Guzmán looked up, his heavy-hooded eyes expressionless. ‘To be accurate, Teniente, it was the sargento who was going to kill you.’
‘He doesn’t do anything unless you tell him to.’
‘I’d like to think so, though I have my doubts. But since he’s not going to kill you, can’t you give it a rest now? Hostia, I’ve never known anyone complain so much.’
Peralta decided to try and restore some normality to the situation. ‘Have you and the sarge worked together for long?’ he asked.
‘Long enough. I met him in 1939. I’d just been promoted to capitán. I was given a special assignment. Franco had taken an interest in me and he kept putting me on special details. Seeing if I was up to the job.’
‘What job?’
‘The one I’ve had ever since. This job,’ Guzmán said, beckoning the waiter. ‘Plate of eggs. Coffee, and a large brandy.’
‘Plate of eggs and coffee.’ Peralta couldn’t face brandy, despite what had happened earlier beneath the comisaría. His stomach wouldn’t take it.
Guzmán lit a cigarette. Seeing the teniente’s expression, he offered one to Peralta. ‘You can always buy yourself some. We do pay you, you know.’
‘I know. I keep forgetting. What was this special job? Or can’t you say?’
‘It was the summer of 1939,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’d got the medal two years earlier. After that, Valverde and then Franco kept me on as a sort of errand boy attached to their staff. I didn’t care, I was a kid. But after a few months, they started putting things my way. Naturally, I always accepted. There wasn’t really a choice.’
‘What sort of jobs?’ Peralta asked.
‘Coffee making.’ Guzmán smiled. The waiter brought their drinks.
‘Making coffee?’
‘Puta Madre, coño, don’t you remember the War? When old General Queipo de Llano was commander of Andalucía? The radio crackling every night with his broadcasts about how they’d captured Republican women – “Now the Reds’ women know we are real men,” he’d say. And radio calls from his men out in the field: “We’ve captured a Señor Fulano, what are your orders, mi General?”’
‘And what were his orders?’
‘That’s the point. He never said “shoot them in the back” or “rape their women and then kill the lot of them and burn them in a pit”. No, he’d say “give them coffee, plenty of coffee”.’ Guzmán laughed.
‘You find that funny?’
‘Of course, it made us laugh. And that’s why we said it ourselves, see? Dales café. And then the bullet. It’s what he ordered when they arrested that maricón, Lorca. Que le den café, mucho café. And of course they did. Bang. Well, two shots, that’s what Queipo said. One for being queer and one for being Red. You don’t know your history too well, do you, Teniente?’
Peralta decided to suffer Guzmán’s patronising without complaint.
‘Anyway, you’re getting me off the subject,’ Guzmán grumbled. ‘It’s summer 1939. The war’s over. There were thousands of Red prisoners everywhere. A lot of them women. Members of various militant groups.’
Peralta nodded.
‘So, a guardia civil capitán, Gabaldón, gets killed by some resistance group,’ Guzmán continued. ‘The bosses can’t let it go unpunished, so they bring a load of prisoners to trial early, including a bunch of young women. Later on, the youngest ones came to be known as Las Trece Rojas Rosas. Because there were thirteen of them, see? And because they were Reds. The judge considers the case and sentences them all to death.’
‘How old were you?’ Peralta asked.
‘Nineteen. Because of the medal they’d made me a teniente and I was going to be up for capitán if I played my cards right.’
‘And you shot thirteen women?’ Peralta looked at Guzmán in horror.
‘Not at all. They sent me to observe. To see if I was tough. As if I’d never seen anyone killed before.’
‘What was that like?’ Peralta asked. ‘Seeing them shoot women?’
Guzmán looked at him blankly. ‘There were men as well – they shot about fifty-six in all, did them in two groups. I just kept out of the way and watched as I was told to. It was a strain on the nerves for some of the firing squad though.’
‘But not for you.’
‘Hombre,’ Guzmán said, ‘I’d seen worse. In any case, it’s not difficult watching. Know why?’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘Because in battle the other side have a chance of shooting back. If you get a job where all you do is stand there while someone else does all the work, you can hardly argue, can you?’
