‘I don’t think Carrero Blanco understands the ball is properly organised.’
Mellado sighed. ‘Pious bastard. Of course it’s organised, using rules and regulations. My rules and my regulations, anyway.’
‘You’re a man who always does things by the book.’
Mellado poured himself more brandy. ‘It’s all down to my records, Leo. I keep track of everything. Someone changes their socks, one of my operatives will make a note of the time, the place and the colour.’ He leaned forward, peering uncertainly at Guzmán with his bloodshot eye. ‘That was an exaggeration, by the way.’
‘Even so, you’ve always been known for your record keeping.’
‘It’s almost perfect,’ Mellado agreed with drunken modesty.
‘Which reminds me,’ Guzmán continued. ‘Señorita Torres wondered if you were holding the daughter of one of her employees, a María Vidal. I said I’d ask you.’
‘María Vidal?’ Mellado rolled his eye, deep in thought. ‘We do have a girl by that name. She’s still being questioned.’
‘What did she do?’
Mellado’s eyes narrowed. ‘The silly bitch attended meetings of a resistance group. We raided their meeting place and she was arrested. Do you want to see her file?’
Guzmán stared. ‘What?’
‘The intelligence file, Leo. It’s all in there, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Guzmán agreed, uncomfortable now.
‘The key’s in that middle drawer and the files are in the drawer to your right. Help yourself.’ Mellado watched Guzmán carefully. ‘Open it and have a look, Leo. Go on.’ His voice was low, threatening.
Guzmán shook his head. ‘I don’t need to. Your word’s always been good enough for me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Better get moving. I’m driving up to Oroitz tonight.’
They shook hands. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, chico,’ Mellado said.
Guzmán scowled as he went to the door. If he wanted luck he’d see a gypsy.
‘Leo?’ Mellado called. ‘Drop in at the harvest ball on Saturday night if you can. Starts at nine. It’ll be just like the old days.’
GETARIA 1954
A pale sun muffled by clouds, the sea the colour of lead. Sitting up front with the driver, Ochoa watched gulls wheeling over a small boat as the nets were drawn in. He sat quietly, his camera on his lap. From time to time, he glanced in the mirror, watching the couple sitting in the back with Faisán. The glass partition made it impossible to hear what was being said but it was clear they were upset. The woman was weeping into a crumpled handkerchief while the man appeared to be struggling to contain his emotions, though without much success. It was best not to dwell on such things and he looked away towards the sea.
Faisán knocked on the glass partition and the driver slowed. In the distance, Ochoa saw houses clinging to the hillside and below them, the rocky cliff face reaching down into the sea. The car halted on a patch of yellowing grass. Faisán jumped out, still talking to the couple, patting them on the arm, giving them some sort of reassurance. He saw Ochoa waiting and called for him to photograph the pair, backing away to keep himself out of the shot. Ochoa took several pictures and then Faisán began to direct the couple, instructing them to walk towards the camera, to look up at the hillside, stand together, now apart. To link arms. Each time, Ochoa waited as Faisán gave them new instructions and then aimed the camera again, dazzling them with the sudden light of the flash.
Faisán drifted away, engaging in conversation with the driver, and Ochoa found himself standing with the couple, not even knowing who they were, let alone why they were so upset. It was the woman who broke the silence.
‘Why do you have to take so many pictures?’ Her voice cracked with grief. She gestured at Faisán. ‘That gentleman said you had to take a couple of photographs for the newspapers, but you’ve never stopped. It’s not fair.’
The man was more reticent. ‘My wife is right,’ he said cautiously, unused to arguing with authority figures. ‘Can’t you just take us to where it happened?’
‘All I know,’ Ochoa said, ‘is that I was told to take photographs.’ He had been told other things as well. It was not for him to reveal those.
The man looked back down the slope towards Faisán, suddenly uncertain.
