At least he had ruled out Señora Martinez from Valverde’s games, though Guzmán still didn’t know why she’d been picked out to deliver the letter from his mother. Sure, it was the private detective, Lopez, who gave her the letter, but Lopez had dealt with his client at a distance and he was too poor and desperate to care that he didn’t know who his client was. Someone had known Guzmán intended to return to her piso after the raid on her neighbours. Maybe Gutierrez? Military intelligence could easily have put a tail on Guzmán. Too many questions and not enough answers, Guzmán thought. He was unused to that situation.
In the morning they would hold the trade talks. Franco, dressed in one of his many over-decorated uniforms, would climb into the leather and walnut interior of his limousine and drive in a heavily guarded convoy from the grand country house at El Pardo. The convoy would divide as it entered the city, most of the cars heading for the Trade Ministry while Franco’s car and a second, full of bodyguards, would take a carefully planned secret route, rejoining the convoy as it neared the official destination. Standard practice to avoid ambush. Gutierrez would probably be with Franco or in the car accompanying him. Guzmán would do exactly the same if he were organising it. A faultless plan. Puta madre. Unless someone else knew. And then it could go badly wrong. Guzmán threw the cigarette down, looking round for a phone box. He stormed across the road and into the grocery. The shop smelled of its produce: hams hanging from the ceiling, baskets of dried pimientos and garlic on the walls, bundles of herbs. The grocer looked up from the counter, surprised by Guzmán’s haste.
‘Policía. This is an emergency. I need to use your phone.’
The grocer looked at the identity card thrust in his face and obeyed. He led Guzmán into a small office at the back of the shop and indicated the big Bakelite telephone on the desk amidst a heap of papers, stuttering his apologies for the mess even as Guzmán pushed him from the room. Pulling out a scrap of paper, Guzmán dialled the numbers on it and heard the phone ringing.
‘Gutierrez?’
‘Guzmán. Where are you?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Guzmán said impatiently. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Actually,’ Gutierrez’s voice was cold, ‘I’d rather you didn’t. It’s not very healthy to be associated with you right now.’
Guzmán took a breath. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you,’ Gutierrez snapped. ‘Listen, Valverde has been in touch with the almirante. He wants you arrested – he says he’s got evidence that will put you in front of the firing squad.’
‘And the almirante believes him?’
‘He has to consider the general’s accusations, Guzmán. I don’t know what the evidence is yet, but he says it’s convincing. Listen, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but what the hell. If I was you I’d be considering taking a holiday. Somewhere far away. A long holiday. Take Señora Martinez with you. You could try, at least.’
‘Fuck that, Gutierrez. Mira, I just need to ask you one thing.’
‘Guzmán, right now you’re poison. My men may be coming for you by morning.’
‘Just listen. It concerns the route tomorrow. For the Caudillo. Not the decoy. Franco’s car. I need to know the route.’
‘Eres loco? Or are you drunk? You think I’d discuss that with you? With anyone?’
‘Gutierrez, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’ ‘Important to who? It’s important to me to stay alive. And if I start sharing operational secrets with you, what happens if you go down after Valverde meets with the almirante? No, hombre, you’re asking too much.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Gutierrez, this is urgent.’
‘Guzmán, you more than anyone know how these things work. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’
‘You should change the route,’ Guzmán said. ‘If you won’t tell me, then just change it. I’ve got a hunch—’
‘Hostia, Guzmán. A hunch? What am I going to tell the Caudillo? Comandante Guzmán’s had a hunch? Changing the route would be massively disruptive unless there’s a compelling reason. I need facts, Guzmán. Facts. Not a fucking hunch. Puta madre.’
‘Let’s try it another way, then.’ Guzmán mopped the sweat from his forehead. ‘I’ll tell you the name of the street and you tell me if it’s part of the route.’
‘I’m not playing games, Guzmán.’
‘If you say no, I’m wrong and we drop it. If you say yes, bueno, you can take appropriate action.’
A prolonged sigh. ‘You’re going to get me shot, Guzmán. What street?’
‘Calle del Maestro Victoria.’
