The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘A woman wrote to Franco, saying someone shot her husband on the beach,’ Carrero Blanco said, toying with his napkin. ‘Naturally, Franco hasn’t seen the letter yet. If I have my way he won’t. Has there been a shooting?’

  ‘The local police are dealing with it,’ Guzmán said. ‘A love triangle, I understand.’

  Carrero Blanco took a sip of water. ‘In that case, I have nothing to worry about. So all that’s left is for you to resolve this El Lobo business satisfactorily.’

  ‘It will be resolved,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’ve set up an ambush for him tomorrow. He’s been getting inside information about the bank’s shipments of cash. That’s why he’s been so successful in pulling off his robberies.’

  Carrero Blanco looked up. ‘Surely you’re here to bury Caesar, Comandante?’

  Guzmán frowned. No one had mentioned any Caesar to him. He ignored it. ‘We’ve already destroyed his supplies up in the hills so he’ll be keen to get his hands on some cash. When he attacks the truck, it will be full of guardia civiles. And me, of course.’

  ‘Excellent. Then there’s no more to be said.’ Carrero Blanco brushed his hands together as if cleansing them of their contact with the French newspaper. ‘You know, Magdalena will make the right man a wonderful wife.’

  Guzmán noted his emphasis on the word ‘right’. ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘I put that badly,’ Carrero Blanco said, ‘because it might have implied the right man could be you. That will never happen. But then you probably weren’t even thinking of it.’

  Guzmán gestured for the waiter to fill his glass. ‘I imagine Señorita Torres is able to make up her own mind about her choice of men.’ It was always a pleasure to annoy Carrero Blanco, because it was so easy. As a fanatical Catholic, little could annoy him more than the suggestion that a woman was able to make a decision without male advice.

  ‘She’s a respectable girl,’ Carrero Blanco said. ‘You don’t have a chance.’

  ‘I’ve always taken my chances.’

  ‘I’m serious, she’s not for the likes of you.’ The admiral lowered his voice, seeing Magdalena returning. ‘You and that woman would be married over my dead body.’

  ‘I think that would be a very satisfactory arrangement.’ Guzmán lifted his glass in a mock toast. Smug fucking Jesuit. One day things will blow up in his face.

  Magdalena slid into her chair. ‘Talking business, gentlemen?’

  Guzmán breathed in her perfume, remembering her naked a few hours earlier.

  ‘We were just finishing,’ Carrero Blanco said. ‘So, Comandante, I’d be very grateful if you could conclude the work we discussed on time, because we don’t want anything to disturb the US Ambassador’s visit.’

  ‘Is he making an official visit?’ asked Magdalena. ‘I’ll buy a hat.’

  ‘No, my dear.’ Carrero Blanco beamed. ‘He was hoping to meet his brother, who’s been on holiday in the French Pyrenees. Apparently, he hasn’t been in contact for several days. I’ll be meeting the ambassador to reassure him we’re doing all we can to see if his brother has wandered over the border and had an accident.’

  ‘Does the brother know the country?’ Guzmán noticed his collar seemed a little tight.

  Now it was Carrero Blanco’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘He does, I’m afraid. He was...’ He looked round furtively. ‘He fought with the International Brigade during La Cruzada.’

  ‘He’s a criminal?’ Guzmán adopted a suitably outraged tone. ‘We should arrest him.’

  ‘You know damned well we can’t,’ Carrero Blanco spluttered. ‘We don’t want to upset them now they’re about to hand over the money for that trade deal. Franco’s livid but he’s agreed it’s best if we just ignore it.’

  ‘The mountains are treacherous,’ Magdalena said. ‘Is he used to such rough country?’

  ‘Don’t get me started about Yanquis, my dear. They think the world is their playground. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s fallen and broken his neck somewhere.’ He took a sip of water. ‘Deal with it, will you, Guzmán? See if he got lost up in those hills. Organise a search party or something?’

  ‘I’ll attend to it,’ Guzmán said, knowing no search would find the missing Yanqui because there wasn’t going to be a search.

  Carrero Blanco leaned back, relaxed now. ‘Franco asked about you a couple of days ago.’

