The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Peralta flushed. ‘I must protest—’

  Valverde cut him short. ‘No matter. My niece loves you. And you’re clearly a hard worker. I think you’ve a lot of potential – no matter what Comandante Guzmán says.’

  ‘Comandante Guzmán is my immediate superior. He’s entitled to point out my faults in order to help me—’

  Valverde silenced Peralta with an upraised hand. ‘Please, Teniente – or Francisco, if I may?’

  ‘I would prefer my rank in this setting, mi General.’

  ‘As you wish. But please, don’t feel you have to profess any loyalty to Guzmán. His loyalties are to himself and the Caudillo. Undoubtedly in that order. But perhaps you’d know more about that than me?’

  ‘As far as I know, Comandante Guzmán’s conduct has been impeccable. As for his devotion to duty, I assure you he has never expressed anything but the most loyal support for the Caudillo and for Spain,’ Peralta said, bristling indignantly.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Valverde snapped. ‘A fool to believe that about Guzmán.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s something the general knows which I don’t?’

  ‘There’s undoubtedly a lot I know that you don’t, you little fuck.’ Valverde’s face became even more florid than usual.

  ‘Then perhaps the general will excuse me?’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘My apologies, mi General, but I’m afraid I don’t understand in what way the general is trying to help me.’

  Valverde took a deep breath, making an effort to calm himself down.

  ‘Teniente, I speak to you as a brother officer and as your uncle by marriage. You’re a decent man, but decency isn’t a necessary requirement for someone engaged in this line of work. Guzmán has survived so long because he has no scruples. None. Whatever the Caudillo asks of him, he does. And the Caudillo has asked a lot.’

  ‘But is that wrong, sir? Surely we must all do that?’

  ‘We do. But Guzmán abuses it. He’s almost completely unaccountable. I have little control over his activities. There’s always the possibility he’ll go over my head in some matter to the Caudillo himself. Worse, if he did, Franco would listen to him. This is an insufferable insult for me: The Capitán-General of Madrid, undermined by having Franco’s spy camped on my doorstep.’

  Valverde’s colour was rising again. ‘This is not the way a modern state conducts itself, employing a brute like Guzmán as the Head of State’s personal assassin,’ he muttered. ‘It was how things were done in the war. But the war is over, Teniente. And Spain has to adapt to that.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s simple. Franco and his ministers still think along the same lines that won them the war. But change is needed now. People tire of doing without while the rest of the world prospers. No one trades with us. No one will equip the army. And why? Because they see us as a nation of fascists, run by a military government brought to power with the help of the Nazis.’

  ‘We are run by a military government,’ Peralta said. ‘Every minister was a member of the armed forces.’

  ‘No. We’re ruled by Generalísimo Franco. Not a government. Not the army. Him.’

  ‘But he saved us from the Reds, the Communists and atheists, the Freemasons…’

  ‘And that’s all done and dusted now. The world is changing. There’ll be no room soon for a country run by force of arms. Apart from Russia – and one day the Yankees will sort them out with their hydrogen bombs. We have to worry about the here and now, and how Spain can become great again, rather than being a poor relation to the rest of Europe. And as long as we’re run by one man, that’s what we’ll be.’

  Peralta frowned.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Teniente, don’t look at me like that. I’m not preaching rebellion. I’m talking about a point in the future when there will have to be change. There doesn’t have to be violence but there has to be a plan.’

  ‘A plot, you mean?’

  ‘I mean a plan for running the country, not to depose the Caudillo. God, he’d probably welcome it if it meant he could step back from having to deal with every last issue himself. I’m talking about Franco as Head of State – but with a more representative government, one that would be more professional than what we have now.’

  Peralta shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. It sounds like treachery to me.’

  Valverde struggled to keep his temper. ‘Nonsense. Governments reorganise all the time. That’s all it is, a reorganisation. Moving talented people to where they can do the most good. You have a talent for police work. You’d benefit from such a reorganisation. As would Spain. At least consider it.’

