‘I’ll let you know,’ Sancho said, looking at Galíndez. ‘It depends on nurse here.’
‘Your nurse is going to call the guardia,’ she said. ‘I’ll see how fast they can get you into witness protection.’
Sancho frowned. ‘Don’t do it from here. They might trace the call.’
‘For once, you’re right. I’ll call later on my mobile,’ Galíndez said. ‘Give me your number.’
‘You heard her say I was right, little man, didn’t you?’ Sancho laughed when Galíndez finished putting his number into her phone. ‘That’s a first.’ He pointed to the pile of magazines. ‘Pass me one of those, would you, babe?’
Galíndez bent to take one of the old journals from the pile by the window.
‘See that?’ Sancho asked, nudging Espartero. ‘It’s her best feature. Shame she’s sat on it most of the time.’
‘You ungrateful bastard.’ Galíndez threw the tattered magazine onto his lap. Brushing dust from her hands, she went to the door. ‘I’ll call you later from Isabel’s once I know what’s happening.’ The door slammed behind her.
‘Just you and me, then,’ Sancho said.
‘Apparently so,’ Espartero agreed. ‘Is there anything I can get for you?’
‘There is,’ Sancho said. ‘Can you use your contacts to get me Isabel’s address?’
Espartero shrugged. ‘Of course. Is that all?’
‘No, there’s something else as well, once you’ve got the address.’
‘Just tell me what to do, Señor Sancho. It’s the least I can do.’
‘Listen carefully, then,’ Sancho said, ‘because this is important.’
*
Sancho was dozing in the chair when Señor Espartero returned. ‘You did it?’
‘Just as you asked.’ Espartero locked the front door and then went behind the reception desk to get a chair. He carried it over to where Sancho was sitting and sat facing him. ‘Forgive me for mentioning this, but I recognise a bullet wound when I see one.’
Sancho winced at another stab of pain. ‘Thanks for that incisive diagnosis.’
‘The thing is,’ Espartero said, ‘I know a doctor.’
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ Sancho grunted, ‘I’d rather carry on talking about Galíndez’s culo than worry about doctors. How do you know we can trust him?’
‘For a start, he’s less than legitimate, Señor Sancho. Much less. His father was a Nazi who fled here after the war. He provided a much-needed service to those whose situation made using conventional facilities difficult. I’ve had a number of guests who needed his services over the years.’
‘Were they satisfied with him?’
‘The ones who survived were effusive in their praise.’
Sancho turned to get a better look at Espartero. The effort made him wince. ‘Do you always talk like you’ve swallowed a dictionary?’
‘Probably. Shall I call the good doctor?’
Another shaft of pain burned in Sancho’s side. ‘Yeah, why not?’
*
Isabel gasped as Galíndez staggered through the door. ‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ she said, reaching for the phone. ‘You’ve been shot.’
Galíndez looked down. Her clothes were soaked in blood, from her throat down to her knees. ‘It’s OK, it’s not mine.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘Sancho.’
Isabel raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Did you kill him?’
Galíndez shook her head. ‘It’s hard to believe but he’s an undercover cop. He’s been collecting evidence on the Centinelas for years. Enough to put them all in jail.’ She reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out the memory stick. ‘It’s all on this.’
‘Are you sure you can trust him?’
Galíndez nodded. ‘He was wounded so I’ve left him at the Pensión Paraíso with Señor Espartero.’ She raised her bloodied hands. ‘OK if I take a shower?’
‘You’d better.’ Isabel nodded. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ She paused as Galíndez went over to her laptop and lifted the lid. ‘I thought you were getting showered, Ana?’
‘I’m having a look at Sancho’s USB stick.’ Galíndez stared at the screen for a few moments and then removed the memory stick from the computer and put it in her top pocket.
‘What did you see?’ Isabel asked.
Galíndez shrugged. ‘Loads of names and addresses, just like he said.’
As soon as she had washed away the blood, Galíndez dressed and then called Mendez.
