“Suppose you tell me about it,” Tejada suggested quietly.
The miliciano’s face was grim. He said nothing. Tejada sighed. “Look, at the moment, we’ll overlook why you weren’t at Chamartín as you should have been. I want to know about Báez. And the black market.” He paused a moment, and then added reluctantly, as if saying the name to a hostile stranger were a kind of violation, “And Paco López.”
Gonzalo Llorente pinched his lips together. It was a gesture that Tejada recognized. It was one of Aleja’s. “Stubbornness seems to be a family trait,” he said dryly. And then, experimentally, “As I recall, your sister was stubborn as well.”
The sergeant saw Llorente’s eyes widen slightly at the use of the past tense. “What have you done to Carmen?”
“She’s also stubborn,” Tejada agreed. “But I meant your younger sister, Viviana.”
The miliciano tensed, and for a moment Tejada was glad that the prisoner was unarmed and bound. “That was why you wanted to see Báez, wasn’t it?” Tejada said, risking a hypothesis that seemed to make sense. “You were looking for the guardia civil who executed Viviana.”
“Who murdered her,” the prisoner spat, and for the first time Tejada saw a resemblance to the woman he had killed.
Tejada shrugged. “Semantics. Your sister Carmen is also in custody, by the way, and your niece. I don’t suppose concern for them might make you more talkative?”
Llorente drew a long breath, and for a moment Tejada thought he would speak. Then he let it out again, noisily, saying nothing. The sergeant shook his head in exasperation. “I’ll never understand the Reds,” he said. “Who’s worth protecting more than your own flesh and blood?”
Llorente was silent, and the sergeant wondered once more whether hitting him would help. Again, Tejada decided it probably would be useless. The man wasn’t the type to start whimpering after being slapped around a little. In the hands of a professional interrogator, he might or might not decide to give information, but Tejada was incapable of conducting such an interrogation. He had neither training, nor materials, nor inclination. “We’ll talk more,” he said. “Maybe after I’ve spoken to some of your friends.”
He left, knowing unhappily that the threat was an empty one. Jiménez met him at the doorway. “Lieutenant Ramos says that he’s sending for a special investigator from Burgos, sir. He says in the meantime let Guardia Meléndez deal with him.”
Tejada hesitated for an instant. Llorente’s false documents were good ones. It was worth finding out where he had gotten them, and every hour wasted meant that whoever Llorente’s contacts were had another hour to escape. It would be logical to question him about the documents, and, for that matter, about how he had known that Báez would be at the Eastern Cemetery. “Oh, and the lieutenant says get a photograph of him before you give him to Meléndez,” Jiménez added.
“What?” the sergeant said, eyes narrowing.
Jiménez looked apologetic. “The lieutenant says it’s useful for other prisoners, sir. So we can prove that we really have him.”
“A photograph,” the sergeant repeated.
“Yes, sir, a photograph.”
“Stay here, Guardia. I’ll be right back.” Tejada was already in motion. “And the orders haven’t changed.”
“Should I call Meléndez, sir?” the young recruit called.
Tejada swung around. “The orders haven’t changed,” he repeated. “No one goes in or out besides me. I’ll be right back.”
The sergeant knew that every passing moment gave the Reds who had provided Llorente’s passport time to regroup. But he was on the verge of discovering Paco’s murderer. The Movement could wait. Paco had been his friend. He took the stairs to Lieutenant Ramos’s office at a run.
The office was empty when he reached it. Tejada was first grateful and then worried. It was Easter Sunday after all. A lot of people would not be working. But he had to take the chance. “Alcalá-2136,” he snapped and then counted the rings.
In the middle of the seventh ring he heard the click of a receiver being lifted from its cradle, and then the words: “Guardia Civil. Morales.”
“I’d like to speak to Captain Morales, please.” The sergeant held his voice steady with an effort.
“Speaking.”
“Sergeant Carlos Tejada, Manzanares post, reporting, sir.”
“Oh, good afternoon, Sergeant,” Morales sounded slightly surprised. “Are you on duty today?”
