Guzmán looked at him sternly. ‘It was personal but not between him and me. Higher up it was personal. His escapes made him unpopular at the top.’
‘Franco?’
‘Generalísimo Franco,’ Guzmán corrected him.
‘Generalísimo Franco,’ Peralta repeated.
‘I can’t say.’ Guzmán smirked.
‘So it was him who ordered it?’
Guzmán looked irritated. ‘He doesn’t say it. Why should he? He gives the nod and then someone tells me. In any case, suppose he’d been taken to trial and sentenced to death. How would he have ended up? Garrotted. Sat in a chair against a post with the iron collar round his neck while they tightened it until his neck snapped. At least tonight it came as a surprise. Shot, strangled, garrotted. They ended up dead just the same. You with your firing squad bollocks. Waste of time. What if the troopers can’t shoot straight? You end up with someone with a bullet in the belly, lots of screaming. And then someone has to put a round in his head to shut him up. So we cut straight to that part. One bullet, one man. Said and done.’
‘You can explain it all away, can’t you?’
‘Yes I can. Because I’m in charge. And because I’m in charge, I do these things myself. They say if you want something doing well do it yourself, no? Anyway, you’d better get ready because we’re going to meet important people and you are my teniente. You need a shave. Come here.’
‘What?’ Peralta asked, horrified.
‘Come here, I’ll shave you.’ Guzmán rinsed the blade under the tap. ‘Your hands are shaking; you’ll cut your own throat if you try it. Come on.’
Peralta stood up and walked to the sink. Guzmán pulled a chair from under the table and pushed him into it. Draping a dirty towel around Peralta’s shoulders, Guzmán picked up the soap and his shaving brush and began to work up the semblance of a lather.
‘Shitty soap, this, but it will do the trick. Would sir like a haircut as well? Something for the weekend? No, I suppose not.’
Peralta was suddenly afraid. Afraid of this huge man who earlier had shot fourteen prisoners and then strangled the last one with his own hands. This man who was now standing behind him with an open razor. Peralta felt an urge to run out into the frozen night, to flee this world of shadows and violence. Instead he inclined his head to the left as Guzmán moved the razor across his cheek expertly.
‘I used to do this in the army,’ Guzmán said genially, the blade gliding smoothly over Peralta’s face. ‘One of the Moors taught me. He used a big knife he carried. One time, he gave several of us a shave after a battle and his knife was dripping blood from where he’d used it on the enemy. Mind, many of them would have been dead already.’
‘Dead?’ Peralta asked, anxious to keep Guzmán in a relaxed state while he had the razor to his throat. ‘Why did he stab the dead?’
‘He didn’t.’ Guzmán stepped back and drew the razor in a sawing action across his crotch. ‘He collected their balls.’
The blade returned to Peralta’s throat. A dribble of sweat ran down the teniente’s forehead. Rigid with apprehension, he sat motionless despite the sour blast of garlic and wine being breathed in his face. Suddenly Guzmán’s face contorted.
‘Ah…’
‘What?’ Peralta almost screamed. Guzmán seemed to be having a seizure of some kind. The razor pressed against Peralta’s throat and he felt it cut him as Guzmán contorted and then sneezed explosively over Peralta. Peralta mopped his face with the towel, anxious to mop off the sweat now flowing freely.
‘Joder.’ Guzmán sniffed. ‘Sorry, Teniente, nearly cut your throat.’
Peralta looked at him. Guzmán’s heavy face was breaking up in laughter. He put down the razor and leaned on the table, shaking with a convulsive cackle. Peralta wondered if he was going mad. At least the shaving had stopped, he thought gratefully.
‘Sorry, it’s just…’ And then Guzmán cracked up again, just as he began to advance once more on Peralta with the razor. His laugh was infectious and Peralta found himself joining in, feeling the tension and horror of the night dissipating until suddenly he too was convulsed and breathless with the intensity of this unwarranted mirth. Finally he drew a calm breath and looked up. Guzmán glared back at him.
‘I don’t know what you think is so funny.’
‘Sorry, Comandante.’
‘Well, pull yourself together, man, let’s get you finished off. You’ll look a bit more human. Or you will do once you’ve washed that blood off your face. Funny, I can’t remember ever having made anyone bleed by accident before.’
