The Exile (9 page)

Guzmán felt a familiar sensation. A flame held to a fuse. ‘What did you just say?'

Scar-face grinned, his broken teeth glinting in the faint light of the courtyard. ‘You heard. The general thinks you're his friend. We think different.'

‘“We”?' Guzmán repeated. He heard a soft noise behind him and turned. ‘You brought your pals,' he said, giving the big shadowy figures a look of contempt.

‘We look after the general,' Scar-face said. ‘And if you don't behave properly with him, we'll break every fucking bone in your body.'

Guzmán gritted his teeth. ‘You're out of line, Private.'

‘Don't try and pull rank,' Scar-face muttered. ‘Just watch it in future, or we'll come calling.' He spat onto the cobbles. ‘But first, we'll call on that blonde you were with.'

Guzmán walked away through the cloisters, hearing their laughter behind him. Four veteran legionnaires would be difficult to take on, even for him, he reflected, standing at the entrance to the mansion. A vein in his temple throbbed.

Magdalena was leaning on one of the Grecian pillars by the entrance, a fox fur stole draped round her shoulders. She exhaled a pale cloud of smoke. ‘I'll give you a lift to your hotel if you're ready.'

A red blur swept across his vision. The fuse sparking into flame.

‘I think I left something in the general's office. Could you give me five minutes?'

‘Of course. I'll wait in the car.'

There were no echoes now as Guzmán retraced his path along the corridor. He walked silently, the way the Moors taught him in the war. At the door to the cloisters he stopped and slipped the trench knife from the scabbard on his calf. The blade glimmered in the darkness. Keeping the knife flat against his leg, he went in search of Scar-face.

It did not take long. Guzmán heard the legionnaire's voice echoing from the alcove where the women's cells were located. One of the prisoners was weeping as the man enunciated the catalogue of torments he was going to subject her to. These men were scum at the best of times, Guzmán knew. With no war to occupy them, Mellado had allowed them to grow presumptuous. Presumption was one thing. Tolerating it was something else. It was weakness.

As Guzmán entered the alcove, Scar-face was standing outside the cell at the far end.

The fuse burned shorter now.

Guzmán walked towards him silently, gauging the distance between them as he raised the knife. He was almost upon him by the time the legionnaire sensed his presence.

‘What do you want?' The man's scars had a luminous quality in the dark.

Guzmán adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘I came to apologise. I don't want any trouble.'

The man sniggered. Stale wine on his breath. ‘You'd better say sorry then.'

‘I already left you an apology,' Guzmán said. The knife felt like an extension of his arm.

‘Yeah?' Contemptuous. ‘Where?'

A sudden tense silence. Guzmán shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, his grip on the knife balanced and comfortable. ‘In your mother's cunt.'

He swung the knife, putting his massive strength behind the heavy blade as it sliced open the legionnaire's throat, sending him reeling against the wall, already drowning in his own blood as he fell. Guzmán stepped back to avoid the last spurts of blood, watching the man's final spasms with professional satisfaction.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?' Magdalena asked as he got into the car.

Guzmán reached for his cigarettes. ‘It turned out I hadn't lost it at all.'

‘That must be a relief.' She started the engine and the car moved down the drive. The sentries saluted as they opened the gates. They drove along the sea road, following the curve of the beach. The bay was black, speckled with light from the shore.

‘Beautiful, don't you think?' she asked, looking at the bay.

‘Very beautiful,' Guzmán said, looking at her.

The car turned into the boulevard and slowed to a halt outside his hotel.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA

‘Can I offer you a nightcap?'

‘I won't,
gracias
,' Magdalena said. ‘I never go back to a gentleman's hotel room on the first night. I find my restraint helps develop a certain demeanour in him later on.'

‘What kind of demeanour?'

‘Why, gratitude, of course.' She brushed his cheek with her lips and got back into the car. Guzmán watched as she gunned the engine and sped away down the boulevard, turning with a squeal of tyres into Calle San Juan. As the roar of the engine died away, he went to the hotel door and hammered on it to wake the night porter.

