The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Guzmán left the pensión and hurried down the track. The door of the cuartel was open and even before he stepped inside, he could see the pool of blood spreading across the floor. Keeping the Browning raised, he went into the laundry room. There were two bodies lying close together, surrounded by a slick of congealing blood. Viana was lying on his back, a woodsman’s axe buried in his chest. It was an impressive wound, and Guzmán casually wondered if he’d suffered. He hoped so.

  The other body was a surprise: it was the big wood-chopper Jesús Barandiaran, face down with two bullet wounds in his back. Close range too, Guzmán noted, seeing the scorch marks on his shirt. Viana’s gun lay nearby, suggesting he’d made an attempt to defend himself. Even so, it was hard to see how he could have shot Jesús in the back before being killed. Someone else had fired those shots.

  Guzmán left the corpses and began to search the barracks. In the radio room, he found the lance corporal behind a desk. He too had been killed by an axe blow.

  On the table near the smashed radio, he saw the red cardboard folder and, by it, the phone with its wire severed. So Viana had read the file? That hardly mattered: with the radio and phone out of action, it was unlikely he could have passed on the information to anyone else before he was killed. Guzmán picked up the file. Three people had died on account of this document. It made sense to read it.

  He pulled up a chair and opened the file at the first page, seeing entries dating back to the end of the Second World War. He skimmed the pages, reading of official fears that resistance groups along the lines of the French Maquis might spring up. Several pages listed suspects to be detained and questioned. Some were shot as a precautionary measure, others were placed under close surveillance and some were imprisoned. They still would be, Guzmán noted, given the length of the sentences.

  The surveillance continued for years. Countless searches and interrogations led by General Mellado, the Military Governor. Mellado’s brief was simple: strike fear into the populace and terrify them into submission. He had followed his orders to the letter.

  Impatiently, Guzmán skipped forward to the entries for the last couple of years. Reports of Red guerrillas being smuggled into Spain by a French gang, the Çubiry. He took a deep, angry breath. If Gutiérrez had given him this material when he’d arrived, he might have had the job done in a day or two. He needed to have words with the general de brigada.

  He read on, impressed by the extent of the surveillance operation. The later sections of the report dealt with a cell of young would-be guerrillas who met regularly in a schoolhouse in a tiny pueblo called Ihintza. Meetings organised by one Fernando Etxarte who had attempted to buy arms from undercover agents. A handwritten note in the margin: Immediate Action. Signed by General de Brigada Gutiérrez. Alongside that, dated a few weeks ago: Allocated to Comandante Guzmán for action.

  And here was a much more recent scrawled note from Gutierrez: The Resistance have an anonymous quartermaster, according to Guzmán. Next to it, an entry noting Guzmán had terminated the cell. A list of the names of the dead students, and Etxarte, of course. An addendum that as well as the quartermaster, two other members had not attended that night. Fortunately, after further enquiries, the two had been identified by an informant. Guzmán clenched his fists. This was something else Gutierrez had kept from him.

  A heading at the top of the next page: Detain as part of Saturday night’s operation. There followed a long list of suspects to be arrested across the region. He stared at the list, puzzled. What fucking operation? He read the details quickly, his surprise growing as he saw the instructions for mass arrests, detentions without trial, and a few cases considered so dangerous they were to be summarily executed.

  Guzmán frowned. Gutiérrez was full of fucking surprises. He was about to do precisely what he’d said he didn’t want to happen: send in troops to arrest and torture suspected members of the resistance. Christ, Franco himself had forbidden those things so nothing would compromise the Yanquis making the payment for the trade deal. If Mellado learned of this he’d try to muscle in, hoping to grab the glory. That would be a disaster for all concerned. Guzmán wiped his hand across his face, suddenly tired. What a fucking day. Surprise after surprise.

  And here was another surprise, one he could never have anticipated. The arrest of the two who’d avoided Guzmán’s massacre at the schoolhouse had been postponed, the notes said, until the informant confirmed their identity. That confirmation had now been received. They were Begoña and Nieves Arestigui, aged thirty-five and eighteen respectively, residents of Lauburu Farm near Oroitz. They were to be arrested, along with the other subversives during the operation scheduled for today.

