The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Peralta thought about it for a moment and reached for the brandy again.

  The sarge ambled back into the bar. ‘Whenever you’re ready, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán stood up and took a last mouthful of brandy. He looked at the bottle, scrutinising the label and then hurled it into the mirror behind the bar. Peralta flinched at the impact and leaped to his feet. His nerves were going. The whores appeared much less startled at Guzmán’s behaviour. The one who had spoken earlier got to her feet.

  ‘Oiga, leave us somewhere to work. Have some respect.’

  ‘Respect? For you? Of course, señorita,’ Guzmán snarled. ‘We’ll leave you alone for now, although you may see us again in due course.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope you’re paying customers next time, señor,’ the woman laughed.

  Guzmán looked icily at her. ‘Mujer, if I was paying you, I’d expect change from a duro. Keep quiet, you bag of shit, and hope you don’t find yourself in one of our cells, puta, because if you do, you’ll wish you’d never been fucking born.’

  The woman swallowed hard and stayed quiet. Guzmán followed the remaining guardia civiles outside to the truck. The vehicle’s engine spluttered black fumes into the night. The cold air stank of petrol. There was laughing and joking as the men lined up to get aboard. Up the road, perhaps fifty metres away, was another truck, cloth-topped, military-looking.

  ‘That one of ours?’ Guzmán asked the sarge.

  The sarge peered at the truck. ‘Don’t think so. We only had this one and the one from the comisaría for the prisoners. Anyway, we’ll soon find out, look, he’s reversing.’

  The truck had started its engine and was slowly coming down the street towards them.

  ‘Looks like they’ve been having a fag while we did the hard work,’ the sarge muttered.

  ‘Cabrónes, we could have been finished here if they’d lent a hand,’ Guzmán said.

  The truck came closer. Guzmán, Peralta and the sarge waited, interested to see which branch of the police or the military had turned up so late. The truck stopped about twelve metres away and the canvas awning over the back fluttered open. In the dim light Guzmán saw dark shapes crouched over some kind of machinery. Then the driver of Guzmán’s truck put on his lights and the rear of the reversing vehicle was vividly illuminated as the light picked out men crouching over a heavy machine gun on a tripod, one of them holding a long ammunition belt. Guzmán saw a shadowed face and the glitter of a gold-toothed grin before the thin night air was torn apart by machine-gun fire.

  BADAJOZ 1936

  The kid flattened himself against the rough bark of the tree. Three more African soldiers emerged from the long grass to join their comrades gathered around the bodies of the men they had just butchered. Of the Moors pursuing the fleeing Republicans, there were now nine left. Nine against three. Those odds were bad enough, but as the kid knew only too well, the enemy were better trained and battle-hardened. And eager to kill. Another figure appeared, carrying a large pack, moving slowly through the dusty shrubs. The kid remained motionless behind the safety of the tree, waiting, not raising his rifle yet, in case it attracted attention, even a hundred metres away.

  The burning afternoon enforced a dazed torpor on the arid landscape. Suddenly, an unexpected moment of action took the kid by surprise. The corporal stood up from his hiding place in the long dry grass some six metres from the Moors. He had the advantage of surprise, and the gunshot echoed around the jagged slopes of the hillside as one of the Moors fell lifeless to the dry ground. The corporal struggled to work the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the cartridge and bringing the rifle up again, but this time more slowly as a volley of shots from the remaining Moors tore into him. Staggering, the corporal fired from the hip before falling to the ground, a small dust cloud rising around his body. His last shot had struck home – though not fatally – one of the Moors lurched drunkenly and dropped his weapon, clutching his belly as he fell. The rest closed ranks as they bore down on the corporal. Men grouped together made a good target. Resting his rifle on a branch, the kid squinted down the sight.

  The Moors had reached the corporal. They were shouting and mocking, trying to determine if he was dead or merely pretending. They would not know. The man with the tommy gun suddenly rose up behind them, the gunfire a deep metallic stammer raking the group of Africans only a metre or so away. The tommy gunner leaped forward, still firing into the bodies on the ground. He stopped, the kid saw him straining his neck forward to look for movement. There was. The wounded Moor struggled to his feet and shot the machine gunner, who fell as if pulled by an unseen cord. The brief silence was broken by the sharp crack of the kid’s rifle. The Moor crumpled to the ground. The echo died away and the silence that followed was strange and artificial.