The bleary-eyed porter opened the door and Guzmán waited at the desk, impatient for his room key. It had been a good night, he reflected, a very good night indeed, and nothing, not even this wooden-headed
badulaque
, could ruin it.

As he handed Guzmán his key, the porter remembered the letter that had arrived earlier in the evening and hurried to retrieve it from the ancient wooden mail rack behind the desk.

Guzmán tore open the envelope and read the short message inside. He had been wrong.

His evening was ruined.

VILLARREAL, 9 MARCH 1937

The
teniente
did not visit her the next morning. Instead, she was taken upstairs by a myopic corporal in thick spectacles. He led her to one of the ruined houses and waited outside while she washed in a bucket of cold water. Afterwards, they sat on a stone wall and Ochoa held the baby for a while, waving the doll at her until she beamed.

He took out a battered packet of Superiores. She took the cigarette he offered and leaned forward to let him light it. ‘Can I ask your name, Corporal?'

‘Segismundo Ochoa,
señorita
. At your service.'

‘Do you have children?'

‘Not yet,' Ochoa said. ‘I will one day, I hope.'

He was about to escort her back to the cellar when the
teniente
returned. After Ochoa had gone, she laughed, seeing the
teniente
's face blackened with soot. ‘You look like the devil,' she told him. ‘Want me to tell your fortune like I used to?'

He took her by the arm and started leading her back to the ruined building. ‘Stop acting like you know me,' he growled.

‘Then help us get away,
chico
. If you don't, I'll lay a curse on you.'

His face darkened. ‘Don't joke about things like that.'

‘Then help us. Just let me and the little one go on our way, for old times' sake?'

‘It might be easier just to kill you.'

‘Don't even think about trying that,
chico
. I know who you are, remember? In any case, if anything happens to me, the curse stays put for ever.'

He escorted her back to the cellar in silence. The guards led her back down into the shadows and he walked away, lost in dark thoughts.

She was becoming a problem.

4

LEGUTIO, JULY 2010, PENSIÓN ARALAR

Sargento Atienza found Galíndez in the dining room, finishing off a plate of
jamón, huevos y tomates
. They shook hands and Atienza asked for coffee when Señora Olibari came to say good morning. She guessed Atienza was in his fifties from his greying hair and beard.

He watched her push her plate away. ‘You're not leaving that ham, are you?'

‘Go ahead, I'm stuffed.'

‘
Gracias
.' Atienza picked up a piece of bread and made a sandwich with the ham. He glanced at the wood-panelled dining room. ‘I bet this place looked the same fifty years ago.'

‘Can we get started?' she asked, impatient. ‘I have to be back in Madrid this evening.'

‘Sure, let's go.' Atienza finished his improvised breakfast and went out into the street. Galíndez picked up her bag of equipment and followed him. A four-by-four was parked outside. As she stowed her bag on the back seat, she noticed Atienza lying on the kerb, checking underneath the vehicle with a small mirror. A careful, systematic search, something her father should have done the morning he was killed. Another reminder of where she was.

Atienza finished his inspection and sensed her watching. ‘Routine precaution,' he grunted casually as he got behind the wheel. He'd unfastened the retention strap on his holster, she noticed. Not so casual after all.

Atienza followed the narrow cobbled street down to the main road and turned north across a long bridge over a lagoon, heading towards a series of hills several kilometres away. The clouds had rolled away now and the water glittered. She saw rowing boats and sailboards, people fishing.

‘Did you see the remains of the
cuartel
when you arrived?' Atienza asked.

She nodded. ‘There wasn't much left. Will they build another?'

‘Supposedly, but the local councillors are holding things up. They think if they do that long enough the
guardia
won't come back.' He shrugged. ‘Leave them to it, I say.'

They left the road and turned onto a rough dirt track running up the side of a hill overlooking the dam. After a few hundred metres, the track grew too steep to continue.

