The Watcher in the Pine

by Rebecca Pawel

  “I’m thinking out loud,” Elena apologized. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  “It’s a fanciful scenario.” Tejada began to methodically snap the dead branch he had been carrying in half, and in half again.

  “But it works either way,” Elena pointed out. “Márquez or Carvallo wanted to kill him so they hunted him down and shot him in the back, and made it look like self-defense. Or the maquis wanted to kill him, so they deliberately drew fire from the Guardia, knowing he was unarmed and likely to get hit.”

  “He trusted the maquis,” Tejada said, forgetting to refer to them as bandits.

  “So much that he hid from them?” Elena retorted.

  Tejada began throwing broken sticks into the river. “I can’t think of any reason anyone would want Montalbán dead.”

  “Check the files,” Elena said dryly. “If there’s no reason there, then maybe you can start thinking about why he shouldn’t have trusted the maquis.”

  “It would be interesting if he was on anybody’s payroll,” Tejada agreed, thinking of his recent informant, Domingo Santiago. “The only thing is, if he took to the hills for his own reasons, then we’re back to square one about Calero’s killers.”

  “Not necessarily,” Elena said. “Maybe he took to the hills for other reasons, but when he saw a chance to even the score with Calero, he took it.”

  “It’s possible,” Tejada said neutrally. He had no wish to end up like Lieutenant Calero, and he planned to have a heart-to-heart talk with his prisoners about Calero’s other possible murderers, but he knew that his wife was touchy about prisoner interrogation, and he saw no need to share this information with her. “You know where we’re going. Shouldn’t we be turning off soon?” he asked, to change the subject.

  Elena noticed her surroundings, and laughed. “We’ve missed the road. We’ll have to go back.”

  Tejada laughed also as they turned around. “I’ve only gone this way when I was driving. Funny how that changes your sense of scale. The monastery really is fairly close to Potes, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s my own stupidity,” Elena said. “At least we’ll get exercise.”

  Tejada frowned. “Are you sure—?”

  “I feel fine,” Elena interrupted hastily.

  Tejada was unconvinced, but he knew that Elena was stubborn to the point of foolishness when she thought that he was being overprotective. He contented himself with stealthily slowing his steps and forcing his wife to match his pace, and suggesting that they turn off the highway a little early onto what looked like a shortcut. Elena, who was happy to leave the grim memories of the river, readily agreed, and they headed up a dirt path that was momentarily so steep Tejada regretted his impulse. He was about to propose turning back when the track suddenly leveled out and began run smoothly along the mountainside, gaining altitude so gradually that it almost would have been suitable for a railroad grade. Elena, who had been panting from the climb, took a few deep breaths as they slowed at the crest. “It smells good,” she said with a smile.

  “Pines,” Tejada agreed.

  They continued along the path single file, Elena in front, moving in what both of them were fairly sure was the correct direction. Elena was just thinking that it was time for the path to rejoin the main road to the monastery when the road suddenly forked. She stopped, dismayed. The lieutenant leaned over her shoulder and made an annoyed noise. “Good shortcut,” Elena said wryly.

  Tejada inspected the two paths. “It should be that one,” he said, pointing to the right-hand branch.

  Elena frowned. “Why? I would have said the left. And you haven’t been to the monastery before.”

  “Because that one has a blaze like the ones along the path,” Tejada sounded smug.

  “What ones?”

  Smiling at the ignorance of city-bred women, Tejada pointed. “There, the cut on the birch. We passed another one like it about twenty-five meters back. And another before that. The right-hand branch is clearly part of the same path.”

  “We don’t know that the same path goes where we want it to,” Elena argued. “And that path looks like it heads up into the woods. The left-hand one should join up with the road at any moment.”

  Tejada looked dubiously in the direction his wife was pointing. “The problem with following an unmarked trail is that it’s hard to retrace your steps,” he said cautiously.

  “I’ll bet it’s less than a hundred meters.” Elena was insistent.

