The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Galíndez took out her notebook. ‘What’s their address?’

  ‘They’re based in the Cayman Islands,’ said Karlsson. ‘They communicate with me through our chairman.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘So, effectively, no one knows who the owners are?’

  ‘I can ask the chairman of the board if you want?’

  ‘Bueno. Can you speak to him as a matter of urgency?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll contact him this afternoon,’ Karlsson said, eager to cooperate now.

  ‘Thanks for your help.’ When she went to the door, he didn’t offer to see her out. ‘By the way,’ she said, turning back. ‘Can you tell me the chairman’s name?’

  ‘Of course.’ Karlsson nodded. ‘His name is Jose Luis Calderón.’

  21

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, BANCO DE BILBAO

  Señor Cifuentes unlocked another door and ushered Guzmán into a badly lit chamber. ‘This is the door to our strongroom.’ Guzmán watched as the heavy door swung open. The bank manager pointed at a line of sacks inside the vault. ‘There it is, Comandante. Twenty sacks of notes, worth—’

  ‘Five million pesetas,’ Guzmán cut in. ‘Don’t look so worried, no one will steal it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cifuentes agreed. ‘And, since the caudillo guaranteed to reimburse us for any losses, our only concern is for the safety of you and the brave men of the benemérita.’

  Guzmán nodded, relieved that Cifuentes had swallowed the lie about Franco so completely. ‘I’ll pass on your good wishes to the civil guards in due course.’

  ‘And may I add, I have every confidence in the success of your operation, Comandante. It’s well known the Spanish police are the best in the world.’

  Guzmán stifled a laugh. ‘That’s what we tell people,’ he agreed. ‘Did you make arrangements for my men?’

  ‘Billeted in the church, as you instructed. The nuns are providing refreshments.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Guzmán gave the bank manager an encouraging slap on the back, forcing Cifuentes to clutch the vault door in order to stay on his feet. ‘You’ve handled the arrangements very well,’ he said. ‘So well, I’m going to inform the caudillo of your cooperation once this operation is over.’ He cut short Cifuentes’ obsequious thanks with an impatient gesture and hurried up the stairs, wondering how anyone so gullible could reach such an elevated position in the bank.

  The church was three hundred metres away, tucked down a quiet side street of shabby offices with dark windows and lowered blinds. Guzmán went up the steps and pushed open the doors. The church shimmered with whispering echoes. Absently, he dipped his hand in the font and crossed himself. As his eyes became accustomed to the unsteady glimmer of votive candles around the altar he saw the civil guards slumped on the pews, resting their heads on their rucksacks, rifles at their sides. He recognised some of the men from the Oroitz garrison, tense and anxious.

  The lance corporal leaped to his feet. ‘Buenos días, Comandante.’

  Guzmán was not there to exchange pleasantries. ‘How’s the squad?’

  ‘In good spirits, sir, and looking forward to tomorrow.’

  Guzmán doubted that as he looked the men over. ‘Any of these men seen combat?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The lance corporal’s tone was too confident for Guzmán’s liking.

  ‘Are they clear about what they have to do?’

  The lance corporal nodded. ‘When we come under attack, the squad take up position around the vehicle and begin suppression fire at the target. We keep him pinned down while you and the corporal attack from the flank.’

  ‘That’s it. I’m relying on you to do a good job.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mi Comandante. El Lobo will be hanging by his heels tomorrow night.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Are the nuns looking after you?’

  ‘Yes sir, they cook our meals, just like in a hotel.’ He frowned. ‘I imagine.’

  Guzmán ignored his salute as he went to the door. Outside, the street was bright in the midday sun. He turned back to the troopers. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, señores.’

  The civil guards responded with a barrage of jokes and threats to El Lobo’s manhood. Their boisterous shouts were still echoing round the church as Guzmán left. Deep in thought, he scarcely noticed the warmth of the sun. He was disappointed. Not one of the men had bellowed Arriba España, as they did in the War. Not even a Viva Franco.

