The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Guzmán watched the first group of guardia move stealthily down the pavement to take up their positions. Several more troopers hurried along the alleyway leading to the back of the apartments. Escape from that end of the street would now be impossible, whether their quarry came out the front or rear of the building. When the man ran – and he would, Guzmán knew – his only escape route had now been decided for him. Guzmán waited until the remaining guardia started entering the building before he began walking towards the alley.

  ‘Shall I accompany the comandante?’ The teniente asked. Guzmán scowled and waved the man away dismissively. His work was best done alone.

  Guzmán walked down the alley, barely noticing the rubbish strewn at his feet. At the end he came to the rear of the apartments. The space between the houses of the street and those at the back of them formed a high narrow lane. Fine for pedestrians, but there was no exit, particularly for a man fleeing from justice. That was how it should be, he thought. Looking down through the gloom, Guzmán saw the guardia were now in position. He looked in the other direction, down another dark alley half filled with old packing cases and boxes. That was where the man would run when the guardia civiles broke down his door. He wouldn’t risk going back out into the street once he had leaped down into the lane between the buildings – which he surely would because Guzmán had planned it that way. Guzmán ambled into the shadows of the alley. For a big man, he moved quietly and carefully. Taking up a position behind a large pile of boxes, he took out his pistol, an American Browning Hi-Power. Guzmán preferred the certainties of superior firepower to the vagaries of a smaller-calibre weapon. Some people carried a sidearm for effect. Guzmán’s weapon was purely functional.

  The silence was taut, charged with violent anticipation. Even the wind made little noise as it scattered snow in capricious gusts. For a moment, the faint sound of music on a radio. A car horn far off. The sound of the city in winter, a mute vague melancholy, held in place by the chill weight of the leaden cold.

  A shot. Loud and sharp, echoing down the narrow alley. A volley of angry and confused shouts. More shots. A bullet whined down the alley above Guzmán’s head. He scowled. Then he heard the sound of a man running, the shouts of the guardia civiles in pursuit. Guzmán listened to the fugitive’s approaching footsteps. Just as he had expected.

  The man came running at full tilt, briefly looking back at the civil guards clattering down the alley after him as he neared the jumble of packing cases. Never look back. It was too late to avoid Guzmán’s outstretched leg and the fugitive stumbled and fell, his pistol clattering away on the cobbles. Before the man could get back on his feet, Guzmán brought the butt of the Browning down on his head. The man grunted and lay face down, stunned. Blood spilled into the dirty snow. The man groaned and struggled to raise himself.

  ‘Tranquilo, coño.’ Guzmán’s foot pressed down on the side of the man’s face, pinning him in place. The guardia civiles came running up, gasping, a bustling mass of tricornes, rifles and capes, their breath a pulsing cloud above their three-cornered hats. Teniente Cabrera pushed through them.

  ‘Got him,’ the teniente said, gasping for breath. ‘Francisco Umbral, I arrest you in the name of Spain for crimes against the State and for treachery.’

  The man on the ground tried to spit but Guzmán pressed his foot down harder on the man’s face. ‘Pendejo. Tranquilo. Keep still or you’ll really be sorry.’

  ‘Shall we take him to the barracks?’ The teniente was eager to be seen to be doing something.

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘Take your men to the truck, Teniente, I’ve a couple of questions I need to ask in private. I’ll handcuff him and bring him along.’

  The teniente gave him a look of furtive understanding. ‘A sus ordenes, Comandante.’ He turned and led his men back to the street.

  Guzmán released the pressure of his foot on the man’s face. ‘You took some finding, Umbral.’

  ‘Joder. Take me away. I’ll stand trial. Let the world hear what Franco’s regime does to its people. Garrotte me. What will the world say, fourteen years after the war finished and you’re still seeking revenge?’

  Guzmán knelt and pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the back of Umbral’s head. Guzmán knew the effect the proximity of a firearm had: he could hear Umbral struggling to keep his breathing under control. Guzmán reached into the fugitive’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Well look at this. Fake ID. Badly done. Want to tell me who did this for you? Maybe I could get your money back.’

  ‘Beat it out of me in your cells, fascist. Cuts and bruises will look better at the trial.’

