The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (42 page)

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

Peralta had been sitting in his cramped office most of the afternoon making telephone calls and writing his usual copious notes. His conversations with the various intelligence services were providing useful information and the investigation was progressing, he thought. But progress was blighted by the constant pain in his belly. It felt as if some strange creature nestled within his gut, tearing into his innards with nagging claws, the pain radiating in complex, excruciating patterns. At times the pain dimmed, but it never went away. At five o’clock the sarge knocked on Peralta’s door to let him know Guzmán was waiting for him in the vaults.

Peralta followed the sarge down the flight of steps to the cells. The stone corridor running between the cells was lit only by a menacing grey glow from the anaemic lights. Peralta noticed the roughness of stone in the walls and ceiling, very much different to that of the building above them. Older. More coarse.

‘The Inquisition used to use these cells,’ the sarge said cheerfully as they walked down the ancient corridor. ‘Long before we moved in, of course.’

They reached the old iron banded door at the end of the corridor. The door was usually locked and bolted. It was open.

‘Steps ahead, sir.’ The sarge waited for Peralta to go through the door to the vaults.

The lighting was worse than in the corridor as they descended a rough-hewn spiral staircase hacked into the subterranean rock. The walls were damp to the touch as Peralta steadied himself, suddenly afflicted by vertigo. They descended for what he thought must have been fifteen metres. It was impossible to gauge accurately since they were descending into darkness and the solitary electric light above the door was now faint and far above them. The steps ended. Peralta had the impression of being in a large hall, their footsteps echoed around them in recurring waves and there was the steady dripping of water. In the distance was the faint sound of running water. It sounded like a river.

Peralta stopped. ‘How are we going to see,
Sargento
?’

He waited for a reply. The
sargento
must be there. He was no more capable than Peralta of seeing in the dark. For a moment Peralta wondered if he was going to be abandoned. Maybe this was a game the sarge played on newcomers. But he didn’t seem to be one for games.

A light came on. Dazzling, almost painful, it cut through the darkness, picking out Peralta in its beam. The
teniente
held up his hand to shield his eyes. To his side he saw wet stone walls and above, the curving stone ceiling ribbed, skeletal, like some underground church, its buttresses distorted by Peralta’s inflated shadow.

‘Stay there,
Teniente
.’ Guzmán’s voice came from behind the beam of the powerful searchlight. The sarge moved past him, hunched shadow and menace as he strode to take his place behind the light with his
jefe
.

‘What’s going on?’ Peralta called, suddenly uneasy.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Guzmán said, suddenly killing the light. The darkness was total, like being blind.

‘Give him a clue.’ It was the sarge, the sibilant menace in his voice reinforced by a cascade of whispering echoes rippling away into the dripping blackness.

‘
Paciencia, Sargento
. There’s no rush.’

Peralta’s voice echoed against in the dank silence. ‘Why exactly are we playing silly buggers down here,
Comandante
? Surely we’ve better things to do?’

‘We’ve got better things to do.’ The sarge again, an inflection of malice in his voice.

‘I think you’ve got something to tell me,’ Guzmán said.

Something is wrong here
, Peralta thought. ‘If I’ve done something, I have the right to know what it is.’ His tone of indignation sounded weak.

The light blazed on again, forcing the
teniente
to shield his eyes once more. Through his fingers he could see the vague illusory outline of the two men, intangible shadows obscured by the light. But this was no illusion: they were very real.

‘For Christ’s sake, what are you playing at? I can’t see.’

‘That’s the least of your problems.’ The sarge sounded angry.

‘I still don’t know what the problem is,’ Peralta said.

‘Well,
Teniente
,’ Guzmán’s voice echoed around the damp walls and ceiling, making it seem as if he were speaking from every corner at once, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell us how you spent your day?’

‘Is that it?’ Peralta was incredulous. ‘You think I’ve been skiving? You bring me down to this dungeon and treat me like a suspect because you think I’ve been taking it easy?’

‘This place has a long history of questioning,’ Guzmán said. ‘The Inquisition worked here. We think there was probably something going on before that. Something nasty. It’s a good place to come when we need to work undisturbed.’

‘No one comes down here uninvited,’ the
sargento
hissed. ‘And very few leave.’

‘None so far,’ Guzmán corrected him.

‘True enough,
jefe
. See,
Teniente
, once you’re down here, you’re in big trouble. Such big trouble it’s very hard to get out of it. In fact, it’s so hard to get out of, really the only thing you can do is to cut a deal with us.’

‘A deal?’ Peralta was still trying to grasp what was going on. ‘What deal?’

‘There are worse things than dying,’ the sarge said icily.

‘What?’ Peralta’s voice was high and incredulous.

The light went out. Shimmering echoes. The slow dripping of water. Distant scuffling.

‘Put that bloody light on.’ Peralta tried to assert himself, to regain some sense of control. Tried to stop shaking. He failed.