  Guzmán stared at the typewritten notes, struggling to think how such mistakes could have been made in a report of this importance. Because it had to be a mistake. He read the details again, slowly, numbed by the slow, cold realisation there was no mistake.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling the throbbing pain in his arm as he cursed Begoña and Nieves for dabbling in things they knew nothing of. Clearly, they had no fucking idea what the consequences would be. Worse, this operation was not something he could interfere with. Things were beyond his control now. He was helpless.

  A memory of cold air, his feet hammering down the stone steps into the darkness. Raising his lighter, seeing Arantxa on the rubble-strewn floor of the cellar, her mutilated body sagging against the ropes that still bound her to the chair, her dark, dead eyes staring at him.

  He had been helpless then as well.

  Guzmán looked at his watch. It was five forty-five. Even if he phoned, Nieves and Begoña wouldn’t have time to get away. Exasperated, he pounded the table with his fist. Phone them? They didn’t have a phone. He didn’t have a phone. This wasn’t Madrid. No one could help them now. Certainly he couldn’t. Trying to interfere was the most stupid thing he could do. It was treason, collaboration with enemies of the state and more. It was inconceivable for someone in his position to do such a thing. If Begoña and Nieves were guilty, they deserved to be punished. Every action had its consequences.

  He thought about those consequences, his eyes narrowing as he imagined them at the drunken mercy of General Mellado and his thugs. The usual cycle of torture: the humiliation of being forced to strip and then the rape and abuse before the torture began in earnest. Electric shocks, beatings, immersion in freezing water, the sequence quite possibly culminating on Mellado’s garrotte. That was the way these things were done. He could do nothing now. Trying to help them would not only be stupid, it would be the end of his career. Maybe the end of him.

  But it could be done, though he would need to drive fast if he was to get them over the border before the authorities closed down the region. He’d done stupid things before and survived. Once in France, they would be safe. He could probably lie his way out of it after that. And another thought nagged him now. Magdalena had said she would be at Lauburu around seven. That meant she would arrive to make her collection just as the might of the security forces closed in on the farm. Who knew what Mellado’s psychotic legionarios might do to a woman on her own?

  He had a sudden recollection of a witch’s eyes looking up at him in the cellar at Villarreal. Nieves’ eyes. His mind made up, Guzmán went to the door.

  Seventeen years ago, he couldn’t save the mother. Perhaps that had been her destiny. But he could save the daughter. Perhaps that was his.

  OROITZ 1954, CARRERA DE LAUBURU

  Heading towards Lauburu Farm, Magdalena Torres slowed as she saw a line of cars ahead by the verge. As she passed, she glanced at the men standing by the vehicles. Heavy-set faces with dull expressions, broad shoulders crammed into suits that looked out of place in the countryside. And, as she passed, she caught a glimpse of the white hair and ragged clothing of another century and her heart sank. They had arrested Mikel Aingeru.

  Something weighed in her stomach. Turning a bend, she pulled over by a tangled clump of gorse and reversed the car off
the road, into the bushes. She sat motionless, resting her hands on the wheel. How typical of the secret police to pick on an old man like Mikel. The only crime he ever committed was to teach the forbidden language of his people. His clandestine teaching had awakened a generation of children to their heritage. And he had taught Magdalena so much more.

  She climbed from the roadster and retrieved the Colt from under the spare wheel in the boot. Mikel once told her there was a time to help and a time to be helped. It was time for her to help him now.

  Keeping low, she worked her way through the scrub until she was close enough to hear the men talking.

  ‘What do you want?’ someone asked. It was not Mikel’s voice. But it was Mikel who answered and Magdalena listened, her eyes widening with horror. She listened to it all and then, as the men’s talk turned to other things, she slid away, silent and careful, making her way back to the spot where she had left the Pegaso.

  A hundred metres from the car, she stopped and lowered herself into the grass, her heart pounding as she watched the burly man in a dark suit examining the vehicle. Staying low, she moved stealthily towards the trees and crawled through them, not daring to stand until she reached the far side of the wood. Then she started to run.

  OROITZ 1954, CARRERA DE LAUBURU

  Guzmán drove fast, ignoring the squeal of tyres as he took the bends of the steep mountain road without slowing. His head rang with a single question. What the fuck were Begoña and Nieves thinking of? They should have been tending their farm, not involving themselves in something that carried the death penalty.

