The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Luisa, what would you say to me working with you on the Guzmán project? If I could get time off, a secondment maybe? I’d like to make a contribution to your research.’

  ‘That would be great, Ana,’ Luisa said. ‘What sort of contribution?’

  Where to start? ‘I see from this book you don’t believe in focusing on the individual in your studies?’

  ‘Exactly, history is shaped by the larger realm of ideas. Understand those and you understand the actions of individuals.’

  ‘But what about a perspective from someone from a different background? With a focus on the individual? As a counterweight to your approach?’

  Luisa thought for a moment. ‘Maybe it could work. A dissenting voice would give the investigation a dialectical tension. Forensic work – forgive me for saying so – is really about attributing blame and apportioning guilt. There’d be a theoretical conflict. Wouldn’t you mind that?’

  ‘No para nada. I want to collect evidence of his involvement in the activities of the Brigada Especial. And then assess the level of his culpability and the extent of his involvement in the crimes of his unit.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound a terribly sympathetic approach.’ Luisa frowned. ‘My own view is that Guzmán and others like him were functionaries, rubber-stamping the orders of those above them. Violent acts were informed by a much wider ideology. I’m more interested in discussing how those wider ideas came to be manifested at the practical level.’

  ‘I don’t intend to be sympathetic at all,’ Galindez said. ‘You said there’s no hard evidence to incriminate him – but that doesn’t mean there isn’t. And after seeing those bodies in the mine at Las Peñas, I really think Guzmán merits further investigation.’

  ‘And you won’t mind if our respective interpretations clash?’

  ‘Not at all. Because I don’t intend to interpret him. I want to base my report on facts – just as if I was preparing a report for the prosecutor.’

  Luisa reached over to her bedside table. ‘You’d better start reading this.’ She passed Galindez the musty leather-bound diary. ‘Have a look while I make us some coffee.’

  Galindez opened the diary. The entries consisted largely of lists. Lists of people, places, sums of money with comments about how they were spent – Guzmán was clearly punctilious in claiming his expenses – Galindez smiled: she could relate to that. So many names. Hopefully, she would be able to identify some of these people and the reason for them being in Guzmán’s diary. With no time now to read the diary from start to finish, she turned to the last page, examining the final entry dated Thursday, 22 January 1953, a scrawled, cryptic sentence: I am me and my circumstances. She recognised the phrase from school: It was Ortega y Gasset. A literary quotation from a secret policeman? Perhaps there was more to him than she’d initially thought.

  ‘Penny for them.’ Luisa handed Galindez a mug of coffee. ‘What are you smiling about, Ana María?’

  Galindez looked up, her dark eyes shining. ‘Luisa, did I ever tell you about my uncle?’

  MADRID 2009, HEADQUARTERS OF THE GUARDIA CIVIL, JEFATURA DE INFORMACIÓN

  The adjutant was waiting as Galindez stepped from the lift.

  ‘Dr Galindez?’ An unnecessary question. No one got to this floor without an appointment. The adjutant showed her into his office – dark wood furniture with brass fittings, a thick carpet – a world away from the functional austerity of Galindez’s own small cubicle in the Forensic department several floors below. The adjutant gestured grudgingly at a leather chair. Galindez sank into the thick cushions, noting his measured look of disapproval.

  ‘The general is on the telephone,’ the adjutant said, indicating the door to the general’s office. ‘He’s been very busy today.’ The tone of his voice suggested not only a delay, it implied Galindez deserved the wait. She guessed he was wondering why the head of the Counter Intelligence Directorate would want to see a lowly forensic scientist. He was in for a surprise.

  A few minutes passed before the inner door burst open and the general emerged. His uniform fitted him more tightly than the last time Galindez had seen him and the white hair was thinner but the bluff ruddy face was still the same.

  The adjutant leapt up, giving the general a sharp salute. ‘A sus ordenes, mi General, Dr Galindez from Forensics to see you.’

  The general looked at Galindez, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi General.’ Galindez fumbled a haphazard salute as the general’s big arms wrapped round her, hugging her to his barrel chest. The adjutant looked on, astonished. It was a fair bet most of the general’s visitors weren’t greeted this way.

