‘I’d rather not tell anyone yet,’ Guzmán said, thinking fast. ‘Your father was a national hero: there’ll be an outcry when Franco finds out he’s been murdered. I was supposed to keep the hunt for El Lobo a secret.’
She took his hand again. ‘That’s most inconvenient for you. I’m sorry.’
‘Inconvenient?’ He saw the headlines, the call from Franco’s HQ. And then a lifetime of poverty stretching before him. ‘It’s more than inconvenient, I’ll be fucked.’
‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’ Magdalena asked.
‘It would all be different if your father died from natural causes.’
‘You really are fucked then, if you’ll excuse my language.’
‘Suppose he died of a heart attack?’ he said. ‘At least, that’s what we say happened.’
‘You mean you want me to cover up my father’s death?’
‘More or less.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘It’s a lot to ask, I know.’
She gave him a long look. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘We follow his last wish to be buried quietly without a funeral, here at the lodge.’ Guzmán said, improvising rapidly.
‘I really don’t care what we do with him,’ Magdalena said, ‘but I’ll need a death certificate so I can inherit the company. And you’ll never get a death certificate because no doctor in Spain would mistake a bullet wound for a heart attack.’
‘Isn’t there a German doctor in San Sebastián?’
‘There’s Dr Pfeiffer. He’s a very proper sort, I doubt he’d help in something like this.’
‘What do you mean “proper sort”?’
‘Oh, you know, an ex-military man.’ She frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘He’ll provide us with a death certificate, all right,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’ll bury your father here, at the back of the house. You drive into town for your meeting and I’ll come over tomorrow morning to say the words that will make Dr Pfeiffer only too pleased to help.’
‘Which are?’
‘Nuremburg is one and money is the other.’
‘You think he’s a war criminal?’
Guzmán smiled. ‘Why else would he be living in Spain?’
OROITZ 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL
It was evening by the time Guzmán finished the grave and manhandled the late General Torres into it. Magdalena drove back to San Sebastián, her composure fully restored, having taken a shower and changed into a silk dress that stopped Guzmán in his tracks as watched her climb into her car. He leaned through the window to say goodbye and received a chaste kiss on the cheek for his trouble.
‘Hasta mañana, Comandante,’ Magdalena whispered.
Guzmán drove back to Oroitz and parked up by the village.
As he walked down the narrow track to the cuartel, he realised something else had been going on here beside target practice. Two bodies lay near the door, wrapped in bloodstained sheets. Ochoa appeared in the doorway.
Guzmán nudged one of the corpses with his boot. ‘Who are the stiffs, Corporal?’
‘Reyes and Nistal,’ Ochoa said. ‘So the others say. I don’t know all their names yet.’
‘So what happened?’ Guzmán said. ‘When I asked you to give them some target practice I didn’t mean they should shoot each other.’
‘I think it was El Lobo,’ Ochoa said. ‘I took the squad for a route march up onto the hillside. We were ambushed as we climbed the track. He dropped these two with head shots. I got the others into an extended line and we opened up on him. The lads did their best.’
‘Which wasn’t much, given that it was one man against sixteen.’
‘They tried, jefe. I tried to outflank him but he rode off before I could get near.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About two thirty.’
‘But that’s when he shot General Torres. The lodge is across the valley from where you were. It would take at least two hours to get from there to the lodge. You know what this means?’
Ochoa shook his head. ‘What?’
‘There’s more than one gunman up there.’ Furious, Guzmán threw his cigarette butt to the ground near the corpses. ‘And the bastard nearly shot me. I don’t know who he’s got with him, but I’ll tell you this: they’re not coming down from those hills alive.’
He stood for a moment, fists clenched as he stared up at the mountains. Far off, a campfire flickered on the ridge, a tiny speck of light in the darkness.
‘I’ve got business in town tomorrow, Corporal,’ Guzmán said, calmer now. ‘You’ve got one more day to get the squad into shape. Then we’re going into the hills after El Lobo.’
