‘This is good stuff,’ Guzmán said, skimming through the briefing papers. ‘Assuming the men we’re borrowing from the guardia are up to the job, I’ll get started at once.’
Gutiérrez fumbled with the straps of his briefcase, as if he lacked the strength to fasten them. ‘How much money did you raise yesterday?’
‘If you’re after a loan you’re out of luck,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Count Noguera made a generous contribution but I lost that in the Retiro when I was ambushed.’
‘Not to mention my car.’
‘I wasn’t going to mention it.’ Guzmán’s face darkened. ‘At least I’m alive.’
‘While we’re on the subject of death,’ Gutiérrez said casually, ‘Count Noguera’s housekeeper found his body late last night. The victim of a violent burglary, it seems.’
‘That old queer didn’t have the brains to go playing a dangerous game like that.’
‘That’s an understatement, Guzmán, since his brains were all over the room.’
Guzmán watched impassively as Gutiérrez struggled to his feet, panting with exertion. ‘I must go. I’ve got a meeting with the director general of CESID in an hour.’
‘Really? Well, when you see the head of the Intelligence Service, make sure the first item on the agenda is a large cheque made out to Leopoldo Guzmán, will you?’
‘I told you, you’ll be paid in full,’ Gutiérrez gasped as he opened the door. ‘Just make sure you complete this job successfully.’
Guzmán’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘And when haven’t I done that, Brigadier General?’
‘You know very well,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Alicante.’
After the door closed, Guzmán stared at it for a long time. When he had calmed down, he lit a cigarette and then put the papers Gutiérrez had given him back into their cardboard folder. Someone knocked at the door and he bellowed for them to come in. As the door opened, he jumped to his feet as he saw who his visitor was.
The man strode across the room, tall, steely-haired, the breast of his uniform jacket glittering with the numerous decorations Franco had bestowed on him.
‘General Ortiz,’ Guzmán said as they shook hands. ‘You look very well.’
‘Guzmán, you old bastard. How long has it been?’
‘A long time, mí General. Just after they nicknamed you “Iron Hand”, I think.’
The general’s booming laugh filled the room. ‘You know that was because of the number of people I had shot when we captured Santander? I always thought it made me sound like a boxer.’
Guzmán gestured to the chair Gutiérrez had just vacated. ‘Have a seat.’
Ortiz sat down and laid his riding crop on the table. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Still adjusting to democracy,’ Guzmán said. His expression said much more.
Ortiz’s face twitched with anger. ‘I know what you mean. I’m glad I’m only two years off retirement, otherwise I’d be fronting up to these politicians and the cretins who surround them. We should have cleared the deck when we had the chance, before the Centinelas moved in. And now, it looks like the Socialists will form the next government. It makes me sick, all this talk of change.’
‘They say we all have to adapt now and again.’
‘Bullshit. You don’t believe that any more than I do, Guzmán. Leopards and spots.’
Guzmán pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. ‘I’ve been looking at the men you’ve seconded. Is this Ramiro Ortiz junior a relation, by any chance?’
The general bellowed with laughter. ‘He’s my son. I thought it would do him good to get some experience with one of the best.’
‘Very kind. What’s he like?’
Ortiz frowned. ‘He’s not a born leader, that’s for sure.’
‘He doesn’t take after you then?’
Ortiz’s face looked as if it might burst into flames. ‘No, he fucking doesn’t. I don’t know where he gets it from.’
‘Gets what?’
‘Another time.’ Ortiz waved his hand, brushing away the thought. ‘You know about his accident, I suppose?’
Guzmán shook his head. ‘First I’ve heard.’
‘Don’t say anything to him, for Christ’s sake. It took months for him to pull himself together.’
‘Car accident, was it?’
‘Worse: his children,’ Ortiz said in a heavy voice. ‘When they got married, I bought Ramiro and his wife Teresa a chalet out at San Sebastián de los Reyes. They wanted to start a family, but nature didn’t take its course, so in 1970, they adopted a little girl, Estrella Lucia. Bought her from a single mother from some hospital or other, you know how it works, they get someone in authority to sign off the paperwork.’
