The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  By the time he reached the main road, the snow had turned to slush, making the going less slippery. His feet were soaked. Guzmán cursed, cursing the entire brotherhood of cheating cobblers and bootblacks who conspired to create shoddy footwear and whose toxic polish destroyed the shoes it was applied to. The quality of shoes these days was third rate, the war had drained the country of just about every resource, particularly those which could provide even a minimal degree of comfort. It’s dog eat dog now, Guzmán thought. Even so, he still had to make do with badly made shoes.

  Outside the comisaría, Guzmán saw the two guards on duty. Sentry posts were always chilly affairs, but even more so tonight, he thought. The two men looked thoroughly unhappy, their capes drenched with sleet, rifles cradled with menacing affection.

  Guzmán curtly acknowledged their salutes as he entered the building. Inside, a darkened hallway led to the ancient reception desk. A lamp glowed on the desk. The sargento looked up from his newspaper.

  ‘Buenas tardes, Comandante. A sus ordenes.’

  ‘Muy buenas, Sargento. Anything new?’ The question suggested an interest but was entirely rhetorical: all Guzmán wanted was to light the stove in his office and dry his frozen feet. Then he noticed the sargento’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘The general sir, General Valverde, he’s here.’

  Something must be wrong. Guzmán felt the adrenalin surge, his mind clearing, ready for action. They always come for you at night.

  ‘Where is the general?’

  ‘Your office, sir. I lit the stove and offered him coffee. He said he’d wait for you.’

  ‘And how long has he been here?’

  ‘Ten minutes, sir.’

  ‘Muy bien. Listen, go to the kitchen and make some coffee. Use the real coffee in the officers’ cupboard – but lock it away again when you’ve done, it’s hard to get decent coffee even on the black market.’ He pushed the key across the desk. ‘I’ll be with the general.’ He turned to go through the double doors that led to his office. ‘And I want the key to the cupboard back afterwards, me entiendes?’

  The sargento grinned, an unpleasant act, since it gave an unwanted view of his broken and rotting teeth. ‘Entendido, mi Comandante.’

  The bulb of the electric light in Guzmán’s office spilled harsh white light over the sullen decay within. The ancient paper on the walls was peeling and an air of damp contested the other accumulated smells the old building jealously harboured. The general was sitting at Guzmán’s desk, warming his hands by the small wood-burning stove. Guzmán looked round quickly, making sure he had left no papers lying about.

  ‘Mi General, this is a pleasure. Had I known you were coming…’

  The general’s big ruddy face was not improved under the baleful light. His shaggy eyebrows contrasted with the neatly trimmed moustache. The immaculate uniform was ablaze with braid and medal ribbons.

  ‘No need for small talk, Guzmán, thank you. I’ve no more time for it than you. What I have to say is best said in person, not on the telephone.’

  ‘Of course, mi General. How may I be of service?’

  ‘Sit down, Comandante.’

  Guzmán pulled up a chair, aware of how the power balance between them was enacted, the general sitting at Guzmán’s desk with Guzmán outside the warm radius of the stove, necessarily attentive. This was because the general thought his status was so much greater than Guzmán’s. Guzmán did not agree. Valverde knows his authority counts for very little here. We play this game; he thinks he is superior, I act as if it were true. But these are formalities. We both know who I answer to.

  ‘You’re doing well, Guzmán,’ Valverde said. ‘I understand you’ve made a number of important arrests in the last few weeks.’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘The usual, mi General: traitors, agitators, Liberals. Enemies of the State who thought their conspiracies would go unnoticed. They may go unnoticed for a while but they don’t get away. I don’t let them.’

  ‘Indeed. Your abilities in this field are particularly impressive, Guzmán. As I knew they would be when I first met you at Badajoz.’

  ‘The general was very kind to me,’ Guzmán said, without sincerity.

  ‘Your physical and mental prowess were evident even then,’ he said. ‘That was why I recommended you to the Caudillo.’

  ‘For which I’m grateful, mi General.’

  ‘You’ve worked hard in this post, Guzmán. Hombre, you’ve been in the Brigada Especial since 1941.’

  ‘As the general knows.’

