The Spanish Game am-3

by Charles Cumming

  On the morning of 16 October 1983, Lasa and Zabala were driven from Bayonne to San Sebastian, where they were held for three months in an abandoned palace belonging to the Ministry of the Interior. They were gagged and blindfolded, almost certainly administered mind-altering drugs, beaten and severely tortured. Some of the information gleaned during their interrogation would later lead to the deaths of other etarras at the hands of the GAL. Lasa and Zabala’s bodies were eventually discovered two years later buried under fifty kilos of quicklime, 800 kilometres south of Bayonne outside the village of Bosot near Alicante. The men had been taken to an isolated location, stripped naked, placed before an open grave and shot through the neck. It would be another ten years before their remains were formally identified, and five more before the men responsible – among them senior members of the Guardia Civil and the civil governor of Guipuzcoa himself – were brought to justice.

  As Zulaika relates this story over beans and bread, his facial expression barely changes. He would have been no older than eight or nine when the GAL began its campaign of terror, yet subsequent events – the imprisonment of the interior minister, the implication that Gonzalez himself may have orchestrated the dirty war – doubtless cemented in his young mind both the legitimacy of ETA’s cause and the iniquity of the government in Madrid. The GAL may have succeeded in persuading the French authorities to take a tougher stance against ETA, but its enduring legacy was catastrophic. The GAL’s cack-handed dirty war made martyrs of its victims and spawned an entirely new generation of young Basque activists dedicated to the use of violence as a legitimate political tactic.

  And you think this is happening again? You think Arenaza and Otamendi were murdered by the Guardia Civil? By the army? By mercenaries hired through Madrid?’

  Zulaika pauses over a final mouthful of fabada. Xavi has fallen asleep, dribble at the sides of his dummy. I have pushed my own bowl to the side of the table.

  ‘It is something we in Euskal Herria have been anticipating for some time. Think about it. Aznar is committed to the destruction of ETA. This much we know. He has teamed up with Blair and Bush and they are united against terror, whatever that means. But how do you win a war of this kind? Not through negotiation, not through legitimate means, but through the state’s own brand of terror. The dirty war. Spain in its democratic incarnation has a history of illegal tactics. From 1975 to 1981, that is immediately after the death of Franco when the country was supposed to have become a democracy, you have fascist groups avenging the death of figures like Carrero Blanco, responding in childish eye-for-eye fashion to the work of ETA. In 1980 alone, the Batallon Vasco Espanol, a collection of Madrid thugs, killed four people in a bar, then a pregnant woman, even a child in a playground. Two other women were raped before their murder by the BVE. The killers were well known to local people, but no action was taken against them. Then the officer who is supposed to be in charge of the case is promoted to be the leader of the Spanish police intelligence service two years later. And you ask why people become angry. You ask why the dirty war is not possible.’

  ‘I didn’t ask that. It just seems unlikely -’

  Zulaika interrupts me, jutting forward, as if I have offended him. ‘ Unlikely? ’ He’s like a petulant teenager who hasn’t got his way. I have the sense that this is the first time he has properly articulated his theory, and he won’t like anyone testing it for flaws. ‘Last month a respected expert at the United Nations, the same United Nations that Spain and America chooses to ignore over Iraq, proved that our Basque prisoners have been subjected to torture and abuse in Spanish jails. It is still going on, Alec, to this day. The UN showed that those detained were beaten, that they were kept awake for long hours and forced to exhaust themselves with physical exercise, that they have plastic bags placed over their heads just to give the guards something to laugh about, that they are starved and beaten. It is Guantanamo on our own Spanish soil. You’re naive if you think that a dirty war is not being fought against ETA and al-Qaeda all the time. The ringleaders of the GAL are still treated as heroes by the majority in Spain. They walk into a restaurant and there is applause. But when a family from Euskal Herria wins compensation for the way they have been mistreated by the police, it can take ten years to receive the money. This is of course disgusting and the United Nations report also points this out. So what we are seeing now is just a scaling up of an already existing problem.’

