The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Guzmán looked at him, unconvinced. ‘You speak to an informant, some bootblack on Calle Durango. He tells you shit. He’s clearly lying. What would you do?’

  ‘What any good policeman would,’ Peralta said. ‘Give him a slap. Maybe a kick up the rear.’

  ‘And why would you?’

  Peralta frowned, annoyed at Guzmán’s tone. ‘So he would know he couldn’t mess me about. And so anyone he talked to would know that I do my job right.’

  Guzmán nodded approvingly. ‘Exactly. And what is it we do here?’

  Peralta thought for a moment. There were many ways of describing it: protection of the State, upholding public order and morality, the maintenance of Christian society. He looked at Guzmán. Guzmán’s face was impassive.

  ‘We kill people,’ Peralta said. ‘To order.’

  Guzmán beamed happily. ‘We do, Teniente. We do it properly. And we do it for the State. The State’s built on scaffolding and people like us are that scaffolding. And to keep everything held up and stop it falling down, we have to do things right. That’s what keeps the pay cheque coming, no?’

  ‘What we do is about more than money,’ Peralta said.

  ‘We all have a price,’ Guzmán smirked, ‘don’t we?’

  Peralta was not convinced. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘So if Carrero asked you to take it up the arse, would you? For money. Say enough to buy a house.’

  Peralta flushed. ‘Of course not. Not for any money. And I didn’t even know the almirante was queer.’

  ‘He isn’t. But who knows, he might try it one day. What if he said he’d kill your kid?’

  Peralta was unhappy with this turn in their conversation. But it was Guzmán who decided their topics of conversation. Always.

  ‘I’d kill him first. There are limits,’ Peralta said.

  ‘You’re in a cell and he has your kid. Maybe your wife too. They’ve repeatedly raped her in the next cell so you can hear. Now he says unless you take it up the arse, they kill the kid. Slowly. All you could do is beat on the walls like a lunatic while you heard every scream. What then?’

  ‘When you put it that way, a man would have little choice but to give in.’

  ‘Maricón.’ Guzmán laughed. ‘See, you’re a whore as well. We just needed to establish your price, didn’t we?’

  Peralta chewed his lip and stayed silent.

  ‘Muy bien. So we agree,’ Guzmán said. ‘Think about Franco for a minute. His rule depends on some things being predictable. People go hungry but there’s about enough for most of those who deserve it. So people can be fairly certain they’ll eat each day. Well, most of them. We also have to have the certainty that life will carry on in certain ways. That Reds, fairies, Communists, Freemasons and Liberals will all be dealt with.’

  ‘Order, you mean.’

  ‘Exactly. Order. So everyone knows what’s what. That there’s a line.’

  ‘And you don’t cross that line.’

  Guzmán grinned. ‘It’s the same as with your bootblack informant who messes you about – you let him go so far and no further.’

  ‘We don’t know who’s crossing the line, though. I mean, who’d want to kill forty-odd people?’

  Guzmán sighed. ‘We have a pretty good idea who. Our Caribbean pals.’

  ‘But we don’t know why.’

  ‘The point is,’ Guzmán said, exasperated, ‘that it’s going to draw attention. Even if it’s kept out of the papers, it makes Valverde look weak and threatens his shady dealing in drugs. Makes other criminals wonder if maybe they should sell a bit of stuff – given that people are avoiding the general’s businesses for fear of dying. But worse, it makes the Caudillo look weak. It makes society look weak. Our society. Instead of fearing that knock on the door at night and having the sarge and me waiting on the mat when they open the door, they’re going to start thinking maybe another way would be better.’

  ‘Like Communism?’

  ‘Of course. They’ll start thinking they’re free to look at alternatives. Thinking new ideas, foreign ideas, joder, even thinking about democracy, and where will we be then?’

  ‘Out of work for a start,’ Peralta said glumly.

  The sarge walked past, cradling a rifle across his forearms.

  ‘We’d be on trial, wouldn’t we, jefe?’ He looked at Guzmán for support. ‘Like all those Nazi pendejos. The ones that didn’t take poison, that is. Would you take poison, jefe?’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘Hard to say. If it was the rope, maybe not. Hanging’s quite quick. You get a good meal first.’

