Best not to overreact, Guzmán thought. This was business, after all.
‘If you don’t go we’ll have to give you a hand,’ the fat man said, moving towards him.
Guzmán noticed his reluctant stance, the sheen of sweat on his jowls. The nervous flicker of his tongue over his lips. The body language of fear. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’
‘Very sensible, amigo.’ The fat man sounded relieved.
Guzmán went to the door and reached for the handle.
‘And don’t come back,’ Masias called. ‘Other people are running Madrid now. People like Eduardo Ricci and me.’
Guzmán’s hand closed on the door handle. It was well made in hand-crafted metal, almost a work of art. He doubted he could afford a door handle like that. As his hand tightened on it, he realised Masias’s taunt had touched on a universal truth: like it or not, things had changed. Not so long ago, no one would have dared speak to Guzmán the way Masias just had.
He let go of the door handle and turned. Saw the looks on their faces. All three of them laughing. Then they saw the Browning and the laughter stopped.
Out of professional courtesy, he started with the gypsy.
The shot was loud and unexpected. One minute the gypsy was sneering at Guzmán, the next he was flailing on the floor, the blood from what was left of his knee ruining the pattern of Señor Masias’s carpet.
Masias stared at the gypsy in horrified fascination. So fascinated, he failed to see Guzmán coming towards him until the butt of the Browning smashed into his face, knocking him from the plastic chair onto the carpet alongside the gypsy. He lay, dazed, trying to stop the bleeding caused by the loss of his front teeth.
‘That just leaves you,’ Guzmán said, staring at the fat man.
The man’s jowls trembled. ‘I don’t want no trouble, jefe.’
Guzmán snorted as he slid the Browning back into its holster. ‘You don’t know what trouble is.’ He looked down contemptuously at Masias who was still lying on the floor, pressing a handkerchief to his bloody mouth. ‘I’ve always liked men who underestimate me, Señor Masias, it amuses me when I go to their funerals.’
‘You’ll be sorry, you bastard,’ Masias spluttered. ‘I’m protected.’
‘Not from me, you’re not,’ Guzmán said. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE COLUMELA
‘Comandante.’ Count Noguera hoisted himself out of his chair and came across the thick carpet to shake hands, blinking at Guzmán through his thick spectacles. The elderly aristocrat hadn’t changed much over the years, though his hair was white now and reached down to his collar, giving him the appearance of an elderly dowager in need of a hairdresser. Guzmán doubted the count would object to that comparison.
‘You’re looking well, Leo, as far as I can tell, anyway. With my eyesight, I can’t be sure.’ He shuffled over to the cocktail cabinet. ‘Carlos Primero’s your drink, isn’t it?’
Guzmán took the glass of brandy from him and made himself comfortable in a chair he guessed was at least a hundred years old, like most of the count’s furniture. That was why rich people had so much money, he supposed: they put their cash in the bank and used their grandparents’ tables and chairs.
‘It’s hard to believe, but no one’s offered to help fund this operation,’ he said. ‘Then I remembered how often you supported the Cause in the past. Unlike some.’
The count sighed. ‘A lot of those people who used to contribute aren’t around any more. There are new faces everywhere.’
‘Things have certainly changed since Franco died,’ Guzmán agreed.
‘Haven’t they just? Though I don’t know if you appreciate just how much.’
Guzmán gave him a dark look. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I keep an eye on what’s happening, Leo. I’ve got influential friends who keep me informed.’
‘That’s surprising for a man like you.’
The count gave him a world-weary smile. ‘For an elderly maricón, you mean?’
‘Exactly. You’d have done ten years’ hard labour if I hadn’t let you bribe me.’
‘That was 1962. I’ve been showing my appreciation for a long time.’
‘And you never complained once,’ Guzmán said. ‘You didn’t plead for mercy, you just asked how much it would cost to get the charges dropped. I like straightforward people.’
‘Then I’ll be straightforward now, Leo. There’s a number of people who’d like you and Gutiérrez gone. You know where the bodies are buried, so to speak.’
‘I should, since I helped bury most of them.’
