“No.” The director shook his head. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that I thought there might be some security issues. But I suppose you know your own business.”
Tejada disliked having civilians tell him his job, but the director’s modest coda made him think a moment about what kinds of security issues the director of Devastated Regions might consider worth worrying about. He wondered if Rosas was worried about prisoners’ making contact with a specific man working for Devastated Regions. But the men in Señor Rosas’s camp were all from other parts of Spain, unlikely to have any local contacts. Unless one of them was so well known that his name would mean something even in these mountains. “You don’t have any big fish among your workers?” he asked.
“No, no, they’re all just common soldiers.” Rosas spoke hastily. “But”—he turned to Sergeant Márquez. “I assume you’ve told the lieutenant about the, er, the difficulties we’ve been having this winter?”
Tejada turned his head toward Márquez and raised his eyebrows.
The sergeant had the grace to look embarrassed. “No, sir,” he said. “The Valencians were our first priority when Lieutenant Tejada arrived, and then there were routines to go over, and since there hasn’t been any action recently . . .” Márquez wilted under his commander’s stare, and added humbly, “I should have followed it up with you, sir. It’s just that the business of the escape came up, and it slipped my mind.”
“Not your fault,” Rosas said reassuringly.
Tejada, who had come to the conclusion that Márquez suffered from convenient amnesia when a good memory would make work for him, was less inclined to be forgiving. “Did this issue with Devastated Regions suggest anything about the Valencians’ escape that might have prevented it?” he asked sharply. As he spoke, Tejada thought that he was already accustomed to taking the blame for the escape, though it had occurred before his arrival in Potes. It was pleasant to have a chance to shift the responsibility a little. And he certainly did not mind an excuse to reprimand Sergeant Márquez.
“No, Lieutenant,” Rosas answered for the discomfited guardia. “It’s an unrelated problem.” He sighed. “We’ve set up a brick factory, and we’re doing our best to use traditional techniques, using materials native to the region, but we still do need metal pipes for the water system, and then there are tools that speed the work. With no railroad, everything has to be brought through the gorge, and with the highway being what it is, it’s a real headache.”
“This was what you called the Guardia about?” Tejada interrupted, before the director could begin a full recital of his grievances. Perhaps Márquez had been justified in not reporting the conference with Señor Rosas, if the director had only sought him out to complain. At the back of his mind Tejada wondered if Señor Rosas held the Guardia responsible for the state of the roads. We should hold him responsible for that, really, he thought. After all, that’s his department. And now I’m starting to sound like the mayor. The thought amused him enough to prevent him from being irritated.
“No. I was just explaining the background,” Rosas said. “So you can see how inconvenient it is that our supplies are being stolen.”
“Stolen?” Tejada was instantly alert. “From here, or before they arrive?”
“That was the issue,” Rosas spoke confidently now, a professional on his own ground. “I believe our deliveries were being waylaid by bandits as they went through the gorge. It’s a perfect place for highwaymen. But it was cleverly done. We’ve had a hard winter. A lot of blizzards. And to make things worse, a lot of our materials come via Santander. Did you pass through Santander on your way here, Lieutenant?” Tejada shook his head, and Rosas clicked his tongue against his teeth and continued. “It’s a disaster area, worse than some of the cities that were bombed during the war. The fire last month took out the whole city center. So when a few shipments here and there didn’t arrive in bad weather, I thought they were simply delayed. I couldn’t get through to Santander right away to confirm that they had been shipped, and we were out of contact with them for a few days anyway when the fire started, so I decided to wait until spring. Then, about a month ago, two crates of dynamite disappeared from one of our construction sites. When I investigated, I found that there were other things missing from our warehouses. Pipes. Tiles. Stuff that had arrived as scheduled, but had disappeared since. We don’t have as good an inventory as I’d like, but I also strongly suspect that a pair of wire cutters and several cans of lubricant have been stolen. That was when I contacted Sergeant Márquez.”
Tejada turned on his subordinate with fury. “You didn’t tell me dynamite was stolen?”
