The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (7 page)

‘The general has only to ask,’ Guzmán lied.

‘My niece’s husband Francisco has just finished his police training,’ Valverde said. ‘He needs experience but a copper’s pay won’t keep them, now the first baby’s arrived. He’s a bright lad, a good Christian and he’ll obey orders. Everything you could want in an officer.’

‘I have no budget for any more staff,’ Guzmán protested.

‘You have now.’ Valverde smiled. ‘Take him for six months, let him get some experience and then he’ll probably be promoted and you won’t see him again. Until he’s chief of police.’ He smiled again.

Which will probably be sooner than the poor bastard thinks,
Guzmán thought.

‘If the general insists…’

‘I do, Guzmán, I do. And I shall be very grateful. In fact, tomorrow night we’re having a small soirée to welcome the American Trade Delegation. The
Caudillo
will be there, a few generals, politicians and some party members. Arrive between ten and eleven tomorrow evening.’

‘In uniform?’ Guzmán was horrified by the thought.

The general laughed at his discomfort. ‘No, a suit will do, Guzmán, and not black tie, I assure you.’

‘Very well.’ Guzmán opened the door.

‘You won’t regret this, Guzmán,’ Valverde said. He turned back for a moment. ‘When shall I tell the lad to report to you?’

‘Well, we have a raid at five tomorrow morning…’ Guzmán began.

‘Excellent. I’ll phone him shortly. He’ll be here an hour before. Name’s Francisco Peralta. He won’t let you down. He won’t dare.’ He smiled. ‘I can see myself out.’

Fucking marvellous,
Guzmán thought as the general closed the door behind him.
He dumps some rookie copper into a secret unit. The lad’s in for a surprise, that’s for sure
.

The clatter of Valverde’s boots echoed down the worn flagstones of the corridor. Guzmán heard the swing doors open and close, heard the general’s ‘
buenas noches
’ and the barked reply from the
sargento
on the desk. There was the faint sound of running as the general’s aides fought to open the car door for him. Guzmán looked around his office. This was how he liked it. Empty. A muted scream from below indicated the boys had started work again.

The anaemic light seemed more feeble than ever, the shadows pressing in around him as Guzmán locked the office door and sat at his desk. He took the bottle of Carlos Primero and pulled the cork, raising the bottle to his lips greedily. Yet even the expensive brandy couldn’t overcome the sense of unease the general’s visit had instilled in him.

The screams became louder and more frequent, now inflected with a desperate pleading tone. Guzmán looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He had ordered the
guardia
civiles
to be ready at five in the morning. Raids were always best carried out while the subjects were in bed. It added to their sense of horrified anticipation as they were dragged away. He already had most of the addresses. The intelligence had been first class so far. The screaming represented the last pieces of information being obtained. Nothing must be overlooked. That was the way. His way. His men would have the information soon because Guzmán hand-picked his men. They could be relied on. Which, he reflected, was not the same as saying they could be trusted.

He picked up the brown paper parcel and tore it open, expecting to see a bundle of pesetas. But the bills were less ornate, though familiar enough: US dollars. He began to count. By the time he finished counting he had drunk two more glasses of brandy and sweat was running down his face. On the desk in front of him were ten thousand US dollars in hundred dollar bills. He was rich.

Scooping up the money, he went over to the metal filing cabinet and began to pull it away from the wall. It took a while and the cabinet was heavy but Guzmán was strong and had done this before. Behind the cabinet one of the flagstones was divided by a jagged gash in the stone. By inserting a knife blade into the crack, Guzmán lifted one half of the flagstone and placed it to one side, before removing the other half. Below him was a hollow a metre deep. Guzmán leaned down and pulled out a metal box. In it were photographs, assorted documents and some loose change. Souvenirs of his work which, in an emergency, might come in handy. He placed the dollars in the box and replaced the box in the dusty pit, nestling it amongst the other mementos he had stashed down there. He replaced the broken pieces of flagstone and then pushed the cabinet back into place. Didn’t they say out of sight, out of mind?
Whoever said that never knew me,
Guzmán, thought. His shirt felt damp under the arms. He lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly. He knew the value of staying calm. But he also knew the value of the money now hidden beneath the filing cabinet. If Valverde was prepared to pay that sort of money for his services, there must be a lot at stake. Valverde was pushing his luck disobeying Franco. There were limits and he was paying Guzmán to push them. Guzmán took a drag on his cigarette and reached for the brandy. He needed to think.

