‘I asked how you know my name.’
A deep chuckle. ‘Our paths have crossed before.’
‘Not in church, they haven’t. In any case, what do you know about my sinful ways?’
The sun was setting now and the angle of the light began to shift.
‘The last time we met, you weren’t quite so haughty.’
Galíndez squinted into the poly-coloured light. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You pleaded,’ the priest went on. ‘When you weren’t screaming, that is. Splayed on that wooden pallet like Santa Eulalia there.’
The dying rays of the sun rose higher, lifting the blinding patterns of light from her eyes. She saw the detail of the stained-glass window, the small panes of leaded glass, the great grey stones of the wall, the worn tiles on the floor below. And the priest standing by the window, the final rays of the sun around his head, like the halo of a dark angel, the pistol glinting in his hand. ‘We should have killed you there and then, without relying on that Bulgarian inbred.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Guzmán?’
The sound of the shot was magnified by the walls of the chapel.
Galíndez hit the floor, rolling as she tugged the Glock from her belt. Panting with anger, she raised herself into a crouch, the pistol held two-handed.
Footsteps in the darkness, a sudden oblong of pale light as a door opened at the side of the stained-glass window. Even as Galíndez tried to aim, the door slammed and she heard the key turn in the lock. Outside, shouts echoed along the passageway. Sounds of people running, coming closer. She had a sudden image of the Hammer of Reynosa, the bloody weapon in his hand as he chatted to the men on the platform, laughing.
She turned and ran to the doors at the back of the chapel. At the centre of them, she saw the large key in an ancient lock. She seized the key with both hands, the rusty metal sharp and painful as she twisted it furiously. Behind her, fists banged on the chapel door. Desperately, she twisted the key again and this time the door opened.
As she stepped out into the deepening shadows, Galíndez paused to lock the door and then hurled the key into a patch of dry scrub. Then she ran, trying to orient herself in the dusk. Ahead of her, the hillside was lined with trees, sharp silhouettes against the night sky. Further away, she saw the lights of the bar where her car was parked. There was only one thing to do now. Bail out: get back to the car and put some distance between her and the Centinelas.
She set off across the hillside, stumbling as she tried to keep the lights of the bar in sight. Behind her, she heard faint shouts. Somewhere to her right something moved and she spun towards it, aiming the Glock. And then a furious rustling of branches as a startled owl flapped upwards into the night sky.
Galíndez kept moving. Five minutes, ten at most, and she could be driving back to Madrid. She just had to stay calm, though that was difficult on this darkened hillside as she tripped and stumbled over the rocky ground, sharp branches clawing at her face and clothes. She slowed and moved more cautiously. No point rushing and breaking an ankle.
The blow hit her in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She fell, clutching her belly as she hit the ground, her lungs burning as if she would never breathe again. A hand closed on her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. The pain was excruciating and she fought to keep herself from crying out.
‘Gotcha,’ Sancho whispered.
CHAPTER 17
MADRID 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
Guzmán was just finishing his breakfast when Daniela came into the dining room.
‘Can’t you wear something quieter?’ he grumbled. ‘Those shoes make you sound like a mule.’
‘There’s a gentleman to see you in reception, Señor Ramirez,’ Daniela said, tidying her hair with her hand. ‘He’s very good-looking, I must say.’
‘Tell him I’ll be right down.’ Daniela took off her apron before she went, he noticed. Clearly, the girl was awash with hormones. He decided to have a word with her father later.
Back in his room, he put on his shoulder holster and cocked the Browning before going downstairs.
Javier Benavides was sitting by the window, leafing through one of the faded magazines. As he saw Guzmán coming down the stairs, he jumped to his feet, greeting him like an old friend.
Guzmán was more restrained. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Señor Benavides?’
The lawyer lifted a large brown paper package from the floor and laid it on top of the ancient magazines on the table. ‘The payment for your code, Comandante. Eight million pesetas, just as we agreed. The rest of the payments will be made to your bank account on the first of every month. Perhaps you’d like to count it?’
Guzmán wanted to count it very much but decided it would be bad form. ‘I’ll fetch the code,’ he said, reaching for the parcel.
‘Can I get the gentleman a coffee?’ Daniela called from behind the desk.
Guzmán stared at her in surprise. She had changed into a dress, combed her hair and put on make-up. This thing with her hormones was getting out of control. The old man would need to think about marrying her off before she took matters into her own hands.
Benavides gave her a dazzling smile. ‘That’s very kind, señorita.’
Guzmán went up to his room and locked the door. Then he ripped open the package and stared at the wads of bills in their cashier’s wrappers. Quickly, he knelt by the nightstand and lifted the floorboards before transferring the money to the dusty space below. Once that was done, he pressed the floorboards back in place and went downstairs with the leather case containing the code machine.
Benavides looked at the sleek metal encryption device, entranced for a moment, before Guzmán closed the case. ‘This is exactly what we need,’ he said, as they shook hands. ‘You’ve done a marvellous job, Comandante. I believe this will make our communications untouchable.’ He got up, ready to leave, and then paused, his artificially tanned face suddenly serious. ‘Now we’ve concluded our business, it would be better for all concerned if you were to leave Madrid. Within the next four days, say?’
