‘You think it’s that easy?’ Ramirez snorted. ‘How will you know it’s not Franco’s secret police you’re dealing with? That happens all the time to people like you.’
‘Comrades, please,’ Etxarte said. ‘Perhaps we can explain our plans in more detail to Señor Ramirez. Show him we’re sincere. Maybe we could have the rifles on a lease. When the struggle is over, he could be paid then.’ He took a bulky brown paper envelope from his inside pocket. ‘Would this serve as a deposit at least, Señor Ramirez? Five hundred Yanqui dollars – it’s all we could raise.’ He placed the envelope on the table.
‘What’s this “Señor” business?’ the man with the appalling beard said. ‘We reject bourgeois formality. What’s your first name, Compañero Ramirez?’
Ramirez sighed and glanced at his watch. It was time to put an end to this. ‘There are three points I need to make, comrade.’ He emphasised the word with sudden malice. ‘The first is that what you are doing is highly dangerous – as I said, the possession of weapons is treachery and the penalty for treachery is death. Second, that’s the worst fucking beard I’ve ever seen and you should be ashamed of it.’ He stopped and finished his cigarette. He threw it down and ground it out with his heel. ‘You can’t be too careful in a wooden building,’ he said, smiling.
‘So what’s the third?’ the young man shouted, incensed by the insult to his beard.
‘The third?’ Ramirez stared at him. ‘My name is Comandante Guzmán of the Brigada Especial. Buenas noches.’
The others in the audience shuffled, suddenly uncomfortable and confused. The bearded young man leaped up, brandishing the rifle like a club. ‘I don’t believe you. If you were a policeman you’d have arrested us by now.’
Guzmán nodded. ‘If I were a normal policeman, I would. But I’m not. Those weapons are only here to make things look right for the coroner.’
‘You’re trapped,’ the young man said. ‘We’ll beat you to death with your own rifles.’
Guzmán reached into his jacket and drew the Browning semi-automatic in a smooth motion that ended with the muzzle of the gun pointing at the bearded man’s face. One of the women gasped. The rest were shocked into silence, eyes fixed on the pistol in his hand.
Guzmán shot the bearded man in the forehead. Blood and brain tissue spattered those behind him and the ugly woman gasped as the bullet exited the back of the man’s skull, hitting her in the chest. The bearded man had fallen onto two of his startled comrades and before they could push his body away, Guzmán shot them. The other woman made a break for it, leaping from her seat and running towards the door. The door Guzmán had locked.
Guzmán shot her between the shoulder blades. The impact threw her forwards into the door and she clutched at the handle with rapidly ebbing strength, fighting to stay on her feet. Guzmán fired again. This time, the bullet struck a few inches above the base of her spine, opening another red flower on her pale cotton dress. She slid down the door to the ground, leaving irregular crimson trails as she went. The other students remained in their seats, frozen with fear and shock. They died without resistance.
The ensuing silence was immense – at least for Etxarte, sitting on the dais, white-faced, his ears ringing from the gunfire, staring dully at the carnage a couple of metres away. The familiar meeting place was suddenly unreal, haunted by strange smells. Acrid gun smoke drifted over the corpses, mingling with the smell of burned clothing and a charnel odour he recognised from market day. The smell of fresh blood. The evening had turned to nightmare and that nightmare was now striding towards Etxarte, dark eyes glinting as he slammed another magazine of ammunition into the Browning as he stepped up onto the dais.
‘I told you I’d deal with you all together.’ He took out a packet of Bisontes, lifted it to his mouth and took a cigarette between his lips. He glanced round, suddenly remembering something, and went over to the table, took the envelope of money and shoved it into his pocket, keeping the pistol pointed at Etxarte.
‘Quieres?’ Guzmán held out the packet with his left hand.
Etxarte stared at the muzzle of the pistol. He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
The shot hit him in the middle of his chest, smashing him backwards, still seated. The muzzle flash ignited the material of his shirt around the entry wound. Small flames licked up around the growing dark stain.
‘You do now,’ Guzmán said.
SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA
Guzmán left the mechanical clatter of the hotel lift and strode across the lobby to the reception desk. He was not in a good mood. It was two in the morning and he had got lost several times driving back from the job at the schoolhouse. Maps were like people: little use in daylight and by night completely hopeless. With certain exceptions, obviously.
The night porter gave him a sheet of hotel notepaper with a name scrawled on it in childish handwriting. ‘This gentleman called several times, Señor Ramirez.’
Guzmán looked at the paper. The name was a code. The caller was Coronel Gutierrez.
‘Is there a telephone in my room?’
‘No, señor,’ the porter muttered. He worked nights precisely to avoid human contact and had already exceeded the limits of his usual conversations with guests.
‘So where the fuck can I find one?’
The man pointed to the telephone at the end of the desk. ‘There’s one there, señor.’
‘But then you’d be able to listen to my conversation,’ Guzmán said. ‘Where’s the manager’s office?’
‘Only the manager is allowed to use that room I’m afraid, señor.’ Guzmán realised the porter was keeping his voice down so as not to disturb sleeping residents. That was gross provocation. Physical violence would draw too much attention at this time of night. Merely arguing with the simpleton was clearly worthless. That left the option of out-and-out terror. Guzmán pulled the Browning from its holster and reached across the counter to press the muzzle against the night porter’s forehead.
‘And only I am allowed to use this, you fucking badulaque,’ Guzmán said, thumbing back the hammer. ‘If I pull the trigger, most of what passes for your brain will be splashed over that wall behind you. So, let me ask you again. And, since I’m talking rationally, using the language of good Christians and being exceptionally’ – he pushed the muzzle of the pistol harder against the man’s sweat-sheened forehead – ‘exceptionally polite in the face of your rudeness, tell me where the fucking manager’s office is. Or you’ll die. And no one, absolutamente nadie, coño, will care, I promise you.’ He paused, pacified for a moment by the exercise of his frenetic vocabulary of violence. ‘Is that clear?’
The night porter tried to nod, which was foolish since Guzmán’s pistol was still pressed against his forehead. ‘It’s the door behind the gentleman.’
Guzmán turned to look without taking the gun from the man’s head. ‘Good. I’ll use the phone in there. I want some supper as well. Get me a bottle of brandy and a large sandwich and do it quickly. But knock first or I’ll shoot you in the doorway, entendido?’
The porter was shaking violently and the chance to make up for whatever he had done to bring Guzmán’s anger down on him was highly appealing. ‘Understood, señor. Although I don’t know where I can get a bottle of brandy at this time of night. The bar’s locked.’
Guzmán walked over to the door of the manager’s office and opened it, feeling for the light switch. The room was suddenly bathed in a sickly glow like an undertaker’s candle. He turned. ‘For all I care, hombre, you can prise it out of the hand of a dying nun in the gutter. Just fuck off and do it.’ He slammed the door in the porter’s face.
Guzmán sat at the manager’s desk. Out of professional habit, he tried the drawers. They were locked. That suggested the possibility of discovering something incriminating. It would be worth searching the room before he left. If nothing else, perhaps he would find something that would enable him to coerce the manager into not charging him for his room.
A knock at the door as the night porter came in bearing a tray with a length of hurriedly sliced loaf stuffed with chorizo, and a bottle of Carlos Tercero. The porter placed the plate on the desk, and next to it, the bottle of brandy with an insultingly small glass.
Guzmán noticed an envelope on the tray. ‘What’s this?’
‘Your mail, sir.’
Guzmán gestured for him to leave and listened to the phone ringing, using his free hand to open the bottle. As he raised the bottle to his mouth, someone answered.
‘Is that you, Guzmán?’ Gutierrez didn’t sound happy. But then, he rarely did.
‘Buenas noches, mi Coronel. Times must be hard if you’ve got to answer the phone at this time of night.’
‘This is my personal number now, Guzmán, so do try to address me correctly, will you? I’ve been a general de brigada since last week.’
Guzmán shook a fist at the wall of the office. Mierda. Every fucker gets promotion but me. I’ve done everything they asked and more and the cabrónes piss on me. Puta madre.
‘No need to congratulate me, Guzmán. How are things in the Basque Country?’
