The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘But they don’t know anything about me.’ Galíndez narrowed her eyes. ‘Do they?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Calderón smiled. ‘But they think they do, which is the important thing.’

  ‘Important for who?’

  ‘The focus-group research identified several characteristics the public associate with you: integrity, perseverance and courage. They also see you as a loner, conducting a difficult investigation without complaint.’

  ‘Really? Some of my colleagues think I never stop complaining.’

  ‘That might be true.’ Calderón laughed. ‘But the public don’t think so. And being young and attractive doesn’t hurt either. You particularly appeal to a younger demographic, I’m told.’ She gave Galíndez a knowing look. ‘Higher approval ratings amongst women as well.’

  ‘So they approve of me even though they know nothing about me?’

  ‘Of course, all they need is an image. After that, they weave their own narrative.’

  Galíndez decided not to argue.

  ‘So,’ Calderón continued, ‘your work not only resonates with the public, they also like you.’ She looked at Galíndez and held her gaze. ‘That means they’ll believe what you tell them.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to address public concerns through my work.’

  ‘And naturally, the public’s concern is the government’s concern. That’s why we want you to investigate certain criminal activities that began during the dictatorship.’

  Galíndez was taken by surprise. ‘What crimes?’

  ‘With the election coming up, the government is keen to show it’s addressing public concerns about crimes from the Franco era. We’d like you to focus on the niños robados.’

  Galíndez frowned. ‘The election’s not far off. It’ll be hard to carry out in-depth research in so short a time.’

  ‘It’s true you can’t examine every crime,’ Calderón said. ‘But you could draw some broad-brush conclusions, highlight the involvement of employees of the regime in the theft of children, that sort of thing.’

  ‘It would be too general. People want more detail about what went on, surely?’

  ‘People want a convincing narrative,’ Calderón said impatiently. ‘I think you can provide that, and in doing so you’ll reassure them that the government is doing something.’

  ‘You mean you want me to win votes for you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to that.’ Calderón gave Galíndez a charming smile. ‘But this research will be good for you as well.’ She looked at Galíndez intently. ‘Don’t you want something done about the stolen children?’

  ‘Of course. It’s horrendous that it’s been ignored for so long.’

  ‘That’s precisely why we want you to investigate,’ said Calderón. ‘There are links between Franco’s regime and the theft of maybe three hundred thousand children. Maybe you could show the involvement of the secret police in the sale of infants, for example.’

  Galíndez tensed, suddenly sensing the possibilities. ‘You mean Guzmán?’

  ‘You’re the expert.’ Calderón shrugged. ‘And you’ve already collected information on him, so it makes sense to include anything relevant in this piece of work.’

  ‘I have to say, the information I’ve got isn’t very conclusive so far.’

  ‘You don’t seem like someone who gives up easily, Ana.’

  ‘I’m not. But the guardia have said I can’t continue the Guzmán investigation.’

  ‘You won’t be working for them,’ Calderón said. ‘You’ll be working independently, on secondment to the university, though the Ministry will be funding you.’

  Galíndez looked at her, interested now. ‘Have you cleared this with the guardia?’

  ‘Remind me, who’s in charge of the guardia civil?’ Calderón said, amused. ‘Oh yes, I remember. It’s me. In any case, your uncle Ramiro thinks it’s an excellent idea.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced there’s a reason to think Guzmán was involved in child theft.’

  ‘Oh, he was involved all right,’ Calderón said. ‘Look.’

  She pushed a red manila folder across the table. Galíndez read the label. The Abduction and Subsequent Forced Adoption of Roberto Enrique Martinez. Inside she saw a faded adoption certificate for one R. Martinez, age 7. The signature of the adoptive mother, a Señora Peralta, and a name in an angry script in the space for Authorising Officer: Comandante L. Guzmán.

  ‘Guzmán authorised it?’ Galíndez examined the certificate. ‘Did he steal the child?’

  Calderón shrugged. ‘You tell me. But doesn’t it give you something to start with?’

  ‘It does, Minister.’

