‘It was Luisa,’ Riley stammered. ‘She recognised you.’
Guzmán smiled. Always the same: threaten them and the first thing they do is betray someone else. Some things never changed. ‘How did she know who I was?’
As Riley reached into his jacket, there was a sudden flurry of movement, though not from Riley, who stayed very still, staring into the muzzle of the Browning.
‘You reach into your coat like that and my first thought is that you’ve got a weapon,’ Guzmán said, thumbing back the hammer.
‘I haven’t,’ Riley mumbled, ‘I swear.’
‘Maybe so, but I’d have only found out when I searched your body. What were you reaching for?’
‘A newspaper cutting.’ Beads of sweat trickled down his face. ‘May I show it you?’
‘By all means,’ Guzmán said, returning the Browning to its holster.
Riley retrieved a piece of yellowing newsprint from his pocket, an old clipping from the conservative daily, ABC. The page was badly faded, the contrast between light and shade so sharp the photograph seemed almost a sketch. In the picture, a tall, heavyset young man in combat gear was having a medal pinned on his chest by a short man in a uniform with big epaulettes, his spindly legs clad in gleaming riding boots. Behind them, neat ranks of troops were drawn up at attention. And beyond the lines of soldiers, the wooden barrera of a bullring. It had been a long time since he’d seen this headline:
HERO OF BADAJOZ DECORATED BY GENERALISIMO FRANCO.
‘I can keep this, can I?’ Guzmán asked.
Riley seemed to have lost the power of speech. He nodded.
‘If Luisa realised who I was, how come she didn’t want to do the interview?’
‘She thought it would be good experience for me, Comandante.’
‘And much safer for her.’ Guzmán put the paper in his wallet. ‘Any more questions?’
‘I recently talked to a lady whose husband worked with you in the Brigada Especial.’
Guzmán frowned, unhappy with the idea of people discussing him. He took out a cigarette from his packet of Ducados and lit it. ‘Give me their names.’
‘That information is confidential, I’d never forgive myself if I betrayed a source.’
Guzmán exhaled smoke into Riley’s face. ‘And you’ll never walk again if you don’t.’
‘Señora María Peralta,’ Riley said quickly. ‘Her husband was Teniente Francisco Peralta. He was your assistant.’
‘I know who he fucking was.’ Guzmán blew more smoke in Riley’s face by way of encouragement. ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Her husband told her things about you,’ Riley stammered. ‘There was an incident at Las Peñas, that’s a place in the Sierra de Gredos.’
Guzmán inclined his head, suddenly attentive. ‘What’s that noise?’
Riley darted a nervous glance at the papers on the table. ‘Traffic, I think.’
Guzmán leaned forward and lifted the pile of cardboard files from the table in front of him, exposing a small cassette recorder, its spindles gently whirring as it captured their conversation. Riley opened his mouth, trying to say something.
Guzmán punched him in the face. Not a hard blow by his standards, but hard enough to send the young man tumbling from his chair. As Riley got to his feet, Guzmán seized his arm and marched him to the door.
‘Señor Guzmán—’ Riley’s words were cut short as Guzmán hurled him down the steps into the street. A few passers-by paused to watch, amused by the sight of the young man crawling in the gutter. Their amusement was abruptly replaced by a need to be somewhere else as Guzmán came raging down the steps. He tore the cassette from the recorder, pocketed it and then proceeded to stamp the recorder underfoot until all that remained were small pieces of plastic and metal strewn across the road.
He pointed a meaty finger at Riley as the young man struggled to his feet. ‘If I see you again, I’ll do the same to you.’
‘I only want the truth,’ Riley called as Guzmán went back into the pensión. ‘You can’t hide it for ever.’
‘I’ve managed this far, kid.’ Guzmán slammed the door behind him. Then he set to work, gathering up Riley’s notebooks and papers from the table. He would burn them later.
Behind him, he heard a faint tinkle of glass as Daniela came out through the bead curtain. ‘Señor Riley hasn’t gone, has he?’
‘He’s going back to Ireland,’ Guzmán said, irritated by her crestfallen expression. ‘He’s been missing his girlfriend.’
‘Oh.’ Dejected, she fetched a sweeping brush from behind the desk and started work.
