As Machado struggled to his feet, Tolosa came up behind her. Exhausted, Galíndez didn’t resist as he grabbed her in an arm lock.
‘Those girls are my responsibility,’ she croaked. ‘Help me or get out of my way. I can’t leave them there.’ She put her free hand to her throat, hoping swallowing would ease the pain. It didn’t. ‘I’ve got to find them.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Machado said as he got to his feet. ‘Calm down, will you? We’re on your side.’ He turned to Tolosa. ‘Let her go.’
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Machado said. ‘You crawl in that way, we’ll see if we can push our way through those trees over there.’
‘OK.’ Galíndez dropped to her knees and began working her way into the narrow tunnel the girls had burrowed through the bushes.
‘Wait,’ Machado called. ‘Take this.’ He handed her his pistol.
Galíndez gave him a vague smile, though it was so dark the gesture was lost on him. She pushed forward, squirming along the narrow tunnel. After about ten metres the sides of the tunnel opened out below a thick canopy of leaves and branches and she struggled to her knees, trying to get her bearings in the dark. She felt hard flattened soil under her hand. This was it: the children’s hiding place.
‘I’ve found it,’ she called, her voice cracking.
Machado shouted in acknowledgement and distorted patterns of light from their torches danced through the branches as they forced their way through to her.
‘Niñas?’ Galíndez looked around, seeing only deep shadow broken by the wavering light of the torches. ‘Inés?’ she rasped. ‘Clari? Dónde estáis, niñas?’
She held the pistol in one hand, feeling her way with the other. The ground was uneven and her foot caught on something, sending her tumbling forward onto the damp soil, fumbling blindly, trying to find what had tripped her. One touch told her all she needed to know.
She had found the first body.
25
OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL
Guzmán stared at the mess room wall as if the answer to his problems lay in the black patches of mould staining the ancient paint.
‘I’m finished,’ he muttered. ‘Finished by a fucking bandit.’
Ochoa saw no point offering sympathy. If Guzmán was finished, so was he.
‘It’s my fault,’ Guzmán said, grinding out his cigarette on the greasy tabletop. ‘I should have realised the Çubiry were helping him.’ He pulled a crumpled pack of Bisontes from his top pocket and lit another. ‘Remember we couldn’t understand why that Yanqui was carrying his ID card from the International Brigade?’
‘He was stupid to do that,’ Ochoa said. ‘It was no use to him after all these years.’
‘I think it was,’ Guzmán said, ‘because he used it to identify himself to El Lobo. He’d come over the border to meet the bastard. When Lobo saw we’d got our hands on the Yanqui, he shot him.’
‘To stop him talking?’
‘I thought so.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Or maybe he knew who the American’s brother was.’
‘If he knew that, why would he kill him?’
Guzmán snorted. ‘Because he knew it would fuck us up, of course.’
‘He did that all right, boss.’
‘We need to think about this,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘Take stock about what we know.’
‘I know we’re in the shit,’ Ochoa said, thinking of his pension.
Guzmán ignored that. ‘Esteban Jiménez’s boyfriend Cardoso leaked information about the shipments of money to El Lobo. And Jiménez set up General Torres at his hunting lodge. El Lobo was ready and waiting on the hillside, ready to shoot the moment he opened the shutters.’
‘That was a big risk, jefe. Those maricones had a lot to lose if they were caught.’
‘Didn’t they just,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Just being queer would have put them behind bars for years, that was reason enough for them to stay out of trouble. But instead they were accomplices to armed robbery and murder.’
‘They must have been well paid. No one takes risks like that for nothing.’
‘Neither was desperate for money. I think they did it for a cause.’
‘The resistance, you mean?’
‘Of course. It keeps coming back to them. I think they’re trying to rebuild the cell, that’s why the Yanqui came to meet with El Lobo.’
‘But, jefe, you wiped out the entire resistance cell in this region.’