A slight sound outside. Guzmán was instantly alert, veins pumping, the glow of the alcohol fading as his muscles tensed. Someone was sneaking along the corridor outside. He heard the slow drag of booted feet. He drew the big pistol from its holster and eased off the safety catch.
Always strike first.
He levelled the pistol at the door. The sound grew nearer. Guzmán moved silently to the door. His left hand reached for the handle, not grasping it until he had positioned himself, ready to leap forward into the corridor as he pulled the door open. He forced himself to breath slower.
Uno.
Outside, the slow, stealthy sound of boots on stone, and something else, indistinct, possibly more than one person then.
Dos.
Guzmán’s hand closed around the door handle.
Tres.
He wrenched the door open, aiming the Browning into the corridor ahead of him.

In the pale light two men were dragging another by his arms down the corridor. The man was face down, his head hanging limply. Guzmán came towards them, pistol levelled. But only for a second.

‘
Jesús Cristo, jefe
,’ the taller man said. ‘You scared the shit out of me.’ The other man looked blankly at the muzzle of Guzmán’s gun as it lowered and moved back to the shoulder holster under his left arm. The man hanging between them said nothing, a lengthening string of bloody saliva hung from his mouth, gradually stretching its way down to the floor.

‘Sorry, boys,’ Guzmán said. ‘You sounded a bit suspicious from in there.’

They nodded, startled but not daring to complain.

Guzmán looked at the man hanging between them. ‘Did he talk?’

The tall one nodded. ‘We got it. Everything. He wasn’t going to talk,
jefe
, told us to shove it. We kicked the fuck out of him, Juanito here told him we had his wife in the next room and he was going to let the night watch see to her unless he told us the address. Still nothing. We stuck his head in a bucket and then we broke his fingers. The bastard wouldn’t say a word.’

‘So what made him so cooperative?’ Guzmán asked with professional interest.

‘Juanito remembered the iron upstairs. We let him watch it warming up and then took some of the creases out of his chest for him. Want to see the burns? He couldn’t wait to spill his guts to us,’ the tall one said.

Guzmán looked at him incredulously. ‘You used the iron from upstairs on him?’

The men’s expressions confirmed they had.

‘
Coño
,’ Guzmán exploded. ‘That iron’s for emergencies like the last time we had the top brass visit the
comisaría
. Did you get flesh stuck to it?’

The dumb one, Juanito, nodded.

‘
Hijos de puta
. So next time we want to press a uniform so we look like half decent servants of the State, we won’t be able to because you ruined the office iron.
Cabrónes
.’

The men stood shamefaced. Guzmán shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, when we pick up the Reds, I want you two to search each fucking house, once you’ve subdued the prisoners, of course, until you find a good iron. Bring it back, give it to the
sargento
, and I won’t shoot you in the back next time you’re about to go off duty. Is that clear?’

‘
Si, mi Comandante
,’ the men mumbled like schoolboys.

‘Now get out of my sight. And
that
,’ he pointed to the body, ‘is he dead?’

‘No,
jefe
.’ The tall one shook his head. ‘We thought you’d want him put in with those we’re arresting in the morning.’

Guzmán shrugged. ‘Up to you. But if you ask me, he looks suicidal.’ He looked at the tall one again. ‘No?’

‘Very clearly,
jefe
.’ The tall one nodded eagerly. ‘These Reds, no concept of God, of decency, no values. Nothing to keep them in this world.’

‘Thank you, Archbishop,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘I’ll leave you to it. And see you at five tomorrow morning. On the dot.’

‘Sir.’ The men began to drag the man back the way they had come. Guzmán turned to enter his office.

‘
Jefe
?’

‘
Qué
?’

‘The
comandante
wouldn’t have any rope, by any chance?’

Guzmán whirled round. ‘
Cabrón
, don’t test my patience any more. Let’s have some of the sharp thinking the
Brigada Especial
are so well known for. Use the fucker’s belt. That’s what suicides do, no?’

