The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Did you tell anyone you were staying here, Ana?’ Isabel went over to the table and picked up a package from it.

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘No, why do you ask?’

  Isabel handed her a padded envelope. ‘Someone sent you this package.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Galíndez muttered, examining it. ‘It’s very light, much too light to be—’

  ‘Important?’ Isabel cut in.

  ‘A bomb,’ Galíndez said. She saw Isabel’s expression and tried to change the subject. ‘Judge Delgado must have released the contents of that memory stick to the press by now.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Isabel grabbed the remote and surfed the channels until she found CNN. ‘Look, it’s just more footage about that earthquake.’

  Galíndez frowned. ‘If Delgado sent out the information, they ought to be discussing it by now.’

  ‘They could still be editing it, Ana.’

  ‘I told you I had my doubts about him.’

  ‘Look,’ Isabel gasped, suddenly excited. ‘It’s him.’ She pointed to the TV screen.

  The screen was showing a still photograph that flattered the judge. The familiar grey coiffure, the wry smile and mischievous blue eyes.

  Galíndez turned up the sound. An excited voice.

  ‘A leading figure in the judiciary was shot dead in Madrid this morning. Police named the victim as Judge Bernadino Delgado. Over now to a special report from our political reporter Roberto Peralta at the scene of the assassination.’

  A stunned silence. Finally, Galíndez switched off the TV.

  ‘Fuck,’ Isabel said, taking in the implications.

  ‘Precisely my thoughts.’ Galíndez nodded. ‘They must have found out I gave him the memory stick.’ She looked down at the padded envelope in her lap. ‘Let’s see what’s in here.’ She upended the envelope and a small object slid out. ‘There’s a note.’ She took a folded piece of paper from the envelope. As she read the note, Isabel saw her eyes widen.

  ‘What is it, Ana?’

  ‘It’s from Sancho,’ Galíndez said, blinking as she read it. ‘“Sorry, babe, I gave you a fake USB. If you’ve managed to stay alive long enough to read this letter, here’s the real one. If you passed on the fake stick to anyone, they’re now the proud owners of a copy of the Madrid phone directory. Thanks for sorting out the Witness Protection thing for me.”’

  Galíndez stopped reading to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Does he say anything else?’ Isabel asked.

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘I think we’d better keep a low profile now.’

  ‘As in go into hiding?’

  ‘Not yet, though maybe we should go somewhere they won’t find us easily.’

  ‘How about the university?’ Isabel said. ‘It’s teeming with people.’

  ‘That might work. Let’s go in an hour, when the traffic’s heavier. It’ll make it harder to follow us.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Isabel’s voice sounded strained.

  ‘I’m not certain of anything now, Izzy.’ Galíndez got up and went to the window, looking out nervously into the street. Then she lowered the blind. As she came back to the sofa, she picked up the evidence bag containing the packet she’d found in General Ortiz’s pocket when she took the DNA samples. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a look at this.’

  ‘I thought you said it was a tobacco pouch?’

  ‘It is.’ Galíndez pushed a finger under the flap and opened it. ‘But there are some papers inside it.’ She slid one of the papers from the plastic pouch and started unfolding the yellowing outer layer. ‘Shit, it’s disintegrating.’

  More careful now, she teased the time-worn sheets apart with her fingernail. Despite her delicate touch, the outer layers crumbled into yellow flakes. She put the crumbling paper to one side and reached into the pouch again, lifting out a folded square of what seemed to be thick card. ‘This is some sort of parchment.’

  Isabel leaned closer, watching her unfold the parchment. ‘Is that a map?’

  ‘A building plan, I think,’ Galíndez said, examining it. The lines were faded, though there was no mistaking the linear precision of an architect’s pen. She pointed to a long corridor with regularly spaced rooms on either side. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a strange sense of familiarity.

  ‘Look at that,’ Isabel said, watching over her shoulder. ‘It’s laid out like a hotel.’

