The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  They walked up the rough hillside, their feet crunching on the frozen ground. Lopez had trouble keeping up. The trees and bushes grew taller while the road below became hazy and imprecise, lost in folds of mist.

  ‘Please, I’m out of breath.’ Lopez mopped his broad forehead with his handkerchief.

  ‘We’ll stop here,’ Guzmán said. He waited patiently for Lopez to get his breath back.

  ‘You know, in my line of work, we make use of several strategies,’ Guzmán started, almost pleasantly. ‘One of which is never to leave a trail leading back to you. You use people as intermediaries. People who do things without knowing why they are doing it – that way they can’t betray the person who employed them. People like you and Señora Martinez.’

  ‘I see,’ Lopez panted.

  ‘You asked Señora Martinez to deliver that letter to me,’ Guzmán continued.

  Lopez nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘She didn’t know what was in it, did she?’

  ‘Not unless she opened the envelope.’

  ‘I’ll take that as no. Did you tell her anything else?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Besides, there was little I could tell her.’

  ‘And you paid her?’

  ‘Five hundred pesetas. She didn’t want to take it. But I was instructed that she should be given the money.’

  ‘Señora Martinez is a truthful woman,’ Guzmán said. ‘She told us about the money after an hour or two in one of our cells.’

  ‘I never asked her to do anything illegal.’

  ‘But we have no way of finding who paid you the money because you never met them.’

  ‘That’s true. I did say as much, Comandante.’ Lopez was sweating. ‘I—’

  ‘Not true. You lied to me before. You said Juan had commissioned you,’ Guzmán said.

  Lopez began to bluster. He was sweating heavily. Guzmán held up his hand. Lopez stopped talking.

  ‘You spoke with my mother and Juan. What did they say about our village?’

  ‘They talked about when you were young, your love of music and books, the certificates you gained in first aid before the war came and you enlisted.’

  ‘Did they talk about our house?’

  ‘They did. The big house with the barn. Your brothers and sisters, and Uncle Pepe and Aunt Julia living in the attic.’

  ‘In the attic. Of course.’

  ‘Until the day the soldiers came. Juan and your mother went to market that day. Such an isolated village, it seemed a worthless target. When your mother and Juan returned, they found the house burned down, many of the villagers dead, your aunt, uncle, your brothers and sisters, all slaughtered. Your family almost wiped out. As if marked out for destruction.’

  Guzmán lit a cigarette. ‘And Mamá and Juan stayed on in the village?’

  ‘They eventually rebuilt the house. Hoping you’d return. Later, when you didn’t come back, they thought maybe you’d gone abroad or been killed.’

  ‘The war changed me.’ Guzmán threw down his cigarette. He had decided to kill Lopez when they were sitting on the bench. Lopez had been used. He knew nothing of value. Even so, he knew too much about Guzmán’s business. Guzmán took his hands from his pockets. It took a moment for Lopez to see the wire held taut in his gloved hands. Guzmán recognised the look on the man’s face, the sudden awareness of his impending death. But by then it was far too late to do anything because Guzmán was on him, bringing the unwelcome revelation that while killing was easy, dying was much, much harder.

  MADRID 1953, CALLE DE SAN NICOLÁS

  Peralta lay in a deep, timeless sleep and, for a while, the world ceased to exist. Guzmán, the ravaged sargento, the constant biting cold as he tramped the streets, all floated away. Even the pain in his belly subsided. And then, the sharp ring of the telephone jolted him into unwelcome consciousness. He sat up. There was still daylight outside, edging into the darkened room through closed shutters. Looking at the clock, he saw he had been asleep only a few hours.

  ‘Paquito, are you awake?’ His wife was at the door, looking at him with what seemed to Peralta to be undue concern. He didn’t know she’d heard him screaming in his sleep again.

  ‘What is it?’ He swung his legs out from under the sheets. The room was icy.

  ‘Telephone. From a call box. Comandante Guzmán.’

  Peralta grabbed the phone, wincing at the sudden pain deep in his belly. ‘Jefe, qué pasa?’