  The general laughed. ‘It’s all right, Capitán, young women always find me attractive.’

  Now the adjutant was confused, sensing a joke but uncertain what it was. The general hugged Galindez again, almost lifting her off her feet, and he ruffled her hair the same way he had when she was ten years old.

  ‘Por Dios, Capitán,’ General Ortiz said, ‘you’re slipping. If she’d been from al-Qaeda I’d be dead now.’ Then, seeing the adjutant wasn’t suddenly going to develop a sense of humour, he added, ‘This is my little Ana. Always was, always will be. Right, querida?’

  ‘Absolutamente, mi General,’ Galindez said, stiffening to attention.

  ‘Ana María, I can have you shot if you don’t address me by my correct title.’

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Ramiro.’ Galindez extended a hand towards the adjutant. ‘Ana María Galindez, para servirle.’

  A flaccid handshake. ‘Mucho gusto, Dr Galindez.’

  ‘She’s Miguel Galindez’s daughter,’ Uncle Ramiro added, spoiling the moment for her. Not so soon. Can’t I just be the woman from Forensics for once?

  The adjutant stared at her. ‘I admired your father a great deal, Dr Galindez. He’s sadly missed, I can tell you.’

  ‘Very true,’ Ramiro said gravely. ‘And wouldn’t you agree she’s the best-looking forensic scientist you’ve ever seen?’

  ‘She certainly is, mi General. Of course, I could hardly say so before.’

  ‘Women never object to a compliment,’ Ramiro said, wrapping an arm around Galindez’s shoulders. ‘Now, hold all my calls while I’m with Ana María. Even if Prime Minister Zapatero calls. Ana’s more important than he is.’

  ‘A sus ordenes. Those are the exact words I’ll relay to him.’ The adjutant was more amenable now, Galindez noticed. Papá’s name still carried a lot of weight.

  Ramiro waved Galindez into his office. He closed the door and pointed to a seat. The cushions were even deeper and more opulent than those of the adjutant’s office. Galindez inhaled the aroma of the freshly polished wood of Uncle Ramiro’s huge desk.

  ‘Drink, Ana?’ Ramiro pointed to an impressively large drinks cabinet.

  ‘Agua mineral con gas, please, Uncle.’

  ‘Still teetotal then?’ He rattled ice into a glass and poured sparkling water over it. Whisky for him. Some things didn’t change. ‘So, how’s life in the guardia civil, niña?’

  ‘I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘Enjoying it? Niña, it’s a calling. You don’t enjoy it, you live and breathe your duty. Like I do, and my father before me. And yours, niña.’

  ‘Don’t call me that at work please, Uncle Ram. I’m not a kid any more.’

  ‘Venga, Ana. Even though you’re twenty years old, to me you’re the same wide-eyed little girl I used to bounce on my knee.’

  ‘Uncle Ramiro, I’m twenty-five and I spend most of my working day surrounded by dead bodies. I’ve grown up.’

  ‘You certainly have, Ana. And it suits you – the capitán outside couldn’t take his eyes off your culo when you walked in here. And to be frank, I’m not surprised, querida.’

  Galindez laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. Ramiro was such a dinosaur. ‘Look, Uncle, if you like, we can discuss the guardia’s anti-sexism policy – I’m sure you’ve only breached about half of it so far.’

  Ramiro held up a han
d in surrender. ‘Have pity, Ana. I’m old school. Men like me see a pretty girl and it goes to our heads. Women take everything so seriously these days. Even those in uniform. They sue at the drop of a hat if a man so much as looks at them. Lesbians, most of them.’

  Unfortunately that’s not true, Galindez thought. She changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, Uncle Ram. I’ve been so busy, what with moving into the new flat and settling into this job. In fact, I haven’t seen you or Tia Teresa since my doctoral ceremony last year.’

  ‘I was proud to be there, Ana María. I know I’m not a real uncle, but I was your father’s best friend and I still miss him.’ Ramiro rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. It hurts to think about it even now.’

  God, just for once, let me be Ana María. It’s been nearly twenty years. Por Dios.

