The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (4 page)

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 hell 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
.’