He sighed. ‘Because I want people to remember what happened in the war in a certain way. History is memory, señorita, and memory has a strange way of taking vengeance if left unchecked. No state can tolerate a high level of truth about its past. Secrets are best kept that way and this comisaría contains more secrets than I care to think about. It’s best if it’s destroyed.’
‘And you’re the person who decides what the State’s interest are?’ Galíndez scoffed.
‘Since you ask, yes. There are things in those files that could harm me.’ He smiled, revealing an array of yellow teeth. ‘My connection with the Centinelas, for one.’
‘What connection?’ Galíndez asked, surprised.
‘Who do you think’s going to take over as head of the Centinelas now Ramiro’s gone?’
She stared at him, slowly realising. ‘You? But the Centinelas were your enemies.’
‘Ramiro was my enemy, but he’s dead now. Very soon, I’ll be the new Xerxes. With my connections, I can make the Centinelas even more powerful. We can shape this country the way it should have been shaped years ago.’ He saw Galíndez’s expression. ‘I’m surprised at your naivety, señorita. Just think of it as a corporate merger, though perhaps a little more violent.’ He gestured towards the fireplace with his pistol. ‘Time’s getting on, I’m afraid. Move over there please, Señorita Morente.’
Isabel shot a desperate glance at Galíndez as she walked over to the fireplace.
‘On your knees,’ Gutiérrez said.
Reluctantly, Isabel knelt. Gutiérrez handed her a pair of handcuffs. ‘One around your wrist, that’s right, now put it through the rail and cuff the other hand.’
Isabel did as she was told. Cuffed to the heavy iron rail, she could hardly lift her head.
Gutiérrez took a step back, keeping them both covered with the pistol. ‘Don’t worry, ladies, I’ll allow you to leave before the detonator goes off.’
Galíndez doubted that. ‘Do you want to know what happened to Guzmán?’ she asked softly, talking a step towards him.
He raised the pistol, pointing it at her chest. ‘Stay where you are, Dr Galíndez. Don’t insult my intelligence by sneaking towards me like that.’
‘Guzmán’s body is over there,’ Galíndez said, pointing over at the scattered files. ‘I found it earlier. He still had his ID card on him.’
Gutiérrez stared at her. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’
‘I’m certain. He was wearing a tweed suit and he still had the Browning.’
A heavy sigh. ‘There was part of me that would have liked him to survive. But I’d tried to get rid of him once before. If I’d tried again and failed, he would have come after me.’
‘His hand was on a file, as if he’d been trying to open it.’
Gutiérrez’s eyes locked on her. ‘What file?’
‘Something about Alicante.’ Galíndez pointed into the shadows. ‘It’s over there.’
Gutiérrez faltered for a moment, perplexed. ‘Go and get it.’
She stayed where she was. ‘And what do I get in return?’
‘I’ll put a bullet into your friend’s head if you don’t.’
In the fireplace, Galíndez saw the small winking light of the detonator. At this rate, she would have to attack him and risk being shot.
He saw her watching him. ‘Hurry, Dr Galíndez. The detonator will go off in about six minutes and you don’t want to be in here when it does.’ He went over to the fireplace and rested the oil lamp on the mantel, filling the chamber with sinister shadows.
Galíndez worked her way through the clutter of files to the spot where Guzmán lay amid the lethal paperwork of Franco’s regime. Behind her, she heard Isabel asking Gutiérrez questions, trying to keep him talking.
She knelt and rummaged through Guzmán’s pockets. A sudden thought: maybe he’d strapped a pistol to his leg like undercover cops did? She ran a hand over the tweed-covered leg, feeling only dry, fragile bone. A sudden sense of resignation: there was nothing for it. She would have to disarm Gutiérrez and then stop the detonator going off. How she would do that, she had no idea.
As she prepared to get up, she examined Guzmán’s other leg for a hidden firearm. A moment of bitter disappointment. No pistol there either. But there was something strange. She felt the outlines of the femur, tibia and fibula but there was something else, something hard, not connected to the other bones. Careful not to attract Gutiérrez’s attention, she tore open the faded tweed, her eyes widening as she saw the trench knife nestling in its soft leather sheath.
She glanced back to where Gutiérrez was standing guard over Isabel. Quickly, she slipped the knife from its sheath and then retrieved the Alicante file, putting the knife underneath it.
Gutiérrez saw her coming back and raised the pistol. Then he saw the red cover on the report she was carrying. ‘Is that the file?’
‘See for yourself.’ She offered the file to him, slowly, holding it just out of reach.
He stepped forward, lowering the pistol as he reached for the file. As his fingers closed on the red cardboard folder, Galíndez thrust the knife into the side of his neck. He cried out in pain as he fell to the ground, clutching his throat, trying to stem the bleeding.
