The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Galíndez raised an eyebrow. ‘You booked me a holiday?’

  ‘Legutio used to be called Villarreal back in the Civil War,’ Mendez said, ignoring her. ‘It’s where they started the final invasion of the Basque country in 1937.’

  ‘Water sports and history. My lucky day.’

  ‘Atienza says there was a village nearby that was shelled heavily during the fighting.’

  ‘This is like those programmes on hotel TV,’ Galíndez cut in. ‘But less interesting.’

  ‘They’re knocking down what’s left of the old village to build a sports complex,’ Mendez continued, ‘but when they came to demolish one of the houses, they found it was built on top of an older building with a big cellar. There was some stuff in it.’

  Galíndez noticed the change in her voice. ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘He said it looked like an execution. There are bodies. Skeletons, I should say.’

  ‘A war grave?’ Galíndez asked, disappointed. ‘So why did he contact you?’

  ‘He didn’t, he contacted you. I’ve been checking your email while you’ve been off.’

  ‘OK, but why me? Don’t they have their own forensic unit?’

  ‘He remembered your requests last year for information about Guzmán.’

  Galíndez felt gooseflesh on her arms. ‘And?’

  ‘It was Guzmán,’ Mendez said. ‘There’s something that identifies him as the killer.’

  Galíndez let it sink in for a moment. ‘Jefe, you know what you just said?’

  ‘I said the official investigation is over. What you do in your own time is up to you.’

  Galíndez looked at him, deep in thought.

  ‘It’s a four-hour drive,’ Fuentes said. ‘Just promise me you’ll keep out of trouble.’

  ‘Of course.’ Galíndez looked at her watch. ‘It’s only two o’clock now. I can drive up this afternoon. I’ll phone to let them know I’m coming.’

  ‘Wait.’ Fuentes looked at Mendez. ‘You know what happened at Legutio, don’t you?’

  ‘I was about to mention it.’

  Galíndez glanced from one to the other. Neither looked happy. ‘What?’

  ‘Two years ago, ETA parked a car full of explosives near the cuartel one night,’ Fuentes said. ‘It destroyed the building. It was a wonder there was only one person killed.’

  Galíndez remembered 2008 well, though for other reasons. Sitting at Aunt Carmen’s side in a hospital room, watching chemicals flow through plastic tubes into her veins. Preparing for her new job in the guardia as she dealt with the funeral arrangements.

  ‘Go as Señorita Galíndez,’ Fuentes said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Don’t carry anything that identifies you as guardia. And you’ll need a weapon.’

  ‘I’ve still got the pistol they issued me in Vice.’

  ‘Good. Don’t let anyone see you’re armed. Word gets around fast up there.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Be really careful, Ana.’ Mendez put a hand on her arm. ‘ETA don’t play games.’

  Galíndez shrugged her hand away. ‘I saw them murder my father, remember?’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Mendez protested. ‘There’s a phone number for the sargento in these papers. I’ve printed out the route for you as well.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Galíndez took the papers from her. She got up. ‘I mean it, thank you both.’

  ‘But when you get back, you draw a line under Guzmán and move on,’ Fuentes said as she went to the door. Galíndez raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘I hope she doesn’t use the satnav,’ Fuentes said, once Galíndez had gone. ‘She always breaks them. She doesn’t look clumsy, but very often, they come back in pieces.’

  ‘Strange,’ Mendez agreed.

  ‘I just hope whatever’s up there is worth the drive.’

  ‘It will be to her,’ Mendez said. ‘She’s obsessed with Guzmán.’

  Fuentes put his papers back into the envelope. ‘She seemed angry, don’t you think?’

  ‘Ana’s got quite a temper when she gets going, boss,’ Mendez said. ‘Takes after her father, I heard.’

  Fuentes finished his coffee. ‘Jesús Cristo, I hope not.’

  MADRID 2010, GLORIETA DE PIRÁMIDES

  The lights changed and an impatient line of traffic surged down into the underground section of the M-30. Galíndez followed the tunnel, emerging back into daylight on the Avenida de la Paz, hemmed in on both sides by tiers of apartment buildings, tall high-rises of burnished glass and steel glinting in the bright sun. Half an hour later, she joined the A-1 and headed north. She reached forward and switched off the satnav. There were two hundred kilometres of motorway to go before she needed to think about directions again.

