The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  The driver was a fool to get lost. But then he probably knew that the moment Guzmán and his men held the car at gunpoint. The man made no attempt to defend her, surrendering with gibbering haste. It was cold that night, Guzmán remembered, cold and dark. The crowd of men around the car. Pistols pushed against the driver’s forehead though the half-open window, spittle on the man’s face as he struggled to control his fear. The woman was braver than him. Did they know who she was? she demanded, relying on her fame to save her. Of course they knew. Did they know how much she could be ransomed for? Naturally, they did. She was still asserting her financial worth as they pulled her and the driver from the car and shoved them to the side of the road. The driver was weeping, afraid to even look at his captors.

  Guzmán speared his last calamari with a toothpick and nodded to the barman. The man turned to shovel more squid onto a plate. He brought another beer, beads of condensation running down the glass, and placed it alongside the squid.

  There had been a brief discussion between Guzmán and his men as they searched the actress’s car. Her fate was already decided even though she continued to try to interest them in using her as a hostage. Mainly they argued over the woman’s clothes. Dressed in her finest to give the troops a show, the actress shivered in the night while the men discussed in low voices how much her clothes were worth. For Guzmán, the problem was somewhat different. Steal her clothes, leave her corpse naked, and in death she might have one last propaganda coup if the Reds gave photographs to the foreign press, enabling them to highlight yet another Nationalist atrocity. Shoot her as she stood, in her expensive outfit, and his men would resent the waste. They already resented young Guzmán’s promotion and his command over them. Even for Guzmán, whose skills in leadership were underwritten by acts of sudden, elemental violence, there was still a need to keep the men motivated and obedient. A regular army commander would just have ordered them to obey. But Guzmán’s men were irregulars, less accustomed to orders, more prone to contesting authority. There was a balance to be had between compliance and resentment. Later, he would have the benefit of experience as well as his lethal physical attributes, but back then he was still learning. And Guzmán was always a quick learner.

  The actress began to take off her clothes, seemingly unsurprised by his order. She undressed slowly and deliberately, as if going for a swim rather than standing in front of a group of enemy soldiers. The fur coat was first, passed reverently back from hand to hand, stroked, admired, carefully placed on the bonnet of the car. The silk dress, the stockings. There was silence now, except for the sobbing of the driver. The actress struggled for a moment to unhook her camisole before sliding it from her body and handing it to be passed back to the car to be placed with her other clothing. She stood naked, pale and shivering. Someone remembered her jewellery and after a moment’s hesitation the woman removed her earrings, her necklace and several large rings. The driver’s sobbing became incessant and incoherent.

  The men shuffled, unsettled, unsure what they were going to do with her. Some began to insult her: she was a whore, a Red bitch, she didn’t know what real men could do, she would do for them what she had done for the Freemasons, the Communists, the church burners. They were becoming a mob. This needed to be over quickly, Guzmán realised. But they were near to the front lines: if they shot her, the enemy might catch them out here in the open. If they stayed to take turns raping her, they ran the risk of being discovered by enemy patrols. Leadership, Guzmán was learning, always required action. It was time to act.

  There would be no shooting. Taking her with them would be too risky. A mass rape would take too long and would make them vulnerable to attack while the men shouted and jeered at the trembling woman. This was no longer about her and Guzmán decided what must happen to maintain their respect for his command. He stepped forward and the men stood aside, eager to see what the young teniente would do. The wire was already in his hands as Guzmán stepped behind the actress. Her head hung down as she hugged herself against the cold, unaware of Guzmán as he moved closer to her, quickly bringing the wire over her head and then pulling it tight around her throat.

  For a moment she was so surprised she seemed not to comprehend what was happening. But no one who is strangled dies peacefully or with dignity and she was no exception. Her inhibition at being naked in front of the enemy soldiers was quickly lost as she flailed helplessly and hopelessly, threshing against the insistent bite of Guzmán’s garrotte while the roaring in her ears drowned out the sound of her futile attempts to draw breath. There was still time to kick, to twist, to try to flee with those flailing legs, even as Guzmán’s great strength lifted her clear of the ground. Still time to do all those things that seemed to offer an escape from the crimson tide of asphyxia that turned her face into a dark mask punctuated by her desperate gaping mouth as she struggled to breathe. The actress died, threshing and kicking, finally forced face downwards onto the ground beneath Guzmán’s weight. He knelt astride her, his feet pinning her legs until it was over.