A long pause. ‘Mierda, coño. What the fuck is going on?’
‘So the route passes down there?’
‘You seem to know everything already, Guzmán.’
‘I don’t. But I think I know who else might.’
‘And you think the Caudillo’s life may be in danger?’
‘I do.’
‘And how long have you thought this?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Jesús Cristo y todos los santos. Look, if I take this to the almirante, I’m in the shit for what I’ve just told you and you’re already in enough trouble. Christ, I’ll have to do something though.’
‘Look, I’m going to Calle Maestro del Victoria now. If I’m right about this, I’ll sort things out there. I’ve arranged for support from the comisaría. If there’s any trouble, we’ll handle it. I’ll call you once it’s over.’
Gutierrez sighed. ‘Why not? I won’t be going anywhere. I’ll be here. Sorting out a new route.’
‘Gracias, Gutierrez. I owe you one.’
‘Guzmán, you owe me several,’ Gutierrez snapped. ‘Unless we end up standing side by side in front of a firing squad.’
‘If we do,’ Guzmán said, preparing to hang up, ‘I’ll hold your hand.’
MADRID 1953, CALLE DEL MAESTRO DEL VICTORIA
Guzmán strolled casually along Calle del Maestro del Victoria. The street was narrow, framed by sombre high buildings. Apartments, a few shops, several warehouses. It was hard to miss the pharmaceutical warehouse, the large painted letters on the side clearly spelled out its function. Guzmán loitered in the doorway of a darkened shop, watching the building. There were fewer people on the street now. He looked at his watch. Eleven forty. If Gutierrez didn’t stop him, Franco would be coming down this very street around nine thirty tomorrow. Gutierrez didn’t entirely trust Guzmán, that had been obvious. Changing the tightly drawn-up plan would inconvenience Franco and annoy him immensely. And, if it turned out to have been for nothing, hostia, someone would pay. Doubtless, Gutierrez would make sure it wasn’t him.
Guzmán thought angrily about Mamá and Cousin Juan. They didn’t just turn up by coincidence: Valverde had brought them. Cousin Juan had told Guzmán that in return for a release from his suffering in the dungeons beneath Calle de Robles. The truth through pain. But what Juan couldn’t say was whether Valverde knew Guzmán was not Guzmán. Had he known, Juan would certainly have told him.
The sky was dark. Thick clouds hid the stars. The streets were almost empty. Soon it would be time. But first, Guzmán had to make sure that there was no sloppiness in the execution of his strategy. Strolling back up the street, he found a bar and used the phone there.
The sarge answered. Guzmán ordered him to bring the squad immediately and to secure the building.
‘Where will you be, jefe?’ the sarge asked.
Guzmán’s voice came down the line amidst the sounds of the bar, the sound of other people’s lives being lived. Laughter.
‘I’ll be inside the warehouse, and if anything happens to me, Sarge,’ he growled, ‘dales café. Mucho café.’
‘A sus ordenes. We’ll be there soon. Don’t go in alone, sir.’
Guzmán put down the phone. He didn’t need advice from the sargento. Nor from anyone. He was Guzmán. Whoever else he had once been was of no importance.
Guzmán stood a
cross the street from the warehouse, finishing his cigarette. He was deep in dark reverie, unsure now if there could be an acceptable ending to this. His preferred choice would have been to triumph and return to his position of Franco’s favourite executioner. But that seemed unlikely. If Valverde had given Franco the information about his past or rather, the real Guzmán’s past, he was finished. The odds were heavily against him. But then the odds had been worse at Badajoz, scrambling up that hillside in the heat and dust, with the Moors clambering after them, their cruel voices sharp in the shimmering air. There had been so many of them. By the end there were none. Fuck it. Let them come. The Dominicans were the only target available to him. Flesh and blood, still living, moving around in that warehouse. Laughing at him. He could almost hear their laughter, hateful and loud, like the kids at school used to laugh. Though few of them were laughing now.
