The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  And every time, a flurry of sticks, flailing hands and kicking feet resonating through the dojo as Mendez dumped them on their culos yet again.

  ‘You surrender, that’s what,’ Calderón said, answering her own question. ‘And I’m going to tell you the terms of surrender, Ana María.’

  Galíndez remembered cold rain slanting through the street lights as she waited outside the dojo. Waiting to ask Mendez for the secret that enabled her to beat her and Fran week after week, without them ever landing a blow. You said I could ask any question I like, Mendez.

  ‘Destroy all those letters you got from Adelina Solano,’ Calderón continued. ‘And all your computer files.’ Her voice was confident. ‘That will save your life.’ She gave Galíndez a penetrating look. ‘And mine as well. Are you listening?’

  Galíndez didn’t speak. In her mind she was sixteen, standing in a dark side street in Lavapiés with Mendez towering over her, her Afro glistening with rain. Why would I tell you that, niña? Her eyes bored into hers. I need to learn if I’m going to get better, and I can’t learn alone. Mendez nodded, weighing up her response. Good answer, kid.

  ‘Hola?’ Calderón’s tone was mocking. ‘Pay attention. You don’t want to end up like Adelina Solano, do you? Drop the investigation, Ana, or they’ll kill you. You and that bimbo who used to be on the radio, the one with the big tits and perfect teeth.’

  Mendez’s words came back to her. Strike where the enemy least expects it. Fast.

  ‘Puta madre, listen to me, will you?’ Calderón was shouting now. ‘Are you stupid?’

  She waited for a response. ‘Tell me you know what you’ve got to do, will you?’

  Galíndez took her phone from her pocket and scrolled to her contacts. She looked at Rosario without speaking. When she did, her voice was icy. ‘I know exactly what to do.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Calderón asked, suddenly uneasy.

  ‘I’m calling Uncle Ramiro. You probably refer to him as General Ortiz, I imagine.’

  ‘Ramiro Ortiz?’ Rosario’s eyes bulged. ‘Are you insane?’ She snatched at the phone but Galíndez moved back out of reach. ‘Don’t do that, Ana. Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘Publish the report you commissioned from me,’ Galíndez said. ‘In full.’

  The blood drained from Calderón’s face. ‘Be reasonable. I said we’d fund your research centre for the next five years. Why don’t we say ten?’

  ‘Five will be fine,’ Galíndez said coolly. She glanced at the screen of her phone.

  ‘We could pay the funds straight into your account if you like?’

  ‘Publish the report,’ Galíndez said. ‘And pay the funds to the university, not me.’

  Calderón’s eyes flickered. ‘That’s all you want?’

  ‘It is. But go back on your word and the guardia will pay you a visit, I promise.’

  They stood facing one another, both imagining it. All those specialist officers assiduously collecting details of phone calls, bank transfers, credit-card statements, phone calls and emails. All those transactions with Swiss banks.

  ‘Deal?’ Galíndez asked. Game, set and fucking match.

  Rosario stared at her. ‘Everything has a hidden cost, Ana. You really think Ramiro’s the guy in the white hat who saves the day in movies?’

  ‘He is what he is. A policeman and a good one at that.’

  ‘Is he?’ Calderón reached inside her raincoat and took out a cardboard envelope. ‘Investigate this then, you smug little dyke. Though don’t do it on my time, will you?’

  Galíndez took the envelope from her, puzzled. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I told you,’ Calderón said. ‘Everything has a hidden cost. I think it’s only fair I spoil your day, since you’ve spoiled mine.’

  As Calderón walked away, Galíndez suddenly became aware of the immense silence around her. The trees and shrubbery were lifeless and still. Even the drone of the city had faded. She ran a hand over her face. Her palm was damp with sweat.

  Lightning flickered through the black clouds. A moment later, a deep roll of thunder shook the air. As the first drops of rain fell, she hurried into the Crystal Palace, sheltering under the elaborate wrought-iron and glass canopy as the rain drummed down. Cautiously, she opened the envelope and slid out the sheet of paper inside. Yellowing paper, the ink of the signatures slightly smudged. An adoption certificate, dated 11 August 1970.