The count gave a long, nostalgic sigh. ‘You and the Brigada Especial used to run this city. But there’s only one player in Madrid now and that’s the Centinelas. Since they got involved with organised crime, they’ve become a law unto themselves. You don’t want to mess with them.’
‘I’ve been away from Madrid for a long time. What’s this about organised crime?’
‘After Franco died, the power vacuum created by his death created new opportunities,’ Noguera said. ‘Everyone was too busy worrying about what would happen next to notice the flood of criminals pouring into the country.’
‘We had other things to worry about back then,’ Guzmán recalled. ‘Like trying to prevent the spread of democracy.’ He took a gulp of brandy. ‘Though we didn’t make a very good job of it.’
‘Exactly. And while you and the police were putting all your energy into clubbing demonstrators, the foreigners were importing huge amounts of drugs, trafficking women and robbing banks. You name a crime and they’re involved in it, these days. And a large share of the profit goes to the Centinelas.’
‘It’s not my job to sort out foreign gangsters,’ Guzmán said, lighting a cigarette. ‘There’s no point messing with those people, it would take years to get them under control.’
‘You’ve messed with some of them already.’ The count reached out and put his hand on Guzmán’s knee, by way of emphasis or perhaps solidarity. Whatever his reason, he saw Guzmán’s expression and hurriedly took his hand away. ‘I understand you had a run-in with Guillermo Masias earlier?’
‘You really are well informed, aren’t you? That only happened an hour ago.’
‘Masias phoned to warn me you might come here, Leo. You should be careful, he’s acquainted with some very unpleasant people in the Madrid underworld.’
‘I can imagine. Even his choice of furniture was criminal.’
‘I’m serious, Leo. Masias is a friend of Eduardo Ricci. You know what they call him? “Eduardo Bastardo”, though not to his face. You need to steer clear of him.’
‘All I need is the money to fund my operation,’ Guzmán said, impatiently.
With some difficulty, Count Noguera raised himself from his chair. ‘I’ll give you the money, Leo. For old times’ sake. How much do you want?’
‘How much have you got?’
‘How does two million pesetas sound?’
It was better than nothing, Guzmán thought. The price of a car. ‘In cash?’
‘Of course, I’m sure you don’t want a cheque. Have another drink, while I get the money from the safe.’
Once the count had ambled off upstairs, Guzmán went to the window and looked out at the street. Dazzling shards of light reflected off the windows across the road, forcing him to look away. His gaze settled on the entrance to a tailor’s a few doors down, where a man was standing under the shade of the awning, reading a newspaper.
Or rather, he was pretending to read it: even at this distance, Guzmán could see the paper was upside down. Casually, the man glanced up at the window from where Guzmán was watching him. A professional glance, quick but thorough. So, the count was under observation? More than that: the man’s repeated glances along the street suggested he was expecting company.
Five minutes passed. Count Noguera was taking his time getting the money. Guzmán finished his drink and walked quietly to
the stairs, listening for the sound of Noguera bagging up the cash. He heard nothing. The apartment was drenched in a thick funereal silence as he climbed the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the opulent carpet. From the walls above, portraits of the count’s ancestors looked down on him, grim-faced. Maricónes the lot of them, Guzmán was certain.
The pale light at the top of the stairs shimmered with motes of dust. Silently, Guzmán crossed the landing towards a half-open bedroom door. In the bedroom, Noguera was talking to someone on the phone. Not talking, whispering. Asking them to hurry.
By the door, a pair of ornate brass candlesticks stood on an elaborately carved wooden plinth. Guzmán lifted one and hefted it speculatively. In the bedroom, the count was just finishing his conversation. He put down the phone, careful not to make a noise, and got up slowly, grunting at the pain in his knees. On the bed was a leather holdall and, next to it, a pile of banknotes, still in the teller’s wrappers. Noguera scooped the money into the holdall and zipped it. Behind him, a floorboard creaked. Slowly, he turned towards the door.
Guzmán was standing in the doorway, gripping the big candlestick in his right hand.
