The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  The cave fell silent. Drovers and shepherds backed away, suddenly nervous.

  ‘I’m looking for one of our men,’ Etienne said. ‘He should have met us up on the ridge this morning.’ He looked round the smoky cave. ‘Anyone seen him? No? He held up a coin. Guzmán couldn’t see what it was, but it wasn’t gold. Clearly Çubiry was a cheapskate.

  ‘Any strangers passed through in the last two days?’ Etienne’s face darkened with frustration. ‘I want to find my man,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Someone must have seen him.’

  That was unlikely, Guzmán thought, since he was at the bottom of the shaft in the mountain, keeping the American company. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the comforting weight of the Browning beneath his jacket. He was starting to feel irritated by the young Çubiry’s behaviour. Despite his swagger, there was nothing brave about him – Guzmán saw that in his eyes and heard it in his voice. Etienne was a coward. The same couldn’t be said for the three men standing behind him. Though their clothing was every bit as bizarre as Etienne’s, they looked harder and more experienced. If things got rough, Guzmán decided to kill them first. Cheered by the thought of violence, he folded his arms across his chest.

  Etienne saw the movement and stared at Guzmán. ‘Do I know you, monsieur?’

  Guzmán thumbed back the hammer of the Browning.

  OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

  Begoña put the tray of newly baked loaves on the window ledge to cool. Outside, she saw Nieves watching the clouds over the mountains and went to join her.

  Nieves turned as she heard her aunt approaching. ‘The weather’s about to change.’

  ‘It’s going to be a hard winter, that’s for sure,’ Begoña agreed. ‘There’ll be snow before long.’ She looked at the sky again. ‘I think this winter could be as bad as nineteen thirty-nine, maybe worse. Dios mio, that was cold.’

  ‘Perhaps you should invite Comandante Guzmán to spend the winter with you?’ Nieves said with a cheeky smile. ‘You could be snowed in with him.’ She saw Begoña’s colour rise. ‘I don’t know why you’re blushing. You let him see you naked.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Begoña muttered. ‘I didn’t know he was going to ride into the glade.’ She fidgeted with her shawl. ‘He could just as easily have been watching you.’

  ‘But I’m not the one who’s been trying to attract him,’ said Nieves. ‘You’ve been lighting a candle at midnight. You’re casting a spell.’

  ‘Be quiet. It’s only—’

  ‘A love charm.’

  ‘A bit of fun,’ Begoña said, regaining her composure. ‘Nada más.’

  Nieves linked arms with her as they walked back through the lilac bushes to the house. ‘It has to be done for a full seven days, you know, otherwise it brings bad luck.’

  ‘I’ve done it before,’ Begoña said, with a vague shrug. ‘It didn’t work then either.’

  ‘Mira, look up on the ridge,’ Nieves said, pointing. ‘To the left of Mari’s Peak. It’s the guardia. Perhaps Señor Guzmán’s with them.’

  Begoña saw the line of horsemen moving along the ridge in single file. Behind them, trails of bluish smoke curled into the wind. ‘They’re burning the old cattle byres. Another winter and most would have fallen down anyway.’ She looked again at the horsemen. A long way behind the civil guards, she saw the silhouette of another rider moving more slowly, following rather than trying to catch up. At such a distance it was impossible to tell if it was Comandante Guzmán. Nieves called to her from the house and Begoña turned away from the mountain and went indoors.

  OROITZ 1954, TABERNA LA CUEVA

  ‘No.’ Guzmán’s curt answer hung in the sudden quiet.

  ‘Then I want to know who you are, mon ami,’ Etienne Çubiry said. ‘The Çubiry are friends to all. That’s right, no?’ He looked at the crowd clustered by the bar. Their silence did nothing to suggest they agreed. ‘You don’t want to upset me,’ Etienne added.

  ‘Don’t I?’ Guzmán returned the Frenchman’s stare until he looked away.

  ‘You’re starting to annoy me, monsieur,’ Etienne said, resting his hand on the pommel of the cavalry sabre hanging from his belt.

  Guzmán shrugged. He had thirteen bullets in the Browning. Fuck swords.

  Ochoa raised his tankard to his mouth. ‘Low profile,’ he whispered.

