‘I don’t feel lucky.’
‘Well you are,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘This dynamite’s been here years and it’s highly unstable. Even your footsteps could have set it off.’ He examined the wire again. ‘Got any chewing gum?’
‘My mouth’s too dry, sir.’
‘I don’t want you to chew it, you moron. Just give it to me.’
Galíndez fumbled awkwardly in his pocket and extracted a wrapper of gum. Guzmán took it from him, ignoring the violent shaking of his hand.
‘Keep a tight grip on that wire,’ he said, mashing the gum between his teeth.
‘I’m worried it will explode, sir.’
‘So am I, Teniente,’ Guzmán murmured as he pressed the gum onto the wire, pushing it firmly into the groove of the door. ‘This should hold it in place for a while, I reckon.’
‘Long enough to let us get out?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Guzmán got to his feet. ‘Don’t make any sudden moves.’
He swung down from the carriage and then shone the torch into the compartment to light Galíndez’s path. ‘Take it slowly, Teniente, and don’t look at those bodies.’
On reflection, he realised it might have been better not to draw attention to the bodies.
As Galíndez brushed against one of the mummified corpses, he stumbled and fell full length on the carriage floor. His scream sent brittle echoes fluttering along the tunnel. When he opened his eyes, Guzmán was staring at him. ‘Are you coming or not?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Galíndez climbed down from the carriage and followed him back along the tunnel. ‘Shouldn’t we run, Comandante?’
‘Just keep walking, we’re nearly there.’
The afternoon light was dazzling as they came out of the tunnel. ‘Wipe your face, Teniente,’ Guzmán said, quietly. ‘Otherwise the men will think you’ve been crying.’
A hundred metres away, Ochoa and the others were waiting by the truck. As the two men came out of the tunnel, Fuentes and Ramiro ran forward to help Galíndez.
‘No problems then, sir?’ Ochoa asked.
Guzmán shrugged. ‘Clearly not, Corporal.’ He walked over to the truck where young Quique was already in the cab, wedged against the gear stick. ‘See him?’ Guzmán said. ‘He’s the only one of this lot who looks happy.’
‘Must be a mental case then,’ Ochoa grumbled.
‘You’re too cynical by half, Corporal. I think if he plays his cards right, that young man could have a good career ahead of him.’ He took a look up at the arid hillside. ‘Let’s get going, I could do with a drink.’ As he climbed into the cab, he saw Galíndez huddled in the back of the truck, pale-faced and trembling.
By the driver’s door, Ochoa was grinding his cigarette into the dirt with his boot, taking what seemed like an inordinate length of time to do it.
‘Get a fucking move on, Corporal, will you?’ Guzmán barked.
Ochoa climbed into the cab and started the engine. The truck rolled forward down the track, heading for the road that led back to Madrid.
Guzmán had just begun to calculate the amount of alcohol that would be needed to quench his thirst when the hillside above the tunnel entrance disintegrated as a vast explosion tore through the tunnel, sending a rain of debris rattling down around the shuddering vehicle. The sound of the blast was still echoing around the hillside as Ochoa accelerated on to the main road.
Guzmán turned to look at the others sitting unhappily in the back. ‘That, gentlemen, is a day’s work,’ he said. ‘So now, I reckon it’s time we had a look at this Café León General Ortiz told me about.’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CAFÉ LEÓN, CALLE SOTOMAYOR
‘This is the kind of place I like,’ Guzmán said as he led the squad into the bar. At one side of the room was a long zinc-topped bar with an enormous selection of bottles on the shelves behind. Across the hallway, large double doors led to the dining room. Work had already begun in the kitchen, given the strong aroma of roasting meat drifting into the bar.
Guzmán saw the barman skulking at the far end of the counter and called him over. ‘Give me six beers.’
The barman nodded. ‘Six beers for the gentlemen.’
‘You’ll have to ask the others what they want, these six are for me.’
It took a moment for the barman to realise Guzmán wasn’t joking.
‘I feel like I’m drunk already, boss,’ Galíndez said, as the barman poured the drinks. ‘I’m high as a kite.’
