The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘I think he’s coming round now.’

  Light. White light. He opened his eyes. The sargento was shining a torch into his face.

  ‘Put that fucking light out.’

  ‘Looks like you’re all right then, sir.’

  Guzmán was lying on a table in the mess room. Beneath him was a dirty sheet bearing some impressive bloodstains. They had removed his trousers: he saw a thick bandage around his knee. Then he felt the pain. ‘Puta madre.’ He sank back onto the table. Sargento,’ Guzmán barked.

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’

  ‘Not now, Sargento. You’re not on parade. Who saw to my leg?’

  The sargento nodded towards a man standing just outside the thin pool of light from the lamp above Guzmán’s makeshift operating table. A spectral figure dressed in black, his thin cadaverous face accentuated by wire-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Herr Dr Liebermann. I should have known. Who else?’ Guzmán growled.

  The man snapped to attention with a sharp click of his heels.

  ‘A sus ordenes, Comandante. You were one of the few members of this unit I haven’t had the pleasure of attending to – until now.’

  ‘No half-price abortions tonight then?’ Guzmán asked.

  Liebermann stiffened. ‘I have interrupted a reunion dinner with several former members of the Condor Legion to attend to you, Comandante Guzmán, and you insult my professional integrity?’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. But if you’re too offended, Herr Doktor, I think the British or Americans are still keen to offer you suitable accommodation – just like they did with your colleagues at Nuremberg.’

  Liebermann’s face twitched. He knew it was better not to offend those who had provided him with protection since his flight from the crumbling Reich. He knew also it was sensible not to offend Guzmán because of what Guzmán was capable of doing to him physically. ‘I do my best as police surgeon, Comandante Guzmán,’ he said, his clipped tones distorting the Spanish words. ‘Mock me if you wish, but no one has ever questioned my skill as a doctor.’

  Guzmán sat up and slid his legs over the edge of the table. He tried to put his weight on his injured leg and winced.

  ‘You forget, Herr Doktor, I saw the evidence. The Allies sent us copies when they were searching for you.’ Guzmán swore as he tested the leg again. He slumped back on the table, grimacing in pain.

  ‘If I may suggest, Comandante, a couple of days’ rest are needed to get over the shock of losing so much blood. You were lucky, the bullet went straight through the flesh. Any lower and you would be limping for a very long time.’ Liebermann paused for a moment to see if Guzmán would thank him. Guzmán did not. ‘I must advise you,’ Liebermann continued, ‘despite the wound, a contributing factor to your collapse was the consumption of a considerable quantity of alcohol.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Guzmán snorted. ‘Alcohol has a medicinal value.’

  The doctor closed his medical bag, nodding. ‘As you please, Herr Comandante. However, the fact I was able to clean and dress the wound without you waking does seem to support rather than contradict my hypothesis. Especially since I used no anaesthetic.’

  ‘I’m a heavy sleeper,’ Guzmán muttered.

  ‘I bid you good morning, Comandante. I shall present my bill in the usual manner.’

  ‘You can present it up your arse, Liebermann, whether we pay it is another matter.’

  The doctor left the room with a reptilian grace, moving backwards to the door where he exited with a final click of his heels, still moving backwards as the door closed on him. Guzmán stared after him with distaste.

  ‘Did you watch him while he did it?’

  The sargento nodded. ‘Yes, it all seemed above board, jefe. Hey, I knew you were pissed, boss. Was it on the Caudillo’s booze?’

  ‘I was shot, you insubordinate bastard,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Vamos, there are things to be done. Where are my trousers?’

  ‘That was a problem, jefe. You’re not a light bloke. Hard to manoeuvre around. He cut them off.’

  ‘Cut them? Mierda, they were pure wool. Fucking Nazis.’

  ‘There’s some clothes in the storeroom, jefe.’

  ‘Fuck that, those are prisoners’ clothes. There’s a suit in my office behind the door. Bring me that.’

  The sargento moved towards the door.

  ‘Espera. Where’s my pistol?’

  ‘In your office, jefe, on the desk.’

  ‘Right, bring it to me when you get the suit.’

