The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘You’ve noticed my faithful protectors.’ Franco smiled.

  Guzmán nodded. ‘They do a very good job, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Sadly necessary, Comandante. As you in particular know, there are those who would still challenge the Head of State’s right to govern. A right bestowed by God himself and they still seek to usurp that.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Guzmán agreed.

  ‘You took care of that reprobate they called el Profesor?’ Franco asked.

  ‘Personally. As always.’

  Franco’s face was deadpan as he spoke. ‘And he was specially dealt with?’

  ‘He was indeed, Excelencia.’

  ‘May I ask how?’ Again, no flicker of an expression that would indicate interest or, in fact, any emotion.

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘I gave him a necktie.’ But then you ordered it, Excellency.

  ‘With your own hands?’

  ‘These very hands, Excelencia.’

  Franco raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he suffer?’

  ‘No more than he deserved.’

  Again the cold stare. ‘Well, he’s now being judged and dealt with for all eternity. The country is all the better for his removal. You did well, Guzmán.’

  ‘You’re too kind, Excelencia. I did my job.’

  ‘As you always have. And we are grateful. Many these days have lost the notion of duty. Of fidelity to the cause. The cause, Guzmán. We must never let ourselves be distracted. Which is why you are so useful to us.’

  I wonder when he first started using the royal ‘we,’ Guzmán thought.

  ‘When people forget their values,’ Franco continued, ‘when they forget their place in society, their obligations, their commitments, when they forget the natural order of things, that’s when the forces of godlessness thrive. Only the memory of what we were, what we are and what we shall be can hold the dark forces of Freemasonry, Protestantism, Libertarianism and the social cancer of democracy at bay. And you, Guzmán, play a vital part in the preservation of that memory. It’s a hard road to follow, although God knows I’ve led the way. But others must follow, and you, Guzmán, have followed loyally. You and those like you, they remind the weak and the feckless. What is history, Guzmán, but memory? And the light of that memory must constantly shine upon those who would rather forget and slink back into the darkness. Once vanquished, the beaten must always remain so.’

  Guzmán nodded. Across the room, Peralta was giving them furtive glances. Further away, Valverde glared at them.

  ‘Loyalty has been at the heart of the Cause, Guzmán. Not all are as loyal as you. Even those who have done very well in our service, those who have most reason to remain loyal – even those at the highest level – some of them have started to forget who put them there and gave them what they have.’

  Guzmán’s mind raced. Does he mean me? No, he wouldn’t give me a speech. I’d be dealt with elsewhere. Maybe he wants someone taking care of – but then he wouldn’t ask himself.

  ‘Let me be candid,’ Franco said abruptly. ‘Give me your opinion.’

  ‘Of course, Excelencia,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Valverde. Capitán-General of Madrid. Sterling war record. But can I trust him, Comandante? In your opinion?’

  Guzmán was not one to sweat under pressure. Yet he felt beads of perspiration around his collar. Shit. Do I mention the Dominicans? The pharmaceutical trade? The money? Especially the money.

  ‘I’m only a mere comandante, Excellency. It’s not for me to assess the Caudillo’s general staff.’

  ‘Enough of that, Guzmán. It’s your job, you know that. No false modesty. You’ve known me a long time. If I ask you something, it’s because I want a reply.’

  Not true, Guzmán thought. Usually, you want the reply you thought of before asking.

  ‘Capitán-General Valverde is an honourable man—’ he began.

  ‘Yes or no, Guzmán.’ Franco’s impassive face hardly moved as he said the words.

  ‘No.’ Guzmán said, ‘I wouldn’t trust him. But I would say that, Excelencia. I hardly trust anyone. For me people are guilty until proven innocent.’

  Franco’s face twitched in a slight smile. ‘That maxim has served you well, Guzmán. Yes. I think it’s the way I view Valverde. He’s always been one of those people whose ambitions are far in excess of their talents.’

  Pots calling kettles, Guzmán thought. ‘Lately, he’s been very concerned about a gang of Dominicans,’ he added.

  ‘Dominicans?’ Franco snapped.