“If the thefts occurred between here and Santander, they’re not really our jurisdiction.” Márquez shifted uncomfortably. “And, as I said, with the Valencians . . .”
Tejada’s mind was racing. If dynamite had been in the hands of the bandits for a month already, then there wasn’t a bridge or barracks in the province that could be considered secure. He turned to Márquez. “Go back to the post and call Santander,” he ordered. “Tell them two crates of dynamite were stolen.” He glanced at Rosas. “Do you have the date?” he demanded.
“I found out about it February sixteenth,” Rosas said promptly. “Make it the fourteenth as an outer limit.”
“February fourteenth,” Tejada continued. “It’s presumed to be in the hands of Red guerrillas. They should take appropriate security measures. And find out if anything’s blown up since then. If not, we may still be able to stop them.”
“Sir.” Márquez saluted and turned to leave.
Wire cutters, Tejada thought, suddenly nervous. “Márquez!”
“Sir?”
“If you can’t get through, tell Ortíz and Carvallo to take the truck and bring the information to Santander personally.”
“Personally, sir?” Márquez stared.
“Yes,” Tejada snapped. Then, since Márquez was still goggling at him, he explained rapidly. “The Reds may have cut the phone lines. Or they could be down because of the blizzards. Or because some damn peasant’s sheep got caught in one. Who knows? But I’m not going to be responsible for the damage a missing crate of dynamite could do, so unless you have a homing pigeon to send to Santander with a message, we have to use the truck. Get moving.”
Márquez left, and Tejada turned back to Señor Rosas, who was looking aghast.
“I’m terribly sorry, Lieutenant,” Rosas stammered. “I’d communicated with the Policía Armada, of course, since they’re responsible for guarding the materials, and I thought that they’d talk to you. It’s just that when they finally put out the fires in Santander I got a call that I was going to have to design a whole new street grid for the city center, and lose half my workforce, and it drove everything else out of my head. I’m an architect, you see. I only thought of it as building materials.”
Tejada nodded, waving away the faltering explanation with one hand. “I take it you are afraid that some of your prisoners have somehow made contact with the guerrillas, either through local people or directly?”
Rosas nodded. “Exactly. That was why I thought imprisoning local people might create a security problem.”
“It seems to me you already have a problem,” Tejada said frankly. He did not intend to waste breath in recriminations about the missing dynamite. Rosas should have reported his suspicions earlier, and Márquez was clearly a raving incompetent, but there was no point in crying over spilt milk. However, Tejada saw no need to mince words. Be fair, the lieutenant reminded himself, although his stomach was still clenched with tension. After all, the man made a report over two weeks ago. It’s not his fault the Valencians escaped when they did. Aloud he said, “Give me the details of the dynamite theft. When did you first miss it?”
“I told you. February sixteenth.” Rosas sat behind his desk and opened a drawer. He continued speaking as he rummaged through files. “We’re pushing the highway through to Espinama, and ultimately we plan to have the major routes to
all the towns in the valley paved. Mostly we follow the valley, but sometimes we do need to clear rock, and we’re up to one of those points now.” He drew out an accordion folder and pulled a sheaf of papers from it as he talked. “I verified that we had the materials on . . .” He riffled through the papers and then found the date. “February fourteenth. That was a Saturday. We scheduled blasting for Monday. Only the foreman came and told Martin that he couldn’t proceed because the dynamite was missing.”
“Where was it being stored?” Tejada asked.
Rosas winced. “We have a storage shed for all our materials next to the garage. It’s convenient. And since it’s inside the perimeter of the worker’s barracks . . .”
Tejada sighed, anticipating what Rosas was about to say. “It’s not guarded.”
“Well, the perimeter is guarded by the Policía Armada,” Rosas said apologetically. “Of course I spoke to them right away. But they’re mostly concerned with men, not materials. So I talked to Sergeant Márquez.”
It was on the tip of Tejada’s tongue to retort that they were obviously none too meticulous about guarding men either. “Well, it wasn’t elves who moved the dynamite,” he said instead. “I’d like to look over the site when we’re finished here.”
