The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (11 page)

By the time the alarm clock rang, Guzmán was already washing in icy water in the small kitchen. He shaved, cursing the cold yet lacking the patience to heat water. His toilet complete, Guzmán pulled on his clothes. The clock showed three thirty. Early. But then today they were hunting.

Despite the cold of his room he had almost forgotten the snow until he pulled back the curtain and saw the white expanse of the street below, the familiar angular shapes of steps, lamp posts and doorways now subtle and soft under ten centimetres of snow, muted by the pale street lights. Guzmán saw no sign of the observer from the night before. No telltale footprints. Whoever the spy was, he had no patience.

Guzmán found a pair of boots that looked like they would keep out the cold and put on his thickest overcoat. The fifty-odd
guardia civiles
taking part in the operation could freeze in their khakis and capes but not him. Guzmán oiled his hair with the same oil he used – very occasionally – for cooking. The image in the speckled mirror looked respectable enough, although those he was after today would not remember him for his appearance, he was sure.

Outside, the cold was brutally sharp and Guzmán swore profusely, cursing again as he began to slide on the icy, hard-packed snow. His cigarette smoke hung in the frozen air as he slipped and staggered towards the end of the road, swearing in blind fury at the treachery of the snow, the inconvenience of the ice beneath it, at the whole world which seemed to conspire against him as he struggled to keep his feet. One thought comforted him. Someone was going to suffer. That much was certain. About thirty-six of them to be precise.

By the time he reached the Puerta del Sol, sweating with exertion and fury, a few workmen were clearing paths along the pavements. Guzmán glared at them with casual and unfocused hatred as he grabbed a lamp post to steady himself. After ten minutes he was still only halfway to the
comisaría
. When he saw the Café Ojalá, he felt justified in stopping off to regain his strength, ordering a coffee with milk and two stale cakes. At this hour the café’s usual limited choice was even more limited. Guzmán asked for something hot but the owner threw up his hands and launched into a violent denunciation of the black market and the crooked party officials who facilitated it. Hot food was off the menu, Guzmán realised.

‘Franco promised us once we’d beaten the Reds we would have bread and justice,’ the man said, wiping a glass with a bar towel. ‘Well, the Reds saw his justice, but where’s the bread for those of us who fought for him?’

With whichever general handles the distribution of grain, probably
, Guzmán thought. It was hard to argue with the man, and not only because it was four in the morning. More and more people were complaining about the lack of food. Guzmán heard it on the streets and in the bars and cafés where he met his informants or spied on his victims. It wasn’t as if the hardship affected only those who had been on the Republican side: even members of the Falange were complaining their rations were inadequate, eroded by corrupt officials and administrators.
Franco should do something
, Guzmán thought.
There’s a difference between taking a cut and bleeding the country dry
.

‘Want to know what I think?’ the man said, leaning across the bar, his rancid breath hanging in the frozen air.

‘Not really.’ Guzmán finished his coffee.

‘Franco doesn’t know the half of it,’ the man continued, ignoring Guzmán’s indifference. ‘He has so much to do he has to depend on others, on the military and the Party members. They do what they want and take what they can. And what they do and what they tell him are different things. And
they
get away with it by using the
guardia civil
and the
policía
when things get bad.’

Guzmán nodded and paid the bill. Normally he would have baulked at paying but the man’s complaint had been true enough. Guzmán thought he deserved a break for that – and for being open at this hour.

‘Careful out there,’ the man called as Guzmán stood up and made his way to the door, ‘it’s going to be a hell of a day.’

Guzmán paused in the doorway, noticing it was only marginally colder outside than in. ‘I think you’re right. For some people anyway.’

‘Let’s hope for once it’s those who deserve it.’ The man smiled, revealing a row of ragged teeth.

‘I think today you can be sure of it.’ Guzmán closed the door and stepped out into the silent blurred snowscape of the street.

