The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (63 page)

Guzmán had been surprised. It seemed somehow ungentlemanly to be ordered to kill his own commander. But obedience is a soldier’s virtue, and that night, as the man got out of his car, Guzmán put his pistol behind the man’s ear and fired. He left the body and the car, taking only the cash in the man’s wallet. It was small recompense for the long walk home.

The next day Guzmán was promoted. He used the stolen money to buy a suit for the funeral. A few months later, he was summoned to the
Caudillo
’s headquarters, where Franco gave him a new job, commanding the Special Brigade in a phony police station, his men dedicated solely to removing those who opposed the regime. Franco smiled as he outlined the work. No legal restrictions, no judicial accountability. No due process. It was something Franco had done before, following the uprising in Asturias in 1934. It worked very well then, Franco said, and it would work well now. Guzmán would maintain the memory of the war. Nothing which had been done against Spain – meaning against Franco – would be forgotten, as Guzmán exacted vengeance upon all those who had threatened the eternal glory of
La Patria.
A Spain united, great and free, as the Falangists loved to chant, although naturally, freedom was a relative concept and was always subject to revision. Guzmán had been trained for such work and he took to it at once. The
Caudillo
trusted him and Guzmán would not betray that trust. Could not betray it.

The squid was truly excellent, its salty batter delicious, perhaps the best he’d ever had, Guzmán thought, while recalling his appointment as Franco’s roving executioner. So much casual death. So much blood. So many dark times, although not for him. Who was it said the darkest hour was before dawn? Certainly whoever said it had not been in Guzmán’s line of work. The hour before dawn was when you checked the rifles of the firing squad – if there was to be such a formality. It was when you watched the prisoners being brought from their confinement, their pasty faces, their innumerable cigarettes shedding tobacco as the prisoners tried to light them with trembling hands.

So many prisoners. Endless lines of gaunt faces, men and women in corpse-grey queues, waiting. Waiting to be interrogated, waiting to be judged, waiting to be lined up and then waiting to die. The mixture of emotions: some defiant, some weeping, some half mad. Sometimes the women would be raped: every execution had its own set of contingencies. The prisoners, shuffling forwards, sometimes bound, other times bound only by their own fear and the utter certainty of what was to come. No matter how many emotions Guzmán detected in their eyes as they marched past him, the one emotion he never saw was hope. There were no concessions for their feelings, no attempt to make the executions humane. These people were shot for a reason and they deserved to die.

Some deaths stood out from the rest, deaths that had some significance or which were necessary in order to make some point or other. Guzmán remembered the film star, a well-known Communist, quite a looker before the war. Her allegiance to the Republic brought her the fame she desired, although in the end she got more attention than she ever dreamed of. Her war involved making propaganda films and paying occasional visits to the front to rally the Reds in their trenches. Until the night Guzmán and his squad flagged down the car in which the actress was making another visit to the front as a boost for morale.

The driver was a fool to get lost. But then he probably knew that the moment Guzmán and his men held the car at gunpoint. The man made no attempt to defend her, surrendering with gibbering haste. It was cold that night, Guzmán remembered, cold and dark. The crowd of men around the car. Pistols pushed against the driver’s forehead though the half-open window, spittle on the man’s face as he struggled to control his fear. The woman was braver than him. Did they know who she was? she demanded, relying on her fame to save her. Of course they knew. Did they know how much she could be ransomed for? Naturally, they did. She was still asserting her financial worth as they pulled her and the driver from the car and shoved them to the side of the road. The driver was weeping, afraid to even look at his captors.

Guzmán speared his last calamari with a toothpick and nodded to the barman. The man turned to shovel more squid onto a plate. He brought another beer, beads of condensation running down the glass, and placed it alongside the squid.

