The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (66 page)

‘For Christ’s sake, can’t we arrest him?’ Guzmán asked. ‘There’s enough to warrant at least an interrogation surely?’

‘No.’ Gutierrez shook his head.
‘Hostia,
Guzmán, I’ve got more reason to arrest you.’

‘You could try.’

‘Forget that kind of thinking,’ Gutierrez said. ‘If the shit hits the fan in two days you’re finished. You’ll get the blame and I have to go to plan B.’

‘Which is?’

‘You become a target. I’d have to act to keep my credibility. And even then, there are no guarantees. Valverde will be calling the shots after that.’

‘And if I disappear right now?’

‘Try it and see how far you get,’ Gutierrez said. ‘You’re lined up to be the scapegoat. It’s in no one’s interests to let you retire quietly.’

‘Just a thought,’ Guzmán muttered sullenly.

‘This is my phone number.’ Gutierrez handed Guzmán a scrap of paper. ‘If they come for you I’d prefer it if you weren’t carrying it on you.’

‘I’ll make sure of it.’ Guzmán nodded.

‘One more thing.’ Gutierrez swirled the last dregs of brandy in his glass. ‘What’s this thing with a
Señora
Martinez?’

Guzmán’s face fell. ‘What’s my private life got to do with Military Intelligence?’

Gutierrez finished his drink. ‘I couldn’t care less who you fuck, Guzmán. But I’ll tell you this,
Señora
Martinez’s name cropped up in several telegrams Valverde sent recently. They were written in code, unfortunately.’

‘Sent to who?’ Guzmán snapped.

‘Various post office boxes and then collected by someone using a fake name. What else would you expect? But you do visit this
Señora
Martinez, don’t you?’

‘She’s a friend,’ Guzmán said.

Gutierrez snorted. ‘A friend?
Hostia,
Guzmán. How many men in this trade have died because of a woman who was their friend?’ He shook his head.
‘Coño.’

‘That’s all it is,’ Guzmán said, aware of how pathetic he sounded.

‘And as you fall asleep in her bed? Does she take an interest in your job, Guzmán? Does she stay awake as you drift off babbling state secrets? Or perhaps she listens to your problems?’

Sweat trickled inside Guzmán’s shirt. ‘Absolutely not.
Mira,
we haven’t even—’

‘No,’ Gutierrez said incredulously, ‘no, please, please don’t tell me you’re not even fucking her. Please don’t say it’s love?
Puta
madre.’
He scowled. ‘You’re a professional, Guzmán.’

Guzmán looked away, humiliated.

‘Well, that’s your problem,’ Gutierrez said. ‘I’ve told you what I can. I can’t afford to be directly involved in any of this. Shit sticks. You need to find the Dominicans and get a grip before Valverde convinces Franco you’re yesterday’s news.’ He put down his glass. ‘I tell you what: if I was seeing some woman whose name appears regularly in correspondence from a man who wants me dead she’d have to be fucking me stupid twenty-five hours a day before I’d ignore it. Watch yourself, man.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Guzmán muttered.

‘I think you should.’ Gutierrez turned and walked out of the door into the noise and confusion as another train pulled into the platform.

Guzmán watched him disappear into the crowds, swirls of men in shabby suits, peasants carrying wineskins, old women dressed in black. Gutierrez was slowly subsumed until only his shaven head was visible above the ragged eddies of poverty swirling around him. And then Guzmán saw him. Black hat, dark wool coat. Several metres behind, following Gutierrez across the concourse. They were watching him too.

Guzmán felt drained. Even though he had always known this moment might come, he was still surprised. He’d imagined it would be more dramatic: the arrest at dead of night, the beating in the cells, possibly a trial. He lit a cigarette and thought for a while. Gutierrez wanted the Dominicans to be prevented from disrupting the talks. Guzmán wanted the Dominicans. There were still possibilities.

Outside, a train pulled in, spouting dark acrid smoke, the tannoy announcement echoing, loud and unintelligible. People spilled from the train, jostling and elbowing. They looked like maggots, Guzmán thought with distaste, the brandy sour in his mouth. He stubbed out his cigarette and left the bar, swiftly absorbed into the crowds making their way towards the exit.