‘What if the men aren’t ready, jefe?’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘That’s their problem.’
8
MADRID, JULY 2010, BAR SALTAMONTES, CALLE DEL ALCALDE SÁINZ DE BARANDA
An expensive cocktail bar, angular black metal fittings, subtle lighting reflected on the long chrome and glass bar. The place was empty but for a woman perched on a stool at the bar, nursing her third drink. The barman darted an admiring glance at her, noting the expensive clothes, the immaculately styled hair framing the delicate beauty of her face. A face that turned heads in the street. But, beautiful as Isabel Morente was, it was her voice that made her famous: her radio show Tardes con Isabel attracted huge audiences. Until today.
‘Drowning your sorrows after what happened this morning, señorita?’
‘You heard the programme?’ She looked at her empty glass, wondering about another.
‘I always listen to your show, although it isn’t usually as exciting as it was today. Did you plan to quit before you went on air?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘Not at all. But after the phone-in about the Galíndez Inquiry started, we kept getting call after call saying the guardia should fire her because she is gay. After an hour of that, I just lost it.’
‘You certainly did. And you told him exactly what you thought, señorita. You also came out in front of half a million listeners.’ The barman rubbed a hand across his stubble. ‘That took courage. You get my respect.’
‘That’s not what my bosses said.’ Isabel sighed.
‘No? What did they say?’
‘Oh, this and that. “You’re fired” is the bit I remember most.’
‘Well, you stuck up for your principles, señorita. Although...’
Isabel frowned. ‘Although what?’
The barman shrugged. ‘You have to be able to afford principles. Take me. I’d quit this job today because of the lousy pay, the long hours serving journalists who stay until five in the morning, puke on the floor and then leave shitty tips. But I don’t quit because I can’t afford to. Working on radio is different, I guess. All that money must give you some leeway.’
‘Hombre, I wish that was true. I’m stuck with a big mortgage on a flat in the city centre that I only bought so I could get to the studio every day at six a.m. and I’ve been working twelve hours a day so my social life has been non-existent and now I’ve got no job.’
‘All the same, you said your piece and I bet most of Madrid heard it. Good for you.’ He wiped the counter with a towel. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No thanks. La cuenta por favor.’ Isabel slid her credit card across the counter.
The barman pushed the card into the reader. ‘I’ll turn the sound up on the TV. Hey, look, it’s about the Galíndez case.’
The TV showed a flight of steps, the camera slowly zooming in on two figures standing together at the bottom of the steps. One dressed in a stylish trench coat, holding a microphone, the other in a black suit, her hair tied back.
‘The guardia civil have now officially confirmed that Dr Galíndez has been completely exonerated of breaking the guardia civil code of conduct and has been reinstated following her suspension. Dr Galíndez is with me now. Buenas días.’
‘Buenas días.’
‘See? You were right to have faith in her, Señorita Morente.’ The barman looked
down at the credit-card reader and frowned.
‘Is there something wrong with my card?’
‘I’m afraid it’s been declined, señorita. You’re over your credit limit.’
‘Mierda. I’ve got another somewhere in my bag. Hang on.’
The barman slid her card back across the bar. ‘Forget it. It’s on the house.’
‘Gracias.’ Isabel turned to look at the TV as the camera closed in on the woman being interviewed. Despite her slight build there was a certain quiet confidence in the way Galíndez carried herself. Dark hair tied back tight, a pale face, her eyes ringed with shadow. The thin line of her lips suggested she hadn’t smiled in a long time. She stared into the camera as if looking for something. A moment later, as the interview ended, she put on her sunglasses and turned away towards the main road.
‘Hola? Penny for them, Señorita Morente?’
‘What?’ Isabel twisted round on the bar stool, startled. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I said since you lost your job sticking up for her, maybe you could ask Dr Galíndez for an interview. You’re a reporter, after all. Might be worth a try.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Isabel said. ‘Maybe there’s even a book to be written about, God, what’s his name, the one she was investigating?’
