The Exile (2 page)

The car slowed as Ramirez turned the Buick onto the rough track leading up to the house. A couple of hundred metres away, the headlights illuminated the outline of a whitewashed farmhouse. Faint lights flickered through cracks in the shutters.

‘What do they say about the French?' Etxarte asked.

Ramirez brought the car to halt. The farmhouse was in the typical Basque style: a whitewashed, half-timbered exterior, a red-tiled roof, shutters on the windows.

‘They say they're all fucking bastards who have their road signs painted with a German translation on the back. That way, when there's a war, they surrender and then turn the signs round.' Ramirez opened the car door, laughing heartily at his own joke.

The front door of the farmhouse opened, spilling weak light over the car. A young man with a mop of unkempt hair peered out at them through thick, round-rimmed glasses.

‘
Kaixo. Ongi etorri.
'

Etxarte returned his greeting. ‘
Kaixo
, Patxi. Are we all here?'

‘We're two short tonight, comrade.'

The young man saw Ramirez who was busy dragging long canvas bags from the car. ‘
Kaixo.
'

Ramirez looked at him blankly. ‘I don't understand a word of Basque.'

The young man grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. We prefer not to speak the language of the oppressor when we're together. I'm Patxi Zubiondo. And your name, Señor...?'

‘This is Señor Ramirez,' Etxarte said, struggling with one of the canvas bags. ‘
Venga
, Patxi, we need a hand here. These guns won't carry themselves.'

The young man hurried forwards. ‘Sorry, Señor Ramirez. Sometimes I forget myself, I get so animated by the Cause.'

‘The Cause?' Ramirez asked, handing the young man a couple of canvas bags.

The bags were heavy, Patxi noticed, feeling the hard, sharp outlines of their contents. He felt growing excitement. The revolution was beginning at last.

‘Our cause. Freedom for the Basque homeland, you'd say in Spanish. In Basque it's
Euskadi ta askatasuna
. That's what we're thinking of calling our resistance movement.'

‘Quite a mouthful.' Ramirez nodded. ‘You could always shorten it to ETA. People would remember it more easily. You could put it on your notepaper.' Patxi smiled, unsure if Ramirez was joking.

The men carried the canvas bags into the house, stamping mud from their shoes on the reed mat. Patxi dried his spectacles with a handkerchief as he led Ramirez across the hall and through a thick wooden door into a large room with a raised platform at one end. Rows of benches faced the platform.

‘This used to be the local school,' Etxarte explained, ‘before the fascists closed it and made speaking Basque illegal.'

Six more young people were waiting in the schoolhouse: four men, one with the worst attempt at a beard Ramirez had ever seen, and two young women. One was ugly, which Ramirez had rather expected, and one was not, which rather surprised him since revolutionaries were, in his experience, uniformly ugly. Still, business was business. It always ended the same way, no matter who he dealt with.

The group came over to Etxarte, one at a time, whispering something in a low voice. Etxarte slapped each one on the shoulder as they went over to the benches to take a seat.

‘What was that all about?' Ramirez asked.

‘A password. It's how we identify members of the group. I shouldn't really tell you.'

‘Don't then,' Ramirez said.

The young people were whispering, impatient for proceedings to begin.

‘It can't hurt.' Etxarte lowered his voice. ‘It's quite moving actually. “
In the mountains, the snows are burning.
”'

‘Very nice,' Ramirez muttered, without interest. He climbed onto the dais and placed the canvas bags on the table.

Etxarte and Patxi passed the rest of the bags to him. The salesman was strong, Patxi noticed, seeing how easily Ramirez carried the heavy canvas bags, one in each hand. The others waited on the two rows of benches, eyes bright and excited. Ramirez noticed that when Patxi jumped down from the dais, he went to sit with the good-looking woman.

Politely, Etxarte motioned Ramirez to a chair. Ramirez was very relaxed, a real professional, no doubt about it, Etxarte thought. And, since it had been his decision to approach Ramirez, it also reflected well on him.

‘Comrades,' Etxarte said, ‘please welcome Señor Ramirez, who, as you know, is here to do some important business with us.'

A hesitant ripple of self-conscious applause.

‘Before we begin our negotiations, perhaps you'd like to say a few words, Señor Ramirez?' Etxarte took a step back.

