Guzmán opened the door of the cocktail cabinet and glanced at its contents. A large range of spirits and mixers, a shaker, jars of olives and cocktail cherries. Everything a man might need, he thought, noticing the Walter PPK in a leather holder on one side of the cabinet
‘The general said you were with the Moors in the war, jefe?’
A moment’s surprise. Of all the things Guzmán expected from a thug like him, conversation wasn’t one of them. ‘I commanded a squad of Moors for a while,’ he said. ‘Anti-insurgency work in the mountains.’
‘You kill any of them, sir?’
‘Of course not,’ Guzmán said. ‘They were on our side.’
‘I would have killed them,’ the legionario muttered. ‘I’d have got a machine gun and shot the fucking lot.’ He banged the steering wheel with his fist.
‘They were good soldiers,’ Guzmán said. ‘And they never complained either.’
‘I fucking hate them,’ the legionnaire said, glancing at Guzmán in his mirror. ‘When I was with the general in Morocco, we killed plenty of them.’
‘That was different.’ Guzmán shrugged. ‘We were at war with them then.’
The driver drew his index finger across his throat. ‘In the desert, the general used to pay one real for every Moor’s head we cut. We made good money.’
‘The general certainly knows how to get the best out of his men,’ Guzmán sneered, knowing most legionnaires wouldn’t have joined up without the opportunity to indulge their murderous inclinations on a regular basis.
The legionnaire nodded. ‘We come across one of their schools one day. They were teaching kids to read and write in heathen. By the time we’d done, there were heads everywhere. Can’t remember how much I made, but it was a lot.’
The limousine crunched to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the mansion.
‘It must have been tough, fighting children,’ Guzmán said. ‘Did you get a medal?’
‘We did what we were told. That was what we were there for.’
Guzmán opened the door. ‘Those days are over,’ he said and got out.
‘Hang on, I’m supposed to get a tip. The going rate’s a hundred pesetas. The general himself set that.’
‘Then go and ask him for a hundred fucking pesetas.’ Guzmán slammed the door and walked off towards the mansion.
The white marble façade of the building was illuminated by the dazzling beams of two very large searchlights on the lawn. Guzmán went up the steps to the entrance, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. Several military policemen with sub-machine guns were standing inside the doorway. One stepped forward to confirm Guzmán’s identity.
‘Buenas, Comandante. Sorry about the lights, they’re brighter than the general expected. But as he says, they’ll come in handy if there’s an air raid.’
‘I’m sure,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Do you want me to leave my pistol?’
‘No, sir. The general said it would be an insult to a war hero like you.’ He pointed to a long hallway. ‘Go down that hall and follow the path through the cloisters.’
Guzmán set off down the hall. The door at the end opened into a cloistered garden, surrounded by elegant alabaster walkways. As he walked, he noticed the thick iron bars of a heavy door set into an alcove. Cells were always of interest and he looked round casually to make sure he was alone. Cautiously, he put his hands against the door and pushed. It opened into a narrow stone passageway, so low he was almost obliged to stoop. Vague light shone through a narrow slit in the wall at the end of the passage. Ahead on the right were three dark metal doors, reinforced with steel bands.
Quietly, he opened the flap of the spyhole on the nearest door and peered in. A woman was sitting on the bed in the cell, her right hand cuffed to the metal frame. Aware of his presence, she glanced up and looked away quickly. He heard her rapid breathing, saw the bruises round her eyes. She was terrified. He opened the spy flaps on the other two doors and saw a woman in each cell. He went back along the passageway.
‘Excuse me, señor?’ Guzmán looked down, seeing the bars of a cell set below ground level. A pale face looked up at him, a young woman, about sixteen or seventeen, he guessed.
‘I’ve been arrested,’ she whispered. ‘They won’t let me tell my parents. Mamá will be worried sick.’ She pushed a sheet of notepaper through the bars, ‘Please let her know I’m here.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve done. Just tell the truth when they question you.’
‘Please, for the sake of the Blessed Virgin, señor?’