  Tejada knew that she was probably right, but he was annoyed with himself for proposing a shortcut that had turned out to be ambiguous, and a little disappointed that she had not been more impressed with his woodcraft. Seized with a desire both to prove himself right and to show off, he shrugged off his cloak. “Hold this,” he said, moving toward a pine tree that stood at the division of the path. The broken remnants of dead branches hung low to the ground and formed an inviting ladder. “I should be able to get enough of a view to see where both paths lead for a little ways.”

  “You’ll break your neck!” Elena protested.

  If she had been concerned for his welfare, Tejada would probably have given up the idea. Since she sounded faintly amused, he grabbed two branches as handholds, and tested his weight on two lower ones. “I was always good at climbing trees,” he retorted, censoring the thought that he had not climbed a tree since he was seventeen, and that this was a ridiculously undignified pastime for a man of his age.

  He was at least able to make good the boast. His hands were rapidly stained with sap, and flecks of bark rained downward and caught in his clothing, but he managed to gain a decent height within a few minutes. Elena, watching his progress, smiled and unthinkingly began to sing. “I climbed a green pine tree to see if—-” She choked. “If I could glimpse her,” she finished rapidly, embarrassed.

  The lieutenant, alarmed by her song, shifted his weight carelessly, and almost missed his footing among the branches. “Jesus, Elena, don’t do that when anyone else is around!” he implored.

  “It’s just an old love song,” Elena called back, glad that he could not see her burning face.

  Tejada’s laugh floated down to her along with dislodged pine needles. “It’s “Anda, jaleo,” dear, and you know it.”

  Elena fell silent, abashed, the newly adapted words of the song echoing in her head. “When the whistle blows, we’ll see how Franco runs.” She wondered how Carlos had learned the Republican version of the song. From prisoners during the war, perhaps. “Can you see anything?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Not much.” Tejada grunted. “There’s a sort of nest of branches above that blocks everything. I’m going to see if I can get around it.”

  “Be careful.” This time the concern in Elena’s voice was real.

  Tejada was too absorbed to reply. The trunk of the pine was still thick and steady, but the spreading branches of neighboring trees tugged at him from behind, and he was unable to see a way around the nest of branches. It was an odd thing, he thought, as he edged sideways, looking for a free space. The weaving didn’t look typical of a bird’s nest, and it would have to have been a large bird, an eagle or something even bigger. But the branches were too solidly interlocked to be random. It was almost as if someone had started to build a child’s tree house. “Stand back, Elena!” he yelled, suddenly tense. “Move! As fast as you can!”

  “Which path?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Worried by the grim note in his voice, Elena hurried down the left-hand path. It curved slightly and then descended to the road to the monastery, as she had expected. She hesitated a moment, and then turned and headed back toward her husband. Tejada was still clinging to the big pine. Little branches were falling to the forest floor. Heart in her mouth, Elena suddenly wondered if he was about to fall. Then she heard a yell. Several larger branches crashed to the ground, and something cloth-covered bounced downward and hung suspended, apparently caught on a crook in the tree. For a heart-stoppi
ng moment Elena thought that her husband had fallen, and then she realized that the dangling object was a cloth-covered bag on some kind of rope, and that Tejada was still gripping the trunk. He half-slid, half-fell down the pine. The cloth bag bounced down below him, and Elena saw that his movements were hampered because he was clinging to the rope that held the bag.

  He let go of it only after the bag had safely reached the ground, and then tumbled the last few feet to the forest floor, landing on his knees. “What happened?” Elena demanded, as she came up behind him.

  He turned his head and looked up at her. “I told you to get out of the way.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t leave you,” Elena protested.

  Tejada was working at the knot that closed the bag. “Damn it, Elena. Suppose this is some kind of explosive? Suppose I’d dropped it? You have to think about the baby.”

