‘Stay there, Teniente.’ Guzmán’s voice came from behind the beam of the powerful searchlight. The sarge moved past him, hunched shadow and menace as he strode to take his place behind the light with his jefe.
‘What’s going on?’ Peralta called, suddenly uneasy.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Guzmán said, suddenly killing the light. The darkness was total, like being blind.
‘Give him a clue.’ It was the sarge, the sibilant menace in his voice reinforced by a cascade of whispering echoes rippling away into the dripping blackness.
‘Paciencia, Sargento. There’s no rush.’
Peralta’s voice echoed against in the dank silence. ‘Why exactly are we playing silly buggers down here, Comandante? Surely we’ve better things to do?’
‘We’ve got better things to do.’ The sarge again, an inflection of malice in his voice.
‘I think you’ve got something to tell me,’ Guzmán said.
Something is wrong here, Peralta thought. ‘If I’ve done something, I have the right to know what it is.’ His tone of indignation sounded weak.
The light blazed on again, forcing the teniente to shield his eyes once more. Through his fingers he could see the vague illusory outline of the two men, intangible shadows obscured by the light. But this was no illusion: they were very real.
‘For Christ’s sake, what are you playing at? I can’t see.’
‘That’s the least of your problems.’ The sarge sounded angry.
‘I still don’t know what the problem is,’ Peralta said.
‘Well, Teniente,’ Guzmán’s voice echoed around the damp walls and ceiling, making it seem as if he were speaking from every corner at once, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell us how you spent your day?’
‘Is that it?’ Peralta was incredulous. ‘You think I’ve been skiving? You bring me down to this dungeon and treat me like a suspect because you think I’ve been taking it easy?’
‘This place has a long history of questioning,’ Guzmán said. ‘The Inquisition worked here. We think there was probably something going on before that. Something nasty. It’s a good place to come when we need to work undisturbed.’
‘No one comes down here uninvited,’ the sargento hissed. ‘And very few leave.’
‘None so far,’ Guzmán corrected him.
‘True enough, jefe. See, Teniente, once you’re down here, you’re in big trouble. Such big trouble it’s very hard to get out of it. In fact, it’s so hard to get out of, really the only thing you can do is to cut a deal with us.’
‘A deal?’ Peralta was still trying to grasp what was going on. ‘What deal?’
‘There are worse things than dying,’ the sarge said icily.
‘What?’ Peralta’s voice was high and incredulous.
The light went out. Shimmering echoes. The slow dripping of water. Distant scuffling.
‘Put that bloody light on.’ Peralta tried to assert himself, to regain some sense of control. Tried to stop shaking. He failed.
‘Tell us about your day,’ Guzmán said.
Peralta heard someone moving in the dark, someone moving towards him.
‘The comandante asked you a question.’ The sarge’s voice was very close, his breathing laboured and heavy with anger.
Guzmán’s tone was almost conversational. ‘You need to answer, Teniente, or the sarge will break both your legs at the knees. And then your arms as well. You’ll do a great deal of screaming and we’ll leave you for a few hours to get used to the pain of being a cripple. Then it will turn nasty.’
Peralta shivered. He was sweating profusely. ‘Comandante, this is no way to treat an officer under your command.’
‘Say the word, sir.’ The sarge sounded even nearer. Peralta heard his breathing. And the sound of metal dragging on stone.
‘Teniente, the sargento’s itching to do some real physical damage to you. It would be best if you just follow my advice and tell us what you’ve been doing today. Otherwise, this is going to turn ugly. The sarge can do a lot of damage with that crowbar he’s carrying.’
Peralta tried to maintain his dignity. ‘I spent the morning liaising with External Intelligence Services, checking on the Dominicans and Señor Positano. I’m waiting for them to get back to me about Positano. They came up with something I thought was of interest. This Ernesto Melilla – the one with the gold tooth…’
The sarge shuffled impatiently in the dark.
‘Siga,’ Guzmán said.
