The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Quintana lowered the rifle, puzzled.

  A hoarse voice screamed a single word: ‘Çubiry.’ A chill colder than any winter as dozens of voices joined the chorus, howling the name again and again as the pounding of hooves swelled like an oncoming storm.

  The rider exploded from the bushes, his long cavalry sabre sparkling like white fire in the autumn mist. Quintana screamed as the blade entered his back, and his rifle clattered to the ground as he clutched at the bloody point sticking from his chest.

  Horsemen erupted from the trees on all sides, their great swords swinging in glittering arcs as they cut down those troopers who attempted to flee, splattering the churned snow with their blood. A few guardia tried to make a stand and the snow-swept escarpment echoed to the sound of gunfire as the Çubiry opened up with their automatic pistols.

  ‘Kill them all.’ Baron Çubiry’s voice rose above the sound of fighting as he rode among his enemies, a thin smile on his face, a broomhandle Mauser in his hand. Private Ruiz was propped against the side of the truck, clutching a sabre wound in his side. As the Baron’s horse wheeled in front of him, Ruiz pulled his bayonet from his belt and got to his feet. The Baron reined in his horse, aiming as Ruiz staggered towards him. As the shot echoed around the trees, Private Ruiz crumpled into the mud, leaving only a spatter of bloody tissue on the side of the truck to mark the one act of bravery in his short and unremarkable career.

  That was enough for those who still lived. They fled, trying to dodge the massive horses as the Çubiry plunged after them into the undergrowth, charging down the fleeing men, hacking with sabres and cutlasses, cackling as they fell. For a time, the trees echoed to the sound of drumming hooves and screams of terror, punctuated by the crackle of small-arms fire. Finally, a chill silence fell, broken only by the whinny of a horse or a sudden scream as the Çubiry discovered a wounded trooper hiding in the bushes and dragged him out to face execution in front of the baying riders.

  ‘C’est fini,’ Baron Çubiry bellowed. ‘God favours the Çubiry. Our rage blazes forth like fire, and the mountains crumble to dust in our presence.’

  Around him, the riders roared their defiance to the Spanish, to the police and to God himself, as they dragged the sacks of banknotes from the truck and tied them to their saddles. Once the vehicle was empty, they rode away in line, leaving the bodies of the Oroitz garrison strewn over the bloody snow amid a clutter of discarded weapons and equipment.

  OROITZ 1954, CARRERA VIEJA

  Guzmán and Ochoa made their way along the road, alert for any sign of the rifleman returning. Guzmán was having difficulty speaking, so great was his anger.

  ‘Was it El Lobo, boss?’ Ochoa asked, hoping Guzmán had cooled down.

  Guzmán stared as if he didn’t understand. ‘Yes, it fucking was. Didn’t you see him?’

  Ochoa shook his head. ‘I was behind the rocks, remember?’

  Guzmán had nothing more to say and they pressed on through the fading afternoon in silence until his anger resurfaced. ‘Twelve armed guardia should be a match for a bandit,’ he said. ‘All I expected was for them to pin him down.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what happened,’ Ochoa said. ‘Perhaps the lads drove him off.’

  ‘You’re right. They could be sitting in that truck right now, on top of five million pesetas, bellyaching about what a hard life they have.’

  ‘Could be, jefe.’

  ‘They’d better be, Corporal,’ Guzmán said, ‘because if anything happens to that money, it will be the end of my career.’ He spat into the snow. ‘It might be the end of me, come to that.’

  As the snow died away, the details of the surrounding countryside began to emerge with increasing clarity. Ahead, the road sloped down to a glade of skeletal trees. Guzmán swore as he saw the angular shape of the truck protruding from the verge into the road, its wheels mired deep in the soft mud, the words on the side clearly visible: Banco de Bilbao.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘The clumsy bastards ran it off the road. What did I tell you? I bet they’re taking a nap in the back.’

  As they got closer, he realised he was wrong. Angrily, he raised his rifle, looking for a target. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said finally, lowering the rifle. There was no one to shoot. No one alive, that was.

