The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Fuck, you’ve got the same teeth as your father.’ Guzmán waited for Julio to take his hand. ‘Are we going to shake hands or not?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Julio said, furrowing his brow. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m offering you a job,’ Guzmán said, impatiently.

  Julio tilted his head to one side and gave another disconcerting grin. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  Julio’s laugh sounded even more like a dog than before. ‘Don’t bother me, boss.’

  Guzmán sniffed the air and frowned. ‘There’s one condition: you have to take a bath.’

  ‘Shit, it’s always the same,’ Julio grunted. ‘Join the Legion, they make you wash, in prison it’s the same. Can’t seem to get away from it.’

  ‘Make sure you get cleaned up,’ Guzmán said, ‘because I’m not getting in a vehicle of any description with you until you have. Where are you living?’

  ‘I’ve got a room somewhere.’ Julio gestured vaguely at one of the walls.

  ‘Is it a pensión?’ Guzmán asked, hoping it was worse than his.

  ‘Sort of. It’s next to a stable.’ He paused. ‘Tell the truth, it is a stable.’

  ‘Just make sure Corporal Ochoa can get in touch with you when you’re needed. And there’s one more question I need to ask.’

  ‘I’ve already answered it,’ Julio said. ‘I never killed him. In any case, the witness fell under a truck so his word don’t count either.’

  ‘That’s not the question. I want to know if I can trust you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Who do you think I’m talking to?’

  ‘What was the question?’

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Guzmán said, running out of patience.

  ‘Hard one that, boss.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, it isn’t hard at all. Just answer the fucking question.’

  The sarge’s son grinned, exposing his devastated teeth. ‘You can’t catch me out with trick questions like that.’

  Guzmán took a deep breath. ‘I need a drink.’

  Julio took out a bottle from his jacket pocket. ‘Have some of this, boss.’

  Guzmán examined the label on the bottle and handed it back. ‘This is surgical alcohol.’

  ‘It’s got alcohol in it, boss, what more do you want?’

  ‘A new liver if I drink that,’ Guzmán said. ‘We start tomorrow. Be here early.’

  Julio lumbered to the door. ‘You know, my dad liked you, Comandante.’

  Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘I wish I could say the same.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Julio said as he opened the door. ‘Thanks for the job.’

  Ochoa showed him out.

  Guzmán was lighting a cigarette when he returned. ‘Can we trust him, Corporal?’

  ‘As much as you could trust his father,’ Ochoa said, after a moment’s thought.

  Guzmán took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘That’s what I was afraid you’d say.’

  CHAPTER 6

  MADRID 2010, GUARDIACIVIL HEADQUARTERS

  ‘Let me get this straight: you don’t want to transfer to Profiling?’

  Ramiro’s voice was getting louder. On the other side of the general’s office door, the adjutant was savouring every explosive phrase as Ramiro gave Galíndez the benefit of his extensive lexicon of profanities.

  ‘Don’t shout, Uncle Ramiro, you’ll deafen me.’

  ‘Deafen you? I should call my adjutant in here and have him horsewhip you.’

  ‘Go ahead, I’ll break both his arms.’

  He sighed. ‘I can never stay angry at you for long, Ana.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I’m getting, General.’ That was a dirty trick, she knew. The moment she addressed him by rank, Ramiro started to melt.

  ‘So what was wrong with Profiling anyway?’

  ‘It would be boring.’

  Ramiro stared at her. ‘No offence, Ana, but you’ve always been a serious girl.’

  ‘Serious?’ Galíndez looked at him with horror. ‘You think I’m boring, don’t you?’

  ‘Let’s say I thought you’d enjoy the rarefied atmosphere of Profiling.’

  ‘Two years ago, I would have. But I prefer the challenge of an investigation now.’

  ‘You know, I’d always hoped you’d join an operational unit. What kind of investigative work are you interested in?’

  ‘The research centre still has four years of funding left. Since we know Guzmán’s alive, why don’t I focus on tracking him down? After all, kidnapping’s a serious offence.’