Ramirez got to his feet. ‘Is this place secure?' he asked, looking round the schoolroom. There was only one window to his right, and that was shuttered and barred. The only other exit was the door to the corridor. He jumped down from the platform, walked over to the door and turned the key. He returned, putting the key in his pocket, and leaped onto the dais with an athleticism surprising for such a big man. ‘You can't be too careful,' he said. Etxarte nodded vigorously. This all seemed highly professional.

Ramirez looked down at his audience. ‘Tell me, have any of you handled a gun before?' The good-looking woman raised her hand.

‘You, señorita? What kind of gun was it?'

‘My grandfather's shotgun. We shot rabbits for the pot.'

‘You've shot rabbits?' Ramirez stifled a laugh. ‘Well, that's a start. None of you will starve, at any rate.'

‘If I can shoot rabbits, I can shoot the murderers of the
guardia civil
.' She glared defiantly at Ramirez and sat down to applause from her comrades.

‘Good point, señorita, there are a number of
guardia civiles
I'd gladly shoot myself.' Ramirez chuckled, drawing complicit laughter. ‘Perhaps you'd all like to see the weapons now?' Their faces told him they would.

Ramirez slowly unzipped the canvas bags, taking out the rifles carefully and passing them down into impatient hands. ‘Six American M1 rifles, gas-operated, clip-fed with eight rounds to a clip. Accurate to around four hundred metres.' He paused, watching the group handle the weapons with affected familiarity.

‘Are these loaded?' It was the ugly woman.

‘Of course not. I don't want you blowing your heads off before you pay me.'

‘Actually, we need to discuss that,' Etxarte said. ‘We're a little short of money.'

Ramirez turned to stare at him. The atmosphere in the room changed.

‘That's a handicap in any business,' said Ramirez. ‘We agreed on payment upfront. Like the signs in the bars tell you, don't ask for credit.'

‘There are greater issues at stake here,' the more attractive of the two women said, getting to her feet. ‘We're fighting for a cause, señor. We're willing to die for our country and we need arms, yet you talk only of money. Don't you have any principles?'

‘Several,' Ramirez said, ‘and the most important is never sell things to someone who can't pay.' He paused to light a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘I've got six very efficient rifles here,' he continued, ‘possession of which, incidentally, will bring an automatic death sentence if you're caught. However, you don't have anything to fire from them.'

‘We can buy bullets from someone else,' one of the young men muttered.

‘You think it's that easy?' Ramirez snorted. ‘How will you know it's not Franco's secret police you're dealing with? That happens all the time to people like you.'

‘Comrades, please,' Etxarte said. ‘Perhaps we can explain our plans in more detail to Señor Ramirez. Show him we're sincere. Maybe we could have the rifles on a lease. When the struggle is over, he could be paid then.' He took a bulky brown paper envelope from his inside pocket. ‘Would this serve as a deposit at least, Señor Ramirez? Five hundred
Yanqui
dollars – it's all we could raise.' He placed the envelope on the table.

‘What's this “Señor
”
business?' the man with the appalling beard said. ‘We reject bourgeois formality. What's your first name, Compañero Ramirez?'

Ramirez sighed and glanced at his watch. It was time to put an end to this. ‘There are three points I need to make,
comrade
.' He emphasised the word with sudden malice. ‘The first is that what you are doing is highly dangerous – as I said, the possession of weapons is treachery and the penalty for treachery is death. Second, that's the worst fucking beard I've ever seen and you should be ashamed of it.' He stopped and finished his cigarette. He threw it down and ground it out with his heel. ‘You can't be too careful in a wooden building,' he said, smiling.

‘So what's the third?' the young man shouted, incensed by the insult to his beard.

‘The third?' Ramirez stared at him. ‘My name is Comandante Guzmán of the
Brigada Especial. Buenas noches.
'

The others in the audience shuffled, suddenly uncomfortable and confused. The bearded young man leaped up, brandishing the rifle like a club. ‘I don't believe you. If you were a policeman you'd have arrested us by now.'

Guzmán nodded. ‘If I were a normal policeman, I would. But I'm not. Those weapons are only here to make things look right for the coroner.'

