The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘So what do we do, jefe?’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘We need a volunteer.’

  ‘You think it’s as bad as that?’

  Guzmán took out his cigarettes. ‘Have a word with them, Corporal, someone will volunteer. There’s always a hero in every squad.’

  Ochoa went to talk to the men.

  ‘Though not for long,’ Guzmán added, looking at the entrance to the ravine again.

  Ten minutes later, the volunteer stood with Guzmán near the mouth of Mari’s Stair. It was worse than he’d thought. The track was littered with shattered boulders and heaps of crushed rock while the narrow walls on either side were at least fifteen metres high. Once inside, the men would be almost defenceless.

  Guzmán turned to the volunteer. ‘What was your name again, trooper?’

  The man snapped to attention. ‘Machado, mi Comandante. A sus ordenes.’

  ‘Did Corporal Ochoa explain what you have to do?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Machado said, eagerly. ‘Scout the trail ahead.’

  ‘But in sections,’ Guzmán said. ‘I want you to stop every hundred paces. Then we’ll send another trooper in and, once he reaches you, you go forward another hundred paces, then he follows and you move on. We do that until everyone’s through the ravine. When you’re not moving, keep your rifle aimed upwards. If anyone appears up top, shoot them.’

  ‘A sus ordenes.’ Machado gave Guzmán an annoying salute.

  ‘One thing,’ Guzmán said as Machado picked up his rifle.

  ‘Sí, mi Comandante?’

  ‘How come you volunteered?’

  ‘My father fought at Anwal. He got a medal. I’d like to show I’m as brave as him.’

  Guzmán nodded slowly. ‘Off you go then, trooper.’ He gestured to Ochoa to join him. ‘Did you pick some men to hold the horses?’

  ‘Three.’ Ochoa nodded. ‘They’re staying put on that slope over there until we’re through the ravine. That leaves nine men for combat. Eight if we assume Machado might not be with us for very much longer.’

  ‘Look on the bright side, Corporal,’ Guzmán said. ‘He might look up, see El Lobo and shoot the bastard dead.’ He spat onto the rocky ground.

  ‘Or Lobo might not be up there at all, sir.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘If I was him, that’s where I’d be.’

  Machado saw Guzmán’s signal and moved into the ravine, weaving around the rocks, glancing up the sheer walls for signs of a sniper. Guzmán stayed by the entrance, watching. Machado was doing all right. Or maybe he was just lucky.

  An hour later, Guzmán and Ochoa slipped into the ravine and made their way along the stony track to where the other men were now crouching behind whatever cover they could find, looking along the last stretch of track leading up to the ridge. A hundred metres uphill, with the possibility of attack from any direction.

  ‘You’ve done well so far, Machado,’ Guzmán said, lying alongside him in the cover of a large boulder. ‘Now you just have to complete the job. Go up and take a look round. If everything’s clear, we’ll follow. Entiendes?’

  Machado grinned. ‘Of course, Comandante. Gracias.’

  ‘Off you go,’ Guzmán said. ‘Just take it slow.’

  Ochoa joined him as Machado started crawling up the track.

  ‘He wants to be a hero like his papa,’ Guzmán said, resting his rifle on the boulder. ‘Says his father fought at Anwal.’

  Machado was inching over the rough shale, careful not to make any noise.

  ‘Anwal, that’s right, sir.’

  ‘That’s in Marruecos, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Nineteen twenty-one, I think.’

  ‘Big battle, was it?’ Guzmán watched Machado roll onto his back, checking no one was watching on the cliff walls above.

  ‘Very big,’ Ochoa said. ‘You know, sir, if Lobo’s up there, Machado hasn’t a chance.’

  Machado was now working his way up towards the thick grass on the ridge.

  ‘I didn’t hear you offer to take his place, Corporal,’ Guzmán said. ‘So what happened in that battle?’

  ‘Anwal?’ Ochoa brushed a fly from his face.

  Machado reached the top of the gulley, cautious as he moved into the grass.

  ‘Of course fucking Anwal. What have we been talking about for the last five minutes?’

  Machado got to his feet, giving them an enthusiastic thumbs up.

  ‘The Moors wiped out the entire army.’