  He was right, Guzmán thought grudgingly. A fatal confrontation with the Çubiry wasn’t in Gutierrez’s orders. Which was a shame, because Etienne Çubiry was just asking for a bullet.

  ‘We sell whisky,’ Guzmán said, improvising. ‘Scotch whisky.’

  ‘Ah, businessmen?’ Etienne said, less agitated now. ‘What kind of whisky?’

  ‘Single malt, aged in sherry casks,’ Guzmán said, recalling the drinks at one of Franco’s receptions. ‘Stolen direct from Scotland.’

  ‘We could do business,’ Etienne said. ‘Come see us in St Jean.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Guzmán nodded.

  Etienne turned to the barman. ‘Hey, Iñaki, better not let your children outside today.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Iñaki asked.

  ‘The Israelites are loose.’ Etienne shook his hands in mock fear. ‘After all these years, the crazy people are coming down from the peak.’

  ‘So what?’ Iñaki shrugged. ‘They’re harmless.’

  ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’ Etienne turned to the men behind him. ‘Allons-y.’

  ‘Good luck finding your friend,’ Guzmán called.

  Etienne smiled. ‘Maybe he’s been delayed by a lady. Agur, gentlemen.’ He swept off his hat in an elaborate gesture of farewell and left the cave, followed by his men.

  With the Çubiry gone, the tension eased and the barman wandered among the customers with a large earthenware pitcher, topping up their drinks. Guzmán watched the yellow liquid splash into his battered tankard. ‘What was that the Frenchman said about Israelites?’

  ‘They’re a bunch of lunatics who’ve lived wild since the war,’ the barman said. ‘A shell hit the old asylum and blew a hole in the wall. The madmen escaped and took to the hills. That’s why we call them the Israelites – lost in the wilderness and all that. They ended up at the abandoned convent near Mari’s Peak.’

  ‘And they don’t usually leave the convent?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it. Why don’t you ask them yourself if you’re so interested?’

  ‘I might just do that.’ Guzmán got to his feet, somewhat unsteadily. He laid a hundred peseta note on the counter and waved away the change. As he stumbled to the door, pulling Ochoa along by his lapels, he heard the barman’s voice behind him.

  ‘Pair of lightweights. They could have stayed here till Easter for a hundred pesetas.’

  The squad was waiting near Mari’s Cave. From a distance, the troopers looked like strange birds, dark and angular in their oilskin capes. In front of them sat three wild-looking characters, their wrists bound with rope, glancing nervously at their captors.

  ‘Who are these ugly bastards?’ Guzmán asked as he got down from his horse.

  ‘Israelites, mi Comandante, madmen from the mountain. The others got away.’

  The prisoners were not a pretty sight. Weather-beaten faces, lined and tanned like ancient leather, matted shoulder-length hair, long stained beards, their clothes in rags. Boots held on by lengths of torn cloth. All were deep in conversation, though since it was with themselves, it was hard to understand.

  ‘Any of you got a name?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘Answer the comandante.’ Ruiz poked the nearest lunatic with the butt of his rifle.

  The madman stared at Guzmán through a fringe of greasy hair and grinned, exposing a row of rotten teeth. ‘At first wolf says keep quiet, see nothing and you can stay. Now he says Israelites must go. We ask him let us stay, but no, he says, the wolf lives here now.’ He paused, disturbed by his own incoherent rant. ‘Leave now. Wolf eats Israelites.’

  ‘You crazy badulaque.’ Ruiz gave the man another blow
with his rifle.

  ‘Let him be,’ Guzmán said. ‘Has anyone got some food?’

  One of the troopers produced a length of chorizo from his saddlebag. Guzmán cut a slice and held it up in front of the madmen. ‘Hungry?’

  Their reply was like a pack of rabid dogs.

  Guzmán handed the chorizo to the nearest guardia. ‘Cut them a few pieces of that.’

  ‘But Comandante,’ the trooper protested, ‘they’ve got no teeth.’

  ‘Then they can suck it,’ Guzmán said. ‘It’ll will keep them going until the nineteen sixties.’ He strode away towards the cave, calling for Ochoa to follow.

  ‘I want you to take the squad back to the cuartel,’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  Ochoa nodded. ‘What shall I do with them?’