As Guzmán went upstairs, he heard a long sigh. She could sigh all she wanted, he thought, it would never have worked out. Not from what he knew about the Irish.
VALDEPEÑAS DE LA SIERRA, OCTOBER 1982
The truck rattled along the country road, leaving a cloud of tan dust hanging in its wake. On either side, the road was flanked by barren slopes strewn with stunted bushes and shrubs. As the vehicle accelerated over an old stone bridge, the men in the cab saw a meagre trickle of dark water sidling through the dry stones of the river bed.
‘I can’t move,’ Quique wailed, not for the first time. He was trapped between Ochoa who was driving, and Guzmán, who was trying to ignore him. ‘The gear stick keeps hitting my leg.’
‘That’s why we put you there,’ Guzmán said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Stop bellyaching.’
‘I’m hungry as well, boss.’
‘You should have asked Mamá to make some sandwiches. I said it was a long drive.’
‘Here, kid, have one of mine.’ Fuentes handed Quique a length of bread stuffed with ham. ‘My wife always makes more than I can eat. I think she’s trying to fatten me up.’
‘I’d better test that.’ Guzmán plucked the sandwich from Quique’s hand and took a large bite before handing it back.
‘How long till we get there, boss?’ Quique asked through a mouthful of sandwich.
‘Half an hour, maybe less if Corporal Ochoa remembers where the accelerator is.’
‘You said we were going to an archive, sir,’ Galíndez called from the back of the truck. ‘This is the middle of nowhere.’
‘Christ, stop complaining,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘We’re going to an archive, all right, though I bet you’ve never seen one like this.’ The truck shuddered violently as it went over a rock and Guzmán glared malevolently at Ochoa. ‘Try and avoid the ruts in this road, Corporal.’
‘There’s more ruts than road, sir. I’m trying my best.’
‘You’re trying my patience.’ Guzmán sighed. ‘Look, there’s the village coming up. The turn-off is a couple of kilometres further up the road.’
‘How come the truck’s full of shovels and pickaxes if we’re going to an archive?’ Galíndez asked.
‘We’ve brought more than shovels,’ Guzmán said. ‘Open that box with the red label.’
He heard a rustle as Galíndez tore open the box. A long whistle. ‘Fuck me.’
‘Jesús.’ Fuentes saw the dark shapes, gleaming with oil. ‘There’s an arsenal in there.’
‘Uzis.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Just in case.’
‘Are you expecting trouble, sir?’ Fuentes didn’t sound entirely happy at the prospect.
‘You never know,’ Guzmán said. ‘Any of you ever fired your weapon in the line of duty?’ He listened to the embarrassed silence for a moment and then twisted round to peer at the men in the back. ‘You’re very quiet, Ramiro. Travel sickness, is it?’
‘I’m fine, sir. Just looking forward to some action.’
Guzmán glanced at him in the driver’s mirror. Ramiro’s expression was not the face of a man anxious for combat.
‘Wish I could have worn my uniform,’ Quique said, to no one in particular.
Guzmán sighed. ‘You haven’t grasped the idea of a secret operation, have you, kid?’
‘There’s the sign.’ Ochoa turned onto a track winding up the steep hillside past a large sign tha
t read: BONAVENTURA MINE. PRIVATE PROPERTY, DANGER! KEEP OUT.
‘Why is it dangerous?’ Ramiro asked.
Guzmán gave him a hard look. ‘It doesn’t matter, we’re going there anyway.’
At the top of the track, the ground flattened out. A few hundred metres away, set in the sheer hillside, was the bricked-up entrance to a railway tunnel. Running towards the tunnel, they saw a line of rotting sleepers and time-worn rails, overgrown with shrubs.
‘That track connected the mine with the rest of Spain once,’ Guzmán said. ‘The tunnel runs right through that hillside to the mine.’
Ramiro frowned. ‘How do we get inside if it’s bricked up?’
From his tone, Guzmán gathered he was hoping they might have to turn round and head back to Madrid. The lad was certainly nothing like his father.
‘What’s that look like?’ Guzmán snorted, pointing to a small wooden door set in the bricks at the side of the arch.
‘A door, sir.’ Quique’s bellowed reply sent a chorus of overlapping echoes rolling over the arid hillside.
‘I told you before, I’m not deaf, kid.’
