The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  She reached the far end of the archive. There was a gap of two metres between the end of the rows of shelves and the far wall. Several doors in the wall. Privado: Solo Empleados. Another marked Hombres. Naturally, she thought, there was a men’s toilet but no door marked Mujeres. The archive belonged to a time when women were invisible in so much of Spanish life. A third door was marked Sala de Emergencia. God, if that was the only emergency exit, she smiled to herself, all those ancient scholars at the other end would be in real trouble if they had to evacuate the place in a hurry.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the tattered sign on the penultimate row of shelves in the far corner. ‘1950–1954.’ She felt a little better now: at least it was the right time period. Nothing for it but to examine everything with a label. That was going to take a while, she was certain. But once she started something, Galindez would see it through. She remembered Profesora Suarez’s comment about her when she was finishing her doctorate: Ana María has a dogged persistence in her approach to work that is both unusual and rewarding in someone of her age. Tio Ramiro thought it was an insult until Carmen calmed him down and explained what the profesora meant.

  Galindez read the labels on the nearest files: Report on Trade Union Activities in Barcelona 1952. Another: Arrests of Subversive Elements by undercover officers 1951–53, Madrid. Many files weren’t labelled. Examining a few, Galindez realised that although some might be potentially useful, others should have been consigned to the waste bin sixty years ago. Even when she found sections that might have something of interest, a search like this took considerable time. Her back ached from constant bending to check material on the lower shelves. And then she saw it, a large box file with a yellowing label. Faded typewritten words: Office of the Capitán-General of Madrid: Correspondence Concerning Comandante Guzmán 1951–52. Galindez stared at the label, feeling the same excited anticipation she used to have opening her Christmas presents from Tia Carmen – although those were usually pieces of scientific equipment. Something related to Guzmán at last. And down to her persistence, not Señor Benitez’s reliance on divine will.

  Galindez had just started to open the file when she became aware of someone coming down the aisle in her direction. A man in a dark suit, his face half hidden by shadow. She guessed he must be quite old, since he bent forwards and was walking unsteadily, clutching from time to time at a shelf for support. A sudden thought chilled her. Shit. What if he was looking for this file? Galindez had a sudden vision of him being some high-ranking librarian or administrator about to announce the file was not available for some reason. Just my luck. That’ll teach me to mock Benitez.

  Galindez made a snap decision and replaced the file, pushing it to the very back of the shelf, leaving a space in front of it. Anyone glancing down as they passed would only see the empty space. That done, she walked calmly around the end of the row, and turned into the next aisle. Pushing aside a couple of boxes of papers, Galindez was able to peer through the gap to the shelf where she had just concealed the Guzmán file. The old man was getting nearer: she could hear his laboured breathing. Maybe he just needed the toilet – it was a cruelly long journey for the old men who used the archive. Whatever his need, the man suddenly came into her limited field of vision as she peered through the gap between the files. He paused – hijo de puta – he paused right by the spot where, half a metre below him, Galindez had left the file. And then, she saw him bend and she heard the noise of something moving on a shelf. Fuck. Don’t let him find my file. The man straightened up, his hand grasping the shelf for support. Galindez felt relieved: he wasn’t holding the file. Now go away, señor. The man lurched to the end of the row and turned right, in the direction of the emergency exit. Galindez exhaled, realising she had been holding her breath until the man passed her hiding place. As she prepared to retrieve the file, there was a sudden flurry of activity out of her line of sight.

  Leaning round the end of the row, she saw the old man struggling, his arms pinioned by two men in suits. He wasn’t putting up much of a fight. Two fit men against one old man wasn’t fair, she decided, whatever he’d done. She tensed, preparing to step in. Then one of them said, ‘Policía.’ Galindez drew back behind the shelf. Police – the old man must have done something then. She hazarded another cautious look around the end of the aisle and saw the men bundle the old man through the emergency door. She knew that was the way to do it: make the arrest, then straight out of the nearest exit and into the squad car. And then a sinking feeling: Did he take the Guzmán file? Shit, what if that’s why the police were after him? Or maybe he was one of those oddballs who rob libraries for years, filling their grubby homes to overflowing with their stolen collections?

  With a resigned sigh, Galindez returned to the shelf where she had hidden the Guzmán file. The empty space on the shelf was now taken up by something in a plastic carrier bag. She picked the bag up. It was heavy: inside were several fat cardboard files bound together with string. She checked the back of the shelf. The Guzmán file was just where she left it. As she reached for the file, Galindez became curious about just what the old guy had been up to. If there was anything of importance in the files he’d left here, maybe she should hand them over to the police. It was worth a look. She put the Guzmán folder into the plastic bag alongside the other files and went back to the far end of the archive. The old men in the leather chairs and at the tables were all engrossed in their old documents. No one looked at her – except one old boy and he wasn’t looking at what she was carrying anyway.

