The Exile (62 page)

‘We are,' Del Rio muttered.

‘I came out of the shower.' Galíndez's voice was faint. ‘There was no towel in the bathroom so I went to look for one. I saw a pile of towels on the window sill. I knelt on the divan and leaned over to get one. When I got up, Inés was at the door, watching me.' She wiped something from the corner of her eye. ‘She must have taken this as I reached for the towel.'

‘That's your story?' Del Rio interrupted. ‘I'd say the photo looks like you posed naked while an eleven-year-old girl took your picture.'

Galíndez shook her head nervously. ‘That's not what happened. Inés was just inside the door, staring. When I saw her, I wrapped a towel round me and told her to knock next time. I didn't see her phone.' She stopped. The explanation sounded lame, even to her.

‘You don't have to say anything, Ana.' Mendez put a hand on her arm. It was the first time she'd given her any comfort during the hearing and Galíndez gave her a faint smile of thanks. Mendez took her hand away.

‘That's it for today,' Del Rio said, getting to his feet. ‘We're not going to charge you yet, Dr Galíndez. But be aware we're thinking in terms of a count of indecent behaviour with a minor. We won't arrest you, but if you do anything stupid between now and the court hearing, we'll haul you in and you'll stay locked up until the trial. No one wants to make this any more difficult than it has to be.'

Galíndez blinked. Her world was falling to pieces.

Del Rio reached over to the tape recorder and spoke briefly, terminating the interview before turning the machine off. He picked up a paper and read from it. ‘“Ana said I could take the photo but I shouldn't show it to anyone, but
Mamá
saw it and she told
Papá
.”' Del Rio gave Galíndez an icy look. ‘That's part of the witness statement. You might like to bear it in mind when you think about how you conduct your defence. Obviously, a court will look unfavourably on a not guilty plea, if it means the minor has to appear in court.'

‘That's outrageous,' Mendez said. ‘You can't tell a colleague whether she can plead guilty or not.'

A colleague
, Galíndez thought,
not
my
colleague.

‘All off the record,
Sargento
,' Del Rio said. ‘I'm just making Ana María aware of the seriousness of the charges.'

‘Oh God,' a voice said. Galíndez realised it was hers.

‘Anything else you want to say?' Del Rio asked.

‘She has no comment to make right now.' Mendez took Galíndez by the arm and steered her to the door. She paused. ‘I take it that's all?'

‘Not quite,' Del Rio said. ‘I'll need your ID card, please, Dr Galíndez.'

Reluctantly, Galíndez took the laminated ID from around her neck and handed it over. She saw the small photo on the card, remembering the day it was taken. She bit her lip.

‘You'll get this back if you're cleared,' Del Rio said. ‘Have you got a weapon?'

She shook her head.

‘Then that's all for now, Dr Galíndez. Thanks,
Sargento
.' Del Rio opened the door and Mendez led Galíndez out into the corridor. The door closed behind them.

‘I'm finished, aren't I?' Galíndez muttered.

Mendez gave her a strange look. ‘What in God's name were you thinking of?'

‘You don't seriously think I let Inés take that photo?'

Mendez didn't answer.

‘Christ, you don't believe me either, do you?' Galíndez said. ‘Inés took the photo while I was getting a towel. I swear to God.'

‘You always had a wild streak, Ana. Remember when you used to come to the dojo?'

‘That was different. I was only sixteen. Inés came in without me knowing and took a picture. End of story.'

‘So why didn't you tell her parents that she'd burst in on you like that?'

‘I didn't want to make a fuss about it. Besides, I didn't know she'd taken a photo.'

‘Sure you didn't have a rush of blood to the head? She hero-worshipped you and you got overexcited?'

‘Don't be stupid. All we did that evening was practise a few moves on the lawn.'

‘So there was physical contact?' Mendez groaned. ‘I don't want to hear any more. You and me go back a long way but I can't handle this. I'll ask the union to assign someone else to your case. I'm sorry. You take the lift. I'll use the stairs.'

Galíndez twisted a piece of hair as she watched Mendez go down the stairs.

