The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  The snow was falling faster, its endless continuity disrupted by sudden gusts of wind. ‘What’s that noise?’ the driver asked.

  León shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘We should drive straight to Oroitz,’ the driver grumbled. ‘Lobo won’t try anything now. Even if he does, the comandante won’t see him in this.’

  ‘Tell you what, we’ll drive halfway and see if it starts to clear. If it doesn’t, that’s it.’

  The weather got worse. The road was already soaked from the previous day’s rain and the wheels were losing their grip in the mud. León glared through the repetitive arcs of the wipers, seeing only mist and slanting gusts of snow in the headlights.

  ‘It’s a big reward,’ he grunted.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how big it is,’ the driver said. ‘We can’t catch him if we can’t see him.’

  The road began to slope to one side, causing the wheels to slip on the half-melted snow. The truck began sliding towards the verge.

  ‘Joder.’ The driver twisted the wheel as he tried to fight the skid. The truck didn’t obey and León grabbed the dashboard as the vehicle slid down the sloping section of road, miring itself in the muddy ground.

  ‘That’s all we need.’ León pulled his oilskin cape round his shoulders and got down from the cab. The driver heard a sudden flurry of oaths as León saw how deeply the wheels were embedded in the mud. ‘We’re going nowhere,’ he muttered. ‘Better let the lads out.’

  The driver went round to the back doors and pounded on them with his fist. The cramped troopers climbed out unhappily, forming a semicircle around the stranded vehicle.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ the driver groaned.

  A sudden sharp whistle, fading in the thin air.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ the driver asked, suddenly uneasy.

  ‘How do I know?’ León said. ‘A bird maybe.’

  ‘Are we going to walk back, Sargento?’ one of the men asked.

  León shook his head. ‘Not with all this money in the truck. We’ll stick together. If Lobo makes a move, we’re more than a match for him.’

  Another piercing whistle in the wintry air. Louder this time.

  ‘I don’t know what that is but it’s too close for my liking,’ the driver said, unfastening the flap of his holster.

  Snow dripped from the trees in heavy grey drops. The men looked at one another. Several had drawn their revolvers.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ León said, ‘put those guns away. If that bird suddenly flies past, you lot are going to panic and shoot one another.’

  Sheepishly, the men holstered their weapons.

  Several loud whistles. All around them.

  ‘Shepherds,’ León said. ‘They’ll be moving their flocks because of the weather.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ the driver asked, staring into the snow.

  ‘Dead sure.’ León leaned his rifle against the side of the cab. ‘I’ll go and have a word. They can help push us out of this mud.’ He gestured towards the open doors of the truck. ‘You wait inside, lads. No point all of us getting soaked.’

  Anything was better than standing around knee-deep in mud and the men trudged back to the vehicle as León splashed across the road and disappeared into the mist-shrouded trees. The civil guards heard him calling to the shepherds to show themselves. And then his calls faded and all they heard was the dripping of melting snow.

  OROITZ 1954, MENDIKO RIDGE

  Patxi Gabilondo followed the narrow trail into the valley. He had decided to take a short cut. If he got Mikel’s fence finished quickly, he might be able to do some chores for Begoña on his way home in return for the sandwich she’d given him. With luck Nieves would be there too.

  Below him, beyond the trees, was the old road. Patxi would follow that until he came to Mikel Aingeru’s pastures. Despite being soaked, he was happy. This snow should have stopped by the time he was ready to make his way home.

  He paused, hearing the muffled pounding of hooves coming towards him.

  A dark shape emerged from the mist, towering above him. Patxi’s eyes widened as he recalled the litany of gods and spirits who dwelled in the mountains. But this was no spirit or demon but a man on horseback wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long oilskin coat.

  Patxi saw the Winchester rifle in the man’s hand, the high knee boots, the intricate spurs and ornate stirrups. He knew who this was. When he had still attended school, he had seen a picture in the only book the school possessed, showing one of Spain’s greatest enemies, the pirate and heretic Francis Drake. And now here he was in front of him.