  ‘What do you want with your gun?’ the sargento asked curiously. ‘You need to stay in bed, the doc says.’

  ‘I want to blow your fucking head off.’

  The sargento grinned. ‘Glad you’re feeling better, jefe.’

  Dressed and back in his office, Guzmán sat at his desk, occasionally wincing with pain. Peralta waited patiently, watching the comandante doodle idly on his blotter.

  ‘And you didn’t recognise any of them, sir?’ Peralta asked.

  Guzmán looked up wearily. ‘I didn’t see any of them, Teniente. Only the one I shot and that wasn’t for long.’

  Peralta shook his head. ‘It doesn’t add up, sir. The Dominicans didn’t seem to have the discipline to carry out an attack like that in silence.’

  ‘I don’t care, they’re going to wind up dead if I have my way,’ Guzmán spat.

  ‘Surely you mean if they’re guilty…’ Peralta’s voice faltered under Guzmán’s withering look.

  ‘Dead, Acting Teniente. Dead as a fucking doornail. They come over here and fuck with us and you talk about establishing guilt? This isn’t a philosophical discussion. Christ, you’d have lasted about five minutes in the Guerra Civil. Now, what information do we have? Or have you spent the last three hours playing with yourself like everyone else in this crappy excuse for a police station?’

  Peralta opened his notebook. Guzmán let out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘No gunshot wounds reported at any of the hospitals in the Madrid region,’ Peralta began. ‘No reports of medical practitioners being approached to treat any such victim. Whoever it was, they aren’t being treated in the city.’

  Guzmán snorted. ‘There’s a reason for that, Teniente. The guy I shot was dead when he hit the ground. We’re looking for a body. And they’re much easier to dispose of.’

  ‘There’s been quite a commotion from local businesses. Almost half the windows of the bars on the Plaza Mayor were shot out in the attack. Many owned by Falange members.’

  ‘They’ll be wanting compensation. Fuck them.’

  Peralta nodded. ‘They’ve already begun, sir. In fact, the capitán-general’s office telephoned an hour ago. They need a report for General Valverde immediately.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘Can’t bear to call him uncle, can you? Well, we don’t want him interfering – he’ll cause all sorts of problems if he starts meddling. This is a secret unit and we don’t want anyone’s attention and anyway, someone already has it in for me: this was a planned attack. There was only one reason why they didn’t get me.’

  Peralta looked up from his notebook. ‘And that was?’

  Guzmán smiled, his face unhealthily pale. ‘I was better than they were.’ He banged his big fist on the desk, causing Peralta to jerk upright in his seat. ‘If I could get the drop on them in an ambush, I can fucking well take them down,’ Guzmán shouted. ‘Now, the question is, was it the Dominicans? Because if it was…’ He crashed his fist onto the desk again. ‘I’ll have them.’

  ‘Nothing suggests it was them, sir,’ Peralta said, turning the page of his notebook.

  ‘Is that conclusion based on evidence or did you feel it in your water, Teniente?’

  Peralta he found the page he’d been looking for. Guzmán braced himself for more of the teniente’s insights by lighting a cigarette. Peralta looked hopefully at Guzmán’s packet of Ducados. Guzmán ignored him, inhaling the black tobacco smoke deeply.

  Peralta began to read. ‘Se
veral sightings of them, mainly from informers. They went to a bar on Calle Toledo, sleazy place, called Bar Dominicana. My sources tell me it’s a front for all manner of illegal activities, including prostitution.’

  ‘Did you pay them for that information?’

  ‘Yes. Of course, Comandante.’

  ‘I could have told you all that for nothing,’ Guzmán said coldly.

  ‘They ran up a large bill and started an argument about it. There was some pushing and shoving before they agreed to pay. Then they asked the owner to call them a cab and drove to the Hotel Tres Reyes. By that time we had men following them. They entered the hotel and stayed there until this morning when they left to go on a tour of a local irrigation project with several members of the American Embassy staff.’

  ‘Including Positano?’

  ‘Señor Positano was one of the party, yes.’

  ‘How did we get the information from the informers so quickly?’

