‘I think my record shows I’ve done my share of fighting.’
‘Even so, you haven’t reached retirement age yet.’
‘That doesn’t matter. My contract says I can leave at any time.’
‘Just to sit on a beach all day? You’d be bored within a couple of hours.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘I doubt that, those foreign women are shameless. I reckon all the decent whores will be out of business in another year. Free love, they call it.’
‘Protestants.’ Gutiérrez sighed. ‘Dreadful.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite so strongly.’ Guzmán took his hat from the table. ‘I’ll leave this card with the address of my pensión. You can send my money there.’
Gutiérrez took the card and glanced at it. ‘Why are you always Señor Ramirez?’
‘It always takes too long to get new documents forged.’
‘Don’t people ever recognise you?’
‘Sometimes, though they usually regret it.’ Guzmán got to his feet. ‘I’ll expect my money in the next couple of days.’
‘Wait, I haven’t finished yet,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Even if you leave the Brigada now, what’s to stop the Socialists arresting you once they’re elected next week?’
‘The Amnesty Law of 1977 protects us from prosecution,’ Guzmán said. ‘I know my rights.’
‘Laws can be repealed, Guzmán. You could spend years in prison. We both could.’
Reluctantly, Guzmán sat down. ‘So, what do you suggest?’
‘I’ve found a way to make sure we’re not held accountable for what we did in the past and pull the rug out from under the Centinelas at the same time.’
Guzmán finished his brandy and looked round in search of the bottle. ‘Keep going.’
‘You remember how many records the regime kept? All those membership lists of trade unions, the Communist Party and Freemasons?’
‘Very useful they were too. We could never have shot so many Reds without them.’
‘But that’s why they could incriminate us,’ Gutiérrez wheezed. ‘Imagine if a Socialist government got their hands on those files. They’d find the names of all the people we killed or tortured. If all that was made public, the government would need scapegoats and they wouldn’t have to look far. Your name crops up time after time in those files.’
Guzmán frowned. ‘Our names. You signed the orders.’
‘Of course, it’s only a hypothesis, Comandante. It might not happen.’ Gutiérrez reached down for the bottle of Carlos Primero hidden at the side of his chair. ‘A little more?’
‘A lot more. Fill it up.’ Guzmán took a long swig of brandy. ‘You might have a point about the Socialists,’ he said. ‘If they get their hands on those records, we could end up in front of a firing squad. Those Reds never forget anything.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But then the same is true for the Centinelas, surely? Their leaders were staunch Francoists: they’ve got as much blood on their hands as us.’ He stopped, seeing Gutiérrez’s expression. ‘What’s so funny?’
Gutiérrez took out an inhaler and sprayed a fine mist into his mouth. ‘If we can get hold of those files, we can destroy them before the Socialists are elected. Wipe the slate clean, so to speak.’
‘That’s a big if.’
‘I haven’t finished. Suppose we also got our hands on the material relating to the Centinelas’ leaders? Imagine the reaction if we gave copies of that to the press. If their leaders were revealed to have taken part in atrocities and massacres, the Centinelas’ political support would vanish overnight.’
‘And all the records of what we did?’ Guzmán almost smiled.
‘Would go up in smoke, Comandante.’
Guzmán refilled his glass. ‘Trouble is, that material is stored all over the place. It would take years to collect.’ He frowned. ‘What the fuck are you smiling at now?’
‘Franco had those records catalogued. There are only two copies of the catalogue and strangely, one of those is in my possession. I’ve already located the archives containing the most damaging material.’
‘In that case, fuck off and collect it. The exercise would do you good.’
‘I can’t do it on my own. But you’d have no problem. I can arrange for some men to help you. It would only take a week or so. Less if you work hard.’
‘Don’t I always?’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Unfortunately, hard work doesn’t always bring the promised reward.’
‘Nonsense. When haven’t you been rewarded for your work?’
‘Alicante.’ Guzmán exhaled the word in a cloud of smoke.
The atmosphere in the room changed.