There were faint pale lights in the warehouse. The warehouse Valverde had sold to the Dominicans. He crossed the street, the cold dissipating under the raging heat of his anger, humming to himself, ‘Facing the sun, in my new shirt, that you embroidered in red yesterday. That’s how death will find me if it takes me, and I won’t see you again.’ It was ‘Cara al Sol’, the Falangist marching song. The Republican songs were the songs of losers, Guzmán thought, songs full of resignation, of saying last goodbyes as death fell upon them, songs of the defeated, bleating at the injustice of it all. The Nationalist songs crashed like marching boots on conquered cobbles: victor’s songs.
Guzmán followed an alleyway down the side of the warehouse. He walked slowly, alert to the sounds of the night. A cat passed him, eyes glinting as it darted into the shadows. Guzmán held the big pistol by his side. His plan was simple: kill the Dominicans no matter what. He would certainly get some of them, he had no doubt. But the outcome of this battle was far from certain, because even if he won it, there was still the matter of Valverde and the Americano. Still, first things first.
At the end of the alleyway he came to the yard, a wire-fenced enclosure filled with a sprawl of packing cases and boxes. Piles of crates were stacked against the back wall of the building across from large wooden double doors. Sheds and outhouses lined the perimeter of the yard, offering cover. Guzmán worked his way around the outer fence slowly, getting a feel for the place. The deliveries would have to be made through the front of the building. The rear door would allow them to drive right through and unload in the yard. The wire fence was unbroken: he would have to climb it. The wall of the building backing onto the yard loomed upwards in the darkness. Assuming the sarge got the squad here quickly, there was no easy way out for the Dominicans.
Guzmán holstered his pistol and took off his coat. The wire fence was about two and a half metres high. He took off his hat and threw it over. Throwing his coat up, he managed to drape it over the top of the wire and then seize hold of the upper strand, the coat protecting his hand as he heaved himself up, his feet scrambling to gain purchase on the meshed wire. Even for him it was hard work, but finally, sweating and cursing under his breath, he managed to pull himself over the top of the fence, struggling not to fall to the ground on the other side. It was an inelegant manoeuvre and added to his simmering rage. He reached up and tugged at the overcoat. It was stuck. He swore bitterly but decided to leave it. If he was going to be shot, an overcoat wouldn’t help. He put his hat back on. No point looking slovenly when paying a visit.
Guzmán went towards the big wooden door, his pistol ready in his hand. There were no sounds from inside. He placed a large hand against the rough wood and pushed. The door was locked. There were windows, but these were some six metres above him. The stacks of crates reached maybe three metres or so but Guzmán could see he would never be able to access the windows from those. He moved to the side of the building where the wall of the warehouse adjoined the alleyway. A pile of broken crates sprawled in a corner. Guzmán searched but there was nothing that met his needs. The outhouses seemed more promising and he loped over to them, blending with the shadows, breathing hard from the exertion. He was beginning to feel the cold. Here was something he could use: a ladder. It was short but if he could balance it on the crates, he could reach the window. If he didn’t break his neck first.
It was easy enough to push the ladder up onto the crates before climbing onto them himself. Whatever was in the crates was heavy; they were stable and offered enough support for Guzmán’s weight, as long as he kept himself pressed close to the building. Cautiously, he leaned the ladder against the wall. If it didn’t move he might just do it. He placed a foot on the bottom rung and stepped onto it. The ladder held. He carefully eased himself up another rung, hands gripping the side of the ladder tightly, trying to intimidate it into staying still, avoiding sudden moves that might cause the crates below to shift. His head neared the top of the ladder. The window was still another metre or so above him. He would have to stand on the top rung to grasp the small ledge of the window.
Leaning heavily on the wall with both hands, Guzmán inched upwards. The ladder shook. He clung to the wall face, his fingers grasping the brickwork as if that would give him any purchase if the ladder fell. Tentatively, he moved his hands up to the ledge. Somewhere a dog barked and Guzmán swayed, furious until he had regained his balance. He moved his right foot onto the top rung. The ladder was trembling now. Or was that him? He brought his left foot up, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He reached upwards, fingers moving over the ledge until he touched glass. A creak from below. He could feel his legs starting to cramp. He felt cautiously for a catch to open the window. There was none. Again, a creak below him. This time the ladder moved. Guzmán’s fingers closed on the ledge, steadying him a little. He felt the ladder shift uncertainly as it responded to his movements. If this kept up, it would fall.
