The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (9 page)

They got away with it, Galindez thought, her nails digging into her palms. No one was going to find his killers now, seventeen years later – least of all her. There were many in the
guardia civil
who’d tried – why had she ever imagined it could be her who would bring his killers to justice? That had been just an adolescent dream, though the thought that one day she might succeed sustained her through interminable nights of lonely study and revision. Hoping that by tracking down his killers she could become something more than that tragic little girl, Miguel’s daughter. The one faces turned to when she entered a room.
That’s her,
pobrecita.
So sad. First the father, then the mother as well. They say she drank, you know. But look at the child. Poor little thing.
Enough. It was time to acknowledge that
Papá
’s killers had faded into history. Impatiently, she wiped away a tear.
It seemed possible when I was fifteen. I’m twenty-five now. Time to get real, Ana María. Time to put that grief aside, although it’s not as if I ever grieved for him really. Not the way people expected. There was an explosion and he died and so did everything I knew up to that moment. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t cry at his funeral. Or Mamá’s for that matter. God knows enough people tried to make me.
Tia
Teresa even pinched me to try and get the tears flowing. And afterwards, the shrinks treated me like I was a freak. As if a man in a white coat had the right to try and make an eight-year-old cry.

But even if she’d never been able to express her grief, that didn’t mean she had to abandon her longing for justice. Uncovering Guzmán’s shadowy activities – and maybe others like him – might still be possible. She began to think about how it could be done. Develop a profile of the man, gather evidence of what he did, how he did it, who he did it to. A comprehensive catalogue of Guzmán’s career. But that was where the problems began. Guzmán was in charge of a secret unit. They didn’t have annual reports, didn’t send out press releases on successful operations like today’s
guardia
. Guzmán’s secrecy was a challenge in itself, given its resonance with Galindez’s own past:
He got away with it just as ETA did when they killed my father
. But, if she worked hard, maybe she really could drag Guzmán – alive or dead – into public view, deny him the comfort of hiding in the darkness of Spain’s past, and, by doing that, enable society to recognise and acknowledge the pain he caused. And then move on. Closure. Surely, she thought, that’s what people need. Closure for the lingering scars and the emotional damage of the War. Closure. It was what she wanted, she knew that much. Then she wouldn’t have to struggle on in the
guardia
, taking the shit, bringing the pay cheque in, trying to show that Miguel’s daughter could hack it. Maybe it might even put an end to the amnesia that blotted out all memory of her life before the explosion. Eight years of her life lost in a moment. Closure. Ironically, Guzmán might be the person to give it to her.

She looked distractedly at her scattered clothing on the floor as ideas began to spring to mind, light and airy and increasingly ambitious. The air from the window felt warm and sensuous. A car horn blared angrily in the street. Men shouting. Galindez realised she was being watched.

Luisa’s eyes shone with wakening desire, making Galindez suddenly aware of being naked. She returned Luisa’s smile, though she felt an urge to leave, to join the bustle in the street, to go somewhere, do something new. But Luisa had the key to that something new:
Comandante
Guzmán and all his works. Those works could also become hers if her plan worked out.

‘Luisa, what would you say to me working with you on the Guzmán project? If I could get time off, a secondment maybe? I’d like to make a contribution to your research.’

‘That would be great, Ana,’ Luisa said. ‘What sort of contribution?’

Where to start?
‘I see from this book you don’t believe in focusing on the individual in your studies?’

‘Exactly, history is shaped by the larger realm of ideas. Understand those and you understand the actions of individuals.’

‘But what about a perspective from someone from a different background? With a focus on the individual? As a counterweight to your approach?’

Luisa thought for a moment. ‘Maybe it could work. A dissenting voice would give the investigation a dialectical tension. Forensic work – forgive me for saying so – is really about attributing blame and apportioning guilt. There’d be a theoretical conflict. Wouldn’t you mind that?’

‘
No para nada
. I want to collect evidence of his involvement in the activities of the
Brigada Especial
. And then assess the level of his culpability and the extent of his involvement in the crimes of his unit.’