  ‘A job’s come up.’ Guzmán’s voice was low. Peralta heard the sounds of a bar. ‘I need you to do it, Teniente.’

  For a moment, Peralta thought he was being asked to kill someone. His heart sank, knowing he could not refuse.

  ‘I want you to make an arrest. It’s a relative, my cousin Juan. I’ll tell you why later, but get over there and pick him up now. Take him to the comisaría, put him in a cell and don’t let him talk to anyone – even you. Understand?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Peralta said.

  ‘Joder. You don’t need to. His name is Juan Balaguer and he’s at the Hotel Barcelona. You know it? It’s just off Preciados, opposite the Comedy Theatre.’

  ‘I know it,’ Peralta said.

  ‘Arrest him.’

  ‘What charge?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll think of one,’ Peralta said quickly.

  ‘Complete isolation,’ Guzmán said. ‘That understood? Not you, no guardia, no one within thirty metres of him – not even the sarge.’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Peralta said. ‘Will I need any assistance?’

  ‘No. The man isn’t violent. Get the cuffs on him and take him straight into custody. I’ll see you there later.’ The telephone went dead.

  ‘I’ve got to go out, mi amor,’ Peralta called, and then once more a sudden white-hot spasm of pain doubled him up.

  MADRID 1953, CALLE PRECIADOS

  Peralta parked the car outside the Hotel Barcelona. The commissionaire stepped forward to assist but Peralta waved his identity card and brushed the old man aside. The commissionaire shrugged. The police were bad news, and if they had no interest in him, he was happy to mind his own business.

  The clerk at reception looked up and Peralta produced his card once more. Whatever the man had done in a former life, Peralta thought, he had a guilty conscience, suddenly becoming nervous and clumsy, his forehead studded with beads of sweat.

  ‘Señor Juan Balaguer? Si, señor. Would the officer like to see the register?’ The clerk pointed with a shaking finger to a signature on the thick vellum page.

  ‘Did you fill in all the necessary paperwork to submit to the police?’ Peralta asked.

  The man seemed to be losing control of his limbs. Papers flew onto the floor, pens rolled across the counter. If ever a man was rattled by the appearance of a policeman, it was this one. But today was his lucky day, assuming he complied with Peralta’s orders.

  ‘We have it all here, señor. They’re submitted on a weekly basis, the officer will understand.’

  ‘I understand this,’ Peralta said, in a pale imitation of Guzmán’s brusque approach. ‘If this man has registered in your hotel and you have not filled in the necessary forms, you may be joining him in prison.’

  The threat made the receptionist even more nervous. After a long couple of minutes, the man finally found the bundle of forms. Peralta took it from him.

  ‘I’ll need the page from the register well.’ Peralta took hold of the big ledger, ripping the page from its binding. ‘Room number?’

  ‘Forty-three, señor. Second floor. The lift is over there by the stairs.’

  ‘Do you have a key?’

  ‘Of course. Here it is.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Peralta said. He had a feeling the receptionist might not be above calling this Cousin Juan and tipping him off. Probably before doing a runner himself.

  The lift was slow and noisy. The receptionist looked at his shoes for most of the tortuous journey upwards. Peralta had never been in this hotel before. It was clean and well
lit, a little upmarket for Comandante Guzmán’s country cousin, he thought.

  Peralta pushed the receptionist ahead of him once the man had opened the lift doors. They walked down the silent hallway in single file. The corridor was clean with only a slight air of dust and used sheets and just a faint undertone of shit as they passed the communal bathroom.

  Peralta thought about making the arrest and the possible outcomes – many of them pessimistic. Cousin Juan might open the door with a gun. If there really was a Cousin Juan. Extemporising further, Peralta saw a room filled with the remaining Dominicans, armed to the teeth, high on drugs and aching to get the man who killed their comrade. And here he was, unassisted, strolling into their midst. Peralta drew his pistol, noticing the effect it had on the clerk: sweat dribbled down his sallow cheeks.

  Peralta leaned close. ‘What did you do? You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I was a prisoner of war until two years ago, señor. I ran away from a work detail and came back to my wife. All I want is my job and my family, nada más, I want nothing to do with politics. I’ll give you money. Every payday, just don’t send me back.’

