‘Some Italian’s coming after you, boss,’ Galíndez panted. ‘He turned up at the square asking questions.’
‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’ Guzmán snapped.
‘He pulled a gun, boss. He knew you were coming here and wanted to know why.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Guzmán heard Fuentes trying to raise the truck bed again.
‘I ran off,’ Galíndez said, sheepishly. ‘The others had gone to hospital with the corporal. I just panicked. Once I’d got away from him, I thought I’d better come and let you know he was on his way.’
Guzmán looked past Galíndez down the street. ‘I think he’s just arrived.’
A hundred metres away, a car pulled up and Guzmán saw two heavily built men get out of the car. Hired muscle, by the look of it, though too flabby to be on a par with the Italian. Then he saw him. Still recognisable after seventeen years, the clipped grey hair, the linen suit. The fucking Italian bastard.
The Church of Our Lady of All Sorrow sounded the hour, sending visceral bass notes swirling down the narrow street. Guzmán raised the Browning and fired, sending the Italian scrambling for cover. One of the men with him fired back and his shot whined over Guzmán’s head towards the church.
‘Go round the front of the truck and open up on them,’ Guzmán told Galíndez. As Miguel slunk away down the side of the vehicle, Guzmán fired a couple of rounds that ricocheted off the dusty pavement, forcing the Italian to shelter in one of the alcoves set in the ancient wall of the comisaría.
Behind him, Guzmán heard the metallic scream of the engine as Fuentes tried to bully the truck into tilting. ‘It still won’t shift, Comandante.’
Crouching at the back of the vehicle, Guzmán loosed off another round before he glanced up at the lifting mechanism. The bed was still only slightly tilted and he called to Fuentes to give it more power.
A sudden flat crack. The bee-whine of the bullet, uncomfortably close. Guzmán spun round and saw the Italian slip back into an alcove at the side of the comisaría.
An excited shout from the cab. ‘It’s moving, boss.’
Guzmán darted a glance behind him and saw the truck bed starting to tilt, sending the boxes of documents tumbling against the rear panel. ‘Open it up, Fuentes.’
The bullet hit him in his side, sending him staggering towards the dark entrance to the chute. Warm blood, pain spreading fast, like a woodland fire. He took a step forward and saw one of the big goons lumbering towards him. Guzmán’s first shot hit the man just below his chin and he grunted with satisfaction as he saw him thrashing on the ground for a few moments before he died.
The truck bed was still angled downwards though none of the files had yet come out of the rear flap.
‘What the fuck’s happening?’ Guzmán called. The effort brought blood to his mouth and he hawked and spat onto the cobbles.
‘The bolt on the panel needs to be unfastened.’ Fuentes drew his service pistol and fired a shot that sent the Italian scampering back into cover. Behind the truck, Guzmán pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it under his shirt to stem the bleeding.
‘Keep them busy,’ he growled as he sidled along the edge of the chute.
There were two bolts on either side of the rear panel. Guzmán grabbed the first one and tried to pull it open. Normally, the effort would have meant nothing, now, he felt like the crucified Christ in the macabre church up the street.
Fuentes kicked open the cab door and jumped down onto the cobbles. For a moment, Guzmán thought he was about to flee. Then he heard the shots as Fuentes opened fire, driving the Italian back along the wall of the comisaría.
A rapid flurry of shots tore into the side of the truck as the Italian and his remaining goon returned fire. If Galíndez started shooting now, those two would be pinned down.
‘Get back in the fucking truck, Fuentes,’ Guzmán shouted, keeping the pistol aimed into the street. As he heard the cab door slam, Guzmán shoved the Browning into its holster and then jumped, clutching at the panel with his left hand and hanging from it, his legs swinging above the black opening below. ‘Tilt the fucking truck.’ The truck’s engine throbbed as Fuentes raised the bed, tilting it to its extreme angle, its contents falling haphazardly against the rear panel. Ignoring the pain, Guzmán drew the Browning and smashed the butt into the rusty bolt. A slight grating sound as something moved. Something red slid into the gap beneath the rear panel. He saw the dusty cover and the typewritten heading. The report on Alicante. Guzmán gave the bolt another savage blow with his pistol butt.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I was you.’ Galíndez was standing behind him.