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘It’s not a hotel, those are cells.’ Her voice was taut. ‘I know exactly what this is: it’s the layout of Guzmán’s old comisaría on Calle Robles.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Isabel asked. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘It’s where I was injured in the explosion.’ Galíndez rubbed her hands together as she remembered the chill air of the ancient building. ‘There are rooms on this plan I didn’t know existed.’ She pointed to the plan, indicating a doorway at the far end of the corridor. Beyond that was the sweep of a spiral staircase leading to other chambers below. Each chamber bore a label, though the lettering was smudged and faded.

  ‘What does that say, Ana?’ Isabel asked, pointing to one of the labels.

  ‘Eastern Vault,’ Galíndez said. Slowly, she traced her finger over the plan to a second chamber. ‘And this one is the Central Vault.’ In one corner of the chamber was the entrance to a passageway leading to another vault. This time, the layout of the vault was slightly different: a strange sloping line ran upwards, like a staircase without stairs, reaching up to the street, three storeys above. Galíndez pointed to the label: Western Vault.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, quietly. ‘Whatever the Centinelas are looking for is in there.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you call the guardia and have them send someone to investigate?’

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘We’ve no idea who we can trust now.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Isabel said, sharply. ‘Not everyone’s working for the Centinelas.’

  ‘No? Capitán Fuentes was wearing a Centinela ring on the day he was killed, so Christ knows who else is mixed up with them.’

  ‘But why would they kill Fuentes and his family?’

  ‘Remember when we saw his car arrive? He was looking round as if he was searching for an address. I think he was expecting to meet someone.’

  ‘You’re just speculating.’

  ‘They set him up,’ Galíndez went on. ‘When he arrived, those men on the roof were waiting to open fire. At the same time, the special forces went into the pensión to take out Sancho and Señor Espartero.’

  ‘But why would they do that?’

  ‘I think the Fuentes family were killed to cover up the attack on the pensión,’ Galíndez said. ‘Sancho’s death was completely overshadowed by it.’

  ‘But no one knew Sancho was at the pensión except us.’

  Galíndez started putting on her shoulder holster. ‘Mendez knew. And possibly Capitán Fuentes, since he had that Centinela ring in his pocket.’

  Isabel’s face was tense. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We’ll do what you suggested: go to the university and stay out of sight. When it gets dark, we’ll go to Guzmán’s comisaría and take a look at this Western Vault.’

  ‘No, Ana. I’m not going anywhere unless you call your uncle and ask for backup.’

  ‘I’ll do it on my own then.’

  ‘And I’ll report you to the guardia for your repeated misuse of prescription drugs.’

  Galíndez scowled. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I care about you, Ana, so I’m not going to let you risk your life if there’s no need.’

  ‘OK, you win,’ Galíndez sighed as she took out her phone and called Ramiro’s number. His voice boomed out from the answering machine, telling the caller that this was a private phone, that time was money and that all messages should be short and succinct.

  ‘There,’ Galíndez said as she finished her message. ‘Now we can go to the university and wait until we hear from him. Happy now?’

  ‘I wouldn�
�t say happy,’ Isabel smiled, ‘but I do feel better. How about you?’

  ‘Good to go.’ Galíndez nodded. ‘I’ll just pop to the bathroom before we go.’

  ‘It’s that cold beer,’ Isabel laughed as Galíndez closed the bathroom door.

  Inside, Galíndez locked the door and then gulped down her last two painkillers.

  Isabel was looking out the window when she came out of the bathroom.

  ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’ Galíndez said, suddenly energised as she went to the door.

  They went downstairs into the street. The traffic was backed up in a thick line, with fractious drivers passing their enforced confinement by shouting insults and blasting their horns at the slightest provocation.

  From a doorway across the road, Mendez watched them get into Galíndez’s car. As the car swung out into the heavy traffic, provoking a dissonant protest of horns, Mendez returned to the side street where her own vehicle was parked. Unlike Galíndez and Isabel, she walked slowly. There was no need to hurry: the moment Galíndez started her engine, the tracker would tell Mendez exactly where she was.

