Guzmán removed the broken flagstone and took out the American money from the pit below. He would have to risk carrying it. If he had to flee, that cash could save him. There were other things down there: diaries, wallets, photographs, a few knives, pistols, bundles of foreign and frequently worthless currencies, a dessicated hand, some underwear, a few watches. Fragmented remains of fearful lives suddenly ended. He had other such caches, repositories of trophies and treasures. Like a magpie, perhaps. Or maybe not, considering what he had done to those birds in the woods as a youth.
And his book. Nestling in its metal box. The ledger containing the details of his murderous career, the full lists of names, dates, places. Details of the orders given and by who. Pages that would condemn him if found. He knew keeping such a record was stupid. No one in this job would do such a thing. Yet he did it. He had seen what happened to the Nazis after the war, how quickly their fortunes changed. This was his insurance, a bargaining chip he might use if ever things were to change – however unlikely that might be. In a life conducted amidst the uncertainties of perpetual war, sometimes you had to take a gamble.
The book was Guzmán’s gamble. Its contents were not accessible to the casual reader. He encoded his records using a Wehrmacht code the Germans used to communicate with their U-boats when they made secret visits into Vigo for supplies. Guzmán had combined the German code with another, one he had found below in the vaults on one of his expeditions down there. It had belonged to the Inquisition and was like no other code he had ever encountered. That code was safe beneath the floorboards of his piso in Calle Mesón de Paredes and even that had been encoded, disguised as a diary, a youthful memoir of his life. He had used the real Guzmán’s diary as a foundation, adding his own amendments – once he had mastered the other man’s handwriting. The diary set out his strong Christian values, describing a youth who helped the local priest deliver alms to the poor, his devotion to Spain and to Franco’s noble cause, his enlistment in the army the only reason he had not gone to the seminary for training. The new Guzmán had made some additions, adding in a few of his youthful experiences to reshape the journal. And to muddy the waters. It was a world of lies that recreated Guzmán in bogus, saccharine detail, though there was some truth in the later entries – the growing hatred of the villagers towards him before the war, their petty jealousies and complaints.
The diary, with all his additions and inventions that would distract the casual reader, was the key which would unlock his real chronology of horror, hidden here, beneath the flagstones. In this book there was no invention. Just lists of victims, locations where they died, sometimes the exact details if their deaths had been particularly interesting. The codes were strong and it would take great effort, whether in code-breaking or torture, to extract their secrets – assuming anyone could get hold of both parts of the code – since the diary and the book were always kept in different locations. He took the book and placed it back in its hiding place, closing the metal box. For now it was safe. In a minute, it would be safer still.
If things went against him, he might not see this treasure again: they might take it all from him, take away the life he had fought for more savagely and determinedly than anyone else in Spain. He placed the mine into the hole below the flagstones and armed it. Using a couple of ammunition boxes, he weighted down the trigger before putting the flagstones back in place. If things went well, he would return and disarm it at his leisure. If things went the other way, then whoever came to search his office would be rewarded for their trouble. Guzmán dragged the filing cabinet back into position. It was a good hiding place, but there were always some who would persevere in their search. Those who knew that dogged persistence was the key to unlocking others’ secrets. But that was their problem. Let them seek all they wanted. Let them decide if their pursuit was worth it. By the time they found this last secret, Guzmán might not even exist.
He poured a brandy and picked up the folder Gutierrez had given him, spilling out the contents onto his desk. Three photographs, secured with paper clips. He arranged them on the desk, half expecting them to be of some long-past action of his returning to incriminate him. But it was not Guzmán in the photographs, it was the Dominicans. Somewhere in the Caribbean, he guessed, noting palm trees in the background. The pictures were overexposed but he could make out their faces well enough, see the decorations and badges of rank on their uniforms, as the men stood stiffly at attention in front of the preening dictator Trujillo, at some military review. Whatever they were, they were hardly petty criminals. Nor was the man standing behind them in his dapper lightweight tropical uniform: Positano.