‘You're trapped,' the young man said. ‘We'll beat you to death with your own rifles.'

Guzmán reached into his jacket and drew the Browning semi-automatic in a smooth motion that ended with the muzzle of the gun pointing at the bearded man's face. One of the women gasped. The rest were shocked into silence, eyes fixed on the pistol in his hand.

Guzmán shot the bearded man in the forehead. Blood and brain tissue spattered those behind him and the ugly woman gasped as the bullet exited the back of the man's skull, hitting her in the chest. The bearded man had fallen onto two of his startled comrades and before they could push his body away, Guzmán shot them. The other woman made a break for it, leaping from her seat and running towards the door. The door Guzmán had locked.

Guzmán shot her between the shoulder blades. The impact threw her forwards into the door and she clutched at the handle with rapidly ebbing strength, fighting to stay on her feet. Guzmán fired again. This time, the bullet struck a few inches above the base of her spine, opening another red flower on her pale cotton dress. She slid down the door to the ground, leaving irregular crimson trails as she went. The other students remained in their seats, frozen with fear and shock. They died without resistance.

The ensuing silence was immense – at least for Etxarte, sitting on the dais, white-faced, his ears ringing from the gunfire, staring dully at the carnage a couple of metres away. The familiar meeting place was suddenly unreal, haunted by strange smells. Acrid gun smoke drifted over the corpses, mingling with the smell of burned clothing and a charnel odour he recognised from market day. The smell of fresh blood. The evening had turned to nightmare and that nightmare was now striding towards Etxarte, dark eyes glinting as he slammed another magazine of ammunition into the Browning as he stepped up onto the dais.

‘I told you I'd deal with you all together.' He took out a packet of Bisontes, lifted it to his mouth and took a cigarette between his lips. He glanced round, suddenly remembering something, and went over to the table, took the envelope of money and shoved it into his pocket, keeping the pistol pointed at Etxarte.

‘
Quieres
?' Guzmán held out the packet with his left hand.

Etxarte stared at the muzzle of the pistol. He shook his head. ‘I don't smoke.'

The shot hit him in the middle of his chest, smashing him backwards, still seated. The muzzle flash ignited the material of his shirt around the entry wound. Small flames licked up around the growing dark stain.

‘You do now,' Guzmán said.

SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA

Guzmán left the mechanical clatter of the hotel lift and strode across the lobby to the reception desk. He was not in a good mood. It was two in the morning and he had got lost several times driving back from the job at the schoolhouse. Maps were like people: little use in daylight and by night completely hopeless. With certain exceptions, obviously.

The night porter gave him a sheet of hotel notepaper with a name scrawled on it in childish handwriting. ‘This gentleman called several times, Señor Ramirez.'

Guzmán looked at the paper. The name was a code. The caller was Coronel Gutierrez.

‘Is there a telephone in my room?'

‘No, señor,' the porter muttered. He worked nights precisely to avoid human contact and had already exceeded the limits of his usual conversations with guests.

‘So where the fuck can I find one?'

The man pointed to the telephone at the end of the desk. ‘There's one there, señor.'

‘But then you'd be able to listen to my conversation,' Guzmán said. ‘Where's the manager's office?'

‘Only the manager is allowed to use that room I'm afraid, señor.' Guzmán realised the porter was keeping his voice down so as not to disturb sleeping residents. That was gross provocation. Physical violence would draw too much attention at this time of night. Merely arguing with the simpleton was clearly worthless. That left the option of out-and-out terror. Guzmán pulled the Browning from its holster and reached across the counter to press the muzzle against the night porter's forehead.

‘And only I am allowed to use this, you fucking
badulaque
,' Guzmán said, thumbing back the hammer. ‘If I pull the trigger, most of what passes for your brain will be splashed over that wall behind you. So, let me ask you again. And, since I'm talking rationally, using the language of good Christians and being exceptionally' – he pushed the muzzle of the pistol harder against the man's sweat-sheened forehead – ‘exceptionally polite in the face of your rudeness, tell me where the fucking manager's office is. Or you'll die. And no one,
absolutamente nadie, coño
, will care, I promise you.' He paused, pacified for a moment by the exercise of his frenetic vocabulary of violence. ‘Is that clear?'