  ‘An excellent record in the army as well: and you attained the highest decoration your country could bestow on you.’

  ‘Again, this is well known to the general. Even if it is, if I may say so, history.’ Nothing beats being modest, Guzmán thought, knowing how much it would annoy a braggart like Valverde. Why don’t you just shit or get off the pot?

  ‘But a glorious history, Guzmán, Spain’s history changed by the crusade against the Reds. By the actions of the Caudillo and, let me add, by men like you and me. That history will be told long after we are gone. Never forget it, hombre. And let no one else forget it, that’s what I say.’

  Guzmán nodded, despising the vanity of the man. Cretin. After we are gone we are dust. Nada más. Does he think a few lines in the history books will give him immortality? Probably, since the man’s ego is immense. General Valverde, hero of Badajoz, defender of the faith. Second in command to General Yagűe, architect of the first major victory of the Civil War. Valverde is still revelling in his role as hero after all these years. He remembers the times that brought him wealth and power. It’s always as well to remember the other side of the coin. The real work. I wonder if he’s already forgotten the dust of the bullring at Badajoz, as they herded in the beaten, the wounded, the women and children, shrunken, starved faces dirty and gaunt as they cowered before the bayonets of Franco’s Moorish troops? Guzmán remembered it very well. Standing next to Valverde and his officers, watching the machine gunners mow down the prisoners.

  ‘You were appointed to this position by the Caudillo himself. That in itself indicates how highly he valued your conduct in the Cruzada,’ Valverde said, interrupting Guzmán’s memories.

  The general was unusually talkative tonight, Guzmán thought. He was a man accustomed to giving orders, not inclined towards discussion and certainly not small talk. But he was boring and Guzmán’s mind wandered, remembering again that afternoon at Badajoz. It had been very interesting to watch, Guzmán recalled, very colourful and well organised.

  ‘The Caudillo was very kind,’ Guzmán said. ‘Because of my age I think he had a bit of a soft spot for me. And of course I’d been wounded.’

  The general nodded, looking into the gloom at the edge of the circle of light from the bare bulb in the ceiling. He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, belatedly offering the packet to Guzmán. Both men exhaled smoke into the bitter light.

  ‘He saw something in you, Guzmán, something that was needed in men who were to shape their country’s destiny. He saw how you responded to adversity and he liked what he saw. The way you were willing to fight to the death for the Cause.’

  Something’s wrong. Suddenly Valverde’s my best friend. He must want something.

  ‘Guzmán, I too admire those qualities the Caudillo observed in you. Perhaps I haven’t said so lately, but then in my position one can’t have favourites nor can one single out a particular individual for praise no matter how worthy. I’m sure you understand that.’

  As was so often the case when dealing with Valverde, there was nothing to do but nod in agreement. There was a knock at the door and an orderly brought in their coffee, pouring it into the ancient cups that were the comisaría’s best china. The orderly saluted and left.

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t had the recognition you deserve.’ Valverde paused to wipe coffee from his moustache. ‘That can change. I’ve got a business proposition for you, Guzmán. Something that will adequately reward you for your work o
n behalf of the Patria.’

  Adequate reward? Does he think I’m stupid? He knows damn well I get by like everyone else: the bribes, the gifts, skimming off the deals of others. Not as much as a general can make, of course, but then the secret of success is not to get greedy. Everyone, from high-ranking government officials dipping their snouts into the trough of public funds, right down to the local Falange members with their bribery and petty intimidation, all of them use the power available to them to get that bit more. It’s how the country is run.

  ‘If there is some matter in which I can be of service to the general,’ Guzmán said, ‘I would be only too pleased to help.’

  Valverde leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Your talents are exceptional, Guzmán, no one can sniff out Reds and traitors like you. You would have done well in the Inquisition.’ The general smiled stiffly. ‘And make no mistake,’ he continued, ‘we still need an Inquisition in this country. After the Cruzada we dealt with many of our enemies. But there are those who still feel the Caudillo was too lenient, too…’

  ‘Soft?’ Guzmán tried not to sound incredulous.

