27
MADRID 2009, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE DEPARTAMENTO DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA
The summer night air was thick and warm. Though the history building was almost entirely shrouded in shadow, someone was working late. Vague lights showed in the windows of the profesora’s room. Luisa’s office was cooled by a large electric fan, window blinds closely drawn as she arranged the plan on the table. A faded plan, drawn with the formal linear precision architects bring to their work. Over sixty years old, created just after the war, when they had begun to rebuild the damage done to Madrid. The plan must have been commissioned when the police took over the building, converting it to a comisaría.
She looked again at the plan, the same plan Ana María Galindez was carrying around the comisaría on Calle de Robles right at that moment. Though Ana María’s copy didn’t have the handwritten information in its bottom left-hand corner. Crucial information, written in the broad angry handwriting both she and Galindez knew so well. What was it Galindez said? That Luisa was obsessed with the world as a text. She’d spurned Luisa’s love of words, just as she spurned Luisa. Galindez had rejected words. Yet words could have saved her. These words. Words written boldly and simply beneath the stamp of the architect’s office:
Cracked flagstone in the far corner of the office beneath filing cabinet.
The book and other items are below
Lift the left half of the flagstone to disarm the mine.
How delightful of Guzmán to leave his treasured text so lethally protected. It confirmed what Luisa had long suspected: that Guzmán had a certain artistic flair, thwarted by historical circumstance. Guzmán, a man trapped within the machinery of the dictatorship. Of course, this description involved a certain amount of creative speculation but still, Luisa had a strong feeling about the comandante. A far stronger intuition than Ana María’s rigid assumptions and her sterile, joyless methods of inquiry. Such an approach could never do justice to the rich narrative of history.
All along, Luisa realised, Ana María had intended to exploit her work – to exploit her. Luisa recognised Ana María’s sneaky approach with hindsight: worming her way into Luisa’s bed after their meeting at Las Peñas, ingratiating herself and getting a secondment from her uncle. All aimed at securing things for herself – even at her first meeting with the project team, she flirted shamelessly with Tali. A pair of sluts together. They would have had a hard time of it in Guzmán’s cells. He would have known how to punish them for their impudence in trying to secure his book.
Luisa had been surprised by Ana’s discovery that the diary was the key to his secret code. Although what Guzmán had encoded, Luisa didn’t know. Or care. Certainly his secrets would all be in there. Finding Guzmán’s book would be the final jewel in Ana María’s crown. Once it was deciphered, that information would give an intolerable boost to her status. She’d be a media sensation, no doubt. There’d be photographs of the young forensic scientist of the guardia civil all over the news. And worst of all, her star would rise just as surely as Luisa’s would fall, as Galindez demolished her work with her baleful evidence. Luisa’s position as head of the university’s new research centre would be short-lived if her life’s work was suddenly refuted by an upstart like Ana María Galindez.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen, Luisa had decided. Guzmán’s book must remain a forbidden mystery – one to enthral her from afar. Just as Ana María enthralled her once, with the angry fire of those deep brown eyes. Until she cast Luisa aside and tried to steal her subject matter – the real love of her life. Ana María should be punished. She probably thought she’d suffered already in her short, sad life. She hadn’t suffered nearly enough.
Ana María and Tali, such a perfect couple, tripping off together to Guzmán’s comisaría – where they found nothing on their first visit. But that wasn’t true. They must have found Guzmán’s memo, the one Luisa pinned on the noticeboard as a test. And surely Ana María’s pushy positivism located the graffiti in the cells? No one with any real interest in him would miss any of that. But they said nothing. They thought Luisa was stupid. That was their choice. They were tested and they failed. They would be punished accordingly. And conveniently, it wouldn’t be Luisa who had to do it. Still, it was a tragedy. Or rather, it would be later tonight.
There was a certain comfort in knowing that at least Ana María and Tali would have found what they were looking for. Of course, their destruction would also see the end of Guzmán’s book. Without that, his diary would remain a text in need of an interpreter – Luisa, naturally. Ana María and Tali’s sacrifice would enable Guzmán to speak again – through Luisa’s authorial voice. Their loss was of no real importance. They wouldn’t be the first people to have been sacrificed below the comisaría in Calle de Robles.
