The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘I don’t know, Guzmán, why don’t you ask him?’

  The door opened again and a woman entered, weighed down by armfuls of cardboard files and bundles of papers.

  ‘Who’s the blonde?’ Guzmán asked, approvingly.

  ‘Her?’ Ortiz sneered. ‘Paloma Ibañez, one of their top lawyers. See the guy behind her, the tall one with the long hair? That’s Javier Benavides, the other half of their legal team. He and Paloma are the human face of the Centinelas’ central council. Not that either of them is remotely human. Ibañez is so cold you could chill a bottle of wine in her pants.’

  Guzmán was not inclined to agree with the general about Señorita Ibañez though he was more than willing to take an immediate dislike to Javier Benavides. From his suntan to the exquisitely cut suit and his manicured nails, Benavides’ appearance spoke of money. That was reason enough to hate him.

  Ibañez and Benavides sat on either side of General Alvaro though he barely acknowledged them and continued writing on his pad.

  General Ortiz pressed a button and the tinny sound of voices from the conference room filtered in through a small speaker in the wall.

  ‘I’d like to begin this meeting by extending a welcome to you all,’ said Paloma Ibañez. ‘I thought Brigadier General Gutiérrez might attend today, God knows we’ve invited him enough times.’

  ‘Sometimes I think the Brigada Especial don’t like us,’ Benavides said.

  A ripple of laughter ran round the table. On the other side of the glass panel, Guzmán clenched his fists.

  ‘Actually, his absence is understandable,’ Ibañez said. ‘He has a session of radiotherapy booked for this afternoon.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not successful,’ General Alvaro grunted, still writing.

  Guzmán stared through the two-way mirror at the King’s advisor, imagining throwing him through the window that ran the length of the conference room. Maybe Gutiérrez was a cold bastard, but that was for Guzmán to decide, not some overfed sycophant like Alvaro.

  ‘I didn’t know about Gutiérrez,’ Ortiz whispered. ‘Sorry, Leo.’

  The door of the conference room opened as a big, thickset man entered.

  ‘Late again, Señor Ricci?’ General Alvaro asked.

  ‘Traffic’s bad,’ Ricci said, slumping into a chair. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Let’s get down to the business of the day.’

  General Ortiz leaned over to whisper to Guzmán. ‘That big bruiser is Eduardo Ricci, Eduardo el Bastardo they call him. His mob act as the Centinelas’ enforcers.’

  ‘The central council have instructed us to inform you they’re unhappy with the recent operations by the police against foreign narcotics importers,’ Paloma Ibañez said, looking at the Deputy Director of the National Police. ‘From now on, such operations must be carried out in a less efficient manner.’

  The deputy director flushed with anger. ‘You want the police to turn a blind eye to large-scale drug pushing, señorita?’

  Ibañez shrugged. ‘It’s nothing you haven’t done before.’

  ‘Even so, there’s a limit as to how far we can go along with these things.’

  Paloma Ibañez’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know, I believe in the old days, the Centinelas had a phrase: “You pay with your dead.” It refers to the fact that when they first were formed, they pledged to repay any affront by killing not only the person who’d offended them but also three generations of his or her family.’

  The deputy director seemed to be on the verge of a seizure. ‘This is intolerable. First, you demand the police tone down their anti-narcotics operations, and then you threaten me?’

  ‘I’m only the messenger, though the answer to both those questions is yes.’

  ‘You took the money,’ General Alvaro said, emerging from his brooding silence.

  ‘And you knew it was a binding agreement,’ Benavides added. ‘End of story.’

  The deputy director ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Back to business,’ General Alvaro sighed. ‘And try to keep any further moral outrage to a minimum. I hate hypocrisy before lunch.’

  Most of the business that followed consisted of further instructions for non-intervention by the forces of law and order in various areas of the Centinelas’ extensive business interests.

  Finally, Ibañez reached the end of her imperatives. ‘Before we end this meeting, does anyone have anything else for discussion?’

  ‘No takers?’ General Alvaro asked, impatient for his lunch. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘There is one other piece of business, General,’ Benavides said, shuffling through his papers. ‘The arrival of Comandante Guzmán in Madrid.’ He took off his reading glasses as he looked round the table. ‘Anyone know why Guzmán’s here?’

