The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

‘Then it’s a good job I went and got the boxes. You might not have been up to it.’

  ‘Boxes of what?’

  ‘Letters. They’re from people who wrote to the Church authorities to complain about their children being stolen. They sent them to priests, bishops and even the archbishop. They’ve been stored in the church vaults. I thought maybe they could be put to better use.’

  ‘How many?’ Galíndez asked. The least she could do was take them off Adelina’s hands as a gesture of support. Going through a few letters wouldn’t take long.

  ‘About ten thousand.’ Adelina watched Galíndez’s expression change.

  The door opened as Isabel returned with their coffee. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’re just in time to help unload the van,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘Read the label on my T-shirt, Ana María,’ Isabel muttered. ‘Go on.’

  Galíndez lifted Isabel’s collar. ‘Stella McCartney.’

  ‘That’s right. And what’s this across my chest?’

  ‘Dust mainly, and grease. Or it might be oil. ’

  ‘Exactly.’ Isabel took the lid off one of the Styrofoam cups and sipped her coffee. ‘So why are we filling our new office with all these filthy boxes?’

  ‘The material in them could be really useful.’

  Adelina brought in the last box of letters and put it on a desk, raising a cloud of dust. ‘I’ll take the van back now.’

  ‘She was a character,’ Isabel said, going to the door to make sure Adelina was gone. ‘I bet she’d have been awkward if you hadn’t agreed to help her.’

  ‘She was pretty assertive.’ Galíndez nodded.

  ‘You’d better be like that with your kiddies tonight, or they’ll run rings round you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Galíndez said, ‘they obey my every command. It’s the guardia training.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, they’ll run me into the ground.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’d better get going, the traffic’s going to be heavy out towards Colmenar Viejo.’

  ‘OK.’ Isabel took her laptop from her bag. ‘I’ll check out that office furniture.’

  ‘Hasta mañana.’ Isabel heard her footsteps fade as she went up the stairs. She opened her laptop and began searching online for office equipment. A loud knock at the door made her look up. ‘Did you forget something, Ana?’ she laughed, opening the door.

  Two men stood outside. One was big, his muscular arms heavily tattooed. The other was older, a fleshy face, rather like a toad, she thought. Both stared at her.

  ‘Hello,’ Isabel said. ‘What are you doing?’

  The big man pointed to the ceiling and Isabel saw the space where some of the ceiling tiles had been removed. ‘Electrics, señorita. A few dodgy wires need fixing, don’t they, Agustin?’ The other man nodded in agreement.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Isabel said, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘And be careful,’ she told the big man as he started up the stepladder, holding a piece of electrical equipment. ‘With all those piercings in your face you might get a shock.’

  ‘Takes a lot to shock me,’ he laughed, pushing the device into the ceiling cavity.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Isabel said as she closed the door.

  11

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, BANCO DE BILBAO

  ‘This way, Comandante.’ The bank manager ushered Guzmán into a cluttered office ripe with the smell of sweat and black tobacco. Señor Cifuentes was nervous. That was frequently the case when Guzmán called on people unannounced.

  ‘How can I be of help to the Brigada Especial, Señor Guzmán?’ Cifuentes asked.

  ‘You’re aware of the robberies and killings carried out by the bandit known as El Lobo?’ said Guzmán. ‘You may not be aware that he seems to have been remarkably well informed about movements of money by your bank.’

  ‘The local police questioned the staff a number of times,’ Cifuentes said. A sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip. ‘The policía didn’t suspect anyone here.’

  ‘I do,’ Guzmán said. ‘Over the next few days, I’m going after El Lobo with my squad. Life in the mountains will become very unpleasant for him. When he hears you’re transporting a large sum of money, he’ll jump at the chance of such a soft target.’

  ‘But we have no plans to transport any large sums of money in the near future.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Guzmán said with uncharacteristic patience. ‘I want you to transport a very large amount of money – five million pesetas will do – and I want you to make sure all your staff know about it as soon as possible.’ He leaned forward. ‘Someone here has been giving information to El Lobo. I think they’ll leak this as well.’

