The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  There was no question of completing the operation now. He’d been stupid to go through with it this far. The sensible option would have been to grab Lourdes and catch the train south yesterday. And yet something had stopped him: his sense of duty. His belief that once a man started a job, it must be finished. When he was younger, he would have called that stupidity.

  Stupidity or not, there was still that one abiding principle that overrode all else as far as he was concerned: Never let an injury or slight go unpunished. And determining the most appropriate form of revenge was easy: it was a merely a question of discovering what someone wanted most and then taking it from them. And what Gutiérrez wanted most was the collection of files in the truck. So now, instead of Gutiérrez choosing which files would be preserved or destroyed, Guzmán would let the whole fucking world read them. Let them know what Franco, Guzmán and Gutiérrez had done. He had never entertained such a thought before, but he thought it now: let people know the truth. Not because they deserved to and not because it was their right, but because it would fuck up Gutiérrez’s career, permanently.

  He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time yet before his meeting with Lourdes at the station. Time to do what he had to and then go to Atocha and have a last drink in the decrepit station bar before she arrived. And then head south, to Alicante.

  As he came back across the square, Ramiro and Fuentes were leaning against the truck. Ramiro was nursing a slight wound on his arm. Guzmán saw blood, though not enough to evoke sympathy. ‘Where’s Galíndez?’

  Ramiro shrugged. ‘He said he was going to get help.’

  ‘He ran away?’

  Ramiro paused for a moment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get a field dressing from the truck and fix Ochoa up until the ambulance gets here,’ Guzmán said. ‘Once he’s taken care of, go over to those babbling peasants in the bar and take statements. When the police arrive, tell them you stumbled across a robbery and intervened. That’s all you know. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a medal.’ He slapped Ramiro on the arm, making him wince.

  Ramiro climbed into the truck to get the first-aid kit, leaving Guzmán and Fuentes alone.

  ‘We’ve got a job to finish,’ Guzmán said. ‘When people ask you about it later, you’ve got a faulty memory, understand?’

  ‘As you say, sir.’ Fuentes nodded.

  ‘Right. You’re driving.’ Guzmán hauled himself up into the cab. Fuentes ran round to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.

  Guzmán lit a Ducado and inhaled deeply. ‘We haven’t got all day, Fuentes.’

  Fuentes started the engine and turned the truck across towards the exit, slowing as they drove over the dead men lying in the mud of the roadworks. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  ‘Vallecas,’ Guzmán said, leaning through the open window. ‘The old comisaría on Calle Robles.’ He settled back, aware of the ringing in his ears for the first time. ‘And get a move on, I’ve got a train to catch.’

  Cowering behind a parked car near the roadworks, Miguel Galíndez held his breath, waiting until the truck turned a corner and disappeared from sight before he started running.

  ALICANTE, OCTOBER 1965, LLANTO DEL MORO

  Villanueva stood outside his brother’s hotel, watching as Guzmán’s white Ford came to a stop by the gate. Guzmán took his time getting out. Villanueva thought it best not to offer assistance.

  ‘How can you drive with one arm in a sling?’ he asked.

  ‘The same way you walk with that crutch stuffed under your arm: with difficulty.’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and offered one to Villanueva. They stood in silence smoking, watching the grey waves break on the beach below.

  ‘They tell me I won’t walk without a stick again,’ Villanueva said.

  ‘That’s too bad. What will you do?’

  Villanueva indicated the hotel behind him with a nod of his head. ‘My brother wasn’t married so I’ve inherited this place. I think I can make a go of it.’

  ‘Your brother was a brave man,’ Guzmán said, exhaling smoke.

  Villanueva sighed. ‘I didn’t know those people were so heavily armed.’

  ‘I would have died if you hadn’t raised the alarm,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘It’s what you do when you’re in the police, isn’t it, look out for one another?’

  ‘In your police, maybe.’ Guzmán looked at his watch. ‘I have to go. It’s a long drive.’