‘Guzmán, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s him. I could take her research findings and make them more accessible to a wider audience. She’s had so much publicity recently, it might even be a bestseller.’
‘Go for it. And this could be your lucky day, because from what I just saw on TV, she’s coming this way. I reckon she’ll pass the door any minute.’
Isabel shook her head. ‘I can’t just jump out at her like that.’
‘Why not? You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’
‘I am, but I don’t want to intrude.’ Isabel thought about it for a moment and then got down from the bar stool, suddenly energised. ‘I tell you what, if she agrees, I’m coming back here to pay that bill.’
‘Ay, señorita.’ The barman smiled. ‘That’s what they all say.’
MADRID 2010, CALLE DEL ALCALDE SÁINZ DE BARANDA
Galíndez walked slowly, glad to be away from the TV cameras. As she turned the corner, she reached up and untied her hair, shaking it loose. Perhaps now the media would lose interest in her and she could go back to being that woman from Forensics again.
As she crossed the street, she noticed a cocktail bar, its dark metal and glass interior vague behind the smoked glass window. She thought briefly about going in for a drink, but the only customer was a woman talking to the barman. Both were staring at her. Galíndez decided to give the place a miss and turned away.
‘Excuse me?’
A woman was standing in the doorway. High cheekbones, striking green eyes and annoyingly healthy hair. She seemed familiar.
‘My name’s Isabel Morente. I do a daytime radio show. Or I did.’
‘I’ve heard it a few times,’ said Galíndez, recognising her. ‘Buenas Días, isn’t it?’
‘That’s a different station. My show’s Tardes con Isabel. Well, it was, anyway. I was fired this morning.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ said Galíndez. ‘Why did they do that?’
Isabel shrugged. ‘I swore at some of the people who called in to discuss your case.’
Galíndez raised her eyebrows. ‘Thanks for the support, though it’s a shame about your job. I wish there was something I could do.’
‘Actually, there is,’ said Isabel. ‘I wondered if you’d collaborate with me on a book about your investigation. “In search of Guzmán”, something like that? I’ll write it if you provide the material.’
Galíndez didn’t need to think it over. ‘It’s a great idea. I’d like that.’
‘So it’s a deal?’ Isabel gave her a broad smile. ‘It will get your Guzmán story to a wider audience and address another issue close to my heart.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’ll keep me from starving. My career will be in meltdown after what happened.’
‘We can’t have that.’ Galíndez smiled. ‘Here’s my card. Give me a call.’
‘Thanks,’ Isabel said. ‘I look forward to working with you. Hasta pronto.’
As Galíndez walked towards the metro, a black four-by-four pulled out of a parking bay a few metres ahead. Two men got out. Big men with expressionless faces, dark shades and shoulder holsters. The taller of the two went to the door of the car and opened it. His menacing stare turned to a slightly less menacing smile. ‘Get in please, Dr Galíndez.’
There was no way she could handle both of them. Maybe she should just run.
A gruff voice boomed from inside the vehicle. ‘Jesús Cristo, get in, will you?’
Galíndez peered into the gloomy interior. ‘Uncle Ramiro?’
‘These men are paid by the hour, so stop keeping them waiting and get in. I haven’t got all day,’ Ramiro grumbled, impatient as ever.
Galíndez slid into the rear seat. She waited until one of the men slammed the door before turning on Ramiro. ‘Do you know your men aren’t wearing any ID? The code of conduct strictly says officers must—’
‘Jesús, Ana María, you sound like a policewoman. Regulations this, regulations that, blah, blah, blah.’ Ramiro shrugged. ‘They aren’t guardia, they’re Special Forces. They don’t have a code of conduct and even if they did, it would be top secret.’
Galíndez glowered at him. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘If you’d shut up for a moment, I could tell you. And don’t start lecturing me about secrecy, you never even told me you were gay.’