Guzmán took the paper from her and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘What’s your name?’
‘María Vidal,’ she whispered. ‘God bless you.’
Guzmán went back into the garden. Across the path, something rustled in the shrubs. He drew the Browning and thumbed back the hammer. ‘Come out with your hands up.’
A man came out of the bushes. Young, sallow-faced, his hair a gleaming helmet of brilliantined curls. An expensive dinner jacket that must have cost a fortune on the black market.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Guzmán grunted. ‘I could have blown your head off.’
‘Rafael Faisán, assistant to General Mellado. May I ask who the gentleman is?’
‘Guzmán, Brigada Especial.’
‘I’m afraid those cells are private, Comandante.’
‘I got lost,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Who are those women you’ve got locked up?’
‘The mothers of girls we arrested for attending resistance meetings. The general has been questioning them.’
‘I bet he has,’ Guzmán said. ‘In the war, he used to keep captured Republican women in his HQ for his personal use. He called them his harem.’
‘The general does as he sees fit,’ Faisán said, primly. ‘It’s not for me to comment.’
‘So where are the daughters?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Maybe one of them will know something about the resistance cell I wiped out last night.’
‘Sorry, Comandante. They’re all in solitary until the autumn ball. General’s orders.’
‘What, Mellado arrests them and then invites their daughters to a dance?’
‘Exactly so. It helps them reflect on their foolishness. Like nuns.’
‘I doubt that’s true. The general was an old goat in the war – I’m sure he still is.’
‘That was the war, sir. Now it’s a matter of public order. Will there be anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Use that tone of voice again, and I’ll beat you senseless.’
‘My apologies,’ Faisán muttered hastily. ‘If you’d come this way?’
Guzmán followed him into the courtyard. The young man knocked at an imposing door emblazoned with gilt letters:
GENERAL JOSÉ MELLADO, MILITARY GOVERNOR
Someone bellowed from inside, though it was hard to know what was said since the phrase consisted entirely of obscenities. Faisán opened the door and ushered him in.
General Mellado was sitting in an ornate chair, wreathed in a thick cloud of cigar smoke. He wore full dress uniform, the buttons straining with the effort of containing his corpulent bulk, his brilliantly polished riding boots resting on an antique table stolen from one or other of the wealthy left-wingers he executed the moment the city surrendered.
‘Can’t you knock, boy?’ Mellado roared. ‘I might have had my prick in my hand.’
Faisán blinked unhappily, unsettled by the thought.
The general hadn’t changed much, thought Guzmán. There was still the black patch over his right eye, the scar running down his cheek and the missing ring finger on his left hand, all the work of Moroccan tribesmen who had taken advantage of his reckless courage in battle to use him for target practice.
‘You took your time.’ Mellado chuckled. ‘Out whoring, were you?’
‘Bit early for that, mi General.’
‘It’s never too early, amigo. Christ, I’ve already had two of the prisoners this morning, one of them over that desk.’
He turned to Faisán. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘It is indeed, General,’ Faisán muttered.
Guzmán couldn’t help noticing the general was more than a little drunk.
‘Brandy, Leo?’ Without waiting for a reply, Mellado poured two large glasses.
‘Very kind.’ Guzmán took the glass and inhaled the fragrant aroma. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?’
‘Gutierrez called earlier. He said you’re here to get this bastard El Lobo.’
‘I am,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Mellado said. ‘The fucker’s a crack shot. In several of the robberies, he shot out the tyres and then killed both guards as they tried to flee.’
‘He’s not the only one who can shoot straight,’ Guzmán said. ‘In the meantime, I’m looking forward to a few drinks at your dinner before I go off into the hills.’
‘Good lad.’ Mellado grinned. ‘I thought an evening with the old crones of the Falange would be just the thing before you got started.’
‘I hope the food’s better than the company.’
‘Don’t worry, lad, you’ll eat well. This operation’s secret, is it?’
‘Very secret,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Franco’s ordered Gutierrez to keep it under wraps. ’
‘I can’t stand Gutierrez.’ Mellado scowled. ‘What do you make of him?’