It was dark. The wretched street lighting made it hard to see very far in the freezing evening air. Guzmán passed a shop and idly glanced into the dull amber glow of the display window. The reflection in the glass overlaid the shoddy knitted goods inside but it was the reflection Guzmán was interested in. A man was following him. Discreetly, slowly, but definitely following him.
The vultures follow the sick animal before it knows it’s sick.
The words of the priest who taught in the village school. He had been full of words. When he wasn’t using his stick – usually on Guzmán. Until the war came. And then the villagers came for the priest. The priest’s words had softened then, although by that time it was far too late.

Guzmán crossed the road and bought a newspaper at a stall. Everything was turning to shit. Valverde was much sharper than Guzmán had thought. He’d boxed him into a corner. Tricked him into taking the money and given him false information. Not to mention the poisoning of his own drugs and the shooting outside Bar Dominicana. Valverde had made a confrontation with the Dominicans inevitable, even though it was expressly forbidden. The cunning fuck. A light snow began to fall, forming soft shimmering halos around the street lights. Then there was Positano. What the hell did he have to do with all this? Guzmán was losing his grip.
Señora
Martinez complicated his life even further, so that now, everything he did required him to take her into account. So much that had seemed clear-cut not so long ago had mutated into a perplexing cluster of events, each presenting him with a new set of problems. And that was all he had right now: problems.

BADAJOZ 1936  

It seemed as if he was in a dream. They carried him to a wagon and gave him water. Later they brought him soup and bread. He ate hungrily, as if it were his last meal, which perhaps it would be. The men looked at him and laughed. One ruffled his hair. Another gave him a mouthful of brandy which made him splutter. They were in good spirits. As he lay in the wagon, he heard them discussing the battle. It was over: the city had fallen and now all that remained was to dispose of the losers. They were looking forward to it.

Soon they would discover who he was and then he would suffer. He was tempted to confess who he was, what he had done, to end it now and put a stop to his anticipatory suffering. But in the evening they brought him stew, thick with meat. Smiled at his hunger. Gave him more.

‘No wonder he’s starved, after what he went through.’ He couldn’t see who had spoken. From his hospital tent he could only see shadows outlined against the blazing fire. Heard them laughing, drinking wine. Heard a toast. Something about angels and swords.

The noise of a motor vehicle cut through the laughter. At once, the atmosphere changed. The kid felt it even in the tent. And he was afraid, the fear cold and cloying. They knew. They had come for him. He heard boots on the dry ground coming nearer. Heard the barked salutes of the men.
‘Sí, Señor’, ‘A sus ordenes’.
And then, worse: ‘A sus ordenes,
mi General.’
What business did a general have with him? He knew the answer. He had come for him. Come to claim him, to remind him the wages of sin were death. Maybe the priests had been right after all.
 

The general entered the tent, framed by the camp fire behind
him. The kid lay on the bed bathed in sweat. He looked up at the general. A big man, ruddy-faced, with wild eyes burning beneath shaggy brows, a thick bristling moustache over a cruel mouth. His uniform was immaculate, medals glittered on his chest. The kid’s eyes were drawn to the holster on his belt.

The general spoke. ‘So you’re the one?’

‘Sí, señor.’ The kid struggled to sit up.

‘How are you, boy?’

‘Bien. Muy bien.’
What else could he say? He could hardly complain.
 

‘Sad news, young man,’ the general said. ‘We found no one alive on the hillside. Your entire unit is dead. Every last man.’ He placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder. ‘All except you.’

The kid nodded. That would make them even angrier. The destruction of a whole unit. There would be no mercy after that.

‘The men say you pursued them to the last man. Is that true?’

The kid acknowledged that it was. More or less, he thought.

‘Incredible. You never flinched in your duty. You pursued those Reds until they were destroyed. Incredible. You’re a hero, son. Franco has already agreed to a medal. And you’ll need to talk to the reporters – this will be a big boost for morale.’

The kid didn’t understand.