The next photograph was a family portrait of a young but recognisable Positano and four adults; parents and grandparents apparently. But the picture was not taken in the Neapolitan countryside where Positano supposedly lived until the thirties. There was no mistaking the familiar building behind Positano and his family. It was the White House, Washington, DC. The photograph was dated on the back: August 1922.
The telephone rang, loud and brittle in the sombre office.
‘Guzmán?’ It was Gutierrez. ‘You sent your sargento to check up on me. You were rather over-confident in his abilities, I must say.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, though he deserves to be. You can have him back if you want.’
‘Well, I do need someone on the desk here. Send him back. I’ll kick his arse.’
‘Do it later. I want to see you.’
‘Just as you wish,’ Guzmán said calmly.
‘Estación de Atocha. The bar on platform two.’
‘Now?’
‘Right now.’
‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’
As Guzmán came through the doors into the lobby, Peralta was at the desk, signing in.
‘Buenas tardes, Comandante.’
‘I’m going out for a while, Teniente, don’t go anywhere until I return.’
Peralta nodded. ‘Did you see your cousin, sir? In the cells…’
Guzmán nodded. ‘I saw him. He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘I released him,’ Guzmán said. ‘It was a personal matter. We never got on very well. I asked him a few questions, he couldn’t help us any further so he left.’
He walked to the big wooden doors and stepped out into the biting wind. Behind him, Peralta stood grim-faced. A spasm lanced through his gut and he turned his attention from Guzmán back to his health. Picking the phone up, he dialled Dr Liebermann’s number.
MADRID 1953, ESTACIÓN DE ATOCHA
Guzmán hated trains, and he hated the people who travelled on them. Passengers were either poor and stank, inviting derision, or they were well-off and self-satisfied, inviting jealousy and contempt. The station towered over him, a dark, gloomy pantheon, its huge glass roof wreathed in greasy smoke from the trains grunting into and out of the teeming platforms. He glowered at the beggars sprawled near the entrance, dwarves, amputees, the blind, the lame, men with open wounds, all keen to demonstrate the veracity of their claim for alms. Guzmán scowled at them and they scowled back, unafraid. What more could a brute like him do to them? Actually, Guzmán knew he could do quite a lot more. That thought cheered him as he picked his way through the crowds clustered along the platforms, scrambling onto the soot-stained trains that would carry them back to their hovels on the outskirts of the city. The station breathed them in and it breathed them out again, the blackened, gasping lungs of the city.
The bar on platform two was dirty and unappealing, as were its clientele, a handful of shabby businessmen waiting for their trains to grind into the station. This was the daily rhythm of their lives, Guzmán supposed, as he strained to see through the haze of smoke. Gutierrez was hard to miss: a tall burly man with a shaved head, his back to the bar, apparently intent in his newspaper. Which meant he had seen him the minute he came in. Guzmán kept his hands in his pockets as he edged through the waiting passengers towards the bar. There was a stenc
h from the toilet.
Gutierrez looked up. ‘Comandante. Have a drink?’
‘Brandy.’
Guzmán looked round, carefully scanning the customers of the bar.
‘You won’t see them,’ Gutierrez said, casually. ‘I don’t go in for gunfights in bars, Guzmán, not my style.’
‘And I never went to bed with an ugly woman,’ Guzmán said, taking the brandy.
Gutierrez didn’t have a sense of humour. ‘I came alone,’ he said, ‘except for your sargento, of course.’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘Where is he?’
‘Taking a shit, I think.’ Gutierrez nodded towards the door of the reeking toilet. ‘I certainly hope he doesn’t smell like that all the time.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Guzmán said.
There was the sound of someone struggling with a resistant chain and then the gurgle of ancient plumbing. The toilet door creaked open and the sarge appeared, fastening his belt. People standing near the toilet door looked at him, horrified, as they moved away.