  A car roared past, horn blaring as she pulled into the inside lane out of his way. She saw the driver’s raised finger and angrily returned his gesture. Jesús, she was tense enough without morons like him winding her up. She drove on, her actions becoming automatic as she brooded about Guzmán. It was one thing for Fuentes to tell her to drop her investigation, it was another to accept it. Most of Guzmán’s crimes still remained hidden, waiting to be discovered. That was a challenge she wanted to take on.

  Lost in thought, Galíndez didn’t notice as she left the last isolated suburbs of Madrid behind. She was still dwelling on Guzmán, the way he got away with his crimes just as her father’s murderer had. Before she’d been hospitalised, if the topic arose, she’d always said she wanted Papá’s killer behind bars. There were times now when she harboured darker, more violent ambitions.

  The pain began somewhere near Burgos. At first, Galíndez ignored it, staring at the endless line of the motorway in front of her. When it got worse, she slowed, crossing lanes to pull in at a service station. In the car park, screened from the road by a ragged line of trees, she tried to relax the way they’d shown her in the pain management sessions in the hospital. It hadn’t worked then and it didn’t now.

  She watched the constant motion of traffic through the trees. Words hammered around her head, words she would never utter to anyone. I’m a mess. A fucking mess. She put her hand over her mouth, struggling for control. She hadn’t given in to her emotions all the time she’d been in hospital and she wasn’t going to start now, in a dusty service station on the outskirts of an industrial park. She just needed time. The memory of what had happened to her would fade, she was sure, but there were other, more permanent signs of her encounter with Guzmán’s malevolent legacy that time couldn’t erase.

  She slipped a hand inside her shirt, tracing the line of scar tissue running down her ribs. She was lucky to be alive, the doctors said. Lucky because the shrapnel had only slashed her side, rather than embedding itself in her body. Recalling the pain of that still made her break out in a sweat. Lucky? The only piece of luck had been when she’d lost consciousness.

  She left the car and wandered into the anonymous labyrinth of the service station. In the women’s toilets, she splashed her face with water, seeing her reflection in the mirror above the sink. A pale face, dark weary eyes. She glanced round, checking if any of the cubicles were occupied. Satisfied she was alone, she took a plastic container from her pocket, twisted off the cap and shook two tablets into her palm. She swallowed them quickly and ran the tap, cupping her hands to catch enough brackish water to wash them down.

  By the time she joined the queue at the coffee shop, the painkillers had started to take effect. The assistant behind the counter made a joke as she put her order on a tray and Galíndez laughed out loud, her eyes twinkling as she shared the joke. Returning to her car she sat in the back seat, alternating sips of coffee with mouthfuls of sweet roll. When she’d finished, she took out the plastic container and counted the tablets. Ten left. No more pills once those were gone, she promised. Not unless the pain got too bad. She got behind the wheel and started the engine.

  She passed the industrial sprawl on the outskirts of Burgos in a haze, her eyes dry and heavy. The
last thing she needed was to doze off and wake up in a ditch so she turned on the radio, selecting a chat show to keep her awake. She caught the words ‘Franco’s crimes’ and turned up the volume, suddenly interested as she heard a woman’s voice, strangely familiar, her words fast and breathless, excited by her own erudition.

  ‘Perhaps the worst of the crimes committed during the dictatorship was the wholesale theft and sale of newborn babies carried out with the knowledge and often the assistance of the regime’s police and security services. Although many believe the practice ended when Franco died, the lucrative trade continued for years after his death.’

  The voice continued but Galíndez was no longer listening. No wonder the speaker sounded familiar, it was Luisa Ordoñez. On the radio, Luisa’s voice was calm and authoritative, far from the wheedling tone she deployed when she and Galíndez were lovers.