‘I told you to stay up front,’ Guzmán shouted. Turning his back, he brought the Browning crashing against the bolt, knocking it open.
The flap flew open as an avalanche of dusty papers slithered from the rear of the truck and spilled into the chute for a few moments before coming to a halt as the rear flap jammed on a large box. Guzmán went towards the flap. ‘Give me a hand,’ he shouted to Galíndez. As he reached the back of the truck, he saw the Alicante file lying near the rear wheel. He reached down and picked it up, suddenly aware of Galíndez’s silence.
As Guzmán started to turn, Galíndez shot him in the back.
Guzmán staggered, trying to stay on his feet as another batch of files slid from the back of the truck and plunged into the chute, taking him with them.
Galíndez stared into the dark mouth of the chute like a man waking from a dream. Shots rattled off the bodywork of the truck. Clearly the petrol tank had been hit: the air was thick with the smell of petrol.
‘Christ’s sake, Miguel,’ Fuentes shouted. ‘Back me up.’
Galíndez ran to the vehicle and opened the cab door. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘They’ll gun us down if we try to run.’ Fuentes looked round desperately, trying to think of a way out, coughing at the thick stench of petrol. He looked down and saw the dark pool growing under the cab. ‘Run for it, it’s going to burn,’ he called to Galíndez, firing a couple of wild shots at the Italian’s surviving gunman. The man raised his machine pistol and raked the truck with bullets, forcing Fuentes to scramble across the seat and jump to the ground, following Galíndez down the road to take shelter in the shuttered doorway of an ironmonger’s shop.
As they watched, the gunman climbed into the cab of the truck and revved the engine.
Fuentes took a clip of ammunition from his belt and slapped it into his pistol.
‘Let him go, for Christ’s sake,’ Galíndez said.
‘Fuck you, Miguel.’ As the truck slowly moved forward, Fuentes moved out from the doorway and fired at the engine block, sending a shower of sparks flying from the grille. A sheet of dirty flame rose over the sides of the truck and Fuentes fired again, this time aiming more carefully.
The petrol tank exploded in a vivid ball of fire, engulfing the vehicle in flames. The gunman leaped from the burning vehicle, raising his hands as Fuentes came towards him through the oily smoke, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip.
A single shot, the sound of its blast resonating around the buildings of the narrow street as the gunman pitched forward onto the ground. Flames from the spilled fuel licked around his body. Fuentes and Galíndez ignored him, too busy watching the Italian as he approached through the smoke, holding the machine pistol.
‘Is it done?’ he asked, looking at Galíndez.
Galíndez nodded. ‘It is.’
He stared at them for a moment. ‘Can you close that chute?’
Galíndez nodded.
‘I’ll watch to make sure you do,’ the Italian said. He laughed to himself, as if at some private joke. ‘You two had better prepare your story,’ he said, glancing at the burning truck. ‘It’s best if the world thinks all those files went up in smoke.’ He gestured at the entrance to the chute. ‘Forget the documents that went down there. No one will go looking.’
‘What do we say about the comandante if anyone a
sks?’ said Fuentes.
The Italian shrugged. ‘You know nothing, so you say nothing. That’s not hard, is it?’
‘I can do that,’ Galíndez said, suddenly sensing things were working in his favour.
‘You’d better.’ The Italian smiled. ‘Because I can find you wherever you are, Galíndez, if I want to.’ He gave Fuentes a cold look. ‘You too.’
‘Close the chute, you said?’ Fuentes coughed as a cloud of black smoke wafted over them. ‘And then we forget about what happened?’
‘That’s all it takes.’ The Italian turned and walked away to his car.