  ‘Good, it’s settled then. As of now, you’re officially the Guardia Civil Research Fellow at the university. We’ve arranged an office for you and the budget will be in place in a day or so. Is there anyone you could hire as an assistant?’

  Galíndez nodded. ‘There’s a journalist called Isabel Morente, she’s doing a book on Guzmán and I know she’s looking for work. I’ll give her a call later.’

  ‘I knew I could rely on you, Ana. Report back once you’ve got some substantial evidence.’ She gave Galíndez a long hard look. ‘Before the election, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘A lot of the people involved have been dead for years,’ Calderón continued, ‘so keep a sense of proportion. The issue of the stolen children is an emotive topic according to our focus groups. We want hard evidence with clear-cut conclusions that apportion blame for the child thefts. It’s what people want and it will go a long way toward getting us re-elected.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Five years’ full funding for your research centre, based on your estimate of the necessary costs. We won’t quibble.’

  Galíndez felt uncomfortable. Calderón was rushing things, not giving her time to think.

  ‘I’m not going to haggle,’ Calderón said. ‘I can always approach Profesora Ordoñez – I believe she’s done work in this field?’

  ‘Of course I’ll do it,’ Galíndez said quickly. ‘Thank you, Minister.’

  ‘Do this job well, Ana María, and you’ll have good reason to thank me.’ Calderón stood up. The two men at the back of the room moved fast, opening the doors and checking the corridor outside as the minister walked to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  The afternoon sun beat down as Galíndez headed for the Metro in the Plaza de Colón. Her initial shock was giving way to excitement. The more she thought about it, the more she agreed with Rosario Calderón: people should know the truth about the niños robados. And the secondment would enable her to continue investigating Guzmán without interference. For the first time in a long time, she almost felt happy.

  She walked slowly, lost in thought. Since things were looking up, she decided to cook something to celebrate. If the microwave was working, that was. The rush hour was beginning but, deep in thought, she hardly noticed the fumes of the afternoon traffic or the hordes of wilting tourists slumped on benches, studying maps with worried expressions. Nor did she notice the blue Nissan across the road or the tall man behind it, the sunlight twinkling off his facial piercings as he photographed her as she walked into the Metro station.

  9

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, CLINICA ALEMÁN, CALLE 31 DE AGOSTO

  Tall and strong in his black SS uniform, Dr Hans Jurgen Pfeiffer was a fine example of the Nazi vision of the master race. But the sepia photograph on the wall was dated 1940 and bore little resemblance to the corpulent figure completing General Torres’s bogus death certificate as Guzmán towered over him.

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ Pfeiffer muttered, ‘in my opinion, at least.’

  ‘Keep writing, I don’t want your opinion.’ Guzmán rummaged in his pocket for a cigarette. ‘There’s something satisfying about hitting Germans, so get on with it. Rapido.’

  ‘Señorita, I appeal to you to protect me from this gentleman,’ Pfeiffer whined.

 
‘Don’t appeal to me, doctor.’ Magdalena’s voice was icy. ‘I know what you did in your camps.’ She stared straight at him. ‘I also know the comandante will happily turn you over to the War Crimes Commission if you don’t do as he asks.’

  Guzmán snorted. ‘I’d rather give him to the Israelis.’ He slapped Pfeiffer on the back. ‘Less red tape than the British. They’d string you up as soon as you arrived.’

  Pfeiffer continued writing.

  Guzmán glared at him with contempt. ‘Now sign it.’

  Pfeiffer added his name to the document and dabbed it with a square of blotting paper. He took a large brown envelope from a drawer and slipped the certificate into it. ‘Your father’s death certificate, Fräulein Torres. My heartfelt commiserations on the loss of your papa. Though I must say this is unconventional.’

  ‘So is experimenting on children.’ Guzmán looked at his watch. ‘So shut up.’

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Dr Pfeiffer.’ Magdalena offered her hand and Pfeiffer kissed it lightly, clicking his heels with outdated Prussian formality.

