There were other, less aesthetic memories too, a recollected haze of winter mornings, faces pressed against barred windows watching vehicles pull up in the prison yard. Groups of men carrying rifles, smoking as they waited for orders. The thin line of light on the horizon marking the hour when the firing squads started their work. And Guzmán remembered much about that work. The pleading and weeping, the sudden blows of rifle butts urging the prisoners towards a wall pockmarked by bullets. Those things he remembered in detail, even the songs the condemned men used to sing. Only their faces escaped his memory, though the city was always present in his recollections, probably because it was so much like him, violent and capricious, cruel and yet unexpectedly generous on occasion.
There was a hidden rhythm to this city, a kind of violent inheritance etched into history by fire and steel. The tides of history ran red over these cobbles. And that tide was changing: his instinct told him so, as did the newspaper headlines. People wanted change. Change and happiness. To his mind, those things did not sit easily together.
As he turned up Calle de Preciados, a car pulled to a halt fifty metres ahead. Three men got out, adjusting their jackets, or rather, adjusting the pistols beneath their jackets. Hard-faced men, one sporting a large white dressing on the side of his head.
Guzmán’s first thought was to draw the Browning, dive behind a parked car and open up. But though the men looked aggressive, no one made a move towards him. Someone was getting out of the car and one of the goons rushed to get the door. As the man got out, Guzmán recognised the tobacco-coloured features of Javier Benavides.
‘Comandante,’ Benavides said, giving him a friendly smile, though this time, he didn’t offer his hand.
Guzmán stayed where he was, happy to let Benavides block the line of fire between him and the three armed men. ‘I see you brought your friends.’
‘They’re not here to harm you.’ Benavides smiled. ‘They’re here to protect me.’
‘Clearly you’re an optimist.’
‘It’s always best to take precautions, Comandante. As my mother keeps telling me, it’s not been safe on the streets since Franco died.’
Guzmán shrugged. ‘It wasn’t all that safe when he was alive.’
Benavides looked past Guzmán to the dingy bar he’d just left. ‘Do you have time for another, Señor Guzmán?’
‘If you’re paying,’ Guzmán said, leading the way.
Once inside, Guzmán took a seat near the door where he could keep an eye on the heavies waiting by the car. He called to the barman for brandy. Benavides ordered beer.
As the barman got the drinks, Benavides leaned closer. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m approaching you like this.’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘You’ve been away from Madrid, I understand?’
‘I’ve been busy.’ There was no need to go into detail about his work, Guzmán decided. It would only frighten Benavides and he didn’t want to do that until he’d heard his offer. And he would make an offer, Guzmán was sure. They wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.
‘I know what that’s like,’ Benavides said. ‘I also know the Brigada Especial recalled you to Madrid. Might I ask why?’
‘They owe me money,’ Guzmán said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He took his drink from the barman and then glared at him until he retreated back behind the bar.
Benavides sipped his beer. From his expression, he didn’t like it much. ‘I heard the Brigada had some financial irregularities. Accounting seems to be a common problem for those old departments of the Franco era. Money so often was misplaced.’
‘My money certainly was.’ This time Guzmán didn’t even try to hide his bitterness.
‘I understand Brigadier General Gutiérrez hasn’t been well?’
‘He’s not so ill he can’t sign a cheque.’ Guzmán finished his brandy and shouted to the barman to bring another. ‘I think his problem is that he can’t count.’
‘Can’t count,’ Benavides repeated, deadpan. ‘Very droll.’ He lifted the beer to his mouth and then put the glass down again without drinking. ‘It’s well known that he’s not in the best of health. Word is that it’s serious. If that’s the case, he’ll have to be replaced by someone of exceptional calibre.’ He sat back, waiting for Guzmán to agree.
Guzmán glanced out at the men by the car. He said nothing. When the barman caught his eye, he lifted a finger and pointed to his glass.
‘I’m authorised to offer you his post should it become available,’ Benavides said, unable to bear the silence.