‘For God’s sake, that was years ago. You surely don’t still hold a grudge?’
‘I have a great capacity for grudge holding, so yes, I fucking do.’
‘I can arrange payment for your services,’ Gutiérrez said hastily. ‘The auditors won’t be working on the accounts for ever. They could be finished in a few weeks.’
‘I want out as soon as possible.’ Guzmán poured the last of the brandy into his glass. ‘You owe me several months’ back pay and I’m entitled to a pay-off. It’s in my contract.’
‘I’m afraid not. The contracts were changed following Franco’s death.’
Gutiérrez was shaken by another bout of coughing and Guzmán waited until he’d finished before taking out a packet of Ducados. ‘Here, have a smoke, it’ll clear your chest.’ He pushed the cigarettes towards him. ‘Come on, take one, I can’t stand listening to you gasping like that. You sound like a geriatric whore.’
‘I can’t smoke,’ Gutiérrez complained. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t. It upsets my chest.’
Guzmán took out his Zippo and lit his cigarette. ‘Franco didn’t smoke either.’ He took a long drag and slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke in Gutiérrez’s direction, provoking another protracted spasm of coughing.
‘I don’t know why you’re so reticent, Comandante,’ Gutiérrez said, once he’d finished coughing. ‘You’re more than capable of carrying out an operation like this.’
‘Reticent? I’m fucking angry,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘All these years you’ve relied on me to risk my neck doing your dirty work and now it’s time to settle the bill, you can’t pay. It’s always been the same: Please, Guzmán, kill Trujillo’s son while he’s in Madrid and make it look like a traffic accident, blow up Carrero Blanco’s car and blame it on ETA, cover up the Yanqui plane crash that polluted our beaches with radiation...’
Gutiérrez looked at him, appalled. ‘You agreed never to talk about those things.’
‘That was when I was paid to keep quiet. That agreement’s over.’
‘You need me, Guzmán, just as I need you. You’ve no money and I need help to get hold of those records before the Socialists are elected.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘I’ve got a plan of my own. Remember Operation Begging Bowl? Back in the day, when we were short of cash, I’d visit a few of Franco’s oldest, most affluent supporters and tap them for funds for some bogus operation to protect Franco’s reputation. I’d explain that it was a secret operation – so secret that we couldn’t fund it through normal channels. Most were only too happy to chip in. And then, since it was all a lie, I’d pocket the cash. It worked very well.’ He took a sheet of paper from his jacket. ‘I drew up a list of candidates on the train.’ He extended his hand, palm upward. ‘Give me your car keys.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t take my car. You have a history with motor vehicles.’
‘I’ll bring it back later.’ Guzmán plucked the keys from his hand. ‘What make is it?’
‘A grey Dodge Dart GT. It’s parked across the road.’
‘That’s an adventurous set of wheels for you, isn’t it?’ Guzmán laughed.
‘Don’t you want to hear the details of my plan before you go?’
Guzmán paused by the door. ‘I listened to you in Alicante and look what happened.’
‘Be reasonable: you’re ignoring
an opportunity to start again with a clean slate.’
‘I know,’ Guzmán laughed as he opened the door. ‘I’m my own worst enemy.’ The door slammed behind him.
A few moments later, Gutiérrez heard the sound of an engine being revved overenthusiastically. He winced as he heard the meshing gears and the screech of tyres as the car roared off. ‘No you’re not,’ he muttered. ‘Not by a long chalk.’
ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965
A brooding sky was darkening into night as the man made his way up the cliff road. Fifty metres below, the sea gleamed with the last rays of the setting sun. Slowed by the heavy briefcase, he paused for a moment to catch his breath, watching the contours of the headland turn to shadow. The road levelled out and he saw an old wooden sign, pointing inland along a steep track. He rummaged in his pocket for a torch and shone the light up the slope, its pale beam roving over the rocks and dark branches. Further up the track, he heard the deep muffled throb of an engine, the grinding of tyres on parched soil as a vehicle came down the slope.