  Zulaika shakes his head as if to deflect any potential rebuttal of his argument and leans back in his seat, draining another glass of water. The zealot at rest. What would be the point in drawing to his attention ETA’s own record of more than 800 dead over a period of thirty years, the thousands injured, the families obliterated by terror? Isn’t it time it all stopped? Too many lives have been taken for the sake of a line on a map which will never be drawn. I manage to say only this:

  ‘Patxo, you have to agree that these are not good times for ETA. From what I read in the British newspapers, a lot of the leadership has been rounded up. The French have got their own anti-terrorist police, they’re working in conjunction with the Spanish, extradition is a lot easier than it used to be. Why would Aznar or his subordinates risk that by launching another GAL? It just doesn’t make sense.’

  He pauses and calls the waitress over, requesting two cups of coffee. For once, she ignores Xavi, who sleeps. It has dawned on me that Zulaika must have knowledge of Buscon’s role in the Arenaza abduction. A mercenary figure would validate his conspiracy. The masterminds behind both dirty wars disguised their links to the plot by hiring foreign extremists to do their dirty work for them. Kitson himself said that Buscon was a member of Portugal’s Secret Service. Several right-wing figures from the Portuguese underworld were involved in the GAL.

  ‘Let me answer that in two ways,’ he replies, following some truck drivers with his eyes as they exit the restaurant. ‘First, ETA is not finished. Not at all. It is like the serpent. You cut off its head and three more will grow in its place. The gudaris will simply bring the fight to France, and they will base themselves elsewhere: in Belgium, in more hospitable countries. Secondly, you must always remember that the Spanish are a vengeful people. Vengeance is in their blood. Perhaps as a tourist you do not see this. You see smiling families on the streets of Madrid and all the nice weather in Marbella and you think that nothing is wrong here. But they are cruel and morbid.’

  ‘I don’t accept that at all. You said the same thing about the English.’ And don’t call me a fucking tourist, you prick. ‘If nationalism shows us anything, it is that all human beings, of whatever creed or colour, are capable of appalling acts of violence, of horrific cruelty. We all have it inside us, Patxo. You, me, the chef who made our beans. Madrid doesn’t have the monopoly on inhuman behaviour.’ His forehead creases up, as if he has failed to understand what I am saying. I don’t bother to go back and translate. ‘Let’s just stick to the facts. All you have are two dead bodies and no suspects and suddenly the entire Spanish state is involved in a third dirty war?’

  The waitress has set down Zulaika’s cup of coffee into which he pours two packets of sugar, stirring as he composes his response. She seems to flinch at mention of the term ‘dirty war’ and looks worriedly into my eyes. Her face is white with fatigue and there is a slight pink rash on the underside of her chin. It has suddenly become very warm inside the restaurant and I take off my sweater, setting it on the seat beside me.

  ‘Do you know the story of Segundo Marey?’ Zulaika asks.

  Marey was kidnapped by the GAL and held for ten days in 1983, despite having no discernible relationship with ETA. He was the most high-profile of the innocent victims caught up in the second dirty war. To see where Zulaika is going with this, and to keep up an impression of general ignorance about Basque history, I shake my head and say ‘No.’

