‘Not me personally.’ Guzmán scowled. The drink was making the old man talkative so he decided to cut his reminiscing short. ‘Where’s the information I asked for?’
Ignacio nodded at the newspaper lying on the table between them. ‘It’s in the paper, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do.’ Guzmán reached into his jacket. ‘How much?’
‘Not here, Comandante. You never know with these nancies whether they’ll shoot their mouths off if they see money changing hands. Do it like we used to.’
Guzmán narrowed his eyes. ‘The toilet?’
‘That’s it,’ Ignacio agreed. ‘Tuck it behind the cistern. I’ll pop in and collect it when you come back.’ He smiled. ‘Just like the old days.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Guzmán got up and casually took the newspaper from the table before making his way across the crowded bar to the toilets. They were cleaner than he remembered, though the graffiti were just as obscene and inventive – or optimistic – as they ever had been.
He went into the second of the two cubicles and locked the door before opening the folded newspaper. Inside was a sheet of white paper with the information he wanted written in Ignacio’s old-fashioned script. Guzmán put the paper into his jacket pocket and, in an unusual act of generosity towards his fellow man, left the newspaper on the empty toilet roll holder. Finally, he pulled Ignacio’s reward from his pocket and wedged the roll of pesetas behind the cistern. This was how he paid his informers during the dictatorship and it amused him to be doing it now, so much so that he was almost in a good mood as he returned to the bar.
The place was getting crowded and it took a moment to spot Ignacio slumped at the table, still clutching his glass. He was getting old: at one time, that old lag could drink anyone under the table, even the sarge.
Guzmán sat down and nudged Ignacio’s arm. ‘It’s ready for collection.’ When Ignacio said nothing, he nudged him again, harder. ‘Wake up, you dozy old bastard.’
There was something wrong, he realised, and it was easy to see what it was: a thin metal stiletto protruded from the old man’s chest. An assassin’s weapon, thrust in from short range. He glanced round the room, seeing nothing to arouse his suspicions. That was to be expected: this was a professional job. One subtle thrust and then the killer was gone without anyone being aware of his presence. Ignacio probably hadn’t even noticed.
Guzmán got up slowly, making a point of bidding Ignacio a good evening before he went back into the toilets to retrieve the roll of money.
Outside, he took a circuitous route around the Rastro, making sure he was not being followed. Once certain he was not, he relaxed a little, thinking about Ignacio. Another one of the old crowd gone, though it was the old man’s fault. He should have taken the money when Guzmán offered it. Instead, he’d wanted to play cloak-and-dagger stuff like in the old days. And look where that got him.
There was a lesson to be learned there.
CHAPTER 16
MADRID 2010, MONASTERIO DE SANTA EULALIA, LAS ROZAS
Galíndez saw the room at the end of the corridor, just as the hired muscle at the gate had said. A large ancient room with pillars, arches and leaded windows. A wide semicircle of chairs had been arranged facing a platform. A few chairs on the platform, a lectern facing the audience.
Elena’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Carla, stop daydreaming, will you?’
By the sixth trip, she had to wipe sweat from her brow once she’d put down the tray.
‘That’s the lot for now,’ Elena said. ‘Make sure you’re here at nine thirty tomorrow, won’t you? I’ll pay you then.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Assuming you turn up.’ She pointed to Galíndez’s overall. ‘I’ll have that back as well.’
Galíndez took off the overall and handed it over. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Elena softened a little. ‘You need a lift or anything?’
Galíndez shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks, you go. I need to find the toilet.’
Once Elena had gone, Galíndez went down the corridor. At the far end, she saw a pair of double doors, the dark carved wood reinforced by broad metal bands. Opening the door, she found herself in a spacious hallway, facing a spiral staircase that wound up to a landing bordered with elaborate balustrades.
She heard voices, from the refectory by the sound of it. Feet echoing on the stone tiles. A sign on a small door: CLOAKROOM. Maybe there was somewhere in there she could hide. As she stepped into the room, she realised her mistake.