  ‘I’ve invited the women to come here.’ Villanueva’s voice was distant. ‘Each year, on the anniversary of...’ his voice cracked, ‘of what happened. They can stay overnight, comfort one another.’ He saw Guzmán take something from his pocket. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Money.’ Guzmán held up a large roll of banknotes. He peeled off a number of high-denomination bills and handed them to Villanueva. ‘Get them a bouquet of flowers each year when they come. Women like flowers, don’t they?’

  Villanueva nodded. ‘I’ll tell the ladies you’ve sent them.’

  Guzmán opened the door of his car. ‘I wouldn’t. They blame me for what happened.’

  There was no more to be said now and so they said nothing. A brief handshake told Villanueva they would not meet again.

  Guzmán started the car. As he went down the narrow street, heads turned away and he heard cat-calls through the open window. And in the mirror, he saw their eyes, burning into him as he accelerated onto the main road, leaving the village and its dead behind him.

  CHAPTER 32

  MADRID, OCTOBER 2010, POLICÍA NACIONAL, CALLE ROBLES

  Galíndez stared at the pistol in the man’s hand. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You know him?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘He’s the one who tortured me. He said he was Guzmán.’

  ‘You were very brave, señorita,’ the man said, still aiming the pistol at her. ‘Though it was a waste of time, since you knew so little. Drop your weapon, would you?’

  The Browning clattered onto the ground.

  Galíndez’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re going to prison, whoever you really are. Kidnapping’s a serious offence.’

  ‘Indeed it is, though I’m afraid the charges won’t stick. I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, as you so often are.’

  ‘All right,’ Galíndez said. ‘Disappoint me.’

  He gave a languid sigh. ‘Needs must.’

  As the old man raised his left hand, she saw the Taser. Heard the sudden noise as the barb penetrated Isabel’s shirt and hit flesh. Isabel fell to the ground, jerking as the electrical charge turned her world into a stuttering series of broken images. When her eyes opened, she was lying on her back, convulsed with pain, helpless as he towered above her, keeping his pistol pointed at Galíndez.

  ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself? Brigadier General Gutiérrez.’ He doffed the fedora with a mocking gesture, revealing his bald head. ‘Head of the Brigada Especial.’

  ‘You can’t be,’ Galíndez said. ‘The Brigada was disbanded in 1983.’

  He gave her a patient smile. ‘Not really. We just made it a little more clandestine.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Something I should have done a long time ago,’ Gutiérrez said. His laugh was dry and humourless. ‘Stay where you are, and do keep your hands where I can see them.’ He waved the pistol at Isabel. ‘Perhaps you should help your friend to get up, Dr Galíndez?’

  ‘What happens now?’ Galíndez asked as she helped Isabel to her feet.

  ‘You could start by telling me where Guzmán’s sword is. I know you have it.’

  ‘I did have it,’ Galíndez nodded. ‘But Sargento Mendez stole it, and since she fell into the river with General Ortiz a few minutes ago, I have no idea where it is.’

  He sighed. ‘That sword holds the key to Guzmán’s code. I’ve been looking for it for some time.’

  Galíndez shrugged. ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘But there’s still somet
hing that needs to done in the Western Vault.’ He gestured with the pistol. ‘You know the way, I believe?’

  Isabel clung to Galíndez, still groggy. ‘Why do you need us?’

  ‘A matter of housekeeping, señorita. I never leave any loose ends after an operation.’

  ‘What loose ends?’ Galíndez asked. ‘Ramiro’s dead and Mendez died with him.’

  Gutiérrez laughed. ‘Actually, I was referring to you, Dr Galíndez.’

  CHAPTER 33

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE RELOJ

  Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes as he ran, the desperate rhythm of his boots on the cobbles rebounding in mocking echoes around the high walls on either side.

  It seemed to Miguel Galíndez that his heart would burst if he ran a step further. But the fear of being shot was even more terrifying and he kept running.

  The moment the shooting started, Miguel had decided enough was enough. Even though Ochoa and Guzmán had both said there might be trouble, he had not expected it to be so sudden or so brutal. He could only thank God that Guzmán sent the kid to scout out the square and not him. By now, the others were probably all dead. At least he hoped so. That way, he could spin whatever story he liked about events in the square. But there would be time for that later. Right now, he needed to get away. And the further the better.

