‘How much further to this Western Vault?’ Isabel asked, unhappily.
Galíndez glanced at the map, and pointed at the far wall. ‘We need to go through that opening over there. Ready to take a look at what Guzmán’s hidden down here?’
‘Definitely,’ Isabel agreed, though she stepped back to let Galíndez lead the way.
Galíndez paused at the end of the passage, in front of a wooden door. When she spoke, her voice was taut with excitement. ‘This is it: the Western Vault.’
She reached for the big iron doorknob, fashioned in the shape of a scowling ogre, and turned it. As the door opened, a sudden draught of fetid air rushed past them from the darkened vault. Isabel gagged and turned away. As the air cleared, Galíndez peered inside, her eyes following the erratic trajectory of their flashlights. Puzzled, she held her hand under the beam of her flashlight. ‘This lock’s been oiled recently.’
‘Never mind that, Ana,’ Isabel whispered. ‘Look.’
Ahead of them was a narrow vault, its arched roof some ten metres high. On the far wall was an ancient fireplace, the mantel cracked and broken. There were things piled in the fireplace, covered by what looked like a dirty sheet. That was of no interest to Galíndez now as she stared at the files, boxes and papers scattered around the vault.
‘Guzmán’s files,’ Galíndez said, raising the camera.
Their flashlights revealed a sloping stone chute, rising up into the shadows. ‘That was the line we saw on the map,’ Galíndez said. ‘The Inquisition must have used it to drop supplies down to the prisoners.’
Isabel picked up a file and wiped dust and cobwebs from its cover as she read the label. ‘“Top Secret. Details of an Operation to Assassinate Ramfis Trujillo, Son of the Dominican Dictator, 27th December 1969. Authorised by Generalisimo Franco and Admiral Carrero Blanco.”’
‘Christ,’ Galíndez said. ‘Guzmán’s note to General Ortiz said these files had all the shit on the regime. Looks like he was right.’
‘You wanted to uncover his secrets and you’ve done exactly that,’ Isabel said, staring at the profusion of files and boxes rising up towards the back of the vault. ‘How are we going to get them out?’
‘Why don’t you keep watch at the end of the passage for a few minutes while I take a quick look through those files? If anyone comes, shout and I’ll come running.’
Isabel gave her a dubious look. ‘I don’t think we should split up.’
‘I’ll only be a few minutes, then we’re out of here, I promise.’
Isabel tapped her watch. ‘Ten minutes, OK?’ Without waiting for a reply, she went out into the passage.
Once Isabel had gone, Galíndez went to the litter of documents, trying to evaluate their importance from the titles. Going through the dusty papers was hard work and her growing anger was aggravated as she tripped and went sprawling into a jumbled mass of paper, raising a thick cloud of dust that settled over her hair and clothes. Cursing, she wiped a string of cobwebs from her face and looked round for her camera.
Something flashed across her vision. At first she thought it was a shaft of light from a window. But there were no windows here. Then a barb of pain lanced through her temple and she knew exactly what was happening. These were warning signs, the precursors of her seizures. She started to get to her feet, putting one hand on the papers ahead of her for support. There was no support and her hand sank into something brittle, like a pile of dry wood, though it was not wood, she realised, as she extracted her hand from the ribcage of the body in front of her.
A man’s body, what was left of it. Lying face down, arms outstretched. A man wearing a suit, made of what appeared to be fine tweed, though the pattern was obscured by dust and much of the material had crumbled away. In this dry atmosphere, the corpse had mummified, leaving a thin parchment-like layer of skin. Her forensic training had taught her the need for caution in such situations. But there was no time for that now and she worked quickly, lifting the jacket and running her fingers over the crumbling silk lining as she started to search his pockets.
Her fingers touched leather straps: the man was wearing a shoulder holster. Carefully, she ran her hand under the broken ribcage, fumbling until she located the pistol and pulled it from its holster, using her fingertip to smooth away the dust covering the maker’s name engraved on the weapon.
BROWNING HI-POWER.