Guzmán nodded as he lit a cigarette. ‘People can make a lot of money out of that. In fact, I’ve signed quite a few myself. The hospital paid me for every hundred I signed. Only fair to take their money really, since they were making so much.’
‘Anyway, out of the blue,’ Ortiz continued, ‘at the end of last year, Ramiro and Teresa had a baby.’
‘Often happens,’ Guzmán said, struggling to maintain interest in the Ortiz family tree.
‘They left Estrella looking after the baby,’ Ortiz went on. ‘I don’t blame them, I mean, she was twelve, that’s old enough to know how to look after a baby, for Christ’s sake. In any case, they only popped out for a short time. But when they got back, the children were dead. It was a boiler accident. They died from carbon monoxide poisoning.’
A familiar story, Guzmán knew. Stoves weren’t connected correctly, pipes sprang a leak. It had happened all the time after the war.
‘Ramiro nearly fell apart.’ Ortiz saw the look on Guzmán’s face. ‘He’s fine now though, Leo.’
‘You don’t have to convince me,’ Guzmán said, discreetly pencilling a question mark against Ramiro Junior’s name.
Ortiz snorted. ‘It’s me I’m trying to convince. If he doesn’t pull his weight, I want to be the first to know, understand? Praise when it’s due and a boot up the arse when it’s not.’
‘That’s always been my approach, General.’
Ortiz looked at his watch. ‘Fuck, look at the time. I’d better get off, I’m seeing the minister of defence in half an hour. By the way, there’s a café, El León, just across the street from the main gate. The officers meet in there most evenings. Call in, it gets quite lively.’
‘I will,’ Guzmán said. ‘I understand we’re attending a meeting tomorrow?’
‘My adjutant will give you the details.’ Ortiz took his riding crop and got to his feet. ‘You know, these lads I’m loaning you don’t have much experience, but they’re willing. I also got hold of that corporal you asked for. Miserable bastard, isn’t he?’
‘He’s an expert in misery,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘But he’s reliable.’ He got up to see the general out. ‘Before you go, I have to ask, what are these buttons on the desk?’
Ortiz grinned. ‘New technology, Guzmán. You’ll have fun with those. Press the green button and the light over the door goes on to tell the next interviewee to come in.’
Guzmán tried it. ‘What about this yellow one?’
‘That’s my favourite.’ The general chuckled. ‘Watch, you’re going to love this.’
*
A firm knock at the door, as if someone had punched it. Guzmán looked up and saw a tall, well-built man with sharp cheekbones and dark sullen eyes. His uniform was immaculate and his patent-leather hat gleamed from hours of polishing.
‘Miguel Galíndez, a sus órdenes.’ He reached for a chair.
‘Don’t sit down,’ Guzmán said sharply. ‘You’re not stopping.’
Galíndez straightened to attention.
‘You’re a big bastard,’ Guzmán said. ‘Can you handle yourself?’
‘I box from time to time, Comandante.’
‘This job isn’t all about scrapping. I need brains as well as brawn.’
Galíndez stared straight ahead at the flag. ‘I’ve go
t those, sir, don’t worry.’
‘I see you’ve applied for a transfer to the antidisturbios,’ Guzmán said, looking down at his papers. ‘Why do you want to join the riot police?’
‘I like a bit of action, sir. With all these lefties coming out of the woodwork since Franco died, it sometimes seems we’re in a different country. I want to crack some heads, stop the Reds from taking over the streets.’
‘The correct answer was “to serve my King and country”,’ said Guzmán. ‘There’ll be no cracking heads and no shooting unless I authorise it. We don’t want to draw attention to what we’re doing, understand? Because if you fuck up, it won’t just be your job you lose: you’ll be singing soprano in the guardia choir.’
‘All I want is to get on, sir. I’d like to climb the ranks as high as I can.’
‘Good for you.’ Guzmán put a tick next to Galíndez’s name. ‘Now get out.’
Once Galíndez had gone, Guzmán pushed the yellow button on the panel.