  ‘There’s only you and Señorita Morente at the centre. What makes you think you could track down someone like him?’

  ‘I want to start by going after that skinhead, Sancho, first,’ Galíndez said. ‘If I can find him, he’ll lead us to Guzmán, I’m certain. And I promise the moment I get a lead, I’ll call in backup and do things by the book.’

  ‘As long as you do. I mean it, Ana. Do it right or I’ll send you back to Profiling and have Coronel Mascarell chain you to the desk.’

  ‘I’ll keep you informed throughout the investigation, General.’ She started to get up.

  ‘Have you bought a camera?’ Ramiro asked, as he saw the case she was carrying.

  ‘I borrowed it from Forensics. I’m going to take photos of the documents we’ve collected at the research centre.’ She opened the case and took out the camera. ‘Digital: zoom lens, the works. It’s really powerful. Have a look for yourself.’

  ‘Who’d believe it?’ Ramiro said after he’d inspected the camera. ‘Those Japanese, eh? It’s so small and light yet I bet it cost a fortune?’

  A sudden idea struck her. ‘Shall I take your picture? I’ll get it printed out and have it framed for you.’

  He smiled indulgently. ‘Why not take one of me signing your authorisation to investigate Guzmán? I’ve got a pen here, somewhere.’ He rummaged in his desk drawer, piling handfuls of pencils, rubber bands and other office detritus into a heap on his blotter. It looked like the contents of a schoolboy’s desk, Galíndez thought, though, sensibly, she refrained from saying so.

  Finally, Ramiro shoved the jumbled items from his drawer to one side. ‘Here it is.’ He held up a green fountain pen. ‘My great-grandfather carried this throughout the war in Cuba in 1898, Grandfather took it with him to the Rif mountains in the twenties and my father used it in the Civil War. Now it’s mine. Fantastic workmanship, never leaks. It has the name of Grandfather’s house at military school engraved on it. It’s a piece of family history.’ He looked up at her, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘One day, of course, it will be yours.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s a very long time away,’ she smiled. ‘OK, sign the authorisation then, Uncle.’ She lifted the camera and squinted through the viewfinder at him.

  ‘Wait,’ Ramiro said. ‘Move to the left so you get my father’s portrait in the shot.’

  Galíndez’s heart sank. She’d hoped to avoid including the gaudy life-size oil painting of the late General ‘Iron Hand’ Ortiz in the picture. It was bad enough having the old boy staring down from the wall at her every time she visited Ramiro’s office.

  ‘Make sure you get as much of Papa in as you can,’ Ramiro barked, arranging himself into a stiff, self-conscious posture.

  Galíndez took the first picture: Ramiro posing with the pen, looking down at the sheet of paper as he signed his name. Behind him, his father glowered down from his ghastly portrait. Beneath the general’s feet lay a trampled red flag bearing a hammer and sickle. In the background, smoke rose from a distant village surrounded by piles of bodies. They hadn’t called him Iron Hand for nothing. As she pressed the shutter, Galíndez sincerely hoped she wouldn’t inherit that painting.

  She took a couple more shots and lowered the camera. ‘Very handsome, General.’

  ‘Right.’ Ramiro screwed the cap back on his pen and put it in his top pocket. ‘Back to work then.’ He looked up, sensing her reluctance to leave. ‘Unl
ess there’s anything else?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ Galíndez said. ‘Do you know anything about the Centinelas?’

  Ramiro shrugged. ‘How long have you got? I could spend hours talking about them.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be necessary.’ Galíndez started to sit and froze as she realised her mistake. ‘Sorry, is it all right to...’

  Ramiro laughed. ‘Sit down, you don’t need to ask. Not after what happened to you.’ His expression became serious. ‘Speaking of which, when they had you in that cellar, did they...’ He paused, embarrassed.

  ‘I wasn’t raped, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘Thank God. Your Aunt Teresa will be so relieved.’

  ‘I know I was,’ Galíndez muttered.

  ‘Why do you ask about the Centinelas?’ Ramiro asked.