  Times were changing.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, PENSIÓN EUROPA

  Ochoa watched the fishing boats rise and fall as they left harbour and ploughed into the heavy swell. It had been some time since he photographed anything as mundane as this and it felt strange taking pictures that were not of dead bodies, or prisoners undergoing torture. Not that those were his favourite subjects. There was one picture he wanted to take more than any. Not for the first time, he imagined himself looking at his wife down the barrel of his Astra 400 pistol, saying the words he’d rehearsed so many times during long sleepless nights. I never stopped looking for you. He would leave a moment for that to sink in and then kill her and photograph her body. A memory of vengeance.

  ‘Corporal Ochoa?’ Ochoa turned to see a young man, well wrapped in a thick lambswool overcoat, his wide-brimmed hat jammed tightly down to his ears. He looked like one of the men who sold stolen nylons on the black market. ‘Rafael Faisán, General Mellado’s assistant.’ He held out his hand.

  Ochoa thought he would trust a gypsy with his wages before he trusted this man. He stared at Faisán’s outstretched hand without taking it. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The general asked me to see you,’ Faisán said. ‘He wants you to take some pictures. He said he’d square things with the comandante.’

  ‘All right. What kind of photos?’

  ‘We’ll pay two hundred US dollars. For your discretion as well as your time.’

  Ochoa’s expression didn’t change. ‘What am I taking pictures of?’

  Faisán gave him the details. It was not what Ochoa was expecting and he thought about it for a moment, slightly disappointed because it was so vile.

  ‘I’ll do it, but a job like that is worth five hundred.’

  ‘I must say, Señor Ochoa, you know the value of your work.’ Faisán reached into his thick coat and took out a thick envelope. ‘There’s five hundred dollars here, the two hundred I offered, plus three hundred I was going to steal.’

  Ochoa put the money into an inside pocket. ‘When do you want it done?’

  ‘Right now, Corporal,’ Faisán said, smiling.

  Ochoa liked him even less when he smiled.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR

  ‘Don’t fucking knock, come in.’

  Guzmán came in and closed the door behind him. ‘Buenas tardes, mi General.’

  ‘Have a seat, Leo.’ Mellado waved at one of the armchairs near his desk.

  Guzmán noticed the pile of paperwork on Mellado’s desk. ‘If you’re busy, General, I can come back another time?’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’ Mellado looked up from the papers in front of him. ‘These are intelligence reports from our agents. Bad news, too. More people are getting involved with the resistance. Can you imagine, after all we sacrificed?’

  ‘Dreadful,’ Guzmán agreed, thinking that any sacrifices he’d made during the war had always been for his own benefit. ‘A few arrests will put a stop to that.’

  ‘I wish it was that simple. It’s going to take a lot of blood to stop this, I’d say.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Guzmán said. ‘You know Franco’s forbidden anything that could upset the Yanquis until he’s got their money in his pocket.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Leo?’ Mellado growled. ‘Did Gutiérrez tell you to threaten me?’

  ‘It’s what Franco ordered.’

  ‘Franco?’ Mellado sneered. ‘I’m sick of hearing about him. Anyone would think he won the war.’ He put down his pen and gathered the reports
in front of him together. ‘That’s enough of these traitors for one day. Time for a brandy.’

  Guzmán watched as Mellado opened the drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. A deep drawer, full of red-covered intelligence reports. He shoved the reports on top of the others and went to the drinks cabinet to pour two large glasses of Carlos Primero.

  Mellado sighed as he put down his glass, ‘First drink of the day’s always the best.’

  ‘I had lunch with a girlfriend yesterday,’ Guzmán said casually.

  ‘Joder, got yourself a novia, have you? You always were one for the ladies. How much does this one charge?’

  ‘She’s General Torres’s daughter, actually,’ Guzmán said, irritated.

  ‘Fucking hell, little Magdalena?’ Mellado whistled. ‘She’s gorgeous, what does she see in you?’ He saw Guzmán’s expression.

  ‘Only joking.’ Mellado picked up his glass and went for a refill. ‘A talented woman, Magdalena, and that’s with her clothes on.’

  Guzmán stayed silent.

