‘ETA, without doubt,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘We’ve been expecting them to make a move in the run-up to the election. But I wanted you to know the press are also speculating that the bomb might be an attempt to disrupt the elections by certain pro-Franco elements.’
‘Do they mean us?’ Guzmán scoffed. ‘We couldn’t afford the explosives.’
‘Even so, they’re asking whether the Brigada Especial might be involved. They want to know why the government still employs a unit that was once a death squad.’
Guzmán saw the orderly in the doorway and gestured for him to put the coffee tray on his desk. ‘So what did you tell them?’
‘I played it down, naturally,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘But you and your squad have to be careful, it’s vital you don’t get involved in any acts of violence while you’re collecting the files. The press will crucify us if that happens.’
‘For once, I agree with you.’ Guzmán lifted his cup and inhaled the aroma of coffee.
‘What’s that noise?’ Gutiérrez asked.
‘Fault on the line,’ Guzmán said, sipping his coffee. ‘Anything else?’
He was answered by a flurry of coughing as Gutiérrez wheezed a hasty goodbye.
Guzmán finished his coffee and then pressed the button on his desk. A moment later, Fuentes and Galíndez came in.
‘Morning, sir,’ Fuentes said, snapping off a sharp salute. His appearance was a stark contrast to the other man, Guzmán noted. Fuentes was clean-shaven and his uniform looked as if he’d been up all night ironing out the creases. Or, more likely, his wife had. ‘Look at the state of you, Galíndez.’ Guzmán scowled. ‘You look like you’ve been to a gypsy’s funeral.’ He gestured for them to sit. ‘I hope you’re sober enough for this job?’
‘I’m up for anything, boss,’ Galíndez said, stifling a yawn.
‘Well, even you should be able to manage this.’ Guzmán slid two typewritten sheets across the table. ‘The target is a municipal archive. There are two guards on duty during the day.’
‘And you want us to take them out?’ Galíndez asked, suddenly interested.
Guzmán gave him a dark look. ‘Of course not. Do this right and they won’t even know you’ve been in the building.’ He pointed to the sheets of paper. ‘Take a look at those. You’ll see the guards have a coffee break each morning at eleven, regular as clockwork. Park across the road and wait till they go to the café. Then you go in and get the files.’
‘How do we gain access, sir?’ Fuentes asked, making notes.
‘There’s an alley at the side of the building. It’s big enough to take the truck.’
Galíndez nodded eagerly. ‘And then we smash the door down?’
‘And then you open the fucking thing with this.’ Guzmán slapped a key down onto the table. ‘Don’t interrupt me again.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Anything else we should know, Comandante?’ Fuentes asked. ‘Alarms or dogs?’
Guzmán decided he approved of Fuentes. ‘Nothing like that. Any more questions?’
‘Sounds easy, boss.’ Galíndez grinned.
‘The time to say a job’s easy is when you’ve finished it.’ Guzmán waved at the door. ‘Dismissed.’
He waited until they were gone and then got up and poured more coffee before hitting the green button. The door opened at once and Ochoa came clattering in at the double, followed by Quique.
‘Christ, were you two leaning on the door?’
‘Come in when you see the green light. That was what you said, sir.’
‘I didn’t tell you to come in so quickly.’ Once they were seated Guzmán gave them their instructions. ‘This job’s at the technical institute in Vallecas. Here’s the list of files. It’s the same procedure as before: the files we want are hidden among other, less important documents. This list has the reference numbers of the files we want. Nothing there to complain about, I hope, Corporal?’
Ochoa shook his head. ‘Looks all right to me, sir.’
‘Thank the Blessed Virgin for that.’ Guzmán started gathering up his papers.
‘And where will you be if I need you, sir?’ Ochoa said, as he got up.
‘The same place I’ll be if you don’t need me. Minding my own fucking business.’
‘I meant if there’s any trouble, sir.’
‘There shouldn’t be any trouble, Corporal,’ Guzmán snorted. ‘But if there is, you’re armed, I seem to remember. How about you, kid? Did Mamá take your service pistol away in case you hurt yourself?’
‘No, sir. It’s right here.’ Quique began fumbling with the catch on his holster.