  ‘We’re both very proud of you, Ana,’ Ramiro said. ‘You put in so much work studying. You know, I don’t think I ever saw you without a book in your hand in your teens.’

  ‘I was a bit of a bookworm, I admit.’

  ‘A bit? Tia Carmen told me you revised for one exam for two days without sleeping.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it was quite that long.’ She laughed. Three days more like. ‘By the way, thanks again for the car, Uncle. That was so generous.’

  ‘My pleasure, Ana. Just let me know when you need another. If you park it anything like the women who drive our patrol cars, it’ll be scrap inside a year.’

  She thanked him, knowing she could never accept it. A graduation gift was one thing, regularly receiving largesse from the most senior operational officer in the organisation was another. If her colleagues found out, they’d think everything she did in the job was the result of Uncle Ramiro’s favouritism. Credibility was hard enough to come by as it was.

  ‘De nada. They pay me too much anyway. I’d work here for nothing.’ Ramiro picked up a yellow folder on his desk. ‘Right, let’s have a look at this. See how you’re doing.’

  ‘What is that, Uncle Ramiro?’

  ‘Your personnel folder, querida. Don’t you want to know what Capitán Fuentes says about you?’

  Shit. Galindez was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I thought those things were confidential?’

  ‘Don’t forget who’s in charge, Ana María. Me. You can do anything you want when you’ve got the power. Let’s have a look.’ Ramiro skimmed through the papers in the folder, ‘Independent… popular member of staff… persistent attention to detail… dedicated… team player… hard-working – hostia, willingness to work late to meet deadlines. In fact, he says you have a tendency to overwork, querida. As if there’s any such thing. Anyway, overall, it sounds like Fuentes finds you very acceptable, my dear.’

  ‘That’s very flattering, Uncle. Are you sure he was talking about me?’

  ‘Oh yes, and coming from Fuentes, it’s extravagant praise. You’re doing well. Sure you wouldn’t rather be in uniform and wearing a gun?’

  ‘We’ve discussed that before, Uncle. You know my answer.’

  ‘I do. Fuentes forgot to put stubborn in his list. So, how long have I got to enjoy the pleasure of your company today, niña?’

  Galindez looked at her watch. ‘An hour. Belén in Cryptography is going on maternity leave and we’re taking her for a drink at four thirty.’

  ‘Maternity leave?’ Ramiro sighed. ‘That means more overtime for someone. These pregnant women cost us a fortune.’ He noticed Galindez’s expression and changed the subject. ‘Now, tell me, what’s the favour you want? You didn’t say in your email, so I assumed it meant you need to flutter your eyelashes at me before asking?’

  Galindez gave her uncle a hard stare. ‘As if. The thing is, I’ve been involved with a lot of war grave work over the last year and I wondered…’

  ‘If I can get you out of it? Of course, pequeñita. Not fit work for a young woman. I’ll speak to Fuentes, ask him to give you something office based.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. You see, I’m involved with a group at the university investigating war crimes and atrocities.’

  ‘The Historical Memory people?’ Uncle Ramiro snorted. ‘They’re just a bunch of lefties. raking over the coals of the past and whining about who shot grandpa.’

  Galindez gave him a long look. ‘Surprisingly, Uncle Ramiro, they don’t refer to it like that. They need my skills to add a scientific dimension to their investigation of a Comandante Guzmán.’

  Ramiro frowned. ‘Never heard of him. What makes him so special?’

  ‘He was a comandante in the Brigada Especial. His unit was involved in killing a lot of people in the years after the Civil War.’

  Uncle Ramiro sipped his Scotch. He chuckled. ‘Verdad? That’s what happens when you have wars, my dear. It’s why we have them. Otherwise it would just be a sport.’

  ‘Guzmán reported directly to Franco. He was in command of the Special Brigade yet there’s no direct evidence of his involvement. I want to investigate—’

  Uncle Ramiro held up his hand. ‘Ya vale, Ana. It’s ancient history. As you know, my father, the late General Ortiz Senior, fought in the Guerra Civil and God alone knows how many people he killed or had killed. Iron Hand Ortiz, they called him. And with good reason. It was a war: end of story.’

  ‘There were war crimes. Rapes and extrajudicial killings.’