  Cifuentes stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘You can’t be serious, comandante.’

  ‘I’m very serious. This plan has been authorised by the General Directorate of Security, which means it has the caudillo’s blessing. What greater reassurance could you want than General Franco’s approval?’

  ‘It seems risky to send out a truck carrying so much money after the other robberies. What if something goes wrong?’

  Guzmán gave him a suspicious look. ‘We’d have lost the war with that kind of thinking.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s assuming you were on our side?’

  Cifuentes fidgeted, uncomfortably. ‘There’s no question of my loyalty, Comandante.’

  ‘Then make sure all your staff think this is just a normal shipment. And remember, if you tell anyone this is a set-up, you’ll be in a prison cell before you can blink.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’

  ‘You’ve three days to arrange it. After the truck leaves the bank, we’ll stop it away from prying eyes and fill it with a squad of guardia civiles. When El Lobo attacks, he’ll be outgunned. Then you’ll get your money back and probably a medal for your cooperation.’

  ‘I’ll make the arrangements at once,’ Cifuentes said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Guzmán put on his hat and went to the door. He paused and took a guide book from a rack by the door. ‘We’re counting on you, Señor Cifuentes.’ After giving the manager an intimidatingly painful handshake, he left, leaving Cifuentes mopping his face with a handkerchief. The meeting had gone well, Guzmán thought. Cifuentes had swallowed the lie about having Franco’s approval without a moment’s hesitation.

  Guzmán walked along the seafront watching the pleasure boats in the bay decanting holidaymakers onto the wooden jetty at Santa Clara island and picking up others returning to shore. At the far end of the bay, near Ondarreta Beach, he came to the car park, a patch of rough ground below the casino. The Buick was parked in the shade of a clump of trees. Once inside, he opened the guidebook he’d taken from the bank and turned to the page describing the Salto de los Enamorados at Iturralde. The Lovers’ Leap was an isolated spot of outstanding natural beauty, the guidebook said, long favoured by suicidal sweethearts, since the deep rapids invariably proved fatal for those desperate enough to hurl themselves into the churning waters. Sadly, the narrowness and depth of the river meant that few bodies were seen again. It was the perfect spot to say goodbye to Señor Bárcenas.

  Guzmán eased the Buick out of the car park and drove back along the seafront. Ahead, the traffic was starting to slow, probably held up by a horse and cart, he imagined. As the line of cars came to a standstill, he noticed the uniformed men on the pavements, the lines of canvas-topped trucks parked on the side streets. He leaned out of the window to take a look and swore as he saw what was causing the hold-up. A wooden barricade was pulled across the road, flanked by military vehicles and dozens of grey-uniformed police. A roadblock.

  The pavements on either side of the road were swarming with troops and plain-clothes police. Escape was impossible. There was no way he could turn and go back the way he’d come. Any hint that he was trying to avoid the roadblock would result in them stopping and searching the car immediately. His only option was to sit tight and hope the officers wouldn’t have the patience to s
earch every vehicle.

  He glared through the windscreen at the immobile line of traffic, hands tense on the wheel as he watched the blinking tail lights ahead of him. The vehicles edged forward at snail’s pace each time a car was searched and allowed to proceed. One more vehicle and then it was his turn. He gripped the wheel, angry at himself for not throwing Bárcenas into the harbour during the night. Attention to detail was supposed to be his speciality.

  A uniformed policeman came forward, holding up his hand. Guzmán stopped and applied the handbrake. He waited, drumming his fingers on the wheel, watching a man in a black leather coat examining the vehicle in front. Finally, with a wave to the men on the roadblock, the officer signalled for them to open the barrier. He turned to Guzmán’s car and waved him forward. Guzmán breathed out a string of obscenities as he eased the car alongside Inspector Rivas.

  As he pulled up, Rivas saw him and leaned into the window.

  ‘Buenos días, Comandante. We won’t keep you more than a few minutes.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘A senior member of the Falange is missing,’ Rivas said. ‘Alfredo Bárcenas.’

  A bead of sweat ran down the back of Guzmán’s neck. ‘This is a lot of manpower to look for someone like him.’