‘That doesn’t sound a terribly sympathetic approach.’ Luisa frowned. ‘My own view is that Guzmán and others like him were functionaries, rubber-stamping the orders of those above them. Violent acts were informed by a much wider ideology. I’m more interested in discussing how those wider ideas came to be manifested at the practical level.’

‘I don’t intend to be sympathetic at all,’ Galindez said. ‘You said there’s no hard evidence to incriminate him – but that doesn’t mean there isn’t. And after seeing those bodies in the mine at Las Peñas, I really think Guzmán merits further investigation.’

‘And you won’t mind if our respective interpretations clash?’

‘Not at all. Because I don’t intend to interpret him. I want to base my report on facts – just as if I was preparing a report for the prosecutor.’

Luisa reached over to her bedside table. ‘You’d better start reading this.’ She passed Galindez the musty leather-bound diary. ‘Have a look while I make us some coffee.’

Galindez opened the diary. The entries consisted largely of lists. Lists of people, places, sums of money with comments about how they were spent – Guzmán was clearly punctilious in claiming his expenses – Galindez smiled: she could relate to that. So many names. Hopefully, she would be able to identify some of these people and the reason for them being in Guzmán’s diary. With no time now to read the diary from start to finish, she turned to the last page, examining the final entry dated Thursday, 22 January 1953, a scrawled, cryptic sentence:
I am me and my circumstances
. She recognised the phrase from school: It was Ortega y Gasset. A literary quotation from a secret policeman? Perhaps there was more to him than she’d initially thought.

‘Penny for them.’ Luisa handed Galindez a mug of coffee. ‘What are you smiling about, Ana María?’

 Galindez looked up, her dark eyes shining. ‘Luisa, did I ever tell you about my uncle?’

MADRID 2009, HEADQUARTERS OF THE GUARDIA CIVIL, JEFATURA DE INFORMACIÓN

The adjutant was waiting as Galindez stepped from the lift.

‘Dr Galindez?’ An unnecessary question. No one got to this floor without an appointment. The adjutant showed her into his office – dark wood furniture with brass fittings, a thick carpet – a world away from the functional austerity of Galindez’s own small cubicle in the Forensic department several floors below. The adjutant gestured grudgingly at a leather chair. Galindez sank into the thick cushions, noting his measured look of disapproval.

‘The general is on the telephone,’ the adjutant said, indicating the door to the general’s office. ‘He’s been very busy today.’ The tone of his voice suggested not only a delay, it implied Galindez deserved the wait. She guessed he was wondering why the head of the Counter Intelligence Directorate would want to see a lowly forensic scientist. He was in for a surprise.

A few minutes passed before the inner door burst open and the general emerged. His uniform fitted him more tightly than the last time Galindez had seen him and the white hair was thinner but the bluff ruddy face was still the same.

The adjutant leapt up, giving the general a sharp salute. ‘A
sus ordenes, mi General,
Dr Galindez from Forensics to see you.’

The general looked at Galindez, his eyes twinkling.

‘
A sus ordenes, mi General
.’ Galindez fumbled a haphazard salute as the general’s big arms wrapped round her, hugging her to his barrel chest. The adjutant looked on, astonished. It was a fair bet most of the general’s visitors weren’t greeted this way.

The general laughed. ‘It’s all right,
Capitán
, young women always find me attractive.’

Now the adjutant was confused, sensing a joke but uncertain what it was. The general hugged Galindez again, almost lifting her off her feet, and he ruffled her hair the same way he had when she was ten years old.

‘
Por Dios, Capitán
,’ General Ortiz said, ‘you’re slipping. If she’d been from al-Qaeda I’d be dead now.’ Then, seeing the adjutant wasn’t suddenly going to develop a sense of humour, he added, ‘This is my little Ana. Always was, always will be. Right,
querida
?’

‘
Absolutamente, mi General
,’ Galindez said, stiffening to attention.

‘Ana María, I can have you shot if you don’t address me by my correct title.’

‘Sorry, Uncle Ramiro.’ Galindez extended a hand towards the adjutant. ‘Ana María Galindez,
para servirle
.’

A flaccid handshake. ‘
Mucho gusto
, Dr Galindez.’