  Peralta took the key from him. ‘I don’t want money. Go back to work. And make sure your paperwork is always up to date, entiendes? And, hombre, keep your head down when I come through reception.’

  The man nodded and turned on his heel, walking away as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.

  Peralta knocked on the door, pistol ready. He was sweating.

  ‘Quien es?’

  ‘It’s the manager. Open up, please. We need to check the room.’

  The door opened and Peralta pushed his pistol into the man’s face. He had heard Guzmán and the sarge talking about this approach. It was a way of focusing the suspect’s attention. It worked. ‘Señor Balaguer?’

  ‘Sí señor, Juan Balaguer, para servirle. Pasa algo?’

  The man stepped backwards into the room. Peralta brought up his identity card and held it alongside his pistol.

  ‘Policía? Is this about my mother?’

  ‘No. You’re under arrest. Get your jacket.’

  Peralta continued to aim the gun at the man as he retrieved his jacket from a chair.

  ‘I demand to know what this is about.’

  ‘All you need to know is that you are under arrest.’

  ‘But this is outrageous. I demand to speak to your superior officer. I demand you give me his name. I’ll explain to him.’

  ‘Señor Balaguer, we don’t give out our names and you can explain yourself at the comisaría, entiende?’

  The look on Cousin Juan’s face showed he understood very well.

  ‘Does this concern the war?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I thought it was about my mother. She’s gone missing. We’re here to see a relative, a Comandante Guzmán. My mother went to meet him two days ago, we haven’t seen her since. Please, let me explain. Maybe you can help me.’

  Peralta motioned for the man to sit on the bed. ‘Go on.’ He pulled up a chair a metre from Cousin Juan and sat down. ‘I’m listening. But make it quick.’

  MADRID 1953, HOTEL WELLINGTON, CALLE DE VELAZQUEZ

  The tram stopped, spilling a clutch of passengers into the brittle cold. Guzmán pushed his way out of the crowded tramcar, carefully checking for any sign of being followed. Across the street was the Wellington Hotel. Baths and telephones in every room. A hotel for the rich and the powerful – which was why Señor Positano and his delegation were staying there.

  The opulence of the reception area was impressive: the carpet of the capitanía general was far inferior to the one Guzmán walked on as he made for the sleek polished reception desk with its glinting brass rails. The receptionist also clearly thought himself of a higher calibre than normal, given the way he looked at Guzmán as if he had just crawled out from under someone’s shoe.

  ‘May I help you?’ The man’s voice implied this wasn’t likely.

  ‘You have a Señor Positano staying here,’ Guzmán said. ‘Is he in?’

  The man peered down his nose disdainfully. ‘The north American gentleman? What do you want to see him about? Señor Positano is a very busy man.’

  Guzmán nodded, resigning himself to the fact that there were so many people in the world who couldn’t see trouble when it was right in front of them. Still, it was best not make a scene. Usually. He seized the receptionist by the knot of his tie and in one powerful motion dragged the man across the counter, depositing him on the thick pile carpet at his feet.

  ‘Is he in or not?’ he growled, looming over the sprawling receptionist. ‘Yes or no. Otherwise, I’ll take you back with me to the comisaría and let some of my boys play football with your head if you prefer.’

  The man looked at the identity card with the logo of the General Directorate of Security and realised his mistake.

  ‘The gentleman should have said,’ he panted, trying to get to his feet. ‘Señor Positano is in his suite. Please, momentito.’

  Guzmán stepped back to allow the trembling receptionist to get up. A couple of guests across the lobby watched from a leather Chesterfield with sensible indifference. The receptionist hurried behind his desk, keeping a wary eye on Guzmán.

  ‘Shall I call Señor Positano?’ he asked, as if Guzmán had just walked in.

  ‘By all means,’ Guzmán said, sliding his identity card across the desk as the man dialled the number. There was a brief conversation as the receptionist announced the visitor from the Brigada Especial.