A sudden hiss of static. ‘I said I want to crack heads and he says crack all you want, Miguel, you’re my kind of man. I reckon him and me will get on fine.’
Guzmán smiled as he pushed the button again, cutting off Galíndez’s bragging. He pressed the green button and looked up as the next man came in. ‘Name?’
‘Teniente Ramiro Ortiz. A sus órdenes, mí Comandante.’
Guzmán narrowed his eyes. ‘Where did you learn to salute like that?’
‘In the guardia of course, Comandante.’
‘No you didn’t. Otherwise you’d do it properly. Do it again.’
Ramiro made another attempt. ‘That’s enough: life’s too short,’ Guzmán sighed. ‘Your father says you’ll do your best, that’s good enough for me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But it had better be your best.’
‘I won’t let you down, sir, I promise.’
‘I judge men by their actions, not their promises,’ Guzmán said menacingly. ‘You look miserable, Teniente. Any reason for that?’
‘Actually, sir, there is. I feel like no one cares about what I do in this job.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Teniente,’ Guzmán said. ‘No one gives a fuck. Now get out.’
He lit a cigarette and then reached for the green button, pleased at his growing facility with this new technology.
‘Enrique Vilán?’ Guzmán asked, staring at the young man who’d just come in. ‘What the fuck are you, a mascot?’
‘I prefer to be called Quique, sir,’ the young man shouted, jumping to attention. He looked as if a gust of wind might blow him over, Guzmán thought. In fact, he probably wasn’t even shaving yet.
‘I saw a pram by the main gates this morning,’ Guzmán said. ‘If I was you, I’d go back and get in it before your Mamá realises you’re missing.’
‘Permission to speak, sir?’ Quique bellowed. ‘I’ve had three fights since I joined the guardia and I won them all. I’m good if things get rough and my shooting is slightly better than average.’
‘All right, you’re in. But if you bring your teddy bear to work, I’ll shoot you both.’ He glared at Quique for a moment. ‘And stop shouting at me.’
‘A sus órdenes,’ Vilán shouted. He stamped to the door before turning and saluting with a last booming ‘sus órdenes.’
Guzmán rested his head in his hands, thanking God he hadn’t got a hangover. He would need to impress on the kid that a secret operation required minimal noise.
He pressed the green button and the next man entered. Fair-haired, with a round, honest face. His uniform was neat, just as regulations required, though not annoyingly so.
‘Luis Fuentes, Comandante.’ A sharp salute.
Guzmán glanced down at the general’s notes. ‘General Ortiz says you’re intelligent. In fact, he thinks you’ll probably make comandante before you’re thirty.’
‘I’ll do my best to live up to that assessment, sir.’
‘The general’s a good judge of men, so I’m inclined to trust his opinion,’ Guzmán said. ‘Don’t give me any reason to change my mind. You’re in.’
‘Thanks, Comandante,’ Fuentes stared straight ahead, eyes on the flag. ‘I’ll try not to let you down.’
‘You’re all fucking trying,’ Guzmán muttered as the door closed. He looked at his watch and groaned: it was nowhere near lunchtime. With an exaggerated sigh he reached for the green button, wanting to get this next encounter over with as soon as possible.
He looked up as the newcomer came in. They shook hands hurriedly, like strangers. ‘I bet you never thought you’d work with me again, did you, Ochoa?’
‘That’s what I was hoping, sir,’ Corporal Ochoa said. The thick lenses of his glasses made his eyes seem vast. Provocatively so, Guzmán thought.
‘Still taking photos of admirals fucking their secretaries?’
‘That sort of thing, sir. Intelligence work.’
‘Hombre, if you were intelligent, you wouldn’t be so fucking miserable. You’d just get down on your knees every evening and thank God for having such a good job.’
‘As the comandante says,’ Ochoa said, stiff and formal.
‘For fuck’s sake, Corporal, I have to deal with officers I can’t stand sometimes, but I make a better job of it than you.’
‘I’ve only a month to go before I retire, sir. I didn’t expect to be called back into the field at this stage, especially by you.’