She turned the pistol in her hands. The dark metal was slick with oil. When she worked the action, she heard a round go into the chamber. She put on the safety and pushed the pistol into the belt of her jeans.
This must be another of Guzmán’s victims, she guessed, wondering why he had been brought here to die. She decided it was best not to dwell on that, but her curiosity was aroused now and so she continued searching the man’s pockets. Inside one was a crocodile-skin wallet containing a wad of faded thousand-peseta notes. A laminated card bearing the owner’s name was wedged at the front of the banknotes. As she read it, she felt a chill crawl over her skin.
Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán
Brigada Especial
13 Calle de Robles
Vallecas, Madrid
It was him.
All this time, she’d been searching for a dead man.
She slipped the ID card into her shirt pocket and rummaged through Guzmán’s other pockets. Inside one, she found a folded envelope with something hard inside. Clearly Guzmán had never read the contents of the envelope, since the seal was unbroken. On the envelope, she saw his name in faded ink, written in a hand that seemed almost familiar: Leo.
Galíndez pushed her finger under the seal and tore it open. Inside was a folded piece of notepaper and below it, something heavier, wrapped in tissue. She unfolded the notepaper and read the few lines below his name.
29th October, 1982
Dearest Leo,
I’m not coming with you to Alicante. I really can’t, though God knows I want to. But it’s a mortal sin and I can’t come with you knowing that. Funny, isn’t it? I can’t go against the church and yet all those times we made love it never seemed wrong. The fickle will, my priest called it in one of his sermons. I know you’re not one for religion but it means a lot to me despite the fact that I’ve committed a sin. Worse than that, I lied to you.
I’m not called Lourdes, I’m afraid. Please forgive me for not telling you my name sooner, I was terrified Miguel would find out. He’s a brute, unlike you. Even so, the marriage vows say till death us do part so I’ll stay with him though it will always be you I love.
I hope you’ll think of me now and again, when you’re on the beach in Alicante looking at all those Swedish girls.
Yours always, my love,
Amaranta
Galíndez unfolded the tissue. Nestling inside was a silver chain. At its centre, three silver initials. She blinked as she remembered seeing this chain in a photo of her parents, the silver initials sparkling against her mother’s tanned skin. Amaranta María Galíndez. A woman who’d named her daughter so she’d have the same initials as her.
A sudden pain pulsed behind her eyes. My mother knew Guzmán. Knew him very well, it seemed. So well, that the possible result of that relationship burned in her mind. She did the maths, trying to dispel the appalling possibility. Though the time frame made it possible, the words of her mother’s letter made it hideously probable.
Her stomach knotted as she tried to grasp the inevitable. Please God, no. He can’t be my father.
She leaned forward and retched, her body straining as if trying to expel the dark secret it had harboured for so long. But all that left her mouth were incoherent denials only she could hear.
Still shaking, she examined the body, trying to be her usual professional self, cool and detached. It was hard to say how long his body had been here, or what had killed him, but she knew one thing: the man who’d tortured her in the cellar with Sancho had not been Guzmán.
There was no time to ponder that now and Galíndez tensed, ready to make a mov
e. As she began to get up, she saw Guzmán’s outstretched arm, the claw-like hand resting on the red cardboard cover of a file, as if trying to drag it towards him. She reached over his body for the file and read the title:
Brigada Especial: Top Secret
(Restricted Access)
Report on the incident at Llanto del Moro, Alicante
September 25th 1965
Classification: Top Secret [Permanent]
Galíndez left the file where it was and retrieved her camera. Brushing off dust and stray cobwebs from the lens, she took several photos of the body. When she looked down at the view screen to check the images, her hands were shaking. She flipped from one image to the next, blinking in surprise as the dark pictures of the desiccated remains of Franco’s favourite assassin changed to a colour picture of a beaming Uncle Ramiro.
She enlarged the picture, taking comfort in the familiar detail of her uncle and his office, recalling the day she’d taken it, when Ramiro signed the authorisation for her investigation into Guzmán’s activities. And now, she thought bitterly, she’d found him.