‘Of course.
Gracias
,
jefe
.’

Guzmán slammed the door on them, muttering florid curses about their mothers. He kicked the desk a couple of times until his anger subsided. Outside, he heard them dragging the prisoner back to his cell.
Amateurs
. He put on his coat and scarf, took a last swig of brandy and then put the bottle in his desk drawer, which he then locked. No point putting temptation in the sarge’s way.

Guzmán’s footsteps echoed on the stone flags of the corridor. The
sargento
snapped to attention as Guzmán entered the icy lobby.

‘All in order,
Sargento
?’

‘
Todo está en orden, mi Comandante
. The general seemed very happy when he left.’

Guzmán stared hard. ‘Did he? I had no idea you were such good friends with General Valverde. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘I’ll be here,
Comandante
. Everything is arranged.’

Guzmán leaned across the reception desk. ‘I would very much prefer you not just to be here but to be awake as well.’

‘Of course,
Comandante
.’

‘
Buenas noches, Sargento
.’ Guzmán tugged open the door and went out into the street.

Snow was falling heavily and the street was white with thick snow, glistening in the baleful glow of the street lamps. He began to walk towards Puerta del Sol. Snow blew into his eyes, making him swear. The new snow crunched beneath his leaking shoes and he occasionally slipped, provoking a barrage of curses and threats into the freezing night.

Around the little warren of streets leading into Puerta del Sol he noticed the whores were still out. A pale thin woman in rags smiled at him, decaying teeth bared in a rictus of desperation.

‘Some company for the
señor
?’ she stammered through almost blue lips. ‘Anything he wants for a duro.
Anything
,’ she emphasised.

‘No.’ Guzmán moved on past the shaking woman, aware his rejection had only encouraged others to move towards him, hissing a chorused litany of desperation at him through the falling snow. One woman staggered forward, her breasts visible through the tattered clothing she was trying to pull across her scrawny frame. Another was so drunk she could no longer stand. Guzmán moved on, leaving the skeletal whores behind. They lacked the strength or will to pursue him further. And then, as he stepped into the pool of light under the next street lamp, a new group accosted him, promising everything, and yet, he thought, offering very little worth having, even if it were free.

Just before the Metro station he left behind the last group of whores and negotiated his way past a crowd of cripples sprawled against a wall, begging. Various combinations of amputation and disease were offered up for his inspection. But Guzmán remained firm. Charity was for the weak, those who gave out of compassion, that was, not the recipients. For Guzmán they were like the dead. Perhaps a little more animated.

Passing the entrance to the station, Guzmán ignored a couple of old crones who tried half-heartedly to solicit him. He crossed the road and made his way down into Calle Mesón de Paredes, the high walls of the buildings rising black and craggy above him. The snow was getting thicker now, clinging to the front of his coat.

And then he felt the adrenalin surge. Someone was following him. He was sure of it. He recognised the footsteps. He had heard them earlier after he left the
comisaría
, measured and muffled, keeping a steady pace, accommodating the rhythm of his steps. Pausing by a darkened shop window, Guzmán lit a cigarette, casually turning to look back towards the wide expanse of the Puerta del Sol. The wind drove stinging flakes of snow across his face and the street lamps were now shrouded by heavy falling snow. Guzmán could hardly see.

But he saw the man. A dark shape in a doorway. Not moving, just watching. Guzmán calculated he was about fifty metres away and began to walk towards him. Then he thought better of it. Turning, he continued down the road, his feet crunching on the thickening snow, ears straining to hear the footsteps behind him. And there they were again. Guzmán looked back and the man melted into the shadow of another doorway.

The blizzard was so strong Guzmán could see only whirling snow shadows, blurred lights and the dark outlines of the shops and houses in the street. When the wind dropped for a moment he was no longer sure the man was still in the doorway. Reaching the entrance to his building, Guzmán turned his key in the ancient lock of the entrance hall door and stepped inside, closing the door to the street immediately. He groped for the light switch. A dim bare bulb illuminated the hallway, the stone-tiled floors, the solid wood of the apartment doors, the sharp stone of the staircase. Guzmán made his way to the first floor, listening intently.