  ‘He has political connections in Madrid, Comandante. If anything’s happened to him, somebody’s head will roll, you know what it’s like.’

  Guzmán did know, though it was the last thing he wanted to hear. ‘Men like him often make off with the funds. Have you checked his bank accounts?’

  ‘No, but we will.’ Rivas nodded. ‘That would be a better result.’ He leaned further into the window, suddenly conspiratorial. ‘We don’t want this to be linked to the shooting.’

  Guzmán’s frowned. ‘What shooting?’

  ‘Officially, there wasn’t one. Unofficially, it was a man on the seafront, the evening before last. Someone picked him off from a rooftop. An excellent shot, I must say.’

  ‘I assume it’s being covered up?’

  ‘The victim was on a part of the beach where prostitutes hang out after dark,’ Rivas said. ‘His family were only too pleased for us not to give the matter any publicity.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘About eight thirty.’

  Guzmán thought about it. El Lobo attacked the Torres lodge at two thirty. Six hours was more than enough time to get to San Sebastián, have a meal and then blow someone’s head off. He tried to calm himself. It’s like a fucking conspiracy.

  ‘Comandante?’ Rivas was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Sorry.’ Guzmán ran a hand over his face. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said Señorita Torres confirmed your account of the charity dinner.’

  ‘So I’m off your list of suspects now?’ Guzmán feigned a smile.

  Rivas was gazing down the road. He spoke without looking at Guzmán. ‘Señorita Torres says you left her on two occasions, so I can’t rule you out completely. Professional habit, you know how it is.’

  Guzmán rubbed the back of his neck. His collar was damp.

  Rivas looked at the line of traffic stretching along the seafront. ‘Market day, busiest day of the week, and this happens.’ He called to two uniformed men standing by the wooden barrier. ‘Check the boot you two, rapido. Let’s get this gentleman on his way.’

  Guzmán drummed his fingers on the steering wheel again, wondering how he was going to explain the body. Even if they only arrested him, rather than having the legionnaires beat the fuck out of him at their barracks, the operation to get El Lobo would be ruined. As would his career. He was willing to bet Magdalena wouldn’t be intimate with a pauper.

  Rivas heard the sudden exclamations from his men as they opened the boot. ‘Won’t be a minute, Comandante.’ He turned and walked to the back of the car.

  Guzmán took a long breath and tried to think of a credible explanation. It wasn’t easy.

  A sharp tap on the rear window. Guzmán turned and saw Rivas beckoning him.

  ‘Could you get out of the vehicle, please, Comandante?’

  Guzmán climbed out, seeing armed men in every direction as he followed Rivas to the rear of the car. The two uniformed officers were leaning into the boot, engaged in a heated discussion about something inside.

  He tried to peer into the boot, ready to express his surprise at the find, but Rivas blocked his view as he turned to face him. An apologetic expression.

  ‘Sorry to tell you this, Comandante, but someone’s broken into your car.’

  Guzmán leaned forward, seeing the scratches, the twisted metal of the lid where a crowbar had been used to force the lock.

  ‘Was there anything valuable in there?’ Rivas asked.

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘The only thing in there was worthless. They’re welcome to it.’

  OROITZ 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

  The wind from the mountain was sharp, more winter than autumn. Guzmán took the rifle from his car, admiring the tooled leather of the case. A Mauser Karabiner 98k, fitted with a telescopic sight. A fine weapon for killing a bandit.

  As he came down the track, he heard the flag stuttering in the cold air. Below it, a line of horses was tied to the rail near the barracks. The lance corporal was standing in the doorway.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Guzmán said. ‘You look as guilty as a gypsy in handcuffs.’

  ‘The squad’s almost ready, sir.’

  ‘Almost?’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Tell them they’ve got five minutes.’

  Ochoa came out of the cuartel. ‘Chosen a horse yet, sir?’

  ‘It’s so long since I rode I’ve forgotten what a horse looks like,’ Guzmán said. ‘Unless it’s on a plate, cooked with onions.’