  Another woman was speaking now: ‘If you’ve just joined us, my name’s Isabel Morente and you’re listening to Tardes con Isabel. My guest today is Profesora Luisa Ordoñez, head of the School of Historical Discourse Analysis at Madrid’s Complutense University. We’re talking about issues relating to the niños robados, the thousands of children taken from their parents at birth by doctors and medical staff who took advantage of their positions to then sell them. If these issues have affected you, call our helpline on—’ Galíndez turned off the radio.

  Passing signs for Vitoria airport, Galíndez saw the white control tower in the distance, wavering in the heat. That might be about to change, she noticed. To the north, the horizon was lined with black clouds. She left the motorway at exit 355, passing through Gamarra Menor, a village of white-walled Basque caserios, chalet-style timbered houses with red tiled roofs and timbered portals. Her stomach tightened. You’re in the Basque Country now, Ana. A couple of kilometres later, she pulled over to call Sargento Atienza.

  ‘Hola, Sarge, it’s Ana Galíndez. I’m ten kilometres from Legutio. Can I visit the site?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m tied up for the rest of this afternoon, Ana. Can we meet up in the morning?’

  ‘I wanted to get a look at it today. I don’t mind going alone.’

  ‘Thing is, we’ve had some trouble with the local workers on the site,’ Atienza said. ‘It’ll be better if I come with you and bring a couple of my guys.’

  She frowned. ‘That sounds serious, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ Atienza said, ‘but it pays to be careful.’

  She sighed. ‘OK, I’ll take your advice. But I need somewhere to stay – any ideas?’

  ‘No problem. When you arrive, drive into the centre of the village, park near the tourist office and then walk down the street towards the main square. There’s a pensión called the Aralar. It’s a bit old-fashioned but it’s cheap and comfortable. I’ll drive over and collect you in the morning.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t come in uniform, did you?’

  ‘I’m a forensic scientist,’ Galíndez said. ‘Plain clothes.’

  ‘Good, because you need to be careful. It’s best if no one knows you’re GC. If anyone asks, say you’re a hiker.’ He took a breath. ‘Have you got Madrid licence plates?’

  ‘You know, you’re starting to make me feel paranoid, Sargento.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Atienza said. ‘But a lot of people from Madrid have had their cars vandalised by the local youth. They call it Kale Borroka, it’s supposed to be a form of low-level urban resistance. They cut their teeth on that and then move up to the big league once they’ve toughened up.’

  ‘The big league being ETA?’

  ‘Like I said, just be careful.’

  ‘I will.’ Galíndez ended the call. Atienza’s warning was a stark reminder she wasn’t on holiday here. She’d inspect the site tomorrow and be away before dark.

  Back in the car, she reached under her seat, feeling for the Glock in its polymer holster. That was a comfort. As she started the engine, she felt the plastic container of tablets in her back pocket. That was a comfort too.

  Something glimmered in the distance: the fleeting glint of light on water. Seconds later, a deep roll of thunder.

  A hundred metres ahead, the shrubs and trees lining the roadside ended abruptly in a long patch of scarred concrete, separated from the road by a wire fence. Puzzled, she slowed and pulled up by the fence to check where she was. Legutio was just up the road, she realised, poring over the map. This strange concrete scar was all that remained of the guardia cuartel destroyed by ETA’s bomb two years ago. She started the engine and drove on, following the Urrunaga Dam, the dark waters flickering beneath elongated stammers of lightning.

  The village was small and it took only a few minutes to find the Pensión Aralar. Just as the sargento said, the place was a little dilapidated but had a homely feel, with an ancient dining room on the ground floor. Her room was comfortable and from the window she had a spectacular view of the dam as the storm rolled in. Within a few minutes, sudden whip-cracks of thunder exploded overhead as gusting rain drummed relentlessly against the windows.

  That evening, Galíndez ate alone in the big stone-floored dining room. She had no appetite and asked the dueña for something light. Señora Olibari returned with a bottle of red wine and a large plate of txipirones, baby squid served in their ink. Galíndez savoured the tender squid, mopping up the ink with bread. The fresh taste of the sea made her hungry and she was considering ordering something else when the dueña returned with the dish of the day, trucha a la Navarra, a fat lake trout, wrapped in slices of Serrano ham and baked until crisp, the trout soaking up the salty juices of the meat. Galíndez ate the trout with relish, washing it down with more wine. The food made her cheerful and the old lady commented on her flushed cheeks as she brought Galíndez a thick slice of Basque gateau and a glass of purple liquid with two dark berries lurking beneath the surface.