‘Ten, fifteen years ago, I’d have said yes,’ Guzmán replied, taking his brandy from the barman. ‘But I want out now. That’s why I’m back: to sort out the pay-off.’
Benavides’ face twitched. The man wouldn’t make a poker player, Guzmán thought, guessing what would come next.
‘The thing is, we wanted to offer you Gutiérrez’s post in return for something of yours. I wonder if perhaps a cash offer would be acceptable?’
Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s “we”?’
‘You know very well who I work for. You were having lunch with General Ortiz, I’m sure he apprised you of the situation in Madrid.’
Guzmán took another sip of brandy. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I understand from a colleague that you devised a powerful code some years ago?’
This was something Guzmán hadn’t anticipated, though his expression didn’t change. ‘Your colleague worked for Admiral Carrero Blanco, did he? I let his department use the code years ago.’
‘And very useful it was too, I understand. Several of our people looked at it and they think it’s exactly what we need.’ Reluctantly, Benavides drank some of his beer. ‘How did you come to write a code like that?’
‘I didn’t write it,’ Guzmán said. ‘I was given the prototype of a Nazi code machine in return for getting a ticket to Paraguay for a German fleeing the Allies. The machine was the only model that survived the war.’ There was more to it than that, even if he left out the fatalities, though Benavides didn’t need to know. ‘Naturally, I used it from time to time.’
Benavides gave him a sly look. ‘I imagine it helped protect your secrets?’
‘If I’d had any.’ Benavides didn’t like eye contact, Guzmán noticed. He leaned forward and met his gaze. A few moments of that was usually enough to prompt most people into speaking and Benavides was no exception.
‘I understand there’s a key that makes the code impossible to break?’
‘That’s right,’ Guzmán said. ‘The key is a piece of poetry in a foreign language. It has to be translated into Spanish and then applied to the coded text.’
‘And could this machine and the key be made available to an interested party?’
‘They could, though naturally, they wouldn’t be free.’
‘Everything has its price, Comandante.’ Benavides smiled. ‘What would you say to eight million pesetas and regular payments into your bank account for the next ten years in return for sole use of the code machine?’
‘Then the interested party could have the code in a heartbeat,’ Guzmán said. ‘The original key to the code was engraved on a sword, though I had it transcribed into a notebook for convenience. You’ll be the only person in the world with a copy of that key. As long as you keep the key safe, no one’s going to be able to crack your communications.’
That was not quite true, though there was no way Benavides could know he was lying. The sword was buried somewhere beneath a ruined house in the wilds of the Basque country. He doubted anyone would ever find it.
‘So do we have a deal, Comandante?’
‘If you can come up with the money this week.’ Guzmán glanced round the bar. ‘I’m staying at the Pensión Paraíso on Calle del Carmen.’
‘We know where you’re staying, Comandante.’ This time, Benavides didn’t smile.
‘Then I’ll get it ready for you. Once I g
et the money I’ll hand over the code machine, the key and the paperwork that goes with it.’
‘Excellent.’ Benavides picked up his briefcase and tucked it under his arm. ‘You know, with that sort of money, you’ll be able to travel. In fact you’d be advised to, if you get my meaning?’
It was the nearest Benavides had come to threatening him and Guzmán’s first thought was to punch him to the floor. His second was more pragmatic. ‘Nice doing business with you.’
‘Everyone does in the end,’ Benavides said, holding the door for Guzmán. ‘Because everyone has their price.’
CHAPTER 8
MADRID 2010, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, GUARDIA CIVIL RESEARCH CENTRE
‘You’ve been here half an hour now and hardly said a word,’ Isabel said. ‘Just tell me if you’re in a foul mood.’
Galíndez glanced up from her computer screen. ‘I’m in a foul mood.’ With a sigh, she closed down the laptop and gave Isabel a detailed account of how she handled the attempt at reconciliation with the Fuentes family.
‘What happened to all that stuff they taught you in the academy about conflict resolution?’
‘I was angry,’ Galíndez said. ‘I just went into meltdown.’