  The kid struggled to control his breathing. Sheltered by the wizened tree, he was now the last one. But how many of the Moors were still alive? Cautiously, he edged his head around the tree trunk. He could make out several dark shapes on the ground. And then he saw the man he had just shot stand for a moment before falling again. Heard him call out. ‘Guzmán. I’m hit.’

  From the deep scrub the kid saw the figure with the big pack begin to run across the dry ground, quickly dropping to his knees as he reached the wounded Moor.

  The kid had choices to make. Lowering himself to the ground, he began to drag himself forwards with his elbows, the heavy rifle gripped in both hands. Crawling like this in such heat was torture and he made progress slowly. Sweat stung his eyes and he paused repeatedly to wipe it away, listening for the sound of someone coming to the aid of the two men ahead of him. No one came.

  19

  MADRID 2009, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

  This afternoon there was a queue waiting to pass through the scanner, some conference on global policing on the fifth floor. Galindez waited in line with Tali, discussing cross-national similarities between police officers. Finally, with the crowd of visiting cops dispatched up to the conference centre, they were able to take the lift to the forensic department.

  ‘I feel a lot safer here after what happened last night.’ Tali said. ‘Sancho must have followed us to the judge’s office from your flat.’

  ‘And we know now Sancho and Agustín are working together – which also means the Centinelas know I was at the archive. Sancho seemed very keen to stop us depositing the documents in Judge Delgado’s night safe – so he probably had an idea what was in them.’

  ‘I reckon those two are enforcers for the Centinelas.’

  ‘It looks like it, although I’m sure it wasn’t them who grabbed the cop in the archive.’

  ‘No offence, Ana, but you were sure the guy in the archive was an old man. Now it turns out he was only thirty-nine.’

  ‘It was the way he was bent almost double – he must have been wounded and was trying to escape through the exit at the back of the archive. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with the Guzmán file, I might have realised what was happening and been able to help him. Mierda, a fine witness I’d make.’

  ‘Tranquila,’ Tali said. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Leaving the lift, Tali followed Galindez down the corridor and into the tiny cubicle of her office, watching as Galindez logged onto the network.

  ‘There’s an email here from Mendez. It’s the result of the DNA analysis.’

  From: Mendez.M.C.@guardiacivil.es

  To: Galindez.A.M.@guardiacivil.es

  Subject: re: Request for DNA Check

  * * *

  Ana María, DNA match established. Details of match:

  Subinspector Enrique Bolin, Policía Nacional, dob.25/10/1970. d.14/08/2009.

  Ana – this guy turned up dead two days ago, where the hell did you get this sample?

  Mendez.

  ‘This confirms that Bolin was definitely that poor guy I saw hide the file in the archive,’ Galindez said.

  ‘Stop beating yourself up, Ana. You couldn’t have known what was going on.’


  Unconvinced, Galindez deleted Mendez’s email and opened the database. ‘Let’s see what we can find. They update the information every week. New sources of documents turn up all the time – births, arrests, intelligence reports, that kind of thing. Thank God for bureaucracy.’

  ‘How about killings in la Guerra Civil?’ Tali asked.

  A man’s voice came from behind her. ‘That depends on whether the killing was recorded. In la contienda they often didn’t bother with such niceties.’

  Galindez straightened. ‘Capitán Fuentes, I was just demonstrating the new database.’

  Fuentes, short-clipped grey hair, tanned, stern military face. A big smile for Tali. He was holding a large manila envelope.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Señorita…?’

  ‘Natalia Castillo.’ Tali smiled. ‘Mucha gusta.’ Galindez noticed Fuentes’ surprise as he shook her hand. She remembered Tali’s strong grip from their first meeting.

  ‘Do you work for us?’ Fuentes asked.

  ‘I work at the university,’ Tali said. ‘The Guzmán investigation.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fuentes nodded. ‘Well, we’re very keen to participate in these inter-agency projects. Sorry, is it Profesora Castillo or doctor?’

