Galíndez stumbled against the wall of the cavern, gasping for breath. Isabel ran to help her. ‘Ana, are you OK?’
‘I’m alive,’ Galíndez said, blank-faced.
Somewhere along the path, they heard sounds, sharp and repetitive. Echoes in the darkness, footsteps coming towards them. A tall figure emerged from the shadows. A man wearing a long dark raincoat and hat.
Galíndez stared, her mouth open.
Guzmán had returned.
CHAPTER 31
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE RELOJ
Fuentes sighed as he watched the brake lights of the truck ahead. ‘I don’t know why we had to come this way, it’s taking for ever.’
‘I hope Guzmán knows what he’s doing,’ Galíndez said, leaning over from the back.
‘Don’t you ever stop complaining?’ Ramiro snapped. ‘It’s a piece of cake. We just drop off these files and the job’s done.’
‘So why all that talk about wills and shooting? He’s expecting trouble.’
‘At least he’s on our side,’ said Fuentes. ‘That gives us an edge.’
‘My father said he was the best.’ Ramiro opened a pack of cigarettes and offered them round. ‘He said in the middle of a battle, the best place to be was standing next to Guzmán.’
Miguel leaned over for a light. ‘Because you had a better chance of surviving?’
‘No,’ Ramiro laughed. ‘Because they were more likely to give you a decent burial.’
‘That’s a great comfort.’
‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Ramiro said. ‘He said he had a plan, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but the boss is a war hero: his plan might be to fight to the death.’
Ramiro shook his head. ‘I just hope he’s got a better plan than that.’
*
‘There’s a square ahead,’ Guzmán said. ‘Pull over and we’ll work out a new route.’
Ochoa slowed and pulled up by the kerb. The square was plain and dull, surrounded by apartment buildings. He saw a small church on the far side and near it a tiny bar with a tailor’s shop on the corner.
The exit from the square was surrounded by wooden barriers, piles of muddy soil alongside them. By the barriers, a workman was holding a green-and-red sign on a long handle. As he saw the two trucks, he turned the sign to STOP.
‘Seems quiet enough,’ Guzmán said. ‘Apart from those two cars by that bar.’
Ochoa looked across the square. A blue Rover was parked on the pavement in front of the bar. Tinted windows hid the occupants. Two or three metres away was a black Toyota.
‘What do you think, Corporal?’
Ochoa’s voice was bitter. ‘Gutiérrez drew up the route.’
‘I could go over there, boss. Take a look who’s in the car,’ Quique said.
Guzmán thought about it. ‘All right, but be careful. Walk over to the church and go inside for a moment.’
Quique nodded. ‘I’ll light a candle for my abuela.’
‘Light it quickly then and don’t stop to say a prayer for her.’ Guzmán reached over and lifted the side of the kid’s jacket. He sighed. ‘Do you know you’ve got the wrong fucking holster for that weapon, Private? No wonder you’ve been fiddling with it. Take it off and stick the pistol in your belt.’ He waited while Quique obeyed his order. ‘If anyone in that car pulls out a weapon, just draw and squeeze the trigger, got that? Give them the whole magazine, that’ll keep them quiet until we get there.’
‘Got it, boss.’
‘Right, now wander over to the church and when you come out, walk back without letting them see you’re watching.’
As Quique climbed down from the cab, Julio leaned over the seat, treating Guzmán to a blast of his rancid breath. ‘I could pop out the back and have a chat with that workman, boss. If anything kicks off with the kid, I’ll be there to help him.’
‘Let him get across the square first, then do it.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Ochoa, in a couple of minutes go over to the other truck and warn them there might be trouble. I want them ready if anything starts.’
‘As the comandante says,’ Ochoa said, suddenly formal.
They watched the kid stroll across the square, casual and relaxed, looking up at the rooftops as if he had all the time in the world. ‘I’d like to have a son like him,’ Ochoa said. ‘He’s keen and he’s brave. I think he’d have done well in the war.’
‘Inventive too,’ Guzmán laughed. ‘I like his idea of lighting a candle for Grandma.’ They continued watching as Quique walked past the parked car and under the portico of the church. Behind him, Guzmán heard a soft movement as the sarge’s son moved towards the back of the truck.