Guzmán stopped him before he shot someone. ‘I know what a gun looks like, thanks. Get on with it, Corporal,’ he sighed. ‘And take Billy the Kid here with you.’
After they had gone, Guzmán waited a few minutes and then went out into the squadroom. Ramiro was sitting in a corner reading the paper. He leaped to attention as he saw Guzmán approaching.
‘I want you to go over to the warehouse to give Brigadier General Gutiérrez a hand,’ Guzmán said. ‘Here’s the address.’
‘Begging the comandante’s pardon, but I’d prefer a role with the chance of some action,’ Ramiro said. His face told another story.
‘I know,’ Guzmán nodded, ‘but the work at the warehouse is complicated. The brigadier general needs someone who’s used to working with a high-ranking officer. You’re the man for this.’ He paused. ‘You and the sarge’s son, that is.’ He saw Ramiro’s troubled look. ‘He’ll do all the manual work, obviously.’
‘Thanks, Comandante, I won’t let you down.’
‘Good man. Now get going and don’t keep Gutiérrez waiting.’
As Ramiro marched off down the corridor, Guzmán breathed a sigh of relief. Command was so much easier in the old days. None of this man-management stuff. Just physical violence and a lot of shouting. Still, while his men were out collecting the files, that gave him time for a bit of old-fashioned police work. And he knew just the bar to do it in.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, LA CEPA, CALLE DE VALVERDE
Guzmán strolled through the crowds on the Gran Via heading towards the towering Telefónica Building. He noticed the passers-by as he walked: well dressed, laden with shopping, a certain air of confidence about them. It was unsettling.
More and more, he saw the city like a stranger. Not because the extent of change had swept away its former appearance, but because the little details by which he recognised the streets and their buildings were not as they were. He recalled Madrid as a city of closed shutters and darkened shops with empty windows. Old women peering from neglected doorways with sallow looks of reproach. Large empty squares, rustling newspapers blown across them by the cold wind from the sierra. Now, shop windows were full of all manner of consumer goods. Even the beggars looked well dressed.
At the corner he took a right into a narrow street hemmed in by tall buildings. Outside a bar, workmen in blue overalls were unloading crates of wine. Their jovial voices echoed off the walls, sending pigeons flapping for shelter on the tiled roofs.
After a few minutes’ walk, he came to a small grimy bar. The name was picked out in tarnished paint over the door: LA CEPA. The place looked much as it had years ago, apart from the flashing lights of a pinball machine in a corner. As he entered, Guzmán was transported back to a simpler world where everything was routinely forbidden and people obeyed authority without question. Or at least pretended to.
He stood at the bar, careful to avoid resting his arms on the sopping zinc counter. Behind the bar, the shelves were packed with an esoteric collection of bottles bearing names Guzmán hadn’t seen in years. On the wall behind the bar, he saw a ragged tangle of wires hanging from an ancient socket, just as it had twenty years earlier.
‘Just admiring the place or are you going to have a drink?’
A fat balding man peered at him across the bar. His sagging features twitched, betraying the mental struggle going on in his domelike head. �
��Fuck’s sake, it’s you,’ he said, almost pleasantly. ‘Come to arrest me for not washing the glasses, have you?’
‘You still don’t wash them?’
‘It was my father’s idea, to save money. He’s gone now, but I remember you.’
Guzmán leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Keep it to yourself, will you?’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘That’s blackmail, I could arrest you for that. Still, you look like you need a kicking.’
The man’s attitude softened. ‘How about a drink? On the house, of course.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ Guzmán said. ‘Give me a brandy and none of that cheap rubbish either.’ He waited as the man filled a large glass. He saw the label and scowled, though there was no point complaining: this dive wouldn’t stock Carlos Primero and even if it did, none of the customers could afford it. Besides, drinking it here would smack of ostentation. This was not a place where a man wanted to stand out.
He heard a noise behind him as several rowdy women bustled in from the street, reeking of cheap perfume, all talking at once in loud voices. The place was still a meeting place for tarts, then. That piece of historical continuity pleased him.