Guzmán said nothing and the general’s deep laugh echoed round the room. ‘You think he’s a prick too?’
‘I didn’t say that. He’s my boss.’
‘I like that. It’s diplomatic. You want to know how I’d handle El Lobo if I was you?’
‘Of course,’ Guzmán said. ‘How many books have you written on military strategy?’
Mellado beamed. ‘Seven, if you count the one on the use of cavalry.’
‘So what do you advise?’ Guzmán asked, getting as near to flattery as he ever would.
Mellado’s puce face set with concentration. ‘It’s a typical anti-insurgency situation. You’ve got limited resources so you go up into the hills after him, destroy his supply lines and stop him being resupplied. Once you do that, he’ll have to look round for more supplies or try to get away. That’s when you take him.’
Mellado was describing Guzmán’s intended plan of action though he refrained from telling him so. ‘Thanks for your help, General.’
The general shrugged modestly. ‘Killing a bandit’s worthless if you ignore the wider context, Leo. Know what I think we should really do?’
‘I understand you’re in favour of military action?’
‘Of course.’ Mellado snorted. ‘You need fear to keep order. These Basques need to see bodies in the streets to remind them this is Spain and not Euskadi or whatever they call it.’
‘We also need investment from abroad,’ said Guzmán. ‘The Yanquis don’t understand how we do things in Spain. We need to keep them sweet until we get their money.’
‘Joder, they’ll ruin the country with that approach,’ Mellado grunted. ‘The fucking foreigners are taking over. You know what we had here this summer?’
Guzmán shook his head. From Mellado’s tone of voice, he imagined it must have been an outbreak of plague.
‘A fucking international film festival.’ Mellado snorted. ‘With actors and actresses. There was even a prize for the best one.’
‘Who won?’ Guzmán asked. Not that he cared.
Mellado shook his head despondently. ‘Some nonsense called Sierra Maldita about a village where half the people were sterile and the other half fertile. He gave a deep sigh. ‘At least it was Spanish nonsense. Next year, they’re going to invite foreigners to come and show their films. Just imagine how that will corrupt young people.’
Guzmán gave a vague shrug. He liked foreign films.
Anyway, I’d better get off,’ Mellado said. ‘I need to get spruced up so I can face a room filled with sanctimonious old hags.’ He turned to Faisán. ‘Did you get a couple of whores to sit with the comandante?’
Faisán looked at the general open-mouthed. ‘I thought the general was joking.’ His horrified expression lasted only a moment as Mellado punched him in the face, sending him stumbling backwards into the coat rack by the door.
‘No whores?’ Mellado hissed. ‘You were given explicit instructions and you failed to obey.’ He took a kick at Faisán. ‘Try harder next time, chico.’ He smirked at Guzmán as he went to the door. ‘He’s still learning. I’ve put him in charge of executing an anarchist. Let’s see what he makes of that.’ He slammed the door behind him as he went out into the courtyard.
‘I’m sorry, Comandante,’ Faisán said. ‘I’ll just get a cloth from the general’s inner sanctum to stop the bleeding.’ He hurried away to a door at the end of the office.
Since Faisán had left the door open, Guzmán leaned in, curious. In the far corner of the room, Faisán was dabbing blood from his lip with a field dressing. But what interested Guzmán was the machine in the centre of the room, an angular contraption of metal and wood with leather straps hanging from it. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘A portable garrotte.’ Faisán nodded proudly. ‘The latest model.’
Guzmán ran a hand over the garrotte, admiring its sinister elegance. The device consisted of a heavy iron base holding a wooden column about four feet high fitted with a small seat for the victim. A pair of leather restraints were fitted to the base for the victim’s ankles with another pair behind the seat to secure the wrists.
Guzmán saw a label on the packing case. ‘Mind if I take this? I’d like to get one of these for my comisaría in Madrid. I’ll order it from them if they’re any good.’
