The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  She looked round, desperately seeking some niche or alcove where Ochoa might have hidden something that would throw light on his relationship with Guzmán. After twenty minutes she groaned with frustration. She’d searched every room now and found nothing.

  Every room but one, that was, Galíndez thought as she went into the kitchen. Rows of shelves teeming with ancient packets and boxes, jars of condiments that looked as if they dated back to the Civil War. It would be easy to hide something in one of those. There were an awful lot of them for a single man and she doubted Ochoa was much of a cook.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the kitchen was in a state of Galíndez-induced chaos. Every jar of flour, coffee and all the other containers Ochoa had amassed over the years had been opened, their contents emptied over the shelves or into the sink. And she’d found nothing. Staying here any longer was just pushing her luck. She frowned at the noise of her footsteps on the stone tiles. These fucking heels.

  She paused, suddenly aware of a change in sound as she neared the door. She went back into the kitchen and took a few steps, hearing the brittle timbre of the heels modulate as she stepped on the tile nearest the door. The other tiles produced a more muted sound. She tapped the suspect tile with her heel again, harder. The noise was deeper, more resonant. Hollow.

  Ochoa’s carving knife slipped into the thin gap between the edge of the tile and its neighbour. With a little encouragement, the tile lifted cleanly from its resting place. Galíndez prepared herself for the disappointment of seeing wooden joists below as she lifted the tile, a few pale strands of cobweb trailing from the underside. But something gleamed in the dark recess below and she reached down to lift out a small metal box, the kind used for camera accessories. Inside was a cardboard folder, contents bulging. She opened the folder and saw an unlabelled reel of 8mm film. So Ochoa made movies? She put the reel to one side. That would have to wait until she found a suitable projector. Underneath the folder was a sealed envelope and beneath that a few black and white photographs held together by a paper clip. She examined the envelope, seeing the short message written on the front:

  In the event of my death, this is for the attention of Señora Remedios Ochoa.

  Segismundo Ochoa, 23 Abril, 1982

  Ochoa’s will, she guessed, wondering if Señora Ochoa was still alive. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. She slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper bearing one sentence.

  I never stopped looking for you.

  Galíndez folded the paper and shoved it into her pocket, allowing herself a cynical smile. True love would have to wait, there were other things she needed to attend to. She reached for the wad of photographs and slipped off the paper clip keeping them together.

  The first picture was strange. Almost entirely black but for a distorted grey rectangle. She peered at it, starting to recognise the unusual angle from which it had been taken, realising the cameraman was standing on a flight of stone steps leading down into what appeared to be a dungeon. As she looked closer, she realised it wasn’t a dungeon at all.

  It was a cellar. The cellar she had visited only a few days ago in Legutio. She felt a chill as she realised the difference between what she’d seen that day and this picture. What she’d seen a week ago had been the aftermath. Three long-dead people with no hope of identifying their remains. This photograph showed them alive.

  Four chairs in a row, a metre or so between each. There were people tied to the chairs, the detail of their faces lost in deep shadow. Despite the warmth of the day, Galíndez’s hands were cold as she turned the photograph and saw Ochoa’s inscription: Morning of March 10th 1937, Villarreal. Steady, careful handwriting. Unlike the word scrawled underneath: Before. The ink used to write the word was different from that used for the caption. Ochoa must have added this annotation at another time.

  The next photograph lay face down. She looked at Ochoa’s writing on the back. Now, his annotation read Evening of March 11th 1937. Once again, a word scrawled below: After. After what? she wondered, though only for the moment it took to turn the photograph over.

  The camera flash spilled bleached light over a scene of carnage. Taken from a similar angle to the other, perhaps even on the same step. The four dark shapes were transformed into a tableau of savage horror. On the far left, a metal chair lay on its back, empty. Just as she would find it seventy-three years later. The occupant of the chair to its right was slumped forward, still bound in position, his long hair spilling forward over his face. Something gleamed on the chest and thighs, reflecting the flash of the camera. Something shiny. A similar gleam around the feet as well. Blood. Lots of it. Blood that one day would reveal itself, glinting with the blue light of her luminol spray.

