The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (6 page)

Guzmán revelled in Valverde’s discomfort.
Pompous bastard
.
He’s overplayed his hand. Now he’s worried I’ll inform on him
. Valverde was right to worry. It was Franco who had elevated Guzmán to the command of this make-believe police station from where he and his men relentlessly hunted down the weary remnants of Republican opposition. It was Franco who trusted Guzmán to carry out work so secret and sensitive it could not be shared with the
Caudillo
’s own generals. And Franco’s trust in Guzmán caused great discomfort for many of those who were senior to Guzmán. In rank, that was: Guzmán was accountable only to the very top. This elevated status and the effectiveness of his constant pursuit and destruction of Franco’s enemies made him a force to be feared. Guzmán well knew the effect he had on others – even those technically his superiors:
They fear me. They fear me because of what I do, the arrests, the beatings, the executions, and none of them are consulted on any of it. Not Valverde nor any other general, not the police or the guardia civil, no one
.

Valverde continued in a more conciliatory tone, ‘The thing is, Guzmán, we’re both men of action. We understand how these things work.’ The general was smiling again.

Guzmán tried to appear as non-committal as his inherently suspicious face would allow.

‘These have been hard times, Guzmán,’ Valverde said. ‘We’ve all worked hard to uphold what we forged on the field of battle, we who fought on the side of God and decency, now we reap a few small rewards for our labour. To the victor the spoils, Guzmán.’

Guzmán nodded.
Small reward indeed,
he thought.
Valverde controls the importation of foreign pharmaceuticals into this country. He was with Franco from the start of the War, and for a while it could have been Valverde who took command of the rebellion. But the other generals chose Franco, and, however unhappy he had been with that choice, Valverde had displayed a highly visible and vocal loyalty to the Caudillo ever since. After the war ended, the Caudillo made him
Capitán-General
of Madrid, to keep him happy. And quiet. Franco wanted to buy him and Valverde let himself be bought. And quite right too
.

‘As you say, General. After the chaos of war we brought order. And we need to preserve order. A well-run country is one that will prosper. And if those in authority prosper, then so too will the lower classes in their turn.’ Guzmán saw Valverde’s nod of agreement and his contempt for the man increased.
No one in authority in this country cares a fuck about the lower classes, except in terms of making them work harder and for less
.

Valverde smiled. ‘I have a proposition,
Comandante
. Nothing fancy or complicated and certainly nothing that would detract from your important work.’

‘I’m at the general’s service,’ Guzmán said.

A sudden muffled scream of pain echoed from somewhere down the corridor. Guzmán was amused to see the general’s discomfort as the screaming reached a loud frenetic climax and then stopped. There was some unintelligible shouting and the noise of boots in the corridor. ‘My apologies,
mi General
,’ Guzmán smiled. ‘One of the prisoners. We think he was trained in Russia before the war. My lads are taking their time wringing the information out of him.’

Valverde nodded, getting back to the task in hand. Guzmán noticed the general had recovered his composure.
Just a little out of practice, General, I’m sure you could get used to it again if you had to
.

‘Guzmán, I need help with a matter which needs to be handled with some delicacy,’ Valverde said, frowning as the screaming started again. ‘As you know, I have certain interests in the importation of pharmaceuticals into Spain.’

Certain interests?
Guzmán thought.

‘By using my administrative talents,’ Valverde continued, ‘the
Caudillo
has greatly improved the supply of medicine to the people. And naturally, being used to command and organisation, I deal with this importation in a highly efficient manner. Which is to say, in my own way. No man likes his work to be interfered with. Especially in business.’ Valverde was scowling now, his cheeks reddening as he spoke. ‘Which is why…’ He paused, trying to quell his sudden rage. ‘Which is why I need you to deal with these bastards, Guzmán.’

‘Is someone interfering in your business dealings,
mi General
?’ Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘Those dealings are directly authorised by the
Caudillo
. Surely it’s a matter which can be dealt with directly? Why involve my unit?’ he asked.
Fuck, I didn’t join the police to catch criminals
.

Valverde’s puce face almost ignited, his eyes glittered, even his moustache bristled with fury. ‘Because, Guzmán, I’m forbidden to take such action. That’s why I want you to deal with this fucking mess and it’s why I’m willing to pay you a great deal to handle these
hijos de puta
.’