  Paloma Ibañez turned to him, suddenly curious. ‘I’m not familiar with this Guzmán, Javier.’

  ‘I’ll soon fill you in.’ Benavides looked down at a typewritten sheet of paper. ‘Leopoldo Guzmán, Civil War hero, awarded the Laureada de San Fernando for almost single-handedly wiping out a Republican unit following the battle of Badajoz, at the age of eighteen, no less. Following the war, he’s been employed by the Brigada Especial, specialising in undercover operations and, more lately, counter-espionage and anti-terrorist activities. He was a firm favourite of Franco, though that doesn’t count for much now, of course.’ He turned the page. ‘Utterly ruthless, violent and with a tendency towards insubordination, he’s only stayed in his post so long because he gets results.’

  ‘You won’t get your fucking head through the door now, Leo,’ Ortiz chuckled.

  Guzmán frowned. He didn’t care what the Centinelas’ legal team thought about him. It was the fact that they knew he was back in Madrid that bothered him.

  ‘Is he here to do a job for the Brigada Especial?’ General Alvaro asked. ‘You’re supposed to know these things, Señor Benavides.’

  ‘There was an incident in the Retiro, I believe. Isn’t that right, Señor Ricci?’

  Ricci looked at Benavides with contempt. ‘Just a local problem. This Guzmán was collecting cash from old Franco supporters and he got into a dispute with some of my boys.’

  ‘Two dead seems quite a dispute,’ Benavides said, pursing his lips.

  Ricci grinned. ‘I doubt you know much about that kind of thing, son.’ He reached for a glass of water. ‘The casualties don’t matter. The guys who were killed were Bulgarians, we’ve already replaced them. And just so we’re clear, it wasn’t me told them to go after Guzmán. Guillermo Masias called them in after Guzmán roughed him up.’

  ‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t let your friend give orders to your employees?’

  Ricci stared at Benavides without blinking. ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, son.’

  Benavides looked away, suddenly nervous. ‘It would be best if such scenes weren’t repeated, especially with the election coming up.’

  ‘Like I said, it was no big deal.’ Ricci took a sip of water and banged the glass down on the table.

  ‘Any other business?’ Paloma Ibañez asked. When there was no response, she gave the men around the table a last cold smile. ‘The meeting is over. Thank you all for your cooperation.’

  Behind the two-way mirror, Guzmán and Ortiz watched the Centinelas’ lawyers and associates file out of the conference room.

  ‘What do you think?’ Ortiz said. ‘Nice bit of surveillance, wouldn’t you say? Every time they meet, we have one of our people here to tape their conversations.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fancy getting some lunch?’

  Guzmán ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘What do you think, General?’

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, TABERNA DE ANTONIO SÁNCHEZ, CALLE MESÓN DE PAREDES

  A pale sun was emerging from the clouds as General Ortiz’s Jaguar XJ6 pulled up at the end of the street. The general’s bodyguard got out and opened the door. ‘Does the general want us to come into the restaurant?’
>
  ‘No, piss off and get a bite to eat. Pick me up at three.’

  The bodyguard nodded. ‘A sus órdenes, mí General.’

  The dark wooden frontage of the taberna was almost unchanged since its opening in 1884. Through the door, they saw the long narrow room, the tables and diners in deep shadow. Long arrays of bottles on gleaming shelves. The air of a bygone era.

  Guzmán pointed to a building across the road. ‘I used to live there.’ Idly, he wondered if the weapons he’d left under the floorboards were still there. Not that it mattered, most would be obsolete by now.

  ‘Are we going in or not?’ Ortiz asked, impatient as he smelled the aroma coming from inside the bar. ‘It’s years since I was last here and I plan on eating myself stupid.’

  Guzmán led the way into the crowded tavern. A group of business people were pressed together in noisy conversation at the bar. As Guzmán and Ortiz went to the dining room, one of the men at the bar turned and Ortiz found himself face to face with Javier Benavides. ‘General, what a pleasure,’ Benavides beamed, offering his hand.

  ‘You can put that away,’ Ortiz scowled, glaring at the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I don’t know where it’s been.’