  ‘Light the fire, sit round it and sing a few songs. I don’t know, Corporal. Improvise.’

  ‘And what will you be doing, Comandante?’

  Guzmán was torn between explaining his plan to Ochoa and telling him to mind his own fucking business.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘When you ride down towards the valley, take it slowly,’ Guzmán said. ‘I want anyone watching to think we’re all on our way back to the cuartel.’

  ‘Those lunatics said they were driven out by wolves,’ Ochoa said. ‘What if there’s a pack of them up there?’

  ‘That madman didn’t say wolves.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘He said the wolf. El Lobo.’

  OROITZ 1954, ABADÍA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÓN DE MARÍA

  It was hard work climbing such steep ground, weighed down by his haversack and rifle. Looking up the escarpment, Guzmán saw the grey stone convent perched on an outcrop of ancient rock. High above it, Mari’s Peak rose up into the sky. As he looked up, something wet hit his face and he wiped it away. When it happened again, he realised this was something he had not factored into his sudden decision to inspect the nunnery. It was starting to rain.

  As he climbed, the grim outline of the convent blurred as curtains of rain swept over the escarpment. Nearer now, he saw the broken ridgeline where part of the roof had collapsed. It was easy to imagine the dreary existence of the nuns who once lived here, beset by endless rain and bitter snows. Even bolstered by their faith, such a life must have rapidly lost its attraction. Isolated in the ceaseless cold, they must surely have wondered if God had abandoned them. Probably they realised he had, since they were long gone, their place taken by lunatics. That was appropriate, he thought. And now even the madmen had gone.

  Which was not to say the convent was empty, he realised, peering through the rain at the pale glow of a lantern in one of the windows.

  14

  MADRID, JULY 2010, CALLE DE MIRA EL RÍO BAJA

  It was a quarter to ten as Galíndez turned off the Ronda de Toledo into a fractious line of traffic, horns blaring as exasperated drivers looked for parking spaces near the flea market. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, increasingly impatient as the temperature inside the car rose, her discomfort made worse by the smart black suit. Still, it would be worthwhile if Ochoa was so taken with her that he wanted to share a few reminiscences about the old days.

  And even if Ochoa wasn’t captivated by her appearance, there was something else that made it likely he would open up to her: he wanted his money. Her story was credible enough: administrative errors made it necessary to verify a few details before the payments could resume. Particularly details about his past. And then, some light conversation about his time in the guardia. All of it captured by the small digital recorder in her bag.

  ‘Hijo de puta.’ Galíndez slapped a hand to her forehead as a truck pulled out in front of her, forcing her to brake sharply. Her hand wavered over the horn, about to blast him until she saw the parking space he’d vacated. She parked quickly and checked the recorder was working before setting off for her appointment with Señor Ochoa.

  Ochoa’s building was located on an anonymous steep hill lined with shops, their metal shutters pulled down and locked, the walls covered in graffiti. Plastic sacks of garbage awaited collection in doorways. A few of the sacks had split open, spilling their contents onto the cobbles, and a ripe smell hung in the warm air.

  As she passed a gift shop, Galíndez paused to read a sign offering palm readings without an appointment. Tempting though it was, the shop was shuttered and had been for some time from the look of it. A sign on the door: Closed Due to Unforeseen Circumstances. The effects of the recession struck everywhere.

  The building was halfway up the narrow hill, skulking beneath a patina of grime. Dirty windows, shutters askew, curls of paint peeling from the front door. Galíndez scanned the list of residents’ names next to the doorbells. Machado-Garcia... Barzon... Robles... Ochoa. Flat three, fourth floor. It was a couple of minutes before ten. Perhaps Ochoa would be impressed by her punctuality. She pressed the bell and waited. There was no response from the speaker by the door and she rang again. And then again, this time with short angry stabs of her finger.

  ‘Forgotten your key? I’ll let you in.’

  A young man was standing behind her, holding out his key. Galíndez thanked him and stepped back to let him open the door, following him into a dingy entrance hall that smelled of wet plaster. She paused by the row of mailboxes on the wall and waited as the young man went into one of the ground-floor apartments before she made a move.