This is probably not the time to ask how much,
Guzmán decided. ‘Who are these people?’

Valverde reached into his briefcase and brought out a cardboard file. Guzmán looked at the file cautiously. As far as he could tell, his name was not on it. That would have been a bad sign. The general took out a sheaf of papers and slid several black and white photographs across the desk. Guzmán saw various men, some posing, some clearly photographed without their knowledge. Dark moustaches, swarthy skin. One of them with a smile punctuated by a gold tooth. Yankee zoot suits: full baggy trousers, oversized jackets with padded shoulders.

‘Dominicans,’ Valverde said, biting his lower lip. ‘These are who we have to deal with. You have to deal with, that is. These
hijos de puta
have been interfering with the sales of my products. On the streets – in broad daylight. They’ve even been dealing with my customers. Can you believe it?’

‘I’m astounded,’ Guzmán said, puzzled as to why the military governor of the Spanish capital would be bothered about a few foreign goons. ‘They’ve been stealing from your pharmacies?’

‘Grow up, Guzmán,’ Valverde snapped. ‘They’ve been interfering with some of the less official outlets.’

‘I see.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘The pushers on the streets and in the bars?’

Valverde’s puce face contorted. ‘Never mind that,
Comandante
. You know how these things work. It’s a service, in a way, for the degenerate and those in pain from their war wounds. The important thing is, these bastards have not only been selling their own products, they’ve attacked several of my most reliable,’ he paused, ‘sales people.’

‘A bunch of half breeds dressed like pimps,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Attacking your dealers. Shameful.’ He arranged the photographs along the desk. ‘Do we know anything about them?’

‘A great deal.’ Valverde nodded. ‘This one,’ he pushed a photograph towards Guzmán, ‘is Enrique Garcia Melilla.’

Guzmán looked at the photograph. The man looked like a university professor down on his luck. Bald, with a scraggly beard and eyes hidden in deep sockets. ‘He looks like a customer for the vice squad. Messing with little girls, playing with himself in public places – that’s my guess.’

Valverde laughed. ‘Wanted for murder in Cuba, Venezuela and Argentina. Served a sentence for murder in Bolivia, later commuted for unknown reasons. This one,’ he pointed to the second photo, ‘is Horacio Bienvenida. Apparently he’s the leader. Was once a journalist, or so it seems. Served ten years in Panama for knifing his girlfriend.’

Guzmán snorted, ‘I was right. Pimps and ponces. Why don’t we ship them all back to their little island?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Or have them disappear?’

‘This one,’ Valverde continued, ‘is Manuel Sanchez, the muscle of the outfit – for when knives and guns are not appropriate.’

The photograph was taken as Sanchez approached the doorway of a bar. Behind him was a stretch of glaring white beach and beyond a flat, gleaming sea. The man’s face was largely in shade but Guzmán could still see the immense bulk under the tight-fitting cotton jacket. Sanchez had thick hair which extended down to his eyebrows. His jug ears stuck out from the improbable thatch, and below a simian brow the nose displayed all the signs of having been broken, probably more than once. ‘Christ, what an ape,’ Guzmán said. ‘When he was born I bet the nurse threw him a banana.’

‘You’d underestimate
Señor
Sanchez at your peril, Guzmán. He trained as a heavyweight boxer, fighting bare-knuckle fights for pesos in Columbia, Peru and most of the Caribbean as well. According to reasonably reliable reports, he not only won forty-eight out of fifty fights, but left at least eight dead. He has convictions for manslaughter, gun running and an impressive record of almost ceaseless violence.’

Guzmán shrugged. ‘If he was Spanish I’d offer him a job working here.’ He picked up another photograph, a thin-faced young man with a large, floppy-brimmed panama that hid his face in shadow. The man’s sunglasses prevented Guzmán seeing his eyes but he noted a thin pencil moustache beneath the aquiline nose. ‘
Maricón
, no?’ Guzmán sneered.

‘Diego Vasquez, aged nineteen,’ Valverde said, looking at the sheets of typed information in front of him. And yes, as you say, a sodomite. A regular little debauchee. Convictions for violence, theft, pederasty and living off immoral earnings.’

