across the road directly in front of him. He jerked the steering wheel quickly to the left to avoid hitting the cat, but in the process took his vehicle into the on-coming lane of traffic and directly into the path of a semi-truck pulling trailers in tandem. The semi broadsided the van with the momentum of fifty tons of cargo and sandwiched it into a sedan entering the intersection at the same time from the other side. The driver of the large semi tightened his grip on the wheel as the front of his truck crunched into the van. It happened so quickly that neither he nor the driver in the sedan had time to avoid the collision. The sound of the crash echoed along the tall Roman wall. The couples still sitting in Plaza Eduardo de Castro blocks away flinched when they heard it.

The truck driver stared down over the hood of his semi to see the face of the frightened driver barely visible above air bags in the squashed van, his body now trapped by the front ends of two vehicles locking him inside. Seconds ticked by as the shock of impact stunned the drivers. The driver of the sedan, apparently uninjured, was the first to react when she exited her vehicle and backed away from the scene in apparent shock. Then, the driver of the semi climbed down from his cab to see if he could help. As he stepped forward, he noticed flames coming out of the rear of the van. The driver trapped inside evidently saw them in his rearview mirror about the same time because he began screaming and squirming in horror for someone to help. Their eyes had locked together in mutual fear as the entire van exploded tearing off the roof and throwing burning luggage and parts of the driver’s body up in the air and into the intersection.

1

Agent Ward Crimmons leaned over in the chair and looked at the skin on the sides of his big and little toes. The blisters, no longer puffy with fluid, were starting to dry out. He had lost two days of walking because of his foolish oversight. After leaving Castrojeriz, he had enjoyed a pleasant walk in the Meseta to Frómista. The next morning, he saw dark clouds in the distance but believed rain was uncommon in this part of Spain during late summer. He followed the yellow arrows marking the Camino trail out of Frómista to his next destination of Carrión de Los Condes anticipating an overcast sky but dry conditions. He was wrong. By midmorning, he was walking in torrential rain. His poncho kept most of his body dry, but his feet got soaked. Other pilgrims had told him it seemed like walking on water during rainstorms in Spain. They were right. They had also advised him to change his socks after walking in the rain for a while. He should have taken that to heart.

The damage to his feet had already been done by the time he arrived in Carrión. He had booked a room at a restored old monastery. When he removed his shoes that afternoon, he discovered several large blisters on both feet. He needed to give them a rest before heading out again. So, he extended his reservation. Fortunately, the place he had chosen to stay was magnificent and offered laundry service. Dinners in the old restaurant with ceiling beams hued from Spanish oak hundreds of years before were simply magnificent, although the price of meals was far outside budgets of most pilgrims. His feet felt much better after the rest. He now worried that he had put on a few pounds eating heaping portions of roasted lamb at two consecutive dinners.

The stay gave him plenty of time to catch up with his two daughters in the States. Everything was okay with his older daughter Alison in Colorado, but Kerry, his younger daughter in Texas, advised him that she had filed for divorce from her husband. He felt bad about that. His three grandchildren had started a new school year. Both Alison’s children were now in high school, her daughter starting her junior year and her son his freshman year. Kerry’s son had entered the seventh grade. All were excellent students and athletes. Ward was amazed at how fast the years had passed. It seemed like yesterday that he was cradling them in his arms as babies.

Ward was now into his third week of walking the Camino. His next destination was the small village of Ledigos, about twelve miles away with a population counted in dozens. The path out of Carrión de los Condes was perfect, a nice wide asphalt farm road initially lined with trees. He heard many roosters crowing and a multitude of birds chirping as he walked out of the monastery. The sun was beginning to rise in a clear sky with scattered clouds in various shades of pink. He felt invigorated after the two days of rest, and by midmorning he had walked halfway to Ledigos. He noticed a makeshift café off into the trees to the right of the trail and walked over to get a snack. A young lady was inside making hot sandwiches to order. A stack of premade bocadillos sat at the side of the counter. He looked around and saw pilgrims munching on hamburgers and decided to order one himself. He had not had one since arriving in Spain. He found a vacant table under a tree and waited for his name to be called. He did not recognize any of the other pilgrims. His extended stay at the monastery had put him behind those pilgrims he had met after leaving Burgos. He smiled at some of the others as he waited for his order. He was surprised at how good the hamburger tasted.