  There was no lift, she realised. That was a pain – literally. Ochoa’s flat was four floors up: four flights of narrow stairs in these tight boots with their precarious heels. And when she got there, he might not even be in. The only way to find out was to go and knock on his door. Loudly. She walked to the stairs, wincing at the sharp tap of her heels on the tiles.

  As Galíndez reached the next flight of stairs, she waited, hearing the footsteps of someone coming down. A figure emerged from the shadows, an elderly man in a fedora and a well-cut dark suit. He had been handsome once, she imagined, and though his face was creased by the years, his eyes were still sharp and alert. As he reached the bottom stair he saw her and with a charming smile swept off his hat, exposing his bald head as he held an arm towards the stairs and waited with old-fashioned courtesy for her to pass.

  ‘Muchísimas gracias.’ Galíndez stepped past him onto the stairs, trying hard to keep her balance. ‘You wouldn’t be Señor Ochoa by any chance?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, I’ve been visiting my sister. I don’t know anyone else in the building.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘De nada. Adiós.’

  The fourth floor was depressingly familiar, the windows just as unwashed as those on the landings below. Three pisos on this floor. One on either side of the stairs, a third tucked down a small corridor. She saw the number on his door as she approached, grateful for the threadbare length of carpet that muffled the sound of her heels.

  Ochoa’s door was half-open and she paused, listening for the sound of someone inside, hearing only the faint drone of traffic from the street. She put her head round the door. ‘Señor Ochoa?’ No one answered and she called his name again. When there was no reply, she went in.

  From the look of it, the flat hadn’t changed its decor in sixty years. The hall had a sour odour of fried food and neglect. The first door she came to was open and she saw an ancient bathroom with a stained toilet and tiny bath. Further along the hall was a bedroom, the curtains tightly drawn, throwing the room into sepia half-light. Ochoa certainly wasn’t house-proud. The bed was unmade, the sheets and blankets pulled back carelessly. He must have been searching for clean underwear, since his socks and pants were strewn haphazardly over the grimy carpet. Very haphazardly, she thought, suspicious now. This chaos wasn’t an old man’s untidiness. Someone had been searching the place.

  Cautiously, Galíndez went down the hall into the shabby living room. Ochoa only had a few pieces of dilapidated furniture. A TV set on a fragile-looking stand at one end of the room, a tatte
red sofa by the window overlooking the street and an old armchair near the door to the kitchen. And sitting in the armchair was Señor Ochoa.

  Or rather the late Señor Ochoa, his head tilted back, his mouth open in the rictus of sudden death, his dentures hanging from his mouth. Identifying the cause of death didn’t need her expertise. She saw the loop of wire tight around his neck, the trickle of blood where it cut into his skin.

  Galíndez noticed a smell of urine as she bent over to touch his hand. He was still warm. She swore, loudly. Someone had garrotted a man who probably worked with Guzmán on the morning of her visit. She doubted it was a coincidence. No one knew she was coming here and it seemed unlikely Ochoa had told anyone, since he thought she was his new handler coming to reinstate his special payments from the guardia.

  Galíndez paused to take stock, knowing she should dial 062 and call the killing in. If she didn’t make the call, she’d be breaking God knows how many sections of the Code of Conduct. But then, if she did call, they’d want to know what she was doing here posing as Teniente Galíndez. That would also prevent her searching the flat again, a course of action that was rather appealing now she couldn’t question Ochoa. No, it was unthinkable not to notify the guardia. This was a clear-cut case of murder, for God’s sake. She knew what she had to do.

  Her mind made up, she went down the hall and used her elbow to close the front door. Back in the living room, she checked under the carpets and behind the sofa. When she found nothing, she rifled through Ochoa’s pockets. Nothing there either: just a dirty handkerchief and a few coins. Somewhere in the building a door slammed, interrupting her fevered speculation about the motive behind Ochoa’s killing. The wire round his neck was Guzmán’s signature method. That suggested Ochoa’s death could be linked to his time at Calle Robles, though she had no definite evidence to show Ochoa worked with the comandante. That was why she was here. Perhaps it was also why the killer had paid him a call. Her skin prickled as another thought occurred: what if the killer was Guzmán himself? What if he knew she was coming here and didn’t want his ex colleague talking to her?