  A lengthy queue of elderly scholars snaked back along the corridor leading to the director’s office. Galindez found to her chagrin that they were all waiting to request copies of various papers. Mierda. Not one accessible photocopier. She looked down the line, counting at least thirty people. And the line wasn’t moving. The bag of files was heavy and she didn’t even know what she wanted copying. In the university library she’d have copied everything just to be safe. How long would it take them here to copy the mass of papers she was carrying? And worse, what if they refused to copy the Guzmán file? She needed something on him and this was the first evidence she’d come across, other than his diary.

  A very un-Galindez-like thought occurred. Why not just borrow the file on Guzmán, copy what she needed and return it later? No one knew it existed anyway. Galindez recognised she was rationalising her intended behaviour like most criminals did. But I’m not a criminal. I’ll just bend the rules this once, it would save so much time. Christ, I never even had an overdue library book at uni. She would return the files in a couple of days and no one would ever be any the wiser. Hostia, probably no one would even look at them again.

  She made her way back to the reception desk. The receptionist was talking on the phone. Galindez signed out in the visitors’ book and strolled to her car, stowing the carrier bag in the boot. She was about to start the engine when she noticed her left palm was wet. She’d been carrying a heavy bag on a very hot day: no wonder her hand was sweaty, she thought. She looked down. It wasn’t sweat on her hand. It was blood. Fresh blood. Galindez got out of the car and opened the boot. It was clear now where the blood came from: the carrier bag was smeared with it around the handle. The old guy must have cut himself. Taking a tissue from her bag, Galindez wiped the blood from her hand before driving away.

  12

  MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  ‘This has got to stop. It’s humiliating. It lowers morale and it makes you look ridiculous. It has to end. Understood? Me entiende, Teniente?’

  Guzmán was sprawled in his office chair while Peralta stood uneasily in front of the comandante’s desk. Peralta looked at Guzmán shamefacedly.

  ‘Of course I understand, sir, I can’t help it. It’s just—’

  ‘Enough. You simply can’t go round spewing up every time you see a dead body. It’s ridiculous. How would you go on if you had to take a few Reds out one night and shoot them? You can’t aim straight if you’re throwing up ri
ght, left and centre, can you?’

  ‘I apologise, mi Comandante. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Don’t let it, Peralta. I haven’t told anyone but the sarge will. And then the lower ranks will have nothing else to talk about. Don’t give them the means to undermine you. If this becomes a problem, Teniente, it’s your problem. Understand?’

  ‘Si, mi comandante,’ Peralta said miserably. Guzmán dismissed him.

  Peralta had slept little that night, trying to think through what was happening, trying to get a grip on the facts the way they had showed him at the academy. It wasn’t working.

  Guzmán called Peralta and the sarge into his office at midday. There were two blackboards set on easels at the far end of the room next to his filing cabinet.

  The sarge looked at the blackboards quizzically. ‘We going to be doing drawing?’ he asked. ‘I can do a doggie or a horsey if you like, jefe.’ He looked round at Peralta. ‘I ain’t drawing you though.’

  ‘You’ll be drawing this blackboard out of your arse in a minute.’ Guzmán was writing on the left-hand side board. A name: Valverde. Then another, Positano. The sarge glowered at Guzmán but he glowered in silence.

  ‘Right,’ Guzmán said. ‘This is what we have so far. The general – sorry, Teniente – Tio Valverde, is worried about these Dominicans moving in on his pharmaceutical interests. So he asked me to check them out and mark their cards.’

  ‘Seems fair,’ the sarge said, ‘you do him a favour and then he owes you one.’

  ‘True enough,’ Guzmán agreed, leaving out the matter of Valverde’s bribe, ‘but doesn’t it strike you as odd? Franco gave him the monopoly over the importation of medicines into Spain and it makes him wealthy. Fair enough, that’s how it’s done. But why should a bunch of creeps from the Caribbean with a track record as long as your arm pose any threat to the Capitán-General of Madrid? Valverde wants it all done on the quiet and even Franco doesn’t want us to bother them. Normally, they wouldn’t think twice about taking them out of circulation. One word to us and that’d be it.’

  ‘Is it fear of offending the Americans?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘Must be,’ Guzmán said. ‘Maybe there’s more to the trade deal with the Yanquis than we know. We need more information. This is useless, trying to guess what they’re up to. Teniente, you contact Exterior Intelligence Services and see what they’ve got on Señor Positano. You could also try the Diplomatic Corps, see if we can get any information from the police in Los Estados Unidos. There must be something our people over there can dig up. We’ve got enough spies there, for God’s sake.’

  ‘They’re a friendly country,’ Peralta said, ‘more or less. Surely we wouldn’t…’

  Guzmán stared hard at Peralta and gave an exaggerated sigh. Peralta shut up.

  ‘You, Sargento, lean on the collection of lowlife scum you use as informers and get me the news on the street. You could probably start with your family, I imagine.’

  ‘And you, sir?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘I’ll be minding my own fucking business and doing my job – part of which consists of telling you what to do, Teniente – thanks for asking.’

  When they had gone, Guzmán lit another cigarette. He began to pace the room. From time to time he scrawled on one of the boards. Standing back, he looked at the tangle of names, thoughts and connections assembled on the dusty wood. There was nothing that made sense. He picked up the eraser and ran it over the board. Maybe a coffee would help, a real coffee, he decided. He pulled on his overcoat and strolled down the corridor to the reception hall.