  ‘All of them?’ Guzmán worked the bolt on his rifle and put a round into the breech.

  ‘Thirteen thousand,’ Ochoa said. ‘It was a massacre.’

  Machado took off his black leather tricorne and waved for them to join him.

  Ochoa started to get up but Guzmán pulled him back. ‘Wait.’

  ‘A por ellos compañeros. Viva España!’ As Machado’s war cry echoed down the ravine, the squad rose from hiding and moved forward, bayonets fixed.

  The sudden crack of a rifle. A bloom of red mist as the back of Machado’s head disintegrated. The sound of the shot rolling over the ridge in laminated echoes. The troopers threw themselves down, hugging the ground.

  A bullet whined off the rocks behind them. ‘Fuck.’ Guzmán dived to the ground as another bullet exploded into the narrow defile, scouring his face with fragments of stone. The troopers cowered, crawling behind anything that looked like it might stop a bullet.

  ‘Useless bastards.’ Guzmán ran past them, the rifle at his shoulder as he threw himself into the thick grass, scanning the slopes ahead through the rifle sight. He saw movement in a patch of bushes two hundred metres away. Leaves and branches parting, the subtle actions of someone in hiding. And then, to his left, the percussive rattle of the troopers returning fire. As Guzmán squinted through the rifle sight, a shape appeared in the bushes, a man in a black slouch hat and dark coat, looking through his rifle sight at Guzmán. Aiming.

  Guzmán rolled to one side as the bullet whined into the ground where he had been lying a moment earlier. He raised his rifle, seeing the gunman clamber onto a horse and spur it towards a great mound of ancient stones. Guzmán fired and saw the dust as his shot hit the rocks beyond the rider. He ejected the cartridge and aimed again, though too late as the rider slipped away behind a rocky promontory near the skyline.

  Silence returned to the ridge. Ochoa came running over to ask for orders.

  ‘Bring the horses through the ravine,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’ll get the men in position in case that bastard comes back.’

  And he would come back, he thought as he listened to Ochoa relaying his orders to the men. Because if Guzmán was in his place, faced with a squad of incompetent civil guards, he would return again and again, cutting them down at every opportunity. He knew a lot, this Lobo. But there was one thing he didn’t know, though he soon would. He didn’t know who was coming after him.

  The sun was starting to sink behind the distant mountains. Guzmán lay in the grass, moving the sniper scope over the harsh terrain. Behind him, the horses whinnied, unnerved by the mournful howling in the distance.

  ‘Wolves,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘If the horses smell them, they’ll start to panic. Make sure the boys keep them well guarded.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ Ochoa paused, seeing one of the sentries signalling from his position among the rocks. Guzmán was already moving, crouching low, and Ochoa followed, lying alongside Guzmán as he scanned the hillside with his binoculars.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Guzmán muttered to the sentry. ‘What’s that?’

  Ochoa lifted his binoculars. ‘It’s those Frenchmen in the stupid hats again.’

  ‘The Çubiry?’ Guzmán peered through the scope. ‘They’re about to be dead brigands.’ Angrily, he worked the bolt, putting another round in the breech.

  The sentry grabbed his rifle. ‘Don’t shoot, Comandante. They’ll kill us all.’

  ‘You touched my rifle.’ Guzmán stared wide-eyed at the man. ‘And that’s what it will say on your tombstone after th
e court-martial,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘assuming I don’t kill you right here.’

  ‘If you shoot at them, they’ll attack.’ The man’s voice was trembling. ‘And they can bring up more men. They say there’s at least a hundred of them at their chateau in St Jean.’

  Guzmán ground his teeth. Killing Frenchmen could attract unwanted attention. Particularly since Gutiérrez had explicitly told him to avoid an international incident. Perhaps he could compromise for once, kill them later.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Ochoa said, lowering the binoculars.

  Guzmán glared at the trooper. ‘Your court-martial’s postponed. Now fuck off.’ He turned to Ochoa. ‘What was that man’s name, Corporal?’

  ‘Santos, jefe.’

  ‘Right,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Next time we need a volunteer, he’s our man.’

  It was still dark when Guzmán woke Ochoa, though a strip of light on the horizon signalled the coming dawn. He pointed to a wavering light in the distance ‘Someone’s lit a fire,’ he whispered. ‘Get two men, Corporal. I want to see who’s camped over there.’