  Guzmán put down his glass, trying not to seem too interested. ‘How is the caudillo?’

  ‘He’s well, Guzmán.’ Carrero Blanco smirked, taking pleasure at being able to demonstrate his close relationship with the generalísimo. ‘I had the impression he’s keen to have you back in the capital. He’s concerned the Russians are spying on us.’

  Guzmán took a sip of wine. ‘Naturally, I’m at his service.’

  ‘Has Comandante Guzmán told you he’s an acquaintance of the caudillo, my dear?’ Carrero Blanco asked, smiling at Magdalena.

  ‘He did mention it,’ she said coolly, ‘when we came out of church after confession.’

  ‘Church?’ Carrero Blanco gave Guzmán a curious look.

  ‘I apologise,’ Guzmán said, glancing at his watch. ‘I must go. I’m seeing General Mellado in half an hour about this operation.’

  ‘Give him my regards, Guzmán. He’s a rock of loyalty in this sea of traitors they call the Basque country. We have a great admiration for his firm stance.’ He called to the waiter for the bill.

  Guzmán made his way past the bodyguards at the front door and went down the street, almost happy. Everything was under control. For now, at least.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR

  Faisán stumbled as he came through the door. ‘You wanted to see me, General?’

  Mellado was sitting in his favourite armchair, legs crossed, slapping the side of his boot with his riding crop. He looked up at Faisán as if surprised to see him. In the dull afternoon light, his ravaged features were even more disturbing than usual.

  ‘You came in, you saluted and you nearly fell over,’ he said, maintaining the same slow rhythm with his riding crop against his boot. ‘Not entirely a success, but not entirely a failure either. Have you completed the arrangements for the harvest ball?’

  ‘I have, General. The ladies have been rehearsing the tableaux and, as far as I can tell, they know what’s expected of them.’

  Mellado cackled. ‘I doubt that, boy. But in any case, their role isn’t complicated. They aren’t auditioning for the Moulin Rouge or that other place in Paris, what’s it called?’

  ‘The Eiffel Tower?’ Faisán was not well travelled.

  It doesn’t matter,’ Mellado said. ‘All they have to do is stand holding jars of wine or trays of canapés.’ He gazed up at the ceiling. ‘And the rest, of course.’

  ‘The rest?’ Faisán glanced anxiously at his list. ‘I didn’t know there was a rest.’

  ‘A huge party with unlimited food and drink being served by women in a state of undress, desperate to save themselves and their daughters from being charged with treason.’ Mellado chuckled. ‘Don’t you think there might be a bit more happening than wine tasting?’

  ‘And do you still want me to approach Corporal Ochoa about the photography?’

  Mellado’s one eye rolled in its socket as he glared at Faisán. ‘An order was given, and acknowledged, thus making it unnecessary to seek further confirmation.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, sir. Is that the plan for Comandante Guzmán’s operation over there?’ He gestured towards a large map on the table.

  ‘It is,’ Mellado said, ‘though it’s secret. However, since I made it clear when you took this job that any breach of security will result in your immediate execution, I’m happy to show it to you.’

  Faisán wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. ‘Gracias, mi General.’

  Mellado smoothed the map across the table. ‘This the road from Hernani,’ he said, tracing a road marked in a red pencil with his finger, ‘and here’s the road from Oroitz in
green.’ ‘We expect El Lobo will attack just here, on this ridge.’

  ‘The Mendiko ridge,’ Faisán said.

  ‘That’s what the Basques call it.’ Mellado frowned. ‘We call it the hill of the Blessed Virgin, naturally, because we’re not libidinous Marxist traitors.’

  ‘Of course,’ Faisán agreed.

  ‘Look at the time,’ Mellado barked. ‘I’ll be late for my meeting because of your chattering.’ He slapped Faisán around the head as he headed for the door. Faisán lingered in the doorway in case the general had any final instructions.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so,’ Mellado called. ‘Make sure the office is tidy by then.’

  Faisán waited, listening as the sound of the general’s boots died away. Only when he was certain Mellado was gone did he go back inside and slump into the general’s chair.

