The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  He began to move again, still keeping low. White light flashed from across the loading bay, the sound of a gunshot and a bullet smashed into the wood above his head. Whatever the weapon was, Guzmán thought, it was bloody powerful, its report gruff and unfamiliar. He began to move again, his pistol now aimed in the direction of the shot. Nothing. Not a sound, no click of a weapon being cocked, no sign of movement. He continued to move, a few centimetres at a time, ready to turn onto the section of the boardwalk running beneath the front windows.

  The world exploded in a flickering sequence of brilliant starfire fire from the opposite side of the building, the sudden staccato bark of an automatic rifle, the insect-whine of bullets impacting on metal, wood and glass. He kept down, pressed against the rough board floor. And then a single shot, this time the bullet whining away to his right. Guzmán brought the big Browning up, holding the weapon two-handed, aiming in the direction of the shot. The next time the gunman fired, Guzmán would fire the murderous soft-nosed bullets at the muzzle flash. Footsteps away to his right. He swung round, pointing the Browning down the boardwalk. The footsteps came nearer. And then the world became impossibly white as dazzling electric spotlights tore apart the funereal gloom of the warehouse. Half-blinded by the intense light, Guzmán saw the outline of a man coming towards him.

  Goldtooth. But this wasn’t the Goldtooth who had confronted him at Valverde’s reception. Now he was pale-faced, one hand holding on to the rail of the boardwalk as he staggered forwards. Guzmán saw the spreading blood on his shirt and lifted the Browning, aiming at the man’s chest. At least he would have this one. And then the savage blast of the automatic rifle scythed across the warehouse again. Pieces of Goldtooth were ripped away and sprayed against the office wall, pinning the Dominican for an instant to the wooden panels, the bullets tearing through him, bloody patterns sketched around the deadly geometry of bullet holes. He leaned against the wall, swaying under the impact of the bullets. He took a step forward but his legs folded beneath him and he fell towards the single low railing of the boardwalk. The railing splintered and broke. Guzmán heard the man cry out as he fell and heard the noise as he hit the stone floor below.

  There was no sign of the gunman and Guzmán stayed low, scanning the far side of the warehouse. Then he looked to his left and saw it. Erected against the wide front window on a pile of sandbags, the brilliant lights reflected in the oiled metal, the sharp nose pointing down through the dirty glass of the window to the street. Guzmán recognised it. A .50 calibre machine gun. Heavy ordnance. You could shoot down a plane with that, he thought. And the damage it would do to a vehicle would be devastating. Especially a limousine. He had been right. Cabrónes. He stood up slowly, pistol pointed at the boardwalk on the far side of the bay. Ready to kill.

  Something cold pressed against his neck.

  ‘I’d stay very still if I were you,’ Positano said. ‘If I get nervous and pull this trigger your head’s going to fly through that window.’

  Guzmán froze, his pistol still outstretched towards the loading bay.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking,’ Positano said, ‘forget it. Move and I’ll kill you.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Guzmán sneered. The rage was beginning to smoulder. He had to stay calm. Otherwise he might act too soon, might try to get his hands on Positano at any cost. And that would be foolish.

  ‘Open your hand and let the pistol fall,’ Positano said, increasing the pressure of the automatic rifle’s muzzle against Guzmán’s neck. Guzmán dropped the gun. The pressure on his neck eased. Positano took a step back. Guzmán waited. With his back to the American it would be stupid to try anything. Something ran down his left arm. He was bleeding from the deep cuts, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was Positano. To get close enough to do some damage and then strangle him. Maybe rip him apart with his bare hands and scatter the pieces around him as he had with Mamacita. But Mamacita was just a maricón who became a spectator to his own death. Positano wouldn’t be so easy.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Positano said.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Guzmán snarled.