  It was hard to deal with, Peralta thought. If someone talked like this in public, they’d be arrested. Rightly. ‘I need time. I can’t say just yes or no to something this important.’

  ‘You don’t have much time, so make your mind up quickly, for once in your life. I need capable men for the task ahead.’

  ‘What would I have to do?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘Muy sencillo. We need to know what Guzmán is up to, who he talks to, what he’s thinking. He trusts you because he thinks you’re stupid. He thinks in a couple of months he’ll get you transferred so he can go back to his own way of doing things without having to worry about you. So repay him in kind: keep me informed of everything he does, everything he says, the calls he makes, the letters he sends. And communicate it to me at once.’

  Peralta nodded. He felt a bead of sweat on his receding hairline. His heart was hammering. ‘And if I did?’

  Valverde smirked, the look of a man used to getting his way and about to get it again.

  ‘For a start we’ll triple the salary you get here. Paid straight into your bank account. You can keep your wife in comfort – as a real man should. And you’ll be helping Spain. A Spain great, united and free. At last.’

  Peralta felt himself shaking.

  ‘Guzmán wants rid of you,’ Valverde said. ‘He’s a dangerous man as you’ve already seen. Make use of him to do your patriotic duty – and give yourself a hand up at the same time.’

  Something bitter burned in Peralta’s throat. He nodded weakly.

  ‘Be part of this,’ Valverde said in a low voice. ‘Be part of this or you will be against it. And make no mistake, this will happen, and when it does, if you were not for us before, you’ll be against us then. And those who were against – like Guzmán – will be dealt with. Once and for all.’

  Peralta nodded his understanding.

  Valverde got to his feet. ‘Then you’ll do it, Teniente?’

  Peralta looked up at the ruddy face, the bristling moustache and the icy eyes of the man whose own troops called him the Butcher of Badajoz.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Valverde walked to the door. ‘Keep in touch. You know what I need.’

  The general’s boots echoed down the stone corridor and Peralta heard the doors close behind him. Then he ran out into the corridor, clutching his hand over his mouth until he made it to the safety of the toilet. Luckily, there was no one around to hear his retching.

  MADRID 1953, HOTEL ALAMEDA, CALLE DE LOS FUENTES

  ‘Hotel Alameda, señor.’

  Guzmán looked up. He had been concentrating on the Dominicans again. He knew that if he had enough time to mull things over he would reach some sudden epiphany where the logic behind the events of the last few days would become clear to him. He knew this, not because it had happened before, but because he had seen it at the cinema. But then he’d also seen those films where men brooded over women. He thought them worthless at the time. Now, they seemed more of a warning, given the frequency with which thoughts of Señora Martinez diverted his thinking away from official matters.

  He got out of the taxi and gave the driver a handful of change. The man took it without comment, knowing if he had been shortchanged, it would be better not to dispute it with a man of Guzmán’s build.

/>   The Hotel Alameda was a tall nineteenth-century building that had clearly seen better days. The first two floors of the building were private apartments and Guzmán watched them go past through the bars of the antique lift. The elderly lift attendant peered at him. Guzmán saw one of the man’s eyes was clouded by a cataract.

  ‘The gentleman has no luggage?’ the attendant asked.

  ‘The gentleman is not staying here.’

  The gates clanked open at the third floor. A threadbare carpet led down a narrow dark hallway towards a small reception desk. The place smelled of damp. So, Guzmán thought, this is the kind of place my mother stays.

  The woman behind the desk looked up at him. Blousy and overweight, she reminded Guzmán of the madam of a brothel, quite possibly an accurate job description, given the general state of decline apparent in the hotel’s furnishings.

  ‘Do you have a reservation?’ the woman asked without interest.

  Guzmán held up his identity card. ‘Policía. Do you have a Señora Guzmán here?’

  The woman shrugged. Guzmán stared at her.

  ‘I’ll see.’ She opened the register and squinted at the names on the yellowed paper.

  ‘Si, señor. Señora Guzmán, booked in for three days from today. She arrived earlier this morning. Old lady. Room thirty-eight. Do you want me to give her a knock?’