  A sudden knock at the door. Faisán leaped up, terrified Mellado had returned. If the general caught his assistant lounging in his favourite chair, there was no knowing what level of violence he might deploy. Faisán opened the door and stared at a burly sargento, dressed in the uniform of the catering corps, standing on the bottom step. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come for the general’s lunch tray, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’ Faisán pointed to the table where Mellado’s lunch lay untouched.

  ‘Didn’t the general like it?’ the sargento asked, covering the food with a napkin.

  ‘What do you care? Just take it away and clean up that mess in the corner,’ Faisán snapped. ‘It was the dessert that upset him. The general doesn’t approve of anything with nutmeg in it. He thinks it’s decadent.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ Faisán said. ‘Don’t be here when I get back.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The sargento watched Faisán hurry away, waiting until the door closed before giving him the finger. Quickly, he walked across the room, picked up the dessert from the floorboards and put it onto the tray, wiping his hands with the napkin. The map lay on the table and the sargento went over to examine it. Each coloured road was annotated with Mellado’s surprisingly elegant handwriting: (a) Route for Comandante Guzmán & Corporal Ochoa. (b) Route to be taken by bank vehicle. (c) Anticipated site of ambush (d) El Lobo.

  The sargento went to Mellado’s desk and reached for the phone. He dialled a number, alert for the sound of anyone in the courtyard.

  ‘Oui?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘It’s me, León,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  20

  MADRID JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL CENTRO DE INVESTIGACIÓN, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE

  It was just after nine as Galíndez stepped into the office The room was already crowded with her borrowed students, all diligently coding the mass of old letters, barely noticing her presence as she manoeuvred through the tightly packed clutter of tables to her desk. From the faint odour of pizza and the heaped cardboard takeaway boxes in the waste bins, the students had brought their breakfast with them.

  Claudia smiled at her as Galíndez took a seat.

  ‘Have you seen Isabel?’ Galíndez asked.

  ‘She’s doing some interviews with a group of women whose children were stolen in the fifties,’ said Claudia. ‘You haven’t got an aspirin, have you, Ana?’

  Galíndez noticed her pale face and bloodshot eyes. ‘Big night out, was it?’ She rummaged in her bag for a wrap of soluble aspirin.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Claudia muttered as she dropped the tablets into a plastic cup of water. ‘It’s the last time I go out on the town with Isabel.’

  ‘Sounds like you had a good time.’

  ‘God, yes, it was the best. We went to a whole bunch of clubs and got in free. I forget sometimes just how well known she is.’ Claudia emptied the water in one swallow. ‘All the drinks were free as well, unfortunately.’

  ‘You should be careful if you’re not used to drinking a lot.’ Galíndez frowned. Mierda, I sound like her mother.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Claudia. ‘I was really out of it by the time we got in the taxi. Luckily, Isabel let me stay at her place. I couldn’t have made it home on my own.’

  ‘Really?’ Galíndez gave her a curious glance before logging onto the university network. She navigated to the server where the data on the stolen children was stored and opened the file containing the information from the letters coded so far. The file was growing by the day, and no wonder: the students were working flat out, their faces glued to their screens, all of them determined to contribute to the investigation.

  Galíndez noticed for the first time the Photoshopped poster on the back wall, a photograph of a line of children dressed in what looked like clothing from the fifties, led by a stern-faced nun. Wherever the children were being taken, they didn’t look happy about it. A large caption above the picture: Niños Robados: Queremos La Verdad.

  ‘Thirteen thousand letters done so far. We’re almost finished,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘Cool. Does that mean you can you start your analysis soon?’

  ‘It does, though first I’m going to check to see if there’s any missing data. Then, if everything’s in order, I’ll start analysing it.’

  ‘Isabel says you’re brilliant with statistics.’

  Galíndez frowned, about to point out that Isabel might not be the best qualified person to comment on her statistical abilities. She checked herself. ‘I know what I’m doing, put it that way. My speciality is profiling, that relies heavily on stats.’

  Claudia looked up, impressed. ‘Do you do a lot of profiling in the guardia?’

