Guzmán snapped open his lighter. Moving carefully across the room, he found the light switch and tried it without success. Holding the lighter aloft, he moved towards the dark outline of a large table. ‘Now we’re talking.’ The struggling lighter flame illuminated old papers and ledgers scattered across the table top and, more importantly, a bundle of old candles. Guzmán lit several candles, nuancing the room with sickly irregular light and sending deep, dancing shadows over the skeletal ruins of the abandoned building.
‘There was heavy fighting around here in the War,’ Guzmán said. ‘They probably shut up shop in a hurry and never came back.’
‘What’s that smell?’ Peralta asked. Against the background odour of dust, damp wood and accumulated neglect was the odour of something rotting. Guzmán and the sarge recognised it at once.
‘Looks like your informant was correct, Teniente.’ Guzmán transferred the candle to his left hand as he reached into his coat for the Browning.
‘It’s got to be a corpse,’ the sarge said, drawing his pistol.
They moved slowly, the floorboards groaning as Guzmán led the others to the front of the building. Passing through a doorway, the door hanging raggedly from one hinge, they entered what must have been the bar. There was little of it left. What remained of the tables and chairs were smashed and piled in small heaps.
‘Broken up for firewood,’ Guzmán said, now holding the candle up towards the pool of darkness on the far side of the room. They could make out the bulk of the old bar, the bottles and glasses shrouded in thick layers of cobwebs. Behind the bar was an ancient mirror, flanked by shelves now empty but for an extensive lacework of cobwebs, frosted with the accumulated dust of the fourteen years since the war ended. There was something more recent on the bar. Guzmán lifted his candle higher. Peralta gagged, trying not to retch as the smell became overpowering.
‘Fuck.’ The sarge held his candle over the thing on the bar. The dancing light enabled them to see what was there, unfortunately for Peralta.
Guzmán moved closer. Even he was taken aback as he looked down on the pile of flesh that had once been a person. ‘Hostia,’ he muttered, ‘it looks like they filleted him. Look, they cut off the arms and legs, and piled them up here. No head though.’ He leaned forward over the bar, holding the candle up again. ‘Ah, there it is. Must’ve rolled down there when the rats started on it.’
Peralta felt sweat run down his face as he struggled not to throw up. The sarge’s curiosity had now taken over, and he leaned over the pile of flesh on the bar top and whistled.
‘Real butcher’s job. Mierda. I’ve never seen anything like it. They opened up his belly as well.’
‘Yes,’ Guzmán agreed, ‘bait for the rats probably – trying to speed things up.’
Peralta moved away from the bar, hoping he might be able to contain the urge to vomit. He turned, scanning the room with his candle. Heaps of firewood. And a chair. Peralta lifted the candle, illuminating the dark shape in the chair. He called to the others, his words suddenly cut off by a stream of steaming puke.
Guzmán and the sarge ran to where Peralta was kneeling, spitting bile. They lifted their candles, illuminating the chair. Someone was sitting in it. It was Tomás Capuchón. He was sitting casually, legs crossed as if there for an evening drink. Someone had cut off his head and placed it in his lap. In his mouth was a crumpled hundred-peseta note.
BADAJOZ 1936
The Moors were becoming cautious, crawling up the rocky path and trying to snipe from the lip of the plateau. For a while this tactic failed miserably: the defenders opened fire the moment a head appeared at the top of the steep defile. Now and again one of the Moors would come running up the stony path, enraged, intent on reaching them with the bayonet. They died almost instantly. A couple tried to throw grenades but were shot as soon as they left the shelter of the ravine. The grenades tumbled back down the pathway and there were screams and shouts from those behind as they tried to avoid the resulting explosion. The Moors had expected to end this by now, their pursuit had been that of victors: intent on the vengeance which normally followed their triumph in battle – the herding together of the conquered prisoners, the protests, the pleading, the screams as the killing began. This resistance had not been expected and it angered the Moors greatly.