‘Who are you, señor?’ Ochoa asked, annoyed at Faisán. Clearly the kid didn’t know how these things should be done. That, or there was something seriously wrong with him.
‘I’m sorry, I should have said,’ the man spluttered, absurdly apologetic under the circumstances. ‘I’m Luis Vidal and this is my wife María Carmen.’
‘It’s our daughter, María,’ Señora Vidal said, suddenly choked by grief.
‘Killed by a madman,’ Faisán added as he came up behind Ochoa.
Señora Vidal began weeping again.
Ochoa looked up the hill. Shrub, a few stunted trees. Heaps of soil. Some freshly dug, others sprouting grass. A number completely grassed over.
‘You have to identify the body,’ said Faisán. ‘It’s important Corporal Ochoa takes as many photographs as possible because we need a complete set for General Mellado. He has to see everything. I’m sure you understand.’
The couple understood nothing. That was clear as Faisán gave them instructions to proceed up the windswept hillside, accompanied by the sudden bursts of light from Ochoa’s flash. The ground flattened out and Ochoa saw more heaps of soil by a line of gorse bushes. They were not a natural phenomenon.
Looking back down the hill, Ochoa noticed a dark car pull up. Several burly men in fatigues got out, lifting a white-wrapped bundle from the back seat. He saw the men coming up the hill, obscured by a row of stunted trees a hundred metres away. He understood now why Faisán was keeping the couple talking.
‘Stand over there,’ Faisán told the couple. ‘Keep going, Corporal.’ His voice was sharp and petulant.
As Ochoa raised the camera, he saw the men coming through the trees.
Flash: The couple looking at Faisán.
Flash: Faisán walking to the bushes. The couple watching him.
Flash: Faisán, obscured by branches, heaving something from the bushes. A strange smile on his fleshy lips.
Flash: Faisán dragging the bundle towards them. The couple staring, apprehensive.
Flash: The couple staring at the pale shape as Faisán unwrapped the single sheet, revealing the naked body inside.
Flash: The woman’s hand over her mouth.
Flash: A young woman’s face, her eyes wide, her mouth wide open in a last attempt to draw breath on the garrotte. Her tongue lolling from her mouth, swollen and black.
Flash: The woman on her knees. The man pathetically trying to comfort her. Faisal behind them, pistol raised.
Flash: Two bodies, face down by their daughter’s corpse.
Ochoa spat bile into the soil. He watched the driver come up the hillside, carrying a shovel. A metre away, Señor and Señora Vidal were still bleeding into the coarse grass.
Faisán came towards him. He was smiling. ‘I did it,’ he said, as if he had surprised himself. ‘The general said I could do it if I tried. He had faith in me.’
‘Why did you kill them?’ Ochoa asked, spitting again.
‘Their daughter managed to smuggle out a letter from her cell and they came to the mansion, asking after her,’ Faisán said. ‘The general was mightily displeased.’ He took out a gold cigarette case and put a Turkish cigarette between his fleshy lips. ‘Can I buy that camera?’
‘You can if you’ve got the cash.’ Ochoa shrugged. ‘It’s expensive, mind.’
‘Tell me when to stop,’ Faisán said, counting out the notes into Ochoa’s hand.
Ochoa kept him waiting.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN
As Guzmán stepped into the room, Magdalena came to him and he put his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her body crushed against his. He felt her breath against his chest, the beating of her heart as she raise
d her face to kiss him. He delayed it. It was best to tell her first.
She felt him tense. ‘What’s wrong, Leo?’
‘Mellado arrested María Vidal.’
‘Heavens, what’s she done?’
‘I’m not sure. All I know is that she’s dead.’
Magdalena raised a hand to her mouth for a moment. ‘Did she try to escape, is that it?’
He pulled her close in a clumsy embrace. ‘I don’t know what happened yet.’
‘She must have done something dreadful.’ Her blue eyes were wide.
‘She must have,’ Guzmán agreed.