  Looking at the next prisoner, Galíndez saw a similar configuration: the slumped body, the gleaming blood-shadow. This one must have been bound tightly: the body was still upright, though it had no head, just a ragged stump of neck. And now, the final victim, half buried in rubble. Something strange about the head, it seemed too small for an adult. Then she remembered: the top of the skull had been sliced off. A skull that was now in a plastic bag in her cupboard at the lab. What the fuck happened? If she’d come here a day earlier, she might have asked Ochoa that question, might even have found out why Guzmán had carried out these killings. Mierda, Ochoa might have been able to identify these people.

  This wasn’t the time to sit round asking questions with a corpse just across the room from her, his dentures dangling from his mouth. It was best to get out while her luck held. And then, as she closed the box lid, she froze as she heard someone turn the handle of the front door.

  Carrying the metal case under her arm, Galíndez crept towards the hall. She was four floors up with no way out other than the stairs. She cursed herself for trying to be too clever, dressing up to get Ochoa talking but neglecting other details like staying alive.

  Something pushed against the front door, straining it against the hinges. Whoever it was had put their shoulder to the door, trying to see if it would open quietly. The door shook but held firm. They’d have to smash it open if they wanted to get in and that would carry a risk of alerting the neighbours. Another thought: what if it was the good guys, the policía or guardia? No matter who it was, she was in trouble. And then a faint rustle as a piece of paper slid under the door. Footsteps fading as the person went back downstairs. Galíndez went to the door and retrieved the paper. A handwritten note.

  YOU asked me to come round, you prick.

  Where are you? Call me when you get back

  Galíndez waited a few minutes before she left the apartment, wiping everything she remembered touching clean of prints before she went downstairs. She crossed the third-floor landing, hearing only the faint drone of traffic outside. Below, on the ground floor, the front door closed with a loud metallic crash and she heard footsteps as someone hurried up the stairs. She stepped back, hoping the shadowed landing would prevent the passing tenant from seeing her in any detail. As she moved, her heel dragged on the worn tiles, painfully loud. Below her, the footsteps stopped abruptly.

  Galíndez didn’t move, tense in the sudden silence. A sharp metallic click, like someone cocking a pistol. She felt a sudden burn of adrenalin. Quietly, she put the metal box on the floor and straightened up, ready to face the person now climbing the stairs towards her with slow cautious footsteps.

  A door opened on the floor below. Loud angry voices: a man and a woman arguing. The approaching footsteps stopped and a few seconds later Galíndez heard them retreating downstairs. She picked up the metal box, waiting until she heard the street door bang as someone left the building before she hurried down past the couple on the landing. They ignored her and carried on arguing, from the sound of it, about money.

  The door slammed behind her as Galíndez went into the street. Cautiously, she looked round, scanning the faces of passers-by, wondering if the mystery visitor was out here, watching.
No one gave her a second glance and she relaxed a little. The midday sun felt bright and clean after the dank twilight of Ochoa’s building and her mouth watered at the smell of frying potatoes from a nearby bar as she hurried past the shuttered windows of the fortune-teller’s shop.

  She pushed the metal box into the boot of her car and drove away, past the flea market, vaguely aware of the flocks of tourists clustering round the stalls. Traffic was slow and she watched the vehicles ahead without interest, wondering whether she would be able to identify the victims in Ochoa’s photos. And something else troubled her about the executions in that ruined building. Why had the bodies been left and the cellar sealed with concrete during a major offensive?

  Behind her, a huge refrigerated truck unleashed a violent blast from the multiple array of horns on the roof of the cab. Galíndez looked up, startled, and saw the truck driver gesticulating wildly. The traffic was moving again. She sighed and pressed the accelerator, still preoccupied by those black and white images of violent death. Everything linked to Guzmán seemed to throw up more questions. Whether she could get answers to any of them she had no idea.