‘Melilla was in this country in March last year.’ Peralta’s mouth was dry. ‘We think it was him anyway – the date of birth on his passport matches the criminal records General Valverde gave you.’
‘It’s possible. But even so, what does that tell us?’ Guzmán said.
‘The thing is, sir, on his last visit his passport stated he was a teniente coronel in the Dominican Army.’
‘If it was the same man, that is,’ Guzmán said. ‘A crook with a record as long as your arm holding a military position? No, Teniente, that doesn’t sound right.’
‘Tell the comandante what else you did,’ the sarge muttered.
‘As I said, I left enquiries about Positano at Exterior Intelligence and returned to the comisaría around midday. General Valverde was waiting for me.’
‘Ah, yes, your uncle,’ Guzmán said casually. ‘And how was he?’
‘Charming as ever,’ Peralta said. ‘Particularly interested in what you were up to, sir.’
‘He always is,’ Guzmán said. ‘And?’
‘He then tried to implicate me in an act of treachery and asked me to spy on you.’
‘He admits it,’ the sarge spat. ‘Let me loosen him up a bit, jefe. Break something.’
‘Keep quiet,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘He wanted you to spy on me. What did you say to that, Teniente?’
‘Naturally, I agreed.’ Peralta heard the sargento’s muttered curse behind him.
‘And what would you get for this service to the general?’ Guzmán asked.
‘Money. Possibly your job.’
‘Traitor’s gold, more like,’ the sarge snarled.
‘One more thing,’ Guzmán said, ‘before the pain starts. And a word of warning: if it starts, Teniente, it only ends when you die.’
‘That could take days down here.’ The sarge sounded happier now.
‘Why didn’t tell me about Valverde?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Did you think no one would notice the capitán-general of Madrid rolling up to see a junior officer in the absence of his commanding officer? A junior officer related by marriage to the general?’
‘Con permiso, Comandante,’ Peralta said stiffly, braced for the sargento’s attack, ‘I thought if I refused the general’s offer, it would put him on the defensive. Agreeing to spy on you ensures that you can decide what information he receives.’
‘That would be a real act of loyalty,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘I’d be more convinced if you’d let me know the minute I came back.’
‘I didn’t even know you were back,’ Peralta retorted. ‘However, the details of my inquiries on the Dominicans and my conversation with the general are typed up and in a red folder in the tray on your desk.’
‘Is that true?’ Guzmán asked the sarge.
‘How the fuck do I know, jefe? I just listened in to the conversation like you told me.’
‘The room’s bugged?’ Peralta asked in surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ the sarge said, ‘we recorded every traitorous word you said, pendejo.’
‘Sargento, refrain from insulting the teniente for a moment,’ Guzmán ordered. ‘And go and see if the report’s there as he says.’
The light flared back into life, blinding Peralta again. He turned away, only to see the sargento, a metre away, his face twisted in anger, making him even uglier than seemed possible. In his hands was a rusty iron bar.
‘Hang on,’ Guzmán said. ‘I can’t trust the sarge not to throw the report in the bin just so he can have some fun.’ There was a growl o
f protest from the sargento but Guzmán ignored it. ‘You really wrote it all up?’ he asked Peralta.
‘Of course I did, Comandante. You can check for yourself.’
‘Don’t trust him,’ the sarge protested. ‘He’s bluffing.’
‘No,’ Guzmán said, ‘I think the teniente’s telling the truth. No one could fake such fucking pompous outrage.’
The searchlight went out and darkness returned. Guzmán snapped on an electric torch. The beam was thin and weak but enough to guide them back to the stone stairway. Peralta followed Guzmán, aware of the sarge panting at his heels, his breath fetid, like some street dog. Peralta was still shaking as he stepped through the ancient doorway into the low corridor. He felt comforted by the fact that the report was where he’d said, on Guzmán’s desk.
‘There’s a river down there,’ the sarge said in a low voice. ‘You’d have gone in it. They all do. No one ever came down here and went back up. Except us.’
‘Sarge, give it a rest,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘It’s just hard for you to deal with an honest man when you meet one.’