  Gasping for breath, he decided to duck down a narrow side road. Anyone following would never expect a fugitive to head that way, he was sure.

  The leg came out of nowhere, extending just as Miguel passed a small passage running along the side of a building. He fell forward on the pavement, skinning his hands, though it was not scraped palms he was concerned about as he rolled onto his back, lifting his hands into the air as he saw the pistol aimed at him. ‘Don’t shoot.’

  The man stood over him, pointing the Beretta. Lazily, he stroked his grey beard with his free hand. ‘You know, there’s a certain smell comes off cowards like you. I really don’t know why I bother helping you.’

  ‘You haven’t helped me with anything,’ Galíndez whined.

  A soft mocking smile. ‘I told you your wife was playing around.’

  ‘Oh yes, thanks a lot.’

  The Italian took an envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘Here’s a few more photos for you. I knew you’d want to see them: the two of them going into a hotel, another where your wife is closing the curtains of his room. A nice one of them dancing together. “Historia de un amor” is her favourite song, I believe?’

  Galíndez scowled. ‘How would I know?’ He looked at one of the photos and cursed.

  ‘A real man would want revenge,’ the Italian scoffed. ‘But then, I’ve heard you have other, much younger interests?’

  Galíndez gave him a furtive look. ‘It’s Ramiro who’s into that stuff.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time with pathetic excuses.’ The pistol came closer. ‘What you do is your business. Except when it’s mine as well.’

  ‘Well it isn’t,’ Galíndez said, petulantly.

  ‘Where did Guzmán go in that truck?’

  For a moment, Galíndez thought about lying. But only for a moment. ‘The old comisaría on Calle Robles.’

  ‘You know where that is?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Take me there, now. In return, I’ll give you the chance to take revenge on Guzmán.’

  Galíndez laughed. ‘I’ve heard stories about him. He’s not a pushover.’

  ‘There’ll be no comeback: no one will even know what you’ve done. You’ll get him at a vulnerable moment. One shot, two maybe and he’s history.’

  Galíndez gave him a cunning look. ‘Can you guarantee that?’

  ‘I can, signor.’

  ‘And what if I say no?’

  The Italian shrugged. ‘I’ll blow your head off.’

  MADRID, 28 OCTOBER 1982, POLICÍA NACIONAL, CALLE ROBLES

  The buildings became increasingly familiar as they neared Calle Robles.

  ‘You did well today, Fuentes,’ Guzmán said. ‘I did wonder if you had it in you.’

  ‘First time I’ve fired a shot that wasn’t on the firing range, boss.’

  ‘There’s always a first time.’ Guzmán turned on the radio. ‘Let’s see if there’s any news of the election.’

  An excited voice cut across the crackle and hiss of the radio. ‘Large numbers now voting... queues at polling stations... exit polls predict a significant victory for the PSOE...’

  Guzmán switched off the radio. ‘Sounds like the Socialists are going to win.’

  ‘I know it sounds strange, boss, but I think it might be a good thing if they do.’

  ‘You know what? I think you’re right,’ Guzmán said. ‘Maybe it’s time for a change.’

  ‘That’s Calle Robles coming up isn’t it, boss?’ Fuentes said, slowing. ‘The street with the pharmacy on the corner?’

  Guzmán ordered him to pull over and they sat for a few moments, with the engine idling. A cloud of greasy exhaust fumes rose from the back of the vehicle.

  ‘We’re not going to Toledo,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Aren’t we?’ A note of surprise in Fuentes’ voice.

  ‘The plan was to destroy evidence that would incriminate certain people who worked for the regime.’

  ‘I’d figured that out, sir.’

  ‘That material is far too important to be destroyed,’ Guzmán went on. ‘So we’re going to put it somewhere safe. After that, I want you to forget about it until the result of the election is settled. After that, it’s up to you who you tell about it.’

  ‘Begging the comandante’s pardon, but I’d rather not have that responsibility.’