28
MADRID, 23 JANUARY 1953, CEMENTARIO ALMUDENA
The sun was brighter this morning and despite the cold it seemed as if spring might be getting closer. The hearse and the funeral cars formed a line along the roadside and the breath of the pallbearers wreathed the coffin in white clouds as they bore it to the grave. The priest walked ahead of them, reciting solemnly, his voice firm and clear above the crunch of the pallbearers’ boots. A small attendance for a funeral. Besides the soldiers, a few portly men in dark coats and hats standing in distinct groups. A woman weeping, all in black, her hand moving under her veil from time to time to dab her eyes with a handkerchief. Like a broken crow, she leaned against an elderly woman whose arm circled the younger woman’s waist to keep her standing.
The firing party aimed up into a pale blue sky flecked by irregular strands of cirrus cloud. Shouted commands. The explosion of the shots. And then the bleak angular sadness of the bugle. Around the grave, the men in uniform stood at attention until the last haunting echo died away. The soldiers moved off, marching down the avenue beneath the skeletal chestnut trees. The men in dark coats began to drift away, intermingling with other groups of mourners. A few handshakes, an embrace here and there. One man broke away from the others and went to the weeping young woman who made a vague gesture with her gloved hand before collapsing against the older woman in a renewed storm of tears. The man leaned nearer to her, speaking softly, the woman nodding vigorously without interrupting her sobbing. He patted her on the arm and stepped back, leaving her to say her last goodbyes before the older woman half carried her to the waiting car. The driver jumped from his seat, tugging open the rear door and helping bundle the young woman into the back of the vehicle. The car moved away slowly. At the graveside, two men looked down into the open hole. Fifty metres away, the grave-diggers waited patiently, leaning on their spades, smoking.
‘How is Señora Peralta?’ Gutierrez asked.
‘As you’d expect the widow of a fallen hero to be.’ Guzmán took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to the other man. They lit up and exhaled clouds of blue smoke into the thin air. ‘Devastated, naturally. But at least there’s the knowledge her husband gave his all in the line of duty.’
‘Shot down in the service of Spain by an unknown criminal while protecting an innocent woman.’ Gutierrez nodded. ‘A tragedy.’
‘At least he got off a round,’ Guzmán said. ‘But the other guy was a better shot.’
‘He had a better weapon, I believe? Probably a nine millimetre?’
‘An altogether more powerful weapon. And loaded with soft-nosed bullets. I put a hole straight through him. Several, actually.’
‘The unknown killer did,’ Gutierrez corrected. ‘Keep to the official version, Guzmán.’
‘As you say.’
‘It’s deeply regrettable Señora Martinez died,’ Gutierrez said. ‘I know you had feelings for her.’
Guzmán inhaled deeply. ‘She was too involved, Coronel. Stand next to the fire and you get burned.’
‘She did that all right. Anyway, you couldn’t have missed her at that range. And with the ammunition you were using – well.’
‘True. I had to
fire or let Peralta shoot me. It was just unfortunate she was behind him.’
‘Tragic,’ Gutierrez agreed. ‘But you had no choice. In any case, it’s much tidier with you as the only witness. For all of us.’ And then, changing the subject, ‘Returning to the issue of the Widow Peralta. There’ll be a full pension. That should be a comfort.’
‘And the medal. Not to mention her inheritance from the late general. The teniente wanted her to be well provided for and now she is. I should say the capitán, of course. Another nice posthumous touch, Coronel.’
‘What was that I heard you say to her about adoption?’ Gutierrez asked.
‘They wanted another child,’ Guzmán said. ‘With Peralta gone, it will console her. I found her one. Alicia Martinez had custody of her late sister’s son. If he isn’t adopted, he’ll be sent to a children’s home.’
‘Better a good home than to be locked up with a bunch of queer priests.’
‘I think so,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘It’s what his aunt would have wanted.’