*
As the Italian drove off, Fuentes went to the mouth of the chute and called Guzmán’s name into the darkness several times. There was no reply, only the sound of the flames consuming the truck. He waited a moment longer and then went over to the iron plate and called to Galíndez to help him close it before tightening the bolts. When it was done, he lit a cigarette and stood back to watch the truck burn itself out.
‘What now?’ Galíndez asked.
Fuentes gave him a dark look. ‘Get out of here, Miguel, and forget what happened, that’s what I’m going to do. While you’re at it, you’d better apply for a transfer to another unit. That will be best for all of us.’
He turned and walked up the road just as the first fire engine came round the corner and made its way towards the wreckage of the blazing vehicle.
MADRID, 29 OCTOBER 1982, BRIGADA ESPECIAL HEADQUARTERS, 14 CALLE DEL DOCE DE OCTUBRE, MADRID
Gutiérrez stood in the window watching a man get out of a taxi on the other side of the road. Slim, greying cropped hair and beard. A pale blue linen suit. The taxi driver took out a Luis Vuitton travel bag from the boot, accepting the passenger’s tip without comment. The man waited on the pavement until the taxi had driven away. Then he crossed the road and came up the steps.
As Gutiérrez heard the footsteps coming on the stairs, he turned and sent the three armed men standing behind him back into the depths of the building.
A knock on the door. A single knock. Confident.
As he opened the door, Gutiérrez took a long look at the man outside. ‘Buongiorno.’
‘It’s arrivederci, Brigadier General.’ The Italian smiled. ‘Another job over, even if it did take seventeen years to get him.’
Gutiérrez nodded. ‘Some things take time to resolve. Like feuds, for instance.’
‘Like feuds,’ the Italian agreed. ‘Though I confess I’d almost given up on this one. That was why your initial approach surprised me.’
‘I knew you’d take the job, though I was surprised you turned down the money.’
‘Between Guzmán and me, it was personal. I didn’t kill him for the money. That would be an insult to our profession.’
‘Honour amongst thieves, Signor Santorini?’
‘Perhaps so, Brigadier General. Speaking of which, I apologise for the destruction of the files. Guzmán’s last shot, you might say. Still, at least they were all burned.’
‘Indeed,’ Gutiérrez agreed. ‘It’s a relief that the new government will never see them.’
‘And I imagine you and the Centinelas are satisfied with my services?’
‘Of course. We’re very grateful. No doubt they’ll express their gratitude in due course.’
‘What about Miguel Galíndez? He knows more than is healthy for him.’
‘Leave him to me. We’ll promote him, that will keep him quiet for now. Maybe we’ll advance his career for the next year or so. And then, after a while...’
Santorini narrowed his eyes. ‘After a while?’
‘When he least expects it, I’ll do the business,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I owe Guzmán that.’
‘When it comes down to it, it’s all business, signor. Did you get me a car?’
Gutiérrez handed him a key on a leather fob. ‘That Porsche 911 parked over there. The documents are on the seat.’
Santorini weighed the key in his hand. ‘Let’s see how fast it gets me back to Italy.’
‘It’s a long drive.’
‘You haven’t seen my driving.’ Santorini chuckled as he picked up his suitcase. ‘I’ll be off. I want to spend the night in Nice.’
‘Buen viaje.’
Santorini paused. ‘You know, I heard you were sick? You look well enough to me.’
‘Just an allergy. I start gasping and wheezing if I forget to take my medication.’ Gutiérrez took a packet of Peter Stuyvesant from his pocket and lit one. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Have a safe journey.’
Santorini went across the road to the car and stowed his case in the back. The engine purred into life and the car pulled away from the kerb, smooth and unhurried. The Porsche slowed as the lights changed at the junction with Avenida de Menéndez Pelayo. Across the busy road, the trees in the Retiro were bright with autumn colours.
Gutiérrez reached into his pocket and took out a small metal box. As the traffic lights started to change, he pressed his index finger on a button mounted in the centre of the box.