The driver knocked at Guzmán’s door at half past eleven. By then the sargento had returned with a few of the men and they were now sitting drinking in the grimy mess room. Peralta wondered about the propriety of uniformed men drinking while on duty, particularly such copious amounts, but the men ignored his presence and so he said nothing.
Guzmán and Peralta, shaved, ties knotted neatly and hair combed into brilliantined compliance, walked to the elegant if somewhat battered Hispano-Suiza. The driver made to open the door but Guzmán swore at him and the man quickly scuttled back into the driving seat. Sitting in the back, the two men watched as they passed through a cold, skeletal Madrid.
‘Avenida de la Asunción.’ Guzmán leaned forward to remind the driver.
‘I’ve got it, jefe.’ The man nodded.
Peralta began to question Guzmán, feeling in need of advice on etiquette.
‘Easy,’ Guzmán smirked, ‘just don’t make a prick of yourself, be polite and try not to commit an act of treachery – it carries the death penalty.’
Peralta sighed and focused instead on the hole in his shoe. Guzmán took his silence for anticipation and began to hold forth.
‘Firstly, you address the Caudillo as “Excelencia”. Everyone does, even his son-in-law.’ He looked at Peralta who was now exploring the hole in his shoe with some interest. ‘Pay attention,’ he said, driving his elbow into Peralta’s side. Peralta paid attention.
‘This is supposedly an informal get-together,’ Guzmán continued, ‘so it won’t be. There will be important people dotted all over. Just don’t think you’re at some Christmas party and go over and introduce yourself. If the Caudillo wants to speak to you – which is extremely unlikely – he’ll get some flunkey to fetch you.’
‘Speak to me?’ Peralta spluttered. ‘Will he want to speak to me?’
‘It’s possible. Valverde only invited us along because he thinks I’m spying on him for the Caudillo.’
‘And are you?’
‘Of course,’ Guzmán said. ‘And maybe I’ll come up with something one day. If I could get enough shit to drop him into once and for all – something that would have him up in front of the firing squad – I could retire and have the concession for checking the quality of service given by the country’s brothels. Capitán-general of bordellos, that would suit me. I could do it part-time and spend the other six days of the week testing wine to make sure it was fit for consumption.’
‘I’m sure you’d be very good at it,’ Peralta said, bracing himself for another elbow.
‘I would. I really would,’ Guzmán agreed.
‘So you honestly think you might do something else one day? When you retire?’
‘If I live that long,’ Guzmán said. ‘And the way this cabrón is driving it may not be much longer.’
MADRID 1953, HEADQUARTERS OF THE CAPITÁN-GENERAL
The headquarters of the Capitán-General of Madrid had the appearance of a rundown Gothic museum. Outside the entrance, Peralta saw unformed armed guards and men in overcoats he presumed were secret police.
‘Just remember, mind your manners and you’ll be fine,’ Guzmán said as they walked up the grand stone stairs to the entrance. Their way was barred instantly by two heavy-set men in plain clothes. Even as the two stopped their advance, Peralta noticed two uniformed guards at each side of the entrance move to block the doorway completely.
‘Papers pleas
e, gentlemen.’ The older of the two carried a clipboard and checked their names against the list, inspected their identity cards and then looked them over with what Peralta considered to be unwarranted disdain.
‘Are either of you gentlemen armed?’
‘Of course we are,’ Guzmán snorted, ‘aren’t you?’
The man looked at Guzmán carefully. ‘No one can bear arms in the presence of the Caudillo, señor. A matter of security. You of all people should see that, Teniente, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Peralta felt Guzmán stiffen.
‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’ Guzmán managed to make politeness sound like physical threat.
‘I am Capitán Castells, Teniente. At your service.’
Guzmán towered above the Capitán. ‘And I am Comandante fucking Guzmán, Capitán. Have a little respect for your superiors – otherwise you’ll find yourself back in uniform in some village in the Basque country sharing the local goat with a group of senile inbreds, and before your Basque posting, I’ll put you in hospital for six months. Entendido?’
