The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (41 page)

‘Your client being who exactly?’ Guzmán interrupted.

‘Your cousin Juan.’

‘My cousin Juan?’

‘Juan Martin Balaguer. Your cousin.’

‘You assume I have a cousin Juan?’

Lopez looked puzzled. ‘He saw an article about your wartime act of heroism in the newspaper and wondered if you were the relative he was looking for. He had made most of the enquiries by the time he engaged me. All that remained was to ascertain your exact whereabouts and make contact.’

‘Why didn’t you write a letter?’

Lopez shrugged. ‘I was told it was important I make contact with you in person.’

‘Just to tell me of the existence of a cousin Juan who I don’t even remember?’

‘No, no,
Comandante
. To give you the good news of your mother. That the lady is still alive.’

‘She died in the war. Almost all the family did. The village was attacked by the Reds and they were killed. I know this,
Señor
Lopez, because I had enquiries made myself, thorough ones.’

‘Of course,’ Lopez nodded vigorously, ‘but in times of war people are scattered, seek shelter and then afterwards,’ he raised his hands, ‘afterwards, communication may difficult. Impossible. You thought your mother dead and she thought the same about you.’

Most liars would betray themselves when confronted with Guzmán, yet Lopez’s naivety seemed genuine enough. Guzmán rolled the last mouthful of brandy around his glass.

‘You say Cousin Juan made most of the enquiries?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And to who did he make them? Ringing up the secret police and asking if they have a certain person there is usually enough to attract our close attention.’

‘At first
Señor
Balaguer contacted the newspaper. The local press had reproduced an article from a Madrid daily. They suggested he contact the
capitán-general
’s office; given the nature of your fame, it was presumed they would know of you. And of course they did.’

‘And they told him where I worked.’

‘After some discussion, I believe.’

‘I’ll bet. And how did you become aware of my “friendship” with
Señora
Martinez?’

‘
Señor
Balaguer knew of it – I assume from his dealings with the
capitán-general
’s office. Accordingly I went there under the impression she would be pleased to convey the message from
Señora
Guzmán to you.’

Guzmán looked hard at Lopez. ‘There are telephones in Spain. Why didn’t my mother call me? Or Cousin Juan, since he’s so keen to track me down?’

‘
Comandante
, I’m only paid a modest sum for my services. I am no more than a conduit for my clients’ wishes.’

Guzmán smiled. ‘
Bien, Señor
Lopez, I think I need to know more about your clients.’

‘But of course,
Comandante
. They’re anxious to meet you. An anxiety, I would add, aggravated by the length of time you’ve been separated.’

Guzmán nodded. ‘It’s been a very long time,
Señor
Lopez. I’ll make contact with them as soon as possible.’

‘So many memories,’ Lopez nodded, ‘so much to talk about.’

‘Absolutely,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘I look forward to it.’

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

Peralta hoped coffee would wash the taste of bile away. Something was wrong. There was blood when he puked and the pain in his stomach was almost constant. He increasingly feared for his wife and child, worried the pain in his stomach was something serious. The thought of her alone, adrift amongst her vile relatives – especially the general – brought him to the verge of tears. He knew bitterness was futile, the priests said so often enough, even though they still endorsed the continued persecution of those who had fought for the Republic. But it was hard not to feel bitter when the pain returned, intense agonising shards, flickering deep in his belly.

Peralta walked unsteadily down the corridor, past Guzmán’s office and out into the reception hall. The
sargento
was writing in the day book. Behind him, in the big office, twenty officers were working on the daily business of the
comisaría
. Making phone calls, amassing information, compiling lists of who had done what and who said so. The everyday appearance of the office belied its true purpose: it seemed normal, with the bustle of men in their shirtsleeves, the chattering typewriters, reams of paper being filed into coloured dossiers. Yet here, Peralta knew, their job was people. People who the regime would not forget, nor forgive. In those stacked filing cabinets were thousands of cross-referenced cards, the memory of Franco’s regime, holding details of enemies: real, potential and imagined. Neatly catalogued, awaiting the arbitrary violence of deferred vengeance.