‘She’s Miguel Galindez’s daughter,’ Uncle Ramiro added, spoiling the moment for her.
Not so soon. Can’t I just be the woman from Forensics for once?

The adjutant stared at her. ‘I admired your father a great deal, Dr Galindez. He’s sadly missed, I can tell you.’

‘Very true,’ Ramiro said gravely. ‘And wouldn’t you agree she’s the best-looking forensic scientist you’ve ever seen?’

‘She certainly is,
mi General
. Of course, I could hardly say so before.’

‘Women never object to a compliment,’ Ramiro said, wrapping an arm around Galindez’s shoulders. ‘Now, hold all my calls while I’m with Ana María. Even if Prime Minister Zapatero calls. Ana’s more important than he is.’

‘
A sus ordenes
. Those are the exact words I’ll relay to him.’ The adjutant was more amenable now, Galindez noticed.
Papá
’s name still carried a lot of weight.

Ramiro waved Galindez into his office. He closed the door and pointed to a seat. The cushions were even deeper and more opulent than those of the adjutant’s office. Galindez inhaled the aroma of the freshly polished wood of Uncle Ramiro’s huge desk.

‘Drink, Ana?’ Ramiro pointed to an impressively large drinks cabinet.

‘
Agua mineral con gas
, please, Uncle.’

‘Still teetotal then?’ He rattled ice into a glass and poured sparkling water over it. Whisky for him. Some things didn’t change. ‘So, how’s life in the
guardia civil, niña
?’

‘I’m enjoying it.’

‘Enjoying it?
Niña
, it’s a calling. You don’t enjoy it, you live and breathe your duty. Like I do, and my father before me. And yours,
niña
.’

‘Don’t call me that at work please, Uncle Ram. I’m not a kid any more.’

‘
Venga
, Ana. Even though you’re twenty years old, to me you’re the same wide-eyed little girl I used to bounce on my knee.’

‘Uncle Ramiro, I’m twenty-five and I spend most of my working day surrounded by dead bodies. I’ve grown up.’

‘You certainly have, Ana. And it suits you – the
capitán
outside couldn’t take his eyes off your
culo
when you walked in here. And to be frank, I’m not surprised,
querida.
’

Galindez laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. Ramiro was such a dinosaur. ‘Look, Uncle, if you like, we can discuss the
guardia
’s anti-sexism policy – I’m sure you’ve only breached about half of it so far.’

Ramiro held up a hand in surrender. ‘Have pity, Ana. I’m old school. Men like me see a pretty girl and it goes to our heads. Women take everything so seriously these days. Even those in uniform. They sue at the drop of a hat if a man so much as looks at them. Lesbians, most of them.’

Unfortunately that’s not true
, Galindez thought. She changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, Uncle Ram. I’ve been so busy, what with moving into the new flat and settling into this job. In fact, I haven’t seen you or
Tia
Teresa since my doctoral ceremony last year.’

‘I was proud to be there, Ana María. I know I’m not a real uncle, but I was your father’s best friend and I still miss him.’ Ramiro rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. It hurts to think about it even now.’

God, just for once, let me be Ana María. It’s been nearly twenty years. Por Dios
.

‘We’re both very proud of you, Ana,’ Ramiro said. ‘You put in so much work studying. You know, I don’t think I ever saw you without a book in your hand in your teens.’

‘I was a bit of a bookworm, I admit.’

‘A bit?
Tia
Carmen told me you revised for one exam for two days without sleeping.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it was quite that long.’ She laughed.
Three days more like
. ‘By the way, thanks again for the car, Uncle. That was so generous.’

‘My pleasure, Ana. Just let me know when you need another. If you park it anything like the women who drive our patrol cars, it’ll be scrap inside a year.’

She thanked him, knowing she could never accept it. A graduation gift was one thing, regularly receiving largesse from the most senior operational officer in the organisation was another. If her colleagues found out, they’d think everything she did in the job was the result of Uncle Ramiro’s favouritism. Credibility was hard enough to come by as it was.

‘
De nada
. They pay me too much anyway. I’d work here for nothing.’ Ramiro picked up a yellow folder on his desk. ‘Right, let’s have a look at this. See how you’re doing.’

‘What is that, Uncle Ramiro?’