The kid looked at the corporal who winked in an attempt at reassurance. The kid peered down the sight of his rifle at the narrow entrance to the plateau. When a dark head appeared he squeezed the trigger. A hollow click told him the magazine was empty. A few shots from those men who still had bullets drove the Moors back yet again. Now, there was angry shouting from below. Lying in the grass above, the kid could hear them shouting a name again and again, ‘Guzmán… Guzmán… Guzmán…’
11
MADRID 2009, INSTITUTO DE HISTORIA Y CULTURA MILITAR, PASEO DE MORET
Another day of unrelenting heat. A clear blue sky dotted with occasional candyfloss clouds. The radio warned that traffic was getting heavy along the A-6. Galindez was only too aware of that, as her car crawled in the traffic towards the Institute of History and Military Culture. Finally, the traffic began to pick up speed as she passed the Arch of Victory and the green and leafy Parque de la Bombilla. The austere lines of the Air Force Headquarters ahead marked her turn-off and a few hundred metres later, she entered the parking lot of the Military Institute. A security guard checked her pass. She guessed he was probably wondering how a young woman like her had such high-level clearance. Uncle Ramiro’s doing, of course. She parked the car and got out, looking round for signs to the archive. The five old tan and grey barracks of the institute loomed over her.
‘Dr Galindez?’ She turned quickly. She hadn’t even heard the man walking towards her. Clean cut. Smart suit, well-polished shoes. ‘Diego Aguilar, mi honor es mi divisa.’
The motto of the guardia civil. ‘You’re with the Job?’
‘Special operations. I’m keeping an eye on you. On behalf of a relative.’
The penny dropped. ‘Tio Ramiro?’ She relaxed.
‘I always refer to your uncle by his rank,’ Diego said.
‘How long have I been under surveillance?’ Galindez asked.
‘A few days.’
‘Why? I didn’t say anything to Uncle Ramiro.’
‘You didn’t need to.’ Diego looked at her impassively. ‘You tried to access restricted information using the database at HQ. I imagine you remember that?’
‘It was a coincidence,’ Galindez said, irritated by Diego’s air of disapproval. ‘I entered variations of a name into a search and it set off the alarm. That was all.’ And Mendez was supposed to fix all that, she recalled.
‘A coincidence? Yes, of course.’ Diego gave her a doubtful look. ‘But we think there are others who’re also aware you entered that password. People outside the guardia.’ He looked at her coldly. ‘Bad guys. With an interest in our sensitive material. And now it’s likely they think you have access to that material. It could cause trouble for you.’
‘Actually, there’s been some trouble already.’
‘Ya lo se. I saw the fracas in the Plaza Mayor, although I lost sight of you and your companion when it all kicked off. There was a skinhead; big guy, facial jewellery. He was directing things.’
‘He’s called Sancho.’ Galindez filled Diego in on Sancho’s assault on her at the university and her fight with him after the incident in the Plaza Mayor. When Galindez mentioned Sancho’s interest in Guzmán’s book, Diego was puzzled.
‘I’m not aware of any book.’ Diego said. ‘But I do know about Sancho. He’s dangerous. Convictions for racist attacks and a member of several ultra-right-wing groups. Steer clear of him.’
‘I’ll try,’ Galindez said, clenching her fist at the thought of meeting Sancho again.
Diego looked at his watch. ‘Vaya, I’d best get going. Good to meet you, Dr Galindez. I thought you’d feel safer knowing I was around.’
‘Is it OK to mention you to Tali?’
>
‘That would be Señorita Castillo?’ Diego consulted a page in his notebook. ‘The attractive blonde woman I’ve seen you with?’
‘She’s my partner.’
‘Bueno.’ Diego raised an eyebrow just enough to annoy Galindez. ‘That’s something I don’t think your uncle knows.’
‘That’s the way I’d like to keep it.’
‘As you wish.’ Diego handed Galindez a slip of paper with his mobile number on it. ‘Any trouble, just call me. We can have people with you in minutes.’ He climbed into his car.
‘Muy agredecida.’
‘You don’t have to be grateful, you’re guardia. We look after our own.’
His car slid away into the wavering heat, the lines of the vehicle warping in surreal distortion as it turned onto the main road. Armed protection. Galindez’s relief was diluted by her annoyance at Diego’s high-handed attitude. Whatever, she told herself, it’s not the first time. I’ve had worse.