‘Take it easy, Julio,’ Guzmán called.
‘Viva la muerte.’ The sarge’s son opened the tarpaulin at the back of the truck and climbed down without making a sound. A moment later, Guzmán saw him walking towards the roadworks on the corner.
‘“Long live death”?’ Ochoa grunted. ‘They’re half crazy, those legionnaires.’
‘Just like his father,’ Guzmán muttered. He suddenly tensed and leaned forward, to get a better look at what was happening across the square. ‘The kid’s gone into the church.’
*
Inside the church, Quique waited for his eyes to adjust after the abrupt transition from daylight to almost total darkness. Soft whispers echoed around the altar where a few spluttering candles illuminated the crucified Christ in all his gory detail. Quique went to the font, dipped his fingers in the holy water and crossed himself. Then he went to the altar and put twenty pesetas in the box before taking one of the large candles from the box labelled 100 pesetas. Twenty was all he had till payday and he was hardly going to give his grandmother a cheap candle. He lit the candle from the flame of one of the others and placed it on the altar.
After a quick Hail Mary, Quique wiped his eyes before he went back outside. He could imagine what the comandante might say about one of his officers blubbing. He was not going to be the butt of anyone’s jokes, especially if they related to his late grandmother.
As he opened the door, blinking in the daylight, he saw the Rover, still parked outside the bar. For the first time he noticed the NO PARKING sign behind the car. An idea suddenly came to him, and he felt his chest swell with pride.
‘He’s coming out of the church,’ Guzmán said as Ochoa climbed back into the cab after giving Fuentes and the others their instructions. ‘The time it’s taken, I think he must have had the priest say a requiem mass.’
‘He’s doing what you told him,’ Ochoa said, sliding into the driver’s seat.
‘No he’s not.’ Guzmán leaned forward, staring across the square. ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’
*
Quique’s footsteps seemed very loud as he approached the car. As he got closer, he saw his reflection in the Rover’s tinted windows. A guardia civil must exude authority, that was what they’d told him in training, and he pushed back his shoulders in what he hoped was a suitably authoritative posture. In the Rover, he saw vague signs of movement. A sudden buzz as the rear window slid down. A harsh face stared out, wild eyes, thick stubble.
‘Is this your car, señor?’ Quique asked.
*
The workmen were shovelling clay and soil onto the pavement as Julio strolled towards them, giving them the benefit of his slightly deranged smile. They were making a mess of it too, he observed. A couple of legionnaires could easily have done that job in a morning. Across the square, he saw the kid going into the church.
The man with the STOP/GO sign was standing next to the hole, watching the others. Clearly he was the foreman since he was doing nothing. ‘Can I help you, señor?’
‘I was wondering how long these roadworks are going to be here,’ Julio said. ‘Me and my pals back there,’ he gestured at the trucks parked in the corner of the square, ‘we’ve got to bring up a big load in a couple of days’ time.’ He looked dubiously at the hole in the ground. ‘If that hole’s still going to
be here, we’ll need to take another route.’
The foreman put the sign down, resting it against the rough wooden fencing that kept pedestrians away from the hole. ‘We’re nearly done,’ he said, wiping sweat from his face. ‘We’ll be finished tomorrow so you’ll be fine the day after.’
‘That’s all I need to know,’ Julio said, looking again at the hole. Shallow, badly dug, no sign of pipes or cables. Certainly no reason to have four men working on it. By the wall, he saw an array of tools, all clean as the day they left the store. Several were nothing like the tools of municipal workmen at all.
‘Something the matter?’ The foreman’s voice was less friendly now. Julio felt the other men tense. One was edging warily towards a canvas bundle on the pavement. As he did, the foreman started to reach inside his shirt.
*
‘There’s the kid,’ Fuentes whispered as he and Ramiro sheltered behind Ochoa’s truck. Behind them, Galíndez was standing with his back pressed to the wall, out of sight to anyone in the square, useless as backup if anything kicked off.
Ramiro peered around the tarpaulin flap. ‘Julio’s talking to the workmen. Why’s he doing that?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Fuentes said. ‘What’s the kid up to?’