‘Dr Galíndez?' Two uniformed officers came down the corridor. ‘We've got instructions to escort you from the building.'

Galíndez nodded. All she wanted was to get outside.

‘Do you need anything from your office?' These guys weren't so bad, she thought as they towered over her in the lift. It wasn't their fault.

‘I've got some sports kit in my locker... No, it doesn't matter.' Clearing out her locker would be such a final act she wasn't sure she could handle it right now.

They went with her to the exit. ‘Anything else we can do? Get you a cab or something?'

Get me out of all this.
‘No, thanks. I'll be fine.'

Outside, she saw a normal day. People crowding the pavement, patrol cars pulling up, flashes of green and white as others drove away. Her mind whirled with things she should have said or done. Things that might have kept her from running full tilt into the shit.

She almost turned back to look at the dark bulk of the HQ building one last time, to try and accept she wouldn't be coming back. But that meant acknowledging her worst fear had finally come true. The fear that had dogged her since she'd joined the
guardia
to follow in
Papá
's footsteps.
I'm a failure. Christ, people said it enough: Miguel was
guardia
through and through, shame about his daughter.
They could add a postscript now:
We knew she was no good.

She kept walking, a question hammering in her head: why had Inés lied? Her fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms There was no use asking. No one would believe anything she said because their minds were made up the moment they saw that photograph. Christ, even Mendez thought she was lying.

As she walked, she wondered about calling someone. She took her phone from her pocket and scrolled through her contacts, looking at the names one by one. Slowly, she put the phone back in her pocket.

She was on her own now.

29

OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, PENSIÓN ARALAR

The door to the
pensión
was open. There was no reply when Guzmán called Señora Olibari's name and he went in. Moving quietly through the hall, he passed the big dining room where he had eaten so well a few days earlier. A chair had been moved away from the table, he noticed. One chair. He drew the Browning and went in search of Señora Olibari.

At the back of the house, he found the old lady lying face down beneath the open wall safe, still clutching a German Luger. Guzmán whistled in admiration. So the old girl was one of Gutiérrez's agents. Out of practice though, since the fake Viana had anticipated her intentions and put a bullet in the back of her neck once she'd unlocked the safe. Even so, she'd managed to cut the phone cable before he got to her. Guzmán had quite liked the old battleaxe. She spoke her mind and was a formidable cook. Viana would suffer for this.

The safe was empty. That meant Viana had the file. Without it, Guzmán didn't have a clue what Gutierrez wanted him to do. He put a hand on Señora Olibari's arm. She was still warm. It was possible Viana might still be nearby. He thought for a moment, trying to imagine Viana's next move. Without doubt, he would need to inform his bosses of the contents of the file. To do that, he would have to use the phone or the radio at the
guardia cuartel
.

Guzmán left the
pensión
and hurried down the track. The door of the
cuartel
was open and even before he stepped inside, he could see the pool of blood spreading across the floor. Keeping the Browning raised, he went into the laundry room. There were two bodies lying close together, surrounded by a slick of congealing blood. Viana was lying on his back, a woodsman's axe buried in his chest. It was an impressive wound, and Guzmán casually wondered if he'd suffered. He hoped so.

The other body was a surprise: it was the big wood-chopper Jesús Barandiaran, face down with two bullet wounds in his back. Close range too, Guzmán noted, seeing the scorch marks on his shirt. Viana's gun lay nearby, suggesting he'd made an attempt to defend himself. Even so, it was hard to see how he could have shot Jesús in the back before being killed. Someone else had fired those shots.

Guzmán left the corpses and began to search the barracks. In the radio room, he found the lance corporal behind a desk. He too had been killed by an axe blow.

On the table near the smashed radio, he saw the red cardboard folder and, by it, the phone with its wire severed. So Viana had read the file? That hardly mattered: with the radio and phone out of action, it was unlikely he could have passed on the information to anyone else before he was killed. Guzmán picked up the file. Three people had died on account of this document. It made sense to read it.