  ‘That’s right, jefe. A condemned man can have anything he wants.’

  ‘I don’t seem to remember you doing much cooking for any of those Reds you killed,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘It was all we could do to make you do it quickly.’ He looked over at Peralta to see if he was suitably disgusted. He was.

  Guzmán picked up the hand grenade from the table. ‘Sarge, you weren’t seriously thinking of taking this on our trip to the Bar Dominicana?’

  The sargento shrugged. ‘Best to be prepared, sir.’

  ‘Even so,’ Guzmán said, ‘that might just be a bit excessive.’ He handed the grenade back to the Sarge. ‘Better leave that for another day.’

  The sarge moodily collected the satchel of grenades and trudged into the armoury.

  ‘Shame to spoil his fun,’ Guzmán said, ‘but he can get carried away.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Peralta said.

  ‘Enough of him,’ Guzmán said, becoming more animated. ‘We’ve got to find out who did this. All these bodies are going to cause a fuss. Even if we suppress the news of it, those upstairs will be getting jumpy. And we don’t want them interfering.’

  ‘You think they will?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Guzmán said. ‘The question is how long we’ve got before they find out.’ He paused as the doors to the reception hall crashed open. ‘Mierda, it’s happened already.’

  They recognised Carrero Blanco at once. He stormed towards them, his overcoat flapping, the buttons and badges of his admiral’s uniform twinkling under the faint lights.

  ‘Almirante.’ Guzmán snapped to attention and saluted smartly. Peralta struggled to do the same – without experience in the army his military bearing was at best sloppy.

  ‘Joder, Guzmán, what the hell is going on, man? There are corpses all over the city,’ Carrero Blanco barked.

  ‘We’re well aware of it, Almirante,’ Guzmán said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to step into my office to appraise the situation?’

  Carrero Blanco nodded and waited for Guzmán to open the door for him. Inside the office, he sat at Guzmán’s desk – just as Guzmán had expected. They all do that. Like dogs pissing on a tree. Guzmán took the other chair. Carrero Blanco was taking off his heavy leather gloves, his peaked cap placed in the middle of the desk. Peralta paused in the doorway.

  ‘Not you,’ the admiral said coldly. ‘You’re one of the Valverde clan, no?’

  ‘Only by marriage, sir,’ Peralta said, standing to attention.

  ‘Get out,’ Carrero Blanco snapped. ‘I want to speak with the comandante.’

  ‘A sus ordenes, mí Almirante.’ Peralta executed a clumsy salute and stepped backwards into the corridor, pulling the door closed as he went.

  He turned and was startled to find the sarge half a metre behind him. ‘Jesus Cristo, hombre, don’t you know not to sneak up on someone like that?’

  The sarge’s mouth split into his ghastly grin, exposing the broken remnants of his teeth. ‘Sorry, Teniente, I was trying to tell the comandante that Almirante Carrero Blanco had arrived but the almirante pushed me out of the way before I got the chance. Is he with the boss now?’

  ‘He’s with Comandante Guzmán, yes.’

  ‘About the bodies, I suppose?’

  ‘I imagine so. Any more news on them?’

  ‘There’s forty-nine now. I expect there’ll be a few more who no one’s noticed yet.’

  ‘And what
do you make of it?’

  The sarge looked at Peralta contemptuously. ‘Not difficult, is it?’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d explain anyway, Sargento?’

  ‘I’d say someone’s brought a load of dope into Madrid hoping to get rich quick. Likely got it in Barcelona, since the place is full of drugs. Then they cut it to make it go further. As long as the colour looks about right, the dope fiends will buy it.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s linked to the Dominicans? We know they’ve been muscling in on the local drugs trade.’

  The sarge shrugged. ‘Be a bit odd, that. If you’re dealing drugs you want your customers to come back, not die. Cutting a big consignment is a risky business – for the buyers. A bag of bad shit, sold off in little parcels, it’s like a shotgun. You pull the trigger and there’s a mess all over the fucking place.’ He paused. ‘Sir.’

  Peralta bit his lip. ‘You’ve made a list of the names and addresses of the victims?’

  The sarge shrugged. ‘Of course. Some of these people have families who’ll need to know.’