  ‘By the way, I sent Faisán to hire your corporal this afternoon. I need some photos taken. We always get a few pictures of the girls who pass through the cells. A little reminder.’ He winked. With his one eye, the effect was disconcerting. ‘I paid him well, don’t worry.’

  ‘Fine,’ Guzmán said, wondering how much he was talking about.

  Mellado looked at his watch. ‘Christ, I’ve got a briefing with my watch commanders.’

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Guzmán said, getting to his feet.

  ‘No, hombre, you stay here, I’ll only be half an hour at most.’ Mellado pointed unsteadily at the drinks cabinet. ‘Help yourself.’ He gave a wave of his riding crop as he left.

  Guzmán waited until the general’s footsteps died away across the courtyard. The drawer where the intelligence reports were kept was locked and he cursed himself for not watching Mellado more carefully when he closed it. He examined the desk, seeing the drawer underneath, thin and flat, designed for storing blotting paper and other items of office equipment. He opened it and looked down at a tangled mess of rubber bands, pencils and rusty nibbed pens. A key lay on top of some sheets of blotting paper and he tried it in the lock. The big drawer opened and he reached in for the bundle of reports, all bearing the crest of the Military Governor’s office.

  Opening the first folder, he smoothed its pages with the palm of his hand. It was a similar format to the one used by his men at Calle Robles: a series of printed forms with neatly laid-out sections for the different entries. Entries recording the place of surveillance and the time the suspect was observed. The telephone numbers of people called by the suspect, the names of friends, relatives and acquaintances and their addresses. A section indicating if the behaviour of the friend, relative or acquaintance merited a new file being opened on them. This evidence carried a lot of weight: people were imprisoned and tortured on the basis of these files. Sometimes they went to the firing squad.

  Guzmán put the file to one side and reached for another. He skimmed it quickly and went on to the next, working fast, the pile of files growing on the general’s desk. Finally, he found the name he was looking for: María Vidal. He opened the file and flicked through the pages, checking each one, wanting to know exactly what the girl had done so he could give Magdalena a detailed account later. He reached the last page and put the file with the others. Things were much worse than he’d imagined.

  In his comisaría in Madrid, Guzmán always made sure his men kept these files updated and ensured each section was completed properly. They worked long into the night compiling those dossiers, and with good reason: they were the memory of the regime and the contents were used to calculate the retribution necessary for those who defied it.

  The files in front of him were different. Apart from the name and address on the cover, each was as pristine as the day it had left the printer. Whatever reason Mellado had for keeping these women prisoner, none of it was recorded in the reports. He looked up and saw the door to Mellado’s inner sanctum ajar. It was possible there was information in there, waiting to be entered into the reports. There had to be an explanation.

  He went to the door and fumbled with the light switch. The solitary bulb glowed, weak and ineffectual, though there was enough light to see the rows of shelves, the boxes of filing piled high. And then he stopped, staring at the stark apparatus in the middle of the room and the naked body strapped into it.

  Mellado had put María Vidal in the garrotte.

  She had been dead for some time. Her wrists and ankles were secured by the leather cuffs attached to the machine and he saw the marks on her skin where she’d struggled. It had not been a quick death, he guessed. Her face was congested and mottled, her dead staring eyes bulged from their sockets. As he turned to leave, he heard Mellado’s voice booming across the courtyard as he returned from his meeting.

  Guzmán ran back into the office, trying to keep the folders aligned as he bundled them into the drawer and closed it. He stepped back, checking there was nothing out of place on the desk. The middle drawer under the desk was still slightly open. When he pushed it, the drawer didn’t move.

  Outside the door, Mellado was dressing someone down for being sloppily dressed,

  Guzmán pushed the drawer again. When it still wouldn’t close, he pulled it open a little, trying to clear whatever was catching in the metal runners at the side. That didn’t work either. On the other side of the door, the general was now expounding on the need for sartorial propriety. Guzmán pulled the drawer further out, and felt it start to move smoothly again on the metal runners. He heard the soft impact of something on the carpet beneath the desk and saw a brown cardboard envelope, slightly chewed up on one side where it had been caught in the runners. He bent down and retrieved the envelope. There was folded paper inside, possibly banknotes. He pushed the envelope into his jacket pocket and closed the drawer.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, AVENIDA DE LA LIBERTAD

  Sargento León’s boots clattered on the ceramic tiles as he stepped into the house. Jeannette Duclos shut the door behind him.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here, mademoiselle,’ León said. ‘Did your father buy it?’