  Peralta smiled modestly. ‘After you dropped me off last night, I came back here and got the sarge to make some calls. I also used some informants I had in the policía armada.’

  ‘And was Positano with the greasers all last night?’

  Peralta shook his head. ‘He was at the reception until it ended. He took a taxi back to his hotel, had a drink at the bar and then went back to his room with a whore.’

  ‘And this is from your informers?’

  ‘I followed him myself.’

  Guzmán was surprised.

  ‘Well done, Teniente. And I thought you were homeward bound for a warm bed.’

  ‘The snow prevented me getting home,’ Peralta said, running a hand over his stubble. ‘It was easier to walk here and do some work.’

  Guzmán stood up, growling a barrage of obscenities at his injured knee.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’

  ‘No,’ Guzmán growled, limping over to the filing cabinet. ‘I’m just worrying about how our Lord suffered on the cross. Hostia. What do you think, you cretin?’ He tugged open a drawer and pulled out Valverde’s bottle of Carlos Primero.

  ‘Your uncle gave me this. It has certain medicinal properties which I’m in need of.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t think…’ Peralta dried up as Guzmán bore down on him with the brandy.

  ‘You don’t think what, Teniente?’

  ‘I don’t think you should be drinking alone, sir.’ Peralta said hastily.

  Guzmán eased himself into his chair. ‘Quite right, Teniente. You know I disliked you from the word go. But you have some qualities, even if you are a sanctimonious, God-bothering, oily simpleton with no fucking humour and the imagination of a schoolgirl.’

  Peralta considered protesting. Instead, he kept quiet. Keeping his mouth shut would clearly be a key skill in working for Guzmán.

  ‘Get two mugs, Teniente, some coffee and get the sarge. We need to plan what we do next.’

  The teniente obeyed. Guzmán heard Peralta’s footsteps on the flagstones, the crash of the door of the mess. Every sound in the building told Guzmán something. The comisaría was home. He knew every nook and cranny, every creak and groan of the building and what lay beneath. There was scarcely a room where he hadn’t hurt or injured someone in the line of duty. And sometimes outside it as well. His leg ached badly and he would have to get some sleep soon. But not before he had a plan. Once you had a plan everything else fell into place. The plan worked or it didn’t. That narrowed events down to two possible outcomes and with those in mind, he could work to make certain he got the result he wanted. Guzmán hated uncertainty.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘It’s me, sir.’ The sargento appeared even more dirty and unkempt in the pallid electric light of the office.

  ‘Did you bring a mug?’

  ‘Do I need one, jefe?’

  ‘Didn’t Peralta tell you I wanted to see you?’

  ‘The teniente? Nah, jefe. I’ve just come from reception. There’s someone here for you.’ The sargento’s ravaged face broke into a leer. ‘A woman. Fair-haired, nice tits too.’

  ‘It will be your sister. I’m going to have her over my desk.’

  The sargento scowled. ‘No need to be like that, jefe, not when I’m bringing good news like this. She’s not a whore, that’s all I meant.’

  ‘Really? And how often can you say that about a woman round here, sargento?’ Guzmán laughed. ‘Tell Peralta I’ll see him when I’m done with her. We’ve some work to do later.’

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’ The sarge retreated into the corridor.

  Guzmán ran a hand through his hair and, as an afterthought, stowed the bottle away in his desk drawer. He had just closed the drawer when the door opened and the sarge showed Alicia Martinez into the room. She wore a faded blue coat. Guzmán noted the worn fabric had been mended in several places. Her boots had also seen better days. Señora Martinez’s cheeks were pink from the cold and she was shivering. She clasped her hands in front of her, defensively. Guzmán saw how chapped they were.

  ‘Señora Martinez.’ Guzmán tried to stand but his leg gave way, causing him to fall back into his chair amidst a flurry of oaths. Trying to regain his composure, he waved a hand at the empty chair where Peralta had been sitting. She sat, arranging herself with calm delicacy. Guzmán watched her with admiration.