To avoid the incessant babble of the whores, he found a table in the corner. At the next table a sad-faced elderly gentleman was nursing a glass of beer. It was clear he’d been nursing it for a while since it was now flat. Guzmán kept his voice low as he leaned towards the old man. ‘You’re not ignoring me, are you, Ignacio?’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, LIBRERÍA TÉCNICO, CALLE DE FERNANDO EL CATÓLICO
Ochoa pulled the battered Ford Transit to a halt by the side of the library. ‘Here we are, kid.’ He reached into the back and grabbed a couple of brown warehouse coats. ‘Put this on,’ he told Quique, ‘you’ll look like you’ve got a proper job.’
As they stood by the van, Ochoa decided to do what any working man would do in a situation like this. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the van for a few minutes while he smoked. When he’d finished the cigarette, he opened the back doors and pulled out a heavy wheeled trolley. That done, he sat on the trolley and lit another cigarette.
‘Bit early to start taking things easy isn’t it, Corporal?’ Quique asked.
Ochoa shrugged. ‘Who’s taking it easy, kid? I’m blending in. Anyone who sees us will just see a couple of workmen in brown coats. If someone asks about us later, all they’ll remember are the brown coats.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘You ready?’
Quique tore his gaze away from a shop window where a young woman was struggling to dress a mannequin in a pair of hot pants. ‘Yes, Corporal.’
Ochoa sighed. ‘Don’t call me corporal again. I’ll be Juan, you can be Pedro. Right?’
‘Fine by me, Juan.’
‘Our first stop is the assistant librarian in the maritime section,’ Ochoa said. ‘She’s a guardia sergeant, working undercover.’
‘A woman?’ Quique raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that legal?’
‘She’s one of General Ortiz’s undercover team. She’ll direct us to the files we want.’
‘Maybe we could borrow a couple of books as well, Corp? I like Westerns.’
Ochoa shook his head. ‘This is a technical library, kid. It’s where they store all the old material that no one wants.’
‘Why do they store it if nobody wants it?’
Ochoa gave a patient sigh. ‘Someone might want it one day. And if they do, they can come here and read it even though the rest of the world’s forgotten all about it.’
‘A library of forgotten books?’ Quique looked across the road at the dull, grey-stone building, its weathered Doric columns spattered with dirt and pigeon shit. ‘Imagine that.’
‘Just imagine doing your job, kid. That’s what keeps the pay cheque coming, or hasn’t anyone explained that to you?’
‘They never say anything else some days, Corporal.’
‘Address me by rank again and you’ll get a slap.’ Ochoa saw the traffic come to a stop as the lights changed. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
The old trolley rattled as they dragged it across the road between the stalled lines of traffic, hearing exasperated cat-calls from the stationary vehicles as they went.
Once on the pavement, Ochoa pointed to the door at the side of the building: STAFF. ‘That’s us, kid.’ They manhandled the trolley through the door and found themselves at the end of a long tiled corridor with drab brown walls. On either side, open doors gave views of shadowy rooms where badly dressed people clustered around the shelves, examining the dusty tomes with reverential care.
At the door of one cavernous room, Quique stopped and pointed to several bearded men at a table piled high with books. Most wore jackets with leather patches on the elbows. All were furiously taking notes. ‘Are they scholars, Corporal?’
Ochoa glared at the men through his thick spectacles. ‘They’re Reds, kid, I’d bet your life on it.’ He gave the trolley a violent shove. ‘Come on, let’s find this lady.’
The office of the maritime section’s assistant librarian was located near the end of the corridor. When no one answered his knock, Ochoa pushed the door open. A dusty-looking office, a desk littered with books and papers around a large Bakelite phone. On the walls, several cabinets stuffed with books. No sign of the librarian.
‘Shit.’ Ochoa went over to the desk and took a look behind it. Suspicious, he reached down into the waste basket. ‘Look at this, kid.’ He held up a crumpled piece of paper.
‘What’s that on it?’ Quique asked. ‘Lipstick?’
‘Looks like blood,’ Ochoa said. ‘And look, her handbag’s still here.’
‘Can’t have gone far then, Corp. Women take their handbags everywhere.’