The
sargento
looked up and grinned. ‘Afternoon,
Teniente
. All well? Can I get you anything?’

Peralta patted his stomach. ‘Pain in my guts. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

‘Too much booze at the Bar Dominicana? The
jefe
likes to let rip when he’s out on a job. It can be hard to keep up if you’re not a big drinker.’

Peralta knew it wasn’t drink that was hurting. ‘Can I ask you something,
Sargento
?’

‘Course you can, sir, that’s why I’m here. To be of use. Even to you,
Teniente
.’

‘How much do you trust
Comandante
Guzmán?’

The sarge’s face darkened. ‘That’s a funny thing to ask. I’d trust the
comandante
with my life. He can be a bad bastard, but trust him? I’m surprised you’re asking, frankly, sir.’

‘I just need to know. I need to know I can trust him.’

The sarge leaned across the desk. He looked at Peralta contemptuously. ‘We all trust the
comandante, Teniente
. If there’s trouble he wouldn’t ever let you down. But while we’re on the subject, what me and some of the blokes have been wondering is whether we can trust you?’

‘That’s outrageous,
Sargento
—’ Peralta clutched his stomach at a fresh spasm of pain.

‘You’d better go back to your office,
Teniente
, if you think you can make it.’

Peralta nodded.

‘Sir?’ the sarge called. Peralta turned.

‘If it helps,
Teniente
, I’m sure we can trust you.’

‘
Gracias
.’ Peralta pulled open the door and stepped into the icy corridor.

‘As far as I can fucking throw you,
puto
,’ the sarge spat, watching the door close behind
Teniente
Peralta.

MADRID 1953, PARQUE DEL BUEN RETIRO

The Retiro park was hazy with a mist that drifted across the lawns and paths, draping the trees in quiet melancholy, erasing the outlines of the familiar gates and statues with a milky opacity. Guzmán looked at his watch. His appointment with
Mamá
was getting closer. Whether she would turn up, he very much doubted. This had to be a set-up. But by who? he wondered, lighting a cigarette. If it were Valverde, why the elaborate pretence and the charade of the long-lost cousin? If it was Franco, it would be done immediately, without any messing around.

Whoever was behind it all, Guzmán was happy to take them on. He had always thought there would be a day like this, a sea change when things finally turned against him. He had neither feared it nor worried about it. If it had come, too bad. Let them all come. People had come after him before: he’d killed them. That was what he did best. He exhaled smoke, watching it blend into the folds of mist around him. The park was deserted, frozen and vague in ghostly clinging mist. He looked around carefully, finding no sign of an observer tailing him while others moved into position. No sign of a group, ready to rush him and overpower him. No sign of anyone. He paused by a clump of trees and peered through the damp shifting haze. Then, slowly, he stepped back into the trees, melting into the mist-shrouded branches. He waited.

He heard a couple pass within a metre of him, arms around each other, talking softly, laughing in their shared discomfort of the cold. Guzmán heard them talk without fully understanding, annoyed by their intimacy. The way the woman leaned against her man, her face raised to his. Just like in the romantic films at the cinema. How could people love in a society like this? He had always thought survival was all. And love was a weakness. Certainly so many of his victims had been broken all the more quickly once their loved ones were brought into the interrogation room. For a fleeting moment he tried to imagine
Señora
Martinez leaning against him, her face angled up to him, her pale eyes closing as he lowered his mouth to hers. Could almost imagine the taste of her. He recoiled from the thought.
Absurd. Fucking absurd. Daydreaming like a schoolgirl. Those films were lies
. Romantic dreams were drivel, like believing in fairies or trolls. He was standing amongst dripping shrivelled trees, soaked by heavy mist, ankledeep in snow, checking the action of his automatic pistol. This was his world. This was what he knew. This was what he did.

He eased the gun back into its holster and reached into an inside pocket, bringing out the big combat knife he had carried since the war. It gleamed in the chill afternoon air, the edge honed to wicked sharpness. There was something liberating about the knife. Something about reducing the space between killer and victim, creating a more tactile shared experience for both parties, even though, of course, the satisfaction of the act could never be shared equally.