“Yes, sir.” Tejada took a deep breath. “I’ve found some information, sir. But are you sure this line is secure?”
“As much as it can be,” the captain replied. “But if the information is delicate . . .”
“Absolutely secure,” Tejada insisted. “You said it was a private line?”
“That’s correct, Sergeant. Now, did you wish to meet?”
“There aren’t other extensions,” Tejada persisted. “There’s only the one phone?”
“Yes.”
“In your office?”
“Yes.” Morales lost patience. “I assure you that I’m the only one who answers this phone. Now, Sergeant, was there something you wished to tell me?”
“Yes,” Tejada said automatically. Then, very slowly, he added, “I think I’ve found the information you asked me about, sir. But I’d like to communicate it to you in private. As soon as possible.”
“Monday morning?” the captain suggested, after a brief pause. “Ten o’clock?”
“If that is convenient, Captain. At your orders.”
“Very good, Sergeant. I’ll see you here on Monday morning then. Happy Easter.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Arriba España.”
“Arriba España.” Tejada hung up the phone with his mouth slightly open.
Llorente, a distant corner of his mind prompted him. Go question Llorente about his false papers. Or give him to Meléndez. It doesn’t matter about Paco now. You know, and you can deal with it later. Llorente has nothing to do with Paco . . . neither does Carmen or Alejandra . . . or Viviana. They’re Reds. . . . The sergeant realized that he was rolling the piece of paper he had taken from Gonzalo Llorente into a tiny cylinder. Carefully, he unrolled it and stared again at the scribbled phone number. He had not misread it. There, lightly penciled, were the words Alcalá-2136. Diego Báez’s mocking laugh sounded in his ears. “Just ask for Paco’s boss. You’ll get him.”
Tejada was about to go talk to Llorente when he had another idea. Very slowly, he picked up the phone again. “Alcalá-2136,” he repeated. This time the phone was answered more quickly.
“Yes, Sergeant Tejada, what is it?” Morales said with some impatience, when the sergeant had identified himself once again.
“I’m sorry to disturb you again, sir,” Tejada apologized. “But I wondered if I could speak with your sergeant. Diego de Rota. I wanted to ask him a few questions.”
“Sergeant de Rota?” Morales said, sounding surprised. “I’ll see if he’s at the post. Can he call you back?”
A private line, Tejada thought. “No,” he said aloud. “There’s no need. I’ll try to see him in person.”
He broke the connection and went to talk to Llorente again. Then he headed for the Alcalá post, to speak to Diego de Rota.
Chapter 22
Gonzalo lay on the floor of his cell and stared up into the dark. He had been a prisoner in so many small spaces recently that the experience was becoming familiar. Sooner or later the door opened and something unpleasant happened. He had been so close. . . . He had not realized how much he wanted to live until the moment when his hands were cuffed. He had been bent on vengeance for Viviana, because he had thought there was no hope. But then Juan and Isabel had offered him a chance, and for a few glorious moments it had seemed as if he might actually make it. “Try to hold out for twenty-four hours.” They had given him hope. The least he could give them in return was time.
It seemed as if it might be possible. Twelve hours had passed since his arre
st and he had not cracked yet. They had marched him toward the river and he had almost laughed as he recognized the Manzanares post and heard the commanding officer say to the guardia civil who had spoken to him: “Everything go according to plan, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted, and Gonzalo had stared at the tall, lean man and memorized every feature and every cadence of the calm voice, wondering if he was looking at Viviana’s killer. There was a sickening hilarity to the thought.
The same man had come to talk to him a little later. To Gon-zalo’s surprise, the sergeant showed no tendency to use force. He had been brusque and contemptuous even, but he had not raised his hands. When he reappeared, a few minutes afterwards, he had lost much of his brusqueness, and he seemed almost pleading. “Listen, Llorente,” he said quietly, “I know that you were looking for the man who killed your Viviana. I . . . hell, if I were in your place I might have done the same thing. But look, she died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone thought she was guilty of murder. So whoever really committed that murder bears some responsibility, no?”