  He struggled to put his anger aside. The women needed his help, that was all that mattered. He would drive them to France and drop them somewhere on the border away from the customs posts. There were Basques across the frontier, they would still be among their own people. He turned onto the road leading to Lauburu Farm and accelerated, hearing the Hispano Suiza’s powerful engine rise to the challenge.

  Up ahead, he saw workmen standing by a line of cars parked at the side of the road. Fucking roadworks. He floored the accelerator and the Hispano Suiza hurtled forward, the wheel vibrating in his hands.

  Guzmán didn’t see what hit him. He heard only the sudden devastating noise of the impact as the car flipped over, skidding across the road in a shower of sparks, the metal screeching as the vehicle righted itself and careered into the verge on the far side of the road. A sudden sharp pain in his ribs as he slammed into the steering wheel. Unsteadily, he climbed from the wrecked vehicle, clutching his side. Around him, dark shapes emerged from the trees. He was surrounded by soldiers. A hundred metres away, a black sedan emerged from a narrow track in the woods and purred down the road, gliding to a halt alongside him. He watched as the rear window slid down.

  ‘You’re a fucking terrible driver.’ Mellado laughed. ‘Good job my lads only clipped you. Didn’t you see them waving for you to stop?’

  Guzmán saw now what had hit him: a military vehicle, the front bumper reinforced with a protruding steel frame. A roadblock.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ He reached into a pocket for his handkerchief to mop blood from the cut over his eyebrow.

  Slowly, Mellado got out of the car. ‘You’re in a hurry, Leo, where are you off to?’

  Normally, Guzmán was attuned to self-preservation. This was no normal situation. He had to think carefully.

  ‘I asked where you’re going.’ Mellado’s voice was sharper now.

  ‘To make arrests at the farmhouse,’ Guzmán said, thinking quickly. ‘I need to question the two women there.’

  ‘Really?’ Mellado’s face showed no interest. Certainly no sign of belief.

  ‘El Lobo’s been hiding out near here,’ Guzmán said, getting into his stride. ‘I want to arrest the women at Lauburu, they’ve been involved in the robberies.’

  ‘I know about them. I’d have known sooner, if you’d bothered to tell me.’

  Guzmán winced as a shard of pain shot through his ribs. ‘I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Good job I don’t rely on you for my information.’ Mellado waved to the driver of a dark SEAT sedan parked up the road, its engine idling. The car rolled towards them.

  ‘All these Basques know each other, Guzmán,’ Mellado said as the sedan pulled up. ‘Many are only too pleased to pass on all they know. That’s how we recruit so many agents here.’ He gestured to someone in the car. A man got out, brushing down his velvet frock coat, smoothing his hands over the mane of silver hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Comandante.’ Baron Çubiry bared his teeth, though the gesture was far from a smile. He turned to Mellado. ‘I’ve provided you with both information and a spectacular amount of money, General. I believe it’s time to honour your side of the bargain?’ He turned to Guzmán. ‘Blood is thicker than water, I think you said, Comandante?’ His mouth set in a thin smile. ‘You spilled my son’s blood, now I’d like to return the compliment.’

  ‘Give him the pistol,’ Mellado said. A man in a dark homburg and overcoat stepped forward, taking a pistol from his coat pocket. It took a moment for Guzmán to recognise Faisán. The young man smirked as he cocked the pistol and handed it to the Baron.

  ‘All yours, Monsieur Çubiry,’ Mellado said, taking a step back. ‘You wanted the Comandante and you’ve paid very well, so make the most of it.’ He smiled at Guzmán. ‘See? I can get information from other sources beside you. Carry on, Baron.’

  Guzmán locked eyes with Çubiry as he took a step towards him. Fuck him. Fuck them all. He no longer cared. Perhaps Begoña and Nieves might still get away without his help. But he knew that was not true. By the time they realised what was happening, it would be far too late.

  ‘A last word?’ Baron Çubiry smiled. ‘Some last futile curse, perhaps?’

