The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘I never expect anything, sir. That way I’m never disappointed.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Guzmán snorted. ‘I never met a man as disappointed as you.’

  Ochoa shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  Guzmán took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ochoa. ‘This is today’s target. It should be straightforward.’

  Ochoa studied the paper for a few moments. ‘I agree with you, sir.’

  ‘Try to smile when you say that, Corporal,’ Guzmán sighed. ‘Let’s get started, before you become even more disappointed.’

  The men lined up at the rear of the truck and Guzmán went to speak to them. Galíndez was sporting a few cuts and bruises, he noticed.

  ‘I’ll keep this short,’ Guzmán said. ‘We’re off to an archive near Torrejón airbase. It’s a little different from anything you’ve come across.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ Quique shouted.

  ‘If you’d let me speak, I’d tell you, kid. Shut up.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘The archive’s underground,’ Guzmán said, noticing their expressions suddenly change. ‘And it’s huge,’ he continued. ‘So make sure you stick together. No one goes wandering off unless I tell them.’ He noticed Galíndez gazing into the distance, bored. ‘Got that, Galíndez?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, boss.’ A faint smirk on his lips. ‘I can look after myself.’

  Guzmán narrowed his eyes. Galíndez clearly thought that one lucky kick meant he could get away with such sneering innuendo with impunity. He wouldn’t think it for much longer.

  ‘There’s another thing you need to bear in mind,’ Guzmán went on. ‘The archive is awash with armed guards.’ That was a lie, though it had the intended effect as the men climbed into the truck, suddenly preoccupied. All but Ochoa, Guzmán noticed. He was probably looking forward to being shot at. It would give him something to complain about later.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  Daniela hummed a tune to herself as she polished the reception desk. It was a stupid little song about dancing birds that had been played throughout the World Cup. Stupid or not, it was hard to get it out of her mind.

  Behind the glass beads, her father was taking a nap, exhausted since Daniela had allowed him a glass of wine to celebrate Señor Ramirez’s generous investment.

  She still had no idea why Señor Ramirez was going to help them. For all she knew, he travelled through Spain handing out money to those he deemed worthy of help. She’d read of those things in ¡Hola! though she’d never met anyone who’d received such assistance. For the hundredth time, she imagined the transformation of the pensión: light, airy colours, comfortable seats for people to sit and watch the street. New magazines to read, a modern bathroom and nice wallpaper in the dining room. She would even have Señor Espartero to assist her.

  Lost in her daydream, Daniela was unaware of the man standing a metre away on the other side of the desk. Finally, he ran out of patience.

  ‘Scusi?’

  She looked up, startled. ‘I’m so sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The tone of his voice implied that it did.

  He was quite handsome, Daniela noticed. Close-cropped grey hair, an immaculately trimmed beard and a pristine suit. ‘How can I help you, señor?’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend who’s staying here: Leo Guzmán.’

  Daniela shook her head. ‘There’s no one of that name here.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ A sudden edge to his voice.

  ‘Definitely. We haven’t had anyone called Guzmán staying here.’

  ‘I see.’ A last, cold look. ‘Thanks for your trouble.’

  ‘It was no trouble, señor.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ He turned away and hurried down the steps.

  The man’s sports car was parked outside the pensión. As he went towards it, he saw a blonde woman in the driver’s seat. He tugged open the door and got in beside her. ‘Do I know you?’

  The woman’s smile was almost as cold as his. ‘Not yet. But I think you’d like to.’

  ‘I’m not very good with women, I should warn you.’

  ‘That’s what I heard. Rather violent, in fact, to put it mildly.’

  ‘So you realise the risk you’ve taken getting into my car without being invited?’

  ‘I think you’ll overlook my forwardness on this occasion.’

  He lifted his hands in mock surrender. ‘So what is it you want?’

  The blonde woman started the engine. ‘Was Guzmán in there?’