‘There’s more,’ the general said. ‘We can use men like you. I’ve already spoken with Franco about you. We’re agreed. Someone with your potential could be useful not only in this war, but afterwards. Spain has to deal with the Reds that remain – and other threats as well. We want to train you, prepare you for the role. And others like you. But I warn you, it will be hard. And we’ll be watching you, lad, Franco and me, making sure you complete the tasks we set, making sure you develop the skills we need. We’ll always be close by, keeping a constant eye on you. What do you say?’

‘It’s an honour,’ the kid stammered. Maybe they’d post him near the French border.

‘Do you know what the men say?’ The general smiled. ‘They say you pursued those Reds like an avenging angel. Followed them
through the hills until finally you put them to the sword. Like the shadow of God falling on them. That’s what they’re calling you: The Dark Angel of the Sword. They think you’re lucky. And you must be, for us to give you this opportunity. You won’t regret it. All we ask is loyalty. Loyalty and obedience. Once we’ve won this war, loyalty will brings rewards, believe me. What do you say lad? Are you up for the challenge?’
 

There was no alternative. At least until the moment came when he could flee to France.
‘A sus ordenes, mi General.’  

‘I knew I could count on you,’ the general said approvingly. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Guzmán,
mi General,’
the kid stammered.
 

‘Well, Guzmán, this is a great opportunity,’ General Valverde said. ‘Make the most of it.’

‘I will,
mi General,’
the kid said. ‘I promise.’

23

MADRID 2009, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, DEPARTAMENTO DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA

By the time Galindez reached the university, evening was already spilling long shadows across the parched gardens. She got out of her car and stormed across the grass towards the history building. She recalled her promise earlier in the day to Tali that she would stay cool when she met with Luisa. It wasn’t going to be easy.
She mustn’t suspect we know she’s involved with the
Centinelas
and gave me the bugged ear stud.
That was bad enough, but there was also Luisa’s attack on Galindez’s work in the newspaper article. And that wasn’t all: Galindez had an even bigger surprise for the
profesora.

Galindez took the stone steps of the faculty building two at a time and hurried down the narrow corridor. Luisa’s office was as chaotic as ever. Maybe she just threw her papers to the floor when she’d read them, Galindez thought. Luisa looked up, perhaps thinking this was a social visit. She was wrong.

‘Ana.
Qué tal?’

‘Bien.
You look tired, Luisa. Late night?’

‘I wish. Got a deadline on this paper for the
Hispanic Journal of Socio-Historical Research.
You’d think I could get it finished easily. But can I?’

Galindez moved a pile of papers from a chair to the floor and sat down.

‘I saw you on TV the other day, Ana.’ Luisa frowned. ‘You should have consulted me about it.’

‘Why? They interviewed me because of my work for the
guardia
civil.
They wanted to know about our investigation of war graves and atrocities. They called my boss and he asked me to do it.’

Luisa snorted. ‘What about an acknowledged expert? Someone who could put the issue into proper context and draw out the implications for society. Me, in other words.’

Her ego was astonishing. ‘It was
Telediario,
Luisa. They wanted something short and succinct. You don’t do either.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Luisa’s face flushed with anger.

‘Meaning they wanted three minutes of interview about where a particular grave we’re working on is located, and what we expect to find. Not some post-modern discussion of how we should restore the fucking palimpsest.’

Luisa stood up. ‘Just remember I’m in charge of this research group, Ana María.’

‘Could I ever forget it? Look, if you want to behave like a big kid, go ahead. But just remember, the government is about to announce new funding enabling the
guardia civil
to take a lead role in investigations related to Franco’s dictatorship. Once that happens, we’ll be in charge of those activities. We’ll decide who our authorised partners will be. Partners we think will further our scientific investigations.’

‘Hija de puta,’
Luisa spat, flecking her chin with saliva. ‘I welcomed you into my group and this is how you repay me – by taking it over?’

‘I’m only telling you how it is, Luisa. You could find yourself on the outside when we pick our future partners. Especially since you’re so antagonistic to our methods.’

‘To your methods, you ungrateful little bitch,’ Luisa shouted. ‘I’ll teach you some manners,
putita.’
She leapt to her feet, drawing back her fist as she launched herself at Galindez.