  Quietly, they moved over the rocky terrain towards the fire. Guzmán signalled to the two troopers to stay a few metres behind. The last thing he needed was for one of those dunderheaded fools to trip and alert their quarry.

  The camp was in a grassy hollow. The fire was almost burned out, its smoke a thin line stretched by the wind across the grey sky. Near the fire, Guzmán saw the shape of a man in a sleeping bag. Another man was standing near a patch of thick shrub, having a piss from the look of it. Guzman moved down the incline, taking cover behind a large boulder as he got nearer. He signalled to the troopers to move forward. As they began to advance, he saw the other man run into the bushes, his plumed hat outlined against the dawn light as he turned, raising a rifle to his shoulder. Before Guzmán could call a warning the shot shattered the thin air, sending the civil guards scrambling for cover.

  As the echoes of the shot died away, the man in the sleeping bag sat bolt upright, struggling to get out. ‘One of you go after that bastard in the bushes,’ Guzmán yelled to the cowering troopers.

  Reluctantly, one of them moved forward, into the dense foliage.

  ‘Manos arriba, coño.’ Guzmán aimed the rifle at the man’s head as he climbed from the sleeping bag. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’

  The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Inglés,’ he said. ‘No hablo español.’

  ‘He says he’s English,’ Ochoa said. ‘He doesn’t speak Spanish.’

  ‘Even I knew that,’ Guzmán growled. He saw the civil guard watching. ‘You, get over here and search his pockets.’

  Guzmán waited as the trooper went through the prisoner’s pockets. Finally, he brought the man’s possessions over in his hat and Guzmán examined them, suddenly amused.

  ‘Me cago en la puta. This is an ID card from 1938 that says he’s a member of the International Brigade.’ He turned to Ochoa. ‘You speak English, do you, Corporal?’

  ‘I had lessons in the press corps. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Start by asking who he is.’

  Guzmán waited as Ochoa spoke to the man. It was clear he was not being helpful.

  ‘He says he crossed the border by mistake,’ said Ochoa. ‘He wants a lawyer.’

  Guzmán stared in disbelief. ‘Tell him, if he says something as stupid as that again, the only person he’ll be seeing is a priest.’ He took his cigarettes from his pocket. ‘And that will be posthumously.’

  Ochoa translated the man’s reply. ‘He says you can’t shoot him, he’s American.’

  Guzmán laughed out loud. Ochoa and the trooper joined in, nudging one another. ‘Foreigners.’

  ‘Right.’ Guzmán looked the man in the eye. ‘Tell him I want to know how—’

  The American’s chest erupted in a shower of blood. As he pitched forward into the damp grass, the shot echoed across the ridge. Guzmán stared at the horseman riding away in the distance. ‘El fucking Lobo,’ he muttered, raising his rifle. He had no clear shot and the rider vanished into the craggy landscape before he could fire.

  ‘What happened to the man in those bushes?’ Ochoa shouted, seeing the other guardia backing away from the gorse, ready to flee. Guzmán saw something hanging from a bush. ‘What’s that, trooper?’ he yelled, panting.

  Timidly, the guardia approached the gorse and lifted something from its spines. He turned, holding up the wide-brimmed hat. ‘A Çubiry hat, sir.’

  ‘So where’s the fucking owner?’ Guzmán shouted, raising the rifle towards the gorse.

  The trooper hurled himself to one side as a horse burst from the bushes thirty metres away. Guzmán saw the rider pressed low, clinging to its mane, and fired twice. The rider tumbled from the saddle onto the rocky ground.

  The troopers stared, white-faced. Guzmán glowered at them, incensed. ‘What?’

  ‘The Çubiry always avenge an injury, Comandante.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Guzmán snarled, distracted as he noticed Ochoa going through the American’s pockets. He seemed to have found something.

  ‘A word, Corporal.’ Guzmán took Ochoa to one side. ‘I hope that wasn’t money you just found on the Yanqui,’ he said quietly. ‘I have rules about stealing from the dead and Rule One is that any money found on people I’ve killed belongs to me.’

  ‘Actually, sir, you didn’t kill him,’ Ochoa said. ‘El Lobo did.’