‘Sorry, boss,’ the sarge smirked. ‘This gentleman got the drop on me when I started asking questions.’
Guzmán shook his head. ‘Losing your touch, Sargento. Piss off back to the comisaría and wait there till I get back.’
‘Don’t you want me to hang around here, sir?’
‘No. You’ve been no use so far. If Señor Gutierrez causes me any trouble I’ll call the Little Sisters of the Fucking Poor because they’ll be more use than you.’
‘We’ll have less of this “Señor”,’ Gutierrez said, lowering his glass. ‘Coronel Gutierrez, if you don’t mind, Comandante.’
‘I didn’t realise we’d become so formal in the secret police,’ Guzmán scowled, ‘or I’d have saluted you the moment I came in.’
‘Fuck you.’ Gutierrez smiled, sipping his brandy. ‘And by the way, Guzmán, if you really wanted to have me checked out, why use that degenerate? I wasn’t flattered.’
Guzmán lifted his glass to get the barman’s attention and ordered more drinks. ‘Believe it or not, he was once one of the best. Served with me in the war.’
‘Ah, the war.’ Gutierrez nodded. ‘I could see him being of use back then. What did he do, shoot the prisoners or torture the women?’
‘Very often both.’ Guzmán didn’t rise to the bait. ‘It wasn’t as if it was work for him, he loved it.’ He smiled. ‘Almost as much as I did.’
‘Those days are over, Guzmán,’ Gutierrez said. ‘You’ve adapted. Psychopathic wrecks like your sargento may have had a use once. We’re more subtle these days.’
You may be, Guzmán thought. ‘We all have the same aims in our different branches of security.’
‘In the many different branches of security,’ Gutierrez corrected. ‘Far too many. Still, that may change, since your unit will cease to exist very shortly and become part of Military Intelligence. And then you’ll report to me. Depending on how we decide you’ve handled this case so far of course.’
‘“We” decide?’ Guzmán asked, annoyed. ‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Carrero Blanco and myself.’ Gutierrez said. ‘I’ll report the details to him and he’ll make a decision and confirm it with the Caudillo.’ He emptied his glass and turned to Guzmán angrily. ‘You’re in some fucking trouble, you know, Guzmán.’
‘I’ve had no complaints about my work so far,’ Guzmán said, irritated.
‘Until now,’ Gutierrez said. ‘We all know the story. Your heroics in the war made you a favourite with the Caudillo. Inspiring stuff.’
‘Certainly did me no harm.’ Guzmán shrugged.
‘Well, it will do you no fucking good now,’ Gutierrez snapped. ‘Perhaps it would help if you just listened for once?’ He turned and ordered two more brandies.
‘Apologies, mi Coronel.’
‘You’re aware General Valverde’s not an admirer of yours?’
‘It would be fair to say Valverde hates my guts.’
‘Mostly due to the extraordinary independence of your command in Madrid,’ Gutierrez said. ‘That and your remarkable capacity for insolence.’
‘My orders always came from the Caudillo or Carrero Blanco,’ Guzmán said. ‘And one of the first orders I had was that General Valverde had no authority over my command.’
‘No wonder he hates you.’
Guzmán sniffed his brandy. It was cheap but smelled better with each glass. ‘You know the story, I’m sure. Valverde hates me because I was his protégé until Franco took a shine to me. And because I proved useful, Franco used me more and more. And as he did, he trusted me more than he trusted Valverde. Generals are fine for fighting battles, but they don’t go round knocking on doors and killing people. I do.’
‘For a long time, Valverde has been worried you’re spying on him.’
‘Spying?’ Guzmán smirked. ‘Reporting, let’s say. Didn’t you know?’
‘Of course I knew, Guzmán.’
‘And is there a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ Gutierrez said. ‘However, Valverde keeps trying to undermine you, writing letters of complaint to Franco, moaning about your lack of accountability, saying you’re a loose cannon.’
‘Of course he does. He fears me.’