  He had killed like this on other occasions and he had done it well here. The impression he had made on his men was considerable. They would be much less willing to dispute his authority in future. Guzmán then turned his attention to the driver. The actress had been a woman and nothing was expected of her in the manner of her death. The driver was not a brave man and he shamed himself in the way he died. The men were glad he suffered.

  Guzmán chewed the hot squid, lost in thought, remembering soaking the two bodies in petrol after pushing them back into the car, the flames rising into the night sky. They heard the explosion of the petrol tank after a few minutes, but by then they were on the way back to their own lines. Guzmán took a sip of cold beer, lost in memory. The interior of the café dissolved into a comforting warm murmur. But introspection was too much of an indulgence to maintain for long. He blinked, willing himself back into the present, the smell of sweat, the thick cigarette smoke, the chatter of a dozen conversations. When he looked up from the bar, he was looking into the face of the big shave-head from the capitanía.

  Guzmán weighed the man up. Tall, heavy and thick-set, the man’s head glinted in the weak light of the bar. Maybe five or six centimetres taller. Christ, they pick us out of a mould. The man stepped forward and Guzmán tensed as he extended a hand.

  ‘Gutierrez.’

  ‘Guzmán.’

  They shook hands. The bar was crowded. It was unlikely the man would make a move here. But not impossible. Pull out a gun, shoot, then leave. The only thing the bystanders would remember would be the gun. Even if they were able to describe the killer, the police wouldn’t want to know. Nor the press. That was how it worked.

  Guzmán warily emptied his glass. ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Sure. You’re drinking beer? I’ll have one too.’

  Guzmán waved the empty glass and the barman brought two glasses of flat, yellow beer. Guzmán handed one to the man and they toasted one another warily.

  ‘You’ll be wondering why I’m here?’ Gutierrez asked, casually.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Guzmán said.

  Gutierrez grinned. ‘It isn’t that, Comandante. They haven’t sent me for you.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Guzmán’s voice was quiet, ‘for you.’

  Gutierrez betrayed a moment of irritation. ‘If it was that, I would hardly choose this place to do it. Although naturally, I would do it, Comandante. But don’t let’s argue – I’ve not got much time. There’s a lot to be done, what with the Caudillo’s speech, the parade and then the trade meeting.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ll be busy.’

  ‘I do my bit. Which is why I’m here. I brought you this.’

  Gutierrez reached inside his jacket and then stopped, looking down at the bulge in the left-hand pocket of Guzmán’s coat where the big Browning was pointing at his belly. Guzmán still held his drink in his right hand. He nodded to Gutierrez’s hand, hovering halfway inside his coat.

  ‘Very
slowly, Gutierrez. Don’t make me nervous.’

  Gutierrez opened his jacket slowly, holding it so Guzmán could see the manila envelope protruding from an inside pocket. As he had expected, the man’s holstered pistol nestled under his armpit. Gutierrez pulled out the envelope and offered it to Guzmán.

  ‘Step back a pace.’

  Gutierrez stepped back and Guzmán put down his glass and took the thick envelope with his right hand.

  ‘That was nicely done,’ Gutierrez said, ‘but I really have come to help you.’

  ‘And why was it necessary to send you?’

  ‘I sent myself, Guzmán. As the new head of Military Intelligence I wanted to meet you. That was why Carrero had me frisk you. To get a look at you.’

  Guzmán’s face hardened. ‘That must have been fun. So you’re the new boss?’

  ‘I am,’ Gutierrez agreed, ‘so fasten that tie, Comandante. You’re on duty.’ Both of them smiled with almost genuine humour, each confident that, if necessary, he could kill the other in a heartbeat.

  ‘So what do I need help with, Gutierrez?’

