The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘We’ll be in two trucks today,’ said Ochoa. ‘I’ll be in the first with Quique and Julio. Fuentes, you, Ortiz and Galíndez will be in the second truck. Our first stop is the military library on Mártires de Alcalá. When we get there, put all the files in the second truck.’

  Quique raised his hand. ‘Why, Corporal?’

  ‘Because if we hit trouble, the second truck takes another route while we cover them.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Quique cut in. ‘That means we’ll be right in the middle of the action.’

  Ochoa looked at him, almost amused. ‘And that’s a good thing, is it, Private?’

  ‘It’s how you get medals,’ Quique said, finishing his sandwich.

  The others didn’t share his enthusiasm, Ochoa noted. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘I’ve got one,’ a deep voice behind him. ‘How come you’re not in the fucking truck?’

  Guzmán sauntered into the room, brushing churro crumbs from his coat. ‘My train doesn’t leave for eight hours, so I thought I’d give you a hand.’

  ‘I was just briefing them, sir,’ Ochoa said. ‘They’re looking forward to some action.’

  A long, uncomfortable silence. ‘Yes, I can see they’re champing at the bit.’ Guzmán fixed Quique with a steely gaze. ‘Are you eating, Private Vidal?’

  Quique nodded, his cheeks bulging. ‘Just a chorizo sandwich my Mamá made for me.’

  Guzmán sighed. ‘Fuck’s sake, stop him a week’s pocket money, Corporal.’ He cast his eye over the other men. ‘You look a bit strange, Galíndez.’

  ‘It’s flu, I think, sir. The wife says I ought to see a doctor.’

  ‘Really?’ Guzmán asked with assumed empathy. ‘Just before the battle of Belchite, one of my men had the flu. Made him completely unfit for duty, he said.’

  ‘That’s how I feel, sir. Sick as a dog. I’d probably be better home in bed.’

  ‘I shot him in the head,’ Guzmán added. ‘No one else felt ill after that.’

  Galíndez licked his lips nervously. ‘It’ll pass, I expect.’

  ‘It had better,’ said Guzmán. ‘Because if you don’t pull your weight, I’ll use you as a sandbag when the shooting starts.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ll see you outside directly, Corporal. It’s time we got moving.’ The door slammed behind him.

  Ochoa picked up his weapon and went after Guzmán. Aware of the silence, he turned in the doorway and glanced back at the squad.

  For the rest of his life, Ochoa would remember the men as they were now: pale-faced, sitting stock-still in a nervous tableau around the table. Ramiro looking out of the window, Galíndez staring at the floor, Quique fiddling with the strap of his shoulder holster.

  Then, from outside, he heard Guzmán’s voice, loud and authoritative, telling them to get a fucking move on.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BIBLIOTECA MILITAR, CALLE MÁRTIRES DE ALCALÁ

  ‘That’s the last box,’ Guzmán grunted as Quique and Fuentes came running from the door of the seminary, carrying a large crate of files. He watched as they shoved the files into the back of the truck with the others.

  As he waited for further instructions, Quique began examining the levers by the tailboard. ‘Sir? What’s this lever for?’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘Don’t touch that, kid, this is a dump truck. The driver raises the platform and when it’s tilted, you pull that lever to let the cargo slide out. In this case, the cargo is about half a ton of files, so don’t touch any of those controls.’ He went round the side of the truck and pulled himself up into the cab. ‘That kid’s like a monkey,’ he said to Ochoa, ‘he meddles with everything. Good job we’re not using grenades or he’d be pulling out the pins to see what happens.’

  Gutiérrez came out of the ancient building and slowly made his way across the road to the truck. ‘I could have got more men to help carry the boxes if you’d asked, Comandante.’

  Guzmán leaned out of the window. ‘You could have arranged a brass band as well, so the entire fucking city would know what we’re doing.’

  ‘It was only a thought.’ Gutiérrez handed a map to Guzmán. ‘Here’s your route.’

  ‘I know how to get to Toledo,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘It isn’t complicated.’