  ‘Because Guzmán and Sancho are working for them,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ he growled. ‘The Centinelas always used thugs like them.’

  ‘When I was being tortured, Guzmán questioned me about what I knew of them.’

  Ramiro’s eyes narrowed. ‘The bastard. What did you say?’

  ‘I told him the little I knew: that they were a secretive bunch of Franco’s most faithful officers who were involved in carrying out assassinations.’

  ‘That was how they started out after the Civil War.’ Ramiro nodded. ‘Over the years they grew stronger and more secretive. Later on, they established links with organised crime. They tried to infiltrate the police, the guardia and the military. In fact, they practically ran the police force in the early nineteen eighties, but they always drew a blank with the guardia, largely due to my father’s efforts – and mine, I might add. We had to fight damn hard to keep them out. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you, they were bloody secretive. Rather like the Freemasons, though better armed. They used to swear oaths to defend Spain and Franco and they wore gold rings as a sign of membership, engraved with a two-headed serpent. They claimed the gold came from Peru. The conquistadores discovered it, apparently.’

  ‘The conquistadores looted it from Peru, you mean,’ Galíndez said, sternly. ‘And they gave the Aztecs smallpox and syphilis in return.’

  ‘I sometimes forget your generation feels it has to rewrite history, Ana.’

  ‘The Centinelas had a leader, didn’t they – apart from Franco?’ Galíndez asked, gently steering him back onto the subject.

  ‘They had several, though each leader always used the same code name: Xerxes. We never got near to the man at the top, unfortunately.’

  She nodded, deep in thought. ‘I wonder if maybe Guzmán’s their leader now?’

  ‘He could be.’ Ramiro nodded. ‘I’ll step up our surveillance activities, see if we can find out what they’re up to and then put a stop to it.’

  Galíndez glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better not keep you any longer, Uncle.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Ana,’ Ramiro said as he showed her out. The adjutant didn’t look up as she went down the corridor to the lift.

  As the lift doors opened, she heard her uncle’s booming voice as he extolled her virtues to his sour-faced adjutant as he always did. ‘Young women like her hardly eat these days, that’s why they’re all flat-chested.’

  Mercifully, the lift doors glided shut before she could hear any more.

  ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965, LLANTO DEL MORO

  It was the hour of siesta as Ramon Villanueva made his way down the main street, slowed by the ponderous weight of the sun. In the distance, the line of new hotels along the coast shimmered in the violent heat. Villanueva took off his panama hat and mopped his face with one of the handkerchiefs his wife had given him two Christmases ago. He then removed his jacket, deciding to carry it, exposing the .38 resting in the holster on his hip. Not that it mattered: all thirty-seven villagers knew their chief of police had never fired his pistol in twenty-five years of service.

  As Villanueva went into the cool of the comisaría, his sargento looked up from his desk, bleary-eyed. For some, the siesta started early.

  ‘All quiet, Alberto?’

  He already knew the answer. There was no crime here apart from the odd problem with tourists or city people. One day soon, they would close this comisaría. When that happened, he planned to use his pension to buy a share in his brother’s hotel, just up the coast road. There had been a time when he thought he would miss being a policeman. That time was long gone.

  ‘Nothing new to report, Inspector,’ Alberto said, squinting at his day book. ‘Señora Manzanares came in half an hour ago, she said the school bus hasn’t arrived at the school yet.’

  ‘The engine’s had it,’ Villanueva said. ‘They really need a new bus.’

  He sank into a chair in his tiny office and stared at the black-and-white photo of Franco on the wall. The heat was fierce now and the wet patch on the back of his shirt was getting bigger. He needed some new shirts. At times like these, confronted by minor domestic needs, he missed his wife all the more.

  ‘They ought to replace that bus,’ Alberto agreed. ‘It must be thirty years old.’

  ‘I wish I was.’ Villanueva took a bottle from his drawer and poured himself a glass of tepid red wine. He found his cigarettes, lit one and sat back. His lunch would be arriving soon. After that he would doze for an hour, more if he finished the bottle. And then home to an empty house and his memories. Another quiet day in Llanto del Moro.