‘Sitting in a train full of dynamite can upset the system, I’ve heard.’
‘You weren’t bothered though, boss,’ Galíndez said. ‘You saved my life back there.’
‘I saved mine as well.’ Guzmán looked at the glasses of beer on the bar and waved to the barman. ‘Keep them coming.’
‘But, sir, you haven’t drunk those yet.’
‘I will have by the time you’ve poured six more.’ Guzmán reached for the first glass and downed it in one long swallow. He let out a loud appreciative belch and reached for another.
‘I mean it, sir,’ Galíndez said. ‘I’m really grateful for what you did.’
Guzmán frowned. ‘For fuck’s sake, the last person who said that to me was a whore and she was lying. It’s over now, stop going on about it.’
‘But if you hadn’t known how to fix that wire, the whole train would have gone up.’
Guzmán picked up his beer. The glass was sweating with condensation as he held it to the light, admiring it before he took a long swig. ‘I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do with that wire,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Galíndez had turned rather pale, he noticed.
Tiring of Galíndez, Guzmán cast his eye over the bar. At the far side of the room, near the doors to the restaurant, young Quique was leaning round a corner, watching something in the hall. Quietly, Guzmán sneaked up behind him to see the object of his attention.
Further along the hall, a young woman was trying to retrieve a packet of cigarettes from the vending machine, though it was not her inability to manoeuvre them through the small flap that was the focus of Quique’s attention. ‘Look at that,’ he muttered, unaware Guzmán was bearing down on him, ‘a perfect arse.’
Guzmán grabbed Quique by the collar and pushed him towards the bar. ‘Go and join the others, Private, you’re out of your league here.’ He turned the corner and strolled down to the cigarette machine. ‘Can I be of assistance, señorita?’ he asked, noticing that Quique had been correct in his evaluation.
She pointed angrily to the cigarette machine. ‘Do you know how these things work?’
‘In theory or in practice?’
‘Just my luck, a comedian. Just get the packet out for me, would you, it’s stuck.’
‘At your service.’ It only took Guzmán a moment to break the flap from its hinges and extract the cigarettes. He scoffed as he saw the brand. ‘American cigarettes? You might as well not smoke.’
‘Actually, I’m not smoking,’ she said. ‘That’s because you’ve got my cigarettes.’
Guzmán handed her the packet, noticing the way her long dark hair matched the colour of her eyes. It certainly matched her mood.
‘The least I can do is give you a light,’ he said, producing his Zippo. ‘Leo Guzmán, by the way, at your service.’
‘That James Bond approach doesn’t work with me, so drop it.’ She put the cigarette in her mouth. ‘Christ, will you stop staring and just give me a light?’
Guzmán lit her cigarette and snapped the lighter shut. ‘I was just thinking that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
She exhaled smoke. ‘Really? And I’m thinking that’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.’
‘Should I keep you company until your husband arrives? This place can get quite rowdy, I’ve heard.’
‘So can I. But I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘You’re with the guardia, aren’t you?’ Her tone suggested she was
not impressed.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I saw you drinking with my brother, earlier.’
‘Your brother?’ He stared, trying to find a resemblance between her and a member of the squad.
‘Yes, the son of my parents.’ She sighed. ‘I’m Carmen, Miguel Galíndez’s sister.’ She cast a glance towards the door. ‘And here’s my date, so you’d better get lost, he doesn’t like me fraternising with the ranks.’
Guzmán’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not in the ranks. I’m a comandante.’
‘You might be a sergeant soon if you don’t push off. Hasta luego.’
‘Guzmán?’ A loud voice behind him.
He spun round and saw a familiar face. ‘General Ortiz?’
‘I told you this was a good bar, didn’t I?’ Ortiz laughed. ‘I didn’t expect you’d be chatting to my girlfriend though.’
Guzmán gave Carmen a knowing look. ‘No one should drink alone.’
Ortiz slapped him on the arm. ‘Then you’d better take your own advice and have a few drinks with your boys over there, Leo. The lady and I are off to dinner.’
‘Adios, sergeant.’ Carmen smiled as she followed the general into the dining room.