  Ignoring that, Benavides turned his attention to Guzmán. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, señor?’

  ‘Leo Guzmán.’

  Benavides’ eyes widened as he heard the name. They widened much more as Guzmán gave him a particularly brutal handshake.

  ‘It’s funny, Comandante,’ Benavides said, rubbing his hand. ‘Your name cropped up in conversation only today.’

  ‘They say the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,’ Guzmán said, turning to follow Ortiz into the dining room. He sat with his back to the wall. ‘How did that orange-faced clown know we were coming here?’

  ‘Coincidence, I hope.’ Ortiz raised a hand to attract one of the waitresses and she came over, smart in her stiffly starched uniform. A gypsy, Guzmán noticed.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ Her eyes suddenly fixed on Guzmán. ‘You owe me a thousand pesetas.’

  ‘Like fuck I do,’ Ortiz snapped.

  ‘Not you, him.’ She indicated Guzmán with a nod of her head.

  Guzmán reached into his wallet, took out a banknote and handed it to her.

  ‘About time,’ she grunted. ‘Will the gentlemen be drinking?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Guzmán said.

  Her smile revealed a missing front tooth. ‘Rioja, same as before?’

  Guzmán nodded.

  ‘But you have to pay this time,’ she said. ‘No waving your ID and then walking out.’

  Guzmán sighed. ‘Maybe you could bring us the wine before we die of old age?’

  ‘You must have pulled that number a few times for her to recognise you.’ Ortiz laughed as the waitress bustled away to get their wine.

  ‘Maybe,’ Guzmán said. ‘I don’t remember her at all.’

  ‘So why give her the money? She might have been lying.’

  ‘A gypsy wouldn’t lie like that,’ Guzmán said, looking down the menu. ‘I’m going to have the tripe stew, how about you?’

  ‘Bull’s tail,’ Ortiz said. ‘Just the thing for a hangover.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d got one.’

  ‘I haven’t, I was thinking about later.’

  A sudden bellowing laugh a few tables away made them look up.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Ortiz said. ‘It’s Eduardo Ricci.’

  At a table near the bar, Guzmán saw Benavides and Ricci together with two heavyset thugs. One glanced over and saw Guzmán looking at him. He tried to hold Guzmán’s gaze for a moment, then quickly looked away.

  ‘What do they want, I wonder?’ Ortiz muttered.

  ‘You’ll soon find out,’ Guzmán said. ‘Here comes one of their goons.’

  Ortiz glared at the dull-faced bruiser as he came to the table. ‘We’ve already ordered.’

  The man treated him to a yellow-toothed grin. ‘Señor Ricci sent you this.’ He put a bottle of wine on the table. ‘Thought you’d like it.’

  Guzmán looked up from the menu and stared at him. ‘You can go.’

  ‘Most people would have the manners to say thank you,’ the man said, scowling.

  ‘I’m not most people. So fuck off while you can still remember your name.’

  The man’s face hardened. ‘You need to be careful, amigo.’

  ‘And you’re going to need a wheelchair.’ Guzmán started to get to his feet.

  ‘OK, I’m going.’ The man grinned. ‘I’ll see you next time you decide to leave some more money in the Retiro Park, eh?’ He chuckled as he went to join Ricci and the others.

  ‘He’s one of the bastards who stole my money.’ Guzmán reached into his jacket for the Browning.

  Ortiz put a hand on his arm to restrain him. ‘Leave it, Leo, it was only money.’

  Guzmán stared at him, incredulous. ‘It’s not the money I’m angry about, it’s this.’ He lifted the bottle so Ortiz could see the label. ‘Fucking cava, the cheapest you can get.’ He stared at the wine with unbridled hatred. ‘I wouldn’t give this to a dying priest.’

  ‘Even so,’ Ortiz said. ‘This isn’t the time.’

  Unconvinced, Guzmán put the bottle down on the table and glared at the waitress as she returned with their wine.

  ‘Here we are.’ She put two bottles of Marqués de Cáceres in front of them. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, pointing to the bottle of cava. ‘Did you bring your own?’

  ‘It’s a gift for a friend,’ Guzmán said, reaching for the Rioja.

  ‘He can’t be much of a friend.’