  As Magdalena walked to the door, Guzmán noticed the doctor’s hungry eyes scrutinising the movement of her body beneath the sheer silk dress. He stabbed an angry finger into Pfeiffer’s ribs, cutting short his Aryan fantasies. ‘Here.’ He took an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Pfeiffer. ‘Two hundred US dollars. I know I said five hundred but I’ve taken my commission from it. And not a word about this to anyone, or I’ll come back and beat you to death. Entendido?’

  ‘Of course. My professional ethics forbid such a thing, Herr Comandante.’

  Guzmán tapped the Browning in its sleek leather holster. ‘So does this.’

  Pfeiffer waited until Guzmán had gone before he began searching his cupboards for something containing alcohol. It was a little early, even for him, but his customers would never notice if he’d had a drink or two. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.

  Guzmán followed Magdalena into the street. A light rain had fallen earlier and the cobbles steamed in the autumn sun. The shops were opening, the metal blinds clattering up as the shopkeepers’ wives scrubbed the pavement in front of their windows.

  ‘You handled that most efficiently, comandante.’ Magdalena smiled.

  ‘When in doubt, threaten a Nazi doctor,’ Guzmán said modestly. ‘In any case, I should thank you. You’ve saved my neck by agreeing to this.’

  The smile left her face. ‘It’s no more than my father deserved.’ She tossed her head, as if shaking away the thought of him. ‘By the way, a man came to see me yesterday evening. An Inspector Rivas.’

  Guzmán’s fists clenched. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He was asking questions about the man who was killed at the Military Governor’s charity dinner. Honestly, it was almost as if he suspected you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Guzmán asked, his fists still balled tight.

  Magdalena raised her face, her blue eyes wide and innocent. ‘The truth, of course. That we were together all evening and you never left my sight.’

  Guzmán relaxed. An alibi from the daughter of one of Franco’s favourite generals would be more than enough to keep Rivas off his back.

  ‘Apart from when you went back to look for something at the end of the evening,’ she added. ‘I hope that was all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Guzmán said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure he’ll leave me alone now.’

  ‘I do hope so. He seemed a nasty little man.’

  ‘Are we still going to eat at Casa Juanxto tonight?’

  ‘We are, though I warn you, it’s expensive. But it’s more than worth it.’

  Like you, Guzmán thought. ‘Eight thirty in the María Cristina then, señorita?’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘And do stop calling me señorita.’

  He watched her walk away, a shadow figure against the bright dusty light, suddenly lost among the crowds of early morning shoppers.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA

  The hotel was located on the first floor of the building, and as he went up the stairs Guzmán felt the soles of his shoes stick to the carpet. The Almeja was far from clean and not all that comfortable, but since he was paying for it out of his own pocket, it would have to do. He needed somewhere to spend the night, that was certain. Women like Magdalena rarely went to bed with men because they liked them – unless they were fools. Or gypsies, of course.

  As he entered the grimy reception area, Guzmán heard soft rustling in the darkened corridors where sullen women dressed in black were changing the linen in the rooms. Or more likely they were taking sheets from rooms on one side of the corridor and putting them in rooms on the other, sending only the most repugnantly fouled bedding to the laundry.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Guzmán looked round, puzzled, since there was no one at the desk. There was no one in the corridor to his right and when he looked to the left, he saw only the immense rump of a hefty chambermaid, her upper body almost lost inside a large wicker basket as she struggled with a tangled mass of sheets. That was her problem, and he turned back to the desk.

  Drawers slammed as a dwarf in a gold braided uniform emerged from behind the desk, angrily adjusting his beard. ‘Who let you in? Didn’t you see the sign saying “No Beggars”?’

  ‘I need a room for tonight,’ Guzmán grunted.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place then,’ the dwarf said pompously. ‘I’m Heráclito and it’s my dubious pleasure to welcome you to the Almeja.’

  ‘I stayed here a couple of days ago,’ Guzmán said. ‘I know what it’s like.’

  ‘And you’re back for more?’ A derisive laugh. ‘Who says the customer’s always right?’

  ‘Do you greet all your guests like this?’