Peralta looked at Guzmán, appalled. ‘They were kids. How could you approve of something like that? It was unnecessary.’
Guzmán glowered. ‘Yes, it was unnecessary, Teniente, and no, I didn’t approve and it wasn’t very pleasant, although they died very bravely – for all the good that does anyone. But no one asked my opinion – just like I’m not asking for yours now. My point is, in this work you do what you’re told. And if it doesn’t involve any effort on your part, you make the most of it – and you don’t belly ache, for fuck’s sake.’ Guzmán turned and angrily shouted for the waiter to bring him a brandy. ‘Anyway, to answer your question,’ he continued, more calmly, ‘that was when I met the sarge.’
‘He was part of the firing squad?’ Peralta watched his cigarette go out in the ashtray.
‘Yes. He’d not long been released from the lunatic asylum.’
Peralta laughed. ‘I can imagine.’
Guzmán scowled. ‘He’d been in there for most of the war. It was run by Reds – so naturally when our lot won, we let him out.’
‘They’d locked him up even though he wasn’t mad?’
Guzmán sighed. ‘Do keep up, Teniente. They’d locked him up because he was mad. But, since he was on our side, we decided he wasn’t quite so mad after all. He’s been very useful over the years.’
‘And you were going to let him loose on me?’ Peralta snapped.
‘Christ, are you still sulking about that?’ Guzmán lit another cigarette. Outside the window a beggar staggered across the road, indifferent to the world and the world completely indifferent to him. ‘It’s not like it was personal.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
Guzmán snorted. ‘I had to know I could trust you. Valverde hates me with a passion. And you are his nephew, after all.’
‘Only by marriage.’
‘Nonetheless. He’s tried for years to get someone into the comisaría to spy on me. I have to be very careful.’
‘Well, he didn’t convince me to do it.’
‘I had a hunch he wouldn’t. But hunches don’t keep you alive. Attention to detail does.’
‘Well, you certainly attend to detail, jefe,’ Peralta muttered.
They paused as the waiter brought their food. Guzmán looked at the egg on his plate. ‘What’s this?’
‘Plate of fried eggs, sir, as you gentlemen ordered.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is one egg.’
‘Si, señor. But technically, it’s a plate of eggs. The instructions of 1939 state clearly that, in the home or in restaurants and cafés, the dish known as a plate of eggs shall consist of one egg.’
‘Actually, sir, that’s quite correct,’ Peralta said.
‘Joder.’ Guzmán’s look sent the waiter scurrying away. ‘You were saying I attend to detail. Do you?’
‘Of course. It’s a necessary function of police work.’
‘Well, there’s something coming up that will require attention to detail,’ Guzmán said.
‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante. I hope the comandante will think it appropriate to assign this task to me. That way, you can be certain of my loyalty.’
Guzmán sighed. ‘You really are the most pompous prick, Teniente.’
‘Even so, sir.’
‘You’ve got to learn how things are done,’ Guzmán said. ‘You have to pull your weigh
t and that isn’t always easy in this unit. So I want you to work with the sarge for a while.’
Peralta had a sinking feeling. ‘Doing what exactly, sir?’
‘Whatever I tell you,’ Guzmán said.
Peralta nodded unhappily. Every value he’d ever had seemed to be inverted or distorted by Guzmán on a daily basis. Yet there was no alternative – unless he were to follow his conscience and resign, which would mean poverty, and that was unthinkable. ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’
MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES
‘The question is,’ Guzmán said, putting his feet on his desk, ‘how come some mystery man gives Señora Martinez a letter from my dead mother?’
‘She’s got to be involved,’ the sarge said.
‘Maybe not,’ Peralta said. ‘The man saw the comandante go up to her piso. So he decided to use her to pass on the letter.’
‘Imposible.’ Guzmán made himself more comfortable. ‘How could he have known I’d visit her? We raided the house next door – she wasn’t on our list.’