‘Ana, the timer,’ Isabel called. ‘Get out, save yourself.’
Galíndez picked up Gutiérrez’s pistol and went over to the fireplace.
‘Shoot me, Ana,’ Isabel shouted. ‘Please, don’t let me burn.’
‘Close your eyes.’ Galíndez pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the chain between the metal cuffs. The blast of the pistol made Isabel cry out. Stunned, she lifted her hands away from the rail, the shattered chain dangling loose from the cuffs.
Galíndez dropped the pistol and dragged her to her feet. ‘Run, Izzy, for fuck’s sake.’
Isabel reached the door first and began fumbling with the latch. It was a job that needed strength and Galíndez pushed her aside and gave the latch a savage kick, knocking it open. As she wrenched open the door, she heard the brittle crack of a shot and felt the sting of powdered stone on her face as the bullet hit the wall above her head.
‘Run.’ Galíndez shoved Isabel out into the corridor. A sudden noise behind her: Gutiérrez staggering after them, clutching the pistol. As she turned to run Isabel stumbled and fell, tripping Galíndez and sending her sprawling on the stone floor along-side her.
‘You’re too late, ladies.’ Gutiérrez said.
Galíndez rolled onto her side and looked back into the vault. A sudden nightmare vision: Gutiérrez reeling towards the door, his face and neck covered in blood, the dark suit streaked with dust and cobwebs, holding the pistol two-handed as he came.
The vault suddenly glowed with virulent light as the detonator went off. A sudden deep gasp as the liquids in the containers ignited, quickly followed by the gruff bass swell of an explosion that drenched the vault in a liquid fire setting ablaze the great mounds of paper and cardboard.
Gutiérrez kept coming, his clothes burning, his hands charred as they gripped the pistol. His mouth hung open as he took careful aim at Galíndez. She heard Isabel scream, though she kept her eyes on Gutiérrez as she braced for the shot.
Behind him, a deafening banshee howl as a sudden blast of fiery air surged through the ancient vaults engulfing him in flames as the blast slammed the door shut.
For a few moments, Galíndez heard weak blows drumming against the door. Then they stopped and the only sound she heard was the muffled roar of the fire raging inside the vault. She grabbed Isabel’s hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s go. We need to get out before the fire spreads up into the comisaría.’
Running now, they went back past the river, retracing their steps along the ancient passageways and up the spiral staircase into the passage that housed the cells, choking in the acrid smoke now billowing through the comisaría. The building trembled as the flames from the vault channelled upwards, igniting the desiccated rafters and joists of the antiquated buil
ding.
They dashed past Guzmán’s old office, dodging a flurry of scorching embers as the ceiling collapsed in an avalanche of burning timber. Galíndez pushed Isabel through the swing doors and their footsteps echoed across the tiles of the old reception hall and out onto the cobbles. A suffocating wave of sound swept over them. The ancient bell of Our Lady of all Sorrow was sounding the hour.
Exhausted, Galíndez helped Isabel to the pavement across the street and they fell against the wall, holding one another as the fire raged through the comisaría in an inexorable storm of destruction. Ceilings and walls collapsed, sending furious showers of glowing sparks into the night sky, the few windows left unbroken now shattering in the intense heat.
Far off, sirens wailed. Along the street, a small crowd was gathering outside the bar.
‘I found Guzmán’s secrets,’ Galíndez said, watching the incendiary fury of the blaze. ‘And now they’re gone. All of them.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘There’s some water in the car. I’ll get it.’ Unsteadily, she went up the street to her car.
Isabel heard her sudden brittle laugh above the sound of the fire and hurried to join her. ‘What is it, Ana?’
Galíndez took a piece of paper from under her wiper blade. ‘I’ve got a ticket.’ As she opened the paper, her laughter stopped.
Isabel saw her expression. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s written by Mendez,’ Galíndez said. ‘It says there’s a problem with the boot.’
Cautiously, she went round to the back of the car and knelt, checking for signs of a booby trap. Finally, she reached for the catch. A sharp noise as the boot opened. She stood, staring inside until Isabel could bear the silence no longer.
‘Christ’s sake, Ana, what is it?’
Galíndez lifted something from the boot, letting the baleful light of the fire play over it, making the engravings on the blade dance to the hypnotic rhythm of the flames. Slowly, she sank down onto the kerb and they sat in silence, listening to the sirens growing louder on the M-30.
As Galíndez looked down the darkened street, its cobbles glowing with the hellish light of the blaze, she noticed someone watching her from a doorway. Her eyes flickered away, diverted by the death throes of the comisaría as it finally collapsed, disappearing in a deluge of flame and smoke into the ancient vaults of the Inquisition.