  ‘No, sometimes I’m rude.’ Heráclito yawned. ‘A room, you said?’ With an exaggerated sigh, he hopped up onto the chair, slid the register across the desk and pushed a pencil towards Guzmán. ‘You know what to do.’

  Guzmán scowled as he signed the register. ‘Any chance of some civility?’

  ‘Very little,’ Heráclito said, examining his signature. ‘Though it depends what sort of customer you are, Señor Ramirez. Spend enough on the services I offer and who knows? Speaking of which, if you want a whore, I can provide one. Ten if you’ve got the money – though I doubt that. If you want a boy, I can arrange it, though naturally with condemnatory repugnance. If there are other services you require – drink, drugs, the use of a Chinese laundry, the services of a private detective or an undertaker – I’ll need an hour’s notice.’

  ‘I told you, I’m a police officer.’

  Heráclito looked up, amused. ‘Then you’ll require most of those amenities, I imagine. I’ll take the money in advance if you like; shall we say a ten per cent discount for cash?’

  ‘Just give me a clean room with a view of the sea.’

  ‘It’s fifteen per cent extra for a sea view,’ Heráclito said. ‘I can’t help with the issue of cleanliness.’ He gave Guzmán a slightly affronted look. ‘This isn’t the Ritz.’

  ‘Do what you can,’ Guzmán said, turning to the exit. Outside, he took deep breaths of sea air to lighten his mood. That didn’t help, so he lit a cigarette and walked down to the harbour, deep in thought. Aggressive dwarves were a problem he could do without.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS

  Viana lay on the bed, watching the sun go down through the streaked glass. The phone rang and he answered at once. ‘Buenas tardes, mi General.’

  ‘I’ve got a problem here,’ Gutierrez said, dispensing with formalities. ‘I need you to pass on a message to Guzmán, telling him to get a move on with this Lobo business.’

  ‘I’ll contact him at once,’ Viana said.

  ‘You remember I told you Guzmán sometimes needs a nudge to get him moving? He’s one of those people who respond well to pressure.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And you were quite clear
about how I should apply that if it became necessary.’

  ‘Then get on with it, Captain,’ Gutierrez snapped as he hung up.

  From the window, Viana stared out at the city, the buildings vague in the feeble light of the street lamps. Around him, stark outlines of houses and tenements, blinds and shutters closed against the night. Empty balconies with caged birds rustling in the dark. Idly, he watched a car drive along the seafront. The car pulled up near the quay and a man and woman got out, their movements subtle and furtive as they leaned against the car. Money changed hands. Such a decadent city, Viana thought, watching them walk down onto the beach. No wonder General Mellado despised it.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN

  Magdalena Torres stood in front of the full-length mirror in her apartment, surrounded by boxes and coloured tissue paper. She checked her appearance, appraising the combination of her new cashmere cardigan, the raw silk blouse from Paris and the skirt from Milan. She ran a hand over her sheer silk stockings, checking the seams were straight. After a last look in the mirror she decided that was quite enough vanity for one day. She looked good. She rather hoped the comandante would think so as well.

  She walked to the window and looked out, seeing the evening sun turning the bay to silver with its fading light. Her watch said seven thirty. That gave her an hour before she met Comandante Guzmán in the María Cristina. She doubted he would be late to meet a lady.

  Magdalena had drawn the curtains against the sun while she dressed and the humidity in the apartment was overbearing. A breath of air was just what she needed before dinner. Folding a lightweight coat over her arm, in case of rain, she left the apartment and went downstairs.

  In the lobby, she noticed the sereno hanging around as usual, probably peeking in people’s mailboxes. She glowered, thinking how repulsive he was with his furtive glances and lecherous expressions.

  ‘Going out, señorita?’ Another of his faults: he couldn’t look her in the eye.

  ‘Apparently, Señor Alvarez.’ She saw no reason to be polite. As she opened the heavy iron and glass door, the sour odour of the street drifted into the lobby. Feeling the watchman’s eyes on her back, she turned and gave him an icy look before letting the door swing to with a crash. Still annoyed, she set off down the street towards the Calle Mayor, her heels tapping out a brisk staccato rhythm on the cobbles.