  Guzmán stepped back. The daylight was almost gone now. ‘Shame you weren’t at the first trial,’ Guzmán said, ‘the sentence was passed in your absence.’ He smiled. ‘That was a long time ago. But the sentence stands. There’ll be no more trials for you.’

  Guzmán shot Umbral between the shoulder blades. The percussive bark of the Browning echoing down the alley, the smell of burning from the scorched clothing around the bullet wound in the man’s back. A momentary twitching as Umbral’s body accustomed itself to being dead. And then the blood. Guzmán retrieved the dead man’s pistol and placed it next to the body. The guardia civiles came running, slipping and sliding on the icy ground.

  ‘Qué ha pasado, Comandante?’ The teniente struggled to keep his balance on the icy stones.

  ‘Hidden pistol,’ Guzmán said. ‘I had no choice. Take him away, boys.’

  Guzmán went back to the car and sank into its warm musty interior. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘You got him, sir.’ Less a question than a statement. At least it indicated the driver was capable of thought.

  ‘I always do, Corporal,’ Guzmán said. ‘I always get them, because there’s nowhere left for them to hide.’

  The car’s engine growled into life.

  ‘Drop me at the Plaza Mayor,’ Guzmán ordered. ‘I’ll get back to the comisaría under my own steam later.’ He was hungry.

  It was dark when the car stopped to let Guzmán out. He walked across the cobbled square of the Plaza Mayor, the lights of the bars along the sides of the square warm and inviting. Beneath a street light Guzmán pulled out the dead man’s wallet. Fake identity papers, a repair bill for some clothes. And five thousand pesetas. A man on the run with a lot of money, Guzmán thought, putting the money into his wallet. We’ll have to find out who his benefactor was. It wouldn’t be too difficult.

  He entered the Bar de Andalucía. The lights inside were poor and the selection of tapas on the bar despicable, but it was better than being outside. Guzmán treated himself to a brandy and then another, courtesy of the late Señor Umbral. The drink made him hungry and he ordered a plate of fried fish and then another brandy to keep out the cold.

  At eight o’clock, Guzmán returned to the wintry darkness, strolling down into the small darkened square of Plaza Santa Ana, his footsteps muffled by the deepening snow. Pausing, he looked in through the window of the Cervecería Alemana, noting the warm glow from the lamps, the radiance of the stove behind the bar and the aroma of hot food that drifted out into the brittle cold each time the door opened. A couple more brandies wouldn’t hurt. After all, he was on duty. Guzmán opened the door but was pulled up by a voice behind him.

  ‘Buenas tardes, Comandante. A sus ordenes.’ Two uniformed policemen jumped to attention. Guzmán had been so focused on the ambience of the bar he hadn’t even seen them.

  He scowled, his desire to ensconce himself in the warm fug of the bar and to order some hot food making him even more irascible than usual. ‘Something wrong?’ he snapped.

  ‘No, sir, just that… it’s me, Fuentes, from Calle Toledo. I worked for you last year on the Irate case. Doesn’t the comandante remember me?’

  Guzmán didn’t remember him. ‘Fuentes? That’s your name, is it?’

  ‘Si, mi Comandante. A sus ordenes.’

  Guzmán glared at Fuentes through the mist of sharp sleet. ‘How the hel
l do you expect me to remember the name of every uniformed halfwit who opens the doors for me on an investigation? Carry on with your patrol, do your duty and don’t fuck up my evening any further. Those are my orders. Entiendes?’

  ‘Understood, mi Comandante.’ The man saluted and Guzmán felt himself begin to rage when Fuentes stayed where he was, waiting until Guzmán returned his salute and dismissed him. ‘Carry on, Fuentes, before a crime wave breaks out in your absence.’

  ‘Sí, señor.’ Fuentes turned away into the darkening square, glad to escape Guzmán’s anger.

  ‘Fuentes,’ Guzmán called. ‘Next time, speak when you’re spoken to. That will make it easier to ignore you.’

  ‘Understood, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán turned his back before the man could salute again. It was getting colder.

  At the other side of the square, Fuentes rejoined his companion. The younger man cradled his carbine under his cape. He looked questioningly at Fuentes.