‘Ana? It’s just like old times.’
‘No it’s not. But I want you to do something for me.’
‘As I said, like old times. The sword hasn’t turned up yet if that’s why you’re calling.’
‘It isn’t: I need you to arrange witness protection for someone.’
‘I can do that. Who’s the lucky person?’
‘I’ll tell you later. He’s got some major evidence so he needs a high level of security.’
‘OK, I’ll contact Witness Protection and arrange it. Is he with you at the moment?’
‘I’ve got him tucked away at a little pensión, the Paraíso on Calle del Carmen. He’s been injured but I think he’ll be OK for now.’
‘I’ll call Witness Protection the moment we hang up, but realistically, it probably won’t happen until tomorrow.’
‘I’ll let him know, thanks, Mendez.’
‘No problem.’
‘By the way...’ Galíndez took a deep breath.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve decided to drop the lawsuit against Capitán Fuentes. Life’s too short to go through weeks of court proceedings.’
‘That’s nice, he’ll appreciate it. I need to talk with him this evening, shall I tell him?’
‘Please. I’m still mad, but I’ll get over it.’
‘OK. I’ll get back to you once I’ve talked to Witness Protection.’
Galíndez put down the phone and sank onto the sofa alongside Isabel. ‘God. What a day this turned out to be.’
‘And it’s not over yet,’ Isabel said. ‘You left something next to your toothbrush this morning.’ She held out her hand, palm up. On it was the yellow tube of painkillers.
*
Mendez sat in the darkened office, staring into the shadows. From time to time the window glowed with the headlights of passing cars. She sighed as she reached for the phone and pressed speed dial.
‘Fuentes speaking.’
‘It’s Mendez, Capitán.’
‘Working late, Sargento?’
‘When don’t I, boss? Listen, I’ve been talking to Ana María.’
‘How is she?’
‘Fine, in fact, she’s more reasonable now. She says she’ll accept an apology from Inés as long as you’re all present.’
‘That’s great. Inés really does want to make things right, you know how she idolises Ana. To tell the truth, we all miss her.’
‘Then now’s the chance to sort things out, boss. She wants to meet at eight thirty tomorrow night at a little place called the Pensión Paraíso. It’s on Calle del Carmen.’
‘Tell her that’s fine by us. We’ll be there at eight thirty.’ Fuentes hung up. Mendez waited a few minutes and then dialled another number.
‘So, what’s happening with Witness Protection?’ Galíndez said.
‘It’s all arranged. They’re setting up a safe house somewhere outside Madrid.’
‘Do we know where?’
‘That’s always a secret, you know that. But you can meet them when they come to pick your boy up. Do the introductions and so on.’
‘Fine, when will that be?’
‘Eight thirty tomorrow night at the pensión.’
‘I’ll be there. Thanks, Mendez.’
Mendez cut the call and called another number. It was answered at once. ‘It’s done,’ she said and hung up.
The office was silent, the terminals on the other desks all logged out. The only light came from the glow from her computer screen, though
her work was now done for the day. She logged out and closed down the computer.
Outside, a car went by, its headlights dancing along the wall and over her desk. For a fleeting moment, the object in front of her glittered with pale fire. She reached out and ran a finger over it, tracing the patterns engraved on the curved blade. Then, slowly, she picked up the sword and left the office.
CHAPTER 19
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
Guzmán looked up as he heard a soft tapping on the window. It was raining again. One of those autumn mornings when old men sat in cafés, staring out at the rivulets of water running down the windows, oblivious to the world beyond.
He went to the window and opened the shutters of his tiny balcony. Below, the cobbles in the alley glistened black with rain. Sharp staccato footsteps as a woman came out of one of the ground-floor apartments. Dressed in black, her head covered with a shawl. Going to mass, no doubt. At least someone still had something they could believe in.
A knock at the door. Guzmán turned and picked up the Browning before opening the door. A gypsy woman stood outside with a mop in one hand and a bucket of filthy water in the other.