  ‘Home-made patxaran, señorita. It’s good for you.’ Señora Olibari spread several coloured brochures on the table. ‘If you’re sightseeing, you might be interested in some of these.’ As Galíndez took the brochures, the old lady looked at the dark rings around her eyes. ‘It’s a man, isn’t it, querida?’ she said sadly. ‘That’s why you’re not sleeping.’

  Galíndez looked up, her cheeks full of gateau, and nodded. Satisfied with her hearty appetite, if not her sleeping habits, Señora Olibari returned to the kitchen. Galíndez tried a sip of patxaran. It was certainly an acquired taste, she decided, though she drank it for its alleged medicinal value as she flicked through the tourist leaflets.

  A visit to the Lauburu Agro Farm didn’t excite her and she pushed the leaflet aside. Another brochure advertised a guided walk up the Pico de Mari, a tall peak said to be used as a perch by a Basque goddess, while yet another colourful flyer extolled La Cueva, a large cave once used by local bootleggers. The photographs of several wax dummies of absinthe makers in nineteenth-century costume failed to excite her. She had her own itinerary for this trip.

  After dinner, the storm passed over and she went to her room to sit by the window, enjoying the cool evening air as she watched the vast expanse of water darken until it merged into the night. Somewhere out on the lake a bird screeched, shrill and unearthly, the echo rippling around the shore. And then an immense silence, broken only by the faint lapping of water and an occasional dull roll of thunder from the departing storm. The silence was disturbing and Galíndez lay awake staring at the bottle of tablets on her bedside table, wondering whether to take a couple. She was still wondering as she fell asleep.

  VILLARREAL, 8 MARCH 1937

  ‘You’re a spy.’ Surprise and accusation in his voice.

  ‘Who’d suspect a pregnant woman?’ She smiled. ‘They were late coming to get me – your invasion slowed them down. In the end I had a goatherd’s daughter for a midwife.’

  He looked away, angry. ‘You know we shoot enemy spies?’

  She took a long pull on her cigarette. ‘That’s rich, chico. Last time I saw you, we were on the
same side. You had the uniform and everything. Anyway, you’re full of yourself for someone who’s – what do you call it? – oh yes, a traitor.’

  He glanced round, suddenly wary. ‘Don’t say that again. And stop calling me chico.’

  ‘You used to like it.’

  He snorted. ‘You were a whore then. It cost ten pesetas to fuck you.’

  ‘When you paid. I’ve got an IOU that says you owe me sixty pesetas.’ She put a hand on his arm, soft and tentative. ‘So what do I call you now?’

  He told her his name. That was his only name now, he said, his voice heavy with threat. ‘Why did you volunteer to be a spy?’

  ‘To fight the fascists, like you were supposed to. That’s why they sent you to Badajoz.’

  He tossed the cigarette away, a chain of red sparks in the dusk. ‘Things changed.’ He peered at the infant nestling in her arms. ‘Who’s the father?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re the smart one, chico. Work it out.’

  ‘How? You must have fucked half the regiment.’

  ‘Until I gave it up and signed up for active service.’ A faint smile on her lips. ‘I only had one man after that – and that wasn’t for very long – remember?’

  He glared at her. ‘Joder, what am I going to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ her eyes widened with feigned innocence, ‘but I’d say you’ve got some thinking to do.’

  3

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR

  Guzmán sank back into the soft leather seat of one of General Mellado’s limousines, struggling to breathe. For the hundredth time, he ran a finger under the tight winged collar, trying to loosen the deadly grip of his bow tie. Formal dinners were best avoided as far as he was concerned but there was no avoiding this one. General Mellado not only demanded he attend, he’d sent a car for him.

  ‘If you want a drink, jefe, there’s booze in that cabinet in front of you,’ the driver said, as courteously as could be expected of a man with so many scars across his face.