  ‘Your son died squealing like a pig,’ Guzmán said through clenched teeth. ‘He shamed himself, he shamed you and he shamed the bullet I put in his cowardly head.’ He spat onto the ground. ‘At least it put an end to your family line.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Çubiry grinned. ‘You forget my daughter. She’s more man than my son ever was. Who do you think organised the robbery of your bank shipment?’

  Baron Çubiry raised the pistol, aiming into Guzmán’s face. Guzmán stared back, waiting. Faisán moved back, watching over the Baron’s shoulder as Çubiry pulled the trigger.

  A thin, metallic click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Surprised, Çubiry turned to Mellado, about to ask what was going on. No words came as he stopped, staring as Mellado lifted the lid of the boot and stepped back to let him see the contents.

  ‘Mon Dieu.’ Çubiry’s eyes were wide with horror. ‘My child...’

  Faisán shot him in the back. As Çubiry sprawled on the ground, Faisán shot him twice more, the body jerking at the impact of each bullet. Faisán put away the pistol and went over to the General’s Cadillac.

  ‘You should see your face, Leo,’ Mellado cackled. ‘It’s a picture.’

  Dazed, Guzmán looked at the crumpled body in front of him.

  ‘As if I’d let a bandit shoot you. You might be a bad bastard but you’re our bad bastard. Çubiry’s a Frenchman – you think I’d trust him?’

  Guzmán ran a hand over his face. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ He pointed to the woman’s body crammed into the boot of the sedan, her mottled face staring out at him, the great black tongue lolling from her lips, her pale naked body covered in bruises.

  Mellado laughed. ‘Jeanette Çubiry. Perhaps you knew her as Jeanette Duclos, that was her married name. Yet another favour I’ve done you.’ He slammed the lid of the boot. ‘Although, to tell the truth, killing the Baron was a favour to someone else. I just let you share it.’

  ‘Who?’ Guzmán glanced along the road to the farm. Time was running out.

  ‘One of my informants, Leo. A proper informant, better than anyone Gutiérrez ever recruited, I bet. Or you, for that matter. And someone who wanted Çubiry dead very badly.’ He gestured at t
he body lying in the road. ‘That French bastard thought he could use the money he stole from your bank truck to bribe me into letting him kill you.’

  ‘You got the five million back?’

  ‘I did. But my informant gave me something worth much more: the names of resistance groups all over the region.’ His eye glittered. ‘I’ve declared martial law, Leo. We’re picking up suspects right now, traitors every last one.’

  Guzmán thought quickly. ‘Let me arrest those women. This is personal.’

  ‘No need, Leo. I’ve got people to do that.’ Mellado gave a signal and an open-topped khaki truck pulled away from the line of military vehicles waiting by the verge. It drove past slowly, giving Guzmán time to see the sullen faces of Mellado’s bodyguards staring at him over the tailboard. He felt something twist in his stomach.

  ‘I want to do it,’ he said. ‘They thought I was stupid. Let me deal with them.’

  Mellado shrugged. ‘You’ll have to walk then. I can’t spare another vehicle and I’ve got the harvest ball later. There’s still a hundred things to do.’ He walked back to the Cadillac and Faisán opened the rear door for him. As the car’s powerful engine throbbed into life, Mellado leaned out of the window. ‘Did you think about my job offer, Leo?’

  ‘It sounded good.’ The words were like soot on his tongue.

  ‘Good lad. You go and help the boys clear up at the farm if that’s what you want. They’re keen to get it over with so they can get back for the ball. It’s just along that fork in the road back there, if you fancy dropping in. I reckon we’ll be up all night, don’t you, Faisán?’

  Faisán smirked. ‘I certainly hope so, mi General.’

  ‘We’ll discuss the job later, then, Leo,’ Mellado said. ‘Iron out the details.’

  Guzmán leaned against the car, exhausted. Through the half-open window, he smelled the air inside the vehicle: a sour odour, fetid and rank. Mellado said something to the driver and Guzmán stepped back as the car moved off, followed by the line of vehicles carrying the general’s entourage. Within a couple of minutes Guzmán was alone, with only his wrecked car and the corpse of Baron Çubiry for company. He looked up the road, seeing the olive-green truck in the distance lumbering towards the farm, carrying Mellado’s battle-hardened mercenaries, all keen to get their work over so they could attend General Mellado’s annual night of depravity.