‘It wasn’t any of your business. It still isn’t, come to that.’
He sighed. ‘That’s what your tía Teresa said, only louder.’
‘In any case,’ Galíndez continued, ‘it’s hard to tell you anything. You’re not very approachable. You’re grumpy and you explode at the slightest—’
‘Puta madre, not fucking approachable – me?’ Ramiro bellowed. ‘You should have met my father. They didn’t call him Iron Hand for nothing. I’m a pussy cat in comparison.’
‘You’re second in command of the guardia. I have to put in twice as much effort to show I can do the job without your help.’ She paused, realising she was shouting.
‘I know the feeling, Ana. My father deliberately made life in the guardia hard to make me prove myself. At least I don’t do that to you.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet.’
‘I never meant to harm your reputation,’ Galíndez said quietly. I’m really sorry you lost the NATO posting because of me.’ She frowned. ‘Although you did punch that reporter who was bothering me. That might have counted against you.’
‘Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I won’t have people manhandle you like that,’ Ramiro muttered. He fidgeted, uncomfortably. ‘Unless you want them to, obviously.’
Galíndez laughed. ‘Stop while you’re ahead, uncle. I caused trouble for you, and I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted that posting and I know you lost it because of me.’
His eyes twinkled. ‘Not at all. Having a gay niece seems to have worked wonders.’
She frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I got a call from NATO High Command earlier today. They have lots of gay troops now, Dutch and Germans, I imagine. Having a commander who understands the issues and who’s had to publicly defend attacks on his niece because of her sexuality are key skills for a modern NATO commander. At least that’s what their press officer said.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, punching the reporter showed my caring side.’
‘So they offered you the job? Enhorabuena, Tio Ramiro.’
‘And one favour deserves another, no?’ Ramiro smiled. ‘So my friends here are going to give you a lift.’ He tapped on the glass partition and the big bodyguard started the engine.
‘Where are you giving me a lift to?’
‘I think you’ll like it,’ Ramiro said. ‘Call it an early Christm
as present.’ Awkwardly, he put his arm round her. ‘I know you don’t want people to think of you just as my niece. But I do want to help you use your talents, Ana.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Galíndez said.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t come in with you. It’s best you talk to her woman to woman.’
‘But who am I going to meet, Uncle Ramiro?’
‘Someone very important,’ Ramiro said as the car moved into traffic on Calle de Goya. ‘At least, she thinks so.’
MADRID 2010, MINISTERIO DEL INTERIOR, CALLE AMADOR DE LOS RÍOS
Galíndez looked round the empty meeting room, bored by its faded curtains and dull wallpaper. She went back down the hall to the reception desk. ‘Are you sure I’m expected?’
The receptionist gave her a dazzling smile. ‘Definitely, Dr Galíndez. Just have a seat in there, someone will be with you soon.’ The phone rang and the receptionist took the call.
Galíndez returned to the meeting room and paced around the table, wondering who she was going to meet. Some civil servant, she imagined. Maybe they were doing a press release about her returning to work.
The door opened and a smartly dressed woman entered, accompanied by two men in suits. The men took up position on either side of the doors, watching impassively as the woman came over to shake Galíndez’s hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Ana, I’m Rosario Calderón.’
Galíndez didn’t needed an introduction. The Minister of the Interior was one of the most powerful politicians in the government.
‘You’re probably wondering why I asked you here,’ Calderón said, waving Galíndez to a chair. ‘I have to confess I’ve taken an interest in your work.’
‘Can I ask why?’ Galíndez asked, flustered.
‘For one reason, it’s very interesting,’ Calderón replied. ‘And from the mail I get, a great many members of the public are also interested in your work on Comandante Guzmán. In fact, the data from our focus groups shows huge support for exposing his crimes.’ She gave Galíndez a long careful look. ‘The data also show a high level of public confidence in you.’
The Exile Page 14