‘Not quite,’ Guzmán said. ‘I thought I’d destroyed the cell but Gutiérrez said there were three who got away. Two members didn’t turn up and there’s an anonymous quartermaster who purchases their equipment. The two missing members that night must have been Jiménez and Cardoso. They were the last people anyone would suspect. For fuck’s sake, Jiménez worked for one of Franco’s best-known generals.’ He poured himself more coffee. ‘It all makes sense now.’
‘So who’s the secret quartermaster, jefe?’
Guzmán sighed. ‘No wonder your wife left you, Corporal. For fuck’s sake, It was El Lobo, you moron.’ He gulped down the coffee. ‘He’s helping them rebuild the cell.’
Ochoa frowned, deep in thought. ‘So who killed the two queers?’
‘El Lobo, of course,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘To cover his tracks. If you paid attention you’d have realised that by now. If we can find him, our problems are solved.’
‘We don’t have long, jefe. You’ll have to report the ambush soon.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Guzmán said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four thirty. It won’t be light for two hours.’
Guzman poured himself the last of the coffee. ‘I want you to go into San Sebastian. Take one of the jeeps out the back.’
‘Yes, sir. What do you want me to do there?’
Guzmán took Magdalena’s card from his wallet and slid it across the table. ‘Go to this address and tell Magda to leave town for the day, in case El Lobo tries to go after her.’
Ochoa peered at the card through his thick lenses. ‘Magda?’
‘Señorita Magdalena Torres,’ Guzmán said. ‘She’s General Torres’s daughter.’
Ochoa raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like you know her well, sir.’
‘Is that a topic you want to pursue further, Corporal, bearing in mind that you’re already annoying me intensely?’
‘No, sir. I’ll deliver the message as soon as I arrive.’
‘After that, I want you see Capitán Viana at the local comisaría. That bastard is our link with Gutiérrez. Find out what’s happened to our intelligence and then phone me at the Torres hunting lodge, the number’s on that card.’
Ochoa nodded. ‘What are you going to do there, sir?’
‘Jiménez had an office at the lodge. I’m going to search it, there may be something that will lead us to El Lobo.’
‘Good luck,’ Ochoa said.
Guzmán scowled at him. ‘Coming from someone whose face registers perpetual disappointment, Corporal, I have to say I find that comment less than encouraging.’
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN
Viana stood in a doorway, watching the door to Magdalena Torres’s apartment building. He saw the portero holding open the door for residents, probably in the hope of a tip. If that was the case, Viana observed, he must be sorely disappointed.
His hand tightened on the knife in his pocket. It was only a small blade, though very sharp. Certainly sharp enough to kill Señorita Torres. It would have been more enjoyable to pick her off with the rifle, but the buildings along this street were too tall and populous to risk wandering around trying to get access to the roof. Besides, the knife was messy, just the thing to send Guzmán a personal message.
Viana tensed as he saw the porter emerge from the building and set off down the street, clearly running an errand for someone. Quickly, he crossed the street and tried the door. He swore under his breath. The door was locked. The last thing he wanted to do was ring Magdalena’s bell. Passer
s-by would remember seeing a good-looking woman like her, which meant they might also remember him. He pushed the handle again, harder.
‘Are you going in or not?’ Viana turned and saw a short, sad-faced man with thick round glasses. He recognised him at once. ‘No, I’m just on my way out.’ He brushed past Ochoa and set off down the street, careful not to look back. That was a shame. There would be no time to come back to finish this. Things would start happening soon, things much more important than cutting Señorita Torres’s throat. She would never know just how lucky she’d been.
OROITZ 1954, MENDIKO RIDGE
From his hiding place on the ridge, Sargento León had a good view of the village below. Not that he was interested in the view. He had more serious things to worry about, staying alive being the most important. By now, the security services throughout the Basque region would be looking for him. Even if he tried to surrender to the guardia or policía they would probably shoot him on sight to save the paperwork. That narrowed his options to dying or fleeing to France. To León, those things seemed to be equivalent. He decided on France. He would sneak closer to the village, wait until dark and then steal a horse. He would be away before anyone was aware of him. Sweating from the effort, he eased himself through the bushes and began working his way down the slope. Sharp thorns pierced his clothes and tore at his scalp, though he ignored the pain. He had a plan.