  ‘Who are you, boy?’ Francis Drake asked, in Basque. He raised the muzzle of the Winchester, resting the stock on his thigh.

  ‘Patxi Gabilondo, your worship.’

  ‘And where does Patxi Gabilondo live?’

  ‘Past Oroitz, your worship, beyond Lauburu Farm in the house near the bridge.’

  ‘Then go back there, young man. This is no place for you today.’

  ‘I have to mend a fence, your worship,’ Patxi stammered, ‘for Mikel Aingeru.’

  The rider laughed. ‘There are no fences that can be mended for that old man.’ Resting his rifle on the pommel of his saddle, he dug into one of the pockets of his coat. ‘Here.’ He flipped a coin towards Patxi, spinning a silver trail through the damp air.

  Patxi retrieved the coin from the wet grass, his eyes wide.

  ‘A Yanqui dollar,’ Baron Çubiry said, as he wheeled the horse about. ‘Spend it wisely.’

  ‘Yes, your worship,’ Patxi gasped, scuttling away up the trail.

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  ‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ Guzmán said, staring out of the window as the car slid on the sodden road, ‘I’m never coming back to this fucking country again.’ He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. ‘There’s too much weather for my liking.’

  ‘It was bad last time we were here,’ Ochoa said. ‘In the war, I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Although we agreed not to talk about it.’

  Ochoa wisely changed the subject. ‘I appreciate the time off to find my wife, sir. Especially since you know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Guzmán breathed out a mouthful of smoke. ‘I’m a policeman. What do I care if you kill someone? It’s none of my business.’

  Ochoa slowed to a crawl. ‘Do you know where we are, jefe?’

  Guzmán looked at the bleak landscape. ‘Not really. But we can’t miss the truck, it’s coming down this road towards us.’ He peered into the whirling snow again. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Daylight at last.’ Ochoa pointed ahead, where a long shaft of sunlight slanted down onto the craggy hillside, glittering on the snow.

  ‘Pull over,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m going up that ridge to take a look round.’ He got out of the car and pulled his rifle from the back seat. ‘You wait here. Keep me covered from behind the car, just in case.’

  Ochoa took his rifle and rested it on the car roof, watching the hillside through the sight as Guzmán started working his way up the rocky gradient.

  It was slow going. The snow fell steadily, imposing a muffled silence over the slope, a silence broken only by the sound of his laboured breathing. As he reached the top of the ridge, he heard a noise. Muted footsteps running towards him. He lifted the rifle and aimed as the figure appeared out of the snow. An adolescent boy, hair the colour of straw, his eyes wide as he saw the rifle pointed at him.

  ‘Joder.’ Guzmán lowered the rifle. ‘Where are you going, chico?’

  ‘To mend a fence in the lower pasture, your worship,’ Patxi stammered.

  ‘Go back home,’ Guzmán said. ‘Don’t hang around here, it’s not safe.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a twenty peseta note. ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’

  Patxi nodded. He knew what it was though he had never touched one.
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  ‘Take it,’ Guzmán said, ‘and get lost.’

  Patxi scooted back the way he had come, his skinny figure soon lost in the mist and snow.

  Guzmán started back down the hillside. There was nothing to be seen from up here, the visibility was appalling.

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  León moved across the road into a thicket of trees and tangled clumps of scrub. Behind him, he could just make out the dark shape of the truck where the lads would be smoking and joshing as they waited for his return. He grinned, pleased with himself. It was true what they said about having the last laugh.

  ‘If you move, monsieur, I will surely kill you.’ A suave French voice, disembodied in the swirling mist.

  León saw the dark bulk of Baron Çubiry’s horse as it edged towards him. The Baron was not alone. From where León was standing, the Çubiry were like an army bearing down on him, dark horses with coloured war ribbons plaited in their manes, sallow-faced men with rifles, cutlasses and automatic pistols. An insane collection of headgear. León staggered, struggling to stay on his feet as Çubiry’s horse pushed him aside. The Baron leaned from the saddle, baring his teeth. A metre away, León could smell his breath.