As the vehicle approached, he lifted the heavy briefcase into the beam of its headlights. The vehicle slowed and lumbered to a halt. As the front door opened with a mechanical sigh, he saw the driver, his hands resting on the wheel. A woman stepped down onto the platform, a battered ticket machine slung round her neck.
‘Señor Guzmán?’
As the man’s hand left the pocket of his raincoat, she realised what was about to happen and threw herself back into the aisle just as he started shooting. As a result of her agility, the driver was the first to die.
He was not the last.
CHAPTER 3
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, AVENIDA DE SALAMANCA
Guzmán’s footsteps echoed on the ceramic tiles as he followed the servant down the elegant hall. The expensive vases and paintings around him brought back happy memories of looting during the war. The servant opened the door to the library and ushered him in. ‘The marqués will join you directly, Comandante.’
The Marqués del Castillo was famed for his library and rightly, Guzmán thought, running his eye over the elegant shelves filled with rare first editions and ancient leather-bound tomes, trying to guess how much the collection would fetch on the open market.
His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened and a rotund gentleman entered, moving with a strange, ceremonious air, as if worried that walking faster would disturb the long, carefully cultivated strip of hair that failed miserably to hide his balding pate.
Nor did the marqués’s eccentricity end with his coiffure. The English tweed suit was combined with a yellow waistcoat which clashed violently with a tie in the tartan of some obscure Scottish clan who, family legend had it, slaughtered his shipwrecked ancestors when they were washed up on the coast after the battle of Trafalgar. It was a tale he had told many times and Guzmán sincerely hoped he wouldn’t tell it again today.
‘Guzmán, old sport.’ The marqués grabbed Guzmán’s hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘How long has it been?’
Guzmán had to think for a moment. ‘Franco’s funeral.’
‘God, that was a splendid day out, wasn’t it? I was blind drunk as I recall. Must have been the grief. Was it you who threw up?’
‘I think everybody did,’ Guzmán said, remembering what a good time they’d had.
‘Speaking of which, would you care for a drink?’
‘If you twist my arm.’ He’d taken his time getting round to it, Guzmán thought.
The marqués bustled over to a painted wooden globe and lifted the top, revealing a well-stocked drinks cabinet. He selected a bottle of Carlos Primero and poured two glasses.
‘This must be what you taste when you arrive in heaven,’ Guzmán said, sipping the brandy appreciatively.
‘Better enjoy it while you can then, Leo, because we’ll be going in the other direction once we’re gone, don’t you think?’
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ Guzmán asked, annoyed the marqués had introduced death into their conversation. Clearly the rotund bastard hadn’t spent enough time in the company of gypsies. Even setting aside the marqués’s lack of respect for the evil eye, Guzmán was fucked if he was going to discuss theological matters with a man dressed like Toad of Toad Hall.
‘You want cash for some secret operation, I imagine. Killing commies, I hope?’
‘It’s a top-secret operation.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Vital to prevent the memory of the caudillo being stained for ever.’
‘Really? My God, did the old chap do something awful?’
‘The usual, though at least it was with a woman.’
‘Ah, someone’s trying to blackmail the family are they?’
‘Exactly. I’m going to meet them and give them the money.’
‘And then you shoot them, eh? Good man.’ The marqués let his smile slip. ‘Thing is, I’m a bit short on funds. Those damned tax people are all over me at the moment.’
‘I’m sure you’ll convince them you’re beyond suspicion.’ Guzmán’s tone was suddenly less friendly than before.
The marqués shook his head, careful not to dislodge the strange length of hair arranged across his scalp. ‘That’s the problem: their suspicions are correct. I’ve been filtering cash from my estates for years and stashing it in Switzerland. It seemed a good idea at the time, but the tax boys have got on to me now and they’ve got me by the sensitive parts.’
‘It’s not an expensive operation,’ Guzmán said, much less friendly now.
‘You saw that chap who showed you in, my butler? Had to fire him. Can’t afford his wages. He’s working out his notice, and then he’ll have to go and beg or something, I haven’t asked. Best to preserve his dignity and all that.’