‘I don’t like people setting deadlines for me, Señor Benavides.’
A nonchalant shrug. ‘That instruction comes from above, Comandante. Now you’ve got the money, there’s no reason to hang around. Four days: after that, things could become unhealthy for you.’
‘Don’t worry about my health,’ Guzmán growled.
‘Believe me, I won’t.’ Benavides picked up the leather case and left.
He watched the lawyer go out into the street. Four days then. That was enough time to complete the job for Gutiérrez, collect his money and take off before Benavides discovered the code machine he’d bought was not quite complete. Certainly it was genuine, and it was definitely unique, though it was missing a couple of key features that would soon become apparent with use. Still, those features might form the basis of a subsequent transaction, though one Guzmán would conduct at a distance.
There was no use worrying about that now and he set off to the Plaza del Callao in search of a taxi.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BRIGADA ESPECIAL HEADQUARTERS, CALLE DEL DOCE DE OCTUBRE
One of Gutiérrez’s men showed Guzmán down a flight of stairs to the meeting room. The room was impeccably –and expensively – decorated. No wonder the accountants had been set loose on Gutiérrez’s finances. Even a casual glance revealed new heights of ostentation. Gutiérrez had clearly been spending like a gypsy on payday.
Gutiérrez was sitting at the far end of the table. His black pinstripe suit gave him the appearance of an undertaker. That was appropriate for a number of reasons, Guzmán thought. There was something wrong, he realised, though he did not ask what. Instead, he waited in silence, knowing it would annoy Gutiérrez.
‘Have you gone mad?’ Gutiérrez said, finally. He saw Guzmán’s blank expression. ‘I’m talking about the student.’
Guzmán frowned. ‘What student?’
‘The Irish st
udent, Michael Riley.’
‘Has he complained? I only broke his fucking tape recorder. Twenty years ago I’d have broken his legs.’
‘He hasn’t complained to anyone,’ Gutiérrez muttered. ‘Not in this life anyway.’
Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s dead?’
‘He was tortured first.’ Gutiérrez’s shoulders heaved with the effort of breathing.
‘He was a devious little bastard,’ Guzmán said. ‘He said he was working on a university project about the Civil War and tried to get me talking so he could tape it.’
‘And you killed him for that? After all I said about keeping a low profile?’
‘I smashed his tape recorder and threw him into the street. He walked away in one piece.’ Guzmán narrowed his eyes. ‘When did this happen anyway?’
‘Yesterday.’ Gutiérrez pushed a black-and-white photograph across the table.
Guzmán stared at the photograph. The picture showed Riley bound to a chair, his mouth wide open, straining for a breath that never came. It had not been an easy death, that was clear. There was a large cut down his chest and his face was dark and congested, no doubt due to the wire garrotte embedded in his throat. Most unpleasant, Guzmán thought. Even less pleasant was that his name was scrawled on the wall behind the dead student in large letters.
‘I take it my name was written in his blood?’ Guzmán said.
‘The police think he managed to write it just before he died.’
‘That means the fucking police are cretins, just as you are if you believe it,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘His hands are tied so how could he write anything?’ He glowered at Gutiérrez. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t notice that.’
‘But if you didn’t kill him, who did?’
‘Given the melodramatic touch of writing my name in his blood, I’d say someone’s trying to damage my reputation. The Centinelas, probably.’
‘We can do without incidents like this,’ Gutiérrez muttered. ‘The situation’s explosive enough as it is.’
‘Speaking of explosions,’ Guzmán said, ‘that brings me to the bomb in your warehouse yesterday. I spoke to the policía nacional last night. They gave the remains of the car a good going-over. Every part of the bomb that they could identify was Italian. Extremely well made, like a craftsman, they said.’
Gutiérrez fell silent.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Guzmán said, angrily. ‘All that shit about him being in retirement or consumed by grief in a monastery. That was all lies: it was the Italian. And since the bastard only works for money, you have to wonder who’s funding him.’ Furiously, he drove his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘I’d say it’s the Centinelas.’
Gutiérrez kneaded his forehead, deep in thought. ‘I think you’re right. There’ve been several bombings this week that I thought were the work of ETA, trying to disrupt the election. But they could just as easily have been his handiwork.’
‘But how did he find the archive? We’re the only ones who knew about it.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gutiérrez sighed. ‘But I do know he has to die, Comandante.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Since it won’t be you who has to do it. I want my pay-off first. You arrange that and I’ll take care of the Italian.’
‘You’re sure you can do it?’
Guzmán clenched his fists. ‘Of course, though I’ll do it my way, this time.’
‘Then perhaps this time you’ll get it right,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I’ll arrange the payment.’
‘And the files will need to be moved somewhere safe.’
‘Leave that to me, I’ll find somewhere even he can’t get at them.’
Guzmán glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. The lads are off to another archive today and I don’t want them to fuck it up this time.’
‘I told you my plan would work,’ Gutiérrez wheezed. ‘Our war records will disappear and the Centinelas will be destroyed by theirs.’
