The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

‘For a start, I’m writing an article about my investigation into Guzmán’s activities. Why don’t you wait until it’s published? You’ll be in for a surprise.’

  Luisa’s eyes narrowed with apprehension and fury. ‘How can anything you fucking say possibly detract from a careful work of interpretive textual analysis? Tell me that, puta?’

  ‘Since you’re so keen, of course I’ll tell you, Luisa.’ Galindez shrugged. ‘You think you’ve produced a brilliant, theoretically informed interpretation of Guzmán’s rise to prominence in Franco’s Brigada Especial. And you focus on how he had little choice in any of this – largely using the diary as evidence?’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s no evidence to implicate Guzmán directly. People like Guzmán submerged their identity in the ideals and rhetoric of Franco’s cause. Personal responsibility was just a matter of sustained obedience to the State’s demand for deference and conformity. Guzmán was a node in a network, a conduit for the power above him. Read the diary carefully, Ana. There are important implications in that text. What I’ve written is an exemplar of its kind.’

  ‘Bueno, then you should know this: the diary isn’t what you think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Luisa’s expression betrayed her concern.

  ‘You noticed there’s a difference in Guzmán’s writing after the war begins?’

  ‘So? He was writing in different locations. The writing varies a little, naturally.’

  ‘Oh, it varies, Luisa. But not naturally. In fact, my colleague, Dr María Isabel del Rio – ever heard of her?’ Luisa shook her head. ‘Thought not,’ Galindez continued, ‘Positivist scientist. A top forensic handwriting expert. World class, in fact. She came up with four pages of reasons for believing sections of the diary were written by two different people.’

  ‘No. Por Dios. Imposible.’ Luisa’s eyes widened.

  ‘There’s more, Luisa: my colleague strongly suggests the second writer based his handwriting on the earlier style. Tried to imitate it, in fact. ’

  ‘No, no, no. Mentira.’

  ‘Not lies at all, Luisa. You can see where this is going, can’t you? Guzmán took over someone else’s diary. In fact, he seems to have stolen someone else’s life. He had the skill to try to fake this other person’s handwriting. Guess which bits aren’t his, Profesora?’

  Luisa moaned. It wasn’t a pretty sound.

  ‘Let me tell you then. The Guzmán who attended church, loved music, wrote poetry, and yet was beaten and victimised, the youth who looked forward to going to war as a means of getting away from his village – that’s the earlier person. The later entries in the strong angry handwriting occur once the war has begun. Around the time of the attack on Badajoz, in fact. Somewhere during the first year of the war, Leopoldo Guzmán – whoever he was – ceased to exist and a new Guzmán continued the diary after that.’

  Luisa shook her head.

  ‘I suppose you’ve never studied cryptography either, Luisa? Positivist science again, I’m afraid.’ Galindez found her anger was almost thrilling in its intensity. ‘Fortunately, I’ve got colleagues who’ve done little else all their working lives. And guess what?’

  ‘Stop it. Puta de mierda, stop it or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Sticks and stones, Luisa. I’ll tell you anyway. What’s written in the diary makes sense superficially, but all those lists and details are deliberately arranged: that part of the diary is some sort of elaborate code. Our top cryptographer ran it through a series of computer tests that can decipher most modern codes in a few hours. Not this one. He’s still working on it. But he’s clear on one thing, profesora, the diary is a means for deciphering some other work. The entire thing forms the key to reading Guzmán’s true secret. His book, Luisa. There was a book in which he wrote down what happened, what he did and who ordered it. His colleagues suspected he was keeping it. That skinhead – Sancho – the one who attacked me here, was looking for it. You were right that you could read Guzmán as a text, Luisa. You just didn’t try to find out which text needed to be read or how.’

  ‘It can’t be.’ Luisa’s face was tight with anger. ‘A code? That’s only your opinion. You haven’t cracked it.’

  ‘Not yet, but it will be cracked, Luisa. And then we’ll find his secrets with our positivist science. Find whatever his diary has hidden within it. And then we’ll find the book. The real book, Luisa. I’ve already got the key to the strong box Guzmán kept it in.’ Galindez dangled the key in front of her. The metal gleamed in the light.