  Guzmán stared at the sprawled bodies, the equipment and weapons strewn around them on the wet snow. All dead. Even the wounded had been executed. Their bodies lay face down in the mud with a bullet in the back of the head. He saw Ortega, his face a frozen mask of surprise. And no wonder, Guzmán thought, seeing the sword sticking from his chest.

  The truck was empty, the back doors open, just a few damp banknotes stuck to the floor. It was worse than he could have imagined. Far worse. Five million pesetas. Gone.

  Ochoa called out to him. Guzmán turned and saw the line of horsemen on the distant ridge, silhouetted against the autumn sky, sacks of money hanging from their saddles, their bizarre headgear stark against the light as they headed back along the smugglers’ trail to France.

  It took León a moment to realise he was not dead. Lying dazed in the narrow ditch, hidden by soaking gorse, he listened to the slaughter taking place two hundred metres away. Warily, he got to his feet and made his way along the side of the escarpment. His thoughts echoed with bitter hindsight. Who but a fool would trust the Çubiry? Their fluctuating loyalty was legendary. Only a man driven by greed would involve himself in a scheme like this.

  León was a big man and was soon out of breath as the escarpment grew steeper. As he climbed, the sodden ground crumbled under his boots and he was gasping by the time he reached the steep gradient near the top. Clutching at the wet turf, he dragged himself over the brow of the hill onto the flat track at the top of the ridge and lay motionless, gulping air like a drowning man.

  As his breathing slowed, he realised he was not alone. He got to his knees, his eyes fixed on the tallow-haired youth standing a couple of metres away.

  The lad smiled. ‘Kaixo, Sargento León.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ León wiped sweat from his eyes with a muddy hand.

  ‘Patxi Gabilondo, your worship.’

  ‘And you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’re the sargento from the cuartel at Oroitz.’

  ‘And where are you going?’ León asked in a low voice.

  ‘I’m going home, your worship.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ León said, reaching for his pistol. ‘You’re a witness.’

  24

  COLMENAR VIEJO, JULY 2010, FUENTES RESIDENCE

  Galíndez left her overnight bag in the spare room and wandered downstairs onto the veranda. Along the hall, she heard the girls’ excited chatter as they trailed after their mother, ignoring her harassed requests to leave her in peace.

  She heard their voices like someone listening to rain. Even the subtle colours of the garden were lost on her as she stared across the lawn, brooding on the hand grenade Rosario Calderón had tossed into her lap the day before.

  Calderón knew exactly what she was doing, Galíndez realised. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to get that adoption certificate, knowing the effect it would have if Galíndez refused to close down her investigation. Knowing it would fuck her up. And she’d been right, it had. The evidence was clear-cut. The certificate showed Ramiro and Teresa had adopted a stolen child. Worse, the adoption had been authorised by Guzmán, the man Galíndez had turned into front page-news. The media would have a field day reporting that ironic detail.

  As well as Calderón’s scheming, there was also the question of why Uncle Ramiro had never told her he knew Guzmán when she’d started her investigation. Hadn’t it occurred to him she might unearth the details of the adoption? She lifted a hand to her mouth, chewing her knuckle in frustration, torn between anger at Ramiro and sympathy for his tragic loss.

  Calderón’s action had thrown her ethical principles into turmoil. If this had involved any other high-profile figure, her sense of justice
would have overridden all arguments, Christ, there would have been no argument. Galíndez would have made it public as a matter of course. But this was different. Ramiro was family.

  Driving up the motorway earlier, she’d wondered if perhaps Ramiro might welcome a chance to talk about what had happened. After all, his adopted child had been dead for twenty-eight years, maybe talking about it might give him a sense of closure? It would never happen. What would he do, appear on Oprah? He didn’t do emotion, much less discuss it. And when Ramiro didn’t want to do something, it didn’t get done.

  That left her with the option of making the adoption public by including it in her report – the report Calderón had just agreed to publish. If the report named him, Ramiro would complain vociferously, although complaint would be too slight a term to describe his volcanic fury. Her defence would be simple: the brief from Calderón was to compile information on the niños robados scandal and to highlight Guzmán’s involvement. Worthy aims, she knew, though Calderón’s words still haunted her: everything came with a hidden cost.