  ‘He’s been there all right, though they denied it. I wanted to leave him a message.’ He shrugged. ‘So now, I’ll send him a different kind of message. Him and that little whore behind the desk. She lied about not knowing him and I don’t like women lying to me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘So who are you? Not the police, I hope, for your sake.’

  ‘Far from it,’ Paloma Ibañez said. ‘But you’ll be interested in the people I work for.’

  MADRID 1982, TORREJÓN AIRBASE

  Guzmán peered through his binoculars, watching the comings and goings around the airbase. Further along the road, past the perimeter fence, was a side road leading into a concrete structure, the entrance blocked by a red-and-white barrier, manned by two military policemen. Beyond the barrier, the road sloped down into darkness.

  ‘That’s where we go in,’ Guzmán said.

  Quique squirmed uncomfortably, trapped as usual between Guzmán and the gear lever. ‘Got you, boss.’

  ‘I was talking to Corporal Ochoa.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Are we going to force our way in?’ Fuentes asked.

  ‘Of course not. And we’re not going to take out an advertisement in the local paper either.’ Guzmán took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. ‘These documents are signed by General Ortiz, they say we’re here to collect personnel records needed by the admin department at HQ. Something about calculating pensions, I believe.’

  ‘That’ll be me in another month,’ Ochoa said. For once, he didn’t sound disappointed.

  Guzmán banged the dash with his fist. ‘Let’s go.’

  As they neared the barrier, a cluster of signs warned of the dangers of trespassing. The truck slowed to a halt in front of the red-and-white barrier and a military policeman emerged from one of the sentry boxes to check their papers.

  ‘That’s fine, Comandante.’ The MP waved to a man inside the glass-fronted booth to lift the barrier. ‘Drive down the ramp and leave the vehicle in the parking area. You’ll find the lifts on the far wall.’

  The barrier started to rise before Guzmán could thank him. Ochoa put the truck in gear and drove down the ramp. The day-light rapidly faded as they went into the subterranean parking area.

  ‘It’s like a huge cavern,’ Quique muttered, twisting in his seat to look at the great stone walls around them.

  ‘That’s what it is, kid.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Franco had it built so he and the government could hide down here if the Russians dropped an atomic bomb. Park over there, near the lifts,’ he ordered, pointing to a pair of big metal doors set into the wall. For once, Ochoa obeyed without comment.

  The squad climbed out and lined up by the lift doors. Guzmán gave each of them a document with the details of where the files were located. ‘I’ll give you thirty minutes,’ he said. ‘So set your watches when you get out the lift. Collect the files on your list and then make your way back to the lift and stay there until we’re all ready to leave. Got that?’

  As the squad mumbled their assent, Guzmán punched the button by the lift doors. Far off, they heard the slow metallic grumble of the winch mechanism as the lift started to rise. Finally, the doors opened and the squad filed in.

  A few minutes later, they stepped out into another great, man-made cavern. The ceiling was much lower here, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere. Ahead of them, serried ranks of long metal shelves stretched away
into the gloom. A few weak spotlights in the roof illuminated the archive with a baleful half light.

  ‘Get started,’ Guzmán ordered, setting his watch. ‘Get back here in thirty minutes.’

  He listened to the men’s footsteps fading as they went down the darkened aisles. Once he could no longer hear them, he took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it. As he examined the paper, Guzmán shook his head, rebuking himself for not having thought of this before. In fact, the idea had occurred when he was talking to Ignacio in the Almeja, the night the old man was killed. His ancient informer’s words came back to him: ‘I remember how organised you were at Calle Robles. You had everything on file back then.’

  So very true, Guzmán recalled. They logged every operation, no matter how serious or trivial. Naturally it was not done to attribute blame, merely to comply with procedures and to demonstrate the job had been completed. You did the job, left the dead behind and then returned to the office to complete the paperwork. And then after, the drinking and the whores.

  All those operations, all of them secret, carefully guarded from prying eyes. But the files were not hidden from everyone. Not, for example, someone who possessed a copy of Franco’s list. The list Guzmán now held in his hand. He looked at the reference number again. The weak lights barely illuminated the faded typewritten heading:

  Alicante 1965 GZ986443R53/S92

  A faint sense of satisfaction: the hunter scenting his prey.