  The adoptive father was Teniente Ramiro Ortiz, occupation: Guardia Civil. The adoptive mother, Teresa Ortiz, occupation: Housewife. The space for the name of the child’s biological mother was marked desconocida, unknown. And the child: Estrella Lucia, aged one month.

  She stared at the certificate. Ramiro’s daughter was adopted. Estrella Lucia, the little girl who twelve years later would pull the gas pipe from the wall and kill her and her baby brother.

  At the bottom of the certificate was the signature of the authorising officer. A broad script in big angry letters. Galíndez had seen that writing before, in his diary. She had never forgotten it.

  Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán,

  Brigada Especial, Comisaría de Policía,

  Calle de Robles, Vallecas, Madrid

  23

  OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

  Guzmán’s footsteps echoed down the dimly lit corridor as he followed the smell of coffee. Ahead of him, a patch of squalid light spilled from the door of the mess room. Inside the mess, Ochoa was sitting at the table, stirring a pot of coffee.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I slept in a barracks,’ Guzmán said as he joined Ochoa at the table. ‘I’d forgotten how much they stink.’ He reached for the chipped mug Ochoa pushed towards him. ‘On the other hand, that smells very good.’

  ‘It should, I bought it on the black market yesterday,’ Ochoa said. ‘I got some bread and ham as well. No point fighting a bandit on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Not fighting: killing a bandit,’ Guzmán said. ‘He has to die.’

  Ochoa’s expression didn’t change. ‘That was what I meant, jefe.’

  Guzmán looked at the slices of ham Ochoa produced from a greasy paper package. ‘Fuck, Corporal,’ he said, tearing open a piece of bread and filling it with ham, ‘if this is how you make breakfast, perhaps I should marry you.’

  Ochoa almost smiled. ‘You wouldn’t want to be married to me, sir.’

  ‘That’s true. Because if I walked out, you’d spend the rest of your life tracking me down so you could kill me.’

  ‘It says “Till death us do part” in the marriage vows, jefe.’

  Guzmán gave him a long look. ‘I’m just guessing, but I don’t think they meant shooting your señora dead when they wrote that. You’re not a Jesuit, are you?’

  Ochoa carried on slicing chorizo.

  ‘Did the squad leave anyone to man the radio?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘They did, sir, a lance corporal called Rosales. I just looked in on him and he was sitting by the radio, waiting for messages. He seems keen.’

  ‘That’s unusual for a guardia civil.’ Guzmán snorted.

  Ochoa cocked his head, hearing footsteps outside. ‘That sounds like him now.’

  The lance corporal appeared in the doorway. ‘Muy buenas, Comandante. A message for you.’ He handed Guzmán a piece of notepaper bearing a few scrawled sentences.

  ‘Give me a pencil,’ Guzmán ordered. He leaned forward and started to decode the message. The lance corporal waited at the door. ‘Go,’ Guzmán said, without looking up.

  Ochoa waited patiently until Guzmán had finished.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Guzmán said. He didn’t look happy.

  LACK OF RESPONSE TO EARLIER CONTACTS MOST UNSATISFACTORY. CONSIDERING ALTERNATIVE ACTION UNLESS INFORMED OF SUCCESSFULOUTCOME IN NEXT 24 HOURS.

  ‘Lack of contact?’ Ochoa said. ‘We sent several messages.’

  ‘I know.’ Guzmán scowled. ‘Fuck knows what’s going on, Gutiérrez has his fingers in so many pies. ‘But h
e says he’s expecting a successful outcome and that’s what we’ll give him.’ He reached for his coffee. ‘I don’t have to remind you how important this job is, do I?’

  Ochoa shook his head. ‘It’s your ticket back to Madrid, boss.’

  ‘Our ticket,’ Guzmán said. ‘When we get back, you’ll be the new sargento.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ochoa said, though without much enthusiasm, Guzmán noticed.

  ‘And you’ll get a month off with pay and full use of the archives to track down your wife,’ Guzmán added generously.

  Ochoa smiled. ‘Lobo’s a dead man.’