‘As if there’s any such thing,’ the sargento snorted. ‘Not in this fucking country.’
BADAJOZ 1936
The firing slowed to a sporadic crackle. Desultory shots kept the oncoming Moors pinned down around the lip of the plateau, but they were gaining ground, scrambling up the rocky pathway, crouching as the bullets whined around them and returning fire while their comrades began crawling forwards through the grass. The Moors were veterans with years of experience of colonial war in Africa and they knew how to fight. The men who opposed them were largely volunteers, experienced but hardly professional, their spirits weakened by continuous defeats at the hands of the Fascists. For a while they felt secure with the African troops pinned down by their fire. Now, as the ammunition ran out and the Moors inched towards them, they began to feel the terror again. The terror of approaching death.
The kid saw what was happening. Those who panicked, who turned and ran to the welcoming shelter of the trees, made good targets. They were cut down by the fire of the Moors, pitching backwards and rolling in the dusty grass. The Moors’ aim was deadly and there were very few wounded. That was just as well, since any wounded would soon face the bloody wrath of their enemies and none would die quickly or without suffering.
The kid began to crawl up the slope, pushing his rifle along in front of him. It was hard work and the scrubby ground was sharp beneath him. But he pressed low to the ground, keeping his head down as bullets whined above. He paused, sweat running freely down his face. To his right he saw the corporal moving in a similar manner, careful to remain hidden in the grass. Progress was slow and the screams from behind them were unsettling. The kid rolled on his side and looked back.
Freed from the terrible fire that had kept them pinned down, the Moors advanced past the pile of their comrades’ bodies, rushing forward to engage the Republicans. Those men who could not flee were helpless against the long bayonets. It was hard for the wounded: there was no hope of putting up effective resistance and even less of surrendering. Many died under the long knives of the Moors. It was grim work and the kid heard them die, heard their shouts and screams for help to God, their friends, their mothers. One man managed a ‘Viva La Republica!’ before his screams told the kid he too had met the vengeance of the Moorish troops.
The kid continued to crawl. There would be no escape, he realised, even in the shelter of the trees. Without ammunition and with little likelihood of climbing down off the mountain without encountering more Fascist troops, they were trapped. As he finally struggled into the bushes that littered the treeline, the kid knew it was finished. He turned to look back down the hillside. A busy tangle of African troops moved around the corpses of their slaughtered enemies. It had been said they took body parts as trophies. The kid saw now that it was true. There were some twenty Moors and a large number of bodies around the entrance to the plateau. And there were more bodies below, he knew that. The death toll among their pursuers was high, although he took little satisfaction from that: there were still plenty left. Glancing through the trees he saw the corporal and four other men. These were not good odds and they had few options left. There was little they could do but wait for their enemies to come up after them and to reveal to them the manner of their death.
13
MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS
The stone walls of the small bar softly echoed with the murmur of early morning conversation, punctuated by the aroma of mushrooms and garlic from the grill. Tali sat at a table in the corner, waiting as Galindez brought over the stone jug of wine and two small plates teeming with mushrooms and roundels of bread. Tali heaped a piece of bread with mushrooms and took a bite. She gasped, fanning her mouth with her hand before gulping down a mouthful of the cold red wine.
‘Cuidada, they’re really hot,’ Galindez said.
‘Now you tell me. But they’re so good it’s hard to wait.’
Galindez sipped her Coke and watched people passing by the open door. Eight thirty, and the city was bustling with crowds on their way to work. The dazzling glare promised another tortuous day.
‘I wonder how Mendez and the tech team are getting on at your place?’ Galindez said. ‘There’s two of them with a load of devices straight out of Star Wars. Whatever type of equipment Sancho planted, they’ll find it. They checked my flat in a couple of hours when I was at the archive.’
‘Well, I hope they find that bug or whatever it is. I’m not used to having an uninvited audience in my shower, especially not a creep like Sancho.’ Tali wolfed down a last mouthful of mushrooms and finished her wine.