  ‘You’re the only person I can trust,’ Guzmán said, making it sound like a threat.

  ‘But where will you be, sir?’

  ‘I’ll be long gone.’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘If I was you, I’d wait for a while and let the new government get settled in. Then let them know where the files are. Tip them off anonymously, if you want.’

  Fuentes’ face set with concentration as he thought about it. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

  Guzmán clicked his Zippo into flame and lit the cigarette. ‘Good man. The comisaría is on the left about a hundred metres further on. You’ll see a big church nearby that looks like it was designed by a drunk.’

  Fuentes pulled up outside the comisaría and waited as Guzmán jumped down and went to the big iron-banded entrance to read a tattered notice pinned on one of the doors.

  ‘Perfect,’ Guzmán said as he returned to the truck. ‘It’s been closed down. Now, while I get things ready, I want you to reverse towards that metal plate in the wall.’

  As Fuentes began manoeuvring the truck, Guzmán examined the iron plate. Julio had obeyed his instructions to the letter: each of the nuts holding the plate in place had been carefully loosened, though not so much that the plate would come away from the wall and attract attention. He was a good lad, Julio, Guzmán thought. The sarge would have been proud. Probably, anyway. No one really knew what went on in the old sarge’s head. He had not been a man given to introspection or kindness. Or loyalty, now that he thought about it.

  The nuts were easy to remove and as the plate started to come loose, Fuentes jumped down from the truck to assist. The iron plate was about two metres long and the height of a tall man. It weighed a lot and Guzmán struggled as they wrestled the plate to one side, its ancient hinges creaking in protest.

  Fuentes leaned forward to look down into the gaping hole they had uncovered. At his feet, a sloping stone chute descended steeply into the darkness. Twinkling clouds of dust rose up into the afternoon light, accompanied by ancient smells of damp and decay.

  ‘Is there a cellar down there, boss?’

  ‘A dungeon,’ Guzmán said. ‘There’s room in there for all these documents.’

  Fuentes looked again at the steep drop. ‘How do we get them down?’

  ‘Why do you think we’ve got this d
umpster? Back it up another metre and then pull the red lever by the steering column. The files will slide out and fall into the chute.’

  Fuentes went back to the truck and reversed, keeping an eye on Guzmán’s signals in his mirror.

  ‘Stop right there,’ Guzmán called. ‘Any nearer and you’ll push me in.’ He edged back around the truck and went to the cab. ‘Once the files start sliding into the chute, don’t stop for anything. If anyone tries to get in the way, I’ll deal with them.’

  ‘Fine by me, boss,’ Fuentes said, glancing nervously down the street.

  Guzmán looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three. You may find the church bell a bit strange if you’ve never heard it before. It’s like someone took hold of your heart and squeezed.’ He turned to the back of the truck and worked his way along the edge of the chute, resting a hand on the back of the vehicle to steady himself as he unfastened the catch on the rear panel.

  Somewhere near, he heard a squeal of tyres. Maybe it was the autumn air, or maybe it was because he was standing on the edge of a sheer drop, but the air seemed suddenly cold. The tyres squealed again, closer now. ‘Raise the bed of the truck,’ he called.

  The engine growled as the flat bed of the truck started to rise, though only for a minute: from somewhere in the mechanism, they heard a harsh grinding noise. A smell of burning grease.

  ‘Pull the lever harder,’ Guzmán shouted.

  The truck bed juddered and then ground to a halt. Fuentes tried again and this time, the bed raised about half a metre. That was progress at least, Guzmán thought, though the angle was still not steep enough to tip the files into the chute. He reached up, trying to find the bolts on the flap of the truck.

  Further down the road, near the pharmacy, a car squealed around the corner and pulled to an abrupt stop sixty metres away. The door opened and a man got out.

  ‘It’s stuck, boss,’ Fuentes yelled.

  ‘Keep trying,’ Guzmán said, watching Miguel Galíndez running towards them.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Guzmán asked, as Galíndez reached the truck. He was sweating heavily and his dark, unshaven face gleamed in the afternoon light.