‘But he isn’t stupid, Guzmán, however much you despise him.’
‘I realise that.’
‘And lately,’ Gutierrez took a drink, ‘he’s had more influence with the Caudillo. Economic policy mainly, but he uses every opportunity to complain about you.’
Guzmán’s grip tightened on his glass.
‘Valverde claims you use the comisaría for your own ends, says you’re not accountable to proper authority, abuse your position and so on. These things have a cumulative effect and that’s not counting the endless letters of complaint about your insolence and insubordination.’
‘Has there been anything in particular to undermine me with the Caudillo?’
Gutierrez nodded. ‘This thing with the Dominicans has put you in a very bad light. Valverde’s been banging on about how you failed to stop them shooting up half of Madrid. Not to mention of course, that these apes have intruded into business interests allocated to him by Franco himself. If it turns out you had any sort of connection with the Dominicans, it would be fatal for your career.’
‘Fatal for me,’ Guzmán corrected him.
‘For you,’ Gutierrez agreed. ‘And, in light of recent events, the Caudillo’s getting edgy. Valverde has been making the case for social change. He produces reports and papers almost daily on what needs to be done to improve the economy.’
Guzmán snorted. ‘I heard. He thinks he’s better suited to lead the country than Franco. But Valverde’s always been one for the long game. Never show your hand. That’s his style.’
‘He might be showing it now, Guzmán. This stuff about the Dominicans and you. Shit sticks. And he’s making it stick. He claims to have other things on you. I don’t know what yet. But I can tell you, you’re heading for trouble.’
‘I can handle trouble.’
‘Coño, he’s not going to challenge you to a fist fight. You don’t have anything going with these Dominicans, do you?’
‘Apart from a burning need to kill them? No.’
‘You haven’t taken cash from them? That’s what Valverde’s been saying.’
Guzmán felt the first stirrings of uneasiness. ‘Of course not.’
Gutierrez was looking at him intently. ‘Bien. Because that would be bad. And of course, if you had money they’d given you, and we found it…’
‘Money is money. How can you tell where cash comes from?’
Gutierrez shook his head slowly. ‘You’ve had it easy for too long, Guzmán. Banknotes have serial numbers – they make it easy to trace money – and establish guilt.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Guzmán said, aware of the large roll of dollar bills in his pocket. ‘The general’s a liar. Coronel, I haven’t taken any money.’
‘Good, at least we can d
iscount that,’ Gutierrez said. ‘If you had to be taken down it would seriously weaken Franco’s standing internally. It would also damage the standing of the intelligence services.’
‘You mean it would damage you,’ Guzmán sneered.
‘Claro. Valverde doesn’t just want to be rid of you, Guzmán. He’s trying to get Franco to reorganise the security services. Simplify them.’
‘With Valverde at the head of them?’
‘Naturally, how did you guess? I’d be out of work as well. But that’s just a part of it. Valverde is proposing massive economic change, opening up the economy to all comers, inviting foreign investment, developing the infrastructure, hospitals, roads, schools. Claims it would create a boom that would make Spain rich.’
‘Spain?’ Guzmán smiled.
‘Quite. All those ministers and generals that Franco has given little slices of the economy would have one big payday.’
‘But how would we keep control and maintain order?’
‘That’s the thing, Comandante. There would be no need to keep an iron fist hanging over the poor. There’d be so much work they’d be falling over themselves to do it. No one would care about the War, about maintaining the fear. Joder, the country would keep itself in line.’
‘Franco would never allow that.’ Guzmán said, outraged. ‘All he worked for, to restore order and civilisation. The Crusade.’
Gutierrez laughed. ‘The glorious Crusade. A war to restore Christian values to Spain. And what did he use at the heart of it? Fucking psychotic Moroccan mercenaries. Muslims. That tells you all you need to know about his values. If the economy suddenly explodes into life and there’s money being handed out in truckloads, which values do you think the Caudillo will cling to then?’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 49