OROITZ 1954, TORRES PABELLÓN DE CASA
Guzmán left the jeep outside the hunting lodge. Out of respect for Magdalena he decided not to kick down the front door and went round the back of the house. He was raging, tormented by hindsight, wondering why he hadn’t noticed anything suspicious about Jiménez when he’d first met him. After all, homosexuals were notoriously accomplished liars. That had been established as a scientific fact by none other than Franco’s chief psychiatrist Dr Vallejo-Nájera and his assistants from the Gestapo. There was no arguing with science.
He took out his set of picks and examined the lock on the back door before inserting one of the thin metal rods into the keyhole. He worked by touch, twisting the pick with gentle precision until he heard the dull click as the mechanism responded to his movements. He opened the door and went inside.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN
Magdalena opened the door of her apartment and looked at the man standing outside in the hall. A dour pale face, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses, much like those worn by the German officers her father used to invite to the house.
‘Señorita Torres?’ He took an identity card from his jacket pocket. ‘Corporal Ochoa, I work with Comandante Guzmán.’
She stepped back to let him in. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
Ochoa stood awkwardly, holding his hat with both hands. ‘The comandante’s operation didn’t go very well, señorita.’
Magdalena’s eyes widened. ‘Is he...’
‘No, miss, he’s fine. But the entire squad were wiped out. El Lobo got away with five million pesetas.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Magdalena said. ‘So why are you here?’
‘I’ve got a message for you. The comandante wants you to leave San Sebastián for the day. There’s a chance you might be in danger.’ He saw the sudden concern on her face. ‘It’s only a possibility, señorita, he just wants to be sure you’re safe.’
‘I understand.’ She offered him a cigarette from a lacquered box. He took one and leaned forward as she gave him a light.
‘Tell the comandante not to worry,’ Magdalena said. ‘I’ll be out doing my monthly collection from local artisans today.’
Ochoa looked down, embarrassed. ‘The comandante says he’d like to meet you later.’
‘By all means. Would you tell him I’ll finish my collection at Lauburu Farm around seven this evening? Perhaps he could meet me there?’
‘Of course, señorita.’ Ochoa got to his feet, anxious to leave.
‘May I ask you a question before you go, Corporal?’
Reluctantly, Ochoa sat down, trying not to watch as she crossed her legs again.
‘You and the comandante were in Villarreal during the war, I believe?’
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. ‘Why do you ask, señorita?’
‘I hear things when he’s asleep,’ she said quietly. ‘About Villarreal. What happened?’
When he’s asleep. She was a whore then. He’d wondered if she might be something special and it cheered him to know that she was no different from the rest.
‘Please tell me.’ She sat back in her chair, rearranging her skirt. Ochoa caught a glimpse of her slip and looked away, swallowing hard. ‘Someone was killed,’ Magdalena said. ‘I know that much.’
Ochoa looked at the curve of the expensive pearl necklace around her neck. ‘Someone was killed, you’re right.’ He nodded, fighting an urge to look at her cleavage. ‘A woman.’
‘And she was killed by the comandante?’
‘That’s right.’ Ochoa wiped his face with his hand.
Magdalena looked across the room, unaware of his furtive appraisal.
Ochoa got to his feet. ‘He wouldn’t like me talking to you like this.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Magdalena ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. She glanced at her watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready.’ She got up and went to the door with him.
Ochoa paused. ‘Thing is, señorita, we all have secrets that are best left alone.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Corporal.’ Magdalena smiled.
Ochoa hurried downstairs, aware of her watching him until he went out into the street and the heavy door clanged to behind him.