Guzmán braced, his right hand taking some of his weight as his fist crashed into the glass. There was a sharp noise as the window cracked. He tried to keep his weight supported with his right hand, trying to minimise any movement on the ladder but, as he drew his fist back for another blow, he felt it moving and he struggled to hang on as it slipped, its feet skidding off the crates below and clattering to the ground.
Guzmán hung from the ledge, feeling the strain on his hands. There was only so long a man could sustain this kind of exertion and then the muscles would go. He pulled himself up until his forearms rested on the sill. With his right arm taking his weight, he slammed his left fist into the glass again. This time, it shattered and Guzmán swore as broken shards cut into his hand. Thrusting his left arm into the hole he grasped the sill inside and began to smash out the rest of the glass with his right fist. Broken pieces tore into his arm but at least he was anchored as he knocked out enough glass to haul himself over the ledge and through the broken window. He felt clothes and skin tear as he pulled himself over the jagged glass before tumbling down onto rough floorboards. He reached out, fumbling blindly, discovering his surroundings through touch and intuition. It took only a moment to realise what he was touching. A toilet. He had nearly broken his neck getting into a toilet.
Guzmán drew his pistol, fumbling with his left hand for the door handle. He edged through the door. In front of him, a wide boardwalk framed the loading bay below. Pulleys, ropes and chains hung down from the floors above. They would haul the crates up there and store them. Profit for the capitán-general.
He stepped into the dark silence of the boardwalk. In the muted light he could just make out the sliding doors of small offices along the outside wall. The warehouse was silent. He moved slowly and carefully from office to office, checking each small room before moving on. They were all very similar. A table, filing cabinets, a Bakelite telephone in some and occasional calendars with religious or rural images. The loading bay below was in deep shadow, and above him the obscure, tangled outlines of ropes and pulleys disappeared up into darkness. He made his way along the walkway, cautious and tense, working towards the front wall. Occasional sounds came
from the street, the shouts of late revellers. They were in another world as far as Guzmán was concerned. Soon the sarge would arrive with the trucks and the guardia civiles and Guzmán wanted the Dominicans dead by then. He slowed his pace, peering into the dark. A pale glow spilled reluctantly from one of the small offices ahead. Faint candlelight, flickering in a draught. He edged nearer. The sliding door of the office was open and he held the pistol in front of him. Another muted step and then he swung into the office, his pistol pointing straight into the face of the Dominican sitting at the desk.
The dead Dominican. By the meagre light of the candle, Guzmán saw the bullet hole in the man’s forehead. The office was too dark to make out the spray of brain tissue, the blood and the bone splinters he knew would be behind the man. He didn’t need to see it because he’d seen it so many times before. He paused in the door of the office, noting the silence. Maybe they were waiting in ambush – since they must have heard him break the window earlier. He crouched, scanning the loading bay below with his pistol. Staying low, he edged his way out of the door and began to creep towards the front of the building. The boardwalk creaked loudly, making him flinch, anticipating a sudden burst of gunfire.
He’d have little chance if they could see him. Six of them would outgun him easily. He’d never get all of them before they cut him down. But the darkness was on his side. As always. He neared the end of the boardwalk, pausing outside the pool of diffuse light from the front window. There was no way to avoid passing through the light unless he went back the way he had come and he had no wish to do that. Edging to his left, Guzmán pressed against the wooden wall of one of the office cubicles. By moving very slowly he could keep most of his body out of the light, presenting less of a target. He pushed his back against the wall and crouched, putting his hand down to the floor to steady himself. He recoiled in disgust: even for Guzmán, putting a hand into what was left of someone’s face came as a surprise. He had felt the teeth and part of the lips as well as the gaping wound. He reached down again and explored. The man must have been leaving the office when the killer raised their weapon and shot him in the back of the head. Guzmán wiped his hand on the man’s shirt. Maybe the Dominicans fell out amongst themselves and now the winners were waiting, ready to cut him down. Let them try. Plenty had.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 57