  ‘And you’re not much of a gypsy if you can’t tell how much you’re annoying me.’

  ‘I’ll get your food.’ She went away, cursing the bitch who’d borne him, though she did it under her breath, grateful that he didn’t remember her.

  The restaurant was getting crowded and Ricci and his companions were soon obscured by a line of people waiting to be seated. With Ricci and his crew out of sight, Guzmán calmed down a little. Then he tasted the tripe and calmed down a lot more. A second helping was called for, he decided. When they had finished, Guzmán ordered brandy and cigars. It seemed churlish not to, since the general would be paying.

  ‘That was excellent,’ Ortiz said. ‘I had lunch with the prime minister yesterday and the food wasn’t half as good. I just hope the Socialists get better caterers if they get elected.’

  ‘Did the prime minister say if he was expecting to win the election?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘He said he was hopeful, which means he’s lost it already.’ Ortiz looked at his watch. ‘This is on me. Well, the taxpayer anyway.’ He gestured to the waitress to bring the bill.

  ‘Thanks,’ Guzmán said, as if Ortiz’s generosity came as a surprise. ‘I’m off for a piss.’

  ‘They say you only ever rent your drink, Leo.’

  As he looked across the crowded bar, Guzmán saw Ricci’s dough-faced lackey go through the wooden swing doors into the toilet. Casually, he turned and took the untouched bottle of cava from the table.

  The men’s toilets were sharp with the familiar smell of alcohol and urine. At the door, Guzmán stepped back to let an elderly gentleman make his exit. Inside, he saw Ricci’s lackey taking a long splattering piss. Guzmán walked softly towards him, the bottle in his hand. ‘I’m returning your gift.’

  The man turned, still holding his dick in his hand. As he did, Guzmán swung the bottle into the side of his head. The bottle didn’t shatter, which surprised him, though the man went down as if he’d been shot, which came as no surprise at all. Guzmán stood over the unconscious man, unzipped his fly and took an extravagant piss over his face and clothes. Before he left, he laid the bottle on his chest. When he came to, he might need a drink.

  ‘Though you’d got lost,’ Ortiz said as Guzmán came out of the restaurant into the autumn sun. Across the road, the general’s bodygua
rds were waiting listlessly by the Jaguar. ‘You want a lift?’

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘I’m going to take a walk, see how things have changed.’

  ‘It’s hard to know what hasn’t changed, these days,’ Ortiz said as they shook hands.

  Guzmán looked him in the eye. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘I know, Leo, but let me give you a bit of advice, for what it’s worth. You know I told you the Centinelas keep trying to infiltrate the guardia? Well, that’s the way they operate all the time. Keep an eye on the men in your squad. It only takes one traitor to ruin everything.’

  ‘I’ll do that, General.’

  Guzmán watched Ortiz’s car drive away before he set off down the road towards Puerta del Sol. The afternoon sun lit up the tall buildings around him. As he walked, Guzmán noticed a young man wearing a leather jacket and jeans standing in a doorway. Selling drugs, most likely. That was a matter for the police and he kept walking.

  Behind him, the young man casually left the doorway and started following him.

  Being followed was not a new experience for Guzmán. Sometimes it could be annoying, though it was always an interesting contest, particularly when the pursuer had no idea their target was aware of them. Most died without realising they had been marked for death from the moment Guzmán sensed their presence. But the man following him now was an amateur and within a few minutes, Guzmán had shaken him off. He could have dawdled, maybe even retraced his steps so the young man would pick up the trail again. But there was no sport to be had with someone so inept and he decided to make his way back to the pensión, taking a nostalgic route of shadowy streets and alleys he recalled from other times, when bars and cafés were dark with smoke and packed with dubious customers.

  Selecting a particularly insalubrious establishment, he sat on a scuffed leather stool, nursing a brandy as he watched the clientele in the cracked mirror behind the bar. The noisy conversations around him were soothing, reminding him of Madrid after the war. Fond memories: the subtle unfolding of dawn, the sun stealing over the irregular horizon of roofs and spires. That first hour of soft light. And the noise: the rattle of horse-drawn carts on cobbles, voices echoing in narrow streets, overlayed by the murmur of traffic.