‘Ah.’ Noguera swallowed with difficulty. ‘This is rather awkward, Leo.’
‘Who did you just call?’ Guzmán asked, stony-faced.
‘Guillermo Masias. He told me to let him know if you came here. He’s frightening, Leo, and I’m not a brave man.’ The count took off his thick spectacles and rubbed them with his handkerchief. ‘I’m in trouble, aren’t I?’
‘We’re all in trouble sooner or later,’ Guzmán said, moving closer. ‘Turn around and face the wall.’
‘Bullet in the head then?’ The count’s voice trembled as he turned. ‘Shall I kneel?’
‘Yes.’ It would have been kinder to shoot the old queer, but the noise of the shot would alert the men outside. ‘Close your eyes.’
Slowly, Noguera knelt, clasping his hands together in prayer.
As Guzmán moved towards him, raising the heavy candlestick, the count began to pray. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee, blessed art thou—’
Guzmán was in a hurry. He cut the prayer short.
*
Once he had rinsed the blood from his hands in the bathroom, Guzmán replaced the candlestick next to its twin on the plinth before hurrying downstairs with the money. The far side of the road was washed in bright sunlight and as he stepped out into the street, he felt damp heat rising from the cobbles. From the upper floor of one of the buildings he heard the murmur of a radio. Further away, the low rumble of traffic from the main road. Cautiously, he went towards the grey Dodge, keeping a tight grip on the holdall. The street was quiet and still, the windows shuttered for siesta. So quiet and still, he could sense them watching. To his right, he saw movement in a doorway, subtle and fast. More than one, then. He’d expected that.
He opened the driver’s door, and tossed the holdall onto the seat. Glancing round, he reached into the car and put the key in the ignition. Before he could get behind the wheel, he heard a shout as two men wielding baseball bats came running from a doorway a few metres away, one coming at him along the pavement, the other from the road.
Guzmán drew the Browning and aimed at the man in the road. The harsh report echoed along the street, the shell case tinkling on the cobbles as the man crumpled to the ground and lay still. Guzmán spun round as he heard the second attacker tugging at the handle of the driver’s door, trying to wrench it open. On the seat was the holdall, stuffed with his money.
He stepped forward, rested his arm on the roof of the car and fired. The shot sent the man staggering back into the metal shutter behind him. For a moment, he struggled, trying to stay on his feet. The second shot sent him sliding to the ground, leaving a long smear of blood down the shutter as he went.
Guzmán got behind the wheel, gunned the engine and accelerated. Behind him, he saw a red SEAT Fura pull out from the line of parked cars, following as he headed towards the city centre. Ahead, the traffic was slowing as the lights changed to red. In the mirror, he saw the Fura closing, expecting him to slow as he joined the vehicles waiting for the green light.
Guzmán floored the pedal and the car hurtled through the lights, provoking a sudden outraged chorus of horns as oncoming vehicles swerved to avoid him. Behind him, the red Fura briefly mounted the pavement, sending pedestrians flying before it regained the road and sped after him, trying to close the gap as Guzmán raced down Calle Lagasca.
He cursed as he saw the thick line of traffic at the end of the road, crawling along the side of the Retiro Park heading for the roundabout of Puerta de Alcalá. To join that, he would need to slow to a crawl and wait to filter in. That would be a slow process and he didn’t have the time to wait.
In the mirror, he saw a motorcyclist weaving through the traffic, the rider steering one-handed, keeping his other hand low. Even in the constricted view of the mirror, Guzmán could still see the pistol in the man’s hand. The man on the bike had the advantage. Caught up in the stationary traffic, Guzmán would be a sitting target.
As the vehicles ahead patiently waited their turn to merge into Calle de Alcalá, Guzmán accelerated violently, weaving through a gap in the traffic, ignoring the sounds of grating metal and breaking glass behind him as the Dodge mounted the pavement and smashed into the stone wall by the park gate. Grabbing the holdall, he jumped out, hearing enraged shouts from the drivers of the damaged vehicles littered across the road as he ran to the park entrance. Behind him, he heard the roar of the motorbike as it weaved through the stalled traffic in pursuit.