The Porsche exploded in a dirty ball of flame, sending clouds of dark smoke up into the bright morning. Gutiérrez turned and went back inside the building. Another terrorist atrocity in Madrid. The perils of modern life.
He went downstairs and pushed open the conference-room door. A man was sitting at the table browsing through a pile of papers. He looked up as Gutiérrez came in. An instantly recognisable face, thick, dark hair in need of a barber. ‘Was that an explosion I heard, Brigadier General?’
Gutiérrez shrugged. ‘An accident of some sort, I expect. Sorry to have kept you waiting, especially today of all days.’
‘I’d prefer you not to do that now I’m prime minister.’
‘Congratulations on your victory, by the way. The polling stations were packed, I’m told.’
‘Democracy in action,’ the man agreed, pushing his papers into a file.
‘So what was it you wanted to see me about?’
Spain’s new prime minister wasted no time in getting to the point. ‘Once we’re in power, Brigadier General, we’re going to have to do something about terrorism. ETA in particular. It will be a dirty war, though it’s one we must win. Which means I’m going to need advice from someone who knows how to handle such things discreetly.’
‘I could be of use,’ Gutiérrez replied, almost coy, ‘though the department’s been run down, I’m afraid. After Franco died, our funding has been cut year after year. I don’t know how we’ve kept going.’
The man opened his briefcase and shoved the file into it. ‘Funds can be restored very easily, Brigadier General. I don’t see any problems there. I’ll have my people address it once we’ve settled in. It’ll be business as usual for you.’ He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Any questions?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Gutiérrez said, extending his hand. ‘Business as usual, then.’
CHAPTER 34
MADRID, OCTOBER 2010, POLICÍA NACIONAL, CALLE ROBLES
Still dazed from the effect of the Taser, Isabel clung to Galíndez as they walked. Behind them, the old man kept his distance, keeping the pistol on them, holding a lantern in his other hand.
‘Inside,’ Gutiérrez said as they came to the door of the Western Vault.
Galíndez pushed open the door. The heap of files was still there, though shrouded in darkness. Strange shapes from a lantern played along the walls. In the shadows by the fireplace, two men were piling things inside the chimney.
The men came over to Gutiérrez. ‘It’s all ready, Brigadier General.’
‘You can go,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I can handle these two.’
The door slammed as the men left.
‘Didn’t you ever wonder what had happened to Guzmán?’ Galíndez asked.
Gutiérrez shrugged. ‘I was pretty sure he was killed, though there was never any conclusive proof. Only one person might have known but he refused to say anything.’
‘Who was that?’
‘You pay with your dead.’ Galíndez’s voice was flat.
He nodded. ‘That’s what the Centinelas say, you’re correct.’
She narrowed her eyes, calculating her chances. He was too far away for her to make a move without being shot. ‘So you still don’t know for sure what happened to Guzmán?’
‘The man I hired to kill him said he’d done the job and I had no reason to disbelieve him,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘But you could never be sure with Guzmán. He was like a cat, he had nine lives.’
She glanced at the huge fireplace where the two men had been working. The hearth was crowded with plastic containers, piled up into the chimney. ‘What are those?’
‘Those containers are full of highly flammable liquids,’ Gutiérrez said, as if it was obvious. ‘There’s a detonator attached to them. When it goes off, the flames will shoot up through the building and set fire to its timbers. Within a short space of time, the entire building will collapse.’
‘Why do you want to destroy the building?’
‘To make sure all these files are finally destroyed, young lady. The material in them is toxic, I need to be sure that future historians can’t draw on any of it.’
‘You’ve had thirty years to destroy them. Why do it now?’
‘Because I thought they’d been destroyed when Guzmán’s truck exploded. None of us knew about this labyrinth underneath the comisaría – except Guzmán of course, and he couldn’t tell.’ He gave her a malicious smile. ‘Perversely, it was only when I became aware of your investigation into his activities the other year that I began to realise what might have happened – as did Ramiro, of course. He just sat back and let you do the work for him.’
‘But what difference can it make now?’ Galíndez persisted.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 44