  A knock at the door announced the sarge who staggered in with a tray bearing a pot of coffee and two cups and saucers Guzmán didn’t recognise. In fact, he had never seen cups as clean in the comisaría before.

  ‘Your coffee, Comandante.’ The sarge placed the tray on Guzmán’s desk, stepped back and saluted. A real salute. Guzmán wondered how long it had been since he had done that.

  ‘That will be all, Sargento.’

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’ The sarge almost bowed as he left.

  Guzmán looked at the coffee. ‘Would you care for a cup?’

  ‘Perhaps I should pour it, Comandante?’

  ‘You’re my guest, why would I let you do that?’ This is how gentlemen talk to women. Peralta would approve.

  ‘Your leg’s bleeding,’ she said, ‘what on earth happened?’

  It was true. A small pool of blood had formed around Guzmán’s foot. He glared at it, annoyed both by the attention it drew to his fallibility and also because the trousers to yet another suit were now spoiled. He pressed down on the bulky bandage beneath his trouser leg.

  ‘There was some trouble last night. I got a minor injury. It’s nothing.’

  She looked unconvinced. ‘If you say so. It doesn’t look minor to me. At least let me pour the coffee.’

  He watched as she filled their cups. She moves gracefully. They do things differently, these respectable women.

  ‘You wouldn’t like a drop of brandy in it, would you?’ Guzmán asked in an inspired moment. She would refuse of course, but his offer would mean he could have one.

  ‘Brandy?’ she asked, uncertainly. ‘Gracias, Comandante. Just a drop.’

  Guzmán poured a large shot of brandy into her cup. She stirred it, then held the cup to her nose for a moment to savour the aroma before she drank. ‘That’s so warming. I got frozen stiff coming here.’

  ‘I’m surprised to see you.’ Guzmán swallowed his coffee in one large mouthful before filling his cup with brandy. ‘I imagine you were glad to see the back of me last night.’

  She frowned. ‘Not entirely, Comandante. You were quite pleasant by the time you left. I very much appreciated your offer to… to have a word with my employers.’

  ‘De nada, señora. It’s nothing. I can’t stand bullies. Or cowards.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ she said and Guzmán wondered if she had been smiling when she said it. Perhaps not, he decided.

  She sipped her coffee. For someone who looked poor, she had an attractive way of moving. It was not sexual, in the way the gypsy whores moved, but elegant. Elegant and capable.

  ‘By the way, I have something for you, Comandante.’

  ‘Oh?’
Guzmán said, surprised. ‘It isn’t my birthday, señora.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Comandante. It’s a letter. Some welcome news, that’s what the man said.’

  ‘The man?’

  ‘The man who called this morning. A well-dressed gentleman. Dressed as if he were going to a funeral.’

  He will be if he’s the one who’s been following me, Guzmán thought.

  ‘He came to your apartment?’

  ‘Yes, at about nine o’clock.’

  Guzmán poured a second cup of brandy and offered her the bottle. She shook her head, only relenting when he insisted. It amused him to see how her cheeks glowed by the time she’d finished her coffee.

  ‘The gentleman said he was an old family friend. From the old days before the war.’

  ‘Ah. The old days.’ Guzmán was tired and his leg hurt. But anything from his past always needed to be treated with suspicion. This wasn’t a time to take things easy. Taking it easy could cost you, he thought. He sat up in his chair, wincing at the pain.

  ‘And his name was?’

  ‘He didn’t say. He said he had been asked to find you some time ago, but no one knew where you were. By coincidence he came across your name in a newspaper article. You won a medal, apparently.’

  ‘Apparently I did.’

  ‘For rudeness, I imagine.’

  Guzmán stared at Alicia Martinez, with her shabby coat, her chapped hands and her glowing cheeks. He looked into her pale eyes, eyes that looked as if they had been coloured with pain for most of her life. And yet her eyes were more alive than any he had ever seen, even though they were losing focus as she struggled to concentrate when he spoke. One more drink and she’ll be on the floor.

  ‘Another drink?’ he inquired gently.

  ‘No thank you, I think I’ve had quite enough. I don’t drink much as a rule.’

  ‘Nor do I, señora.’