As Guzmán reached the entrance to the park, the rider raised his pistol and fired. Fragments of pulverised stone stung his face as a bullet impacted on the wall above his head. Moving quickly, he took cover behind the trees near the public toilets and waited, guessing the rider would follow. He was wrong: no one followed him through the gate.
It was time to make himself scarce and Guzmán set off down the tree-lined avenue of the Paseo de Colombia. From there, he planned to cut across the park to Menéndez Pelayo and be at the Brigada Especial’s HQ within ten minutes. After a few hundred metres he turned and looked back. There was still no one following him and he slowed to catch his breath.
The park was quiet. A few metres from the path, several children were playing football on the grass, their excited shouts ringing through the trees. Further along, a young couple sat kissing on a bench, oblivious to the children’s laughter and the sudden impact of their ball against the trees.
Guzmán paused, sensing a sudden subtle shift in the day. Around him, the intermittent drone of the city, distant sirens. And something else: the children had stopped shouting. He peered through the trees to where the kids had been playing only a few moments before. They were still there, though now they were standing open-mouthed, watching three men coming across the grass, each holding a pistol.
Guzmán raised the Browning and opened fire. At this range it was unlikely he would hit them but the effect was immediate as the men dived for cover.
Their response came in a rattling burst of gunfire that tore into the trees, spattering Guzmán with shredded bark and leaves. He fired again and once more, three handguns fired back, forcing him to keep low as the bullets hammered into the trees around him.
Outgunned and with no hope of backup, the sensible thing was to put some distance between him and his attackers. But with the lake behind him, his escape routes were limited. And then, before he could consider other options, the men broke cover and came forward, firing as they ran. He aimed at the nearest and pulled the trigger. A dull metallic click as the hammer hit the empty chamber: he was out of ammunition.
Escape was the only sensible option now and he ran, making for the fence alongside the lake. A bullet hissed through the trees, its sibilant whine followed by a muffled thud as it struck a tree. Running at full tilt, Guzmán’s foot caught an exposed root, sending him flying onto the sharp gravel path. As he scrambl
ed to his feet, he saw the holdall lying on the grass a couple of metres away and wondered about trying to reach it before the men saw him. His answer came in a sudden flurry of shots that kicked up dust around him, driving him away from the path towards the lake.
The men’s shooting was inaccurate so far, but if he stayed put, it was only a matter of time before one of them got lucky. As another bullet whined past his head, Guzmán vaulted the fence onto the grass bank surrounding the lake and sprinted into the cover of the big equestrian statue of Alfonso XII. Sheltered by the monument, he waited, expecting another burst of gunfire. There was no further shooting and he soon realised why. On the far side of the lake, a group of brown-uniformed policía nacionales were hurrying across the park, attracted by the pall of smoke rising from the wrecked car over on Calle Alcalá.
When he glanced round, there was no sign of his attackers and he cautiously made his way back to the spot where he’d dropped the holdall. As he expected, the holdall was gone. The park was bathed in a profound silence now, broken only by the shrill ringing in his ears. A sudden murderous thought: he’d been robbed in his own city. There was nothing he could do about that now, and he walked away, heading for the gate on Calle Menéndez Pelayo.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BRIGADA ESPECIAL HEADQUARTERS, CALLE DEL DOCE DE OCTUBRE
Gutiérrez sat at his desk, a glass of Scotch in front of him. Slowly, he lifted his cigarette to his lips. After a couple of drags, he stubbed out the cigarette and spent the next few minutes coughing. When the spasm had subsided, he went to the window and peered out into the street. ‘I’ll be going in a minute, Captain Utrera.’ He opened a desk drawer, took out a pistol and slipped it into a holster under his jacket. ‘Anyone hanging about out there?’
Utrera opened the door and went out onto the steps. ‘Looks clear to me, sir.’ He glanced along the road in the direction of the Retiro park. ‘Should I call a taxi?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Ask the comandante to leave my car across the road when he gets back, will you?’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 5