  The rifle butt smashed against the back of Guzmán’s head and searing lights exploded across his vision. He staggered forward, his foot connecting with the Browning, sending it sliding over the edge of the boardwalk and down into the loading bay six metres below. The guard rail shook as Guzmán staggered against it. He clutched his head, trying to pull back from the drop in front of him. Positano again used the rifle as a club, holding it by the barrel and smashing the stock into Guzmán’s back. Guzmán gave a howl of pain and pitched forward against the barrier. The wood disintegrated in a series of dry percussive cracks as he plunged through it into the loading bay. There was a sudden impact and the air was knocked from him. He lay, fighting to breathe, hands gripping the coarse burlap of the pile of empty sacks he was lying on, his head flooded with pain worse than any he had known. He struggled to his knees, his vision awash with flashing lights. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling blood and the swelling on the back of his head where the rifle butt had struck him.

  There was a heavy impact on the pile of sacks as Positano jumped down from the boardwalk above. The man rolled smoothly, uncoiling in a single fluid motion, still holding the automatic rifle, keeping it aimed at Guzmán as he stepped towards him.

  ‘Paratrooper?’ Guzmán struggled to conceal the pain in his voice. ‘I recognise the—’

  Positano brought his boot savagely up into Guzmán’s crotch. Guzmán’s involuntary cry of agony choked on itself as he suddenly vomited, folding over, clutching himself. The pain was an excruciating revelation, holding him a prisoner of his own body, unable to move without discovering new intolerable constituencies of nauseating agony. He snorted back another cry and made a fierce effort to sit up but the pain was too much. He retched and fell back onto the sacks.

  ‘Now we can talk,’ Positano said, the automatic rifle dark and menacing, aimed straight at Guzmán’s chest. ‘I didn’t think you’d be much trouble.’ He laughed. ‘Big fuck like you, used to roughing up old men and women. First hint of trouble and you roll around moaning and puking. Typical of this country. Just like your Caudillo, Guzmán, him and his pathetic army, his pathetic government and all the other shits who hang onto his coat tails. All talk, all bluff and no balls.’

  ‘Fine,’ Guzmán panted, ‘throw the rifle over there and let’s see if you’re right.’

  Positano laughed. ‘If I did, I’d still win. I trained as a soldier, Guzmán. And I keep in training. Not like you. You beat the Republic because the fucking army turned traitor and the Nazis and Italians pitched in on your side. And to fight what? Peasants, commies and vegetarian anarchists. You must have known all along you were on the winning team.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Guzmán smiled grimly. ‘No one could be sure back then. Sometimes you had to pick sides according to circumstance.’

  ‘Well, you sure picked the right one,’ Positano said.

  ‘I did.’ Guzmán wiped a lock of hair from his eyes. ‘We won. End of story.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Positano stood up. ‘Sure, Franco’s had thirteen years of fun: shooting the losers, dressing up like the king, looting the economy. But know what, Guzmán? It’s no way to run a country.’

  ‘I like it,’ Guzmán said, measuring the distance between them. ‘It suits me very well.’

  Positano moved quickly and without warning. The rifle butt cracked into the side of Guzmán’s temple and as he rolled back clutching his injured face, Positano again brought his boot slamming down into his groin. This time, Guzmán’s cry was a primal, uninhibited articulation of pure pain. He curled in a ball, fingers digging into the sacks, unable to move until he had to lift his head in order to puke.

  ‘It must have been great fun for you, Guzmán, doing this to all those half-starved bastards you tracked down.’

  ‘I did my job,’ Guzmán groaned.

  Positano shook his head. ‘You were just a campesino,
Guzmán. A poor peasant, doing his master’s bidding. You were – and you still are – a nobody.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Guzmán’s voice was thick with pain.

  ‘If it was up to me, Comandante, you’d be dead already.’ Positano lifted the rifle to his cheek and pointed it. ‘I’d shoot you in a heartbeat. But it isn’t up to me. I’m just,’ he hesitated, struggling to recall the Spanish word, ‘I’m just a facilitator. I help people achieve things.’ ‘Really?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Who have you helped achieve anything lately?’

  Positano laughed. ‘Oh Guzmán. Your worst nightmare, amigo.’

  Guzmán scowled. ‘Valverde?’

  ‘Spot on.’ Positano grinned, his teeth gleaming in the half light. ‘A man with a vision of the future, Guzmán, instead of the past. He sees the need for change, new ideas.’