  He made his way to row 53 and started down it, looking for section 92. From time to time, the narrow aisle between the shelves was crossed by horizontal walkways, giving the feeling of being on an enormous chessboard. At each intersection, a square of card was attached to a shelf, bearing the reference number. And there it was, S92. Guzmán knelt by the shelves, and ran his finger along the spines of the cardboard files. Of those, there were many, and it took several minutes to find the section beginning with ‘G’. More time passed as he moved along the files, GA, GH, GL. Impatiently, he got to his feet and examined the top shelf of yet another section, poring over the titles, dogged by a sullen concern that the file probably didn’t exist. After all, these documents recorded success, not failure. And no one had ever considered what happened at Alicante to be a success.

  GZ. He stared at the file, checking its serial number. Slowly, he eased it from the shelf, dusting off the cover to reveal the title:

  Brigada Especial: Top Secret

  (Restricted Access)

  Report on the incident at Llanto del Moro, Alicante

  September 25th 1965

  Classification: Top Secret [Permanent]

  His eyes narrowed as he saw the file was still classified as secret. All files were, in the sense that access to them was restricted, but this one had permanent status. It was hard to understand why.

  Somewhere in the archive, he heard the dull grating of the lift doors, the metallic grinding as the lift ascended. From another direction, he heard muffled footsteps. Possibly his squad. Possibly not. He pulled his shirt loose and put the file under it, tucking the file under his belt to hold it in place.

  The footsteps were coming closer, soft and measured. A sudden thought that it might be Galíndez sent adrenalin surging through him. That was unfinished business, as far as he was concerned. In the war, there had been men like Galíndez who challenged his authority, thought they could slight him with impunity. Those men were long dead. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch and ambled forward, easing the Browning from its holster. After a few more steps he paused, realising the problems killing Galíndez would bring. General Ortiz wouldn’t take kindly to losing one of his men, especially in these circumstances. And the sound of a shot might alert the military police. The last thing Guzmán needed was to draw attention to his squad’s activities in the archive. There was nothing for it, he would have to deal with Galíndez later. But for now, the least he could do was give the bastard a surprise.

  The footsteps were very close now, coming down one of the horizontal aisles. Guzmán positioned himself against a row of shelving, bracing himself as the man came past the end of the aisle. In one fluid movement, Guzmán moved forward and pressed the Browning to the man’s head. He sensed the fear immediately: that was only to be expected, he’d always had Galíndez down as a coward. And then the weak light fell over the man’s face and it was Guzmán’s turn to be surprised as the fat bouncer from El Topless stared at him with horror.

  ‘One word and you’re dead,’ Guzmán whispered. ‘Got that?’ He kept a grip on the man’s collar as he marched him to the lift. As he walked, an idea came to him, something that would remind Galíndez and the rest of the squad who they were dealing with.

  The men were standing by the lift, clutching their bundles of files. He saw their looks of surprise as he came out of the shadows, pushing the fat man in front of him.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Ochoa asked.

  ‘He works for Ricci.’ Guzmán shoved the man with his pistol. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, señor,’ the fat man stammered.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ Another shove with the Browning, harder now. Guzmán saw the concerned looks on the men’s faces. That was good. They would all learn from what was about to happen. Guzmán pushed the fat man to his knees. ‘I asked what you’re doing here.’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  He cocked the Browning even though it was not technically necessary: all he had to do was squeeze the trigger. But the sound of a gun being cocked while pressed to a man’s head was a powerful inducement to comply.

  ‘I’m looking for something.’ The words tumbled from the fat man’s lips. ‘Señor Ricci was asked to find it and he sent me.’

  ‘And who asked Ricci for it?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ the fat man said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to know.’

  ‘But you do.’ Guzmán smacked the man over the head with the pistol. ‘Who?’

  ‘Paloma Ibañez.’

  Guzmán’s eyes lit up. ‘And what did she want?’