‘About what I said last night…’ Galindez said, quietly.
‘I told you it would sound better outside Guzmán’s HQ.’
‘You were right.’
‘Even if you hadn’t told me how you felt about me, I would have known. Know why?’
Galindez shook her head.
‘You never once suggested opening the files from the archive.’ Tali laughed. ‘I knew it must be the real thing if I was more important than Guzmán.’
‘Well, I was distracted.’ Galindez smiled.
‘So you think Mendez will be done by tonight?’
‘Yes. And Mendez always does a thorough job.’ Galindez poured the last of the wine into Tali’s glass. ‘Bueno. We’ve got a whole day to work through those files. Drink up and let’s go and get started.’
Tali emptied her glass and walked to the door, Galindez started to follow her.
‘Oyes tú,’ the barman called. ‘Adónde vas? Going without paying? You’ll ruin me, señorita.’
Flustered, Galindez returned to the bar, rummaging for change. As ever, her purse had too much crammed in it to find what she was looking for. Her ID card fell onto the counter. ‘Sorry, I’m all fingers and thumbs, today.’ She realised she hadn’t enough money on her.
‘Leave it, señorita,’ the man said. ‘I can see you’re in a hurry.’
‘I live in the flat upstairs,’ Galindez said, embarrassed. ‘Can I pay you next time?’
‘On the house, señorita. A couple of pretty girls brighten the place up anyway.’
She thanked him and hurried out into the cobbled street.
The other barman looked at his colleague, puzzled. ‘Who’re you giving freebies to?’
‘That little brunette who lives in one of the apartments arriba. I saw her ID card: she’s guardia civil. Would never have guessed that. Good customer relations, no? Never hurts to have them on your side.’
*
Galindez read the text from Mendez:
Finished at Natalia’s. Micro camera in bathroom – removed. Radio microphone in landline phone – removed. Radio microphone under bed – removed. Let’s do lunch sometime Ana María?- Mendez.
‘Sounds like Sancho wired up every room.’ Tali said.
‘Well, you’re free of eavesdroppers now.’ Galindez placed the plastic bag containin
g the files on the desk by the window and waited while Tali made coffee.
‘What will you say in your contribution to Luisa’s report on Guzmán?’ Tali asked.
‘I’ll start by examining those bodies from the mine. In fact, I might go back to Las Peñas for another look around. And there could be material in his diary I can use to develop a profile of him.’
Tali sipped her coffee. ‘What do you make of the diary so far?’
‘It’s puzzling. He seems a very conventional child to begin with, church-goer, choir, music lessons. You’d think he would have been popular. It’s clear his parents were abusive, he’d be taken into care today without doubt. And it’s not just his parents. By the time he hits puberty, all the villagers seem to have turned against him. In a couple of cases they physically attack him.’
‘I noticed that. And without obvious reason.’
‘Precisamente. Then the war comes and that’s when his career takes off. There’s one thing that strikes me. The handwriting: have you noticed how it changes when the war starts? It gets much stronger and angrier.’
‘It’s not my field, Ana.’
‘Nor mine, but the difference is definitely there. It makes me think he underwent a profound change – although I suppose that’s not surprising – he must have seen a lot of action. And prolonged exposure to wartime violence would have had an impact on him and his men.’
‘You mean they would have remained violent?’
‘I mean they didn’t need to alter their behaviour very much. Men used to intense combat in a civil war would take a while to settle down into normal society again at the best of times. But they didn’t have to: Guzmán and those like him were used to terrorise the population and to eliminate enemies of the regime. For them, the war didn’t end.’
‘So you don’t buy Luisa’s theory about him being a mere cog in the machinery of Franco’s dictatorship?’
‘You know what Luisa and I are like. It would be unusual if we agreed on anything – I certainly don’t think Guzmán was just another narrative to be deconstructed. People are far more complex than Luisa depicts them. I wonder what her motivation is sometimes – it feels like she’s making excuses for the people who carried out Franco’s orders.’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 32