*

The deep snow didn’t improve Guzmán’s temper as he trudged doggedly towards the
comisaría
. The hobnails in his boots gave him some purchase but he still slipped and stumbled at times, glad there was no one to witness his discomfort. The
comisaría
was ablaze with light when he finally arrived. Six trucks were parked outside, guarded by several
guardia civiles
wrapped in their capes, tricorne hats pulled well down. One asked Guzmán for his papers, stepping back and saluting when Guzmán thrust his identity card into the man’s face.

‘
A sus ordenes, mi Comandante
.’

Guzmán snatched back his papers and clattered into the entrance hall, stamping his feet to get rid of the cloying snow. It was a small, domestic gesture and it angered him greatly. At one end of the hall a table had been set out with a large coffee urn and a line of
guardia
waited in an unruly queue, even though, from the smell of it, the coffee had been made with wood shavings. Guzmán pushed through to the desk. The
sargento
saluted absently, eyes hollow from lack of sleep and, probably, lack of food. Or teeth, Guzmán thought. Still, the sarge obeyed him and that was enough.

‘Who’s in charge of this lot,
Sargento
?’

The sarge waved towards the doors leading to Guzmán’s office. ‘They went to the mess to warm up.’

‘I’ll have a word, make sure they know what they’re doing. Anything to report?’

The
sargento
nodded. ‘The Red prisoner. Died during the night. Suicide. Hanged himself with his own belt. Tragic no,
jefe
?’

‘Got off lightly if you ask me.’ Guzmán shrugged.

‘He’s arrived, by the way,’ the
sargento
called as Guzmán walked to the double doors.

Guzmán turned, his hand on the door. ‘Who?’

The
sargento
’s face oscillated between emaciated weariness and a strong desire to smirk. ‘Acting
Teniente
Francisco Peralta.’

‘Who the fuck is— of course.
Joder
.’

The
sargento
nodded. ‘The
capitán-general
’s nephew,
jefe
. In the flesh.’

‘And?’

‘And what,
jefe
?’

‘
Puta madre, coño
. What’s he like?’

The
sargento
’s face twitched as he held back a smile. ‘You need to see for yourself,
jefe
.’

Guzmán turned on his heel, pulling the door open with such violence it crashed against the wall. He stormed down the corridor and stamped into his office.
I’ll kill that fucking
sargento.
I’ll have him back in the ranks, give him double night shifts until he begs for mercy, toothless bastard
.

A man was sitting in one of the rickety visitors’ chairs by the wall. He jumped up as Guzmán entered.

‘
Comandante
Guzmán, Acting
Teniente
Francisco Peralta
para servirle
.’

Peralta was tall and exceedingly thin, his cadaverous face suggesting he ate nowhere near as well as his uncle, the
capitán-general
. Peralta looked older than his twenty-four years, his tallow hair already receding and thin. His dress sense left much to be desired, Guzmán noted. The overcoat was cheap and shabby, the cuffs of his jacket slightly frayed, his shoes soaked. Police wages. Totally impractical for ten centimetres of snow. He was really going to suffer, Guzmán thought happily.

He seized Peralta’s hand in a quick handshake, quickly crushing any attempt to impress him with a firm grip. Peralta withdrew his hand with a pained expression.

‘
Acting Teniente,
Peralta? That’s a sudden promotion isn’t it?’ Guzmán slumped into his chair, pointedly not offering his new assistant a seat. On the desk was a sheaf of papers the
sargento
had left for him. Lists, maps, addresses. Interesting things.

Peralta remained standing. ‘The temporary promotion came through yesterday. I was as surprised as you about it. May I say I very much look forward to working with you,
Comandante
Guzmán.’

‘No you may not.’ Guzmán gestured wearily towards a chair. ‘Sit.’ It was not a request.

Peralta indicated the green folder on the desk which Guzmán had been studiously ignoring. ‘Perhaps the
comandante
would care to have a look at my file, if he has any questions about my experience…’ His voice dried up under Guzmán’s withering gaze.

‘Look, son,’ Guzmán said, ‘if I want to read your file I’ll read it, if I want to ask you something I’ll ask it and if I want your fucking advice on something, then I’ll ask you. Until then, speak when you are spoken to.
Entiende
?’