Peralta frowned. ‘If someone’s been watching us, they could have decided to use her as a go-between.’
‘Bollocks. If my dear old mamá wanted to contact me – even with the slight problem of her being dead, qué en paz descanse, why the fuck would she get some anonymous bloke to take a letter to a woman I met hours before?’
The sarge nodded. ‘As you say, Señora Martinez didn’t know you’d turn up on her doorstep. So she couldn’t have planned anything in advance.’
‘The only ones who knew we were going to that address were us.’ Guzmán was getting angry. ‘And frankly, whose doorstep I turn up on, Sargento,’ Guzmán’s voice rose, ‘is no fucking business of yours, me entiendes?’
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, deep in thought. ‘They want me to think my dead relatives are alive,’ he said finally. ‘Why?’
‘The Dominicans?’ Peralta said. ‘Setting up an ambush. When you turn up to see these long-lost relatives, they’ll make a move.’
‘Possibly.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Although they haven’t acted with a great deal of subtlety so far. Hostia, if it is them I’m going to be fucking angry. We still don’t even know for sure yet what they’re up to.’
‘Maybe they want to set up supply chains to other countries from here?’ Peralta said. ‘Spain’s the gateway into Europe for drug smuggling. Perhaps the Dominicans want to take advantage of that? Bypass Marseille, perhaps? Cut out the French.’
Guzmán nodded. ‘It makes sense. They could easily handle the local talent if things got rough.’ He blew a dense cloud of smoke towards Peralta. ‘We’ll have to be careful with this investigation,’ he grumbled. ‘Franco said to lay off but Valverde wants us to protect his bent business from the Dominicans. We’re caught in the middle.’
Peralta stood up. ‘I’ll see how my enquiries are going. I’ve asked for help from the Exterior Intelligence and Counter Intelligence Services. They’re treating it as a priority.’
‘Excellent. Let me know what you come up with,’ Guzmán said.
Peralta pulled on his coat. The walk over to Exterior Intelligence would be a welcome change from the claustrophobia of the comisaría. In fact, just being able to leave the comisaría was comforting after what had happened. His colleagues had been on the verge of killing him and he was still shaken by the experience. They put the bodies in a river? What would they have told his wife? Would she have got a pension?
He stepped out into the thin, sharp winter air. Out of the comisaría. The problem was, he thought sadly, he would have to come back again.
MADRID 1953, SERVICIOS DE INTELIGENCIA EXTERIOR Y CONTRAINTELIGENCIA
The short walk was still long enough to have Peralta shivering by the time he arrived. He no longer walked the street observing passers-by. It was those he might not see that worried him. He began to spend time looking in shop windows, suddenly turning back the way he’d come, hoping to spot anyone following. No one was. It occurred to him that he maybe wasn’t important enough to shadow as they had Guzmán and the Sarge. He found that troubling.
At the offices of Servicios de Inteligencia Exterior y Contra Inteligencia, Peralta waited patiently while the soldiers on duty checked his identity. Climbing the ornate staircase to the American Section he passed into a world of dark, dusty offices filled with filing cabinets and huge shelves of files and dossiers. He followed a narrow corridor of endless doors, each opening onto varying numbers of intelligence personnel, translators and the occasional spy.
Halfway down, Peralta found the place he was looking for. He knocked and entered. A man sat at an ancient wooden desk, his plump figure framed by piles of newspapers, journals, books, letters and telegrams. The room was almost in darkness, a small lamp on the desk providing a patch of feeble light in the midst of the chaotic paperwork. Behind the man was an ornate window with glass so filthy it was hard to imagine daylight could penetrate it even in the brightest summer.
‘Francisco, coño! When you phoned the other day I couldn’t believe how long it’s been since I last saw you.’
The man got to his feet and came out from behind his desk to hug Peralta against his corpulent body. Peralta slapped him on his broad shoulders.
‘Jaime. It’s been too long. How are you?’
Jaime laughed, wheezing with the sudden exertion of the welcome.