Magdalena pulled away and went across the room to her record player. Guzmán saw the HMV badge, a small dog peering into the trumpet of a wind-up gramophone. He watched as she shuffled through a pile of records. He had never had such a beautiful woman, not even the ones he’d paid in Yanqui dollars. For once, Carrero Blanco had been right: a woman like her wasn’t for the likes of him. That made him want her all the more.
She put a record on the turntable. The speaker hissed for a moment and he heard a woman’s voice, the French words slow and smoky.
‘Who’s that?’ He stood behind her, unaware she was crying.
‘Juliette Gréco,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s called “Autumn Leaves”.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Guzmán said, hoping it was.
‘You’d better go, you must have a lot to do preparing for your operation.’ Her back still turned to him.
He nodded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ll talk then.’
She turned to face him and he saw her tears for the first time. ‘You will come back to me, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ And then he left, closing the door behind him. He went down the stairs into the street, troubled.
No one had ever worried about him on a job before.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE SAN JUAN
The narrow streets were empty, their cobbles black and slick with rain as he wandered past the basilica, following a narrow alley deep into the old town. Finally, he stopped to look at a handwritten sign in a shop window. The window was almost empty but for a shelf covered with a piece of ancient black velvet. In the middle of the velvet was a large glass ball. A handwritten card was propped against the ball and Guzmán stared at the words through the smeared glass:
Amaya, Genuine Gypsy from Jerez – Fortunes told -
Tarot and palm readings.
Love potions
Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored
The room was dark, lit only by the dubious light of a paraffin lantern hanging from a nail on one side of the room. The walls were draped in dark cloth embroidered with the moon and stars in silver thread. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a woman dressed in black, sitting at a table. A smell of smoke and roses. Rain hammered against the window.
‘Buenas tardes.’ He put his dripping hat on the table. Then he stared. ‘You again?’
‘The gentleman is surprised?’ the gypsy asked.
‘I thought you were a whore?’ He frowned. ‘Or a man.’
‘Those are merely labels, señor. How can Amaya help?’
‘When I have problems, I always consult a gypsy.’
‘Quite right.’ She held out her hand. ‘Let me see your palm.’
Her touch was like ice as she traced the lines on his palm with a broken fingernail. ‘I see bad things,’ she muttered. ‘Any woman who follows you...’ A slow intake of breath.
‘What?’
‘I see footsteps following yours. They end in...’ She stopped.
‘They end in what? In Madrid?’
‘No, señor, they end in shadow. The shadow.’
‘Death?’
‘That’s one interpretation. Nothing is ever certain.’
‘I’m certain you’re full of shit,’ Guzmán growled, reaching for his hat.
‘I see what I see,’ the gypsy said. ‘And I see the shadow round you.’
‘Most likely you’ve got the clap, that’s why you’re raving.’ Guzmán threw down a couple of banknotes. As he stood up, his hat fell to the floor and he reached down to retrieve it. ‘Get yourself some penicillin on the black market before your mind goes completely.’
The gypsy watched him stamp off down the street before she picked up the money and pushed it into the folds of her dress. And then her mouth sagged open as she saw his wallet on the table. She opened it and saw his identity card and behind it a thick wad of money, much of it American dollars. And there was something else, folded neatly behind the identity card. She unfolded the mimeographed document and struggled to read the text requiring all personnel below the rank of coronel to obey his orders and to give any assistance he might request. The paper was signed by the head of state.
When she finished reading, her hands were shaking. Her client was in the policía secreta. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the shadow around him: he was cursed. Death walked beside him.