  ‘I’ve planned this route specially,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘There are units stationed at regular intervals along the way, ready to help out if you’re attacked.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Guzmán said. ‘Now stand away so we don’t run you over.’

  ‘Call me when you’ve got the material locked away in Toledo.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Guzmán watched Gutiérrez limp back to the seminary entrance, almost bowled over as Quique came running out with a final box of documents. The lad dashed over and hauled himself up into the cab. ‘Shall I sit in the middle again, sir?’

  ‘No, you can sit by the window today,’ Guzmán said. ‘I want to talk to the corporal.’ He put the map on the top of the dash, in front of Ochoa. ‘Gutiérrez’s put armed units along this route, so follow the directions he’s marked out.’

  Julio came shambling towards the truck.

  ‘Get in the back,’ Guzmán ordered, ‘and keep an eye out for anyone following us.’

  Ochoa turned the key and the engine spluttered into life. The gears meshed noisily as he eased the truck away from the kerb and headed towards Calle Princesa. ‘So I follow these roads marked in red ink?’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘That’s all you have to do, Corporal.’

  ‘Not the route I’d have picked,’ Ochoa said, frowning.

  ‘Just drive.’ Guzmán took a packet of Ducados from his pocket and lit one.

  ‘I reckon they won’t try anything in the city,’ Ochoa said. ‘Once we get into the countryside, that’s when they’ll make their move, I reckon.’

  ‘Then we’ve got something to look forward to,’ Guzmán said, slowly exhaling smoke. ‘Can you see the other truck behind us?’

  ‘Yes, they’re sticking close, just as you told them.’

  ‘Let’s hope they remember everything I told them.’ He glanced at Quique. ‘You’re quiet, kid.’

  ‘Just thinking, jefe.’

  ‘About seeing some action?’

  ‘About General Ortiz’s girlfriend. She’s going to be lonely without him.’

  Guzmán and Ochoa exchanged a look.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her out, kid?’

  ‘Not me, sir. I heard her give you the brush-off the other night. She’s scary.’

  The truck slowed in heavy traffic near the Plaza de España. ‘Go down Calle del Reloj,’ Guzmán said, pointing.

  Ochoa slowed and turned into the narrow street. On either side, tall apartments rose above them and he felt the steering wheel judder as the truck bounced over the cobbles. In his mirror, he saw Fuentes and Ramiro through the windscreen of their truck as they followed him into the warren of streets, their faces pale circles in the darkened cab.

  ‘I read the file on Alicante last night,’ Guzmán said quietly.

  ‘That was top secret, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you for permission, Corporal.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Gutiérrez set me up,’ Guzmán growled. ‘He called off the backup so the Italian would kill me.’

  Ochoa gripped the wheel tighter. ‘Why would he want you dead?’

  ‘He thought if I was killed by a foreign terrorist, it would shock Franco into reforming the Brigada Especial into a more powerful organisation with him in charge.’ Angrily, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette. ‘If that small-town cop hadn’t pitched in, I’d have been dead.’

  Ochoa said nothing.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘I was just thinking about those kids, sir.’

  ‘I might have known you wouldn’t be concerned about me.’

  ‘You survived,’ said Ochoa. ‘Eighteen children died.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘You were the best he had.’


  ‘I still am, Corporal.’

  ‘Seems a bit of an odd way to deal with you, though. Not very efficient.’

  ‘I didn’t realise how much my survival disappointed you.’

  ‘He could have had you killed any time, if he wanted. Why do it like that?’

  Guzmán sighed. ‘Perhaps he had it planned for years or perhaps it was a fucking birthday present, I don’t know.’ He twisted round and peered into the back of the truck. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘It’s me, sir.’ The sarge’s son rose from behind the seat. In one hand he held a long Moorish dagger, in his other was a small whetstone. He grinned, showing a line of dark, ragged teeth. ‘I always sharpen this before battle.’

  Guzmán gave him an approving nod. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘So what now, sir? Are you going to kill Gutiérrez?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind, Corporal.’

  ‘It’s nearly eighteen years ago. Maybe he changed his mind about you since then?’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s fallen for my manly charms. It’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘It certainly makes him hard to trust, boss.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Guzmán glanced at the map. ‘Turn left.’

