The Exile (56 page)

15/9/1954 $1,950

8/10/1954 $5,500

This was Jiménez's work, without doubt. The little
marica
had been carefully logging the cost of weapons – what else could those sums represent? Certainly nothing legitimate, since he had gone to some trouble to keep this list and the map hidden. And how typical that the little faggot had used Magdalena's photo to hide it. Guzmán looked at the last date on the list. Yesterday's date. And the sum hadn't been ticked off. If El Lobo was delivering weapons to the old fortress he might still be there, waiting for someone to turn up and pay him. It would be a shame to leave the bastard alone up there. Guzmán shoved the map into an inside pocket as he made for the stairs. Above him, a shadow moved across the rectangle of light through the open trapdoor.

The shot whined past his head, impacting into the far wall in a storm of flying paper. Guzmán raised the Browning and fired through the trapdoor, flinching as a bullet ricocheted away to his left. He jumped to his feet. That had been too close for his liking. No one was going to use him for target practice.

He sprang up the stairs, firing at the office door as he scrambled behind the heavy desk. Brandy splashed onto the floor behind him as a bullet ripped through the door and shattered one of the bottles of Carlos Primero. Rising from behind the desk, Guzmán fired two rapid shots and dropped behind the desk again. On the other side of the door he heard a harsh, metallic rasp. The sound of an automatic weapon being readied.

Guzmán rolled away from the desk as a blast of machine-gun fire ripped pieces from the veneered desktop, filling the air around him with needle-sharp splinters. The firing stopped, leaving an abrupt silence, broken only by the shrill ringing in his ears and the dripping of brandy from the shattered bottles. Guzmán crouched by the doorway. Attack was always better than defence and he kicked aside the shattered remains of the door, scanning the room beyond with the Browning. The machine-gunner had gone, though his weapon lay on the floor, a Thompson, Guzmán noted, seeing the round magazine.

Cautiously, he made his way outside. As he crossed the lawn, he noticed General Torres's elegant Hispano Suiza parked by the fruit trees. There seemed little point driving a decrepit
guardia
jeep when he could borrow an expensive vehicle like that. He found the keys on top of the driver's sun visor and started the engine. Viana would have to wait. If El Lobo was up at that fortress, there was still a chance Guzmán could complete this operation. And a chance was all Guzmán needed.

OROITZ 1954,COMISARÍA DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

Viana went down the corridor to the radio room. The air was thick with the stale smell of sweat. All the rooms he passed were empty, their doors open. A barracks with only ghosts to man it now. He smiled, thinking of Guzmán's failed attempt to kill El Lobo. The
comandante
had bet everything on that operation and lost. The fool didn't know how much he'd lost. He soon would.

Viana sat at the table and opened Guzmán's file, leafing through the typed sheets. After the first few pages he stopped and began reading again, more carefully this time.

‘
Mierda
.' Viana smoothed his oiled hair with his hand, exasperated. It was just as well Guzmán hadn't read this. If he had, he could have spoiled everything. But there were others who needed to know and he looked round for a telephone, seeing the big Bakelite phone on a desk by the far wall. Cluttered with papers and boxes, he'd hardly noticed the desk when he'd come in. But from this angle he saw it differently. Very differently. Because now he saw the body on the floor, behind the desk. The green uniform and boots of a
guardia civil
.

A lance corporal, Viana saw as he examined the corpse. Someone had stabbed him in the chest, though it was like no stab wound Viana had ever seen. The upper chest was split in a great bloody gash of torn flesh and shards of bone. Afterwards, the killer had thrown a couple of blankets onto the body to soak up the blood. Without that, there would have been blood everywhere and Viana would been alerted the moment he'd entered the room. Ignoring the dead man, he pulled the phone towards him and lifted the receiver.

‘
Me cago en la puta.
' He stared at the cable dangling from the phone, the jagged cut at the end of it.

A muffled sound reverberated along the corridor. Suddenly tense, Viana drew his pistol and walked down the corridor to the entrance, glancing into the rooms on either side of him. When he came to the front door, he stopped. The door was closed. He had left it open when he'd come in. As he reached for the handle, something moved in the room behind him. A faint sound, someone hoping to hide from him, no doubt. Viana spun round, aiming through the open door of the laundry. He'd got the bastard. There was no hiding in there. He took a step forward, his pistol held at arm's length. Ahead was a great stone washtub and a battered mangle draped with filthy sheets waiting to be washed. Beyond them, a large locker, big enough to hide a man.

He grabbed the locker door and yanked it open, aiming into the musty empty space. As he heard the noise behind him, he realised his mistake and started to turn. The blow hit him in the back, sending him crashing into the locker. Viana struggled to stay on his feet, wondering why he could no longer feel his legs as he twisted, trying to aim the pistol at his attacker. He heard shots, distant and faint. Then the axe struck him again and after that he heard nothing.

OROITZ, 1954, LA CARRERA VIEJA

Magdalena Torres brought the Pegaso to a halt up near the gate of the isolated farmhouse. She got out and lit a cigarette as she looked round at the towering landscape, smelling autumn in the air. Her friends thought she was foolish to make these collections from such remote farms when she could easily have employed someone to do it. That was not the point. These monthly journeys let her experience her native land in all its massive beauty.

It was hard for her to imagine living anywhere else, though the
comandante
had hinted she might like to visit Madrid. She had no intention of leaping into anything since she was only too aware that men were always on their best behaviour at the start. But once that first flush of romance faded, they wanted to tame her, to get her down the aisle and say
Si, quiero
as they put the ring on her finger as if branding a steer. She had seen it happen to her friends too many times to let it happen to her. And yet it was strange how well suited she and Comandante Guzmán seemed, despite everything. He could be obstinate and pig-headed, but then so could she. He had his secrets, she had hers. No one was perfect.