Galindez called Tali and gave her Diego’s number. With Tali suitably reassured, Galindez decided it was time to start work in the archive.
The institute had the weathered formality of an old soldier, a stern but reassuring presence as she walked across the courtyard to reception. The receptionist asked Galindez to sign in before leading her down a tiled corridor to a small office, its faded furnishings at least a couple of centuries old. The director of the archive rose from his seat, greeting Galindez in his most formal manner.
‘Encantado, Dr Galindez.’
‘Igualmente.’
The director examined her security pass. ‘With this level of clearance,’ he smiled, ‘you have unrestricted access to the material here, Dr Galindez. Although there are certain problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘The contents are in a state of disarray,’ the director said, apologetically. ‘The material was brought here during the transition to democracy. Things were done hurriedly and a lot of material went missing. Everything’s a mess, I’m afraid.’
‘No problem. I’m happy to look for myself and see what I can find.’
‘Bueno. I’m afraid access is all we can offer, Dr Galindez. We just don’t have enough staff any more. To tell the truth, I’m not sure why we keep this archive at all.’ He sighed. ‘Although, since I’m retiring in a few months, I needn’t worry about that. It will be a shame to leave it in such a state because it’s an impressive collection in its own way – if you can find what you’re looking for.’
‘I look forward to the challenge,’ Galindez said.
‘Perfecto. You’d make a good librarian with that attitude. Now, if you’ll follow me.’
He led Galindez down the corridor to a large oak door with brass fittings. Opening the door, he stepped back to let Galindez enter.
A short wooden staircase led down into the archive. Galindez looked around. It was just an old library, she thought. An old library where they dumped all this material when it was decided Spain would remain silent about the years of the dictatorship in return for the introduction of democracy. The archive was far from inspiring. The only windows were set around the high ceiling and the smoky leaded glass distorted the sunlight, diluting it into uncertain pale strands that striped the rows of dark wooden shelves. At this end of the library were round tables, with small reading lamps and leather-bound blotting pads arranged neatly alongside old copper inkwells. A few leather armchairs on each side of the archive gave the place the appearance of a gentleman’s club. Actually, Galindez thought, from the look of the other users of the library shuffling through the half-light, that was what it was. Which explained the looks some of the elderly patrons of the archive were giving her.
‘Help yourself to a desk,’ the director said. ‘There’s no internet connection, I’m afraid. But there are pencils and paper in the drawers of each desk. Do you have everything you need for your work?’
Galindez patted her shoulder bag. ‘I’ve come prepared.’
‘Bueno. If you find something interesting and need a copy, I’ll try and arrange it – although it will take a few days and we’d have to charge.’
‘That’s very kind. Gracias.’ Galindez wondered if the copies would be made by hand.
‘If you wish, I can show you the layout of the archive, Dr Galindez?’
Before she could answer, the receptionist appeared in the doorway behind them.
‘Lo siento, Señor Director, I have Coronel Cabrera on the phone for you.’
He raised his hand in apology. ‘I’ll have to take that I’m afraid.’
‘No problem, I’ll be fine.’
With the director gone, Galindez sank into an armchair, away from the dusty old men working at the tables. As she checked her notebook, a middle-aged man wearing a drab brown work-coat approached.
‘Dr Galindez? I’m Agustín Benitez. I believe you want to know about the archive?’
‘Encantada.’ Clearly the director felt guilty for leaving her so abruptly and had sent Benitez to help her.
The man’s handshake was clammy. His appearance suggested to Galindez that he’d spent too much time in the mildewed twilight around them: thinning, badly cut hair, heavy brows, wide fleshy lips and the unblinking stare of a toad.
‘This place doesn’t seem terribly well guarded for a secret archive.’
‘It’s not top secret stuff,’ Benitez said. ‘Didn’t the director tell you the state it’s in?’
‘He did. Is it really that bad?’
Benitez laughed. ‘A complete mess. When the material was brought here, they were in a hurry to get rid of it. A lot of people had something to hide back then. And on top of all the other problems there were los Centinelas.’
‘The Sentinels? Who were they?’
He stared. ‘I thought you were from the universidad? An historian?’
‘I’m a forensic scientist.’ Galindez didn’t like Benitez’s attitude. Maybe the archive makes people crabby.