There had been a brief discussion between Guzmán and his men as they searched the actress’s car. Her fate was already decided even though she continued to try to interest them in using her as a hostage. Mainly they argued over the woman’s clothes. Dressed in her finest to give the troops a show, the actress shivered in the night while the men discussed in low voices how much her clothes were worth. For Guzmán, the problem was somewhat different. Steal her clothes, leave her corpse naked, and in death she might have one last propaganda coup if the Reds gave photographs to the foreign press, enabling them to highlight yet another Nationalist atrocity. Shoot her as she stood, in her expensive outfit, and his men would resent the waste. They already resented young Guzmán’s promotion and his command over them. Even for Guzmán, whose skills in leadership were underwritten by acts of sudden, elemental violence, there was still a need to keep the men motivated and obedient. A regular army commander would just have ordered them to obey. But Guzmán’s men were irregulars, less accustomed to orders, more prone to contesting authority. There was a balance to be had between compliance and resentment. Later, he would have the benefit of experience as well as his lethal physical attributes, but back then he was still learning. And Guzmán was always a quick learner.

The actress began to take off her clothes, seemingly unsurprised by his order. She undressed slowly and deliberately, as if going for a swim rather than standing in front of a group of enemy soldiers. The fur coat was first, passed reverently back from hand to hand, stroked, admired, carefully placed on the bonnet of the car. The silk dress, the stockings. There was silence now, except for the sobbing of the driver. The actress struggled for a moment to unhook her camisole before sliding it from her body and handing it to be passed back to the car to be placed with her other clothing. She stood naked, pale and shivering. Someone remembered her jewellery and after a moment’s hesitation the woman removed her earrings, her necklace and several large rings. The driver’s sobbing became incessant and incoherent.

The men shuffled, unsettled, unsure what they were going to do with her. Some began to insult her: she was a whore, a Red bitch, she didn’t know what real men could do, she would do for them what she had done for the Freemasons, the Communists, the church burners. They were becoming a mob. This needed to be over quickly, Guzmán realised. But they were near to the front lines: if they shot her, the enemy might catch them out here in the open. If they stayed to take turns raping her, they ran the risk of being discovered by enemy patrols. Leadership, Guzmán was learning, always required action. It was time to act.

There would be no shooting. Taking her with them would be too risky. A mass rape would take too long and would make them vulnerable to attack while the men shouted and jeered at the trembling woman. This was no longer about her and Guzmán decided what must happen to maintain their respect for his command. He stepped forward and the men stood aside, eager to see what the young
teniente
would do. The wire was already in his hands as Guzmán stepped behind the actress. Her head hung down as she hugged herself against the cold, unaware of Guzmán as he moved closer to her, quickly bringing the wire over her head and then pulling it tight around her throat.

For a moment she was so surprised she seemed not to comprehend what was happening. But no one who is strangled dies peacefully or with dignity and she was no exception. Her inhibition at being naked in front of the enemy soldiers was quickly lost as she flailed helplessly and hopelessly, threshing against the insistent bite of Guzmán’s garrotte while the roaring in her ears drowned out the sound of her futile attempts to draw breath. There was still time to kick, to twist, to try to flee with those flailing legs, even as Guzmán’s great strength lifted her clear of the ground. Still time to do all those things that seemed to offer an escape from the crimson tide of asphyxia that turned her face into a dark mask punctuated by her desperate gaping mouth as she struggled to breathe. The actress died, threshing and kicking, finally forced face downwards onto the ground beneath Guzmán’s weight. He knelt astride her, his feet pinning her legs until it was over.

He had killed like this on other occasions and he had done it well here. The impression he had made on his men was considerable. They would be much less willing to dispute his authority in future. Guzmán then turned his attention to the driver. The actress had been a woman and nothing was expected of her in the manner of her death. The driver was not a brave man and he shamed himself in the way he died. The men were glad he suffered.

Guzmán chewed the hot squid, lost in thought, remembering soaking the two bodies in petrol after pushing them back into the car, the flames rising into the night sky. They heard the explosion of the petrol tank after a few minutes, but by then they were on the way back to their own lines. Guzmán took a sip of cold beer, lost in memory. The interior of the café dissolved into a comforting warm murmur. But introspection was too much of an indulgence to maintain for long. He blinked, willing himself back into the present, the smell of sweat, the thick cigarette smoke, the chatter of a dozen conversations. When he looked up from the bar, he was looking into the face of the big shave-head from the
capitanía.