‘Looks like he’s going over to that Rover.’
*
‘Is this my car?’ The man stared at Quique. ‘Whose fucking car do you think it is?’
‘You’re illegally parked.’ Quique tried to make his voice sound more authoritative. ‘Can’t you read?’ He gave a brief nod towards the sign on the pavement.
‘I can read just fine, chico. Now piss off home and fuck your mother.’
Quique’s mouth was dry. ‘Illegally parked,’ he repeated. There was movement in the car, muttered exchanges. The man in the window continued staring.
‘That’s it.’ Quique took a step towards the car. ‘Guardia civil: you’re under arrest.’
‘I’m under arrest?’ The man grinned. Quique heard laughter from inside the car. It was time to be assertive, he realised. Take responsibility, just as the comandante had told them. He took hold of his lapel and pulled back his jacket, revealing the Star 400 semi-automatic tucked in his belt.
*
‘Why is he talking to them?’ Ochoa said. ‘You told him to take a quick look.’
‘I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing,’ Guzmán growled.
‘He’s drawn his pistol,’ Ochoa said. Across the square, they heard the sharp sound of metal on stone. ‘Christ, he’s dropped it.’
*
As Quique tried to pull the pistol from his belt, something snagged. Flustered, he pulled harder and the pistol suddenly jerked free, slipping from his clammy fingers onto the cobbles. As he bent to retrieve his weapon, the man in the car leaned through the window and shot him. The brittle echo of the shot hammered around the square, sending pigeons scattering across the red-tiled roofs.
‘He’s shot the kid.’ Before Guzmán could stop him, Ochoa jumped down from the cab and started running across the square.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Guzmán kicked open the door, keeping the Browning levelled as he followed Ochoa.
Men were getting out of the Rover. Guzmán counted four, three carrying machine pistols, one with an automatic rifle. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and began firing to cover Ochoa. As he did, one of the men fired a short burst from a machine pistol, sending a stream of bullets ricocheting off the cobbles as Ochoa ran towards them, screaming for the kid to get up and make a run for it.
For a moment, Ochoa stayed on his feet, holding the Uzi in one hand, clutching a wound in his side with the other. Then he pulled the trigger and the square echoed to the Uzi’s metallic stutter as a hail of bullets tore through the Rover and the men standing near it. Bodies rolled on the ground, punctured tyres wheezed air. It took only seconds for Ochoa to empty the entire clip. As he reached into his jacket for another, he caught a glimpse of a man outside the bar, raising a pistol. In the brief moment before the bullet struck, Ochoa felt a sudden, bitter disappointment. He had never been lucky.
As Ochoa fell to the cobbles, Guzmán raised the Browning and the square echoed to the thick, percussive blast as the man tumbled back across the pavement and fell against the bar’s front window. Guzmán’s next shot hit him in the chest, knocking him through the shattered glass into the bar, provoking a chorus of shouts and screams from inside.
As Guzmán dashed forward, he heard the sharp whip crack of a shot and the seething hiss of a bullet as it passed his head. He swung round, realising the shot had come from the Toyota. Another bullet from the Toyota ricocheted off the cobbles, forcing him back. He tugged a magazine from his pocket and slapped it into the Browning. On his right, Guzmán saw Julio, clutching his belly as he staggered towards the Toyota. Behind him, the bodies of the workmen were sprawled around the fake roadworks.
‘We’re with you, Comandante.’ Guzmán glanced back and saw Ramiro and Fuentes approaching him, their pistols drawn.
‘Shoot at those bastards,’ Guzmán called. They opened fire at once, forcing the men in the Toyota to take cover. Guzmán ran forward, grabbed Ochoa by his lapels and dragged him away across the cobbles. There was a lot of blood. Some pain as well, judging from the corporal’s shouts.
‘I’m dying,’ Ochoa moaned. ‘Get a priest and let me die in peace, you bastard.’
Guzmán grunted as he dragged Ochoa to the truck, leaving a long smear of blood over the cobbles. ‘Me, me, me. It’s always the same with you, Corporal.’