  ‘And what are we going to tell them?’

  ‘That there’s been a mystery virus. That’s what the comandante said. We’ve already contacted the press to let them know what they can print. Thirty dead will be the official figure. They’ll be buried immediately – because of the risk of infection. The coffins will be sealed at the hospitals as well.’

  Peralta rummaged unsuccessfully in his pocket for a cigarette. ‘That doesn’t get us any nearer to explaining why anyone would do this.’

  The sarge watched Peralta continue his hunt for a cigarette for a moment before wearily pulling a crumpled packet from his pocket. ‘Here you go, Teniente.’ Peralta took the cigarette and waited for a light.

  ‘It’s easily explained,’ the sarge said. ‘The more you cut the dope, the more money it makes. But the more junkies you kill, the more attention you get – and drug dealers usually don’t want attention – especially from the likes of us.’

  The sarge found the remnants of a box of wax cerillas and managed to strike one into flame.

  Peralta breathed in the strong smoke gratefully. ‘I think there are two possibilities, Sargento. The first is as you say, someone cut their supply with something to make it go further and they accidentally overdid it. The other possibility is that they did it deliberately.’

  ‘They’d be bad bastards if they did that, Teniente. But why do that?’

  Peralta took a drag on his cigarette in what he hoped was an enigmatic pause. ‘Think about it. There’s only one real competitor for the Dominicans in Madrid.’

  The sarge grunted. ‘Valverde. But the general sells most of his supplies through farmacias to legal addicts. If these stiffs we’ve been bringing in are legals, that’d mean that Valverde’s supplies had been got at.’

  ‘What better way to discredit the competition, Sargento? If people don’t feel safe with legal sources of drugs, they’ll turn to other outlets.’

  ‘Like those Caribbean greasers,’ the sarge said.

  ‘Exactly. Which means that Valverde will need to take action to protect his business.’

  ‘And that will mean the comandante will get his way,’ the sarge leered, exposing more of his devastated teeth, ‘which is always a good thing, for us, as well as him.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him about this as soon as he’s finished with the almirante,’ Peralta said. ‘I imagine he’ll be interested to hear our conclusions.’

  The sarge started to walk towards the mess. ‘I shouldn’t get too excited, Teniente.’

  ‘Why’s that, Sargento?’

  The sarge turned and looked mockingly at him. ‘Because I had this conversation with him about an hour ago, sir, and he reached the same conclusion then.’

  Guzmán stood stiffly to attention as Carrero Blanco shouted abuse at him. It was becoming quite a dressing down.

  ‘Guzmán, what the hell’s going on? Over forty-five people dead. The Caudillo’s incandescent. We’ve had to double the number of censors to keep this out of the foreign press.’

  ‘With respect, mi Almirante, this is a situation we could not have anticipated.’

  The admiral continued his tirade. ‘You won’t be anticipating anything soon, Guzmán, because you’ll be out on your ear with no job and no pension. We didn’t give you the job you have just to amuse you, entiende? We simply can’t have something like this happen. Especially now. The Caudillo gives a major speech in two days and he wants to welcome the Americans to the new Spain. The new Spain, Guzmán, one where there are no corpses in the streets. Certainly not forty-odd of them.’

  Guzmán felt the urge to punch Carrero Blanco senseless. But he needed to keep control. Sometimes you have to eat shit. But you should never get used to the taste of it.

  The admiral calmed down a little. ‘So what the fuck happened, Guzmán? Do we know?’

  ‘We do, Almirante. These people were all addicts, poisoned by contaminated drugs.’

  ‘Poisoned?’

  ‘Definitely, though we don’t know if it was deliberate or not yet.’

  Carrero stared at him. ‘We know who controls the supply of drugs in this city, Comandante. General Valverde. You surely don’t think he’d poison his own customers?’

  ‘I doubt it, mi almirante. There are more likely suspects. The Dominicans. We know they’re involved in the drugs trade.’

  ‘Cuidado, Guzmán,’ Carrero said. ‘Take great care before you do anything we – meaning you – would regret. We don’t want to upset the Yanquis. We need these bloody Americans, Guzmán. If we don’t get them to part with some money, the country will be bankrupt within the year. I’ll tell you now, the Caudillo has already instructed the trade negotiators how to deal with these Yanquis: agree to anything, let them walk all over you and then take their money. Is there anything there you don’t understand?’ His expression indicated it was a rhetorical question.