  And that, she suspected, was exactly how Guzmán wanted it.

  15

  OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, ABADÍA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÓN DE MARÍA

  Guzmán struggled to keep his balance as he stumbled along the last few metres of muddy track into the shelter of the ancient walls. He took a moment to catch his breath, examining the entrance, a low arched doorway with a small carved virgin in a niche above the lintel. It was clear there would be no problem getting inside. Though the door was reinforced with iron bands, the wood was rotten and the ornate bands hung from their fittings.

  He pushed open the door with the toe of his boot, aiming the rifle as he stepped into a narrow arched passageway. With such limited room for manoeuvre, the pistol was better suited for close-quarter combat so he drew the Browning instead. To his right were three evenly spaced wooden doors and he checked them, one after another, kicking open the door and entering quickly, scanning the room, pistol held out. All were empty, though the air was thick with a faecal reek, testimony to the long occupation of the building by the escaped lunatics.

  The stench followed him down the passageway. Through the arched doorway ahead he saw the walls of a small chapel. Near one of the narrow windows an old oil lantern flickered in the fierce draught. It was the light he had seen from the escarpment. At the far end of the chapel was the altar, its large stone cross wavering in the feeble light from the lantern. As another massive gust buffeted the building, the lantern sputtered, sending a wave of dancing shadows rippling over the chapel walls. Not exactly home from home, he thought, taking off his sodden hat and throwing it onto the lid of a nearby crate to dry.

  Other than the cross, there were few signs this had once been a place of worship. The pews were gone, used long ago as firewood. Now, lines of boxes and crates were arranged on either side of the aisle. He looked at the crates, suddenly curious. Unlike every other piece of wood in this crumbling mausoleum, these were not on the verge of disintegration. He leaned forward to inspect one and removed the screws from the lid with his knife. He pushed the lid aside and peered in, seeing a dull metal sheen in the sallow light. Surprised by the contents, he opened another. Yet another surprise.

  This was not the work of lunatics, Guzmán thought angrily. The madmen didn’t have laces for their shoes, far less crates of rifles and grenades. Nor did they have sacks of banknotes bearing the stamp of the Banco de Bilbao like those propped against the mildewed chapel walls around him.

  Guzmán had been right that El Lobo would have hiding places for his supplies hidden up in the hills. That was what enabled him to carry out his robberies at will, without the need to visit village stores or raid farms. Even so, he’d expected the bandit might have a few modest stashes of tinned food, maybe some hay for his horse and a few boxes of ammunition, not a fucking arms dump like this.

  He looked round, wondering how one bandit got all these crates up here. Even using mules it would be difficult to avoid being seen. He knelt by one of the crates and read the label by the flame of his lighter.

  ÇUBIRY PÈRE ET FILS, AGENTS D’EXPORTATION

  26 RUE DE VICTOR HUGO, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE

  A difficult task all right, though not for experienced smugglers.

  Dark rage burned as he thought about those French bastards in their absurd feathered hats and antiquated clothing. Because they looked like fools, he had not taken them seriously. That had been a serious oversight. The Çubiry had long experience in shifting contraband around this region. That was all well and good if the merchandise was destined for the estraperlo, the black market that augmented Spain’s feeble economy. It was something else if they were selling weapons to the resistance. The first was a minor crime the authorities could ignore. The second merited a death sentence no matter what country the bastards lived in.

  He could forget about burning ancient byres and shepherds’ huts. This was El Lobo’s lair and Guzmán needed to destroy it immediately. That had been his plan all along. With no weapons and no money to replace them, El Lobo’s only option would be to hit another bank truck – using insider information as he had before, not knowing that the only shipment of money in this region would be in a truck full of civil guards.

  He reached down and took a grenade from the second crate. Brand new. He put it on the lid of one of the unopened crates and cursed as it rolled off and clattered onto the floor. He smiled to himself. At least the pin was still in.