‘Then you should be grateful to see a bit of action before you retire,’ said Guzmán. ‘Incidentally, did you ever find your wife?’
Ochoa shook his head. ‘But once I’m retired, I’ll have the money to pay for a private detective, now I qualify for the pensioners’ delivery.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a guardia thing. If you’ve been involved with dirty jobs during your career they give you extra monthly payments to keep quiet about them.’
‘I should get those.’ Guzmán made a quick pencilled note on his pad.
‘You haven’t retired, Comandante.’
‘Then I should get them when I retire.’ Guzmán underlined the note. Twice.
‘You aren’t in the guardia, sir.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Guzmán scowled as he underlined the note yet again. ‘I serve my country and get fuck all while someone like you takes a few photos and then retires with a small fortune.’
Ochoa shrugged. ‘I’m a member of the guardia, sir. The fact that I’ve been seconded to you in the past is incidental as far as pensions go.’
‘And you’re an expert on finances as well?’ Guzmán tossed the pencil across the room. ‘Enough of the small talk. Do you understand what this operation entails?’
‘Yes, sir, and it sounds like we might run into trouble, I reckon.’
‘Not at all: as long as we keep a low profile, no one’s going to notice we’re spiriting away a few boxes of records. And then, after that, no one will ever know what we did for Franco over the years.’
‘That should suit you nicely, I imagine, sir, now the Socialists are about to win the election? First thing they’ll do is come looking for people like you once they’re in power.’
‘What would suit me is for someone to shoot you, Ochoa,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘And by the way, you mean “People like us”. I don’t seem to remember you ever refusing to shoot Reds, or anyone else, for that matter.’
‘Perhaps the comandante would prefer it if I didn’t take part in the operation?’
Guzmán’s fist slammed down on the desk. ‘I never had you down for a coward. Annoying, argumentative, obstinate and fucking stubborn to the point that a mule would look obliging in comparison, maybe. But scared of a mission? Christ, I asked for you because I thought you’d be reliable.’
‘You know I am. I was just saying, that’s all.’
‘Then it would be better if you didn’t say anything, Corporal. I was about to mention that I need a sergeant. How would a temporary promotion suit you?’
‘No thanks. I saw how you
treated the old sarge.’
‘That was different. I had to beat him from time to time or he’d have turned feral on me.’
Ochoa shrugged. ‘If you really want a sarge, there’s always his son.’
‘The sarge had a son?’ Guzmán’s eyes widened. ‘I never knew that.’
‘Oh yes.’ Ochoa nodded. ‘He’s called Julio, same as the sarge.’
‘Fuck me, I didn’t even know the sarge had a name.’
‘Julio was in the Legion for fifteen years,’ Ochoa said.
‘Really?’ Guzmán asked. ‘An ex-legionnaire is just what we need.’
Ochoa shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I should have said he was in the Legion before he went to prison.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Murder.’
‘Is that all? I’d never have had a squad if I’d refused to take murderers. When did he come out?’
‘A few days ago. I came across him begging outside the Metro.’
Guzmán thought about it for a moment. ‘Go and get him. A good sarge is exactly what this bunch of vestal virgins need to keep them in order.’
The corporal saluted as he left. At least his salute wasn’t annoying.
Ochoa was back within the hour. It was not often Guzmán showed surprise at anything these days but his eyes widened as he saw the figure standing in the doorway.
The sarge’s son was tall and muscular, though any further evidence of physical health was very well hidden. On the other hand, the ravaged face seemed very familiar.
‘Christ, did you dig up his papa from the cemetery?’ Guzmán pushed back his chair and went towards him. ‘I’m Guzmán, I worked with your father in Calle Robles. He was a good man.’
‘You reckon?’ Julio scoffed. ‘He put my mother on the street, whoring.’
‘Well, at least it was regular work. Do you want the job or not?’
‘A job?’ Julio had a slightly breathless voice, like a panting dog. Another of his father’s traits. ‘Do I get a gun?’ His smile revealed a few widely spaced rotten stumps protruding from his gums.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 8