“Of course, Lieutenant.” Rosas half-rose, and Tejada gestured him back to his seat.
“First I want to know about the other thefts,” he explained. “The dates the shipments were supposed to arrive, exactly what they were, and when you first learned they were missing.”
Rosas was already scrambling through files. “Here you are, Lieutenant.” He held one out. “This was the first, I think. Just before Christmas. A shipment of stonecutter’s tools.”
Tejada was already scanning the requisition form and jotting down particulars. An hour later he had digested the better part of four similar forms, and was beginning to feel puzzled. He had been alarmed by the theft of dynamite, and had initially looked for other materials that could be used for terrorist activity. But two of the shipments were for lead pipes. Short of melting the lead down and casting it into bullets, Tejada could not imagine what violent purpose it could serve. One was a shipment of wire. Mass garroting seemed similarly unlikely. He had initially been alarmed to see that the final missing consignment had been over one hundred liters of gasoline. Then he had reflected that there was no way the bandits could be using vehicles in the forest, and had been simply puzzled. The only thing the missing goods seemed to have in common was their portability.
Sergeant Márquez returned with the news that the phone call to Santander had gone through without incident, and that the colonel was preparing appropriate security measures. Tejada was momentarily relieved until Márquez added, “He was pretty upset about it, sir. He said that according to the best intelligence available, the guerrilla nucleus was right here in the Liébana comarca, so capturing the bandits was our responsibility. And that it should be our first priority.”
“No argument,” Tejada said. “Did you ask him what he was basing his intelligence on? I’d like any reports we have.”
“Yes, sir.” Márquez nodded. “He said he’d send someone with them tomorrow.”
“Well done,” Tejada said, glad that the sergeant had for once taken the initiative. Márquez might be useless as the commander of a post, but he was performing a sergeant’s duties capably. Perhaps he was one of those efficient but limited men who are superb subordinates, but disasters when promoted beyond their competence. Tejada turned back to the director. “Suppose you take us over to the site now. I’d like the sergeant to see the scene of the thefts as well.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” Rosas was already standing up and digging his gloves out of his coat pockets.
The barracks and storage space used by the Department of Devastated Regions in Potes stood only a few minutes’ walk from the Torre del Infantado, but the buildings formed an obscene contrast. While the tower projected the firm security of centuries, the hangarlike structure for the workers was pathetically fragile and strikingly ugly. It was made of unpainted wood that had weathered to gray and looked like a dirty heap of snow. The longest side of the building sat along the highway to Espinama, broken only by high barred windows. The driveway and entrance to the structure faced the tower. An extension had been built onto this side of the building, turning it into an L shape. The majority of the extension, Tejada noted with envy, was devoted to a garage currently holding three vehicles, with space for a fourth. A member of the Policía Armada stood on guard outside a narrow doorway.
Señor Rosas waved to the guard and led his companions toward the garage. “We can go in this way,” he explained. “It’s quicker.”
Tejada took a deep breath. “There’s an unguarded entrance?” he said, hoping that his voice sounded neutral. Given the amount of local cooperation the guerrillas were receiving, Devastated Regions might as well have put up a FREE HARDWARE sign as leave an unguarded entrance during working hours.
“Oh, no, not when the workers are here,” Rosas reassured him. “The garages are all locked when the men come in. But for now it’s quicker to head out back this way.”
He led them quickly into the shelter of the garage, past the trucks, to a door fastened with a padlock.
“Who else has the key?” the lieutenant asked as Rosas fumbled in his pockets and drew out a fat ring of keys.
“The foremen. Well, three of them.” Rosas was inspecting keys as he spoke. He selected one and fitted it into the lock without pausing. “There are two more who are skilled masons, but they’re also prisoners, so we don’t let them have keys. And my assistant Martin. And Ladislao. He’s the chief engineer. So that’s five, altogether.”
“Six, counting yours,” Tejada corrected. “Where do you keep yours normally?”