  ‘A file, señor. On you.’ The fat man took a paper from his shirt pocket. Guzmán snatched it from him and stared at the details. They seemed familiar, and no wonder: these were the same reference numbers on the file hidden under his shirt. Still, he would worry about Paloma Ibañez later. The squad still needed a lesson.

  Guzmán screwed up the paper and put it in his pocket. ‘You know why she wanted it?’

  ‘No idea, señor,’ the fat man spluttered. ‘I’m only the errand boy.’

  Guzmán slugged him again with the pistol, sending him sprawling. ‘So what do I do with this joker?’ he asked, glowering at the squad.

  ‘Lock him up, boss,’ Fuentes said. ‘Bring charges against him.’

  ‘Knock him about a bit,’ Galíndez muttered. There was no smile on his face now. There wouldn’t be for some time, Guzmán reckoned.

  ‘Make him walk back to Madrid,’ Quique suggested.

  Guzmán kept an eye on the fat man as he struggled to his knees. ‘Corporal Ochoa?’

  ‘You already know what you’re going to do, sir,’ Ochoa said, turning away.

  Guzmán took hold of his belt and slowly pulled the wire from its hiding place. A long wire, the ends wrapped with electrical tape.

  The fat man was on his knees, his head hanging forward. Guzmán looped the wire over his head and dragged it around his throat, pushing his knee into the man’s back as he pulled the wire taut.

  The effect on the squad was electric. He saw their pale faces and gaping mouths as he pulled the garrotte tighter with all his strength. With a huge effort, he twisted the man round to face Galíndez. ‘This is how it’s done,’ he snarled, giving the wire another violent twist as he pushed the man closer, so close that his flailing hands clutched at Galíndez’s uniform. That was too much for Galíndez and he screamed as Guzmán shoved the dying man into him again and again, until his struggling stopped. Finally, he let go of the wire and stepped back, letting the dead man sag to the floor
at Galíndez’s feet.

  Galíndez slumped back against the wall, covering his face with his hands as he sobbed. He was still weeping when Guzmán punched him, a hard jab in the belly that drove the air from his lungs, sending him falling onto the corpse at his feet.

  Guzmán was panting from the exertion, rubbing his hands where the wire had cut them. ‘That, gentlemen, is how you kill someone.’ He turned to Ochoa. ‘Get the men back up to the truck. Not you, Galíndez.’ Guzmán waited until the rest of the squad were in the lift and then pressed the up button. The doors slid to and the lift started to ascend.

  ‘Do we understand each other now?’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Absolutely, Comandante.’

  ‘Then I reckon we’ve time for a few drinks in El León once we’ve delivered these files, what do you think?’

  ‘Whatever you say, sir.’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Keep saying that and you’ll do all right.’

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CAFÉ LEÓN, CALLE SOTOMAYOR

  Guzmán leaned closer to make himself heard about the noise of the bar. ‘Nothing like a killing to bind men together,’ he bellowed into Ochoa’s ear.

  ‘It did the trick, sir, that’s for sure.’ Ochoa tried to grab a bottle from the bar and sent it crashing onto the tiled floor. He blinked, surprised at his lack of coordination.

  Things were getting raucous. But that was good, Guzmán knew. First the stick then the carrot. Discipline had to be enforced sometimes and the fat man – unluckily for him – had arrived just in time to provide the lesson.

  ‘There’s the one who got away,’ Ochoa said, looking across the crowded bar at Carmen who was engaged in conversation with one of General Ortiz’s staff officers.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Guzmán poured more brandy into his glass and then attempted to do the same for Ochoa. Most of it went down Ochoa’s uniform. Neither of them noticed.

  ‘It’s a tragedy to think I’ll never fuck her,’ Guzmán said, staring bitterly at Carmen.

  ‘And they say romance is dead,’ Ochoa laughed.

  ‘Who says so?’ Guzmán demanded, suddenly belligerent. ‘Christ, I’ve had a few too many. I’m off home. No point hanging round watching her if it’s never going to happen.’