  ‘I know. I know. You’ve discovered the Civil War and you want to share its evils with the next generation. You won’t be the first. Unfortunately.’

  ‘I wondered if I could have a secondment to work on the university investigation?’

  Uncle Ramiro laughed. ‘I can just see Fuentes’s face if I order him to second you to some lefty group. Imposible, Ana. He’d hit the roof. You’ve only worked here a year.’

  Galindez pursed her lips. She hadn’t expected outright rejection.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that look, cariña. I can’t bear it. If it’s so important to you, then of course. I’ll call Fuentes and tell him.’ The general smiled. ‘Order him, I should say.’

  Galindez looked at him in surprise. ‘I didn’t give you any look, Uncle. But muchisimas gracias, I really appreciate it – and I promise I’ll do a good job that reflects well on the guardia. And there is one other thing.’ Save the biggest for last, she thought. ‘I’d like access to some of the archives at Military Intelligence.’

  ‘Jesús Cristo y todo los Santos, Ana. So would lots of people. Military secrets?’

  ‘Only from the early fifties. To see if there’s anything on Guzmán.’

  Ramiro frowned. ‘There is a possibility,’ he said. ‘They’ve computerised all the top secret records, though of course access to them is out of the question. Much of the material on the Civil War has been moved to the archives at Salamanca. But there’s still a lot of old restricted stuff left. I can get you access to that – for what it’s worth. You’d be working pretty much on your own. It’s kept in an archive at the Institute of Military Culture.’

  ‘Thank you, Tio Ramiro. This means a lot to me.’

  ‘Well, make the most of it while I’m still in post, chica.’

  ‘Por Dios, you’re not retiring, surely?’

  ‘Que va, Ana. I’m only fifty-nine. No, I’m going to be in charge of our NATO operation in Afghanistan from the start of next year. Unless some idiot stops the fighting before I arrive – which I sincerely hope won’t happen. After all, it’s rare for a general to get to shoot anyone nowadays.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll keep it going until you get there, Uncle. Congratulations. Will you bring me back one of those rugs?’

  ‘Dozens, querida. Listen, once I’ve sorted this thing out at the archives for you, you’ll be on your own. They have very few facilities. You’ll have to do all the work yourself.’

  ‘I’ve had lots of practice, Uncle. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Shame you never studied shorthand. That’s always a useful skill for a young woman,’ Uncle Ramiro muttered, signing the paper authorising the secondment.
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  Later, as Galindez prepared to leave, Ramiro pressed a wad of euros into her hand. ‘A little spending money, chiquitita. Get yourself something nice.’ He accompanied her to the door and waited as she thanked him once more and planted goodbye kisses on each of his ruddy cheeks. ‘You should wear your hair down more often, Ana María,’ Ramiro said. ‘It suits you.’

  Galindez smiled. She decided Uncle Ramiro wouldn’t appreciate her explaining the importance of avoiding contaminating a crime scene.

  It was a short walk to the lift and, as Galindez pressed the call button, she heard Uncle Ramiro’s booming voice as he talked to the adjutant. ‘Lovely little thing. They’ll have to prise her husband off her with a crowbar after their wedding night. She’ll make some man very happy. I’d say she was at least a seven or an eight, what about you?’

  The lift doors opened and Galindez stepped in, wondering whether Afghanistan was quite ready for Uncle Ramiro. She pressed the button for the second floor and the lift descended slowly. She counted the money Ramiro had given her. Four hundred euros. Leaving the lift, she followed the corridor past Human Resources and down a short flight of stairs towards a small lobby with a dull khaki sign: Capilla. There was no one about outside the small chapel, just a sign giving the chaplain’s hours of attendance. Galindez looked at the memorial on the wall by the chapel door. Rows of small photographs of the fallen, their names and dates of death. The later photos were in colour. Her papá’s was in black and white. Teniente Miguel Galindez, 5/4/1992. Above the photographs, gilt letters bearing the words inscribed over the door of every guardia comisaría in the country: Todo por la Patria. Below the memorial was a collection box labelled Las familias. Galindez looked around to make sure she was alone before pressing the wad of notes into the metal slot of the collection box.