The younger man blushed, making Guzmán twitch with anger.

‘I really must protest—’ Peralta began.

Guzmán pointed a meaty finger at him. ‘Understood?
Si o no
?’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘
Ahora bien
, let me outline the work of this department,
Acting Teniente.
Or better still, let’s start with you telling me what you know about us.’

Peralta beamed. ‘The work of the Special Brigade is vital to the preservation of the State, sir. Counter-insurgency and the prevention of sedition and rebellion. In short, maintaining the fight against the forces of godlessness, Freemasonry and liberalism.’ He paused. ‘And of course Communism.’

Christ, he could write speeches for Franco
. ‘You left out the bit about harassing Protestants but never mind, there isn’t much of that. Didn’t your uncle mention any of the specific tasks of this unit? What I do? Or, rather, what
we
do, since you’re now part of it.’

Peralta shook his head. ‘My uncle doesn’t have much to do with me, I have to confess,
Comandante
. I think he decided to do me a favour by having me transferred here because of our new baby. We can certainly use the money. But in terms of discussing things with me… never.’ His voice trailed away.

‘You aren’t the favourite nephew, then?’ Guzmán asked, brightening considerably.

Peralta shook his head. ‘Not at all, sir, he thinks I lack ambition and talent. He only informed me of the transfer last night by telephone. In about ten seconds flat.’

‘
Muy bien
.’ Guzmán pawed the papers on his desk. ‘I’m about to brief the section leaders for the raid this morning. You’ll come too. Before we do, let me tell you a little more about our work in the
Brigada Especial
.’

Peralta nodded eagerly. ‘Should I take notes, sir?’ He began to rummage for a pad in his coat pocket. Guzmán felt a murderous wave of rage but let it pass.

‘No,’ he snapped. ‘The first thing you need to know is that this isn’t an ordinary police station. It looks like it, but we’re not part of the armed police. The
Brigada Especial
was set up at the end of the war to pursue the enemy beyond the battlefield. We were part of the
Segunda Bis
– Military Intelligence – that’s where I started. Then we were made part of the General Directorate of Security but none of these were flexible enough for what we do. So now, we don’t exist, which of course is why people call us the secret police. Other branches deal with the foreign threat. Our concern is the domestic front. The ex-leaders of the Republican movement, their generals, colonels, hell, every rank and everybody who fought or supported them during the Crusade. And, come to that, anyone on our own side who may threaten national security or pose a threat to the
Caudillo
.’

Peralta listened intently.

‘I’m in charge here,’ Guzmán continued. ‘You may think it’s a big task for a mere
comandante
. The
Caudillo
doesn’t. We report to your uncle nominally on a number of matters but we take orders directly from the Headquarters of Generalísimo Franco himself and no one interferes in what we do without his authorisation. Any challenge to our activities, whether from the armed forces, the
guardia civil
, the armed police or any judicial power, is referred to the very highest level and then dismissed. When we decide to act, there are very few who can stop us.’

Guzmán looked at Peralta. The acting
teniente
didn’t exactly seem thrilled to find himself in the heart of an elite secret police unit.

‘These traitors, Reds, Anarchists – let’s just say the enemy – we track them down,’ Guzmán continued. ‘Fourteen years on, many of them think they’re safe enough to carry on their plotting and scheming. Some try to organise armed resistance and rebellion, others to provoke strikes. And some merely produce pamphlets and books aimed at spreading their ideas. There are a lot of them out there.’

‘We’ll get them,’ Peralta said enthusiastically. ‘Arrest them and bring them to justice. After a few years in prison, I’ve no doubt many can return to society to—’

Guzmán pointed a large finger at the
teniente
. ‘Stop. You think we’re going to arrest all of these men and reform them with a spell behind bars?’

Peralta’s face suggested he did, though sensibly he kept silent with Guzmán’s big fist raised a few centimetres from his face. Guzmán leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘This only needs to be said once, Peralta. Your uncle presumably assigned you to me to enhance your future career prospects, so let me enlighten you.’