  He walked over to the horses, deciding on a big bay mare. ‘What’s this one called?’

  Ochoa grinned. ‘Republic.’

  ‘I’m going to ride it, not fuck it,’ Guzmán muttered as hauled himself into the saddle. ‘While you get the men organised, I’ll take this nag for a gallop and remind my arse what it’s like to sit on a horse. I’ll wait for you by that wood at the bottom of the hillside.’ He turned the bay, gave it a flick of his heels and set off down the valley at a canter.

  Up on the mountainside, a light flashed, sudden and bright. Ochoa peered up at the distant rocks. When there was no repetition of the light, he went back into the cuartel, shouting to the squad to fall in.

  Guzmán urged the horse into a gallop, rediscovering the feeling of being on horseback as he headed towards the small wood. The air was invigorating, clearing his head, though one thought still nagged him: who the fuck had taken Bárcenas’s body? He reached the edge of the glade and rode slowly into the trees. Ahead, he heard the sound of running water. The horse slowed as the wood opened out onto a large pool below the sheer hillside.

  A stream plunged down the cliff face, smashing in foaming rivulets over the mossy rocks below, patterning the dark pool with endless ripples. He peered into the glassy water, its surface nuanced by sunlight and flecks of foam from the waterfall. Something moved below the surface and he stared, intrigued by a pale shape, wondering about the possibility of some ancient species dwelling in the shadowed pool.

  He was mistaken, he realised as the creature burst from the water, gasping at the cold, her long dark hair fanning out, spraying a curtain of glittering beads across the surface. It was Begoña Arestigui. And, Guzmán observed carefully, she was naked. Moments later, a second head burst from the water as Nieves surfaced. Hidden from view, he listened to their chatter, the Basque words rattling like the sound of falling stones.

  The opportunity to look at one, let alone two, naked women was rare and he was tempted to linger a while. But he felt strangely uncomfortable amid these pine-scented shadows, the slanting autumn light bright and shimmering with dust. These women had invited him into their house and made him welcome. Now he was spying on them. Worse, he sensed they were aware of
his presence.

  Reluctantly, he went back into the wood, letting the horse pick its way around the great weathered stones, half-buried in the soft pine mulch. Behind him, the endless cadences of the waterfall reverberated against the hillside. He reined in the horse and sat for a moment, deep in thought. His was a life where survival depended upon action and reaction. Instinct and reflex were preferable to brooding and meditation but he could no longer avoid thinking about this.

  He knew exactly where he had seen Nieves Arestigui before. In a moment of caustic recollection, he saw eyes glinting in the light of a lantern. The sound of a man crying. And a woman’s voice echoing in the darkness.

  Guzmán emerged from the glade as Ochoa and the squad came across the grass towards him in a drumbeat rhythm of muffled hoofs and clanking equipment. He looked along the line of sullen-faced guardia, in their tricornes and dark oilskin capes, the long Mausers slung over their backs. ‘These boys almost look like the real thing,’ he said. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Anything in that wood, sir?’ Ochoa asked as they started up the track.

  ‘Nothing you need worry about,’ Guzmán said. ‘Did you check the map?’

  Ochoa pointed up at the escarpment. ‘It’s a straightforward climb until we reach the high pastures. Then we go up through Mari’s Stair onto the ridge.’

  ‘You make it sound easy.’ Guzmán urged his horse to the track.

  Two hours later, the ground became increasingly steep, forcing them to dismount and lead the horses towards the cliffs bordering the ridge.

  ‘That’s Mari’s Stair,’ Ochoa said.

  Guzmán took the field glasses and studied the dark gash in the cliff. He was not happy with what he saw. A man with a rifle on the ridge could easily pick off the squad as they struggled along that narrow path. ‘There’s no other way of getting onto that ridge then?’

  Ochoa shook his head.

  Guzmán looked up again at the long cliff face.

  ‘Something wrong, Comandante?’ Ochoa asked, noticing his concentration.

  ‘I saw a flash of light.’ Guzmán scanned the cliff with the binoculars again. ‘Maybe he’s waiting until we go into the ravine. If he does, it’s a death trap.’