  ‘Your Caribbean friends,’ Gutierrez said, reaching for his beer. ‘I understand they’re causing you problems. What with their property purchases and their petty crime.’

  ‘I’m aware of all that. What I don’t know is where they are.’

  Gutierrez inclined his head towards the envelope. ‘There’s a lot there you don’t know, Guzmán. Have a look at it. You should find it helpful. I had some of Carrero’s best men on this.’

  Guzmán scowled. ‘I am one of his best men. And anyway, I’ve already used Exterior Intelligence Services to check them out.’

  ‘My information comes from other sources,’ Gutierrez said. ‘You should find the contents of this envelope very interesting.’

  ‘That’s all very well, what am I going to do with these bastards?’ Guzmán spat. ‘The Caudillo himself said they weren’t to be touched.’

  ‘That’s true, Guzmán. Officially. But from what I’ve seen, you need to take a wider view of things. When you see what’s in the envelope you’ll agree.’

  ‘Bueno. I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Good. I’d hate for this to become a problem on my watch.’

  Guzmán finished his beer. ‘Gutierrez, when I find out where they are, they’ll cease to be a problem, full stop.’

  ‘Be subtle, Guzmán,’ Gutierrez said quietly. ‘The last thing you want to do is go charging in after them. If you want to keep your job, that is. And your head, come to that. I mean it.’

  ‘Hasta pronto, Gutierrez. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.’ Guzmán stowed the envelope inside his coat and turned to the door.

  Gutierrez looked up from the lengthy bill the barman had laid on the counter in front of him. ‘You can count on that, Comandante Guzmán.’

  MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  Snowflakes fell through the late afternoon light, floating like ashes against the oncoming night. It was freezing. It seemed to Guzmán that he had never really been warm for months. The comisaría was as bleak as ever, shrouded in falling snow and sombre in the failing light. The lobby was dark and smelled of black tobacco and sweat. It was a familiar odour and one which put Guzmán at ease. Behind the desk the sargento was scrawling something in the day book.

  ‘Buenas tardes, mi Comandante.’

  ‘Muy buenas, Sargento. Qué pasa?’

  The sarge looked down at the book. ‘Still got one of the crew from the Bar Dominicana in the cells. That fat queen. Never stops complaining.’

  ‘Speaking of which, where’s the teniente?’

  ‘Out.’ The sarge frowned. ‘Got a phone call from the capitán-general’s office and went over. Oh yes, earlier on he brought a bloke in. Got him in cell sixteen.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say, sir. The teniente said it was to be kept quiet – on your orders.’

  ‘That’s correct. Did you put it in the day book?’

  ‘No, sir. Should I?’

  ‘No. Listen, I need you to pop out on an errand for me. A little job chatting to your mates in the know.’

  The sarge’s evil grin widened. ‘Any expenses, sir – to encourage them to talk?’

  Guzmán pushed a roll of dollar bills across the counter top. ‘Keep the change.’

  The money disappeared into the sarge’s pockets as he slid from behind the counter and pulled on his coat, pausing only to shout inside the admin room for one of the men to come and take over the desk.

  ‘Who are we interested in, jefe?’

  ‘Big bruiser attached to Carrero’s staff. Shaved head, name of Gutierrez. He’s the new head of Military Intelligence. That’s all I can tell you.’

  The sarge smiled. ‘That’s all I need, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán watched him go before returning to his office. He unlocked the door and went to his desk. Taking a set of keys from his drawer he returned to the corridor. There was no one about. No one would question him here, but it was better not to be seen. Potential witnesses were always best avoided.

  The cells were quiet. Unlike prison, where the sound of footsteps brought cat-calls, cries for food or just insults, here there was only an anticipatory silence. Guzmán’s feet echoed on the stone floor of the corridor. He walked down to the great iron banded wooden door and opened it. Leaving it ajar, Guzmán went to cell sixteen. The cell was in darkness. A man was sitting on the bed. As the door opened, he looked up uncertainly, seeing Guzmán’s bulk, framed against the sallow light from the corridor.

  ‘Cousin Juan,’ Guzmán said.