  Ochoa twisted the wheel. ‘It doesn’t make sense to try and kill you and then just let it go, as if it were nothing.’

  ‘He’s a tricky one.’ Guzmán scowled. ‘He learned his trade in Germany during the war.’ His tone suggested that wasn’t a compliment. ‘He was there, 1939 to ’44, learning interrogation techniques. Naturally, he got out before the Russians and Yanquis arrived.’ He stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the dash. ‘You know he’s dying?’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘Radiotherapy, I heard,’ Guzmán said, cheered by the thought. ‘The Centinelas know all about it, so when he goes, they’ll try and infiltrate the Brigada like they have the police.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s sorry he played such a long game now.’

  ‘Hard to say. Some men want statues to preserve their memory, Gutiérrez wants a new security service. Even while the cancer’s eating him up, he’s still pursuing his ambition.’ Guzmán turned his back on Quique and lowered his voice. ‘The Italian’s in Madrid. It was him who bombed Gutiérrez’s warehouse.’

  Ochoa raised an eyebrow, so discreetly Guzmán thought at first he was ignoring him. ‘Is he here to disrupt the elections?’

  ‘I thought so. It seemed the sort of thing the right-wingers would do: hire an insane terrorist to commit a few atrocities that could be blamed on Communists or trade unionists.’

  ‘You mean those dead guys in the café were trying to hire the Italian?’

  ‘They did hire him.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘At least they thought so. What they didn’t realise was that he had a different agenda.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘Killing me, Corporal.’

  ‘So how come he killed the men in the café?’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘They were of use when he arrived but after that, they were just potential witnesses, and the Italian never leaves witnesses if he can help it.’

  Ochoa nodded, taking it in. ‘He killed that priest as well. Was there anything in his wallet, by the way?’

  ‘The wallet?’ Guzmán gave Ochoa a look so charged with violent intent, the corporal almost ran down a nun standing on the edge of the pavement. ‘If I’ve ever given you the impression that I thought you were a useless miserable bastard, Corporal, I only meant half of it.’ He reached into his jacket and rummaged through his pockets. ‘Here it is.’ He took out the worn leather wallet and opened it. ‘Five hundred pesetas.’ He scoffed, putting the money into his top pocket. ‘Nothing worse than a cheap priest.’

  ‘Anything else, boss?’

  Guzmán shook the contents of the wallet into his lap. He picked up a small piece of paper and examined it. ‘An airline ticket from Milan to Madrid, one way.’

  ‘So the priest hired the Italian?’

  ‘That makes sense. No one would take any notice of a priest, Spain’s awash with the bastards.’ He frowned as he saw a small piece of white card. The name and address in small bold black letters. ‘This looks like someone’s business card.’

  A long silence followed, broken only by the sonorous rumble of the engine and the rattling of the truck as it jolted over the cobbles. Ochoa darted a glance at Guzmán and looked away quickly.

  ‘The fucking bastard.’ Guzmán held out the card in the palm of his hand. Ochoa looked at it and turned his eyes back to the road.

  Brigadier General L. Gutiérrez

  Brigada Especial

  14 Calle del Doce de Octubre, Madrid

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’ Guzmán turned the card over and Ochoa heard a sudden intake of breath as he read the handwritten note on the back.

  Guzmán is staying at the Pensión Paraíso,

  10 C/del Carmen

  ‘So that’s how the Italian knew.’ Guzmán struggled to control himself. ‘He lured me to the Bar Navarra and then, when he failed to kill me, he killed Daniela and her father.’

  ‘Why kill them, boss?’

  ‘Because he’s a fucking madman who hates me for what I did to his girlfriend,’ Guzmán said, waving the business card angrily. ‘And because Gutiérrez gave him the address of their pensión.’

  ‘It’s worse than you thought,’ Ochoa said, even more sombre than usual.

  ‘Much worse. Gutiérrez set me up just as he did at Alicante.’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘This is all part of the same plan. That bald fuck’s been waiting years for the right time and now it’s come. He thinks he’s finally going to get his big new organisation from a bunch of vegetarian socialists and fuck people like me who’ve done his dirty work all these years.’