Isabel put a hand on her arm, surprised at the tone of Galíndez’s voice. ‘Surely you could forgive Inés? You really liked those girls.’
‘All that’s over now. I’m through being Auntie Ana.’
‘Come on, that’s a little harsh, even for you.’
Galíndez narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean, “even for me”?’
‘Nothing.’ Isabel held out a piece of paper. ‘Before I forget, this guy from HQ called you earlier. Someone called Torrecilla. He works in cryptographics.’
Galíndez’s eyes widened. ‘He’s the guy who’s trying to decode Guzmán’s diary. What did he say?’
‘He said he was starting to understand it.’
‘Really?’ Galíndez grabbed her leather jacket as she went to the door. ‘I’m off to HQ.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘By the way, do I look pale?’
Isabel took a long look. ‘A bit, yes. Why, are you feeling ill?’
‘Never felt better,’ Galíndez said as she went out the door.
MADRID 2010, HEADQUARTERS OF THE GUARDIA CIVIL, CRYPTOGRAPHY DEPARTMENT
Capitán Torrecilla looked up as Galíndez came into his office. ‘Sounds like you’re out of breath, Ana. Training for another marathon?’
She shook her head. ‘The lift wasn’t working so I used the stairs.’
‘God, that’s nine floors,’ he said. ‘The thought of it makes me breathless.’
‘The exercise will do me good,’ Galíndez panted as she took a seat facing his desk. ‘My colleague said you’ve made progress in your work on the Guzmán file?’
Torrecilla shook his head. ‘Not quite. I suspected it was encrypted with a Nazi algorithm but I’ve carried out a statistical analysis of Guzmán’s cipher text and compared it to known World War Two ciphers and it doesn’t resemble any of them. It’s much more sophisticated.’
‘So what now?’ Galíndez tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Torrecilla shrugged. ‘Are you familiar with Kerckhoff’s principle that the security of a system should only be based on the secrecy of the key?’
‘And we don’t have the key?’ Galíndez frowned. ‘Can’t you work out what it is?’
‘That’s not how things work, Ana,’ said Torrecilla. ‘Without a key, we’ll have to use brute force and even then, there’s no guarantee of success.’
Galíndez shrugged. ‘Do it, then. Anything’s worth trying.’
Torrecilla mopped his face with his handkerchief. ‘When I say brute force I don’t mean we’re going to kick someone’s door down. We’d need to use computer time, lots of it.’
‘Then use it, what’s the problem?’
‘Money. My boss won’t sanction it and neither will General Ortiz. Austerity and all that. Everyone’s having to make cuts. No one thinks it’s worth spending a fortune to crack a seventy-year-old code.’ He smiled. ‘No one but you, that is.’
Galíndez went quiet. ‘I think I might know how the code could be deciphered.’
‘That’s great, as long as it doesn’t involve overspending my department’s budget. What makes you think you’ve got the answer all of a sudden?’
‘There’s a scimitar in the evidence room that belonged to Guzmán. I found it in the Basque country earlier this year. It has a poem by Omar Khayyam engraved on the blade in Farsi. You think that could be the key?’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Torrecilla said. ‘If you can let me have a look at it, I’ll see what I can come up with.’
Galíndez jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll go get it.’
Torrecilla grinned. ‘There’s no need to run. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You’d better not,’ Galíndez said, starting to run.
*
As she heard the door of the Forensics office open, Mendez looked up and saw Galíndez coming towards her. ‘Come to apologise?’
Galíndez ignored her. ‘I want that scimitar I found in the Basque country. You put it in to the evidence room for safekeeping, remember?’
‘I remember.’ Mendez’s fingers rattled on her keyboard. ‘Here we go.’ She wrote the reference number on a slip of paper. ‘Give that to Enrique, the clerk. He’ll dig it out for you.’
‘I know how the system works.’ Galíndez turned and headed for the door.
‘Really? I thought you might have forgotten since you don’t work here any more.’