Gonzalo looked at the officer with disgust. Was the man actually going to have the gall to appeal to his moral sense? The sergeant continued, with considerable vehemence, “I’ll tell you frankly, Llorente, the man who pulled the trigger was a cat’s-paw, in more ways than one. But listen, I think I’ve found the man who’s responsible . . . really responsible.”
“So have I.” Gonzalo’s nausea got the better of his determination to stay silent.
“You stupid shit!” The sergeant lost patience. “Will you come down off your high horse before someone puts a noose around your neck! I’ve found the bastard who killed Paco, and indirectly caused that damn miliciana’s death, and I can get him for it. All I need is confirmation from you! And if you don’t talk to me now, you’ll be damn sorry, because you’ll have to talk to other people later, and believe me, they won’t be as polite as I am. Or are you too dumb to understand that, you fucking peasant?”
“Maybe,” Gonzalo said, managing to make the word almost nonchalant. He was a little puzzled as to why the guardias had not tortured him earlier. Perhaps they wanted the threat to hang over him. More fools they. He knew that waiting wasn’t the worst part of combat.
The sergeant had left then, and for once the door to the cell slammed shut not to impress the prisoner with a sense of final doom but to relieve his guard of a fit of pique. Gonzalo had heard the guardia civil’s voice, still sounding annoyed. “Fine, give him to Meléndez, and tell him to ask about the false documents. That’s our first priority. Ignore anything else. It’s just a red herring.”
Gonzalo had smiled quietly to himself. Just want to know about Paco López, my ass, he thought, proud that he had seen through the trick. And then he was frightened, because he knew that the real interrogation was coming.
The beating had not been so bad until they discovered the scar of his wound and someone had the bright idea of hitting him in the stomach. After the first hour, Gonzalo abandoned his pride and wept. “Twenty-four hours.” He clung to the words through a haze of pain. Only for twenty-four hours. He strained to hear clocks striking, to learn how much longer he would have to bear it, but someone had frozen time in the way that feet are frozen to the ground in a nightmare of an invisible pursuer. Surely twenty-four hours had passed? But they could not have. “No, I don’t know. No, I don’t know.” Hold out for twenty-four hours. “Don’t know, don’t know, no, know, no.” And then, just as he began to think that he would break, unconsciousness opened its kindly arms, and embraced him.
When he came to his senses he was lying on his back and it hurt to move. He lay still for a few moments, terrified that they would realize he was awake and begin questioning him again. Then he realized that he was alone in the darkness. Somewhere outside a clock began to strike. Bong . . . bong . . . bong . . . He counted eleven, and then the bells faded away. Twenty-four hours. Nearly twelve had already passed. He could lie still, pretending he had not regained consciousness. Surely they would wait until the morning then. And surely he could stand another few hours. Tears worked their way down his temples. Everything hurt.
They had taken his coat and the stone floor was cold, but moving was too much effort. A spasm of coughing shook him, and he tasted bile and blood. He lay still, grateful for each passing moment, afraid that somehow someone would freeze time again. It felt like a victory when he heard the clock strike midnight, but he was unsure he had counted the strokes correctly. Perhaps it was only eleven. Perhaps it was still eleven, and always would be, and twenty-four hours would never pass. He coughed again, and bloody phlegm dribbled down his chin. His head hurt, as it had when his wound had become infected, and the fever had set in. The bright, brief bong as the clock struck one seemed too good to be true. It was over so quickly that Gonzalo wondered if he had imagined it.
He was still trying to decide if his ears were playing tricks on him when the cell door opened again. It happened quickly this time, with no challenge from the guard outside, and no casually spoken words. A boot toe nudged him in the ribs. Against his will, he groaned.
“Good,” said a voice quietly. “You’re awake.”
There was a click, and an electric flashlight cut through the darkness. The beam traveled along Gonzalo’s recumbent body, inspecting him. He could not see who was holding it.
“Get up,” Gonzalo recognized the voice. It was the man who had come to question him first.
“I can’t.”
“Nonsense.” The flashlight beam danced crazily as the guardia leaned over Gonzalo and dragged him to his feet. He was not overly gentle, and Gonzalo moaned slightly.