‘Sorry, Ana.' Atienza held up his hands in apology. ‘We'll have to walk from here.'

Galíndez looked at the gradient of the steep track, imagining the pain in her ribs as she climbed with the heavy bag of equipment. She shrugged. ‘No problem.'

‘Can I carry your bag for you?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't need any help.'

Further along the hillside, slow lines of construction vehicles were struggling up a makeshift service road leading to the flat ground on top of the hill where the skeletal outline of a crane towered over the half-completed sports complex.

Atienza was talkative and filled her in on most of his life story in the first ten minutes of the walk. It was pretty standard stuff: a daughter who left home at sixteen, unable to tolerate the disruption of his various postings, and then an acrimonious divorce. And now, with retirement looming, he hadn't a clue what he would do in civilian life.

The hilltop was littered with ruined houses. Atienza pointed to some ragged brick walls, none of them more than half a metre high. ‘That's the house. Or it was.'

The ruin was surrounded by green and white chequered tape:
Guardia Civil No Pasar
. Two uniformed troopers with sub-machine guns were standing by the ruins of the house. Both men acknowledged Atienza with a friendly wave. Neither spoke to Galíndez, though she noticed their brusque appraisal.

‘This is Juan Carlos,' Atienza said, introducing Galíndez, ‘and this is Pepe.'

They grunted, turning their attention to a group of men standing a few metres away.

‘Those are the construction workers,' Atienza explained. ‘They're waiting for us to sort out what's in this cellar so they can get back to work. They'll lose money if we hold them up much longer.'

Galíndez stopped. One of the men was staring at her. A tall heavy-set guy with a thick beard covering his pointed chin. The ‘hare face' they called it up here. A Basque face.

She walked toward him, returning his stare. ‘Got a problem?'

He glowered at her. ‘Fuck off back to Madrid.'

She felt the vibrations start somewhere deep in her chest, spreading down her arms, her fists clenching. ‘What did you call me, you prick?'

A hand gripped her arm. ‘Leave the peasants alone,' Atienza said quietly. ‘The farmers need lads like him to keep their sheep pregnant.'

Galíndez tensed against his hold on her arm. She heard the metallic rattle of the two troopers readying their weapons.

‘Come on,' Atienza muttered. ‘We don't want anyone getting hurt. It's bad publicity.'

Galíndez turned reluctantly and started back towards the house. A mocking voice followed her. ‘There she goes, down into that cellar to take it up the arse, like all the other whores from Madrid.'

‘
Puta madre
.' She spun round, incensed.

Atienza pulled her back. ‘
Tranquila
, Ana, there'll be trouble if this kicks off.'

‘Yeah, Ana, don't start any trouble.' The construction worker grinned. ‘Just drop your
bragas
and bend over, that's what you're here for.'

Galíndez glared at him, rigid with anger. She was memorising his face.

The bearded man cackled. ‘Look at her shaking. They're all scared when they come here. Make sure to look under your car when you go home,
puta
.' He made a gesture, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘Boom.'

‘Leave it now, Aïtor,' one of the others muttered.

‘Ana, do you want to see what we found or not?' Atienza asked, trying to distract her.

Galíndez threw a last dark look at Aïtor and turned to inspect the ruins.

It had been a large building once. She saw a ragged opening and a flight of steep stone steps descending into dark shadow. ‘They're down there?' she asked, putting down her bag.

‘That's right.' Atienza pointed to a heap of broken concrete. ‘The cellar entrance was sealed up. The concrete cracked when a heavy vehicle got too near. The house was built on the site of an older one, but no one knew about the cellar.'

‘Did you touch anything when you went down?'

‘When I saw the bones, I guessed what it was,' Atienza said. ‘I knew you wouldn't want my DNA all over the place.'

‘I wish more of our agents were like you.' Galíndez tied back her hair and took a pair of latex gloves from her bag. She smiled. ‘I hate a contaminated crime scene.'