‘Good evening, señorita.’
Galíndez looked at the attendant behind the desk, thinking that he must be a hundred at least. But what caught her attention was the long rail behind him, laden with what looked like monks’ cowls. Dozens of them.
The attendant came out from behind the desk, holding one of the robes. ‘Your first time at the convocation, señorita?’
Galíndez nodded.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ The old man held out the robe and she threaded her arms into the sleeves and put it on. ‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, that’s the golden rule for new initiates.’ He smiled. ‘At least you’ve got your initiation out of the way.’
‘Yes, that’s a great relief,’ Galíndez said. The attendant pulled up the hood of the robe over her head, forcing her to rearrange it in order to see.
‘It’s not the best fit,’ the old man said. ‘But then, the idea is to invoke humility.’ He tilted his head, hearing the sound of footsteps in the corridor. ‘Now, remember, sit on the far right of the semicircle, look down at the ground at all times and never look anyone in the face, particularly the people on the platform. Got that?’
‘Of course,’ Galíndez said, wondering what the hell was going on.
‘Head down then, and off you go.’
She went back down the echoing passage to the refectory. Through the open door, she saw several men standing on the platform, locked in discussion. Most were wearing dark business suits that emphasised their pale corporate faces.
One man stood out from the rest. There was nothing corporate about him. A lightweight suit, his greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. He seemed vaguely familiar, though whoever he was, he looked like trouble, given the long scar down his cheek. As she entered the room, he gave her a cursory glance and she lowered her head, letting the cowl fall over her face.
She walked past the platform to the rows of chairs and took a seat on the right near the front. On the platform, the discussion continued, though the men in the dark suits were talking in hushed voices, making it impossible to hear what was said. The man in the linen suit was not so discreet. His voice was loud and angry, punctuated by obscenities. A thick accent, possibly South American. His face seemed familiar.
The room was filling with people, all wearing cowls like hers. It was like no other meeting she had ever attended. The entire audience sat in silence, looking down at the worn carpet. No greetings to fellow initiates, no glances round to see who had arrived. Cautiously, she lifted her head and darted a glance at the platform.
One of the men on the platform was coming to the lectern. Silence fell over the cowled audience. Not just silence. The atmosphere was charged with fear.
‘Buenas noches,’ the man said, looking round at his audience. ‘Greetings to all you initiates. You haven’t been on the journey for long, but I know from your tutors and sponsors that you’re making progress. Keep it up and soon you’ll start reaping the rewards.’
Galíndez stared out of the corner of her eye at the man’s hand, resting on the lectern, noticing the light playing on the gold ring on his finger. Furtively, she glanced at the person sitting on her left and saw a woman’s hands, clasped on her lap. Once more, the glimmer of gold on her finger. Galíndez lowered her head and peered at the ring. Plain gold, engraved with a two-headed serpent. Carefully, she slid her hands under the broad folds of her gown, hiding them from view.
‘I have a disappointment for you,’ the man on the platfo
rm continued. ‘Xerxes can’t be with us tonight, though he asks me to express his satisfaction at your progress.’
Galíndez waited for the applause to start, ready to join in. She heard only silence.
‘And now to business.’ The speaker waved to someone at the back of the room. A moment later, she heard footsteps as the armed men from the main gate filed in and took up position by the doors. A sudden thought: she was trapped.
The speaker gestured to the men guarding the exits. ‘No one leaves until we’ve dealt with the next item.’ He raised his voice. ‘You all know loyalty is paramount to the Centinelas. In your initiation, you pledged to uphold the things most dear to us: respect for hierarchy and order, submission to the will of the central council. But above all, loyalty.’
He paused and slowly looked over the rows of initiates arranged in front of the platform, their heads lowered. ‘You all swore to uphold that oath knowing that the price of disloyalty is death.’
No one spoke. From the silence, it seemed no one was breathing either.