Guzmán returned to the bar where Ochoa was nursing a large glass of anis. ‘The rate you’re drinking, Corporal, you’ll finish that drink some time in 1992.’
When Ochoa didn’t rise to the bait, Guzmán shouted to the barman for a brandy. As he raised the glass to his lips, he noticed Ochoa’s expression. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Ochoa lowered his voice. ‘It’s Galíndez, he’s up to something. I just saw him take a parcel of magazines from one of the drivers a while ago and he went away looking like he’d robbed a bank.’
‘What magazines?’ Guzmán asked.
‘I don’t know, but it looked suspicious to me.’
‘It would.’ Guzmán gulped down his brandy. ‘But then the baby Jesús would look suspicious to you, Corporal.’ He threw some coins onto the bar. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘If it’s any consolation, sir, she was far too good for you.’
‘No consolation whatsoever, Corporal.’
Guzmán pushed open the swing door and went out into the night, thinking Ochoa would have been better off employed in a funeral parlour, where his congenital air of misery would have fitted in nicely.
CHAPTER 10
MADRID 2010, CALLE LARGASCA
Galíndez opened her eyes slowly, blinking as she saw the figure highlighted against the light streaming in through the blinds. A momentary sense of dislocation: the nightmare memory of lying bound to the wooden pallet with Guzmán and Sancho standing over her. But the figure coming towards her was no nightmare, she realised. Quite the opposite.
‘Good morning.’ Isabel put a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table.
‘What time is it?’ Galíndez asked. ‘I feel like I’ve slept for a week.’
Isabel slipped back under the sheets and nestled alongside her. ‘Nine fifteen, we’re late for work.’
‘I’ll have a word with the boss.’ Galíndez smiled. ‘She’ll understand.’
‘You know, this feels a bit weird,’ said Isabel. ‘Normally I’d be coming into the office around now and we’d be making small talk – with our clothes on.’
‘I wasn’t expecting this, either.’
‘So is this where you tell me it’s been a mistake but we can still be friends?’
‘There’s no mistake. We’re more than friends.’ Galíndez leaned closer to kiss her.
A sudden burst of Shakira blasted out from the pile of clothes scattered on the floor. Galíndez groaned as she scrambled out of bed and rummaged for her phone. She frowned as she saw the name on the screen: Mendez. There was no attempt at pleasantry as she answered. ‘Did you find the sword?’
‘And good morning to you too,’ Mendez said. ‘I spent half the night going through the evidence store looking for that sword of yours and it’s vanished. No one signed it out so I think we can assume it’s been stolen.’
‘I could have worked that out for myself,’ Galíndez muttered.
‘So, shall I expect a visit from Professional Standards?’
Galíndez sighed. ‘No, they won’t get it back.’
‘Thanks, I owe you.’
Galíndez cut the call, suddenly aware of Isabel watching from the bed. ‘That was Mendez. Someone’s stolen Guzmán’s sword.’ Angrily, she snatched up her clothes. ‘OK if I take a shower?’
‘Help yourself.’
Ten minutes later Galíndez returned, towelling her hair. ‘Is that toast I smell?’
‘It is.’ Isabel took a couple of slices from the toaster and put them on a plate. She watched Galíndez as she ate. ‘You’ve got a good appetite all of a sudden.’
‘Must be the pep talk you gave me last night. No more painkillers for me.’
‘You still need to throw them away, Ana. Prove to yourself that you can.’
Galíndez nodded. ‘I’ll do it before I leave, OK?’
‘Fine. So what are your plans for today?’
‘I’m going to see if I can locate Sancho. Remember I told you he kept going on about Legions of Death just before I was tortured? He said one track could have been written just for me: “Death is for Losers”. He said it as if he was quoting from the Bible.’
Isabel’s face grew serious. ‘I used to come across crazies like that on my radio show. I’d play a track and then next minute there was some jerk on the phone offering to shoot the King because he’d heard voices in the music.’
‘I think Sancho might be like that.’ Galíndez nodded. ‘That’s why I’m going to check out the Legions’ old record company to see if they had anyone of his description hanging round the band. It’s worth a try.’