They walked up the gravel path, surrounded by cracked gravestones and withered rose bushes. Gutierrez slowed his pace to accommodate the limping Guzmán.
‘How’s the leg?’
‘I can walk.’ Guzmán grimaced as he put weight on his injured leg. ‘Slowly, anyway.’
‘The admiral wants to see you.’
Guzmán nodded. ‘I expected that. Has he decided what happened to Valverde?’
‘Oh yes. A sudden heart attack on holiday near Barcelona. Naturally, the family were so upset they requested the Caudillo not to hold an official funeral and to let them inter him privately. He’s buried and the headstone’s already up. Hero of Badajoz. Warrior of Spain. Veteran of the Crusade. All of that.’
‘I wish I could have attended the heart attack,’ Guzmán said. ‘I would have loved to give the order to fire. Just to see the look on his face.’
‘I know. But the doctors were still digging his bullet out of your leg when we put him against the wall. Franco wanted it done fast.’
‘You were there then?’
‘Professional interest. If it helps at all, he died frightened and tongue-tied.’
‘I’m only sorry it was so quick.’
Gutierrez smiled. ‘We took photographs. I thought you’d like a souvenir.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a manila envelope.
Guzmán took the envelope and put it into his coat pocket. ‘Thanks, mi Coronel. I owe you a drink.’
Gutierrez stopped as they reached the end of the pathway. Across the road was a dark Hispano-Suiza with white-wall tyres and tinted windows.
‘You owe me a couple, Guzmán. The files he kept on you have been burned. I didn’t read them. He was a traitor, so they’d be lies anyway, no doubt. Hasta la proxima.’ They shook hands.
Gutierrez walked away down the road towards Ventas. Guzmán crossed to the parked car. The rear window rolled down and Carrero Blanco leaned forward.
‘Guzmán. How are the wounds coming on?’
‘Very well, mi Almirante. I’ll be back at work in no time.’
‘You did a good job, Guzm án. I thought for a while you didn’t have a grip on things but I was wrong. Well done.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘Everything I do is in the service of the Patria, Almirante.’
‘It’s always been so, Guzmán. That’s why the Caudillo has a new role for you.’
‘A new role?’ Guzmán’s mind raced. So they’re getting rid of me after all.
‘Times are changing, Guzmán,’ Carrero said. ‘Madrid is secure now. Your work has ensured that. But this is a big country. There are places which aren’t so secure, where the rule of law isn’t as strong as it should be. The Caudillo thought you would relish a chance to travel. Instead of a dingy office in Calle de Robles, you can be out in God’s own country, taking the fight to the Reds and the godless ones. Action, Guzmán. You’ll love it. And with a pay rise, naturally.’
Guzmán hesitated. Leave Madrid? He had spent so much time creating the web that emanated from Calle de Robles. These streets were his battleground. But then, so what? The almirante was correct: there were traitors out there, new enemies to conquer. And opportunities too, in the anonymity of travelling. New faces. New prey.
‘That’s more than generous, mi Almirante,’ Guzmán said. ‘I look forward to the challenge. I can pack my things at the comisaría within the week.’
‘No, forget that, Guzmán,’ Carrero said. ‘We want you out there. Immediately. Go home and get packed. Forget the comisaría and just get on your way. Now we’ve reached an agreement with the Yanquis, the hard hand has to be a little more hidden. We’re going to return the comisaría to the police. The Brigada Especial will have to be a bit more secret in future. The tourists won’t like it, you see.’
‘Tourists?’
‘They’re the future, Guzmán. Foreigners flooding in, filling the hotels, spending their cash. Even that fat bastard Hemingway is going to return this year. The country will be awash with money.’
Guzmán nodded, thinking of his stash of dollars. They were safe, but the treasure trove underneath the flagstone at the comisaría would have to stay where it was. Maybe in a month or two he could return under some pretext, disarm the mine and collect his treasures.
Carrero handed Guzmán a large envelope. ‘Here are all the details, Guzmán, and a list of contacts. The same autonomy as before – your contact will be the new head of Military Intelligence, Coronel Gutierrez. Unless the Caudillo or I need to talk with you directly, of course.’