‘The same. Buried in paper. But it’s a living and a pension. What more can you ask?’
Peralta pulled up a chair, removing a pile of yellowing periodicals and depositing them on the threadbare carpet.
‘So how’s life in the Brigada Especial?’ Jaime asked, suddenly serious.
‘Secret.’ Peralta laughed.
‘Seriously, Paquito. When I heard you were there, I almost crossed myself. Me, a committed atheist.’
Peralta looked round furtively at the door.
‘What’s the matter? You don’t think anyone’s going to be listening to our conversation, do you? This must be the safest place in Madrid to talk. You don’t think anyone would be spying on…’
Peralta’s face made it clear that was exactly what he was thinking. When Jaime spoke again, it was in a low, conspiratorial tone.
‘So it really is like that where you are? Cloak and dagger stuff?’
Peralta looked at him and nodded. ‘You never know who’s listening – truly.’
‘You’re not in… we’re not in any danger, are we?’ Jaime asked anxiously.
Peralta shrugged. ‘You can never be sure.’
Jaime dabbed his big wide face with a handkerchief. ‘This all sounds a bit worrying, Paquito. I hope you aren’t involved in anything out of your depth?’
‘Jaime,’ Peralta said, ‘I’ve never been so out of my depth. Or so frightened. And the trouble is,’ he added, ‘the most frightening ones are those I work with.’
‘And this query?’ Jaime indicated the papers on his desk. ‘This Señor Positano? Is he a threat?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me,’ Peralta smiled. ‘He’s of interest to us, but we know nothing about him, other than he keeps some bad company. Which is why it’s so useful to have an old friend like you working here. At school you were always buried in the dustiest books. Spending all day checking up on details and facts – this must be your idea of heaven.’
Jaime grinned and reached across the desk, gathering a handful of papers. ‘I love it here, although I never know why I’m doing something. I just track down the information required, it goes off to the military or the police and that’s it. The same with your request – I don’t know why you want it and I couldn’t care less – although after what you’ve said about your job I’m starting to wonder if the Russian army is lurking out in the corridor.’
Peralta laughed. ‘I don’t think you need worry about the Russians right now. We deal with domestic security, they’re not our concern.’
Jaime sucked at his lower lip. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
Jaime sighed. ‘Bueno. I won’t ask again. But I do worry, Paco. You know you said it was OK to use your boss’s name?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well I did. And that’s when I first started to worry about you.’
‘Why? Just because I said to mention Guzmán was in charge of the investigation?’
‘We deal with the different branches of the security services all the time. I often have to say who I want materials for. Bureaucracy is the way we do things here, Paco. Things don’t work all that quickly.’
‘It’s always the same,’ Peralta agreed with a smile, ‘Bloody penpushers.’
‘Last time I called the States for some information, it was for General Valverde,’ Jaime said. ‘They took a week to get back to me.’
‘So they’re slow,’ Peralta said, ‘what’s your point?’
Jaime wiped his sweaty face with his handkerchief, ‘The point is, when I mentioned Comandante Guzmán’s name, they called me back within the hour. And then someone else called from Military Intelligence to check I’d got what I wanted and was satisfied with the information.’
‘Comandante Guzmán is very well connected,’ Peralta said.
Jaime wiped away another bead of sweat. ‘Well, tell me if this is helpful, because it feels as if he isn’t someone a person would want to get on the wrong side of.’
‘That’s true,’ Peralta agreed. ‘But you’ve nothing to worry about, honestly.’
‘This Positano gentleman,’ Jaime began, ‘what do you know about him?’
Peralta shrugged. ‘He’s the leader of the trade delegation to Spain, so I assume he’s someone important in one of their governmental departments.’
Jaime nodded. ‘Senior Trade Adviser, to be exact. Since 1946.’
‘So he’s got a good job. Any background information?’
‘There’s his army record. Purple Heart, wounded during the invasion of Italy. Congressional Medal of Honour. A brave man.’
‘You don’t have a cigarette by any chance?’ Peralta asked.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 34