  ‘My rules are very flexible, Corporal, and in any case, that’s a technical distinction I don’t intend to discuss with a fucking NCO. How much did you find?’

  Ochoa held up a piece of paper. ‘It’s not money, sir. It’s a letter.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  Ochoa looked unhappily at the typewritten sheet. ‘His brother. He looks forward to seeing him in San Sebastián in two days’ time.’

  Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘Does it say why they’re meeting?’

  ‘No, sir, but it does say who his brother is.’

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Who is he?’

  Ochoa turned the letter so Guzmán could see the letterhead.

  EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  ‘His brother’s the American Ambassador.’

  12

  COLMENAR VIEJO, JULY 2010, FUENTES RESIDENCE

  Galíndez accelerated and the countryside became an ochre blur in the shimmering afternoon heat. Twenty minutes later, a sprawl of tan-roofed houses and white apartment blocks began to emerge from the haze. She skirted the town to the south and headed out into the barren fields, following the road through an arid landscape wavering in the relentless heat.

  A crossroads ahead. She sighed with relief, recognising where she was. A hundred metres further on, she saw the Fuentes house and turned into the sloping drive, the wheels crunching on the dry gravel as she came to a halt alongside the two cars parked there.

  The burning air was thick with the scent of flowers as she walked towards the house, admiring the large shuttered windows and long veranda. To the front, the garden sloped up to a long stone wall that marked the boundary of the property. From somewhere behind the house, she heard the gentle sound of a stream.

  The world intruded into her reverie. She heard pounding feet and the girls’ breathless laughter as they came tumbling out to greet her. Clari stumbled, getting in the way as usual. Inés, being older, tried to adopt more demure behaviour and monitored Galíndez closely, looking for a gesture or a phrase she could imitate later.

  ‘Hola, chicas,’ Galíndez said, scooping Clari up into her arms.

  ‘Babysitter,’ Clari muttered, waving a DVD.

  ‘It’s a sleepover,’ Inés told her little sister.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Ana, I’m getting ready,’ Mercedes called from indoors.

  ‘Dora.’ Clari tugged Galíndez’s hand. ‘Let’s watch Dora.’

  ‘I’ll get my bag first, querida.’ Galíndez knew how long a session with Dora la Exploradora could last once Clari took char
ge of the TV.

  She strolled up the drive to her car. As she reached in to get her overnight bag, Galíndez sensed a shadow at the gate and looked up, seeing a metallic blue vehicle. Tinted windows obscured the occupants though she could just make out the pale shape of a face looking at her through the darkened glass. Probably lost, she guessed as she went up the drive, ready to offer directions.

  The car’s engine growled as it accelerated, leaving an amber cloud of dust hanging in its wake, the sun sparkling on the blue paintwork as the car went over the brow of the hill. They must have found their map. Galíndez gathered up her bags and went back to the house.

  Inés was waiting on the porch. She looked at the box Galíndez was carrying. ‘Did you bring your new boots, Ana?’

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I? Do you want to see them?’ Inés nodded emphatically.

  Galíndez sat on the porch to put on the boots. Carefully, she got up and took a few steps, the sound of her heels sharp on the wooden decking. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Cool.’ Inés reached into her pocket. ‘Can I take a photo to show my friend Blanca?’

  ‘OK, but do it quickly, I may fall over any minute.’

  Inés took a photo, her thumbs playing over her phone as she sent the picture.

  ‘Well, look at you, Ana María.’ Mercedes Fuentes came out onto the porch in her bathrobe. ‘Those boots look great, especially with that skirt. But don’t wear them for work, will you? It might be bad for Luis’s blood pressure.’

  Galíndez looked round to make sure the girls weren’t listening. She lowered her voice, ‘The boss wouldn’t notice. Last week I ran into him after I’d been on a vice operation; I was dressed as a hooker. He never even blinked.’

  Mercedes shrugged. ‘He told me he’d seen you but he didn’t mention anything about your clothes.’

  ‘Yes he did, Mamá,’ Inés cut in. ‘I heard him. He said you could have read a newspaper through her dress and that you could see her—’

  ‘That’s quite enough, señorita.’ Mercedes drew a finger across her throat.