An hour later, he was on his way again. It wasn’t long before trees that lined the trail disappeared, and he was walking on a path crossing open terrain as the sun was directly overhead. The last hour of walking showed him how hot the Meseta could become. He thought the temperature had topped a hundred. Thankfully, about two o’clock, he saw the tiny village of Ledigos in the distance where he had booked a room online in an albergue quite different than the monastery he left. It surprised him that there were three other albergues in the village. Together, they must provide the bulk of livelihood for the few dozen villagers, at least for those who were not farmers. On any given night outside winter months, the number of pilgrims overnighting far outnumbered residents. There was little else in the village, besides small houses, and a church on a hill towering high above. Yellow arrows on the single road through the village boldly marked the Camino. It would be hard for any pilgrim to get misoriented.

His room was clean and quite large, on the second floor of the albergue. There were forty or more others staying there, a few in private rooms like his but most in two bunkrooms. The cost of a bunk including dinner was twenty euros. His private room with bath was double that but worth it in his opinion. It overlooked a grassy patio surrounded by bedroom walls. Clothes lines were strung along one side with an assortment of pants, shirts, socks, and underwear pinned to wires. In a small alcove stood a single washer and dryer, not much opportunity for a dozen people to do laundry. There now were two baskets of clothes waiting their turn. It was not uncommon for people to wash their clothes in sinks and hang them wherever they could. Several pilgrims were sitting in chairs on the grass drinking beer and wine, probably waiting for machines to empty or their clothes to dry.

At seven sharp, Ward was waiting with several others to get into the dining room for a communal dinner. The proprietor had warned him it would fill early and there were few other places to eat in the village. He headed toward a table for four in the corner and sat down when three others asked if they could join him. Waitstaff were placing bottles of red wine on the tables, and everyone was filling their glasses. By the time food started arriving, the volume in the room was increasing. People were having fun talking to each other. It had become a little rowdy at a table to his right, where eight guys were sitting. They had been drinking together and laughing in the patio for over an hour before. The two women and man who joined Ward had not known each other before starting the Camino but had been walking together since Burgos. The women were from Spain and the man from Germany. All spoke English well but occasionally spoke back and forth to each other in Spanish. Ward could hear several other languages in the room and suspected that the three-dozen people came from ten or more countries. When he had been walking with his brother-in-law Martin a few weeks ago, they had eaten alone. This communal dining was a new experience for him.

Everyone had a choice of three entrees for three courses. Ward chose mixed salad, pasta Bolognese, and ice cream. The food was good, and by the time the ice cream came, his table was well into a third bottle of wine. The guys to the right were into more and still having fun. It was all included in the price of the meal, good not great wine perhaps but cheap for the proprietors, who filled the bottles nightly from large jugs in a back room.

He had met a charming couple from Switzerland at the monastery who now were sitting at a table by themselves in the middle of the room. Everyone was finishing up their deserts, and it had quieted a little when that couple surprised everyone by singing a Swiss song as they looked across the table at each other and held hands. It might have been a love song. Ward did not know. Their voices were beautiful. When they were done, the room erupted in applause and the happy couple smiled and clapped back.

After a brief pause, a guy in the group to the right, surprised everyone again by starting to sing Yesterday by the Beatles in another impressive voice. He had not completed the first verse before everyone in the room, including Ward, was singing along with him, people speaking different languages coming together to sing a song in English. When it was over, Ward shook his head in amazement, and again everyone shouted and clapped.

As it quieted once more, a young lady stood up from another table. By the looks of her wet curly hair, she had showered before coming to dinner without the benefit of a hair dryer. Her eyes widened as if she were looking for someone. She smiled and began loudly singing the Manfred Mann song from the sixties called Do Wah Diddy Diddy, her body rocking with the beat. She extended her arms as she sang and motioned with her palms for others to join in on the refrains. Everyone in the room started singing and clapping to the beat, some stood and danced. As she finished, the room erupted in laughter. The clapping and cheering echoed out of the albergue onto the streets of Ledigos.

Ward was still tapping his feet when he got back to his room. The evening had really bolstered his spirits after the horrific events in Burgos and his mishap with blisters. He loved the experience and so wished his deceased wife, Sofia, was with him to enjoy it as well. He could picture her smile. He knew she would have joined in and might have danced too. After the song, she would have laughed loudly. He especially missed that.

Ward closed the curtains and sat on the bed looking at the wall for a few minutes, deep in thought. He shook his head, sighed, reached for his phone, and dialed Martin.

"¿Que pasa, seńor Crimmons? Dónde estás, amigo?" his brother-in-law answered with an upbeat sound in his voice.

"I’m in Ledigos, a small place. Do you remember a group called Manfred Mann from the sixties?’

Barely, Ward. It was older than both of us, but I remember the name, not the songs. Why in the heck are you asking me about that group here in Spain?

Because tonight I had an amazing time and it’s all because of a song called ‘Do Wah Diddy Diddy.’ You wouldn’t believe what happened at dinner! It was incredible. Ward’s emotion was evident to his brother-in-law.