Guzmán took the envelope.
‘One more thing,’ Carrero continued, ‘we’ve sorted out Valverde’s mess as far as we can. Is there anything you need to do before you leave Madrid – to tidy up, I mean? Loose threads?’
Loose threads. As if, Guzmán thought. Carrero should know how he dealt with those. Everyone implicated in Valverde’s scheme had been dealt with. None of those who entered the warehouse that night were alive, except for Guzmán. Most of them deserved it. At least the sarge had recognised the need for sacrifice, redeeming his betrayal in blood. Guzmán tried not to think about Señora Martinez. Señora Martinez, with her chapped hands and threadbare clothes, living in her cheap flat, posing as a widow to avoid problems about her husband’s choice of sides in the war. She had seen something in Guzmán, something, if not good, then at least acceptable to her. Valverde had paid her to be a whore and she had taken his money but, when the time came, she’d refused to play the role. That was her gift to Guzmán and he appreciated it. Apart from her deception, she had behaved properly – as, remarkably, had he. She had changed him. Showed him he could be something else. As well as someone else.
At least there was no pain for her at the end. That was his gift. An end to her sad existence, killed by the deadly fire that cut down Peralta. She could never have lived in his world, Guzmán realised. And he would never have changed enough to live in hers. It was impossible. The boy would be well looked after by Señora Peralta, once he got over the shock of the Jesuits and their Christian discipline. By the time he was delivered to Señora Peralta he would be house-trained. The teniente said he wanted a son and now he had one, albeit posthumously.
‘Everything has been dealt with,’ Guzmán said. ‘Thoroughly.’
‘Excellent,’ Carrero said. ‘Your work has always been most reliable.’ The car window closed smoothly. Guzmán saw Carrero speak to the driver and the limousine glided forward, the engine purring as it picked up speed. It turned a corner and was gone, leaving Guzmán alone in the cemetery. He lit a cigarette and limped back to his car near the main gate, leaving the dead behind him. As he always did.
29
MADRID 2009, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES
Tali pulled back from the opening to the pit and crawled over to Galindez’s body. She had been wrong: Galindez was still breathing. It was time to honour the clause in her contract with the Centinelas. She rolled Galindez onto her back. Her face was dark with congealed b
lood. Tali placed a finger against her neck, feeling for the carotid artery. The pulse was steady, in fact it seemed to be getting faster. That was a shame. It would have been easier if Ana had just slipped away quietly rather than being a problem. But then she always was. Always had been, Tali thought. Complicating the lives of everyone around her without ever seeing that it was her who was the problem.
‘You won’t be a problem much longer, Ana,’ she whispered.
Tali undid the buckle of Galindez’s belt and pulled it free from her jeans. She slid the belt under Galindez’s neck and tightened it, hearing her breathing alter as the thick leather began to compress her throat. Tali braced herself and began to pull harder.
‘It’s all right, niña. Just let go. Go away now, Ana. It’s not so bad.’
Galindez opened her eyes. The darkness of her pupils glinted with radiant anger, the surrounding whites a sharp contrast to the mask of dried blood smeared across her face.
‘Puta madre, Ana Mar—’ Tali’s voice stopped abruptly as Galindez closed her hand around Tali’s throat with terrifying strength. Tali scrabbled with both hands, trying to loosen the fierce grip, struggling to breathe. Galindez sat up, still keeping her grip. She brought her face close to Tali’s. She smelled of blood.
‘Surprise.’ Galindez stared into Tali’s amber eyes, seeing fear and pain where once she had seen other emotions. After a moment, she released her grip and Tali rolled away from her, her shoulders rising and falling as she gasped noisily for air.
‘Fucking hell, Ana,’ Tali gasped.
Galindez ran her hand over her scalp and winced. She pointed towards the dark open space of the pit. ‘What’s down there?’
Tali smiled weakly. ‘There’s loads of stuff, Ana María. His stuff.’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 60