Her gaze returned to the photo of Ramiro. It was good, the detail much sharper than she’d expected. His ruddy cheeks, the avuncular moustache, his blue twinkling eyes. Every detail reproduced with needle-sharp clarity, even the green pen he’d used to sign the form. She remembered him rummaging impatiently through his drawer, tossing aside the contents as he searched for that pen, a pen that had been carried by three generations of the Ortiz family through their various wars. The pen that bore the name of his great-grandfather’s house at military school.
She adjusted the focus until Ramiro’s hand almost filled the screen and rotated the image to read the word on the side of the pen. A sudden chill as she stared at the word picked out in silver letters.
Xerxes.
She returned the picture to its normal size and orientation. Uncle Ramiro signing the paper. To his right, a jumbled heap of office paraphernalia. Normal things. Things that happened a lifetime ago when he was Uncle Ramiro and not the leader of a ruthless criminal organisation. Now, in this new, adrenalin-soaked reality, only one thing was clear: she needed to find Isabel and get the hell out of here.
The spasm of pain caught her unawares, a pain so sharp it soaked her body in cold sweat. The file fell from her hand as she staggered towards the door, trying to ignore the pain and the lights swirling across her vision. And then, as she fumbled with the handle of the door, she heard the distant echoes of someone shouting in pain.
It was Isabel.
ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965
The brooding sky darkened into night and the sea gleamed with the last rays of the dying sun. Ahead, the sharp contours of the headland became a silhouette. An old sign pointed inland along a steep track hemmed in by rocky outcrops. Taking a torch from his pocket, he shone the light up the slope, its pale beam roving over the rocks and dark branches. The signal the Italian had asked for.
He heard the dull sound of waves in the distance. And above that, the muffled throb of an engine, the crunch of tyres on parched soil. As the bus approached, he lifted the heavy briefcase into the beam of its headlights. Inside the case was the money the Italian had demanded, though the bills were counterfeit, hurriedly delivered to the village that afternoon. In the darkness they would appear real enough. At least, he hoped so.
As he walked towards the bus, he saw children’s faces at the windows, pale orbs in the weak interior lights. The front door opened, revealing the driver, his hands resting on the wheel, his face pale and drawn. A woman stepped down onto the platform, a battered ticket machine hanging round her neck. He recognised her from the photographs sent by HQ. ‘Do you want a return ticket, señor?’ A mocking tone.
Guzmán moved fast. As he drew the Browning, the woman realised what was about to happen and threw herself back into the aisle, shouting a warning as Guzmán opened fire. The woman moved fast, unfortunately for the driver, and he died instantly. Guzmán ran forward and jumped up onto the platform, leaning in to get a shot off at the woman. Along the narrow aisle, the children cowered in their seats. Behind them, he glimpsed a man standing near the rear of the bus. Grey, close-cropped hair, a close-trimmed beard.
The first explosion threw Guzmán back onto the platform, clutching at a wound in his leg from a piece of flying metal. The children screamed as a cloud of thick smoke rolled through the bus. And then two more explosions ripped through the vehicle, one after the other.
The screaming stopped.
Guzmán jumped down onto the track, keeping the pistol raised towards the shattered windows of the bus as he backed away, ready to take a shot the moment the terrorists showed themselves.
A sudden noise from the rear of the bus. He spun round, firing as the Italian came through the rear exit, followed by the woman, machine pistols in their hands.
Guzmán traded shots with them as he backed away, trying to reach the cover of the trees. As the first bullets struck home, he sank to his knees, keeping the Browning aimed, though things were suddenly blurred. Sweat ran down his face, blood soaked his shirt. Cursing, he looked up as the Italian started to approach him.
‘Throw down your weapons.’ Villanueva emerged from the darkened trees aiming his .38. Behind him, Guzmán saw another man, holding a shotgun. He was standing too close, presenting a target.
The Italian swung the machine pistol towards them and Villanueva fired once before the hail of bullets sent him falling into the parched grass. The woman kept her weapon low, firing in a long burst, as the man with the shotgun fell in broken motion to the ground. A brittle silence. Night sounds, distant and faint. The sound of Villanueva groaning.