The man snapped to attention. ‘I understand perfectly, Comandante Guzmán. Apologies for my error. But you must appreciate I’ve been given orders by Almirante Carrero Blanco himself as to tonight’s security measures. So I must respectfully ask you both to leave your side arms with us. They will of course be returned when you leave.’
‘When you ask like that it’s impossible to refuse,’ Guzmán sneered and reached inside his coat for the Browning. He handed the pistol over butt first. Peralta was amused to see the man’s surprise at the weight of the weapon as he took the pistol from Guzmán.
‘This has been fired recently.’ The man sniffed at the pistol.
‘Tonight. And every shot a hit, Capitán.’ Guzmán smiled.
The Capitán’s face never changed. ‘I have no doubt, Comandante.’ The man stepped back, extending an arm towards the entrance. Peralta stepped forward but the man lightly touched him on the arm.
‘Your weapon, Teniente.’
Embarrassed, Peralta took out his service revolver and handed it over.
Behind a trestle table in the lobby, a heavily made-up old woman took their coats. Guzmán adjusted his tie awkwardly while Peralta slicked down his hair with his palm, both like schoolboys about to go before the headmaster. Passing along an elegant but musty corridor, they heard the gentle sound of a chamber quartet. At the door to the reception room two more secret policemen checked their papers. Beyond was the wide open space of the ballroom. Peralta had expected a large crowd but there were perhaps only fifty people in small groups around the room. On one side of the room was a table filled with plates of food, and next to the food, a well-stocked bar with waiters in evening dress.
‘This looks rather fancy,’ Peralta said, following Guzmán to the bar.
‘Not really. Otherwise we’d have had to come in black tie – or worse, uniform. Your uncle said this was going to be informal and actually it is – by his standards.’ Guzmán turned and grinned. ‘First time he’s told me the truth since I met him.’
The barman inclined his head in a slight bow. ‘What can I get for you, señores?’
‘Whisky,’ Guzmán said. He watched the barman pour it. ‘Hombre, not a small one.’
The barman nodded and half filled the glass, passing it to Guzmán who looked at it blankly. ‘Fill it up, cabrón.’
The waiter obeyed and turned to Peralta.
‘Do you have some Rioja?’ Peralta asked.
‘Indeed, sir, would sir have the ninety-eight or the twenty-two?’
Guzmán leaned towards Peralta. ‘That would be 1922, in case you were wondering.’
Suitably offended, Peralta asked for the ninety-eight. ‘I’ve never drunk anything this good,’ he said, admiring the Rioja glistening in the thick cut-crystal glass.
‘Good.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘I’ll have that next.’
They stood at one end of the bar, observing the guests. Peralta noticed a number of generals and a few colonels in uniform. The rest of the guests wore civilian clothes, the expensive cut a good indication of their social standing.
‘Isn’t that Carrero Blanco?’ Peralta asked, nodding at a darkhaired man who seemed to be holding a conversation with several people at the same time.
‘It is indeed, the arse-licker. Don’t get stuck in a corner with him, Teniente, he’ll bore the pants off you. Christ he’s dull. Someone should put a bomb under him. Mierda, he’s seen me.’
The admiral came towards them, his face set in an unconvincing expression of pleasure. Guzmán downed his whisky in one swallow.
‘Comandante Guzmán. It’s been a while. How are you?’
‘I’m—’ Guzmán began.
‘Excellent. Well, the Caudillo will be here directly. He was only asking after you just a little while ago.’
Peralta looked at Guzmán, impressed.
Carrero leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I understand you took care of that matter we contacted you about?’
Guzmán smiled and looked meaningfully into his empty glass. ‘Said and done, mi Almirante. Just as your office requested.’
‘And el Profesor? I believe he was to have special treatment?’
‘And he did,’ Guzmán agreed.
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ Carrero nodded. ‘A job well done, no doubt.’
‘Probably the Reds didn’t think so, sir.’
‘No? Well, they had it coming. Justice catches up in the end, eh? I’ll bet it was a surprise for el Profesor?’
‘Oh yes,’ Guzmán said, taking a drink from the tray of a passing waiter, ‘he was choked.’
Peralta looked around the room. Repeated images of the killing came back to him. His palms were slick with sweat and the nausea had returned.
‘I’ll see you shortly,’ Carrero said to Guzmán. ‘The Caudillo will be in very soon.’