‘Fine. I met with the clients earlier this evening.’
‘And how did the negotiations go?’
Guzmán swallowed a mouthful of brandy. ‘Abandoned due to sudden bereavement.’
‘Really? I didn’t expect you’d do it so quickly. How many?’
‘Eight.’ Guzmán felt a spasm of anger at the sudden silence. ‘What?’
‘There were supposed to be ten.’
‘Eight showed up. The organiser, Etxarte, said two couldn’t make it. There’s also a quartermaster, but he keeps his distance so he can’t betray them if he’s captured.’ He swallowed more brandy. ‘You didn’t mention a quartermaster in your briefing.’
‘That’s because I didn’t know, Guzmán. So don’t fucking gloat.’
‘I can only work with the information I’m given,’ Guzmán said, gloating. ‘There’s a password. Actually more than a word, because Basques can’t say anything in less than half a page. ‘“In the mountains, the snows are burning” – that’s how they recognise one another.’
‘Very poetic,’ Gutiérrez sneered. ‘Now you’re up there, Comandante, there’s some more business to attend to and it’s a little more important than learning a few Basque phrases. You’ve heard about El Lobo since you arrived, I imagine?’
‘Of course. He hides up in the hills among the wolves and goats. Shoots at the local policía and guardia civil from time to time. He’s just a bandit – not a problem for the security services.’ A long silence. It was the silence that always preceded some ludicrously demeaning order from Gutierrez. Guzmán clenched his fist.
‘A bandit?’ Gutierrez snorted. ‘You haven’t noticed that the underground press refer to El Lobo as a guerrilla hero who’s returned to continue the Civil War? How there are groups of young Basques wanting to join him in his struggle against the State?’
‘So what? Look how I dealt with those traitors this evening. One clip of ammunition – well, two – and they’re gone. Send the guardia after this Lobo.’
Silence. Guzmán realised where this was leading. ‘I’m not doing it. You told me—’
‘Things have changed,’ Gutierrez cut in. ‘El Lobo robbed an army payroll truck earlier today, not ten miles from Bilbao. He left four guardia civiles dead and got away with a great deal of money. Real money as well: dollars, not pesetas. There’s uproar here. The Basque region is supposed to be calm. When I said you were in the area, Franco told me to give you the job.’
Guzmán took another swig of brandy. So, Franco remembers I’m useful? ‘All right, I’ll go after El Lobo.’
‘Excellent. We want him dead as soon as possible. And not a hero’s death either: we don’t want him to become a martyr. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely. Where do I start?’
‘There’s a village up in the hills called Oroitz. El Lobo’s been very active round there. I understand there’s a guardia barracks there so you can use the squad as you see fit.’
‘Bueno. I’ll go up there and take a look,’ Guzmán said, ‘but I’ll need some of my boys from the Brigada Especial to get a job like this done quickly.’
‘I’ve already arranged for someone to join you up there, Comandante. He was about to be posted to Calle Robles, I think he’ll be of use to you.’
‘One man?’
‘I believe you know him,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Corporal Ochoa.’
‘Ochoa?’ Guzmán grumbled. ‘I remember him. But he’s a photographer, for fuck’s sake. And he’s miserable.’
‘He’s a good man, and in any case, he’s all I can spare. He’ll arrive the day after tomorrow. We’ve also got a number of informants in the area, so naturally I’ll pass on any information from them as soon as it’s available.’
‘Who’s going to handle communications between us?’
‘Capitán Viana is coming up there to deal with that side of things. He’s just transferred to us from naval intelligence. I haven’t met him in person yet, but I’ve heard good things about him. He’ll be in touch in the next day or so.’
Guzmán looked at his sandwich, wishing Gutiérrez would fuck off. ‘Is that all?’
‘Not yet,’ Gutiérrez sighed. ‘There are certain complications.’
Guzmán realised he was not going to like this. ‘What might they be?’
‘Firstly, General Mellado, the Military Governor, is causing problems. He’s asked Franco for permission to implement martial law over the entire region.’
‘Mellado’s a character,’ Guzmán said. ‘We used to call him Madman in the war. He’s always been overenthusiastic.’