  ‘You’ve done well, Sargento.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Where are they?’ His voice thick, menacing.

  ‘Over there,’ León said, pointing. ‘They’re all in the truck, just as I told Jeanette.’

  ‘Ah, my dear Jeannette.’ Baron Çubiry smiled. ‘You know what she said about you?’

  León shrugged. Women’s opinions counted for nothing as far as he was concerned. ‘I imagine she said how helpful I’ve been.’

  ‘Jeanette said there was no one on this earth the likes of you would not betray.’

  León frowned. Things weren’t going to plan. His plan, at least. ‘She said we had a deal.’

  Amused, Çubiry twisted in his saddle to address the riders behind him. ‘Mes amis, you ride as Çubiry, you die as Çubiry. When you meet the enemy there can be no mercy. As the Good Book says, “I will not listen to their cry; though they offer burnt offerings, I will not accept them. Instead, I will destroy them with the sword.”’

  The Baron leaned out of the saddle and stared at León, tightening his grip on the horse’s reins. ‘You think you’re the only one who knows about treachery?’ He pointed towards the road. ‘Allez, Çubiry.’

  The pack of riders moved forward, picking up speed, the dull pounding of their hooves exploding into an agitated rhythm as they raced across the soaked ground, swords flashing as they left the scabbards. As he followed, the Baron called to one of the men behind him. ‘Kill him, Jean-Claude.’

  León saw the rider gallop towards him, his pistol extended over the horse’s head. He heard the percussive blast of the shot and then the ground whirled around him as he pitched backwards into the sodden scrub.

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  Guzmán stood with Ochoa, listening intently to the silence. ‘I’d swear I heard a horse.’

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ Ochoa said. He started walking back to the car.

  Guzmán glanced around at the desolate landscape. He heard the horse again and raised his hand. Ochoa stopped, alert now.

  ‘Get back in the car,’ Guzmán said quietly. ‘Don’t hurry and don’t look round.’

  Ochoa walked slowly, his boots crunching on the snow. He paused as he opened the car door, still listening. Then he slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

  Guzmán ran his eye over the hillside again before hurrying back to the car. ‘Put your foot down,’ he said. ‘Fast as you can without killing us.’

  Ochoa felt the wheel jar his hands as the car bounced over the rough road, accelerating in a shower of mud and snow, the engine rising in pitch as it picked up speed. A few hundred metres ahead, the road went down a slight incline. On either side the ground fell away steeply into groves of dark pines.

  ‘Once we’re past this wood, pull over and we’ll take another look,’ Guzmán said.

  The windscreen exploded in a storm of stinging glass.

  The car veered off the road, smashing through the remains of an old wall as it plunged down the slope, shedding pieces of wreckage as it went. The two men were hurled forward as the chassis hit a tree stump that ripped the exhaust from the vehicle in a howl of tortured metal. The wrecked car careered on down the hill until it smashed into a large boulder at the bottom of the incline, throwing Guzmán and Ochoa forward into the dashboard.

  Inside the mangled Buick there was a sudden silence.

  An abrupt clatter as the bonnet jerked up from its broken fittings; the sound of glass falling from shattered windows; the creaking of battered bodywork; steam spluttering from under the crumpled bonnet; a stench of gasoline.

  Ochoa clutched his head. Guzmán saw blood running through his fingers. He pushed him to the door. ‘Try and get behind those rocks over there.’

  Ochoa threw open the battered door, and ran towards the shelter of the boulders. On the road above, Guzmán saw the mounted rifleman looking down at him. And then the horseman jumped down from the saddle, taking shelter behind a lip of rock that gave him an excellent field of fire while making it almost impossible for Guzmán to get a decent shot at him.

  Guzmán kicked open the door and slid out, firing. He crouched behind the car, waiting for the response. A moment later the driver’s seat exploded in a flurry of shredded leather as the report of the rifle echoed around the barren hillside. The gunman fired again and the nearside headlight disintegrated.