  ‘The Marey family are Basques. Like many people, they were forced to leave Euskal Herria in the Civil War because of the activities of the fascist troops under Franco.
Segundo was four years old when he was brought across the border into France. As an adult, he lived a blameless life working at a furniture business. He played an instrument in a brass band and wrote about the bullfights for a small local newspaper. Then, at Christmas 1983, a thug from the French Foreign Legion comes to his door, knocks down his wife with tear gas and takes him away. He had been kidnapped by the GAL on the orders of the civil governor of Vizcaya, a man who later became director of state security in all of Spain. The pimp had the phone number of the chief of police of Bilbao in his pocket. Do not forget these important connections. So they take Segundo to a shepherd’s hut in the hills near Laredo where he is kept in conditions that you would not allow for a pig. Only they realize very quickly that they have made a mistake. A balding 50-year-old furniture salesman who writes about the corrida is not the same thing as a 37-year-old gudari with a full head of hair who happens to live on the same street as Marey in Hendaye. But do they let him go? Of course they do not. They decide to take political advantage of the situation. They want to alarm the French and to bring to their attention the subject of so-called terrorism in France. Ten days later – ten days later – Marey was released and discovered by police, propped up against a tree in the woods near Dantxarinea. He was filthy and had not eaten. There was a note in his shirt pocket. I keep a copy of it with me in recent days. Would you like to see it, Alec?’

  Before I have a chance to reply, Zulaika has reached into his briefcase and retrieved a single piece of A4, folded once and still relatively crisp and fresh. I would guess that it was printed out in the last three or four days.

  Because of the increase in murders, kidnappings and extortion committed by the terrorist organization ETA on Spanish soil, planned and directed from French territory, we have decided to eliminate this situation. The Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberacion (GAL) founded with this object, put forward the following points:

  1. Each murder by the terrorists will have the necessary reply, not a single victim will remain without a reply.

  2. We will demonstrate our idea of attacking French interests in Europe, given that its government is responsible for permitting the terrorists to operate in its territory with impunity.

  3. As a sign of goodwill and convinced of the proper evaluation of the gesture on the part of the French government, we are freeing Segundo Marey, arrested by our organization as a consequence of his collaboration with the terrorists of ETA.

  You will receive news of the GAL.

  I pass the note back to Zulaika and curl my napkin into a ball.

  ‘What does this have to do with your theory?’

  ‘Let me add something else,’ he says, holding up his hands as if I have spoken out of turn. At his feet, Xavi stirs. ‘The men who were responsible for this crime, and for two other GAL shootings, dined on lobster and roasted lamb in prison. They brought putas into their cells. The guards treated them as heroes.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No? Well now you do.’ Zulaika has raised his voice a fraction and appears to check his temper in a rare moment of self-awareness. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to shout in front of my son.’ But Xavi picks up on the tenor of his father’s anger and begins to kick in the rocker. When Zulaika removes the dummy, the baby’s screams fill the restaurant. He lifts him up, pats him on the back, says something consoling in Basque and then looks at me as if he expects me to talk. I am still wondering what relevance the Marey kidnapping holds for his theory and can only stare blankly back.

  ‘You know about the disappearance of another man in Bilbao? Juan Egileor?’ he asks.

  Egileor is not a name that I have heard before. I shake my head. Xavi is now screaming at such a pitch that we are drawing irritated stares from neighbouring tables.

  ‘He too works at a furniture company. Not with Sokoa, like Marey, but with ADN, the office supply company. Perhaps you know it. They have outlets in Euskal Herria, also in Granada, Marbella, Valencia.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of ADN. A friend of mine bought a desk from them.’

  ‘He did?’ Zulaika looks strangely pleased. ‘Well, Senor Egileor is one of three vice-presidents of the company. He was taken from his home four days ago. No ransom note, no demands. The police have let it be known that they do not suspect the role of ETA in the kidnapping.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of the victim’s links to the nationalist movement, because of his high regard for Herri Batasuna, his work for the party. No. If anything, Egileor would be considered a friend of ETA, and therefore an enemy of the Spanish state.’

  ‘And you think he’s been kidnapped by the men responsible for Arenaza’s murder?’

  Xavi is briefly silent. ‘It is certainly a possibility.’

  ‘But Otamendi was on his way out of the organization. That’s what the papers are saying. Your theory might apply to Mikel and Egileor, but why kill a man who had turned his back on military action? A lot of stuff was stolen from his house. The television, jewellery, paintings. It looks like Otamendi just walked in on a burglary.’