A bullet whined past, uncomfortably close. Guzmán let go of Ochoa and fired a couple of shots at the gunman. As Ramiro and Fuentes opened up on the Toyota, Guzmán looked with grim pleasure at the steam rising from the engine, the shattered windscreen, and above all, the twitching bodies on the ground by the car.
‘Get me an ambulance,’ Ochoa gasped. ‘And call my wife.’
Guzmán dragged him behind the truck. ‘Firstly, Corporal, addressing me as a bastard is a breach of military regulations.’ He stopped talking as Ochoa’s eyes closed. Angrily, he reached down and lifted one of the corporal’s eyelids, causing Ochoa to bellow with pain. ‘I knew you were faking.’
‘Leave me,’ Ochoa moaned. ‘Get the kid to a hospital.’
‘I will, don’t worry.’ Guzmán paused to reload the Browning and then stepped out from behind the truck, cursing Ramiro and Fuentes who were now lying on the ground, pinned down by the men in the Toyota. Guzmán started towards them, firing as he went, slow steady shots, keeping the men in the car occupied. To their right, he saw Julio moving unsteadily in their direction, the blade of the kris glittering in his hand.
Sudden movement behind Julio. One of the workmen was dragging himself on his knees from the roadworks, raising his pistol. Guzmán started to shout a warning but his words were lost as the shot echoed around the square. Julio stumbled to his knees, his face a grey mask of pain. Guzmán took aim and dropped the phoney workman with a body shot, sending him crashing through the wooden barrier into the badly excavated hole beyond.
The men in the Toyota had had enough. As the driver started to reverse, Guzmán opened fire, the soft-nosed bullets tearing into the car, showering the cobbles with shards of glass and metal. And then to his right, a blur of shabby clothes as Julio leaped up and sprinted towards the Toyota, the kris in his hand, no longer worrying about holding in the bloody intestines protruding from his belly as he hurled himself through the open window of the car, screaming the battle cry of the Foreign Legion, ‘Viva la muerte.’
Guzmán ran towards the Toyota as it trembled and quivered on what was left of its suspension. There was much screaming, though none of it from Julio. Inside the vehicle, he saw a tangle of flailing limbs and then even that limited view was lost to him as a sudden spurt of arterial blood turned the inside of the windscreen crimson. As he reached the car, the vehicle shuddered as a single shot rang out, followed by a silence broken only by the hissing of steam and the steady drip
of fuel beneath the vehicle.
As Guzmán watched, the driver’s door slowly opened and a bloody hand gripped the roof as a man pulled himself from the car, clutching at the door to keep himself on his feet. His face was bloody and his clothes appeared to have been shredded by a wild animal. He stared at Guzmán wide-eyed, as if unable to comprehend the horror of what had just taken place inside the vehicle. Guzmán saw he’d lost an ear. That was the least of his worries.
‘I surrender,’ the man gasped.
Guzmán’s eyes narrowed as he raised the Browning. ‘No you don’t.’ The bullet sent the man flying onto the pavement. Streaks of his brain ran down the shattered café window.
Guzmán went to the car and peered inside. Julio lay amid the corpses of his enemies, the kris still clutched in his right hand. In his left was a ragged, bloody ear.
People were coming out of the bar now, an array of frightened faces. Only one man dared to approach him. ‘Shall we call the police, señor?’
‘No need: I’m a police officer.’ Guzmán was distracted by a groan from one of the men lying alongside the Rover. A yard away, Quique lay on his back, looking up at the sky, his fair hair framed by a halo of blood.
Guzmán gave the wounded man a savage kick in the ribs. ‘Did that hurt?’
It took a moment for the man to spit the words out through his cracked lips. ‘Yes.’
Guzmán shot him in the chest and the body arched upwards with the force of the blast. That was more than enough for the small crowd, who retreated into the dubious safety of the bar. Far off, he heard sirens.
He walked slowly across the square, reloading the Browning as he went. Gutiérrez had betrayed him again. And again, Guzmán had survived. No doubt the brigadier general thought that, by now, the files were in the hands of the men whose bodies littered the square and that Guzmán and the squad had been wiped out. He would have to learn the lesson Guzmán learned long ago: life was full of disappointment.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 42