“In my desk drawer. It’s locked, and so is my office when I’m not there.” Señor Rosas pushed open the door and gestured them toward the storeroom.
Tejada nodded and stepped forward, recalling that Señor Rosas had not bothered to lock his office before escorting them to the storeroom. He must go between the tower and the barracks several times a day, the lieutenant thought. And probably he doesn’t lock up if it’s just for five minutes. Although Martin is there. And whoever got into that office would be taking an awful risk. Unless they knew what they were looking for. I’ll have to talk to the foremen as well. And if they’re using prisoners as foremen, I bet they can borrow keys. My God, what a setup! It’s a wonder there’s anything left!
There was really very little to see in the storeroom. It was piled with tiles, lumber, coils of wire mesh, and lengths of lead pipe. Tools were put away in cabinets along one wall. The abundance of materials gave a false impression of chaos, but Rosas’s evident confidence as he detailed the inventory made it clear that the storeroom was reasonably well organized. Clumps of sawdust and debris littered the floor, but the room was obviously too heavily used to harbor distinguishable footprints. The missing dynamite, Tejada learned, had been stored in a little alcove. The crates had been clearly labeled. “A safety precaution, Lieutenant,” Rosas explained to him. “We really had no choice. Especially in a wood building.” Tejada could not deny the point.
The lieutenant asked a few more questions before leaving the storeroom. Señor Rosas answered them readily. Tejada left Sergeant Márquez to interview the three foremen who had keys to the storeroom, and returned to the tower with Rosas to interview Martin. The lieutenant would have liked to interview the unknown Ladislao as well, but Rosas explained that the engineer was in Santander and only expected to return that Friday. He had, to the best of Señor Rosas’s knowledge, taken his keys with him. Tejada spared a moment to hope that Ladislao’s keys had not been stolen on the road to Santander, then turned his attention to Martin.
Martin, Tejada learned, had been a military engineer during the war. He was an ardent Falangist, and had apparently decided that his subordinate position in a tiny outpost was a result of his devotion to the glorious N
ational Movement. His tendency to answer simple questions with inspirational quotes from “our founder, the great José Antonio” made him rather difficult to interview. Tejada, who had read a fair amount of José Antonio Primo de Rivera’s work, and knew the quotes already, could not help thinking that the great José Antonio would probably have had the sense to use less rhetoric and more facts with regard to missing weapons.
Nevertheless, the lieutenant was cheerful when he returned to his office that afternoon. He had succeeded in wringing a promise from Señor Rosas to hold hypothetical extra prisoners segregated from Devastated Regions workers, and he had managed to worm a few facts out of Martin. When he met Sergeant Márquez, they compared notes on their interviews. The sergeant had received a fair amount of information as well. More to the point, he shared it readily, and seemed less sulky than Tejada had ever seen him. He had even gone so far as to talk with the guard provided by the Policía Armada. “Much good I got out of him!” Márquez snorted.
Tejada nodded, sympathetic. The Policía Armada, in the considered opinion of the Guardia Civil, was a waste of uniforms and weapons. “You might try writing to them to ask for reinforcements, though. After all,” he smiled, “they’re responsible for guarding Devastated Regions’ people.”
“Huh! They’ll probably give us some crap about being overextended and say the Guardia should clean up their mess.” But Márquez obediently reached for a pad and began composing a letter.
“Probably. I’ll send word to the colonel and ask for reinforcements,” Tejada agreed. “And it wouldn’t hurt if we had another truck.”
The two guardias finished their letters and mailed them. Then Márquez began skimming the reports filed by Battista and Torres, and Tejada went to speak to the post’s civilian cook, who had complained that rations were not arriving promptly. All in all, it had been a surprisingly productive day, Tejada thought, as he headed back across the river to the Montalbáns’ fonda. The inn was deserted when he pushed open the door to the bar, but the fire was burning cheerfully in the fireplace. Since his wife was not in front of the fire, the lieutenant headed upstairs, wondering if the upper floors were that much warmer. “Elena?” he called, as he reached their room. “Did you have a good day? I thought we might—”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 6