  ‘That’s better. I like my men to enjoy their work.’

  A sudden shout echoed down the corridor from the radio room. The truck containing five million pesetas from the coffers of the Banco de Bilbao had just left San Sebastián.

  OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

  Begoña was pulling weeds from the flower bed as Patxi Gabilondo came strolling up the track past Lauburu Farm. She smiled as she saw the thin young man with his buck-toothed smile and the vague fuzz on his jaw he hoped would one day be a thick Basque beard.

  ‘Kaixo, Señorita Begoña,’ Patxi called. ‘It rained a lot last night.’

  The Arestiguis were Patxi’s favourite employers. They were kind and patient and he had learned much from them: how the colours of the clouds signalled changes in the weather, the best way to kill a chicken and the names of the old gods that inhabited the vast countryside.

  As a child, Patxi had listened entranced to their stories, sitting before their fire, seeing the flames reflected in their dark luminous eyes as Begoña told of how the French Emperor Charlemagne came to Euskadi with his hordes of French knights and how the Basques had repelled the enemy, falling upon them from the heights with battleaxes, screaming the irrintzi, the shrill war cry of their people, as they slaughtered the invaders until only the French knight Roldán was still alive, riddled with arrows that pinned him to a tree like St Sebastian.

  Begoña had looked deep into Patxi’s eyes as she told that tale, ensuring her words were inscribed in his memory for ever. Roldán was brave, she told him, very brave, but he died because his cause was not just.

  Begoña wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Dios mio, Patxi, you seem taller every time I see you. You’re a man now.’

  Patxi’s face lit up at her words. ‘Thank you, señorita.’

  ‘Is that the crucifix we got you last Christmas?’

  Patxi nodded. He lifted the cross to his lips and kissed it. ‘It brings me luck, señorita.’

  ‘So it should, Patxi.’ Begoña smiled. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Is Señorita Nieves around?’ Patxi had yet to learn about unrequited love.

  ‘She’s gone to the village. Where are you off to?’

  ‘The ridge by the old road. Mikel Aingeru asked me to mend a fence.’

  ‘Be sure he pays you. Mikel forgets things sometimes.’

  ‘I will, señorita,’ Patxi agreed. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Begoña went into the house and returned with a bocadillo filled with links of thin txistorra sausage. ‘Take this, it’ll keep your strength up.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘Don’t eat it all at once, do you hear?’

  ‘Eskerrik asko.’ Patxi started up the path, clutching the sandwich. She knew he would eat it long before he reached the village.

  ‘You be careful on that ridge,’ Begoña called after him. ‘There’ll be snow today and you know what it’s like up there when it snows.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ Patxi shouted, waving goodbye. ‘Agur.’

  ‘Agur, Patxi Gabilondo.’ Begoña returned to her work, idly wondering what it would have been like to have had a husband and a son. But then, some things were not meant to be.

  Something touched her cheek. She looked up, seeing a dark quilt of cloud moving over the mountain. Around her, scattered snowflakes danced on the wind, growing thicker, the flakes clinging to her hair and eyelashes. She hurried back into the house.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, IGLESIA DE LA ASUNCIÓN

  The door to the church opened. A big man stood outlined against the light.

  ‘Is that you, Sargento?’

  ‘Course it is, you blind bastard,’ León said, propping his rifle against a pew.

  ‘What are you doing here? We heard you’d been transferred.’

  ‘So I have,’ León said. ‘But they said you could use another gun, so I volunteered.’

  One of the men laughed. ‘That’s not like you, Sarge.’

  León shrugged. ‘We’ll all be famous when El Lobo’s dead. And there’s also the reward, I don’t want to miss out on that.’

  The men were cheered by the prospect of more money. Such things were rare. ‘Glad to have you along, Sarge.’

  ‘Me too.’ León grinned. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  Ten minutes later, they heard the low rumble of the truck as it pulled up outside.

  ‘Vamos,’ León shouted as the men filed out to the waiting truck. ‘The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can spend that reward money.’

  OROITZ 1954

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’ Guzmán peered through the smeared arcs of the wipers at the snow settling over the countryside. ‘If it’s not raining, it’s snowing. What a fucking country.’