  CHAPTER 7

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, TORRE DE MADRID, PLAZA DE ESPAÑA

  Guzmán strolled across the plaza towards the gleaming skyscraper that had once been the tallest building in Europe. Now, that accolade was held by some Belgian construction. He found that depressing.

  As he walked, he watched the changing reflections in the pool below the monument to Cervantes. The still water mirrored the statues of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza and Guzmán paused, wondering why he found the statues so annoying. Only as he went into the lobby of the tower did he realise: the statues resembled Corporal Ochoa and him.

  General Ortiz was waiting for him by the entrance.

  ‘We’d better hurry,’ Ortiz said. ‘We need to get ourselves in position before those bastards get here.’ He led Guzmán to a service elevator at the side of the lobby. On the fifth floor, they got out and followed a long corridor. At the end of the corridor, a young woman was sitting at a desk. She got up as they approached.

  ‘You’re in the yellow room, gentlemen. I’ll show you in.’

  They followed her into a small dimly lit office that resembled a stationery cupboard. On one wall was a dark square of curtain. Covering a painting, perhaps, Guzmán thought.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, General,’ the young woman said. ‘There’s a bottle in the drawer of that desk if you need it.’

  ‘Thank you, Sargento.’ Ortiz watched the movement of her hips as she went to the door. When the door closed, he went over and turned the key.

  ‘Sargento?’ Guzmán asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re using women now?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, Leo.’ Ortiz went to the desk and took a bottle of bourbon from a drawer. ‘We can hardly have men posing as secretaries, can we? As soon as we found out the Centinelas were renting a meeting room here, we moved some of our ladies in, next door. They pretend to be typing all day, but really, they’re keeping an eye on the opposition. Take the sargento you just saw. Out of uniform, she looks like any other office worker. Who’d suspect her?’

  ‘I would,’ Guzmán said.

  Ortiz laughed as he poured bourbon into two plastic cups. ‘You suspect everyone.’

  ‘It’s kept me alive this far.’ Guzmán took a swig of bourbon. ‘So what happens now? Is the meeting room wired, or do we press our ears to the wall?’

  ‘Neither,’ Ortiz said. ‘When they arrive, the sargento will press a button and that light on the wall over there will flash. That’s the signal to lower our voices.’

  ‘And how long have you had th
e Centinelas under surveillance?’

  ‘Not long enough. I never realised how fast they were working. One minute they weren’t a threat, next minute they were. Things change quickly these days.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ Guzmán muttered.

  The light on the wall flashed. Ortiz put a finger to his lips and went over to the curtain. Carefully, he pulled it to one side, exposing a square of glass that gave a direct view into the meeting room next door. ‘Two-way mirror,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll point out some of their people to you as they come in.’

  Guzmán peered through the glass. The conference room was dominated by a big oval table set with the usual corporate paraphernalia: pads of notepaper and complimentary pens were arranged alongside plates of mints and bottles of water in the centre of the table. Guzmán found the sight of so much water dispiriting. In the old days, meetings were always awash with drink. Unless they were with Franco, of course. Franco didn’t drink much and he didn’t smoke. No wonder he never looked happy.

  General Ortiz took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Want one? Black tobacco, rough as a gypsy’s sister.’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  More people were arriving now and General Ortiz kept up a commentary for Guzmán’s benefit. ‘That’s the deputy head of the policía nacional and there’s the commander of the Brunete armoured division.’ He continued, pointing out various civic dignitaries, a couple of captains of industry and several members of parliament. The Centinelas were very well connected indeed, Guzmán realised. No wonder Gutiérrez was so worried about them.

  Behind the group of politicians coming through the door, Guzmán saw a burly man in a general’s uniform, glancing round disdainfully as he took a seat at the head of the table.

  ‘Isn’t that General Alvaro?’

  ‘It is,’ Ortiz nodded. ‘The King’s personal advisor, though he’s not advising His Majesty today. He’s number two in the Centinelas hierarchy.’

  Guzmán raised his eyebrows. ‘Does the King know?’