Ignoring her, Galíndez went out into the corridor without closing the door.
‘Use the stairs,’ Mendez called after her. ‘The lift isn’t working.’
Galíndez had already reached the stairwell and her answer was muffled, though the tone of her reply was clear enough. Mendez sighed and went back to work.
Ten minutes later, Galíndez was back, her cheeks flushed from running.
Mendez hit save on her document. ‘Are you in training for something, Ana?’
‘It’s not me who needs any training.’ Galíndez’s voice was tight with anger. ‘I asked you to put that sword somewhere safe.’
‘It is safe: it’s in the store, tagged and bagged, as always. Didn’t you ask Enrique to have a look?’
Galíndez ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. ‘Of course I asked him. And he went away like an old mole into the evidence store and found a space with the right label, but no fucking sword. So where is it?’
Mendez leaned back in her seat. ‘Don’t talk to me like that. I outrank you.’
‘Not now I’m on secondment, you don’t. So let me ask you again, what are you going to do about that sword?’
‘Given your tone of voice, I’m going to do fuck all. How’s that?’
‘In that case, I’ll fill in a complaint and send it to Professional Standards.’
Mendez gave her a hard look. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be filling in forms for weeks if you do that.’
Galíndez gave her a malicious smile. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Look, Ana. There are some things you don’t do, and setting Professional Standards on a colleague is one of them.’
‘Find that sword by tonight or I swear to God I’ll complain. Then you’ll spend the next week buried in paperwork while Professional Standards go over every last procedure in the department. That should keep you and Capitán Fuentes busy, since he’ll have to explain to them why the procedures don’t work.’
Mendez banged her fist on the desk. ‘Know what? You’re a real pain in the arse.’
‘Five o’clock tonight or I file that complaint,’ Galíndez said as she left. ‘Your call.’
‘Bitch,’ Mendez called after her.
*
Galíndez found Torrecilla slumped over his desk, surrounded by pages of what looked like algebra. ‘Bad news: they’ve misplaced the sword.’
‘How did that happen? They got
someone new in the evidence store?’
‘Same people,’ said Galíndez, ‘but they’re getting sloppy.’ She slumped into a chair. ‘My dad would never have stood for that when he worked here.’
Torrecilla shoved his pile of papers to one side. ‘Looks like you’re sunk, Ana. Without that sword, we’ve got nothing.’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ Galíndez didn’t wait for an answer. ‘If I could find a copy of the poem that was on Guzmán’s sword, we could get it translated from Farsi into Spanish. Then you could try using that as a key to decipher the diary.’
‘You speak Farsi, do you?’ Torrecilla laughed. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘No, but Teniente Bouchareb on the third floor does. He’s the one who identified it.’
Torrecilla shrugged. ‘It’s worth a go, though I’m not promising anything.’
‘I’m off back to the university. Give me a call if you find anything, will you?’
As she went into the corridor, Torrecilla called after her. ‘The lift’s working again, by the way.’
‘Since when?’
‘About half an hour.’ Torrecilla heard a muted curse as she left.
Outside, banks of dark clouds hung over the city and the air was humid. Galíndez got into her car and opened the windows. In the mirror, she saw beads of sweat on her forehead and wiped them away. She slumped in the seat, replaying the standoff with Mendez in her head, though each time it always ended the same way.
She sighed. Some days, it felt like everything and everybody was against her. With the exception of Isabel, of course. Increasingly, Galíndez found herself relying on her. One of these days, Isabel would get another job working in radio. The thought of being without her was troubling and Galíndez had been thinking about that a lot recently.
She saw her face in the mirror, her dark eyes stared back at her, daring her. Slowly, she took the plastic tube of painkillers from her shirt pocket and shook a couple of tablets into the palm of her hand. After a furtive glance around the car park, she raised them to her mouth and swallowed them.
Her phone suddenly blared into life. A text from Isabel. Galíndez felt her skin prickle as she read it: Positive finding on Guzmán. Call me. She snatched up her phone and called.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 11