  And what a cost it would be. Going public would ruin Ramiro’s career and his life. He and Aunt Teresa were the only family she had. If she did this, they would never speak to her again. What was more, she wouldn’t blame them. Galíndez was still little Ana María to Ramiro. He’d never understand why she’d betrayed him. Certainly he’d never forgive her.

  Two choices then. Destroy her remaining family ties or lie and conceal the evidence.

  She stared into the lush colours of the Fuenteses’ garden, torn between truth and family loyalty, knowing there was no contest. She would destroy the adoption certificate. Her way of repaying Ramiro for his kindness over the years. But betraying her principles hurt, it hurt a lot, and she clenched her fists, remembering Calderón’s eyes the previous afternoon, pale and staring.

  A hand closed on her arm. Galíndez spun round, fists raised defensively.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ Merche said, shaken by her reaction. ‘Are you OK?’

  Galíndez gave her an embarrassed smile. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘I asked if you wanted a drink.’

  ‘Agua con gas, please.’

  Merche went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of sparkling water, the ice clinking against the rim. She turned, hearing a sudden bang inside the kitchen. ‘Clari, you nearly smashed my best plates. Where did you get that ball?’

  Clari kicked the football out onto the porch. ‘Ana gave it to me.’

  ‘Perhaps Ana will take you to play with it on the lawn.’ Merche winked at Galíndez. ‘Damage limitation.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Galíndez picked up the ball and punted it across the grass. Clari raced after it, squealing happily.

  ‘We really appreciate you looking after the girls tonight, Ana María.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, Merche, I enjoy it.’

  ‘You know what? Inés always said she wanted a big sister. I think she’s got one now.’

  ‘That’s a nice thing to say.’ Galíndez gave her a shy smile. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Before we go, there’s something I need to show you,’ Merche said. ‘The gas.’

  Galíndez had a sudden image of Ramiro’s children and the boiler.

  ‘It’s not dangerous.’ Merche smiled, misreading her expression. ‘Just one of the disadvantages of living in the country, I’m afraid. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Galíndez followed her into the kitchen and saw the row of fat metal gas cylinders, arranged by the door to the veranda.

  ‘There’s not much left in the current cylinder,’ Merche explained. ‘If it runs out, you need to replace it with one of these. It’s that blue nozzle on top, see? But be careful, they’re really heavy.’

  ‘No problem,’ Galíndez said. She was going to use the microwave.

  A car horn sounded outside and Merche snatched up her things. ‘God, Luis is so impatient. See you later, Ana. Hasta pronto, niñas.’

  The girls ran up the drive, chasing their parents’ car, waving until it disappeared over the brow of the hill.

  Galíndez was waiting when they came back. She was holding a package. ‘Clari already got her present, so here’s yours, Inés.’

  ‘Gracias, Ana.’ Inés weighed the package in her hands. ‘It’s heavy.’

  ‘Too heavy for summer,’ Galíndez agreed, ‘but it was a such a bargain I couldn’t resist.’ She watched as Inés tore open the wrapping.

  ‘Madre mía, a leather jacket?’

  ‘It’s from the flea market. I get mine at the same place.’

  ‘It’s totally cool,’ Inés said, pulling it on. ‘Muchísimas gracias.’

  ‘De nada. Come on, let’s take Clari outside and play with her ball.’ Galíndez paused. ‘Maybe you should leave the jacket here, Inés, it’s pretty warm out there.’

  She followed the girls into the garden. Around them, the warm air pulsed with the sound of crickets. Near the boundary of the garden, the shadows of the cypress trees were slowly extending towards the house. She thought about getting a cold beer and sitting on the veranda to watch the sun go down. And then Inés screamed.

  ‘I’ll throw you in the stream if you do that again, Clarisa Fuentes. Tell her, Ana María, she kicked the ball at me.’