When she looked again, the man was gone.
CHAPTER 35
MADRID, 1982, POLICÍA NACIONAL, CALLE ROBLES
For a long time, he lay amid the vast sprawl of documents, taking stock of his injuries. It was not promising. With great effort, he struggled to sit up, managing to prop his back against a cluster of heavy boxes. His shirt was wet, he noticed, probably from the water dripping from the roof. But when he touched the dampness with his hand, he recognised at once the thick viscous quality of blood.
A vague sense of disappointment. So this was it, the final chapter of a life he’d stolen from another, long ago. There were things he needed to do, places he’d planned to visit. They no longer mattered, even if he lived; what more could he expect other than a decline in his formidable abilities, a sad life tormented by the bitter awareness that the country was changing despite him and not because of him?
He felt the Browning, nestled under his left arm. As long as that was with him, he was not alone. He rummaged through his pockets and found a cigarette and his lighter. When he lit the cigarette, the lighter flame briefly illuminated the vault and the scale of the heaped documents around him. Earlier, he had heard Fuentes calling his name though he had not replied. If they came looking for him, they would find the documents and Guzmán was not prepared to fuck up another mission. Alicante had been one too many.
He heard the metallic clang as Fuentes replaced the iron cover over the mouth to the chute. He was a good lad, that one. Guzmán had no doubt Fuentes would keep the location of this place secret. Revealing it would put him in danger and he seemed too sensible for that.
The pain was getting worse and his face was bathed in sweat. Briefly, he entertained the notion of taking out the Browning and ending it. Do it sooner rather than later. What did it matter to a man like him? What was life anyway but a rambling interlude before the iron certainty of death? A fleeting moment when happiness seemed almost possible, a flurry of transient pleasures and flimsy achievements. Death was the only true certainty. Find death and you would find truth. And yet, he thought, leaning back against the boxes, there was no need to seek death. When it was ready, it would come for him.
A sudden thought. Where was the Alicante file? He remembered carrying it with him on the truck, hidden beneath his shirt. When he felt for it, his hands encountered only wet, torn cotton. He raised the Zippo again, throwing an uncertain halo of light around him. A metre or so away, the file lay on top of a profusion of loose papers. When he reached for it, the pain was intense. Slowly, he eased himself to the ground and started to crawl, wincing at every movement. There was a strange hissing in his ears, and he lay still, one hand reaching for the file as he shuddered under the waves of pain caused by his exertions. There was nothing to do now but wait. Despite what others might have thought, he had always been a patient man when the situation required it.
For a long time or no time at all, he lay, waiting in the silence and the dark.
And then, nearby, the sound of a door opening. A sudden blast of wintry air. Slowly, he looked up. The old sarge was standing in the doorway. Behind him, Guzmán saw the shadowed city, white with falling snow. The sarge’s breath came in ragged clouds of mist as he beckoned to Guzmán.
It was time.
He had not waited long.
25 OCTOBER 2015, HOTEL LLANTO DEL MORO
Once again, the women return. Older now, the years of sorrow etched deep on faces that resemble those of the crucified Christ in the nearby church where tomorrow a few of them will take mass. Most will not. Faith is so often a casualty of these events. That and truth, of course.
Each year they gather on this date, their numbers diminished by the inevitable attrition of age and sickness. But those who can will make their way once more to this isolated hotel, noting its slow decline without comment, perhaps sensing the deterioration of the building mirrors their own.
The women keep to themselves in the small garden, quietly watching grey waves break along the shoreline below. The past still lies across their lives, a dark monument to cruelty, its presence raw and immediate. No amount of talk can alter that and so they say little. Perhaps there is comfort in the silence, a hope that someone might say something that would, in some unimaginable way, alleviate their inexhaustible grief. No one ever does.
At the end of the second day, as taxis arrive outside, their engines grumbling in the heat, the hotel manager, Señor Villanueva, appears on the terrace, stooping as if he bears the accumulated weight of the women’s pain. This year, he is obliged to walk with the aid of a walking frame and it takes some time to get down the steps to lay the bouquet of flowers on their table as he always has. The women wait in silence until he is back inside the hotel. Then they rise, take the flowers and throw them to the ground before trampling them into a fragrant mulch as they always have ever since that day, fifty years ago, when Señor Villanueva told them who had sent them the flowers.
Each year they come, these women, and each year they are fewer.
One day soon, there will be none.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Mark Oldfield, 2017
The moral right of Mark Oldfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781781851722
ISBN (HB) 9781781851722
ISBN (XTPB) 9781781851708
ISBN (PB) 9781781851715
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Images: Cover figure © Arcangel / Background by Shutterstock
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