  ‘No. Por favor. Don’t colonise Guzmán with your repressive science, Ana. Don’t make your work a threat.’

  ‘Luisa, if my work seems so threatening, it’s because it isn’t simply eccentric or strange, but competent, rigorously argued, and carrying conviction.’

  Luisa stared at Galindez wide-eyed, her mouth sagging open. ‘Coño, you’re quoting Derrida to me?’

  Galindez shrugged. ‘I couldn’t resist. And I haven’t even got to my evidence yet, profesora.’

  ‘What evidence?’ Luisa’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The evidence that shows Guzmán wasn’t some innocent drawn into Franco’s dictatorship by random circumstance,’ Galindez retorted. ‘Those bodies at Las Peñas. There’s a list of men in Guzmán’s diary in an entry for January the fourteenth. A list with fifteen names highlighted.’

  ‘The policía were bureaucratic…’ Luisa saw Galindez’s expression and shut up.

  ‘They were all arrested, according to the diary, on the morning of fourteenth of January 1953,’ Galindez continued. ‘By the end of the day, they were in the mine at Las Peñas, dead. In the diary, each of the fifteen names has the letter M by it. Presumably for muerte: they were all marked for death. But one was special, for some reason. There was a longer annotation against his name. Fourteen of them, Luisa, made to kneel by a drainage ditch, facing an old stone wall. Then shot in the back of the head. Not by a firing squad but by one person. One after another, all shot with a Browning semi-automatic. Guzmán’s pistol.’

  ‘It’s not possible to know all that,’ Luisa said angrily.

  ‘No? I measured the victims, measured the bullet marks on the walls. I found they had to have been kneeling for the bullets to hit the wall. And they were shot by someone of above average height. Someone at least one point eight metres tall. Someone like Guzmán.’

  ‘You can’t be that precise,’ Luisa protested.

  ‘Actually, I can be. But you were right about the police being bureaucratic, profesora. All those invoices, receipts and requisition forms. You’ve got boxes of them here at the university. Shame you never looked at any. Tali went through them earlier this week and she found these within a few hours.’ Galindez took a couple of faded papers from her bag.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘One is a receipt dated March 1948 for a Browning semi-automatic, purchased for a Comandante Guzmán and delivered to the comisaría in Calle de Robles. The other is an order for nine-millimetre ammunition dated November 1952. And, in case you’re going to say that’s a coincidence, there are these.’ Galindez waved the plastic evidence bag, rattling the four flattened metal stubs. ‘These are nine-millimetre bullets I dug out of the ground by the old wall at Las Peñas. There is one thing I can’t explain, though.’

  ‘Which is?’ Luisa asked.

  ‘Why he shot those fourteen men but chose to garrotte the fifteenth with wire.’

  ‘Someone else might have done it.’

  ‘There’s a name in that list, Luisa, that has more than just an M against it. Someone called Ernesto Garcia Mendoza. I have no idea who he was, but Guzmán must have wanted him dead very badly. He throttled him so hard the wire is still embedded in the man’s cervical vertebrae seventy years later. Do you know what Guzmán wrote next to Mendoza’s name?’

  ‘Qué?’ A string of snot dribbled from Luisa’s nose.

  ‘Chalina. Guzmán made a note to give him a necktie,’ Galindez said. ‘And he certainly did.’ Luisa was finally lost for wor
ds.

  ‘Lo siento, Luisa. I think my part of this investigation is done.’ Galindez started to walk to the door.

  Luisa screamed after her. ‘Guzmán’s mine, you can’t steal him from me.’

  Galindez paused by the door. ‘Two lesbians fighting over a man – how ironic is that, Luisa?’ She closed the door and stormed down the corridor, followed by a barrage of hysterical abuse. Still shaking with anger, she slowed as she passed the open door to the admin office. The light was on and she saw a large plan spread on a table near the door. Luisa must have been working on it earlier. Galindez looked around but saw no one. All the office staff had gone home long since. Curious, she decided to take a quick look. It was a faded architect’s floorplan dated 1941 and marked comisaría de La Policía Nacional, Calle de Robles, Madrid. A sudden adrenalin surge. It was a plan of Guzmán’s comisaría. The corner had been torn away but otherwise the document was in good condition. It was the work of a moment for Galindez to roll it up and take it with her. Luisa could have it back later.