  ‘None of your business, Sargento, just stick to the matter in hand.’

  She was a bitch, he thought, though he kept his opinion to himself since there were a number of reasons why she commanded respect and it was sensible not to forget any of them.

  She opened a door at the end of the hall. ‘This is the library. We’ll talk in here.’

  León went in and took a seat by the desk. He noticed a bottle of Napoleon brandy on the cocktail cabinet. ‘Any chance of a drink, mademoiselle?’

  ‘No. This isn’t a social visit.’

  ‘As short as you like,’ he said, ‘just so long as I get paid.’

  Jeanette smiled. ‘You’ll be paid all right.’

  ‘I give you the map and you give me the money?’

  ‘Bien sûr. Did you think we were having this conversation because I like you?’ She leaned forward, suddenly conspiratorial. ‘We want you to go with the truck, Sargento. Make sure it stops in the right place.’

  He hadn’t expected that. ‘They’ll suspect something. I’m in the catering corps now.’

  ‘Ah, you’re scared? Traitors often are.’

  ‘Given the help your family gave the Nazis, that’s a bit rich,’ León muttered.

  Her expression didn’t alter, but the tone in her voice disturbed him. ‘Is that something you wish me to convey to my father?’

  ‘No, mademoiselle. If you want me to go in the truck, I’m happy to do it.’ It was best to lie. Her father had a long memory for those who slighted him.

  ‘Don’t worry, our men know you. You can slip away while we do what’s needed.’

  ‘What if I’m recognised? One witness and I’d be in front of the firing squad.’

  She tilted her head, almost coquettish. ‘There’ll be no witnesses, Sargento.’<
br />
  ‘All right.’

  ‘A present for you.’ She pushed a book across the table. ‘My latest work. Shall I sign it?’

  León picked it up and frowned. ‘It’s in French.’

  ‘Clever of you to notice.’ She got up. ‘We’re done. Don’t forget your book, will you?’

  León reluctantly picked up the book and looked at her photograph on the fly leaf. ‘Why do you still use your married name? Your husband’s been dead for years.’

  ‘I can assure you, it’s not from affection. It just makes things easier. People can be so prejudiced about my family’s name.’

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR

  The door crashed open as Mellado staggered in. ‘Still here, Leo?’ He threw his hat across the room, missing the peg by a metre.

  ‘I like it here,’ Guzmán said as he watched Mellado pour them a drink. ‘By the way, I saw Carrero Blanco yesterday.’

  ‘I know,’ Mellado said. ‘He called here to see me, the Jesuit fuck. Thinks he’s a cut above the likes of me. What did say?’

  ‘He’s worried about El Lobo. He also heard something about dead women,’ Guzmán said, stony-faced. ‘At a party, apparently. We were with Señorita Torres so I wasn’t listening.’

  Mellado smirked. ‘Keeping an eye on little Magda’s assets, were you, Leo?’

  Guzmán forced a smile. ‘Carrero Blanco said something about a ball?’

  ‘The harvest ball.’ Mellado nodded. ‘It’s a big event. I invite party members, the great, the good and the fucking rubbish – anyone who’s worth influencing. I send the women prisoners up there for entertainment.’ He grinned. ‘Not their entertainment, though. Sometimes a guest gets a bit excited and one of the women dies. It’s no great loss, they’re fucking Reds, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He must have got the wrong idea,’ Guzmán said. ‘He never listens to people.’

  ‘I might have known that God-bothering cabrón would be worried about protocol,’ Mellado said angrily. ‘I’m not doing anything I didn’t do in the war, for Christ’s sake. Franco and the rest were fucking grateful back then. Things haven’t changed. People have to fear us: without fear, there’s no law and no order.’