  ‘That was Guzmán,’ Fuentes said. ‘Comandante Guzmán.’

  ‘The war hero?’

  ‘That’s him. The bastard. In the war they say he used to kill Reds and then cut off their ears – even from the women.’ Fuentes looked back nervously. ‘From what they say he would probably like to do that to most of us in uniform as well. My advice is to avoid him. It makes life easier.’

  ‘Can’t you get on his good side?’ the younger man asked, watching uninterestedly as a legless beggar pulled himself past them, the stumps of his legs strapped to two wooden blocks, enabling him to half crawl and half slide over the cobbles. The beggar looked away, not wanting their attention. There was little chance of that, beggars were too numerous to interest them.

  Fuentes laughed. ‘Good side? Madre de Dios, he doesn’t have a good side. He hates everyone: the guardia civil, the army, nuns, cripples, probably even the baby Jesus himself. Mind you, Franco himself pinned the medal on him so he must have seen something in Comandante Guzmán. God knows what.’

  The policemen laughed conspiratorially and continued their patrol, boots crunching on the growing layer of snow that covered the cobbles of Plaza Santa Ana. The dull light of the street lamps struggled against the growing darkness. At the edge of the square, the two guardia passed into the shadows of the freezing night and were gone.

  Guzmán watched the two policeman blend into the shadows bordering the square before opening the door to the Cervecería Alemana. The air was suddenly warm and moist with the smells of cooking meat and fish. Ignoring the ‘buenas tardes’ from the barman who called out a greeting to each customer as they entered, Guzmán found a table and sat with his back to the wall.

  The waiter came at once. ‘Comandante. Buenas tardes.’

  ‘How’s business, Salvador?’

  The waiter blanched. If Guzmán made small talk it was a bad sign. Normally he would utter a stream of monosyllabic commands to which the only acceptable response was compliance.

  ‘We manage, Comandante. As the comandante knows, times are hard. Produce is hard to obtain. But we do our best.’

  ‘Well, do your best now. I’ll have a plate of calamari, prawns with garlic and a glass of Rioja. And bring me a newspaper. El Alcázar will do.’

  ‘At once, Comandante Guzmán,’ the waiter nodded, happy to be dismissed so quickly.

  Guzmán looked around, seeing down-at-heel students sharing a small plate of fried potatoes, businessmen immersed in newspapers or leafing through files, and a couple holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes, blind to the world. Guzmán looked at them contemptuously. In this country, how is love possible? A constant preoccupation with someone else when what you really need to do to survive is look after number one.

  The waiter brought the food. He returned to the bar and brought the Rioja. He poured, taking care to fill the glass almost to the brim. Guzmán nodded approvingly.

  ‘Tell me, Salvador, have you seen Dr Vargas in here lately?’ Guzmán saw the waiter stiffen, taken off guard for a second. Go on, lie to me, I’ll kick you senseless. The waiter swallowed.

  ‘Well?’ Guzmán was staring hard now. ‘Before you answer, remember I still have your brother-in-law’s name in my notebook. Once a Red, always a Red, they say. How sad if I have to reopen his case and go into his past a little more closely. I doubt your wife would forgive you if she found out you could have saved his neck but didn’t.’

  There was sweat on the waiter’s brow. He had a look Guzmán knew well. He was scared, shit scared, his mind in turmoil between a desire not to inform on the doctor while also wanting to protect his brother-in-law from more detailed attention from Guzmán. It was one or the other. There was a certain calculation that had to be made and Guzmán waited for the waiter to make it.

  ‘The doctor was in here two nights ago. He comes in every Monday and now and then on Fridays as well.’

  ‘And what does the doctor talk about when he comes here?’

  ‘Oh, the weather, rationing, students who won’t try hard enough. Just day to day…’

  Guzmán seized him by the wrist. The waiter froze, trying to mask the pain but not succeeding. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Salvador, or your wife’s brother will be breaking rocks in Albacete until 1970. Unless of course the tribunal send him to the firing squad.’ This is where it becomes clear to him, where he can’t tell me enough, where he doesn’t hold anything back because he so wants to tell me what I want to hear and he doesn’t want me to think he’s leaving anything out. This is what fear does.