The truck ground to a halt in a cloud of ochre dust and the men climbed out. Miguel Galíndez was last and Guzmán rounded on him. ‘Move it, Galíndez. Grab one of those picks and get that door smashed down.’
Galíndez peered uncertainly at the thick wooden door. ‘Couldn’t we just unlock it?’
‘We could,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘But the people who bricked up that tunnel didn’t leave a fucking key, which is why you’re going to hit it with that pickaxe until it opens.’ Muttering obscenities, he moved away to give Galíndez room to work, shouting for Ochoa to accompany him.
*
‘For fuck’s sake, hit it properly.’ Guzmán stood, hands on hips, watching Ramiro and Galíndez take turns to swing their pickaxes into the thick wooden door. Though each blow sent flurries of woodchips into the air, the door displayed only minimal signs of damage. At this rate, they’d be here long after dark.
‘Give me that.’ Guzmán snatched the pickaxe from Ramiro and hefted it in his big hands before driving the point of the blade into the wood just below the lock. Furiously, he brought his weight to bear as he twisted the blade in the wood and then tore it free, ready to strike another blow. Before he swung, he paused as he saw the others watching.
‘Fucking hell.’ Guzmán shoved the pickaxe back into Ramiro’s hands. ‘You think you’re going to lie back like a lazy whore while I do all the work? Take this and hit the fucker, anywhere near the lock will do.’
He stepped back, not trusting Ramiro’s aim. ‘Come on, swing it, you flabby bastard.’
‘I’ll have a go, Comandante,’ Quique shouted, rushing forward with his pick. Sensibly, Guzmán stepped back as young Quique smashed the blade into the lock from above, sending a cascade of small metal parts tinkling onto the dusty soil.
‘That’s more like it.’ Guzmán nodded, approvingly.
Quique grinned. ‘I’ve always had a strong right arm, Comandante.’
‘And I can guess why, Private Vilán. Just be careful you don’t go blind.’
A loud crack interrupted them as a blow from Ochoa finally tore the lock away from the door. Ochoa gave the door a violent kick and it swung open, unsteady on its rusty hinges. The men peered into the darkness, coughing as clouds of dust floated out into the brilliant sunshine.
‘Don’t stand there gawping,’ Guzmán said. ‘There’s a box of flashlights in the truck, go and get them, Private Vilán.’
‘Sus órdenes,’ Quique yelled before he scampered off to the vehicle.
‘I’m going to be stone fucking deaf before we’ve finished this operation,’ Guzmán growled. He took one of the torches and led the way into the tunnel. The others followed, the lights playing over the drifting clouds of dust. Some ten metres ahead, the tunnel curved to the right, making it impossible to see any further. That didn’t matter: on the track ahead were stacks of boxes and crates, each with a number chalked on its side.
‘This is what we came for,’ Guzmán said. He took the list Gutiérrez had given him and gave one page to Ramiro and another to Quique. ‘Find the boxes with these numbers and take them out to the truck. Corporal Ochoa will load them once he’s double checked the numbers.’
‘What about me and Fuentes, Comandante?’ Galíndez asked.
Guzmán pointed towards the bend in the tunnel. ‘Scout out the track around that bend and see if there are any more files stored there.’
As Fuentes and Galíndez moved away down the tunnel, Guzmán saw Quique staggering to the entrance, carrying three heavy boxes piled one on top of the other. He was about to tell him to take things slowly, but decided against it. If the young trooper collapsed with heatstroke it would not only teach him a valuable lesson, it would keep him quiet for a while.
Half an hour later, Ochoa stood by the rear of the truck, surrounded by piles of boxes. As he ticked off the last one on his list, Guzmán emerged from the shattered entrance to the tunnel, carrying a dusty crate stuffed with files.
‘No sign of the other two, sir?’
Guzmán shook his head. ‘I don’t know where they’ve got to. Get those last few boxes loaded while I go and look for them.’ As he reached the mouth of the tunnel, he saw Fuentes hurrying towards him, his face smudged with dust. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘You need to see this, sir,’ Fuentes said, lowering his voice. ‘You won’t believe it.’
‘What have you found?’ Guzmán asked, hoping it was money.
‘A train,’ Fuentes said as they went back into the tunnel.
‘You mean one of those little things the miners dump the rubble in?’