  ‘He’s a traitor,’ Guzmán spat. ‘He just wants a share of whatever’s going. Nada más.’

  ‘Well, they say “to the victor the spoils”, don’t they?’ Positano’s laugh was cold. ‘Except in Franco’s case, he took it literally and spoiled the country. With outside funding and help Spain could become a real country, not this shit-heap with bad plumbing and more spies and security men than doctors.’

  ‘Why would Valverde help you Yanquis?’ Guzmán asked. He coughed and bile ran down the side of his chin.

  ‘Work it out, Guzmán. He helps us. We help him. We get airbases. We put our planes here. If the war with Russia comes, we bomb the Soviets from here. Much faster and much more effective.’

  ‘And they drop their bombs on us?’ Guzmán asked.

  Positano shrugged. ‘Who cares? Listen, once the US starts trading with you, the rest of the world will join in as well. Hell, there’ll be all sorts of rewards. Maybe we’ll get the Brits to give you Gibraltar back.’

  ‘Just like that? The country has to change to suit you Yanquis?’ Guzmán stared malevolently at Positano. The pain made him lower his head and he saw the piles of sacks, the pool of his vomit on the dark mildewed burlap, and amongst the undulating folds, the dull sheen of the Browning.

  ‘Just like that, Guzmán. What do you think will happen when this country wakes up to find there’s enough food for everyone? Even the strictest party member is going to think we did him a favour by machine-gunning the Caudillo’s car.’

  ‘I grasped that part of the plan,’ Guzmán said. ‘Although I thought that it was going to be the Dominicans doing the shooting.’

  ‘There you go, Guzmán. Wrong again. The plan was for them to keep you busy. Get you so mad you wouldn’t see what was going on right under your nose.’

  ‘They did that all right,’ Guzmán said, grudgingly.

  ‘The Dominicans did a good job,’ Positano continued. ‘In their country they were part of the special forces. We just borrowed them from old General Trujillo. Another dictator. Completely fucking mad. But a great ally. Until we say different.’

  ‘So why don’t you get rid of him?’ Guzmán struggled not to look at his pistol. There was no way he could reach it. Not yet. Not from where he was. Not in this pain.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing.’ Positano smiled. ‘He may be a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch. Franco isn’t. Makes all the difference.’

  ‘If your Dominicans did such a good job, what happened here?’

  ‘Well, comes a time, Guzmán, when people become surplus to requirements. I had to terminate their employment.’

  ‘You killed all of them?’ Guzmán asked, with sudden professional interest.

  ‘All but one,’ Positano said. ‘One disappeared a few days ago. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Just so we know where to send the medal.’

  ‘You know where you can put it,’ Guzmán said. ‘Shame he was the only one.’

  Outside, someone pounded on the front gate.

  ‘Expecting anyone?’ Positano asked casually.

  ‘No one in particular. Just my teniente, sargento and a squad of the guardia civil.’

  Positano grinned. ‘I think you may be disappointed. Look behind you.’

  Guzmán turned. Even as he did, he realised his mistake. The rifle butt cracked across the back of his head and another mist of shimmering pain tore through him, blinding him. He sprawled face down, unable to move. He cursed and struggled, but by the time he could see again, Positano had opened the front door and returned to cover Guzmán once more with the automatic rifle.

  Guzmán lifted himself, taking his weight on his forearms, and saw the newcomer.

  ‘Buenas noches, Guzmán. I see you’ve met the welcome committee.’

  Guzmán raised his head. Sweat dripped from his face.

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi General.’

  ‘Please, Guzmán,’ Valverde said, a triumphant smirk beneath the white moustache, ‘no need for formality now, hijo de puta. Not now you’re about to die.’

  Positano was still aiming the automatic rifle at Guzmán.

  ‘Have our friends from the Caribbean been looked after?’ Valverde asked.

  ‘Just as you asked, General.’ Positano nodded.

  ‘No trouble? No one escaped?’

  ‘Not one. I told you. I do a thorough job, General. They won’t be talking to anybody about this operation.’