Carrero sauntered across the room, drawing upon a whole repertoire of insincerity as he moved amongst the guests, greeting everyone but avoiding conversation.
Guzmán finished his drink and reached for another as the waiter passed. He emptied the glass, all the while keeping his eyes on Carrero Blanco. ‘Cunt.’
‘Maybe you should ease up on the drink until you’ve seen the Caudillo, sir,’ Peralta said, instantly regretting it as he saw the change in Guzmán’s expression. Guzmán leaned forwards, his face in Peralta’s, his breath nuanced by the wide variety of drinks he had downed in the short time since they arrived.
‘Once we’re married, Teniente, you can talk to me like that. Until then, I advise you to go and fu—’
‘Comandante Guzmán,’ a shrill voice interrupted. Guzmán turned. Franco was wearing one of his many dress uniforms: tonight he was a full general, his spindly legs accentuated by riding boots.
‘Excelencia.’ Guzmán stood at attention.
Franco held out his hands. Like the Pope, Peralta thought as the dictator took both of Guzmán’s big paws and then dropped them after a cursory shake. Two sycophants stood at the Caudillo’s heels, fawning and smiling in unison with him.
‘It has been what, five years?’ Franco asked. ‘A long time. We’re all getting older.’
‘Yet you look so very fit, Excelencia,’ one of the sycophants echoed dutifully.
‘Remarkably so,’ the other added in a rapid extemporisation.
‘If you feel older, Excelencia, one imagines it’s because you’re carrying the cares of the country on those shoulders,’ Guzmán said solemnly. Peralta looked at him, surprised by his sudden air of gravitas. The sycophants shook their heads in disagreement.
‘You are as ever, Comandante, utterly to the point. And correct, of course.’ Franco beamed. ‘The weight of such responsibility wears a man down.’
‘Yet one cannot escape destiny,’ Guzmán said solemnly. ‘And belated congratulations on your first grandchild, Excelencia. I trust she and her mother are doing well?’
Franco allowed himself a smile and
patted Guzmán on the arm. ‘Carmencita. A lovely child. And my little Nenuca, so proud and happy. Children are our gift to the future, Guzmán. You should have some.’
Guzmán smiled back. ‘If work gave me time for such pleasures, Excelencia, no doubt I would. But…’ He made an expansive gesture of helplessness.
Franco nodded sagely. ‘I know, Guzmán, I know. For some of us life is mapped out in our duties. My entire life is one of work and meditation.’
Those around nodded in solemn accord. Guzmán’s heavy face became heavier and more intense. Your entire life has been spent furthering your career, he thought. No stone unturned in the pursuit of power, no trough you haven’t dipped your snout in. An example to us all.
Peralta noticed Carrero Blanco hovering behind Franco. The dictator turned, enabling Carrero to mutter something into his ear without the others hearing. Franco shook his head. Carrero nodded and stepped back in an exaggeratedly formal gesture of subservience and made his way across the room to a group of men in uniform.
‘Now, Guzmán,’ Franco said, ‘a word in private if I may? Excuse us, gentlemen.’
Guzmán followed the generalísimo as he moved away from Peralta and the sycophants. Guzmán was aware of the envious gazes, the muttered, perplexed comments. It was hard enough for decent Christian businessmen to gain an audience with the Caudillo these days – unless he wanted a favour – yet this large policeman with his oiled untidy hair and his cheap suit had cornered Franco’s attention.
Standing near the buffet, Peralta observed the thinly veiled hostility of many of those around him to Guzmán’s audience with Franco. Then Peralta saw General Valverde. No thinly veiled hostility there: the general’s florid face was set in a mask of pure hatred, his hard eyes following Guzmán and the Caudillo with malevolent intensity as they crossed the room.
Franco stopped in a remote corner, far enough away from the crowds to ensure no one would hear their conversation. Guzmán handed his glass to one of the passing waiters, noticing how discreetly Franco’s bodyguards took up strategic positions around them without infringing upon the dictator’s conversation. Civilians would not have even noticed their positioning, Guzmán noted, seeing two of the men had a direct line of fire at him without the risk of Franco coming between Guzmán and their bullets. Very professional, Guzmán thought, approvingly.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 19