Okay, tell me. I can’t wait to hear, Martin stoked.

Ward gave him an account of the evening but spared him the singing. If anyone doubted the power of music to bring people together, they should have been in that dining room this evening. It was something to see, so many people from different places. I suspect some could not talk to each other because of language differences. But everyone came together with the music, not in their own language but in English. They all knew the words. God, it was impressive.

It sounds like you had a fun evening, Ward. I wish I could have been there as well.

The two talked for nearly an hour. Ward started by updating him about the last few days on the trail and his blisters. It had been close to a month since he arrived in Saint Jean Pied de Port, France to start the Camino. Martin had joined him in Pamplona so they could walk together. They were enjoying the Camino until two brothers named Gonzales and a friend, a former Basque terrorist, began killing people to avenge wrongs when they were youngsters. Martin had taken a bullet from the Basque on the trail and probably would have been killed had Ward not scared him off. The National Police cornered and shot him that same day. The Gonzales brothers had eluded police until a Civil Guard patrol surprised them in an abandoned tenement building in Burgos. They had just tortured and killed a retired police officer. That confrontation left a young Civil Guard officer and one of the brothers dead and the tenement building burned to the ground. Authorities discovered charred remains of two bodies in the rubble, leading them to believe initially both brothers had died in the shootout or fire, but DNA of corpses did not match. That led them to conclude that a third person, perhaps unconnected to the brothers, had perished in the fire.

How are you doing, Martin? Has the leg healed or are you still hobbling on crutches? Ward asked. Any developments in the investigation?

The good news is that my wound has mended nicely, Ward. I’m no longer walking on crutches. The bad news is there is no update on the bodies. The second one in the rubble was not a Gonzales brother. We still don’t know who it was. One of the brothers must have gotten away. Hopefully he’s in bad shape, he said. Ward hated to hear that. He suspected that the brother who escaped would have seen his picture with Martin and others in the Burgos paper. The killings had created a lot of concern in communities and a reporter had written an extensive article about the killing spree and the investigation. The Civil Guard in Burgos had credited Ward for helping crack the case. The article mentioned that he was an FBI agent walking the Camino in memory of his wife and included a picture of him with Martin at the funeral of the officer who was killed. He wished that information had not hit the news like it did. Ward decided to change the subject by telling him about his blisters.

Sorry to learn about them. I know blisters really hurt. They can get infected easily too. Try putting some Vaseline on your feet each morning before you put on your socks, Martin encouraged. You’re still coming to stay with us when you reach León, aren’t you? Maria’s already got the guest room waiting for you. Do you remember about calling when you get to the cathedral?

I’m okay now. Feet were fine today. Be there in three days and will call. I might take a side trail to a place called Hermanillos or something. I’ll check back the day before I get there. He paused, then continued. I miss walking with you, Martin. I enjoyed you sharing some of the history of Spain. I wish you were here.

I miss our chats too. You’ll find someone else to walk with occasionally. Areas across northern Spain are polarized politically though, not much different than in your country. You won’t hear people spouting off as much as they do in the States.

Tell me more.

A lot of folks across that entire area supported Franco. He came from Galicia. I don’t remember if we talked about that. You’ll be there about ten days after leaving León. Some wish he was still around. Others want to erase every memory of him. It’s not much different than politics in the United States today, but it’s more below the surface here. Many still won’t talk openly about Franco. They will look over their shoulders when criticizing him as if he were still here. Fanatical support for him remains in some places. Martin cut off the discussion and told him to get out his guidebook to read more about the area. I’ve seen the book you have. It’s got a lot of good information in it.

Ward had no trouble getting to sleep given his walk that day and wine at dinner. He enjoyed a deep sleep. The next morning when he was in the shower, his feet started picking up the beat again of Do Wah Diddy Diddy.

That’s a great song, he said to himself. He was singing it to himself as he walked out of Ledigos. It was a sunny Monday morning.

2

Martin Espoñera stood up from his desk and walked with a slight limp over to the small conference table to the side of his office by the window. Two uniformed officers were already sitting there, a man and a woman, the epaulets on their jackets indicating they were colonels. A speaker console sat in the middle of the table providing capability to teleconference. The office was located on the top floor of a new building in León. It was the headquarters for Twelfth Civil Guard Zone with responsibilities for all rural areas and many of the small towns in the autonomous community of Castile and León, the largest of seventeen such communities in Spain. Windows on the two outside walls looked out over León providing an expansive view of the city and its famous cathedral. It was home to 125,000 people. Most non-Spanish visitors would be surprised to learn that Espoñera had no authority over law enforcement in the city itself. That duty fell to the National Police, whose responsibilities included cities