  MADRID 2009, TEMPLO DE DEBOD, PARQUE DE MONTAÑA

  Six-thirty in the morning and the heat was already uncomfortable. Leaning against the railings, Galindez looked out over the sprawl of Madrid, its hectic contours punctuated by high rises and spires blurred by haze. Below, a path led down through trees and bushes towards the Plaza de España. Galindez watched a woman pushing a pram. Near her was a man in a dark coat, mopping his brow nervously with a large handkerchief. Other people, living other lives.

  Behind her were the squat tan buildings of Franco’s ancient Egyptian temple – a gift in recognition of a rare act of philanthropy by the generalísimo. The buildings surrounded by motionless rectangles of water, the colour of polished steel. The water threw erratic reflections over the ancient stones above. An idyllic spot to meet. Somewhere where she could spot anyone following her. This was the way she and Tali lived now: apprehensive and cautious. Meeting in out-of-the-way spots. Places with possibilities for cover and escape.

  Soft footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘Holá.’ Tali handed Galindez a Styrofoam cup of coffee. ‘It’s nice here. Nicer than when the barracks was standing, I bet.’ She blew on her coffee. ‘As you’d expect, Luisa took the news about the diary badly. Did you tell her you knew about the ear stud?’

  ‘No. I dropped the one with the bug down the side of my seat on the Metro. Let her chase that for a while.’

  ‘Well, following your visit the other night, she’s decided to take a sabbatical. I think she’s going to work out what to do now you’ve pulled the rug from under her Guzmán book.’

  Galindez nodded. ‘Speaking of Guzmán and books, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we go back to the comisaría? I thought maybe tonight?’

  ‘At night? Jesus, Ana, it was bad enough in the day. Why?’

  ‘No one will expect us to go there in the middle of the night, will they? And you know what? I think you were right that there’s something under the flagstone.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Look at this.’ Galindez brought out the folded floorplan she’d taken from the office. Tali watched her as she smoothed it flat before pointing out her discovery.

  ‘Mierda. That’s Guzmán’s office, isn’t it? And that little pencil mark – it’s a cross. You’ve got me excited now, Ana María.’

  ‘And the cross is right where the broken flagstone is. There’s only one way to find out for sure. Shall we do it?’

  Tali frowned. ‘I’m working until seven. Exam papers to be sent off.’

  ‘I could pick you up around then? A eso de las siete?’

  Tali finished her coffee. She shrugged. ‘Bueno. Let’s do it. Let’s see if Guzmán will give up his secrets.’

  24

  MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  Peralta looked up from the mess room table as Guzmán stormed in, angrily throwing off his dripping hat before tossing his wet coat across a chair.

  ‘Still snowing?’ Peralta asked, before realising that a chat about the weather wasn’t what his boss had in mind.

  ‘No, it’s bright and sunny, imbécil. Fuck the weather, Teniente,’ Guzmán shouted, pouring a coffee from the pot on the table. He took a drink and spat the coffee out. ‘Cold. Fucking cold. Puta madre.’

  ‘I could make some more, sir.’

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘I want you on the street. Those Dominican cabrónes are out there somewhere. Take the sarge and go and shake up a few informers. Find an addict or two we haven’t already knocked around and give them a slapping. Find out something, Teniente. I’ll expect your report at eight thirty tomorrow. Prompt. Me entiende?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’ Peralta stood up. ‘I’ll go and get the sargento.’

  Guzmán waited until the lieutenant’s footsteps faded away down the corridor. He picked up his sodden coat. The corridor was silent as he walked to his office. Behind him, he heard the clank of plumbing as someone flushed the toilet. The toilet door opened and Dr Liebermann emerged, his cadaverous face accentuated by the weak light. Liebermann looked at Guzmán with concern.

  ‘Would you come into my office please, Herr Doktor?’ Guzmán said. Liebermann followed unhappily.

  Guzmán sat at his desk. Liebermann paused reluctantly by the door.

  ‘Come in, Liebermann.’ Guzmán’s voice was unsettlingly pleasant. ‘And lock the door, doctor, we don’t want to be disturbed.’