She thought quickly. The smart thing would be to leave town with the money. That was the gypsy in her. The survivor in her realised it would go badly if she did that and he found her. And how hard would it be for someone so powerful to track her down? She went to the door and peered out into the rain. At the end of the street, she saw his dark shape, walking towards the seafront. She ran down the street after him.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CATEDRAL DEL BUEN PASTOR
Jeanette Duclos sat in an empty pew behind a row of soberly dressed women waiting for confession. The cathedral fluttered with soft echoes, bathed in a trembling light from several large candles illuminating a painfully graphic carving of the Crucifixion near the altar. Jeanette waited patiently until the last of the penitents left the confessional. She heard the priest’s spluttering cough and the faint slap of his feet on the stone floor as he walked to the sacristy. And then the sound of another taking his place.
She stepped into the cramped black box and knelt by the grille, inhaling the sweat and stale breath of the penitents who had passed through before her. The grille slid to one side. She saw dark flashing eyes beneath his cowl, a sudden movement of silver hair. A deep sonorous voice.
‘Ave María Purísima.’
‘Sin pecado concebida.’
‘How long since your last confession, my child?’
‘About twenty-eight years.’
A muffled laugh. ‘Do you still drink?’
‘Frequently.’
‘Men?’
‘Constantly.’
A deep chuckle. ‘Shameless, just like your mother. May she rest in peace.’
‘I have something for you, Papa. That thing you said you wanted.’
‘You always were a thoughtful girl.’
Jeanette took a scroll of paper from her bag and pushed it though the opening.
She heard his grunt of satisfaction. ‘How much did León ask for this?’
‘He left that to us, Father. But he expects a lot.’
‘People with expectations are usually disappointed. What do you think he deserves?’
Jeanette began fastening her coat. ‘I leave that to you, mon père,’ she whispered. ‘But don’t they say the wages of sin are death?’
‘How very true.’ A deep chuckle. ‘I’ll see he’s paid in full.’
The grille closed. Jeanette crossed herself and went out into the shadows.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS
The lights of the city glimmered through the dismal night as he watched a couple strolling by the harbour. And then another shape by the quay, emerging from the shadows of the old town. It was Guzmán. The target he’d been hoping for. He pressed the rifle stock to his cheek, ready to take the shot. Breathing slowly, easily, letting the weapon become an extension of his body. And then something came out of the darkened street behind Guzmán, its coat inflating in the wind like a bat. Viana frowned as he saw the gypsy’s turban, the high cheekbones and missing teeth. As Guzmán turned, Viana fired.
SAN SEB
ASTIÁN 1954, PUERTO
Behind him, Guzmán heard footsteps on the wet cobbles. He turned and saw the gypsy, her soaking dress and cloak flapping around her. He watched her carefully, suspecting an attempt to extract more money from him.
‘Your wallet, señor,’ she panted. ‘You left it on the table. I didn’t touch any of the money, see for yourself.’
He took the wallet from her. ‘You knew I’d come after you if you stole it,’ he grunted, handing her a hundred pesetas. He begrudged her this reward, but it was best to be careful. The last thing he needed was to be cursed the night before a job. Once was enough in any man’s lifetime.
The gypsy continued protesting her innocence. He had no time to waste listening to her attempt to increase the reward for her uncharacteristic honesty and he turned away to go to his hotel. A sharp torrent of rain rattled against his back, the noise almost drowning out the sudden noise of the shot.
The gypsy crumpled like a broken doll, folding into the wet pavement, blood welling from the hole in her forehead. Guzmán knelt and plucked the wet hundred peseta note from her hand. It was wasted on her now. There was nothing more he could do for her and he hurried up the boulevard to his hotel where Ochoa was waiting.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS
Through the rifle sight he saw the gypsy fall, dead before she hit the ground. He cursed her for ruining his shot. Still, he would get another chance at Guzmán, he knew. And next time there would be no gypsy to save him. He was cold now, soaked by the rain as he left the eyrie where he kept these deadly vigils. He hid the rifle in its waterproof case in a small recess by the chimney before climbing down the wooden fire escape. Back in his hotel room, he made a call to Madrid. Gutiérrez answered at once.
‘Carrero Blanco had lunch with Guzmán and General Torres’s daughter,’ Viana said.
The Exile Page 34