  The corporal behind the desk saluted. ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante. I have a communication for you. Just arrived.’

  The man pushed an envelope across the desk. Guzmán looked at the spidery writing.

  ‘Who brought this, Cabo?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir. Someone left it when I popped into the office. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘If someone can wander in and leave an envelope without being seen, Cabo, they could wander in and leave a bomb. And if you leave the desk unattended again, you’ll think one has gone off under you and I won’t be addressing you as Cabo either, because you’ll be back in the ranks. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectamente, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán snorted and walked to the door. A flicker of anger pulsed through him. He turned. The corporal snapped to attention.

  ‘You stupid fuck,’ Guzmán spat. ‘Que coño eres.’

  The corporal swallowed, remaining at attention until Guzmán was outside in Calle de Robles. Even then, another minute passed before the corporal felt safe enough to curse the comandante.

  The sky was a heavy grey. The piles of snow along the sides of the streets were still frozen. No hint of the sun behind the opaque quilt of cloud. Guzmán was angry. Things were not supposed to be like this. The Special Brigade wasn’t set up to do ordinary police work. Still, they would have to try, because otherwise Guzmán was going to lose credibility with the Caudillo and he couldn’t let that happen.

  Guzmán crossed the road and entered the smoky fug of a café. He sat on a stool at the end of the zinc-topped counter, with a good view of the street. A horse and cart clattered past. Guzmán ordered coffee and brandy, watching distractedly as a woman came running out to scoop the steaming horseshit into a bucket. Once the barman had served him, Guzmán took the envelope from his pocket.

  Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán, Comisaría, Calle de Robles no13, Madrid.

  No stamp, no postmark and delivered by hand. Guzmán slipped his finger under the seal and ripped open the letter, extracting a single folded piece of thin writing paper. A short message, in the same thin spidery hand as before.

  Guzmán glowered at it.

  Thursday 15th January 1953

  Mi querido Leo,

  I’ve arrived in Madrid at last. I’m staying at a Hotel called the Alameda. Will you meet me tomorrow in the Retiro Park at three by the fountain on the Paseo de México? After all these years I so look forward to seeing you once more and hearing your voice.

  Abrazos, Mother.

  Guzmán put the letter in his pocket. What the hell was going on? Señora Guzmán was long dead, killed along with her husband during the attack on their village. Someone was taking the piss. Not for much longer. Guzmán tipped his brandy into the coffee and drank it in one swallow. He stood up, about to leave a handful of coins on the counter. He changed his mind and walked out into the brittle cold. A taxi idled down the street and Guzmán flagged it down.

  ‘Hotel Alameda.’ He told the driver. ‘Rapido.’

  MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  Peralta returned to the comisaría around midday. His enthusiasm for telling Guzmán what he had found out diminished rapidly when he reached the desk.

  ‘General Valverde, Teniente,’ the cabo said as he saluted. ‘He’s in the comandante’s office. You’re to report to him at once, sir.’

  Peralta clattered down the cold stone corridor to Guzmán’s office. Valverde was standing by the blackboards. Peralta noticed Guzmán had erased the diagrams and scrawled comments. It made him feel vaguely guilty.

  ‘Has Guzmán taken up drawing?’ Valverde asked. He walked over to the desk and settled himself in Guzmán’s chair.

  ‘Just outlines of the investigation, sir.’

  Valverde looked up at Peralta and gestured for him to sit down.

  ‘And how is the investigation going, Teniente?’

  Peralta paused for a moment. ‘Our enquiries are going well, sir.’

  Valverde snorted contemptuously. ‘And your enquiries centre on what exactly, Teniente?’

  Peralta hesitated, trying to think of what he should say – and what he should not.

  The general’s cheeks reddened. He stared at Peralta, his moustache quivering. ‘Puta madre, Teniente, we’re all after the same thing here. How dare you even consider not keeping me informed?’

  ‘I haven’t reported to Comandante Guzmán yet, General.�
��

  ‘Ah,’ the general became more conciliatory, ‘and you’re hesitating to report to me because it would be disrespectful to Comandante Guzmán?’

  ‘Exactamente, mi General.’

  Valverde laughed. ‘It’s admirable you are so loyal to a man who is one step away from being a certifiable psychopath. As your uncle and as your senior officer, however, I would advise you to choose your loyalties very carefully.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’

  Valverde sighed, as if talking to a young child. ‘Teniente Peralta – and by the way, I have confirmed the rank, against Comandante Guzmán’s most strident protests.’

  ‘I’m most grateful to the general,’ Peralta said.

  ‘So you fucking should be,’ Valverde snapped. ‘If I’ve not showed you any preferment, Teniente, it’s because I’ve been waiting for you to prove yourself. And you haven’t. I must tell you, boy, when my niece said she wanted to marry you, I thought you’d got her pregnant, which would have presented me with the dismal choice of shooting you or having you marry into the family. And to be honest, shooting you would have been my preferred option.’