  ‘A bunch of criminals who arrived with the trade mission from the US. They seem unlikely businessmen to me. The general thinks they’re trying to interfere with his interests.’

  ‘Ah. I hope he isn’t thinking of doing anything that might interfere with the cordial atmosphere of the trade talks?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, Excelencia.’

  ‘If he does, Guzmán, I’ll want to know about it. We’d take a dim view of that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Has Valverde said anything about these talks? I know he strongly favours foreign investment. The problem is, I think he’d like that investment to be made to his own bank account.’

  ‘I know he’s a supporter of economic change and reform.’

  Franco frowned. ‘That’s well known, although he’s always careful to express his opinions moderately. I would be very interested if he starts to talk about political change.’

  ‘The general did speak of the time when your stewardship of the nation would come to an end,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Ah. And was he thinking of bringing it to an end himself?’ Franco’s mouth pursed.

  ‘No, not that. Just that one day you would be gone and there would be others to take your place with different ideas.’

  ‘Nothing more? Nothing about sedition or rebellion?’

  ‘No, he said nothing of treachery. But he did add that I should choose my side in advance, Excelencia.’

  ‘And did you, Guzmán?’

  ‘I chose it long ago, Excelencia. The side of right. Your side. To the death.’

  Franco smiled again. ‘Of course. Excellent.’ Looking beyond Guzmán he saw Carrero Blanco making subtle gestures with his watch. Clearly some appointment was being delayed by this impromptu chat with the comandante. Franco looked hard at Guzmán.

  ‘These Dominicans. I want special surveillance on them.’

  ‘Muy bien. Permanently, Excelencia?’

  Franco’s face betrayed a flicker of impatience. ‘It’s not a euphemism, Guzmán. Don’t kill them. We need to know why they are here. If they’re important to Valverde, they may be important to us.’

  ‘But we could soon find out, Excelencia. We’ll beat it out of them at the comisaría.’ Guzmán could never see a reason for taking the long way around.

  Franco shook his head. ‘If they have come with the US trade delegation, Guzmán, then we must proceed carefully. We want to trade with the United States, not kill their citizens. Nothing must impede us in securing a trade agreement. Nothing. So make sure there is no trouble, entiende?’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Surveillance it is, Excelencia.’

  ‘Good. Well, it was a pleasure to see you again, Comandante. Remember what I said about kids – it’s not too late to find yourself a good woman. But until you do,’ he winked, ‘remember what I always told the military cadets when I was in charge of the Military Academy. Always carry a condom.’

  ‘As ever, wise advice, Excelencia. Thank you.’

  ‘De nada, Guzmán,’ Franco said pompously. ‘In fact, I’ll give you another bit of advice, do the football pools. I do. I enjoy them enormously. Doña Carmen often says I spend more time on them than affairs of state. You have to study form, you see. And you wouldn’t believe the money you can win.’ He winked. ‘Until later, Guzmán.’

  A slap on the arm and then Franco was walking across the room with Carrero Blanco, giving a regal wave as he went. Guzmán was watching him leave when Peralta appeared at his si
de, holding two glasses of wine. Guzmán took one without being asked and drank it. He thought for a second and then took the other glass and emptied that as well.

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ Peralta half laughed, ‘you and the Caudillo, chatting like bosom buddies. No wonder my uncle…’ He stopped.

  Guzmán’s eyebrow raised in mock surprise. ‘He worries that Franco set me up in Madrid to keep an eye on him. I can’t count the number of his own men he’s had follow me round, trying to catch me plotting against him.’

  ‘But if you are loyal to the Caudillo, how could my uncle dare touch you?’

  ‘He wouldn’t. Not publicly. But people have accidents. Until now, I hoped he was getting a little less paranoid, but things change…’ He inclined his head, directing Peralta’s gaze to a scowling Valverde, towering above two plump colonels, his uniform ablaze with medals. Guzmán raised his glass in salute and Valverde quickly turned back to his staff officers.

  ‘Not a happy general, your uncle.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Peralta sighed.

  ‘Has he ever talked to you about his dealings in medicines?’ Guzmán asked.