  The man stood up, tentatively extending his hand towards Guzmán’s offered handshake. It was one of many mistakes he had made recently. A powerful blow into his midriff left him gasping for breath, unable to speak. Guzmán punched him again and Cousin Juan fell to the ground, his breath rattling. Guzmán seized his feet and dragged the man out of the cell and towards the ironbanded door. Cousin Juan gasped for air, his hands clawing at the stone floor. The big door had almost closed under its own weight and Guzmán had to push it with one hand while struggling to hold an increasingly resistant Cousin Juan with the other. Finally, losing his patience, Guzmán punched him again in the belly, avoiding his head since he needed him to be conscious for what was to follow. Cousin Juan gave a visceral moan, curling up into a ball on the cold flagstones, retching and gurgling. Guzmán kicked the massive door open and Cousin Juan’s wordless cries of pain went unheeded as he was hauled through the door and down into the darkness beyond. The door slammed with sonorous finality and then Guzmán and Cousin Juan were alone together, in the place below, where the angular echoes and the sound of dripping water were the only noises to break the subterranean silence. Until the screaming began, and the ancient stones echoed once more with carefully elicited cadences of human suffering.

  It was seven thirty. Guzmán finished washing his hands, letting the tap run until the last swirls of blood disappeared down the drain. He dried his hands on the filthy towel. Entering the darkened mess room, he went to the armoury, unlocked the reinforced metal door and swung it open. He turned on the light and saw the bleak single bulb reflected in the reptilian glint of the weapons: the lines of rifles and machine guns, piles of batons, the boxes of ammunition. He found what he wanted and took it from the shelf. A heavy landmine. This was hardly part of the usual armament of a police station but then this was no ordinary police station. Locking the door of the armoury, Guzmán returned to his office, carrying the mine under his arm, his footsteps quiet and measured on the stone floor.

  Inside the office, Guzmán placed the mine on his desk. His desk for now, he thought. By tomorrow he could be in one of his own cells with some goon from the night shift kicking his kidneys. It was a distinct possibility, the way things were going. Everything was getting out of hand. He had a feeling his luck had turned against him. Perhaps it was all those gypsies he’d punched – and worse – during his career. They’d put the evil ey
e on him. But he doubted their power to do that. If any of those who came into contact with Guzmán at the comisaría had magical powers, they would never have remained there. The first fifteen minutes would have been enough. But no one had such powers. They stayed because the real power here was his.

  He had done great work here. Dealing with those people. Those who had chosen a path that led to the damp cells, where the walls echoed to the sound of shouts and blows and screaming. Familiar sounds. The annoying, slapping sound naked prisoners made when they fell repeatedly onto the flagstones. He hated them, shivering, bleeding, babbling excuses as they sprawled on the cell floor. Convoluted excuses for what Guzmán saw – and despised – as the result of their stupidity in making decisions. You made choices and you stuck with them. If you could not, you were weak. Weak, no matter how principled the arguments and excuses might be. There was no pity and very little mercy for such people. They had to die, both as an example to others and as punishment for their foolishness. Perhaps, now and again, Guzmán would be lenient, ending a wretched life quickly and unexpectedly. Such release was only for those who made a full confession and whose account did not in any way annoy him. But those occasions were rare.

  He struggled to pull the heavy metal filing cabinet away from the wall. He was sweating by the time he had moved it far enough to get at the flagstone. With sufficient strength you could do anything, he knew that well. Strength was important. The strongest side won the war. Before the war, life had been against him. A blur of accusations and squabbles, pointing fingers. The priest with his stick. Always you, boy. Causing trouble, playing too hard, hurting people. The stick rising and falling, the priest’s boot stabbing into his ribs. Later, Guzmán’s attempt to play rough with the girls caused even more trouble and the beatings got worse. Especially when one girl’s family got hold of him. Afterwards, when he finally crawled home, bloodied and bruised, he got another beating from his father who was just sober enough to do it before collapsing into his chair. After that, he had never gone back to school and passed the time in the woods, sharpening sticks with his big knife. Watching and waiting, without knowing what he was waiting for. Then the war came.