  “What about you?” Elena demanded as the knot finally gave way and the lieutenant gingerly folded back the edges of the sack. “You could have been—oh.” She backed up a step as Tejada turned toward her, cradling his booty.

  “This,” the lieutenant said flatly, “is not good.”

  “No. Could you point that somewhere else?” Elena said nervously, inspecting the gun he was holding.

  Tejada set the weapon down and rummaged further. “There are three more here. And ammunition. Shit.” He picked up the gun again, ignoring his wife’s discomfort. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It looks a lot like a carbine.” Elena attempted to speak lightly, not entirely successfully.

  “Looks like,” Tejada agreed. “But it’s a Thompson machine gun.”

  “How is that worse?” Elena asked, puzzled by his tone.

  “You’ve never seen one of these,” Tejada said.

  “They do a lot of damage?”

  “That, too, yes. Quite the dream of the machine gunner, to quote the song you claimed you weren’t singing just now. But the main point is you’ve never seen one before.”

  Elena made an exasperated noise. “Carlos, don’t be irritating.”

  Tejada laughed, although he did not feel particularly cheerful. “If this was a Breda or a Maxim, it would be bad but no big deal. The Reds had teams of guerrillas operating throughout Nationalist zones, and I’m sure a number of former soldiers hid their old weapons before capture. If these were old Soviet arms I’d know how the bandits got ahold of them. But Thompsons are English, I think. Or maybe American. You’ve never seen any because there weren’t any in Madrid. I’ve only seen a few because we took some off international prisoners once. And these look like a new model.”

  “Expensive?” Elena guessed.

  “Very.” Tejada had been fiddling with one of the magazines. Now he succeeded in clipping it to the barrel. “And right now, I’d bet English armament manufacturers have more contracts than they can handle from their own government. Their Ministry of Defense is probably controlling production by now. To make and ship these guns without the English government’s knowledge . . . an arms dealer could name his price. Where the hell are the bandits getting that kind of money?” Elena opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again as Tejada began to rapidly repack the bag of arms. He retied the bag’s neck and then scrambled to his feet, catching her distressed look as he did so. “What?”

  “The English have a new prime minister, don’t they?” Elena said in a small voice. “I mean, since the end of the war. I-I’ve heard he’s very interventionist.”

  Tejada stared at her with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You’ve just changed this from a phone call to Santander to a phone call to Madrid,” he said quietly, slinging the sack over one shoulder. “Can you loop the rope around to make a pack? I want to have my hands free.”

  “If you put that one back in the bag you’d have a hand free,” Elena pointed out, gesturing to the Thompson he was still holding.

  “I want it out,” Tejada said. “That’s why I want both hands free. Come on. I don’t like having you here. If we run into any trouble, get down, and when the coast’s clear get away as quickly as possible.”

  “It’s the left-hand path,” Elena said, shaken. “I went a little ways along it when you said to get out of the way.”

  “Fine.” Tejada was in no mood to argue.

  They walked quickly and quietly. Elena relaxed when they reached the road to the monastery and turned down it toward Potes, but Tejada remained tense until the flag in front of the post waved cheerfully in front of them. “Go home,” he said in Elena’s ear. “Don’t mention this to anyone. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “Be careful.” Elena smiled faintly. “I’m sorry we didn’t just take the road up to Santo Toribio.”

  “Next Saturday, I promise,” Tejada said automatically and headed for the post.

  Chapter 15

  Tejada spent Monday morning writing a long report to his superiors about the discovery of the cache of arms on Monte Viorna. Serendipity played a much smaller role in the report than strict honesty demanded, but the lieutenant felt that results were more important than motivation, as far as his commanders were concerned. He then spent a long time rehashing the possible sources for the bandits’ arms with Márquez and Battista. Neither of them had any good ideas, although Battista cursed sharply at the idea of the maquis being supplied by English Intelligence, and Márquez said that the way things were going it might help to have Reds in the family soon. Tejada chose to ignore the significant glance in his direction that accompanied the sergeant’s comment. “Let Madrid worry about that,” he said. “Let’s suppose they’re paying for weapons. Where are they getting the money? Are there any local landowners who support them? Do any of them have family in the Americas who could be sending back money?”