‘Who are you?’
‘Señora Chavez, I’m the new cleaner.’
‘It’s not convenient.’
‘If I don’t do it now, it won’t get done.’
He grunted and returned to the bed, careful not to sit on the weapons hidden under the flimsy sheet. ‘There’s no money in here,’ he growled, ‘so don’t waste your time looking.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s no money anywhere in this country, señor.’ When he ignored her, she persisted anyway. ‘Is the gentleman from Madrid?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps the gentleman’s here on business?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘My business.’
‘Have you brought your family with you?’
‘I don’t have any family.’ Guzmán’s tone emphasised his growing annoyance.
‘What, no children?’
Her persistence surprised him so much that he gave her a civil answer. ‘A daughter.’
‘Girls are a blessing, señor. How old is she?’
‘She died a long time ago.’
The gypsy crossed herself. ‘I’m sorry.’
Guzmán went back to the window and leaned against the balcony, looking out over the rooftops. Through an attic window, he saw a family around a table, eating. ‘So am I.’
Señora Chavez decided against further conversation and dipped her mop into the bucket, moving it over the wooden tiles in listless sweeps that left dark wet tracks in the dust. Guzmán soon tired of her presence and told her to leave. Once she had gone, he spent a while lost in dark thoughts. But such introspection was not helpful and he abandoned it in order to prepare for his meeting with the Italian.
Like a matador preparing for the afternoon’s corrida, he worked slowly and methodically, checking and rechecking his weapons. The Browning loaded with thirteen soft-nosed bullets that would punch a hole in a man the size of a fist, the big trench knife strapped to his leg, the garrotte hidden in his belt. Dealing with the Italian merited this attention to detail. Those who neglected such things usually discovered their error the hard way.
His preparations complete, he selected a grey suit from the wardrobe. A blue silk tie would complement it nicely, he decided. It was always best to dress well for a meeting.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BAR NAVARRA, CALLE SAN BERNARDINO
It was lunchtime and the tables outside the bars and cafés were full. Despite the earlier rain, the sun was out now and the air was unseasonably warm. In this relaxed atmosphere, life slowed. But despite the autumnal glow, there were some whose business was so pressing there was no time to enjoy the day.
Further down the street, a man crossed the road, not waiting for the lights to change as he dodged through the traffic surging towards Plaza Cristino Martos. Once across, he strolled along the pavement past the crowded terrace of the Bar Navarra, casually scanning it for signs of surveillance. Inside the bar, he saw the large dining room with its zinc-topped counter and antique beer pumps, absorbing the detail in a glance, careful to disguise his interest.
At the end of the street, he took a left and went along a narrow alley behind the shops and bars of the main road. Once in the alley, he was hidden from view by its high walls and he paused to put down the package he was carrying. Then he waited, scanning his surroundings with a hunter’s instinct. This was how he always worked, following a plan that would be enhanced by improvisation depending on his surroundings and circumstances. And for a man with his skills, each set of circumstances always presented new possibilities.
He heard a noise and turned, smiling to himself at how quickly such possibilities opened up to those who sought them.
A woman was making her way down the alley, pushing a pram. It was not easy for her: garbage cans and discarded boxes slowed her progress, forcing her to manoeuvre around them. He wondered why she had taken this route: the road would have been far easier. No matter: he would not look this gift horse in the mouth.
The woman stopped as she saw him, realising one of them would have to give way. He waved her on with a calm, elegant gesture, standing back to allow her to pass. An attractive woman, he thought, subtly appraising her as she passed. She gave him a demure ‘thank you’, in response to his old-fashioned courtesy.
In a moment he was on her, his left hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her against him, his right hand driving the stiletto into her heart, letting the body fall, anxious to avoid the blood. Rows of garbage cans were lined up along by the wall and when he lifted the lid of the nearest, it was almost empty. Quickly, he bundled the woman head first into the metal container, folding her legs to make sure the lid would close. As a final touch, he threw several small boxes in on top of her to hide his handiwork.