  He unfastened his hunting jacket and rummaged through his pockets in search of a cigarette. Along the corridor, he heard the sudden howl of the gale and then the muffled impact as the door closed again. And then, the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stone passageway towards him. The metallic clinking of someone wearing spurs. More than one, from the sound of it.

  OROITZ 1954, MENDIKO RIDGE

  Ochoa watched the smoke rise into the wind as the squad set fire to the remains of another derelict byre.

  ‘There’s a storm getting up, Cabo,’ Ruiz called.

  Ochoa looked toward Mari’s Peak where scrawls of lightning traced white fire across the darkening sky.

  ‘Be nice to get back to the cuartel,’ Ruiz muttered, climbing back into the saddle. ‘We must have burned a dozen of these things today. You really think it will stop El Lobo?’

  ‘All you need to worry about is who’s doing the cooking when you get back to barracks,’ Ochoa said. ‘I’m going to stick around and wait for the boss. You take the men back down to the cuartel.’

  ‘Me?’ Ruiz grinned. ‘A sus ordenes, Cabo.’

  ‘And post sentries before you eat,’ Ochoa said. ‘The comandante likes things done in a proper military manner.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

  As the squad moved off down the track, Ochoa trained his binoculars on the mountain, trying to pick out the convent through the gusting rain. He watched the slope for a moment and then spurred his horse forward. The ground was slick and treacherous, but he kept the horse moving at a brisk pace, troubled by the dark figure he’d just seen on the escarpment, climbing up towards the convent. The comandante was not alone up there.

  OROITZ 1954, ABADÍA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÓN DE MARÍA

  Guzmán moved quickly, looking for cover. There was space behind the altar, a small alcove sheltered from the rest of the chapel, and he moved towards it, quietly. His foot connected with something and he gritted his teeth as the lost grenade rattled away into the shadows below the altar. The footsteps in the passageway stopped.

  Quietly, he slipped behind the altar. It was a good hiding space, protected by solid walls on each side. Behind him, he noticed a rotting wooden door. His view of the chapel was restricted, to a view of the first row of crates near the window. That was enough. Once they reached those, his visitors would make a good target. All he need do was stay put and let them
come into range. And, as he waited, he saw his hat, perched on the crate where he’d left it to dry.

  Two men came into the chapel. Wide-brimmed plumed hats, bandoliers of ammunition slung across their chests. Cavalry boots fitted with elaborate spurs.

  A low cautious voice. ‘Lobo?’

  Guzmán pressed himself against the wall. As long as he didn’t move, he was invisible to them. For now, at least.

  ‘Lobo? Dónde estás?’ The other man’s voice, worried now.

  They were getting closer; Guzmán saw their approaching shadows on the worn tiles.

  Sudden caution in the man’s voice. ‘Attention, François, regarde le chapeau.’

  Guzmán didn’t understand his words but he could interpret their sudden caution: they had found his hat. He heard the sound of weapons being cocked and slowed his breathing, ready to make his move.

  The outside door opened with a dull thud and a stream of cold air blew down the passage, almost extinguishing the lantern. Slow, heavy steps in the passageway.

  One of the Frenchmen called out, his voice tense. ‘Qui est-ce?’

  A deep sonorous voice. ‘Soy yo, Lobo.’

  Guzmán eased his head around the edge of the wall and stared past the two Çubiry at the figure in the doorway of the chapel. A man in a dark overcoat and black slouch hat. A big man, taller than Guzmán, and broader too. But it was the man’s face that concerned Guzmán most. He had the face of a wolf.

  Some massive injury, Guzmán guessed. The right side of Lobo’s face was almost normal. The left side was a huge expanse of ivory scar tissue running from above the left eye down to the jawbone. The crude lines of scars where the wound had been stitched pulled the left side of the man’s face up, giving him a perpetual lopsided snarl.