  ‘But if he’s still following that plan, that means he’ll try to kill you again.’

  Guzmán looked out of the window at the sheer buildings towering above them. Countless windows, each one a potential hiding place for a sniper. ‘You’re right. And it’s going to be sooner rather than later. You can guess why he gave us this cockeyed route.’

  ‘We’re in trouble.’

  Julio’s ravaged voice came from behind them. ‘Trouble?’ He was smiling.

  Guzmán sank back in the battered leather seat, thinking hard. There was much to think about, but worst of all was the realisation that he and the Italian shared a common characteristic. One that made them perfect for Gutiérrez’s plan.

  They were both disposable.

  CHAPTER 30

  MADRID 2010, POLICÍA NACIONAL, CALLE ROBLES

  Isabel closed the door to the Western Vault and walked slowly down the passage. She was far from happy. Nothing Ana had told her about Guzmán’s old comisaría had prepared her for this chamber of horrors. An underground river and the bones of someone who’d been ripped apart? All Isabel had wanted to do was to write a book about Ana’s hunt for Guzmán. And look where it had got her: standing here, alone in the dungeons of the Inquisition while Ana indulged her obsessional pursuit of Guzmán’s secrets. She would have plenty to say to her once she’d finished in that vault.

  Isabel’s thoughts were interrupted by a noise further down the passageway. She froze, wondering if she’d been mistaken. Another rustle in the shadows: she was not mistaken. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. There was no one down here but Galíndez and her. She was just frightening herself. It was probably just a rat. She’d soon scare that away. She started down the passage, gripping the flashlight.

  A metre along the passage, she saw the low arch of an ancient doorway. It was probably best to wait for Ana, she thought, check it out together. But that idea rankled. She wasn’t a child, in need of a nanny, she’d been a top radio journalist, for God’s sake. Would be again, hopefully. Suddenly confident, she stood in the doorway, shining the flashlight into the shadows, revealing stone columns draped in candyfloss spider webs. There was nothing
of interest and she turned, deciding to go back and find Ana. Behind her, she heard scuffling. That damn rat again. The fierce beam of the torch would see it off. As she stepped through the doorway, she remembered what Galíndez said as they walked by the strange river. There were no rats down here.

  A hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her backwards. The flashlight fell from her hand, clattering on the flagstones. As she struggled, a violent shove sent her to the floor. Before she could get up, a sudden blinding light shone into her eyes, forcing her to raise a hand to shield them.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ Mendez said. In her hand was a retractable baton. Isabel heard a sibilant metallic hiss as she pushed the release button and extended the baton.

  ‘I’m looking for Ana,’ Mendez said, ‘and I’d like you to bring her to me.’

  ‘No chance. I’m not helping you,’ Isabel said.

  Mendez came towards her. ‘You just make a bit of noise and she’ll come running.’

  Isabel watched as the baton rose. Then she bellowed in pain as the blow hit her shoulder. Mendez swung the baton once more, catching Isabel on the thigh as she scrambled to her feet. Before Mendez could hit her again, Isabel turned and ran into the darkness. Behind her, she heard Mendez shouting to her to come back. Isabel turned a corner and after that, all she heard was the sound of her echoing footsteps.

  *

  Galíndez clutched the wall, feeling her legs starting to fold under her. Her previous seizures had begun this way and all had ended in a blackout. She needed to find Isabel before she passed out. She stumbled to the door and fumbled clumsily with the latch. Finally, the door opened and she staggered out into the passage.

  For a moment, Isabel’s cries echoed along the stone passageway and Galíndez heard the sound of someone running, their footsteps fading into silence.

  She stumbled forward, supporting herself with a hand on the wall until she reached the end of the passage. From a door a few metres away, a pool of light spilled out over the stone floor. ‘Izzy?’ A sudden blinding flash pulsed across her vision. ‘Isabel?’ She turned into the doorway and saw the flashlight on the floor. ‘Izzy, where are you?’