Ochoa looked up from examining the scattered papers on the desk. ‘I’d forgotten you were an expert on women.’ He shuffled though the papers and selected a large brown envelope. ‘This is what I’m after.’
‘How can you tell just by looking?’ Quique asked, impressed.
‘Because it’s got my name on it. Now stop asking questions.’
‘Funny the lady isn’t here.’
‘Come on, kid, we need to find another librarian.’
Leaving the trolley outside the office, Ochoa led the way down the corridor until they came to another office. The door was open. Inside, a rotund lady was sitting behind a desk. When Ochoa tapped on the door, she looked up, staring at him through thick reading glasses. Her eyesight seemed to be even worse than his.
‘Can I help you?’ Her tone suggested she would rather not.
‘We’ve come to collect some documents from the maritime archive,’ Ochoa said, politely. ‘We were supposed to see Señora Davila but she’s not at her desk.’
The woman sighed as she struggled to her feet. ‘I’ll show you where to go.’
They followed her along the corridor into a small lobby, and waited as she opened a door with a key from the copious collection hanging from her belt. A sudden odour of damp paper drifted out. ‘This is the archive you’re looking for, gentlemen.’ She paused. ‘Will you need to visit any of the upper floors?’
‘I can’t say, señorita,’ Ochoa said. ‘If we do, which way do we go?’
‘You go up those stairs over there, cross the first floor and then go up the spiral staircase to the next floor and then do the same again if you need to go up another floor.’
Ochoa looked at Quique. ‘Got all that, did you?’
‘I think so,’ Quique said, frowning.
The trolley rattled on the tiles as Ochoa and the kid went into the maritime archive. The lights were out and Ochoa fumbled for a moment, trying to find the switch. When the light came on, they were confronted by a large room, filled with row after row of cobwebbed shelves, packed with cardboard boxes of files.
Ochoa took the paper from the librarian’s envelope. ‘I’ll call out the reference numbers and you fetch the boxes.’
The job was easier than
Ochoa had expected. The files were located exactly where the list indicated. Apart from Quique looking a little sweatier than when he started, things were going to plan. At this rate, they’d be done by two at the latest.
‘You know what this is all about, Corp?’ Quique panted as he put another armful of boxes onto the trolley.
Ochoa shrugged. ‘What all what’s about – life?’
‘No, collecting these old files.’
‘It’s about collecting them like the comandante ordered. That’s all you need to know.’
‘I’d hate to work in a place like this all day. You can’t even see out the window.’
Ochoa struggled as he carried one of the heavier boxes to the trolley. ‘Stand on that chair over there, kid. You’ll get a good view of the street.’
Quique took his advice and peered out at the passing traffic. ‘Busy out there, Corp.’
Ochoa sighed heavily. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you go outside and get a smoke? I can work better if I don’t have to listen to you.’ He breathed a sigh of relief as Quique wandered off down the corridor. It was worth having to lift a few dusty boxes just to be rid of the kid for a while.
Outside, Quique watched the traffic, picking out cars he’d like to own one day when he was a capitán. There were some nice sets of wheels, he thought, watching the slow-moving vehicles intently. Best of all were the cars that had been polished until the bodywork gleamed, unlike the dirty Opel Ascona that had just pulled up across the road. That would never do for him. A nice saloon like that, the least the owner could do was wash it from time to time. He imagined himself as a traffic cop on a motorbike, pulling the car over, pointing out the danger of having such a dirty rear window. And then he’d give the driver a ticket, he decided, since the car’s rear number plate was missing. He put his hand into the pocket of his warehouse coat, resting it on the butt of his Star 400, imagining the stern lecture he’d give the driver before writing the ticket.
As he watched, still daydreaming, four men got out of the car, glancing round furtively as someone inside the vehicle handed something to each of them. The passing traffic partly obscured what was going on but not so much that Quique couldn’t see the pistols the men were now pushing into their belts. He swallowed, hard. Then he turned and ran back to the side door of the library. Desperately, Quique twisted the handle. The door was locked. Quickly, he dashed round to the back of the building, looking for an entrance. He found a door halfway along the building with a large sign that said NO ADMITTANCE. This time, when he turned the handle, the door opened. As he went inside, he found his way was blocked.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 16