  ‘Just point me to her room – I’m a relative. I’ll surprise her.’

  The woman pointed back the way he had come. ‘Past the lift and then turn right. It’s at the end of the corridor.’

  Guzmán turned to follow her directions.

  ‘So what relation are you to the lady?’ The woman leaned forward on the desk.

  Guzmán turned. ‘I suggest, señora, you mind your business and I’ll mind mine. If I develop an interest in your business it might be very unpleasant for you. Me entiende, señora?’

  The woman blanched. ‘It’s señorita actually.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me at all.’

  Guzmán walked down the corridor, past the caged lift shaft. Somewhere below he heard the metallic groaning of the lift mechanism. He decided he would take the stairs when he left.

  The place was silent, no sound of the residents penetrated the solid-looking doors with their large metal numbers. Guzmán looked back to check no one was following him. He pulled the Browning from its holster. If the Dominicans were in there, they might open fire at once. He crushed himself to the right of the door, against the wall, and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Guzmán placed a hand against the door, testing its resistance as he pressed on it. Then, stepping back, he kicked the door just below its handle. The lock yielded with an unhealthy crack and the door opened inwards. Guzmán stepped into the room, pistol raised.

  The room was as dilapidated as he expected, given what he had seen so far of the state of the Hotel Alameda. A bed to the right, a chair and a dressing table by the window. Cold winter light glinted through grimy net curtains. There was a faint smell of lavender. A suitcase lay open on the bed. Women’s clothes. From the look of them, an old woman. Guzmán rummaged through the case with a practised hand. No weapons. No cash. A copy of a knitting magazine, a ball of wool. Something cold and glassy. He pulled out a framed photograph. A young man in uniform looked blankly at the camera.

  ‘Ay, Mamá, I was so young.’ Guzmán slipped the picture inside his coat. He searched the drawers of the small bedside table, finding an old Bible with a faded inscription forbidding its removal from the hotel. Guzmán flicked through its pages but there was nothing hidden in it. Out in the street he heard a car horn. There was nothing to keep him here, he decided, and moved swiftly out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him and then, sheathing the big pistol, he returned to the reception desk.

  ‘You find her?’ the receptionist asked sullenly.

  ‘No, she’s out. Did you see her today?’

  ‘Earlier on. What an old dear with her white hair. All in black. In mourning, I expect?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Guzmán turned towards the stairs.

  ‘Do you want me to tell her who called?’

  ‘No.’ Guzmán went down the stairs, passing the lift as it shuddered upwards. He looked in but the only passenger was a fat middle-aged man with a collection of bags and suitcases at his feet.

  Outside, the air was sharp. Guzmán looked around at the miscellany of rundown buildings. A beggar on the other side of the road slumped against a wall. It was time for a drink. Guzmán crossed the road, ignoring the beggar’s pleas, and entered a narrow side street. He paused at the window of an art dealer, paying close attention to several religious themed paintings. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man following him, ducking into doorways, idly loitering, suddenly perusing his newspaper. One thing was clear, Guzmán thought, this wasn’t someone accustomed to surveillance work. The first time Guzmán looked at him, the man should have abandoned his pursuit and let a back-up take over.

  Pausing again, Guzmán examined some fading tomes in a second-hand bookshop. Further down the street, Guzmán saw a man apparently studying the contents of a shop window. Maybe he was the back-up. Yet neither the man ahead nor the one following seemed aware of each other. Guzmán would have expected more movement, a sudden entry into a shop or maybe suddenly engaging a passer-by in conversation. Guzmán continued his study of the ancient books, constantly moving his gaze between the man behind and the man in front.

  The man behind now walked towards him. Guzmán looked to his right: the other man was walking away in the other direction. Maybe he wasn’t part of the surveillance team, then. Behind him, he heard the man in the black coat getting nearer. Guzmán stopped and surveyed the contents of a milliner’s window. A handwritten sign was propped behind the neat arrangement of sombre headwear: The Reds didn’t wear hats. Guzmán smiled to himself at the ingenuity of linking millinery to patriotism. Behind him, the footsteps were getting closer. A quick glance down the street was enough: the man in front was over a hundred metres away, and then disappeared round the corner. He was not part of this, then.