From the pram, he heard the quiet gurgling of the child. Yet another gift of fate. But then, he had always been lucky. He looked down at the chuckling baby, quickly completing the final details of his plan. It did not take long. Improvisation was his trademark skill.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DE GARCÍA DE PAREDES, ORTIZ RESIDENCE
Ramiro Ortiz Junior was polishing his father’s boots. The general was not at home, Ramiro had made sure of that before he started the task. It was bad enough being treated like a servant, but if General Ortiz caught his son polishing his boots in the living room, the result would undoubtedly be violent. You’re younger than him: hit him back. Teresa’s words echoed in his head. But what did his wife know? She hadn’t been on the receiving end of a beating from the general. Ramiro had, many times.
The doorbell rang and he froze. Quickly, he gathered up the brushes and shoved them behind the sofa before answering the door. As he opened it, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw a well-dressed man holding a briefcase.
The man beamed at Ramiro, revealing a dazzling array of dental work that contrasted with his deep tan. ‘Teniente Ortiz, I believe?’
Ramiro nodded. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’d say it’s more a question of how I can help you, Teniente.’
Ramiro shrugged and stepped back to let him in. They went through the hall to the lounge and Ramiro took a seat in one of his father’s favourite armchairs.
‘So what’s this about, señor?’ Ramiro asked, suddenly impatient as he watched the man take a wad of documents from his briefcase and arrange them on the sofa next to him.
‘I’ll be frank, Teniente. There are certain things you should know about your father,’ Javier Benavides said.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BAR NAVARRA, CALLE SAN BERNARDINO
Guzmán crossed the terrace, picking his way through the crowded tables. At the door of the dining room he paused to cast an eye over the converging mass of fashions and styles at the tables within, secretaries, clerks and business people all i
ntent on enjoying the three-course special lunch.
Across the road, obscured by the stop-start line of traffic, people were sitting outside a similar café, drinking coffee or beer, eating sandwiches or plates of calamari or jamón, concentrating on their food. The entire world was doing exactly what Guzmán would normally be doing at this time of day. If he had not come to kill someone, that was.
He went into the dining room and took a table facing the French windows, giving himself a good view of the terrace and the road beyond. A waiter came over and Guzmán ordered beer. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette.
He glanced at his watch: ten past two. The Italian was late. He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips, his eyes fixed on the crowded terrace. As he put the glass down, he considered the possibility that the Italian might not show up. But that was ridiculous. How could he miss such an opportunity after waiting all these years? Though why he should seek revenge now, after all this time, was hard to guess. But motives didn’t matter. Actions did.
A sudden flash of white among the throng of diners on the terrace. Someone in a white linen suit. Casually, Guzmán slipped his hand into his jacket and gripped the Browning. He watched the white suit move through the crowd towards the door, the man’s face obscured by waiters and customers drifting across his line of vision. Carefully, he began to slide his chair away from the table, ready to raise the pistol the moment the Italian came through the door.
At the door of the dining room a waiter stepped back, blocking Guzmán’s view as the man in the white suit entered. Guzmán started to get to his feet then stopped and slowly sat back down, his hand still inside his jacket as he saw the woman in the white suit at the bar, now ordering a couple of drinks.
He took a long swig of beer and watched her return to the terrace with the drinks. ‘Looks good in that white suit, doesn’t she?’ the waiter said, noticing his attention. He grinned as he wiped Guzmán’s table with his cloth. ‘Just like in that Yanqui movie.’
‘What movie?’ Guzmán asked.
‘Saturday Night Fever. Haven’t you seen it?’
‘Of course,’ Guzmán said, though he had not. Ignoring the waiter’s attempt at further conversation, he went back to his surveillance of the terrace. The tables were less crowded now, as people drifted back to work or to resume their shopping. Casually, he scrutinised the faces of the remaining customers, trying to imagine how the Italian might have changed over the years.
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