He pulled up a chair and opened the file at the first page, seeing entries dating back to the end of the Second World War. He skimmed the pages, reading of official fears that resistance groups along the lines of the French Maquis might spring up. Several pages listed suspects to be detained and questioned. Some were shot as a precautionary measure, others were placed under close surveillance and some were imprisoned. They still would be, Guzmán noted, given the length of the sentences.

The surveillance continued for years. Countless searches and interrogations led by General Mellado, the Military Governor. Mellado's brief was simple: strike fear into the populace and terrify them into submission. He had followed his orders to the letter.

Impatiently, Guzmán skipped forward to the entries for the last couple of years. Reports of Red guerrillas being smuggled into Spain by a French gang, the Çubiry. He took a deep, angry breath. If Gutiérrez had given him this material when he'd arrived, he might have had the job done in a day or two. He needed to have words with the
general de brigada
.

He read on, impressed by the extent of the surveillance operation. The later sections of the report dealt with a cell of young would-be guerrillas who met regularly in a schoolhouse in a tiny
pueblo
called Ihintza. Meetings organised by one Fernando Etxarte who had attempted to buy arms from undercover agents. A handwritten note in the margin:
Immediate Action.
Signed by General de Brigada Gutiérrez. Alongside that, dated a few weeks ago:
Allocated to Comandante Guzmán for action.

And here was a much more recent scrawled note from Gutierrez:
The Resistance have an anonymous quartermaster, according to Guzmán.
Next to it, an entry noting Guzmán had terminated the cell. A list of the names of the dead students, and Etxarte, of course. An addendum that as well as the quartermaster, two other members had not attended that night. Fortunately, after further enquiries, the two had been identified by an informant. Guzmán clenched his fists. This was something else Gutierrez had kept from him.

A heading at the top of the next page:
Detain as part of Saturday night's operation.
There followed a long list of suspects to be arrested across the region. He stared at the list, puzzled.
What fucking operation?
He read the details quickly, his surprise growing as he saw the instructions for mass arrests, detentions without trial, and a few cases considered so dangerous they were to be summarily executed.

Guzmán frowned. Gutiérrez was full of fucking surprises. He was about to do precisely what he'd said he didn't want to happen: send in troops to arrest and torture suspected members of the resistance. Christ, Franco himself had forbidden those things so nothing would compromise the
Yanquis
making the payment for the trade deal. If Mellado learned of this he'd try to muscle in, hoping to grab the glory. That would be a disaster for all concerned. Guzmán wiped his hand across his face, suddenly tired. What a fucking day. Surprise after surprise.

And here was another surprise, one he could never have anticipated. The arrest of the two who'd avoided Guzmán's massacre at the schoolhouse had been postponed, the notes said, until the informant confirmed their identity. That confirmation had now been received. They were Begoña and Nieves Arestigui, aged thirty-five and eighteen respectively, residents of Lauburu Farm near Oroitz. They were to be arrested, along with the other subversives during the operation scheduled for today.

Guzmán stared at the typewritten notes, struggling to think how such mistakes could have been made in a report of this importance. Because it had to be a mistake. He read the details again, slowly, numbed by the slow, cold realisation there was no mistake.

He wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling the throbbing pain in his arm as he cursed Begoña and Nieves for dabbling in things they knew nothing of. Clearly, they had no fucking idea what the consequences would be. Worse, this operation was not something he could interfere with. Things were beyond his control now. He was helpless.

A memory of cold air, his feet hammering down the stone steps into the darkness. Raising his lighter, seeing Arantxa on the rubble-strewn floor of the cellar, her mutilated body sagging against the ropes that still bound her to the chair, her dark, dead eyes staring at him.

He had been helpless then as well.

Guzmán looked at his watch. It was five forty-five. Even if he phoned, Nieves and Begoña wouldn't have time to get away. Exasperated, he pounded the table with his fist. Phone them? They didn't have a phone.
He
didn't have a phone. This wasn't Madrid. No one could help them now. Certainly he couldn't. Trying to interfere was the most stupid thing he could do. It was treason, collaboration with enemies of the state and more. It was inconceivable for someone in his position to do such a thing. If Begoña and Nieves were guilty, they deserved to be punished. Every action had its consequences.