  Guzmán admired a dark fedora for a moment. Maybe he would try it on later. The shop owner might decide to donate it to a servant of the State, if he knew what was good for him. The man in black was six metres away now and Guzmán turned to face him. Black overcoat, hat, this was the one who had been outside the comisaría, Guzmán was sure. The man smiled, as if approaching an old friend. Both the man’s hands were visible and there was no weapon. Guzmán kept his right hand inside his coat. It would be the work of a moment to bring out the Browning and shoot the man in the face if necessary.

  ‘Comandante Guzmán, I presume.’ The man looked gaunt, his eyes were dark-shadowed and there was a trace of stubble. He advanced with his arm extended, ready to shake hands. Guzmán relaxed his hold on the pistol and seized the man’s wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and pushing him into a doorway. The man didn’t struggle. Crushed between Guzmán and a locked door and with his arm held almost at breaking point, he was helpless.

  ‘Please, there’s no need… My arm, please, Comandante Guzmán… I can explain.’

  ‘You’ll need to. Otherwise I’ll break it. And every other bone in your body after that.’

  The man was clearly frightened and there had been no resistance. Nonetheless, Guzmán kept him pinioned while he searched the man’s pockets and patted him down for a hidden weapon.

  ‘Comandante, I can explain, I mean no harm.’

  ‘All right. I’ll let go of your arm now. If you try anything, I’ll cripple you for life.’

  Guzmán released him. He was no threat: Guzmán could tell from the fear in his eyes.

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you,’ he said, ‘I don’t like being followed.’

  ‘Comandante Guzmán. Permit me. My name is Teodoro Lopez. Perhaps you would allow me to buy you a drink?’

  The man indicated a small bar across the street. Guzmán’s first thought was of an ambu
sh. But the man was too shaken. No one was such a good actor.

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t drink on duty,’ Guzmán said, ‘but as you’re offering, and as you’ve some explaining to do, I accept.’

  He let Lopez enter the bar first. It was almost empty. A couple of elderly workmen near the door carried on their conversation without even looking up. The barman was clearly pleased to see them and no wonder, thought Guzmán, the two workmen looked as if they had been nursing the same drinks all morning. He chose a table in the corner of the room and sat with his back to the wall.

  Lopez ordered coffee. Guzmán asked for a large brandy. The bar was clean and warm and Guzmán shouted a request for a portion of tortilla to the barman.

  ‘The cold weather gives one an appetite.’ Lopez smiled.

  ‘You seem remarkably cheerful for someone who just came this close to having his head blown off. If you followed me at night like that you’d be dead now,’ Guzmán said.

  Lopez looked suitably disconcerted. ‘Surely you wouldn’t be quite so precipitate, señor?’

  ‘I would,’ Guzmán said. ‘You can shoot who you like in my job. It’s one of the perks.’

  Lopez tried to regain his composure. ‘I’m no threat to you, Comandante.’

  ‘I can see that for myself, Señor Lopez. That’s why you’re still breathing.’

  ‘In fact I have news, Comandante, news I’m sure you will be pleased to hear.’

  ‘Really? They say no news is good news,’ Guzmán said. He drank his brandy in one swallow and handed the barman the empty glass. ‘Fill her up.’

  ‘I am, Comandante Guzmán, something of a detective myself,’ Lopez said.

  ‘I didn’t say I was a detective.’

  ‘Ah. An erroneous assumption. I apologise. In my case, I am, in fact, an investigator.’

  ‘Spain’s full of them.’ Guzmán smiled, taking the refilled glass from the barman. ‘We invented the Inquisition, didn’t we?’ This time he took a sip and put the glass down. The barman retreated behind the zinc-topped bar, hopes of a sudden upturn in sales dashed.