  ‘That’s a soldier talking.’ Valverde smiled, approvingly. ‘Let’s say, he was merciful. It’s likely he was badly advised. Great leaders are always surrounded by a profusion of advisors and each of them has their own agenda. Decisions in such a context are always complicated.’

  Treacherous bastard, Guzmán thought. Is he trying to draw me into criticising Franco? What the hell is he up to? I’m having none of this. Franco – lenient? Fuck me. It would be easier to argue the Blessed Virgin had twins.

  ‘I’m surprised to hear the general considers that the decisions of the Head of State need to be revised, complex or not. If I may say so.’

  Valverde flushed angrily. He finished his coffee, trying, with limited success, to calm himself. ‘I put that badly,’ he grunted. ‘I wouldn’t want you to take what I said as any form of criticism of the Caudillo. Naturally that wasn’t my intention. But in a great country like ours, the business of government involves many people of lesser talent, with the result that decisions are often ill-informed. These are not faults of the Caudillo, of course.’

  Guzmán revelled in Valverde’s discomfort. Pompous bastard. He’s overplayed his hand. Now he’s worried I’ll inform on him. Valverde was right to worry. It was Franco who had elevated Guzmán to the command of this make-believe police station from where he and his men relentlessly hunted down the weary remnants of Republican opposition. It was Franco who trusted Guzmán to carry out work so secret and sensitive it could not be shared with the Caudillo’s own generals. And Franco’s trust in Guzmán caused great discomfort for many of those who were senior to Guzmán. In rank, that was: Guzmán was accountable only to the very top. This elevated status and the effectiveness of his constant pursuit and destruction of Franco’s enemies made him a force to be feared. Guzmán well knew the effect he had on others – even those technically his superiors: They fear me. They fear me because of what I do, the arrests, the beatings, the executions, and none of them are consulted on any of it. Not Valverde nor any other general, not the police or the guardia civil, no one.

  Valverde continued in a more conciliatory tone, ‘The thing is, Guzmán, we’re both men of action. We understand how these things work.’ The general was smiling again.

  Guzmán tried to appear as non-committal as his inherently suspicious face would allow.

  ‘These have been hard times, Guzmán,’ Valverde said. ‘We’ve all worked hard to uphold what we forged on the field of battle, we who fought on the side of God and decency, now we reap a few small rewards for our labour. To the victor the spoils, Guzmán.’

  Guzmán nodded. Small reward indeed, he thought. Valverde controls the importation of foreign pharmaceuticals into this country. He was with Franco from the start of the War, and for a while it could have been Valverde who took command of the rebellion. But the other generals chose Franco, and, however unhappy he had been with that choice, Valverde had displayed a highly visible and vocal loyalty to the Caudillo ever since. After the war ended, the Caudillo made him Capitán-General of Madrid, to keep him happy. And quiet. Franco wanted to buy him and Valverde let himself be bought. And quite right too.

  ‘As you say, General. After the chaos of war we brought order. And we need to preserve order. A well-run country is one that will prosper. And if those in authority prosper, then so too will the lower classes in their turn.’ Guzmán saw Valverde’s nod of agreement and his contempt for the man increased. No one in authority in this country cares a fuck about the lower classes, except in terms of making them work harder and for less.

  Valverde smiled. ‘I have a proposition, Comandante. Nothing fancy or complicated and certainly nothing that would detract from your important work.’

  ‘I’m at the general’s service,’ Guzmán said.

  A sudden muffled scream of pain echoed from somewhere down the corridor. Guzmán was amused to see the general’s discomfort as the screaming reached a loud frenetic climax and then stopped. There was some unintelligible shouting and the noise of boots in the corridor. ‘My apologies, mi General,’ Guzmán smiled. ‘One of the prisoners. We think he was trained in Russia before the war. My lads are taking their time wringing the information out of him.’

  Valverde nodded, getting back to the task in hand. Guzmán noticed the general had recovered his composure. Just a little out of practice, General, I’m sure you could get used to it again if you had to.

  ‘Guzmán, I need help with a matter which needs to be handled with some delicacy,’ Valverde said, frowning as the screaming started again. ‘As you know, I have certain interests in the importation of pharmaceuticals into Spain.’

  Certain interests? Guzmán thought.