  CHAPTER 23

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DEL TRIBULETE

  The narrow street was packed, and Guzmán was forced to push his way through the bustling crowd outside the Molino Rojo. He had visited the place so many times in the past to paw the burlesque dancers and rob their pimps, he could have found his way around blindfolded. Overcoming a nostalgic inclination to go in for a quick look, he carried on down the road, looking for Señor Pedraza’s address.

  As he passed the old cigarette factory, memories surfaced as he paused to look up at the wall of the building ahead. The bullet hole was still there, a wild shot fired at him one winter’s night when he spirited a woman away to safety. But back then he was dangerous company and Alicia Martinez had ended up in the Almudena Cemetery like so many others.

  His dark thoughts dispersed as he found the building he was looking for. Shabby bricks and peeling paintwork, grimy curtains behind streaked windows. Grim accommodation for someone who was supposed to be a genius.

  Guzmán went into the reeking entrance hall and found the name on the mailbox. Señor Pedraza lived on the third floor. He climbed the stairs, followed the landing to Pedraza’s door and pounded on it. A tremulous voice behind the ramshackle door inquired who was calling.

  ‘Señor Benavides sent me,’ Guzmán said, quietly.

  The chain rattled and the door creaked open. Guzmán had been expecting a genius, but Señor Pedraza didn’t meet his expectations. Thick glasses, wild, badly cut hair, worn patches on the elbows of his jacket. A waistcoat buttoned incorrectly. The look of a mad man on a day off from the asylum. ‘Will the gentleman come in?’

  Guzmán slammed the door behind him. On the table he saw the familiar shape of the encryption machine in its leather case.

  ‘You said you’ve a message from Señor Benavides?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Guzmán said, extemporising. ‘You’re in great danger.’

  The eyes behind the thick lenses widened. ‘But why?’

  Guzmán pointed to the papers on the table. ‘That code belongs to a criminal gang and they’re looking for it.’ He paused, letting the news sink in. ‘They’re looking for you as well.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Pedraza stood stock-still, frozen with fear.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Guzmán said, amiably. ‘I’m going to take the code into safekeeping. As for you, you’re off to Cordoba for a week or two.’

  ‘Cordoba?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guzmán said, giving him an irritated look. ‘It’s in Spain, remember?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone there.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t know many people in Madrid either,’ Guzmán growled, gathering up the various components of the code and putting them into the case. ‘What did you make of the code, by the way?’

  ‘Incredible. I don’t know who created it but it’s very impressive.’

  ‘I understand it’s German.’

  Pedraza nodded eagerly. ‘That would account for its precision. Those Nazis, eh? But there’s something else as well, almost a kind of poetry in the way it’s arranged.’

  Guzmán decided to nip this conversation in the bud since Pedraza was never going to see the code again. He took five thousand peseta notes from his pockets and offered them to the little man. ‘This is to get you to Cordoba.’ He handed Pedraza another piece of paper. ‘And here’s the address. Stay there until you’re contacted by Señor Benavides.’

  Pedraza took off his spectacles and wiped them with a soiled handkerchief. ‘This is all most unexpected, I must say.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come with you to the station. I want to be sure you get your train.’

  ‘Who are these people who’re looking for me?’ Pedraza asked, hurriedly cramming some of his clothes into a battered old valise.

  ‘Some far-right group, I understand.’

  ‘But I’m not a left-winger,’ Pedraza gasped. ‘I always supported Franco.’

  ‘This isn’t about politics.’ Guzmán went to the window and drew back the dirty muslin curtain as he scanned the street below. ‘These people believe the code is anti-Catholic.’ He saw Pedraza about to protest and cut in. ‘We have to hurry. I want to get this code into a safe place as soon as possible. And you, of course.’

  Pedraza carried on packing. When he had finished, the ancient suitcase bulged with his crumpled laundry and it took Guzmán’s assistance before he could fasten the worn clasps. Even then, it seemed unlikely the case would survive the journey to Cordoba.