  ‘At least you saved me this one.’ Valverde stepped towards Guzmán, unfastening his holster. ‘So rare as a general one gets to shoot anyone these days,’ he crowed, the revolver in his hand.

  ‘You haven’t got the guts,’ Guzmán said. ‘You let others do the business while you watch. I’m sure you have a similar arrangement with your wife.’

  Valverde’s cheeks flamed as he struggled to keep control.

  ‘Guzmán, Guzmán. Always thinking you have the upper hand. Franco’s favourite assassin. His Dark Angel of the Sword. But not now, cabrón. We’ve played you like a bull and now it’s you who is waiting for the sword. But first, cabróncito, let me show you just how fucked you are. Then we’ll get rid of you once and for all. Come in, señores.’

  Guzmán looked at the big doorway and any last vestige of hope drained away. A gust of wind blew in a small cloud of snow, the icy chill sharp on his sweat-soaked body as Peralta entered, pale and cadaverous as ever, the collar of his cheap overcoat turned up against the biting wind. At least he looked suitably shamefaced, Guzmán noted.

  ‘Buenas noches, Teniente,’ Guzmán sneered. Peralta stood a pace or two behind the general and said nothing. ‘I always had you down for a traitor,’ Guzmán spat, taking some comfort from Peralta’s pained expression.

  ‘But not you,’ he said as a second figure emerged from the darkness of the doorway, closing the big wooden door behind him.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Nothing personal. Just the money, see,’ the sarge said. ‘Too good to turn down.’

  ‘Well, I hope you got your thirty pieces of silver out of this fuck in advance,’ Guzmán said, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Really, Guzmán, I think comparing yourself to Christ is perhaps a little too much.’ Valverde raised the revolver and shot Guzmán in the thigh. He cried out and fell back onto the sacks, pressing the wound with his hands to staunch the flow of blood.

  ‘He’s to be taken alive,’ Peralta shouted angrily. ‘You promised he’d have a fair trial.’

  Guzmán gritted his teeth and continued to squeeze the wound. He was dizzy. If he lost too much blood he was finished. His strength would ebb away and with it his chance of – what? Escape? That was impossible now. The best he could hope for was getting his hands on Valverde and the general was still keeping his distance, flanked by Positano and his automatic rifle.

  ‘What did you get, Teniente?’ Guzmán asked. ‘A few dollars for drink like the sarge?’

  ‘Some things are more important than money, mi Comandante,’ Peralta said.

  ‘Teniente Peralta needed some assistance with his personal finances.’ Valverde looked mockingly at Peralta.

  ‘I bet he did,’ Guzmán said. ‘His wife won’t manage on
his pension when he dies before the year’s out. Terrible thing, cancer, Teniente. Very painful way to go. Agony, they tell me. Still, you’ll find out soon enough, I hope.’

  Peralta’s mouth fell open. ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘Didn’t your mamá ever tell you?’ Guzmán grunted. ‘Never go to a Nazi doctor.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Valverde beamed. ‘Your teniente betrays you for an insurance policy and your sargento sells you out for the price of a four-course meal.’

  ‘It was a bit more than that, sir,’ the sarge said. Guzmán nodded appreciatively.

  ‘And you, Guzmán, you betrayed your country, fought for the ungodly and you’ve lied to everyone from the Caudillo downwards. Joder, if Christ had returned you’d have lied to him.’

  ‘I’ve always been consistent,’ Guzmán muttered.

  ‘Can we get on with this?’ Positano said. ‘I need to make sure the machine gun upstairs is ready. And you need to be out of here, General, ready for when the news of Franco’s assassination breaks.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Valverde said. ‘If I could have that rifle for a second, I’ll just send Comandante Guzmán to hell, where he belongs.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting when you arrive,’ Guzmán growled, ‘fucking your mother. Again.’

  Positano kept the rifle aimed at Guzmán until the general had taken it from him.

  ‘Heavy beast.’ Valverde weighed the rifle in his hands. ‘Is it on single shot?’

  ‘Yes. But can we get a move on?’ Positano said again. ‘I need to be ready for when your Head of State drives past. It has to go smoothly.’