  Guzmán smelled oil as a bullet shuddered into the engine block. The offside headlight went next, blasted apart in such a spectacular manner Guzmán suspected the bastard was using armour-piercing bullets. He spat angrily into the soil as he reloaded the Browning and got to his feet, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip as he crept along the side of the car.

  Keeping low, he pulled at the handle of the rear door, hoping to retrieve the rifle from the back seat. The battered door didn’t move. Guzmán raised his head slowly, looking through the shattered window for the rifle. The seething bee-whine of a bullet fizzed past him, forcing him to take cover again. The rifle would have to stay where it was.

  The rifleman fired again and the car sagged as the front offside tyre exploded. Guzmán dashed from behind the rear of the car and ran towards the rocks, scrambling behind the boulder where Ochoa was sheltering.

  ‘At least we’re safe here,’ Ochoa said.

  Guzmán narrowed his eyes. ‘Unfortunately, we’re also trapped, Corporal.’

  The rifleman turned his attention to the car. Within minutes the remaining tyres had been shot out. Another flurry of bullets sent shards of metal and broken glass flying. A sharp hiss of steam signalled the radiator had been hit.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Guzmán said angrily. ‘The guardia must have heard the shooting by now. They were supposed to support us.’

  As suddenly as it had begun, the confrontation ended as they heard the muffled hoofbeats as the rifleman rode away.

  Guzmán retrieved the rifles from the wrecked car and forced open the boot to get at the ammunition. He pointed down the road in the direction the horseman had taken. ‘Let’s find out.’

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS

  ‘What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know where Guzmán is?’ Gutiérrez barked. ‘All week I’ve been telling you to get him to make contact and you say you can’t reach him?’

  ‘I’ve tried everything, sir,’ Viana said. ‘He’s been lying low, I don’t know why. The only time he showed himself was when he met with Carrero Blanco. I don’t understand that.’

  ‘I think I do,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I thought Guzmán was loyal, but there are degrees of loyalty and his greatest loyalty has always been to himself. It’s just possible Guzmán has decided to work for Carrero Blanco.’

  ‘Shall I take action?’ Viana asked.

  ‘No.
You’d have to find him. He may have a good reason for going to ground. I’ll wait a little longer. In the meantime, I want you to keep looking for him, just tell him to get in touch. I’m arranging for a file to be sent to him. There are things he needs to know.’

  ‘And you’re going to send the file to me to pass on to him, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. It will be sent by courier to one of my agents. Guzmán can collect it from them. Just in case, I’ll telegraph you the address once it has been sent. You can phone to see if it has been collected. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. You can rely on me.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Gutiérrez muttered, ‘because if Guzmán doesn’t complete this operation successfully it won’t just be him who’s fucked, it’ll be me as well.’ The line crackled as he hung up.

  Viana sat on the bed staring at the big Bakelite phone on the night table. ‘Then you’re both fucked, mi General.’ He smiled.

  OROITZ 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

  The civil guards sat inside the truck, wet and miserable. Sitting by the doors, Diaz lifted his head, suddenly curious. ‘What the fuck is that noise?’

  The men exchanged glances, uneasy as the sound grew louder. A rolling noise, like distant thunder. But this was not thunder, nor was it distant, and it was coming towards them.

  ‘Fuck this.’ Diaz snatched up his rifle and climbed out, his boots splashing in the mud as he looked round, trying to locate the source of the noise.

  The tension was becoming unbearable and Ortega quickly followed. Suddenly, no one wanted to stay in the truck and the others hurried after their comrades, jostling out into the open.

  ‘Form a line,’ the lance corporal shouted, realising he was in charge now. The men glanced at one another, grim-faced as they formed an irregular line by the rear of the vehicle, rifles lifted as they peered into the mist, trying to gauge where the noise was coming from.

  ‘What the fuck is it?’ yelled Quintana, his eyes flitting over the dark bushes across the road as the ground trembled beneath his feet. He saw vague movement in the trees and stepped forward, raising the rifle to his shoulder, trying to identify a target. The noise stopped.