Guzmán lay on his back, grunting at the radiant pain of his wounds.
The track was illuminated by the oily flames from the burning vehicle. The man with the shotgun was dead. Villanueva lay nearby, moaning in pain. A couple of metres away, the Italian was struggling as he pulled something from the bushes. At first, it was hard to see what he was doing. Then, as the wind fanned the flames, the sudden glare illuminated the outline of a motorcycle. The Italian had brought his means of escape with him.
Guzmán tried to sit up though his body defied him. He saw the Browning, lying on the baked soil, near his right hand. When he flexed his fingers, his hand ignored him.
As the woman walked towards Villanueva, Guzmán saw her take a handgun from her belt, her arm straightening as she aimed. The sudden gruff bark of the shot. Villanueva’s scream as the bullet hit him in the leg. Guzmán reached again for the pistol, sweat stinging his eyes, his fingers slick with congealing blood as they closed on the Browning.
The woman gave Villanueva a savage smile as she aimed the pistol at him again. Behind her, the Italian called to her for help, saying he was hurt. As she turned to him, Guzmán sat up, aimed and fired. The bullet took off the top of her head, dropping her to the ground. As he fell back, Guzmán heard the roar of the bike’s engine as it raced away up the track.
A sudden calm now. He lay on the hard ground, shivering in the night air. Above him, something moved in the dark sky. A small light, slowly beginning to expand into a series of concentric circles, turning slowly above him, shimmering and imprecise.
It was the view of a drowning man, the circles turning faster as they rose through the darkness towards the surface and the light. But it was not the circles that were rising, Guzmán realised. He was sinking into the darkness. Far above, a voice was shouting to him to live, that help was on the way. Then, slowly, Villanueva’s voice faded into darkness.
CHAPTER 29
MADRID, 28 OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS
Ochoa led the squad across the parade ground to the squadroom. An orderly brought in a pot of coffee and they sat round the table, blowing on their drinks to cool them. Tense faces, no one making eye contact. No one in a hurry to speak.
‘When’s the boss going to get here, Corporal?’ Quique’s words were muffled by the large sandwich he was eating
.
Ochoa shrugged. ‘He’s got a meeting with the top brass. He might not make it.’
‘You mean we’re going to carry out the operation on our own?’ Ramiro’s unease was contagious. Boots shuffled on the tiled floor. A rapid exchange of anxious glances.
Ochoa gave them what he hoped was a stern look. ‘It’s not a problem: I’ll take command if the boss can’t make it.’
Quique took another bite of his sandwich. ‘I’m not worried, Corporal.’
‘Maybe you should be, kid,’ Ochoa said. ‘Worrying keeps you alive.’
‘It can’t be that dangerous,’ Galíndez cut in. ‘We’re only delivering a bunch of files.’
‘I hope you’ve made a will, Galíndez?’ Ochoa saw a wave of fear suddenly pass over Miguel’s face and smiled. ‘You’re looking pale, amigo, but don’t worry, that’ll change when the shooting starts.’
‘Shooting?’ Galíndez muttered. ‘I thought the boss said it would be easy.’
‘The boss would say that if we were up against a division of Russian tanks. There’s only one thing that’s guaranteed in this job: when things get rough, you’re on your own. No one’s going to hold your hand. That fat guy didn’t choke himself to death in the archive the other day, did he? The boss knew what had to be done and he did it. He took responsibility. That’s what you need to do today, all of you.’
Suddenly cowed, the men fell silent, remembering how the fat man died. For a moment, the only sound in the room was made by Fuentes as he stripped down his pistol and began reassembling it for the fifth time.
Ochoa checked his watch. ‘It’s nine o’clock. Looks like the boss isn’t going to make it, so I’ll start the briefing. You don’t need to make notes.’
Behind him, the door opened and Ochoa turned, hoping it was Guzmán.
‘Sorry I’m late, Corporal.’ The sarge’s son looked as if he had been dragged behind a car. His clothes were filthy, his boots scuffed and unpolished. ‘Had a job to do for the boss last night.’ He slumped into a seat. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 39