  Neither of his subordinates provided any new information, and by the time Battista said, “But you never know, sir. Reds turn up in the oddest places,” Tejada could only grit his teeth and hope devoutly that the remark had been a chance one, spoken without ulterior motive, and that Elena was doing something completely innocent and uncontroversial.

  Elena’s day was taken up by a visit from Federico and Simón Álvarez, who had brought over the first installment of furniture. The carpenter had done a good job with the bookshelves, and they fit perfectly in the places Elena had measured for them.

  Elena thanked both father and son with warmth, and mentioned that she planned to spend the rest of the day unpacking cartons onto the shelves. The carpenter expressed concern at the bending this would involve, and on impulse Elena asked Simón to stay and help. Quico Álvarez gave his permission, and Simón energetically stocked the bookshelves he had helped to build. Elena offered the boy lunch, and he spent a happy two hours munching absently, his elbows propped on the table and his nose buried in an old Sherlock Holmes volume that the lieutenant had received as a gift from his brother, who sometimes showed unexpected glimmerings of a sense of humor.

  Elena found Simón congenial company, although most of his conversation was limited to exclamations about the book. After answering a few questions about forensic science to the best of her ability, and pleading ignorance to a good many more, Elena gently raised the topic of Simón’s schooling. He eagerly and somewhat wistfully expressed a desire to study for the baccalaureate examinations, and added that he would like to study engineering. Or possibly medicine. Or mathematics. Elena mentally recorded the conversation to be repeated to Father Bernardo at the earliest opportunity, and invited Simón to borrow whatever books he wished. Simón went home with a volume of Hernán Cortés’s letters under one arm and Elena’s promise that he could come and use the library again whenever he wished.

  Tejada was both relieved and amused when he heard the story of his wife’s day. He was even willing to forgive the presence of a number of crumbs inside the spine of his collected Sherlock Holmes. He accepted Elena’s determination to visit Dolores Severino the following day as a further tribute to her maternal instincts, and made no objections.<
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  Elena set out for the prison the following morning in a good mood. Dolores greeted the lieutenant’s wife almost warmly. The girl looked far better than she had during Elena’s first visit. Her hair was combed, her face was washed, and her clothes, though wrinkled, were reasonably clean. She stood to greet her guest and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming again, Señora. Do you have news from my brothers?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Elena apologized. “I know Concha took the boys to San Vicente, but I haven’t heard any news since.”

  “That’s all right.” Dolores smiled ruefully. “It’s just that there’s nothing else to think about here. I never thought I’d miss doing housework but, well, it’s boring.” She hesitated. “Is there any chance of anything happening soon?”

  Elena, who had discussed the visit with her husband the night before, decided that there was nothing to be lost by honesty. “You’ll probably go to Santander at the end of the week,” she said. “But I don’t know exactly when.”

  “It will be a change.” Dolores spoke bravely but she looked forlorn. “I’ve never been so far from home before.”

  Elena was silent, embarrassed. She had asked the lieutenant, with some urgency, whether Dolores was likely to be interrogated in Santander. “Probably not,” Tejada had said. “I don’t think she knows anything. But now that we’ve found those weapons, we can’t take any chances. It might be worth something if she could even give us names.” Now, facing Dolores’s terrible uncertainty, Elena found the ambiguous words cold comfort. She murmured something reassuring, and tried to change the subject.

  The two women chatted for a few minutes. Then Dolores said, “I don’t suppose you know how Pedro is doing?”

  Elena looked at her hands. “No,” she said quietly, and waited for Dolores to take the hint, as she had in previous conversations.

  But Dolores’s preoccupation was too strong to let the subject rest. “I suppose when we go to Santander we’ll be separated?”