OROITZ 1954, TORRES PABELLÓN DE CAZA
Guzmán moved along the hall. The walls were adorned with weapons, though he doubted any had ever been used by General Torres. The house was furnished entirely in shades of brown, plain masculine tables and chairs. A smell of leather and polished wood. No sense of warmth or comfort. He quite liked it.
On the far side of the house he came to a large salon, perfumed by a sad air of tobacco. More austere furnishings. An oak door on the far wall with a gilt plaque: Oficina. The door was unlocked and he went in. In front of him was a large desk. The walls were filled by shelves piled with files and ledgers. He checked the desk and found nothing of interest. On one of the shelves by the far wall were several bottles of Carlos Primero. He could always make time for an expensive brandy, especially at someone else’s expense, and went over to get a quick one.
He poured a couple of fingers into a glass, splashing some onto a pile of papers. As the ink on the papers began to run, he reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief to mop up the drink and felt the thick envelope he’d taken from Mellado’s drawer. Domestic cleanliness was suddenly forgotten. He took a seat and tipped the contents of the envelope onto the desk. He looked at the first picture. General Mellado, slightly younger, posing for the camera. Behind him, a pile of black shapes. The photo was not of good quality and it took a moment for Guzmán to realise they were dead tribesmen, the bodies heaped together, ready to be burned.
The second picture was of Mellado again, in the uniform of the legion, standing with two soldiers. All had cheery grins on their faces, and each was holding a Moor’s head by the hair. Guzmán sighed. None of this was a surprise. Mellado’s bloody antics in the legion were well known. Idly, he flicked to the third photograph.
He reached for the tumbler of brandy and took a sip. He’d thought nothing that Mellado could do would shock him. He’d been wrong. He looked at the photograph again and then swallowed the rest of the drink. Putting down his glass, Guzmán stared at the picture of a grinning Mellado, his arm wrapped around a soldier’s shoulders. No heads, no burned corpses. The only horrific thing in the photograph was the soldier’s face. Pale, shiny scar tissue, lines of stitch marks where the doctors had failed to put his face back together properly. The lopsided snarling mouth. Like a wolf.
Guzmán f
lipped the photo over. It was dated August 1947. So, Mellado knew El Lobo. Not only did he know him, he’d served with him. It made no sense. Impatient, he got up and went to get another brandy. As he did, his foot caught on the carpet and he stumbled. Furious, he pulled his foot from the rucked carpet, staring at the wooden floorboards exposed by his clumsiness. And not just floorboards, he saw as he pulled the carpet back further.
‘Puta madre.’ Guzmán examined the trapdoor carefully. At one end, a metal ring lay flat in a shallow recess. He flicked it up and heaved the trap open. Below, a short flight of wooden stairs descended into shadow. He drew the Browning and went down into the darkness, seeing only vague outlines from the meagre light coming through the trapdoor. Stretching his arms in front of him, he examined his surroundings as best he could. By the far wall was a small desk cluttered with paper and, next to it, two wooden chairs. A secret room, hidden under Jiménez’s workplace. Guzmán smiled with grim satisfaction. He’d been right: Jiménez was hiding something.
A breath of air drifted down from above, filling the room with a strange dry rustling. Guzmán ran his hand along the wall, feeling papers, lots of them, though it was too dark to see what they were. And then his fingers closed on a light switch and a solitary bulb in the ceiling threw sallow light across the room. As the light grew stronger, he looked round in growing disbelief. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.
OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM
Begoña Arestigui finished her ironing and put the ancient iron to cool on the same flat stone it had rested on since Grandmother Arestigui had arrived at the farm in the mid nineteenth century. She pressed a hand on the small of her back. That was annoying – despite the poultice she’d applied a few days before, the pain still hadn’t gone. Back pain and she wasn’t yet forty. It was depressing. One day, when Nieves married, Begoña would have to run the farm alone. It would be hard work if she was fit. Far harder if she suffered with her back. She dismissed the thought. She’d worked hard all her life, little point complaining now.
The Exile Page 40