Isabel put a hand on her arm. ‘Be careful, Ana, he’s dangerous.’
‘Don’t worry, if I find out where he is, I’ll call in backup.’ Galíndez slipped an arm round Isabel’s shoulders as they kissed. After a few moments, she groaned and pulled away. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Isabel saw Galíndez’s blank expression. ‘The tablets?’
Galíndez took the tube of painkillers from her top pocket and emptied the pills into the palm of her hand. ‘Want to watch?’
‘No, just flush them away. I trust you.’
Galíndez went into the bathroom and a moment later, Isabel heard the sound of the flush. Galíndez came out and put the empty tube on the table. ‘All gone.’
‘But that doesn’t mean it’s over,’ Isabel said. ‘You’re bound to get cravings.’
‘If I do, I’ll call you.’ She reached out and touched Isabel’s cheek for a moment, about to say something, but stopped, flustered, and hurried off down the stairs.
*
Galíndez sat in her car, browsing the names of record companies on her phone. She soon found what she was looking for: Hispano-Americano Records. The label that published all the Legions of Death albums. The phone rang for a while before someone answered and she was put through to one of the company’s senior staff. He was less than helpful. ‘Señorita Galíndez? Is this a paternity suit? We get at least one a month connected with the Legions. I never realised how many groupies they’d had until we started getting these calls. Don’t you girls ever use contraception?’
‘Sorry, I forgot to mention I’m from the guardia civil,’ Galíndez cut in. ‘So you can either tell me how to get in touch with the Legions of Death or I’ll be round with a search warrant to turn your office over.’
‘Whoa, just a minute. We’re always happy to cooperate with the forces of law and order. It’s just that we parted with Legions on bad terms. They owed us a considerable sum of money which, it turned out, they’d invested in heavy-duty drugs to sell at their gigs.’
‘Just tell me who I contact, would you?’
‘Nacho Rosell is the guy you want, he was their manager. A
good one too. It’s a shame the band were a set of morons.’
‘Give me his phone number.’ Galíndez listened carefully, writing down the number on the back of her hand. ‘Thanks for your cooperation.’ She ended the call and dialled Rosell’s number. A husky, smoke-wracked voice answered.
‘Is that Nacho Rosell?’
‘It is if you’re Penelope Cruz.’
‘I work for the guardia civil, Señor Rosell, so let’s not play games, OK?’
‘I deny it all. She said she was eighteen and in any case, it was a long time ago.’
‘Look,’ Galíndez said, exasperated, ‘I want to talk to you about Legions of Death, so give me your address, or a whole lot of my colleagues are going to be knocking on your door. And when I say knocking, I’m talking about taking the door off its hinges and dragging you out in handcuffs.’
‘No need for all that negative karma, babe. I’m in Lavapiés on Calle Tribulete. It’s the penthouse apartment over the bakery.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ll see you soon.’
Galíndez found the apartment situated above an old renovated building that now housed an organic cooperative, with one wall replaced by glass, displaying the complexities of the bread-making process to passers-by. At the side of the building was a flight of steps leading up to a balcony. A small gilded sign: ROSELL INTERNATIONAL ENTERTAINMENT, MADRID, LONDON, PARIS, ROME, NEW YORK, MILAN. She paused for a moment and reached into her shoulder bag to turn on the digital recorder hidden in one of the pockets.
As she reached the balcony, Galíndez saw another sign by the door: VISITORS TO THE PENTHOUSE PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY. Happy to oblige, she hammered on the door and waited for someone to answer. After a couple of minutes, she pressed her face to the glass door, her eyes widening as she saw the apartment. The place was more greenhouse than penthouse, filled with huge plants in large earthenware pots and clumps of small trees and shrubs arranged in apparently random patterns. Señor Rosell appeared to live in a small jungle. And, from his tardy response to her knocking, he also appeared to be deaf.
She pressed her ear to the glass. Inside, she thought she heard signs of life, though the vast collection of plants made it hard to see anything. Angry now, she tried the handle and the door opened. After a look round to make sure no one was watching from the street, she slipped into the apartment and closed the door behind her.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 14