Guzmán weighed the man up. Tall, heavy and thick-set, the man’s head glinted in the weak light of the bar.
Maybe five or six centimetres taller. Christ, they pick us out of a mould.
The man stepped forward and Guzmán tensed as he extended a hand.

‘Gutierrez.’

‘Guzmán.’

They shook hands. The bar was crowded. It was unlikely the man would make a move here. But not impossible. Pull out a gun, shoot, then leave. The only thing the bystanders would remember would be the gun. Even if they were able to describe the killer, the police wouldn’t want to know. Nor the press. That was how it worked.

Guzmán warily emptied his glass. ‘Have a drink?’

‘Sure. You’re drinking beer? I’ll have one too.’

Guzmán waved the empty glass and the barman brought two glasses of flat, yellow beer. Guzmán handed one to the man and they toasted one another warily.

‘You’ll be wondering why I’m here?’ Gutierrez asked, casually.

‘I’m not stupid,’ Guzmán said.

Gutierrez grinned. ‘It isn’t that,
Comandante.
They haven’t sent me for you.’

‘Just as well,’ Guzmán’s voice was quiet, ‘for you.’

Gutierrez betrayed a moment of irritation. ‘If it was that, I would hardly choose this place to do it. Although naturally, I would do it,
Comandante.
But don’t let’s argue – I’ve not got much time. There’s a lot to be done, what with the
Caudillo’
s speech, the parade and then the trade meeting.’

‘Sounds like you’ll be busy.’

‘I do my bit. Which is why I’m here. I brought you this.’

Gutierrez reached inside his jacket and then stopped, looking down at the bulge in the left-hand pocket of Guzmán’s coat where the big Browning was pointing at his belly. Guzmán still held his drink in his right hand. He nodded to Gutierrez’s hand, hovering halfway inside his coat.

‘Very slowly, Gutierrez. Don’t make me nervous.’

Gutierrez opened his jacket slowly, holding it so Guzmán could see the manila envelope protruding from an inside pocket. As he had expected, the man’s holstered pistol nestled under his armpit. Gutierrez pulled out the envelope and offered it to Guzmán.

‘Step back a pace.’

Gutierrez stepped back and Guzmán put down his glass and took the thick envelope with his right hand.

‘That was nicely done,’ Gutierrez said, ‘but I really have come to help you.’

‘And why was it necessary to send you?’

‘I sent myself, Guzmán. As the new head of Military Intelligence I wanted to meet you. That was why Carrero had me frisk you. To get a look at you.’

Guzmán’s face hardened. ‘That must have been fun. So you’re the new boss?’

‘I am,’ Gutierrez agreed, ‘so fasten that tie,
Comandante
. You’re on duty.’ Both of them smiled with almost genuine humour, each confident that, if necessary, he could kill the other in a heartbeat.

‘So what do I need help with, Gutierrez?’

‘Your Caribbean friends,’ Gutierrez said, reaching for his beer. ‘I understand they’re causing you problems. What with their property purchases and their petty crime.’

‘I’m aware of all that. What I don’t know is where they are.’

Gutierrez inclined his head towards the envelope. ‘There’s a lot  there you don’t know, Guzmán. Have a look at it. You should find it helpful. I had some of Carrero’s best men on this.’

Guzmán scowled. ‘I am one of his best men. And anyway, I’ve already used Exterior Intelligence Services to check them out.’

‘My information comes from other sources,’ Gutierrez said. ‘You should find the contents of this envelope very interesting.’

‘That’s all very well, what am I going to do with these bastards?’ Guzmán spat. ‘The
Caudillo
himself said they weren’t to be touched.’

‘That’s true, Guzmán. Officially. But from what I’ve seen, you need to take a wider view of things. When you see what’s in the envelope you’ll agree.’

‘Bueno.
I’ll take a look.’

‘Good. I’d hate for this to become a problem on my watch.’

Guzmán finished his beer. ‘Gutierrez, when I find out where they are, they’ll cease to be a problem, full stop.’

‘Be subtle, Guzmán,’ Gutierrez said quietly. ‘The last thing you want to do is go charging in after them. If you want to keep your job, that is. And your head, come to that. I mean it.’