‘A military historian would have known. We get a lot here. Real experts.’
Benitez was both creepy and irritating – a bad combination in someone who was supposed to be helping her. ‘Perhaps you could complete my education, Señor Benitez?’
‘By all means. Clearly someone ought to. Los Centinelas were a group of high-ranking officers in the armed forces, the guardia and the police, dedicated to protecting Franco during the Civil War. After the war ended, they continued engaging in various activities on his behalf – discrediting critics of the regime, assassinations, that sort of thing.’
‘Weren’t those activities part of their job descriptions anyway? Or was being a centinela a way of enhancing their career prospects?’
‘Joke about it if you wish, señorita. They met in secret, wore a special ring and regularly swore oaths to the Church and Franco. And they did any dirty work required of them without question.’
‘A special ring?’
‘A symbol of membership, made from gold brought from the New World by the conquistadores.’
Galindez nodded. ‘So really, los Centinelas were like the Rotary Club – only better armed and more violent. You said this was after the war ended. When did they cease their activities?’
‘They never stopped,’ Benitez said quietly. ‘The Centinelas continue to this day, so I’m told. They were very active during the transition to democracy in the late seventies – that’s when many of our files went missing.’
‘And no one tried to stop them?’
‘No one wanted to stop them. The military weren’t committed to the transition. Many of them were actively hostile to democracy.’
‘And do these Centinelas still take things from the archive?’
‘We think so,’ Agustín said. ‘It’s difficult to be certain – they’d hardly tell us. But every now and then documents go missing. The state of this place, we probably don’t know the half of it.’
‘Bien. If I see someone in a gold ring carrying away your files, I’ll give you a shout.’
&n
bsp; ‘This is no laughing matter, señorita. It never hurts to remember the way things were not so long ago – so we don’t take things today for granted.’
‘Hombre, I was only joking,’ Galindez said, irritated. ‘But while you’re here, I’m looking for material relating to police operations in 1953. Can you point me in the right direction?’
‘Of course. The archive is organised into blocks. Each covers about five years. It runs from the late twenties through to the early eighties. The fifties you’ll find down in the first two sections at the far end. But as to whether you’ll find what you’re looking for,’ he shrugged, ‘I can’t say. It’s like doing El Gordo. Maybe you win, maybe you don’t.’
‘I don’t do the lottery, Señor Benitez.’ Agustín was really starting to annoy Galindez. ‘I’ll see what I can find. Thanks for your help.’
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said, stuffily. ‘Sí Dios quiere.’
‘To be frank, I rely on attention to detail rather than God’s will. Buenos dias.’ Galindez stood up, wondering what it was about Benitez that pissed her off so much. Whatever it was, she thought, it worked. And from his expression, it was mutual.
With Benitez gone, Galindez left her notebooks on one of the round tables before heading into the gloomy warren of shelves. Intermittent beams of struggling sunlight played over the dingy contents of the archive. It was surprisingly cold. A sweater would have been a good idea, she realised, even though they’d forecast a high of thirty-one degrees today for Madrid. And all around her, the files, cartons, boxes, stacks of paper – the detritus of mass bureaucracy. So many files. Some with typed labels, now almost faded away, others illegible, obscured by dust and latticed cobwebs. How appropriate, Galindez thought, the dark bureaucratic memory of Franco’s rule consigned to slow decay among the whispering shadows.
Occasional faint lights illuminated sections of the archive with an insipid pallor. Galindez noticed a label: 1935 – Guardia Civil. Idly, she pulled out the file. Grey dust clung to her fingers. Inside, she found a series of memoranda, invoices and letters, relating to the cost of supplying rural comisarías around Málaga. Routine logistical inscriptions from a time long gone. Galindez slid the folder back into place alongside a file labelled Addresses of Prominent Jews and Freemasons in Madrid: A–E. 1938. The files seemed to be in almost random order – worse, it was beginning to feel as if all the material had been shuffled into this chaotic state in order to frustrate those seeking something specific. Galindez realised she could spend months in this dismal light, hemmed in by cloistered silence and breathing air infused with the smell of old men and ageing paper and still not find anything. Joder.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 28