Guzmán took the next photograph the general offered him, a mugshot of a pale-skinned black man with a wide jaw. ‘His mother was too friendly with the hired help by the look of it.’ Guzmán laughed.

‘In the Dominican Republic, Guzmán, a large percentage of the population are of mixed blood,’ Valverde said. ‘It’s even found in the upper classes, even the
presidente
’s grandmother was a slave. That gentleman is Salvador Bienvenida. Of whom we know very little so far other than he’s Horacio’s brother.’

Guzmán leaned back in his chair. ‘So, we have five foreign criminals in Madrid, none of whom would be out of place doing hard labour, given their track record. Why not round them up? If it would help I’ll take a squad of
guardia civiles
out and…’ He shrugged, leaving the obvious conclusion unspoken.

Valverde sighed. ‘If only. For some reason the word from above is that these Dominicans are to be tolerated. They came here with the American trade delegation. The
Caudillo
has been very specific: they must be allowed to conduct their business here, for the good of the economy.’

What the hell?
Guzmán thought.
Valverde is planning to act against Franco’s wishes and worse – for me – he wants me to do his dirty work
. ‘The general is surely not going to go against an order from the
Caudillo
himself,’ he said. It was a statement not a question.

Valverde looked uncomfortable. He sighed. Leaning down into his briefcase he produced a bottle of brandy. ‘Glasses,
Comandante
?’

Guzmán went to a small cabinet by the window and took out two chipped glasses, putting them on the desk next to Valverde’s bottle. ‘Carlos Primero, General? A rare treat indeed.’

‘Perhaps you’ll develop a taste for it,’ Valverde said, looking up from pouring two large shots. ‘The finer things come to a man as he progresses through life.’ He pushed a glass towards Guzmán. ‘
Salud y pesetas
.’

Guzmán took the drink, returning the general’s toast. The expensive brandy was smooth and glowed on his tongue. He lifted the glass to the light and took another appreciative sip.

‘An excellent brandy, Guzmán. I’ll leave you the bottle.’

‘The general is too kind,’ Guzmán said, warily.

‘I can rest easy then,
Comandante
?’ Valverde said. ‘You’ll help me with this difficulty?’

Guzmán looked pained. ‘General, I’ll do anything in my power to be of assistance. But if these men are part of a trade delegation explicitly sanctioned by the
Caudillo
, then I must respectfully decline the general’s request.’

He sat back and waited for the explosion. But Valverde shrugged, and took another mouthful of brandy. ‘Of course,
Comandante
, of course. But you’ve seen from the dossiers on these men that they’re exceptionally dangerous. As you say, they have every right to go about their
legitimate
business just as the
Caudillo
wishes. No doubt he’s keen to preserve good relations with the Dominican Republic, given they’re one of the few countries we’re on good terms with at the moment.’

Guzmán noted the emphasis on ‘legitimate’; it sounded as if the word were sticking in Valverde’s throat.

‘Just keep an eye on them, Guzmán, find out what they are doing. Do what you do best; a little information from here and there and then suddenly you have a dossier. And we know what dossiers can do.’ Valverde smiled, far too smugly for Guzmán’s liking.

‘I certainly do,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘I’m happy to keep an eye on these men as long as it’s clear I’m acting in response to your request. It’s outside my normal remit, as you’ll appreciate.’

‘You’re testing my patience,’ Valverde growled. ‘I want you to act without anyone else – and I mean anyone, Guzmán – knowing. In the meantime I want you to read the files and begin surveillance at once.’

Guzmán nodded. It was always difficult to turn down an offer of money. On the other hand, he had no wish to become involved in an operation that might be blamed on him if things went wrong. Something which would suit Valverde very well, given his loathing for Guzmán.

‘One more thing, Guzmán.’ Valverde stood up and rummaged again in his briefcase. ‘Just so there are no misunderstandings.’ He placed a brown paper parcel on the table. ‘This should provide your motivation,
Comandante
. And I trust it will guarantee this remains between you and me. Discretion costs, I know, so I’m paying more than the going rate.’

He moved towards the door, Guzmán stepping ahead of him to open it. Valverde paused and looked at him for a moment. ‘I have one further request, Guzmán, not nearly so difficult for you to agree to.’