  Peralta shook his head. ‘No, but then he barely speaks to me anyway. All I know is what María tells me and that’s very little. He’s a director of the company which imports pharmaceuticals for hospitals – that’s the extent of my knowledge. It seems a harmless sideline to me.’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Harmless. Not been seriously ill lately, have you, Teniente?’

  ‘No, thank God. No, I’ve been healthy all my life so far.’

  ‘Do you like bullfighting?’

  Peralta looked puzzled. ‘Bullfighting? Well enough, I suppose. I rarely go. The general gets lots of complimentary tickets but none of them come my way. I listen to it on the radio when I can.’

  ‘Do you remember Manolete?’ Guzmán reached for two more drinks from a waiter’s tray. He emptied the contents of one into the other and placed the empty glass on the tray.

  ‘Manolete? Who doesn’t? I was in my teens when he died but everyone said he was the greatest bullfighter who ever lived. They still show his fights sometimes at the cinema. He was sensational.’

  ‘He was.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘It’s a shame your uncle killed him.’

  Peralta’s jaw sagged. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, already knowing Guzmán didn’t joke.

  ‘Not at all. Remember how he died after being gored at Linares?’

  Peralta nodded: the photos of Manolete hanging from the bull’s horn adorned most of the bars of Madrid.

  ‘He died while they were sewing him up, jefe. He was gored in the femoral artery.’

  ‘Not fatally.’ Guzmán took a drink. ‘He’d still be around today if it wasn’t for your uncle’s products.’

  ‘What products?’

  ‘Dried plasma,’ Guzmán said. ‘They needed to make it up there and then so they could give him a transfusion. If it had been untouched, things would have been fine. It wasn’t and he was dead within minutes.’

  ‘Untouched?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘What I mean is, just like a barman in a brothel, your uncle makes his products go further. Only instead of watering down the brandy, he adds something to the products to bulk them up.’

  ‘And no one notices?’

  ‘Of course they do but after that they frequently die.’

  ‘And he does this with all the drugs he imports?’

  ‘No. He can’t risk a scandal. Some things he doesn’t touch. Particularly drugs that are used on the bosses in the military or government ministers. You be careful next time you get a scratch, Teniente, that penicillin they give you might not be quite what you hoped.’

  Peralta finished his drink. ‘That’s despicable.’

  Guzmán smirked. ‘Welcome to Spain, señor. Your uncle sells cut-price stuff to hospitals for the poor. The poor die. Only to be expected. That’s what the poor do, isn’t it? There’s no fuss because no one really cares.’

  ‘The poor might.’

  ‘As I said, Teniente, this is Spain. No one gives a fuck about the poor.’

  ‘But—’ Peralta never finished his sentence because Guzmán held up a great paw to silence him. Across the room Franco was bidding them all goodbye. A last regal wave and he was gone, leaving only the guests and their applause.

  ‘You forgot to introduce me,’ Peralta chided, hoping to lighten Guzmán’s mood.

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ Guzmán said, looking round for a waiter.

  Franco’s exit gave them licence to make inroads into the buffet. The catering staff exchanged a few knowing looks as the two policemen returned yet again to the table, but none were unwise enough to say anything. Guzmán ate because he was hungry and Peralta ate because he thought he might never see so much food in one place again. Roast chickens, mountains of chorizo, seafood vol-au-vents, each dish a revelation to a hungry man. Between mouthfuls of potato omelette, Peralta could even forget for a while the slaughter they had carried out only a few hours before. That Guzmán carried out, he reminded himself.

  ‘I feel guilty you know,’ Peralta said to Guzmán as they refilled their plates.

  ‘Guilt? There’s a strange thing to feel when you’re stuffing your face,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Yes, but I mean, María’s at home with the kid and here I am making a pig of myself. She goes hungry sometimes to feed me and the little one.’

  Guzmán laughed. ‘Well take her something. One of these flunkeys could put you some stuff in a bag. I’m sure they’re going to steal what’s left at the end anyway. That’s right, isn’t it, my friend?’

  The waiter looked round furtively. ‘Certainly, sir. God helps them who help themselves, no?’ And then, turning to Peralta, ‘I’ll make up a bag in the kitchen for the gentleman. Let me know when you’re leaving, señor, and I’ll bring it out for you.’