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘I was about to transfer to the profiling unit last year but then I was injured and someone else got the post.’

  ‘Can’t you reapply when you’ve completed this project?’

  ‘I’d like to.’ Galíndez was suddenly uncomfortable recalling the events of the last year and went back to her computer. She immersed herself in the data, the rattle of keyboards around her fading as she focused on the familiar procedures of data analysis, losing herself in the manipulation and transformation of data, shaping it into meaningful tables and summaries, eliciting patterns and relationships that might answer her questions. People thought such things were complex. Galíndez found the rigour and precision of the work reassuring.

  Claudia pulled her chair closer. ‘Can I watch? I don’t get to use these methods often. Profesora Ordoñez says it introduces a barrier between the researcher and her subject.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Galíndez said. ‘Luisa – I mean Profesora Ordoñez – has a very fixed view of how research should be carried out.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ Claudia said. ‘Although she said much the same thing about you.’

  Galíndez frowned. ‘Luisa forgets we have to adapt our research methods to fit the situation. We can’t interview a lot of these people because they’re dead. If we didn’t have these letters, the parents’ complaints about their children being stolen would be lost for ever.’ She took a deep breath. Luisa’s rigid antagonism to scientific method always annoyed her.

  ‘Don’t get angry, Ana,’ Claudia said. ‘We’re all really excited to be working on this project. Have you seen the posters some of the students put up?’

  ‘The one saying, “We want the truth about the stolen kids”?’ Galíndez nodded. ‘I think it’s great that you all see the value of this.’

  ‘No, that one.’ Claudia pointed to the wall above the sink.

  Galíndez’s eyes widened as she saw another home-made poster, though this time the photo was of her, wearing her dark suit, sunglasses pushed up into her hair as she completed the interview with RTVE. A caption in bold letters: ¡Forza Galíndez!

  ‘This isn’t about me,’ Galíndez said, suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘It’s about doing the right thing, getting justice for people who wouldn’t get it otherwise,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s great to be a part of your investigation. That’s
why we all come in early: we want to do a good job for you.’

  Galíndez looked at her for a moment, lost for words. Then she changed the subject. ‘Right, I’ll show you how I analyse the data.’ Claudia watched as she typed commands into the software. ‘OK, here’s a frequency table showing responses for question one. Let’s see what type of obstetric unit had the highest rate of baby thefts.’

  ‘OK,’ Claudia muttered, concentrating on the tables.

  Galíndez tapped the screen with her pen. ‘This table shows where the thefts occurred. The column headed n is the number of responses and the column headed per cent is the percentage of all cases each response represents.’

  Q1: Facility where Child stolen

  n %

  1. Public 682 5%

  2. Private 7788 58%

  3. Church 4832 36%

  4. Other/Not Known 198 1%

  13,500 100%

  ‘There!’ Galíndez said, ‘you can see at once where child thefts were most frequent.’ She tapped the percentage column with the tip of her finger. ‘Over half of all the kids reported as stolen in these letters were stolen from private obstetric facilities and thirty-six per cent of cases involved facilities run by the Church.’

  ‘So why is the figure so high for private clinics?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘Probably it was easier for them to avoid scrutiny. If there were any complaints, they’d be investigated by their own staff.’

  ‘But couldn’t the parents have gone to the policía?’

  ‘A lot did,’ said Galíndez. ‘But the police were often corrupt and didn’t investigate. Some police officers were even involved in the thefts. In any case, doctors and medical staff back in Franco’s day had very high social standing. It was hard to challenge their authority.’

  Claudia glanced at her. ‘Did you think life was really so bad during the dictatorship?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Galíndez smiled. ‘I was born eight years after Franco died.’

  Claudia’s expression suggested she wasn’t sure when that was and Galíndez had the feeling she’d just been reclassified as old. She was still considering that when something touched the back of her neck. Startled, she turned, surprised to find the students crowded behind her, watching her impromptu demonstration of data analysis. Engrossed in her work, she hadn’t even been aware of them leaving their seats. A few were holding up their phones, capturing on-screen events for later viewing.