  Tali shrugged. ‘Nothing quite so grand, I’m afraid, just plain old señorita.’

  Fuentes gave her his most charming smile. ‘I say something similar when people think I should be a coronel at my age. But we’re all part of a team, that’s the main thing, no?’ He grinned. And you’re lucky having Ana María on your team. We’re very proud of her work so far. I know she gets fed up working on war graves but that’s going to change when she gets her transfer to the profiling section. I keep telling her, just be patient. As long as the pay cheque keeps coming in, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘That’s what Ana María always says.’ Tali gave Galindez a wicked smile. Galindez frowned and drew her index finger across her throat.

  ‘She would.’ Fuentes nodded, not noticing Galindez’s discomfort. ‘She’s from a guardia family. Her father was one of the best. He set the bar very high for the rest of us.’

  Galindez squirmed, sensing the inevitable direction of the conversation. Annoyingly, she was correct.

  ‘You knew Ana’s father then?’ Tali asked, breaking another of Galindez’s many invisible rules – never to enter into discussion about other people’s relationship with Papá.

  It was always so predictable, Galindez thought: Miguel Galindez? Salt of the earth, guardia through and through, tough as they come. Clichéd variations on a theme, frequently with a hidden subtext: A shame about the daughter – she can’t even remember him. As if she could help it.

  ‘Back in the day,’ Fuentes said, ‘I worked with both Ana’s uncle and her father. Mind you, Natalia,’ he gave Tali his most charming smile, ‘back then, I was young and I had more hair.’

  ‘What was Ana’s dad like?’ Tali asked.

  ‘A bit older than me,’ Fuentes said, ‘and very tough. He knew the rules and he made sure the men kept to them.’

  Fuentes was being so affable, Galindez couldn’t help joining in. ‘That sounds familiar. Tia Carmen said if I didn’t lace my shoes up correctly, Papá would make me undo them and start again.’

  ‘That was Miguel,’ Fuentes agreed. ‘The men liked him because he’d never ask them to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. If we made an arrest, no matter how big the guy was, your dad went in first.’

  ‘So all three of you worked in the same unit?’ Tali asked.

  ‘No. They’d both just been promoted when I joined. That would have been the late seventies. They were in the Tactical Unit – public order, counter-terrorism, that sort of thing. I was still learning the ropes while they were sorting out demonstrations.’

  Galindez laughed. ‘I can’t imagine Uncle Ramiro running around with a baton, chasing demonstrators.’

  ‘We all did back then, Ana. But Ramiro was a very bright officer. He never stayed in any post for long. I suppose because his father was a general, Ramiro wanted to do as well as him. When you look at his career now, he’s done better.’

  ‘With the Afghanistan job, you mean?’ Galindez said.

  Fuentes raised his eyebrows. ‘Joder, the rumour’s true then?’

  ‘Uncle Ramiro mentioned it last week. I thought everyone knew.’

  ‘You see how it is, Natalia?’ Fuentes grinned. ‘I’m in charge of this department but the real power lies with Ana María – the girl with a general for an uncle. She knows what’s going on.’

  Tali raised her eyebrows. ‘You might think so, Capitán.’

  Laughing, Fuentes walked to the doorway and paused. ‘Nice to meet you, Señorita Castillo. I’ll catch you later, Ana María. Oh, and here,’ he passed her the envelope, ‘Dr Del Rio sent this up for you. The results of a handwriting analysis you requested.’

  Tali looked at Galindez questioningly.

  ‘The Guzmán diary.’

  ‘Ah, the dreaded Guzmán,’ Fuentes said. ‘I’ll leave him to you.’

  Galindez peered at the computer screen. Her eyes were dry and the words on the screen were starting to blur. Through the windows, the shimmering lights of Madrid formed abstract patterns in the summer night, the precision and geometry of buildings vague in the iridescent darkness. Tali was sleeping, her face hidden in her folded arms. Galindez ran a hand softly across her hair. She didn’t stir.