  The pallor of the German’s face increased as he turned the key in the lock. Guzmán held out his hand. ‘Key.’ Liebermann reluctantly handed it over.

  ‘May I ask, Herr Comandante, what you wish to speak to me about in such secrecy?’

  Guzmán ignored him and picked up the phone. The private at the front desk answered.

  ‘Is Teniente Peralta still in the building?’

  ‘He left a couple of minutes ago, sir,’ the man said. ‘Shall I go after him?’

  ‘No. That’s fine. Gracias.’

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán put down the telephone. Liebermann was a study in concern. For himself.

  ‘Well, Herr Doktor.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘Finally alone together.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Herr Comandante.’ Liebermann bowed slightly.

  ‘Liebermann, I’m going to give you a choice.’ Guzmán stood up, and took off his jacket. Liebermann’s eyes fixed on the large pistol hanging in its holster under his left arm. Guzmán began to roll his sleeves up. ‘It’s a choice none of the people in your camps ever had.’

  ‘Have I offended the comandante in some way?’ Liebermann spluttered.

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘No more than usual, Herr Doktor. But then, your very presence offends me. Which is a bad thing. For you anyway.’

  Liebermann was shaking. He seemed to be having trouble speaking.

  ‘Liebermann, what’s going on between you and Teniente Peralta? And don’t lie to me. If you do I’ll have to hurt you. I’ll hurt you so badly it will surprise you how much pain you can take and still remain conscious. Although you must have some idea – given the experiments you carried out on all those children. Am I making myself clear?’

  Liebermann’s mouth moved but the words took a while to form. Guzmán could smell the sweat on him. ‘Very clear,’ he stammered.

  ‘Tell me,’ Guzmán said, ‘and you can leave in one piece.’ He sat down and placed his feet on the desk.

  Liebermann struggled to speak.

  ‘Now or never, doctor. What is it you and the teniente have so much to talk about?’

  Liebermann began to talk and continued for some time. When he had finished, Guzmán unlocked the door and Liebermann walked unsteadily down the corridor. Guzmán slammed his door and rummaged for Valverde’s brandy in his desk. Mierda. He’d given it to Señora Martinez. The woman who blushed. Whenever he remembered that, it pleased him. But Señora Martinez would have to wait. Now, there was work to be done: work Guzmán did best alone.

  The
cells were all empty except one. Guzmán walked to the end of the corridor and unlocked the big wooden door. Then he returned to the end cell and lifted the cover on the spy hole. Mamacita was sitting on the bunk, weeping. Guzmán opened the door, saw the fat face look up, a mask of lipstick and face paint like a drunken clown. Without his wig, Mamacita was a fat man with cropped hair and wearing white foundation. And a dress, of course. ‘Buenas tardes,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Please.’ Mamacita was suddenly agitated. ‘Let me go. I done nothing. Mamacita only wanted to work, never had nothing to do with those boys and their guns. Never been involved in no crime. Let me go, Señor Oficial?’

  ‘All in good time,’ Guzmán said. ‘There are more questions yet. When you’re a policeman, you have to ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘You ain’t no policeman,’ Mamacita hissed, not daring to look up.

  ‘What did you say?’ Guzmán asked.

  Mamacita looked up angrily. ‘You ain’t no policeman. This ain’t no police station either. Not a proper one.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it is.’ Guzmán smiled.

  ‘I heard what you did to that man. Juan. Heard it my very self. You dragged him off down below. Mamacita heard you, heard you say his name, heard you hit him. Then you drag him down those stairs and the door close. That what Mamacita heard. And then you come back alone and lock that door. Where he at? You ain’t no policeman.’

  Guzmán looked at the man. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mamacita looked down, his voice petulant.

  ‘And you won’t answer my questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I can’t make you,’ Guzmán said. ‘Not here, anyway.’ He reached into his jacket and produced the Browning, pushing the muzzle between Mamacita’s eyes. Guzmán looked at him. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to assist in my enquiries?’ Mamacita’s eyes bulged and Guzmán heard the fear in his sudden, rapid breathing. He cocked the pistol.

  The noise animated Mamacita. ‘I want to help,’ he whispered.