  ‘Dr Vargas meets with one man every week, usually Mondays. Bald, about forty with a short moustache. Well dressed, expensive clothes, sharp cut.’

  ‘And what do they talk about?’

  ‘Comandante, I would never listen in to our customers’ conversations…’ The waiter dried up under Guzmán’s rigid gaze.

  ‘Have you ever been in the offices of the Brigada Especial, Salvador?’ Guzmán asked, taking a mouthful of wine. He waved a finger for the waiter to top it up.

  ‘Me? No, sir. I served my country during the crusade, as the comandante knows. There has never been any reason for the—’

  ‘What I mean,’ Guzmán growled, ‘is unless you drop the bullshit, you may find yourself down there, with me, my sargento and with your fucking teeth all over the room in the vaults where we take the faggots, the heretics, communists and pissy waiters who don’t seem to want to do their patriotic duty.’

  ‘From what I overheard, they talk about some sort of political stuff. I honestly don’t understand it, Comandante. I swear. It’s too complicated for me.’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Give me a clue. You must have heard something you recognised or can remember. Think. You’re doing so well it would be a shame to send you home to your wife with your nose spread across your face and your balls like watermelons. Still, if you can’t work, I expect your wife will be able to support you. Somehow.’

  ‘Words, Comandante. Long words, dialectical materialism, proletariat, hegemony.’

  ‘Even a moron like you knows what lies behind talk like that.’

  The waiter nodded. ‘The sort of things the Reds used to say, “Those without God—”’

  Guzmán cut him short. ‘Well done, Salvador. You’ve served your country yet again.’ He gestured towards his glass and the waiter refilled it obediently. Guzmán lifted the glass, watching the light from the gas lamps illuminate the subtle colours of the wine.

  The waiter stepped back, drained and eager to get away. Even though he had done nothing wrong himself, there was always the possibility the guilt of others could attach itself. Just knowing a suspect was enough to suggest complicity.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Comandante?’

  ‘Not for now. But next time the doctor comes in and meets this other man, call my office. We should talk with the doctor. Make his acquaintance more formally.’

  With a stiff bow, the waiter turned and made his way to the bar. Through the haze of blue oil smoke from the large iron grill, G
uzmán saw him say something to the cook. The cook glanced across the room, hurriedly averting his gaze when Guzmán stared back. Guzmán noticed Salvador put the empty bottle of Rioja on the counter and then pour himself a cognac, gulping it down before he disappeared into the steaming kitchen.

  When he had eaten, Guzmán pulled on his hat and overcoat and left without looking at the staff behind the bar. Such niceties were not necessary here. Bracing himself, he opened the door and stepped out into the flat unrelenting cold. There were winners and losers. And we won. To the victors the spoils. And to the enemy? Fuck them. Those like Salvador were just as bad in their own way, always willing to defend or condone or excuse. The ones who would forgive and forget. Because they were weak. From there it was just another step to listening to the arguments of those who advocated Marxism, godlessness, Freemasonry or worse, democracy. Democracy, what a laugh. One vote for all? He stared at a beggar hunched in a doorway, a twisted hand holding a tin cup. Give a vote to that? What fool would let it happen? The war was fought to decide who would run the country. Franco won, and now things were done his way. And those who helped achieve victory reaped their rewards in turn. The Caudillo had called for an iron fist and it was people like Guzmán who wielded that fist. That was the way it was and that was the way it was staying. It suited Guzmán very well.

  Walking back to the comisaría along Calle de Atocha, Guzmán saw the snow thicken in the lamplight, the bleak continuity of the flakes picked out briefly in their weightless descent through the greasy halo of the street lamps. Behind curtains, a weak glow occasionally fluttered from a candle or lamp. It’s as if the entire city is in hiding. Hiding in the dark, afraid and guilty. Guilty people, guilty for what they had done or guilty for what they had not done. Let them stay that way. Fear restrains them in a way no prison can. Some think they can hide their guilt in the darkness, but it’s the darkness that will betray them. And there were so many willing to betray them, he knew. And then he, Guzmán, would seek them out just as they had always feared, and he would destroy them. Just the knowledge this was possible was enough to keep most in their place, fearful and suspicious. They could never know who to trust. And when no one can be trusted, everyone is a suspect.