Guzmán got to his feet. ‘Don’t count your chickens. Not now there’s an added complication.’
‘The solution isn’t complicated,’ Gutiérrez said wearily. ‘Just kill him.’
Guzmán’s reply was masked by the sound of the door as it slammed behind him.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
As Guzmán came up the stairs of the pensión, the TV was still blaring out behind the bead curtain. Daniela was sitting at the desk, reading a magazine. She looked up as she heard him come in. ‘Señor Ramírez, you’re back early.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ Guzmán said.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Not at all.’ Guzmán motioned for her to sit with him at the table. ‘I know you and your father have tried hard to keep the pensión going,’ he said, ‘but look at it: the whole place needs renovating.’
Daniela laughed. ‘You think I don’t know? But we can’t afford it, it’s that simple. Lots of people have pointed out what’s wrong with it, but there’s never anyone who can help us put things right.’ Her eyes flashed with tears.
‘You can’t keep going like this,’ Guzmán said. ‘One day, something will go wrong and you won’t be able to afford the repairs. You’ll have to close down.’
‘We get by, Señor Ramirez,’ said Daniela. ‘Maybe if my father hadn’t fought against Franco he’d have been able to get a job and do the place up. But things are what they are. He couldn’t make money because of his injuries and his war record so it was down to Mamá to keep things going. Now it’s my turn to run the place and that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘I admire a hard worker,’ Guzmán said. ‘That’s why I’m going to help you.’
Daniela frowned. ‘How?’
‘I’ve come into some money so I’m going to give you the cash to do the place up. Two million pesetas, to be exact. I want you and your father to make the place a going concern like you always wanted.’
‘Are you serious?’ She wiped something from her eye. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything. But in return, I want you to quit your job at El Topless.’
She raised a hand to her mouth, trying to stop the tears. ‘Of course I will.’
‘Then I’ll sort out the money and get it into your bank account in the next day or so,’ Guzmán said. ‘You can decorate the rooms and make them more comfortable. If you want, you could even put a window in your father’s room.’
Daniela gave him a dubious look. ‘I can’t do all that on my own.’
‘You won’t have to.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘I’ve found someone who can help. He’s experienced in hotel work and he comes well recommended. I’ll get him.’ He went to the front door and called to someone waiting outside.
Daniela looked up as the dwarf came in. A smart dwarf, wearing a well-cut suit though it had clearly been owned by a couple of generations before him. ‘Buenas tardes, señorita. Leonidas Espartero at your service. Señor Ramirez has told me all about your establishment and suggested I might have the impudence to approach you regarding work.’
‘I’ve known this gentleman a long time,’ Guzmán said. ‘He’s a good worker and you can afford his wages, though whatever you do, don’t play cards with him.’
Espartero gave Daniela a sheepish grin. ‘We all have our little vices, señorita.’
She offered Espartero a seat. ‘Would you like a coffee, señor?’ His reply was interrupted as the phone rang. Daniela went to the desk and answered. ‘Pensión Paraíso.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Guzmán? No, señor, there’s no one of that name here.’
Guzmán snatched the phone from her hand. He motioned towards the curtain of glass beads. ‘Go and introduce Señor Espartero to your father, will you?’
The beads rattled as Daniela ushered Espartero into the other room.
Guzmán lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Who is this?’
At the other end of the line, he heard faint crackling. And then a voice, low a
nd distant, speaking to him from across the years. A harsh voice, taut with threat. ‘Who do you think, Comandante?’
It was true then: he was back. There might have been a moment when Guzmán wondered if he was mistaken, but that thought was dispelled now. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, many things, my friend. Justice, freedom for the oppressed.’
‘Bullshit,’ Guzmán said. ‘You’ve always been out for yourself.’
The voice grew colder. ‘There are accounts to settle. The innocent won’t rest until that’s done.’
‘She wasn’t innocent,’ Guzmán said. ‘She was made from the same stuff as you.’
‘An eye for an eye, Comandante. That’s how it works.’
‘So what do you want? Pistols at dawn?’
‘I have some information about Alicante.’
‘What information?’
‘There are things you ought to know.’ A mocking tone in his voice now. ‘Shall we say the Bar Navarra on Calle de San Bernardino at two tomorrow? I’m sure you know it.’
‘I know you’re a dead man.’
‘Until tomorrow then. Ciao.’ The line went dead.
Guzmán slammed down the phone. Without doubt, it was a trap. No one in their right mind would turn up for such an assignation, knowing what he knew about the man. But then, no one in their right mind would have done the things Guzmán had over the years. Which was why he would be there, at two o’clock in the Bar Navarra.
But the Italian would have known that, the moment Guzmán picked up the phone.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS
The squad were packing their kit into a truck as Guzmán arrived. Galíndez gave him an embarrassed look and quickly made himself scarce.
Ochoa left the men and came over to join Guzmán. ‘What’s the target today, boss?’
‘Another archive, Corporal, what else did you expect?’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and offered the packet to Ochoa. He took one and leaned forward to get a light.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 24