  ‘Hurry up, you’ve a train to catch,’ Guzmán said, irritated now.

  Pedraza stayed silent.

  When Guzmán turned to look at him, the little mathematician was staring at his bookshelves, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘My books,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know which ones to take.’

  ‘You’re not taking any,’ Guzmán said, taking a firm grip on his arm. ‘I’ll have them sent on to you.’ He pushed Pedraza out onto the landing and marched him towards the stairs.

  As they hurried down the creaking staircase, Guzmán couldn’t help thinking that it would have been much easier just to kill him. He almost had when Pedraza opened the door but then the man’s words of praise for the code had tempered the decision. In any case, once he was in Cordoba, this half-blind mathematician would never find his way to the end of the street, let alone back to Madrid. He would be fine: a mathematician could beg as well as the next man.

  Their feet clattered on the tiles as they crossed the entrance hall. Guzmán stopped at the door, listening to the sounds of evening revellers on the street. Sick of the cloying smell in the hall, he opened the door a little. Groups of young men and women bustled past, singing the song that had plagued the World Cup that summer. Something about birds coupled with a dance that involved flapping their arms while forming a circle. A futile and moronic waste of time, he thought. A few years earlier it would have been illegal, he was certain.

  As the crowd bustled off down the street, Guzmán pushed the mathematician ahead of him, looking back to check if they were being followed. The pavement across the road was less crowded, enabling him to see the entrances of the apartments across the street. Lights were on in the hallways, highlighting dark shapes as people came out for their evening walk.

  As he turned his gaze in the other direction, he saw a figure standing in a doorway, ten metres away. A figure in a white suit, his arm extended as if pronouncing judgment.

  Guzmán reached for the Browning, shouting to Pedraza to run. He might as well have told the little man to fly. Pedraza’s first instinct was to try to return to the safety of his apartment and his books. He scuttled towards the door in a blind panic, pursued by the insane mechanical stutter of the Uzi as it traced a line of bullets along the wall, raising a cloud of powdered brick that pursued the fleeing mathematician and then cut across him, folding him like a rag doll as he fell to the pavement.


  Guzmán opened fire, the empty shell cases rattling on the cobbles like coins. Screams from the people in the street as they started to flee. Dull echoes from the high buildings around him. Guzmán fired again and a window behind the Italian shattered, spilling glass shards onto the pavement. And then the rattle of the Uzi was abruptly silenced as the clip emptied. As Guzmán started across the street towards him, the Italian turned and dashed through the crowd cowering on the pavement, sending panicked onlookers diving for cover as they tried to get away from him.

  Guzmán held the Browning two-handed, trying to track the Italian as he weaved through the crowd, holding the Uzi above his head. A sensible tactic, Guzmán knew, since the sight of the weapon provoked another desperate scramble that blocked Guzmán’s line of fire as the Italian disappeared into the throng milling over the street near the Molino Rojo. Within moments, he had disappeared into the crowd.

  Guzmán reloaded the Browning and then turned back to check on Pedraza.

  The mathematician was lying face down in the gutter. At his side, an elderly woman dressed in black knelt by the body. She took off her rosary and began to pray. ‘Do you know his name, señor?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  He heard sirens. Hurriedly, he looked round for the leather case containing the code machine, keen to get away before the police arrived to complicate things.

  The case was nowhere to be seen.

  He knelt by the side of the praying woman and rolled Pedraza onto his back to make sure the case wasn’t hidden under his body. It was not, and he got to his feet, glowering at the gawping spectators around him. There was no point looking any further: the leather case and his code books were gone. He left the devout old woman still praying over the unfortunate Señor Pedraza. There was only one thing to do in a situation like this and that was find a policeman. The irony of that was not lost on him.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DEL AMPARO

  Spots of rain were starting to fall as the uniformed policeman escorted Guzmán from the police station and led him down a side street into Calle Amparo. ‘The warehouse is just down there, sir,’ he said, pointing. ‘He’s the most notorious criminal fence in the area.’