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Galíndez called. ‘Let’s walk up to the top of the garden. Inés, let Clari have the ball and we’ll kick it all the way up and then all the way back down again.’ And then back again, until it’s time for dinner. And after that, you’ll be ready for bed. I have a plan.

  She glanced around the garden. Long shadows and bright pools of light, the murmur of crickets somewhere in a patch of tangled shrubs. Once the kids were in bed, she’d definitely slip out on the porch and have that beer.

  The girls had almost reached the top of the garden and were kicking the ball, bored as they waited for Galíndez. She looked back down the garden towards the long lazy curve of the stream that disappeared into a knot of trees and bushes behind the house. She saw her car on the drive, the sparkle of sunlight on metal and glass and closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face. She opened them again. Near the top of the drive something glinted with shards of brilliant light. A metallic blue four-by-four was parked by the gate. She stared, remembering the car passing the Fuenteses’ gate the night she gave Inés her martial arts lesson. Returning again and again. And she remembered the CCTV footage of the car passing Carabanchel Metro after running down Adelina Solano. Her stomach tightened.

  ‘Niñas.’ The girls didn’t hear so she raised her voice. ‘Come on, let’s go back and get a drink.’ Flushed and excited, the girls ignored her and carried on playing with the ball.

  Galíndez looked back to the gate. The car was gone. Puzzled, she peered down the ochre strip of road into the distance and saw nothing. She realised she was holding her breath, listening for the sound of an engine.

  Inés and Clari were waiting by the perimeter of the garden where the hedge met the ramshackle stone wall that marked the upper boundary of the property. Galíndez suddenly felt vulnerable at being so far from the house. I’m probably being stupid. But still...

  A sudden flash of light. A car coming along the road. Light blue, metallic paint. Tinted windows. She frowned. People didn’t just drive up and down like that. Didn’t keep parking across the drive of the only house for several kilometres. But there were plenty of blue cars in the world, for fuck’s sake. Perhaps someone was trying to spook her? If they were, it was working. She reached into her pocket, fumbling for her phone. Then she remembered. The phone was in her bag in the house.

  ‘Niñas, time for a pizza.’ Trying to sound authoritative.

  The car was getting nearer, slowing.

  ‘Niñas, por favor,’ Galíndez yelled. And then much louder, ‘Vamos, señoritas.’ She turned towards the house, hurrying them along, feeling like their teacher.

  She wondered how many were in the car. If it was one guy she could probably handle him
, two even. But what if they were armed? She breathed slowly, considering the alternative, that they were joyriders or kids from one of the houses along the road. They hadn’t done anything, for God’s sake, she thought, brushing her hair away from her face. Yet.

  Something was eroding her usual confidence and she realised what it was. The girls. If she was alone, she could just take off into the countryside if she had to. She had no doubt she could outrun anyone in this terrain. But running wasn’t an option. She was responsible for the children. If anything happened to them, she would have to explain to their parents. That responsibility felt strange and uncomfortable.

  ‘Why are you walking so fast?’ Inés asked, panting for breath.

  Galíndez pointed. ‘See that car?’

  ‘Yes?’ Inés nodded, her voice suddenly uncertain.

  ‘I’m worried about it.’

  ‘You think they might be, like, crooks or something?’

  ‘I’m probably wrong,’ said Galíndez. ‘Does your papa keep a gun in the house?’

  Inés nodded. ‘It’s in his wardrobe but we’re not allowed to go near it, ever. We can’t even open the door or we’d be in big trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry, chica, I’m guardia, like your papa. I know how to use a gun.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Inés said. ‘But you’re a girl.’

  The car would reach the gate in a minute at most.

  ‘Let’s run,’ Galíndez said. ‘First prize is two slices of pizza.’ She kicked the ball, sending it flying towards the house. ‘I said run.’ The girls hesitated but Galíndez’s next shout left no room for argument. ‘Run when I tell you, for God’s sake.’

  Clari was too small to keep up and Galíndez scooped her into her arms and sprinted down the slope with Inés racing after her as they ran full tilt across the sun-scorched grass, past Galíndez’s car, clattering over the wooden veranda into the kitchen.