‘The disloyalty of one dishonours all,’ the speaker said, threateningly. ‘Any attempt to betray the Centinelas is an attack on the very foundations of our organisation. Because of the binding nature of the oath, betrayal is rare, but when it happens, it must be dealt with quickly and decisively as an example to others.’ He leaned on the lectern for emphasis. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me no pleasure to tell you that there is a traitor among you this evening.’
Sudden muted gasps. Galíndez was suddenly aware of her heart beating faster.
‘This is a distasteful business,’ the speaker said, ‘but we must face up to it as we always face the problems which beset us. Sitting among you is a woman who has sullied our fellowship, contaminating it with her lies and deceit. A policewoman.’ Fiercely, he gripped the sides of the lectern. ‘With us on the platform tonight is an honoured guest, Señor Rodríguez. I must apologise to him for this unfortunate incident.’
The man in the linen suit got to his feet. ‘Don’t bother me, señor. In my country, we have the same thing happen from time to time.’ He grinned, revealing several gold teeth. ‘Let me take care of this person for you, as a gesture of goodwill.’
A sudden image of breakfast in Isabel’s flat. Gentle flirting, laughing about the strength of her coffee. The pile of wanted notices lying on the table.
Her stomach churned as she remembered where she’d seen the man’s face.
The speaker looked out grimly at the audience. ‘I now ask the traitor to stand up, disrobe and come forward. We have a saying in the Centinelas: “You pay with your dead”. By that, we mean that we deal with our enemies to the third generation. If the traitor doesn’t come forward now, not only will she die, so too will three generations of her family.’
Galíndez felt her heart pounding against her shirt. They know I’m here. A trickle of sweat ran down her back.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the traitor is skulking among you. I have her name here.’ He waved a sheet of paper. ‘She can either come to the platform now, or we’ll drag her there.’
Galíndez’s head felt ready to explode. They knew all along.
At least she had the Glock. Maybe she could take a couple down with her. Anything was better than sitting here, bathed in sweat, waiting for them to come for her. Slowly, she slipped her hand inside the heavy robe, feeling the frantic beating of her heart as she closed her fingers on the Glock. Seventeen bullets would do some damage, though not enough to get her out of here. Still, it was better to go for them before they came for her. She tensed.
‘I’m here.’ A clear, tremulous voice.
Startled, Galíndez turned in the direction of the voice. She was not the only one. Dozens of faces peered out from the black cowls, watching a woman in the back row throw off her cloak. Hesitantly, she began walking towards the platform.
The woman was late twenties, early thirties maybe. Blonde, her hair tied back tight. As she stepped onto the platform, each step reverberated in Galíndez’s gut as she approached the speaker.
The speaker gave her a venomous stare. ‘You would be Teniente Luz Reverte?’
‘Yes.’ A faint tremor in her voice.
‘One of your colleagues told us you were coming here.’ The speaker imparted the information with malicious pleasure. ‘You were doomed the moment you got in your car.’
Teniente Reverte gasped. More from disappointment than surprise, Galíndez guessed. The sudden realisation she was alone, without any chance of help.
‘You have children, Teniente?’ The speaker smiled, enjoying the moment.
‘Yes.’ The terror in her voice was unmistakable now.
‘How many?’
Galíndez wanted to scream. The bastard was prolonging things deliberately.
Her voice cracked. ‘A girl and a boy.’ She looked down, trying to compose herself.
Galíndez took deep slow breaths, wondering what she was going to do. There could be no fighting her way out of this. The moment she decided to act, she was dead.
Or she could do nothing.
At the rear of the platform, she saw the man in the lightweight suit get to his feet. His name suddenly came to her: Joaquín Rodríguez aka ‘The Hammer of Reynosa’. Wanted by the FBI, DEA and the Mexican government. She remembered what she’d said to Isabel: They call him the Hammer for a reason.
The speaker stepped away from Teniente Reverte. ‘You might like to pray, Teniente.’
The lieutenant let her head fall forward. Galíndez could see her shaking as she tried to contain her emotions. She was trying to die with dignity.