‘We need the money to buy weapons,’ Guzmán said, returning to the point.
‘I can let you have ten thousand, but that’s it. I really am broke.’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘That will have to do.’
‘I won’t be a minute.’ As the marqués hurried out of the room, Guzmán took the opportunity to help himself to another brandy. The marqués returned a few minutes later and pressed a large wad of banknotes into his hand. ‘Here we are. I had to borrow it off Cook.’
‘Pesetas?’ Guzmán scoffed, staring at the bills. ‘I thought you meant dollars.’
‘No chance of that, I’m afraid. It’s all she had. Still, it’s an ill wind: she won’t be able to retire now, so at least I won’t starve.’
Guzmán put the money in his pocket. He could use it to buy a shirt.
‘Good to see you again, old chap.’ The marqués stood in the doorway, waving as Guzmán went down the steps to his car. ‘Viva España.’
Guzmán didn’t reply. That time was over. It was every man for himself now.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE SERRANO
‘Time is money, Señor Guzmán, so make it quick, will you?’
It was the first time Guzmán had met Guillermo Masias and it was an encounter he could have done without. ‘Señor Masias, your father was one of Franco’s most loyal supporters. He was always happy to contribute to the cause when necessary.’
Guillermo Masias was slumped in a round chair made of orange plastic that strangely mirrored the artificial tan smeared over his heavy face. The rest of the room was decorated in similar colours apart from a large painting on one wall, which, Guzmán thought, resembled something used by opticians. Masias noticed his interest. ‘Bridget Riley.’ He smirked. ‘Cost a fortune and it’ll fetch a hell of a lot more when I sell it.’
Bragging about money brought a brief smile to Masias’s face but the smile slipped now, returning his face to its previous leaden hostility. ‘That’s what I do, Comandante, I buy and sell things and I make a great deal of money doing it, just like my father before me. And now you come along and ask me to part with my hard-earned cash to stop someone smearing Franco’s name? Joder, if you want to beg, why don’t you bring a tin cup with you and have done? I didn’t make a fortune to give handouts
to Franco’s old gunmen. I’m not as free with my money as my father.’ He glared at Guzmán. ‘You’re finished, you and your sort. No more eating for free in restaurants or taking someone else’s table by waving your ID card. If you want money, try getting a job – if you can. You have to see the world in a different way these days.’
‘You’re right.’ Guzmán certainly saw Masias in a different way: a cluster of potential targets, nose, teeth, belly, crotch, knees, each with its own distinctive level of pain when damaged.
‘What am I right about, exactly?’ Masias sneered.
‘That you’re not like your father,’ Guzmán said. ‘He made his fortune from hard work whereas you’re a spoiled brat who inherited a lot of money far too young, so don’t lecture me about your fucking wealth because you didn’t earn a peseta of it.’
‘You talk as if my father was a saint,’ Masias snarled. ‘The old bastard had his fatal heart attack in a whorehouse, for Christ’s sake.’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘We should all be so lucky. And, since you might be going through that window in a minute, I’d say your father got the better deal.’
Masias glared furiously at him. ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve, threatening me. First you try to con me out of my money and now you try to intimidate me? Get out, before I throw you out.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘Why don’t you try?’
‘I expected you’d try something like this,’ Masias said. ‘That’s why I asked some of my associates along.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come in, gentlemen.’
A door on the far side of the room opened and two men stepped in. One was a gypsy with greasy shoulder-length hair. The other man was heavier with a pudgy blank face and a nose that had been broken more than once.
‘These gentlemen work for a friend of mine, Eduardo Ricci,’ Masias said.
Guzmán didn’t bother asking who that was.
‘You’re leaving, boss,’ the gypsy said. A mocking emphasis on the last word.
‘You heard him, did you? Better go while you can still walk,’ Masias said. ‘Why not take a holiday if you can afford it? Maybe you could visit the Valle de los Caídos and see Franco’s tomb?’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 4