‘Far too enthusiastic for my liking, Guzmán. Frankly, if I had my way we’d get rid of him. He’s a part of the past now, it’s time he retired. But Franco’s not keen on removing him. He hates change.’
‘No change there, then,’ Guzmán muttered. ‘Why do you want rid of him so much?’
‘Don’t get me started. Mainly because he doesn’t realise we need to be aware of our image abroad these days. We need foreign trade and the economy is still a shambles.’
‘Last year, you said the American trade deal would solve all our problems.’
‘And so it will, when they finally part with the money,’ Gutierrez said. ‘But the Yanquis have a peculiar aversion to the ways we deal with issues of public order. If General Mellado sends in his troops, it would cause massive unrest and if the bodies start piling up, the Americans will turn pale and pull the plug on the deal. We’ll remain a nation of paupers.’
‘Has anyone told Mellado that?’
‘You worked with him, didn’t you? He’s not a great listener.’
‘I could have a word,’ Guzmán suggested. ‘I’m sure he’ll see sense.’
‘Do that. Remind him that Franco himself has forbidden him to take action.’
‘I will. Is that all for tonight?’
‘I hope I’m not keeping you from your bed, Guzmán? Because there are other factors you need to know about. Things that make the situation even more sensitive.’
Here we go. Guzmán waited in silence for the bad news.
‘The US Ambassador is holidaying in France,’ Gutierrez said, ‘Biarritz, to be exact.’ He’s taking the US Special Envoy with him, the man who’s going to hand over the money for the trade deal next week.’
Guzmán exhaled loudly. ‘So what?’
‘My point is, the two Americans we’d least like to be near the Basque country right now are practically camped out on the border. We don’t want their holiday spoiled by reports about Spain’s internal problems.’
‘I’ll be discreet.’ Guzmán took another pull of brandy.
‘Good, and it goes without saying that you’re explicitly forbidden to
cross the border into France, Comandante. An international incident would be disastrous.’
Guzmán picked up a pencil lying by the blotter on the desk. ‘I’ve got the message.’
‘I hope so, because otherwise Madrid will be a distant memory for you.’
‘I’m looking at a map of the area as we speak,’ Guzmán said, doodling on the blotter. ‘I’ve already identified the key issue.’
‘I imagine that involves working out your chances of survival?’ Gutiérrez’s voice was faint and distorted. ‘I’d forgotten your close attention to detail. Just don’t expect to be paid for working through the night.’
Before Guzmán could tell him to fuck himself, Gutierrez hung up.
Guzmán swallowed another mouthful of brandy and looked down at his doodle; his chances of survival did not depend upon the calculation of unfeasible odds or the likelihood of failure. They hinged on a simple axis between the two outcomes now scrawled on the blotter, competing with the mosaic pattern of innumerable coffee cups. Him or me.
That was enough strategic planning for one night and he reached for the sandwich. Strangely, the night porter had made it just the way he liked: roughly cut bread with the chorizo hacked into thick greasy chunks. Things were looking up. Once this job was completed, he could be back in Madrid within days.
The envelope was still lying on the tray. Guzmán picked it up, seeing the crest of the Military Governor’s office. He tore it open and slid out the embossed card:
THE MILITARY GOVERNOR GENERAL JOSÉ MELLADO REQUESTS THE PRESENCE OF DON LEOPOLDO GUZMÁN
AT A CHARITY DINNER IN SUPPORT OF THE SECCIÓN FEMENINA OF THE FALANGE.
FRIDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1954. 8.00 P.M. PROMPT.
BLACK TIE.
Guzmán groaned. An evening with the parasites and sycophants of the party was a dismal proposition, even if it did involve a free meal, particularly since the members of the Sección Femenina resembled a troupe of third-rate Italian opera singers, although marginally larger, perhaps.
It was time to get some rest but, tired as he was, Guzmán found it hard to break the habit of a lifetime. He took out his key ring and used one of the locksmith’s picks attached to it to open the manager’s drawers. Despite a thorough search, he found nothing incriminating and went to his room, taking the half-empty bottle with him for a nightcap.
The Exile Page 2