  Certainly not, Peralta thought. Take advantage of one’s position when others are going hungry? ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

  ‘My name’s Raoul, by the way, and if the gentleman should wish to show his appreciation by way of a small contribution…’ Raoul smiled knowingly, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

  ‘He wants a few pesetas,’ Guzmán said. ‘That right, Raoul?’

  Raoul grinned. ‘The gentleman is clearly a businessman. He knows how things work.’

  Guzmán glared at the waiter. ‘The gentleman is a policeman. And he understands the way things work only too well. Now piss off and bag up some of that food, Raoul.’ Raoul was only too happy to follow Guzmán’s order and slunk away, pale-faced, to the kitchens.

  Guzmán looked at the teniente’s bulging cheeks and nodded approval. ‘Hombre. Get it down you while you can.’

  ‘It means a lot to be able to eat all you want,’ Peralta said. ‘Did you ever go hungry?’

  Guzmán bit into the pie in his hand. ‘All the time. We never had enough food when I was a kid. My father was always out of work and my mother was too ugly to be a whore.’

  Peralta looked to see if Guzmán was joking but Guzmán continued, ‘We’d steal apples off the trees, eggs, the odd chicken. Like gypsies. In fact we’d steal off the gypsies if they had anything worth having.’

  ‘Jefe, what about your new lady friend?’ Peralta blurted, his face flushed with wine and food.

  Guzmán looked at him blankly.

  ‘The widow Martinez,’ Peralta said. ‘Take her some of this.’ He beamed. ‘A nice surprise. She’d be very impressed. That would keep you in her good books.’

  Guzmán looked at him incredulously.

  Peralta laughed. ‘Christ, jefe, you’re a one. Food’s always a welcome gift. Everyone wants to eat.’

  Guzmán still looked puzzled. ‘I hadn’t considered it, I must say.’ He thought about it. ‘This is your idea, Teniente. So if it goes wrong I’ll blame you.’

  Peralta nodded and went to tell Raoul to prepare another package. Raoul readily agreed, taking the opportunity to relieve Peralta of
a few pesetas for his troubles.

  The quiet murmur of the room was suddenly broken by shouting and raised voices from the lobby. People running towards the main entrance. Guzmán reacted fast: most of the guests were straining their necks to see what was going on without wanting the discomfort of leaving their seats. But the noise sounded like trouble and trouble was Guzmán’s speciality. He moved quickly and purposefully across the dance floor, tall and broad, drawn towards the sound of action. The teniente followed him, less purposeful, more angular and a good deal less threatening, his worn shoes slipping on the polished wooden floor.

  Outside, the three policemen were refusing entrance to a group of swarthy, strangely dressed men. Peralta caught up with Guzmán. The teniente stared at the men in surprise.

  ‘What are they wearing?’ he muttered, taking in the peg-topped flapping trousers and exaggeratedly long jackets of the strangers.

  ‘Zoot suits,’ Guzmán said slowly. ‘Younger Yanquis used to wear them during the war. I saw it on a newsreel. Some sort of fashion for young hoodlums and degenerates.’

  The oddly dressed men were arguing loudly and vociferously as Guzmán and Peralta approached. Guzmán recognised them from Valverde’s photographs. He could see the bald, bearded Melilla, the huge bulk and jug ears of the boxer, Sanchez. The languid wiry youth in a wide-brimmed hat and wearing sunglasses was Vasquez. As Guzmán studied them, Melilla started to push his way up the stairs. The others followed, jostling on the stairs behind Melilla who was now confronting the guards at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Fuck you, man, fuck you.’ Melilla was yelling abuse into the face of the policeman who had taken Guzmán and Peralta’s weapons earlier. ‘We got an invite, we’re US citizens, man, we are somebody, not like you nobodies, so let us in, Don Jose. You don’t want to mess with us.’ He turned to grin at the others, a gold tooth glinting in the lamplight. The other Dominicans cackled encouragement.

  ‘Sound like South Americans from the accent,’ Peralta said quietly to Guzmán.