  Zulaika has no response to this. The waitress has produced a bottle of warmed baby milk which he begins feeding to Xavi. I cannot recall Zulaika asking for her assistance, but he thanks her with a rare smile and stares back across the table, trying to trap me with his eyes.

  ‘Look, I think you are the key, Alec Milius. I want to know what you are hiding. My newspaper can protect you if you are being threatened. But if somebody is trying to prevent you revealing what you know about this, understand that people will die as a result of your silence.’

  ‘Well, let’s not be melodramatic’ The fact that Zulaika has a slurping infant in his lap helps me to retain a moderately relaxed countenance in the face of this threat, but none the less it is difficult to deflect the question and maintain my composure. ‘Nobody is trying to keep me silent. All I know is that Mikel was abducted and murdered. There’s nothing else.’

  ‘And what about Rosalia Dieste?’

  It is too late to disguise my shock. I manage to say, ‘Who?’ but Zulaika lets me swim in the lie. He knows that he took me by surprise. He timed the ace to perfection.

  ‘Rosalia Dieste,’ he repeats.

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  I must pursue this line at all costs and Zulaika knows that. He says, ‘ Claro, ’ as I nod my head. In time, his face assumes the disappointment of a man who has been betrayed by one he trusts. It is an effective fatalism. I start to feel guilty.

  ‘When we spoke on the telephone after my vacation,’ he says, ‘you mentioned that Mikel had a personal connection with somebody in Madrid.’

  ‘I said that?’

  ‘Yes. Because of the SIM card. That was your reaction. I have my notes if you want to read them. You said that the presence of so many calls to Plettix suggested that Mikel had a personal relationship with one of the company’s employees. What did you mean by that, Alec?’

  It is a constant effort to remain alert both to the possible limits of Zulaika’s knowledge and to the content of our previous conversations. He could be making something up to trap me. He could be asking a question in a particular way in order to elicit an unguarded response.

  ‘I don’t recall saying that. You think I know this woman?’

  Zulaika laughs quietly under his breath, as if I have insulted his intelligence. Placing Xavi back in the rocker he shakes his head and signals for the bill.

  ‘You know very well who she is. Rosalia Dieste was Mikel Arenaza’s mistress. Even his wife knows about her.’

  I feign further surprise. ‘Well, I wasn’t married to him, was I? Mikel had a mistress? He didn’t say anything about that to me.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ The waitress sets the bill down on the table and walks off. ‘Look. Dieste’s step-father was a Guardia Civil killed by a car bomb planted by ETA. So you have a family motive for revenge immediately. I think she trapped Arenaza in a love affair that was designed only to bring about his death.�
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  ‘Seriously?’ I assemble a brief sequence of baffled facial tics. ‘Surely that’s a little far-fetched? A honey trap? ’

  Zulaika has not heard this term before and I have to explain it to him, using a mixture of Spanish and English. Once he understands, he nods and says, ‘Exactly. A honey trap,’ but I am shaking my head.

  ‘Even if it’s true, why does she have to be part of a larger conspiracy? Why couldn’t she just have acted alone?’

  The question is designed to draw out a vital piece of information. If Zulaika has knowledge of Buscon’s role in the kidnapping, this is the moment at which he would be obliged to mention it.

  ‘I do not think so.’ He places a twenty-euro note on the table. ‘You do not do something like this without help. Miss Dieste is an engineer. She is a woman. She could not kill a man of Arenaza’s strength. The other killing, and the kidnapping of Juan Egileor, this indicates a plan involving several people.’

  ‘Then who are they?’

  But Zulaika has no answer. I rise from the table. At least he knows nothing about Buscon. ‘You’re paranoid, Patxo,’ I tell him. ‘You’re a good journalist, but you’re paranoid. You want to see things that aren’t there. You’re looking for a conspiracy where none exists. Why don’t you just ask this woman in person? Why don’t you just look up Rosalia Dieste and go to the police if she lies?’