‘No, sir.’ Fuentes led the way. ‘Bigger than that.’
As they turned the bend, Guzmán played the flashlight over the brick-lined walls. ‘There’s nothing special about a—’ He stopped dead. ‘What the fuck is that?’
Ahead of them was a large steam engine, its powerful curves and muscular angles vague under thick layers of cobwebs and dust, but a train nonetheless.
Guzmán looked at it, bemused. ‘That’s a passenger train,’ he muttered. ‘How did it get here? This tunnel only leads to the mine.’
‘You haven’t seen what’s inside, sir.’ Fuentes stopped by the first carriage and shone his flashlight into one of the compartments. The light glowed dully in a mirror above the seats and then, as the light moved higher, Guzmán saw the sagging luggage rack, full of heavy bags.
‘Let’s have a look at this.’ He hauled himself up into the carriage. As he did, he saw a reservation number on a pale ceramic disc by the window seat. Then the flashlight moved lower, illuminating the passenger slumped by the door, staring at him.
‘For the love of Christ,’ Guzmán said, playing the light over the interior of the carriage. Sprawled on the seats were more passengers, black holes where their eyes had once been, grinning with the slack-jawed smile of the dead.
‘What killed them, sir?’ Fuentes had stayed outside the carriage, Guzmán noticed.
‘Let’s see.’ Guzmán slipped a hand under the lapel of the dead man’s jacket, feeling the material crumble under his touch. He found a wallet in one pocket. Inside was a thick wad of banknotes. Suddenly interested, Guzmán lifted the flashlight to examine the money more closely. ‘Fucking hell,’ he snorted, ‘it’s Republican money, totally worthless.’ He threw the wallet back onto the seat. ‘This beats everything,’ he said, lifting the dead man’s skull. ‘See that hole? He’s been shot in the back of the head.’ He handed the skull to Fuentes.
‘How come it didn’t blow his face off, sir?’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘The bullet must have exited through his eye, I suppose.’
Fuentes put the skull back on the seat, next to the remains of its owner.
Guzmán climbed down from the carriage, still wondering about the possibility of finding valuables on the train. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he heard Galín
dez screaming for help.
Two carriages down, he saw an open door and ran to it, shining the flashlight across the crumbling seats. Galíndez was sitting on the far side of the compartment, by the door to the corridor. He seemed on the verge of tears. ‘Holy Mother of God, please help me.’
‘What the fuck’s up with you?’ Guzmán barked. ‘There’s no reason to be terrified by a few mummified passengers.’
‘I tried to open the door, to see what was in the corridor,’ Galíndez whined.
‘And what did you find?’ Guzmán snorted. ‘A big spider?’
‘Dynamite, kilos and kilos of it. And then I put my hand on the door and got hold of this wire.’ His voice trailed away.
In the white beam of his flashlight, Guzmán saw Galíndez’s hand, still gripping the handle of the sliding door. And, from under his hand, he saw a wire, snaking down under the door into the corridor, where it connected to a pile of canvas bags.
‘Don’t let go,’ Guzmán said. ‘That’s an order. Do not let go of that fucking wire.’
‘Do something, Comandante.’
Guzmán turned towards the door. ‘Stay calm,’ he told Galíndez. ‘Whatever you do, don’t move.’
‘Please don’t leave me, Comandante, I don’t want to die.’
‘If I had a hundred pesetas for every time someone said that—’ Guzmán cut himself short. ‘Just keep calm. I’m coming back.’
He climbed down from the carriage and called Fuentes over. Fuentes’ face was a study as Guzmán explained the situation. ‘Tell Corporal Ochoa he’s in command if it goes up,’ he whispered, careful not to let Galíndez hear.
Fuentes swallowed hard. ‘Can I help, Comandante? Cut the wire or something?’
‘Just go back to the corporal,’ Guzmán said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
As Fuentes set off up the tunnel, Guzmán hauled himself back into the carriage. ‘Tickets, please.’
‘Don’t joke, Comandante,’ Galíndez pleaded. ‘I feel sick.’
Guzmán examined the wire again. ‘Clever bastards,’ he said, kneeling to get a better look. ‘They wedged the wire into the door frame so the moment it opens, the wire slackens and detonates a charge in the middle of the dynamite. You’re lucky it didn’t go off.’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 13