‘Be my guest, sir.’ Faisán nodded. ‘It’s a French company, we find them most reliable.’
‘Typical,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘We don’t make things any more in this country.’ He pulled the label from the case and glanced at it before putting it in his wallet.
ÇUBIRY PÈRE ET FILS, AGENTS D’EXPORTATION
26 RUE DE VICTOR HUGO, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE
I’ll leave you to it,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to go and find my table.’
Faisán came after him. ‘Could I ask you about this thing with the anarchist, sir?’
‘What about it?’
‘I don’t really know how these things should be done. What would you advise?’
‘Don’t mess about with the garrotte,’ Guzmán said. ‘Shoot him. Tell him he’s about to die and put a round in the back of his head while he’s praying.’
‘He’s an anarchist, Comandante,’ Faisán protested. ‘He won’t want to pray.’
‘They all want to pray when the time comes, believe me.’ Guzmán laughed.
Guzmán’s feet echoed on the marble steps leading to the banqueting hall. From inside, he heard the clatter of cutlery and crockery. As he reached the entrance, a woman stepped out from behind one of the Doric columns flanking the ornate doors. It was not a pleasant surprise. Her unkempt dark hair and thick calves together with her hopeless Spanish accent led Guzmán to think she was French.
‘Comandante Guzmán?’ A tobacco-stained smile. ‘Jeanette Duclos, I am journaliste. Can I ask you about the bandit?’
Guzmán stared at her. ‘What did you say?’
‘I hear something about a bandit, El Lobo, he has robbed many banks, I hear?’
‘I hope whoever you heard that from has left the country.’
‘So, will you tell me about him?’
He shook his head. ‘Perhaps in France you can ask the police questions without getting a slap but this is Spain. You won’t write anything without official approval.’
‘Excusez-moi, I will write what I wish. It is a free country.’
‘Of course it’s not, mademoiselle, don’t be ridiculous,’ Guzmán said. ‘Spain is a dictatorship. Write anything without prior approval and you’ll go to jail.’
Exasperated, he pushed her aside and
went into the hall, hearing a stream of curses, though, since they were in French, they were wasted on him.
Guzmán found his table and made himself comfortable. He saw the place setting next to him. Señorita Magdalena Torres. Some rotund harpy, he imagined, probably the elderly daughter of a long-deceased colonel. He took a look at the setting opposite and groaned. A bishop. That meant the conversation would be about money, football or women, possibly even God if the bishop wasn’t Spanish. His only hope was that the food would be good, though that would be scant consolation for tolerating such tedious company.
A waiter went by and Guzmán deftly reached up to pluck a glass from the tray. He lit a cigarette and sat back, sipping the expensive champagne as the social élite of the town filed in, preening and self-important as they hurried to their places. He smiled at their disappointment as they found themselves seated at the back of the room, an indication of the contempt the general held for them.
As he watched, a portly matron bustled into the crowded dining room. On her ample bosom he saw the yolk and arrows insignia of the Falange. Perhaps this was Señorita Torres. Then he breathed a sigh of relief as the woman joined several other ladies ensconced at a table near the general’s dais. Bottles of water only, he noted. It was an image of hell.
A sudden movement at the door caught his eye as a late arrival hurried in. He took a long look and then, feeling the need for another drink, called the waiter, though he kept his eyes fixed on the blonde woman now standing in the doorway.
As he watched, the woman pushed a stray lock of hair into place and then strolled into the banqueting hall as if she owned it. She wore an expensive powder-blue silk dress that accentuated her figure as she picked her way around the tables, examining the place settings. Casually, Guzmán tried to loosen the collar of his bow tie again.
‘Ah, here I am.’ The woman smiled, seeing her name on the place card at Guzmán’s side. He leaped up to hold her chair and she slid into the seat with supple grace. She turned to thank him. Blue piercing eyes. Scarlet lips that matched her expensively manicured nails. She gave a vague wave and a waiter came scuttling over. Guzmán didn’t blame him.
‘Brandy,’ she told the waiter. ‘A double.’
The Exile Page 5