“Shut up.” The command was curt. “Or I’ll gag you.”
Gonzalo felt his arms twisted behind his back and then bound. Oh, God, he thought, suddenly remembering stories he had heard at the front. Not hung from the wrists. It’s only twelve hours, or maybe thirteen. . . . Not dislocated shoulders, please God. . . . The guardia did not give any warning, so Gonzalo’s eyes were open (and uselessly focused on the bright dot where the flashlight hit the wall) when a blindfold was slipped over them and tightly tied.
“Come on.”
Gonzalo felt his captor take him by the elbow and drag him along the corridor. He stumbled along blindly, tripping and blundering into the walls, as the guardia civil guided him through the prison. “Watch the stairs.” If Tejeda had not been holding Gonzalo’s elbow the warning would have come too late.
They passed through several doors. Gonzalo, blindfolded and bewildered, could make no sense of their progress until a door opened and he felt a cool breeze on his face. He could hear the wind and the ground under his feet was cobbled, unlike the smooth floors of the prison. A firing squad? he thought fuzzily. But it’s not dawn yet, is it? I haven’t cracked. Thank God, if it’s a firing squad, I haven’t cracked. The sergeant was pulling him forward again. He stumbled and struck his shins on something. He was almost grateful for the misstep. The minor pain distracted him from his greater ones.
“Get in.” The guardia’s voice was colorless.
“In?” Gonzalo repeated stupidly.
The man did not waste further words. Instead, Gonzalo heard a door opening and then felt himself being lifted under the armpits and placed on a seat. The guardia picked up Gonzalo’s legs, swung them sideways, and then there was a slam. Gonzalo realized that he was sitting in some sort of truck. The noises were repeated, as the guardia climbed into the driver’s seat.
Gonzalo was thrown backward as the guardia let out the clutch and the vehicle purred into life. He focused for a few moments on bracing himself with his feet. He was sorry to regain his balance. It meant that he had time to think about what might be happening. “Where are we going?” he asked, because he was more afraid of not asking.
“For a drive,” the guardia said grimly.
In the midst of his pain and confusion an irony occurred to Gonzalo. “You’re the sergeant, a
ren’t you?” he said. “The one who killed Viviana.”
There was a long pause. “Yes.”
“And now you’re going to kill me.”
Another pause. “It’s better than what’s waiting for you back there.”
Gonzalo was too proud to admit that the sergeant might be speaking the truth. “I can take beatings,” he snapped.
The sergeant laughed softly. The sound was almost lost under the hum of the engine. “If it were just a beating, Llorente, I’d leave you to it, and welcome. You more than deserve it. But I’ve seen the way the professionals work. Believe me, you’re better off this way.”
Something penetrated Gonzalo’s fog of fear and anguish. “You’re not acting under orders,” he said. He was thrown sideways as the truck made a sharp right turn. He had received no answer by the time he righted himself. “Why?” Gonzalo asked.
For a while, Gonzalo thought he would receive no reply. Then the driver said slowly, “Because I made a mistake, about Paco’s murderer. And you helped me find it out.”
“Viviana . . . was a mistake?” Gonzalo choked.
“I didn’t mean your sister,” the guardia said evenly.
“She wasn’t my sister.” Gonzalo spoke without thinking.
“Oh. Your lover, then.” The word had a bad taste in the sergeant’s mouth. “But that wasn’t what I meant. You helped me find that phone number.”
“I’m getting a nice reward for it,” Gonzalo remarked as the jeep swung to the right again, and he braced himself.
The sergeant ignored the sarcasm. “Well, your . . . Viviana was a mistake, too. And I’ve met most of your family by now, I think. So this way seems best.” He slowed slightly and added, “Balance yourself. We’re turning.”
Gonzalo said nothing more. He could think of nothing more to say. It was Tejada who interrupted the constant hum of the motor. “Your niece Alejandra told me Paco was killed by a ‘thick’ man, dressed like a guardia civil. I didn’t understand what that meant, until I saw Morales’s phone number.”
Death of a Nationalist Page 22