  ‘By using my administrative talents,’ Valverde continued, ‘the Caudillo has greatly improved the supply of medicine to the people. And naturally, being used to command and organisation, I deal with this importation in a highly efficient manner. Which is to say, in my own way. No man likes his work to be interfered with. Especially in business.’ Valverde was scowling now, his cheeks reddening as he spoke. ‘Which is why…’ He paused, trying to quell his sudden rage. ‘Which is why I need you to deal with these bastards, Guzmán.’

  ‘Is someone interfering in your business dealings, mi General?’ Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘Those dealings are directly authorised by the Caudillo. Surely it’s a matter which can be dealt with directly? Why involve my unit?’ he asked. Fuck, I didn’t join the police to catch criminals.

  Valverde’s puce face almost ignited, his eyes glittered, even his moustache bristled with fury. ‘Because, Guzmán, I’m forbidden to take such action. That’s why I want you to deal with this fucking mess and it’s why I’m willing to pay you a great deal to handle these hijos de puta.’

  This is probably not the time to ask how much, Guzmán decided. ‘Who are these people?’

  Valverde reached into his briefcase and brought out a cardboard file. Guzmán looked at the file cautiously. As far as he could tell, his name was not on it. That would have been a bad sign. The general took out a sheaf of papers and slid several black and white photographs across the desk. Guzmán saw various men, some posing, some clearly photographed without their knowledge. Dark moustaches, swarthy skin. One of them with a smile punctuated by a gold tooth. Yankee zoot suits: full baggy trousers, oversized jackets with padded shoulders.

  ‘Dominicans,’ Valverde said, biting his lower lip. ‘These are who we have to deal with. You have to deal with, that is. These hijos de puta have been interfering with the sales of my products. On the streets – in broad daylight. They’ve even been dealing with my customers. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I’m astounded,’ Guzmán said, puzzled as to why the military governor of the Spanish capital would be bothered about a few foreign goons. ‘They’ve been stealing from your pharmacies?’

  ‘Grow up, Guzmán,’ Valverde snapped. ‘They’ve been int
erfering with some of the less official outlets.’

  ‘I see.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘The pushers on the streets and in the bars?’

  Valverde’s puce face contorted. ‘Never mind that, Comandante. You know how these things work. It’s a service, in a way, for the degenerate and those in pain from their war wounds. The important thing is, these bastards have not only been selling their own products, they’ve attacked several of my most reliable,’ he paused, ‘sales people.’

  ‘A bunch of half breeds dressed like pimps,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Attacking your dealers. Shameful.’ He arranged the photographs along the desk. ‘Do we know anything about them?’

  ‘A great deal.’ Valverde nodded. ‘This one,’ he pushed a photograph towards Guzmán, ‘is Enrique Garcia Melilla.’

  Guzmán looked at the photograph. The man looked like a university professor down on his luck. Bald, with a scraggly beard and eyes hidden in deep sockets. ‘He looks like a customer for the vice squad. Messing with little girls, playing with himself in public places – that’s my guess.’

  Valverde laughed. ‘Wanted for murder in Cuba, Venezuela and Argentina. Served a sentence for murder in Bolivia, later commuted for unknown reasons. This one,’ he pointed to the second photo, ‘is Horacio Bienvenida. Apparently he’s the leader. Was once a journalist, or so it seems. Served ten years in Panama for knifing his girlfriend.’

  Guzmán snorted, ‘I was right. Pimps and ponces. Why don’t we ship them all back to their little island?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Or have them disappear?’

  ‘This one,’ Valverde continued, ‘is Manuel Sanchez, the muscle of the outfit – for when knives and guns are not appropriate.’

  The photograph was taken as Sanchez approached the doorway of a bar. Behind him was a stretch of glaring white beach and beyond a flat, gleaming sea. The man’s face was largely in shade but Guzmán could still see the immense bulk under the tight-fitting cotton jacket. Sanchez had thick hair which extended down to his eyebrows. His jug ears stuck out from the improbable thatch, and below a simian brow the nose displayed all the signs of having been broken, probably more than once. ‘Christ, what an ape,’ Guzmán said. ‘When he was born I bet the nurse threw him a banana.’