  ‘Yes.’ Guzmán never liked rhetoric.

  ‘What?’ The admiral sighed.

  ‘I don’t understand why we have to let a bunch of Caribbean criminals parade around the capital flaunting the law. The Yanquis could sort out the trade agreement without them. They’re criminals and I’m certain they’ve had a hand in this heroin business. Say the word and I’ll round them up.’

  Carrero stared at him hard. ‘Listen, Guzmán. You wouldn’t be where you are without keeping on top of things like this. Your instinct for the job is a great asset. But just as important, you’ve avoided doing anything that would annoy the Caudillo. Others have had his trust besides you – the difference being they forgot if you cross him, there’s rarely a second chance. You sit near the fire or you’re out in the cold. Simple as that.’

  And you can teach my grandmother to suck eggs, Guzmán thought. ‘I must stress these Dominicans have already engaged in criminal acts, they’re suspects in a murder case involving one of our informers and—’

  ‘Enough.’ Carrero Blanco waved a leather-gloved hand. ‘They may well be criminals, Guzmán. The world’s full of criminals – look at the army or the Church and Christ Almighty, don’t even start me off about politicians. Fijate coño, a few dead junkies don’t matter, do they? How many did we shoot in the Guerra Civil? The fucking streets were full of dead. We didn’t care then and we don’t care now. Junkies take that filth, ruin their lives and lose their immortal souls: they’re scum. Good riddance. But the norteamericanos don’t want to see people lying dead in the streets of Madrid. Not while they’re here, anyway. They prefer such things to occur out of sight. Find out who sold these drugs. If it’s the Dominicans, arrest them quietly and discreetly after the fucking trade talks are over, not before. When we tell you to. You do understand what I just said, don’t you, Comandante?’

  ‘I understand perfectly, mi Almirante.’

  Carrero frowned. ‘I hope so, Guzmán. Because if the Yanquis think we aren’t in control of our own capital, they might think twice about trading with us. And if that
happens, you’ll be the one who’s blamed.’

  ‘And if the poisoned drugs were linked to General Valverde’s businesses?’

  ‘A good question,’ Carrero said. ‘A couple of months ago I’d have said it would damage his standing, even hasten his retirement. But his influence with the Caudillo has grown lately. He’s been working with a number of economists and businessmen developing strategies for economic growth.’

  ‘And the Caudillo takes him seriously?’ Guzmán scoffed.

  ‘Unfortunately yes.’ Carrero frowned. ‘The Caudillo believes his ideas could enrich Spain in the years to come.’

  ‘I see.’ Guzmán was incredulous. Enrich Spain. Enrich Franco, more like.

  ‘The instructions remain the same, Guzmán. Keep an eye on him. But try not to infuriate him any more than usual. You never know, the way he’s going, he might end up commanding you one day.’

  Guzmán moved ahead of the admiral to open the door.

  ‘One more thing, Guzmán.’ The admiral gestured imperiously for Guzmán to leave the door closed. He reached into his leather coat and took out a piece of paper. ‘Deal with this individual, will you?’

  Guzmán took the paper and looked at the name and address. ‘No one I know.’ He shrugged.

  ‘That’s not important,’ Carrero Blanco said, with a hint of irritation. ‘What is important is that the Caudillo wishes you to deal with him as you’ve dealt with so many enemies of Spain.’

  ‘What charges?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Shall I bring him here or—’

  The admiral interrupted with undisguised impatience. ‘Mierda, Guzmán, when did you become so fond of bureaucracy? Never mind what he’s done. You’re not his fucking lawyer. He’s guilty and he needs to be dealt with. And, for reasons which scarcely concern you, it suits us,’ he paused before correcting himself, ‘it suits the Caudillo that you deal with him at his home. It’s a warning. The people it’s meant for will understand.’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

  Carrero Blanco smiled. ‘I do, Guzmán, I do. And Guzmán, if there’s anyone with this person, then they are as guilty as he is. Entendido?’