  The screen was blank. The database hadn’t provided a single match for any of the names listed in Guzmán’s diary. But, Galindez realised, those people probably never had any further record kept on them, once Guzmán’s unit had come for them. They disappeared into thin air. She chewed her lip. Not thin air. They disappeared into hidden graves or sites like the abandoned mine at Las Peñas. What she needed were the names of people who had existed officially, whose lives had generated documents and records.

  She remembered that first afternoon at the university in Seminar Room B. The photograph of Guzmán. Sullen eyes under dark angry brows. And there was the other man with him, thin-faced Teniente Peralta. She entered Peralta’s name into the search engine. The numbers at the top of the screen spun and two hyperlinks suddenly appeared. Not one hit in hours and now this.

  ‘Tali.’ No response. ‘Natalia. Querida.’

  Tali looked up, eyes struggling to focus. ‘I fell asleep. Sorry.’

  ‘Look, I got two hits on Teniente Peralta.’ Galindez selected the first link:

  Name: Peralta, Francisco Luis

  Subject: Capitán, Policía Armada, Brigada Especial

  Entry from: Police archive c.1952–1954 (no specific date) Record of award of Police Medal for Gallantry: ‘Exceptional Bravery in the Line of Duty’ – No details

  ‘So he was brave,’ Tali said. ‘Good for him. Muy bueno.’

  ‘Trouble is, there’s no further information.’ Galindez frowned. ‘But Peralta got his medal around during the time Guzmán disappeared. Christ, maybe he got the medal for making Guzmán disappear. Perhaps we can follow that up?’

  ‘Let’s do it when I’m conscious. Can’t we go home? Please?’

  ‘Just let me look at this other entry for Peralta. Then we’ll go, I promise.’

  Name: Peralta, Roberto Martinez d.o.b 12/6/1946

  Title: Child. Adopted

  Adoptive Parents: Capitán Francisco Peralta, police officer and María Cristina Peralta y Valverde, housewife. Real mother unknown.

  Entry from: Adoption records. June 1953

  ‘And?’ Tali was exhausted and impatient.

  ‘Teniente Peralta adopted a seven-year-old child. Called Martinez. Don’t you see? The boy could have been the son of the woman whose name was scratched on the wall at the comisaría – Alicia Martinez.’

  ‘Martinez is a common name.’ Tali didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘There has to be some link,’ Galindez muttered.

  ‘You mean some link to Guzmán?’

  ‘Of course. Teniente Peralta became Capit�
�n Peralta. He was promoted. Something happened: he got a medal, promotion. Why?’

  ‘Lots of things happened in the fifties, Ana. Guzmán wasn’t behind all of them. He was just one man. Nada más.’ Tali sighed.

  ‘He was a very powerful man,’ Galindez said. ‘What he was doing – like many others – was keeping a dictator in power. A dictator who had supported Hitler, for God’s sake. Yet if Luisa has her way, Guzmán will go down in history as some sort of victim. I can’t believe he’s as innocent as she makes out.’

  ‘This isn’t just about you proving Luisa wrong,’ Tali said angrily. ‘Hostia, you found material that’s a lot more dangerous to us than Guzmán, Ana María. The Centinelas’ files named hundreds of people who would have supported a military coup. Not to mention the people they were going to kill if the coup succeeded. Even though we’ve given the files to Judge Delgado, they may still come after us. We need to think about the present as well as the past. Don’t get so hung up on Guzmán. You’re getting obsessed, mi amor. Leave it.’

  ‘Obsesionada? Maybe I am. But don’t forget the Centinelas said they were using Guzmán in the build-up to those attempted coups. He was working for them, helping with their plans to undermine democracy.’

  ‘Well, the Centinelas will be exposed anyway once the judge publicises all those names in the files,’ Tali said.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Galindez continued. ‘The past and the present both involve Guzmán. I can use him to denounce the Centinelas’ terror attacks in the seventies and eighties and to demolish Luisa’s arguments. She can’t argue he was just a victim of circumstance if I can show he was involved in murder and treason.’

  Tali sighed. ‘Aren’t you pinning all your hopes on just one man? Luisa says he’s innocent, you say he’s guilty. Life isn’t always so clear cut. Maybe Guzmán isn’t the key to everything.’