It was five to three. Guzmán checked the pistol again. A gunshot in the Retiro would draw onlookers immediately and he wanted to avoid that if possible. Guzmán wanted no interference while he did his job. And no witnesses. He held the knife against his thigh. In the mist no one would see it until he was close enough to use it. Often they might never see it until it was leaving their body and, by then, they had no real interest in the things of this world. Ahead of him, he saw the fountain at the end of Paseo de México. Beyond it, the ice-covered waters of the lake. Guzmán felt the slow rage beginning to burn, caustic in its gradual ascendancy over reason. He was ready.

He walked slowly past a statue of a nobleman with helmet and spear, caked in bird shit. An appropriate end, he thought, for the self-seeking, vainglorious bastards who strutted through history, dribbling in their moment of glory before obscurity beckoned them to return. No one and nothing transcended death. Life was just an opportunity to defer oblivion. When his time came, the blackness would rise around him and there would be no more dreams filled with screaming and the sharp scrabbling of rotting claws.

Guzmán stopped, listening intently, focusing as he breathed the frozen air, alert for the slight noises men make as they try to lie silent in ambush. He tensed as he heard a noise. Slow footsteps. A figure emerging from the mist, faint and indeterminate. Guzmán paused. He had thought they might come in a group, or that gunmen might be positioned in the bushes or behind trees. But not this. This truly was a surprise.

The old woman came slowly forward. She wore a black coat, a black hat, white hair. Her bag clutched close to her side. A typical Spanish old lady, dressed up in her finest for a visit to the capital. To see Guzmán once more. After all these years. Her breath misty in the thin air. He walked towards her, straining for sounds from the shadows. Heard nothing. Nothing, except the tip tap of the old woman’s heels on the path as she walked, peering through thick spectacles.

‘Leo?’ She stopped, an antique mole, squinting in the fading afternoon, trying to make out his face. ‘
Eres tú
?’ She looked into his eyes. He looked back.

‘
Holá, Mamá
.’

Guzmán stepped forward, the knife bright and gleaming in his hand as it travelled in an upward arc from where he had held it unseen against his leg. It was possible she might have seen its deadly trajectory as he drove it home with all of his vast strength, but the knife entered under the sternum and tore into her heart before she could express any surprise. She fell backwards, a rag doll in shattered motion and Guzmán knew she was dead. The thick glasses tinkled on the frosty path. Her bag spilled open at her side. Guzmán wiped the blade on the black coat and took the woman’s bag. Inside her coat pocket he found a small worn purse and took that as well. He grabbed the woman’s ankles and dragged her off the path and into the shadows of the bushes. He returned, collected her hat and a shoe and placed them with the body.

Within moments he was back among the mist and the trees, working his way to the park exit. It was cold and he saw no one until he left the entrance and crossed the main road, blending in with shoppers and office workers before cutting down a narrow, high-walled alleyway. Soon, he was walking through familiar back streets toward the
comisaría
. The adrenaline surge that earlier had burned through him was now drained away. He felt tired and hungry. There was a sense of disappointment. Guzmán had been expecting an ambush, not a visit from
Mamá
Guzmán, for fuck’s sake. That meant his evaluation of events had been wrong. Scowling, he pulled out a battered packet of Ducados, put one into his mouth and lit the black tobacco, inhaling deeply.
When the plan doesn’t work, find a new plan
. Had it been Franco who said that? Time and history obscured the authorship of ideas and Guzmán now faced a present in which ideas – whoever they came from – were not working. That meant change, and change, Guzmán knew, as he passed the ominously skeletal church at the end of Calle de Robles, change was disturbing. At least for those upon whom it was imposed. When he reached the
comisaría
, the sarge was at the desk as always, waiting for him. There was usually something the sarge needed to tell him. Sometimes he had news or a message and today was no exception. Today, the sarge told Guzmán that Peralta was a traitor.