The Mexican came slowly across the platform. One arm hung at his side. As he turned, Galíndez saw what he held in his hand and something sour rose in her throat.
Teniente Reverte was fighting back tears. In the ominous silence, Galíndez heard the stammered words of her prayer. ‘Hail, Mary, full of grace...’
Behind her, the Hammer of Reynosa’s arm rose, drawing muffled gasps from the audience as the claw hammer swung through the air. The blow knocked the lieutenant to the floor, though she was still conscious when the second blow struck.
For what seemed for ever, Galíndez listened to her screams as the Mexican rained blows down on her. She kept her head lowered, grateful now for the cowl as she tried to shut out the sounds from the platform. Finally, they stopped.
‘Initiates, look up, please.’ The speaker’s voice.
Galíndez raised her eyes and saw the teniente’s body lying by the lectern. There was more blood in the human body than she had imagined.
The Mexican was chatting with two of the men sitting at the rear of the platform.
‘Remember this night,’ the speaker said. ‘Be instructed by this woman’s death. Now go. You’ll be informed of our next meeting in due course.’
The initiates began to file out, heading back down the passage to return their cowls. Galíndez hurried after them, not wanting to be the last to leave.
There was a queue at the cloakroom. Further down the passage, she saw a sign: WC. Once inside the small cubicle, she pulled off the heavy cowl and splashed her face with water. Outside, the initiates were starting to leave the building. She glanced at her watch. The sun would be setting soon. If she could find a door or window open, maybe she could slip away into the night. Finding Sancho would have to wait till another day.
Quietly, she went down the passage, away from the refectory and its gory secret. A few metres along, she saw an arched entrance and her hopes lifted. As she got nearer, she saw the great double doors with their heavy latches and double locks. There was no getting out this way. To her right was a simple wooden door with a sign above the lintel: CHAPEL. It was worth a try. She pushed open the door and slipped inside.
The chapel was huge. Dominating one wall was a large medieval fireplace with ornate andirons supporting a pyramid of great logs. On the far wall, a huge stained-glass window depicted the martyrdom of a young woman lying on the ground next
to a cross, her naked body draped with a cloak across her waist, a vast swirl of red hair around her head.
The evening sun flooded through the multicoloured glass in a torrent of vibrant light, leaving the rest of the hall in shadow. As Galíndez glanced at the rear of the chapel, she saw doors. Some sort of exit, by the look of it.
Something behind her moved and she spun round, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the kaleidoscopic light shining through the window.
‘Buenas tardes, señorita.’ A deep, sonorous voice.
Galíndez looked up, still shielding her eyes with her hand.
‘That’s Santa Eulalia you’re admiring, young lady. Her window is one of the greatest jewels in this monastery. I often contemplate it at this hour.’
Squinting, she could just make out the priest, silhouetted against the stained glass. ‘It’s a little difficult to talk like this, Monseñor. I can hardly see you.’
‘There’s a chair just in front of you if you’d care to sit down.’
She moved forward, one arm outstretched, feeling for the chair. Once seated, she looked up again. The priest was a tall shadow figure against the radiant light.
‘I was looking for the exit, Monseñor. I seem to be lost.’
‘So many people are these days, señorita. That’s because they have no faith. You could do worse than emulate Santa Eulalia. She refused to deny her faith and was put to death by fire, hooks and the scourge. The flesh was ripped from her body with pincers yet she stayed true to her faith. Which of us can truly say we’d stay true to our beliefs in those circumstances?’
She felt a dull throb in her temples. The feeling she got just before one of her seizures.
‘You’re young enough to repent, Señorita Galíndez, though I doubt you will. It’s in the nature of those with your perverse nature to reject spiritual advice.’
A sudden silence. ‘How do you know my name, Monseñor?’
‘God knows everything, my child. All those who go against the laws of nature are known to him, though whether they’re forgiven is another matter. Repentance is what you should be thinking about now. How to atone for your sinful ways.’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 23