  ‘Señor Positano will be pleased to see you, Comandante. Room eighty-seven.’ The man handed Guzmán’s ID back with a shaking hand.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Guzmán said, walking over to the lift. The doors opened and an elderly dwarf dressed like an organ grinder’s monkey beckoned him in.

  ‘Muy Buenas, señor,’ the man lisped through his remaining teeth. When Guzmán looked more closely, he saw there was no plural: one tooth remained, a stained solitary tombstone in the centre of the man’s upper gums.

  The lift whirred upwards, almost silent compared to the hotels Guzmán was more accustomed to visiting.

  ‘The gentleman is visiting the norteamericano?’

  ‘The gentleman is minding his own business.’

  ‘They tip well, these norteamericanos.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘The Dutch. Mean bastards. No tips from them.’

  ‘Of course not. Protestants. What do you expect?’

  ‘Courtesy. Civility. These are things one expects.’

  ‘And money.’

  ‘Hombre. That goes without saying.’

  ‘And the Italians?’

  ‘They don’t tip. They ask for the address of a whore, then they don’t tip.’

  ‘Perhaps the whores are disappointing? Maybe that’s why they don’t tip.’

  ‘The whores are perfectly adequate. They should tip.’

  ‘What of the English?’

  ‘The English? Who knows? They don’t speak our language. They complain a lot.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Who knows? They don’t speak our language. They shout.’

  ‘But you get by? Even with all these tight-fisted foreigners?’

  ‘I get by. A man must live.’

  ‘I think must is too strong,’ Guzmán said, philosophically. ‘There’s no must about it.’

  ‘As the caballero says: he knows more than I do about that. I press this button. This is my life. People use the lift to come in and go out. I spend my days and nights in here. I go up. I come down.’

  ‘I understand.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘And having come down, you go up again.’

  The dwarf nodded appreciatively at his understanding.

  They reached Positano’s floor. Guzmán wasn’t sorry; the lift dwarf was beginning to emit bodily odours usually encountered in piles of executed prisoners. He opened the cage door and waved Guzmán out with a flourish, one hand
extended hopefully. Guzmán bent and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘I wish the señor a good day,’ the dwarf said, solemnly.

  ‘The señor is very grateful,’ Guzmán said. The small monkey-suited man peered at him with rheumy eyes as the lift sank downwards and slowly disappeared from view. Guzmán waited until the lift had gone. Nothing so depressing as a dispirited dwarf, he thought. They deserved no tips, the Italians were right about that.

  The carpet on this floor was even more luxurious than that in the lobby. The hotel was clearly of a much higher standard than the drab austerity of most of Spanish hotels, but decor was far from Guzmán’s mind as he approached the door of room eighty-seven. He had considered on his way over how to approach Positano – not least because of the possibility the Dominicans might be there. The surviving Dominicans, at any rate, Guzmán thought with a smile.

  He wondered whether Positano might strike first. Probably not. This was a high-profile hotel. A strange place to have a shootout with the security services. Perhaps, Guzmán thought, he should just go in with his pistol out and see what happened. End it right here, one way or the other. But that would displease the Caudillo and would certainly end his career, assuming he survived.

  He knocked on the door. Positano opened it at once.

  ‘Señor Positano. Comandante Guzmán. Brigada Especial de Policía.’

  ‘Ah yes, we have met. Please come in.’

  The room was opulent, all dark velvet and polished wood. Positano waved Guzmán to a sofa by a large window, flanked by floor-length curtains. Guzmán crossed the room, braced for an attack.

  ‘Nice room,’ he said, sinking into the soft upholstery of the sofa.

  ‘The US taxpayer’s paying.’ Positano indicated a large drinks’ cabinet. ‘May I offer you something? No, of course, you’re on duty, I apologise.’

  ‘This isn’t America, Señor Positano,’ Guzmán said sternly. ‘I’ll have a large brandy.’

  Positano poured two large glasses of brandy. Guzmán took the proffered glass and inhaled the aroma. Positano sat in a leather armchair, and looked across at him, waiting for him to speak. Guzmán took his time savouring the Napoleon brandy. Perhaps a man who poured such large drinks couldn’t be all bad.