She crushed the cigarette underfoot and strolled to the gate. A sack was propped against the gatepost next to an old biscuit tin. She paused and pulled a slip of paper from the string round the top of the sack. A childish scrawl told her there were thirty this month. She took some change from her pocket and left it in the tin. As she lifted the heavy sack, she looked over to the farmhouse, hoping someone might come out to exchange a few words. But country folk felt uncomfortable talking to a rich señorita like her and they were embarrassed if she made the first move. She'd tried often enough.

Once the sack was stowed safely in the boot, Magdalena got behind the wheel and started the engine. Two more stops and she was done for the day.

26

COLMENAR VIEJO 2010, FUENTES RESIDENCE

‘She's found a body.
Cambio
.
' Frantic radio chatter crackled in the darkness as the special ops team pushed through the bushes towards the tree house. Abrupt shouts, flashlights glinting on the stream as a medical team splashed across, carrying stretchers. Ahead, men were already hacking furiously at the dense foliage.

From the darkness of the tree house, Galíndez saw the approaching lights and called out, trying to stop the men contaminating the crime scene. Her rasping call went unheard, and she covered her head under a shower of severed branches and leaves as the men cut their way through, crowding round her in the confined space. After so long in the dark, the flashlights were painful and she shielded her eyes with her hand.

‘You OK, Galíndez?' Machado asked.

‘I'm fine.' She pointed to the two crumpled shapes sprawled on the damp soil. ‘The bodies are over there.'

Machado knelt to examine them. ‘Any idea who they are?'

Galíndez crawled to the body nearest to her and rolled him onto his back. Even in the semi-darkness she could see the face was a mess. What was left of it. ‘White male, forties maybe, hands tied behind his back. Killed by a single shot to the back of the head. Massive damage to the face.' She kept her injured voice flat and detached, trying to be professional, though it was hard to concentrate, tormented by her concern for the girls. But this was work and Galíndez knew better than to show emotion if she wanted to keep their respect.

Listening to her, Machado thought she was a cold bitch. ‘This one's the same. Hands tied, shot in the back of the head.'

Galíndez moved away from the bodies and got to her feet.

Machado saw her get up. ‘Where are you going?'

‘To find the kids.' She turned to one of the firemen. ‘Can I borrow your torch?'

Taking the flashlight, she went back through the opening the firemen had cut through the trees, looking for some sign of the girls. It wasn't easy. Between them, the special ops teams and the firemen had churned up the grass with their boots, obscuring any tracks the children might have left. As she swept the flashlight over the lawn, something glinted on the grass and she knelt to retrieve it. A red enamel badge with black lettering: LEGIONS OF DEATH WORLD TOUR 1996. Inés's favourite band.

She groaned. For some reason, despite her strict instructions to stay hidden, the girls had abandoned the tree house and come this way, probably terrified by the sound of gunfire and exploding gas cylinders. One thing was certain: they hadn't gone back towards the house, someone would have seen them by now. It was more likely they'd headed for the top of the garden, away from the noise and flames. Galíndez decided not to go back and get the special ops guys to accompany her. Whoever was up there would hear them coming from a hundred metres away. She started up the sloping lawn, heading for the wall that marked the limit of the Fuenteses' garden. In the darkness ahead she saw a brief flicker of light as someone lit a cigarette. She turned off the flashlight and started running.

Thirty metres from the wall she stopped, listening intently as she moved towards the wall, keeping low. A faint odour of cigarette smoke hung in the warm air as Galíndez paused, thinking of her options. If she went over the wall shooting she might hit the kids. But she had to take him by surprise, otherwise he would pick her off the moment she appeared. Assuming it was one guy and not several. She wondered for a moment about shouting for back-up and realised that wasn't an option. She could hardly speak.

Galíndez crouched like a sprinter on the block.
Uno
.

Her cracked voice, harsh in the night air: ‘
Niñas
? Where are you?'
Dos
.

A trembling voice to her right. ‘
Aquí
, Ana María.' It was Inés.

‘
Callate
.' A man's voice silenced the child. Straight ahead.
Tres
.

Galíndez sprinted across the grass to the wall, her speed sending her flying up over the ragged stones, dropping down onto the parched grass, rolling quickly and scrambling to her feet, raising the pistol as she turned, looking for him. Something cold pressed against the back of her neck. ‘Don't even think about it.' A familiar voice, thick with the threat of violence.

‘Sancho?' She let the pistol fall to the grass. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I missed you.' He laughed. ‘What's wrong with your voice?'

‘Someone took a dislike to me.'

‘I'm not surprised.' He pressed the pistol harder. ‘Kneel.'

She sank to her knees. ‘Where are the girls?'

He shoved the muzzle of his gun against her back, hard. ‘Face down in the grass. Hands out in front of you.'

She slid forward, flattening herself on the ground, arms outstretched. Dry grass pressed against her face. ‘You've got me, you don't have to hurt the girls.'

He stepped back a couple of paces and retrieved her pistol. ‘I don't have to do anything, Galíndez. Least of all listen to you talking like Donald fucking Duck.'

He knelt by her side. She struggled to control her breathing as he reached forward and lifted the hem of her shirt with the barrel of his pistol and pushed the muzzle against the small of her back. She clamped her teeth together, feeling the cold metal against her skin.

‘One shot,' Sancho whispered. ‘Just one and you'd be paralysed.' He pressed the pistol harder. ‘If you lived.'