  ‘There’s something you should know about yesterday,’ Ochoa muttered, preoccupied.

  ‘The job you did for Mellado?’ Guzmán listened as Ochoa related the events of the previous afternoon with Faisán and the Vidals.

  ‘That means he sent the girl’s body up to Guetaria the moment I left him,’ Guzmán said. ‘And Faisán shot them both? I wouldn’t have thought he was capable.’

  ‘Seemed to enjoy it, sir. He said the general would be pleased with him.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ Guzmán said. ‘The intel reports on the women he’s arrested are all empty. He’s been arresting them for his own ends and once he’s done with them, he kills them.’

  Ochoa frowned. ‘That’s pushing things, even for someone in his position. How would he explain it away?’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Guzmán said. ‘Because he’s mad, Corporal. Fucking mad.’

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  Inside the truck there was no light and little ventilation. Within half an hour the vehicle stank of sweat and black tobacco. The sacks of banknotes already took up a fair amount of space, obliging the men to cram themselves in as best they could. The only communication between the troopers and the driver was through a small hatchway in the partition separating the cab from the interior of the truck. Most of it consisted of muffled shouts from the back, complaining about the state of the road, and León’s obscene responses.

  The truck slowed and halted on the brow of the hill. Ahead, the road descended into the valley, narrowing as it passed between steep ridges to either side. Perfect bandit country, especially with the snow now blurring the slopes.

  ‘Fucking weather,’ the driver said. ‘How long do we wait here?’

  León looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes. Guzmán said he’d be in position by then.’

  ‘You want to let the boys out to stretch their legs then, Sarge?’

  ‘No, they can stay put.’ León put a cigarette between his thick lips. ‘If El Lobo sees them, he’ll disappear and so will our chance of the reward money. Anyway, all that bellyaching will make them more aggressive.’

  The driver peered into the snow. ‘Are you sure this will work?’ he asked, noticing how the road disappeared into thick woods beneath high, overhanging cliffs. ‘If anything goes wrong, there’s no one to help us within miles.’

  ‘You know what it’s like here.’ León laughed. ‘It might all blow over in a minute. I tell you, this will be a walk in the park, amigo. And you never know, there might be a medal in it.’ He threw the butt of his cigarette into the snow.

  ‘You can’t eat medals,’ the driver grumbled. ‘It’s the reward I’m int
erested in.’

  ‘First things first.’ León crushed his cigarette into the snow. ‘We’ve got to get the bastard before we see any money.’ He went to the back of the truck and pounded on the doors.

  A muffled voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Coño, who do you think? Open up.’

  The handle inside the vehicle creaked and the doors swung open. León stepped back to avoid a stream of stinking air. A row of pale-faced troopers blinked in the wintry light.

  ‘Can we get out for a bit, Sargento?’

  ‘Stay where you are, Private Ortega, we’ll be off in a couple of minutes,’ León snapped. ‘We’ll give the comandante time to get in position and then we’ll get moving.’

  ‘And we can fire at will if we’re attacked, Sarge?’

  ‘Just be sure you shoot straight.’ León slammed the doors and waited until the men had locked them from the inside before he climbed back into the cab.

  The driver frowned as he watched the wipers struggling to clear the windscreen of snow. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Sarge.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ León said.

  OROITZ 1954

  It was midday when Patxi Gabilondo reached the village. He peered through the snow at the guardia cuartel, despite the warnings Señorita Nieves had given him about staring at civil guards. Though he never said so, Patxi would have liked to join the guardia. They had nice uniforms, smart tricorne hats and he was mightily impressed by the long rifles they carried. His real motivation, however, was more mundane: three meals a day and accommodation. That luxury was hard for him to imagine.

  He finished his bocadillo and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Up the narrow street, near Señora Olibari’s pensión, he caught a glimpse of Nieves Arestigui carrying her wicker basket and his heart pounded as he watched her laughing and chatting with the villagers clustered around the vegetable stall. Nieves didn’t see him and Patxi was far too shy to approach her in public. He continued on his way.