‘Tell us about your day,’ Guzmán said.

Peralta heard someone moving in the dark, someone moving towards him.

‘The
comandante
asked you a question.’ The sarge’s voice was very close, his breathing laboured and heavy with anger.

Guzmán’s tone was almost conversational. ‘You need to answer,
Teniente
, or the sarge will break both your legs at the knees. And then your arms as well. You’ll do a great deal of screaming and we’ll leave you for a few hours to get used to the pain of being a cripple. Then it will turn nasty.’

Peralta shivered. He was sweating profusely. ‘
Comandante
, this is no way to treat an officer under your command.’

‘Say the word, sir.’ The sarge sounded even nearer. Peralta heard his breathing. And the sound of metal dragging on stone.

‘
Teniente
, the
sargento
’s itching to do some real physical damage to you. It would be best if you just follow my advice and tell us what you’ve been doing today. Otherwise, this is going to turn ugly. The sarge can do a lot of damage with that crowbar he’s carrying.’

Peralta tried to maintain his dignity. ‘I spent the morning liaising with External Intelligence Services, checking on the Dominicans and
Señor
Positano. I’m waiting for them to get back to me about Positano. They came up with something I thought was of interest. This Ernesto Melilla – the one with the gold tooth…’

The sarge shuffled impatiently in the dark.

‘
Siga
,’ Guzmán said.

‘Melilla was in this country in March last year.’ Peralta’s mouth was dry. ‘We think it was him anyway – the date of birth on his passport matches the criminal records General Valverde gave you.’

‘It’s possible. But even so, what does that tell us?’ Guzmán said.

‘The thing is, sir, on his last visit his passport stated he was a
teniente coronel
in the Dominican Army.’

‘If it was the same man, that is,’ Guzmán said. ‘A crook with a record as long as your arm holding a military position? No,
Teniente
, that doesn’t sound right.’

‘Tell the
comandante
what else you did,’ the sarge muttered.

‘As I said, I left enquiries about Positano at Exterior Intelligence and returned to the
comisaría
around midday. General Valverde was waiting for me.’

‘Ah, yes, your uncle,’ Guzmán said casually. ‘And how was he?’

‘Charming as ever,’ Peralta said. ‘Particularly interested in what you were up to, sir.’

‘He always is,’ Guzmán said. ‘And?’

‘He then tried to implicate me in an act of treachery and asked me to spy on you.’

‘He admits it,’ the sarge spat. ‘Let me loosen him up a bit,
jefe
. Break something.’

‘Keep quiet,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘He wanted you to spy on me. What did you say to that,
Teniente
?’

‘Naturally, I agreed.’ Peralta heard the
sargento
’s muttered curse behind him.

‘And what would you get for this service to the general?’ Guzmán asked.

‘Money. Possibly your job.’

‘Traitor’s gold, more like,’ the sarge snarled.

‘One more thing,’ Guzmán said, ‘before the pain starts. And a word of warning: if it starts,
Teniente
, it only ends when you die.’

‘That could take days down here.’ The sarge sounded happier now.

‘Why didn’t tell me about Valverde?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Did you think no one would notice the
capitán-general
of Madrid rolling up to see a junior officer in the absence of his commanding officer? A junior officer related by marriage to the general?’

‘
Con permiso, Comandante
,’ Peralta said stiffly, braced for the sargento’s attack, ‘I thought if I refused the general’s offer, it would put him on the defensive. Agreeing to spy on you ensures that you can decide what information he receives.’

‘That would be a real act of loyalty,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘I’d be more convinced if you’d let me know the minute I came back.’

‘I didn’t even know you were back,’ Peralta retorted. ‘However, the details of my inquiries on the Dominicans and my conversation with the general are typed up and in a red folder in the tray on your desk.’

‘Is that true?’ Guzmán asked the sarge.

‘How the fuck do I know,
jefe
? I just listened in to the conversation like you told me.’

‘The room’s bugged?’ Peralta asked in surprise.

‘Oh yes,’ the sarge said, ‘we recorded every traitorous word you said,
pendejo
.’

‘
Sargento
, refrain from insulting the
teniente
for a moment,’ Guzmán ordered. ‘And go and see if the report’s there as he says.’

The light flared back into life, blinding Peralta again. He turned away, only to see the
sargento
, a metre away, his face twisted in anger, making him even uglier than seemed possible. In his hands was a rusty iron bar.

‘Hang on,’ Guzmán said. ‘I can’t trust the sarge not to throw the report in the bin just so he can have some fun.’ There was a growl of protest from the
sargento
but Guzmán ignored it. ‘You really wrote it all up?’ he asked Peralta.

‘Of course I did,
Comandante
. You can check for yourself.’

‘Don’t trust him,’ the sarge protested. ‘He’s bluffing.’

‘No,’ Guzmán said, ‘I think the
teniente
’s telling the truth. No one could fake such fucking pompous outrage.’

The searchlight went out and darkness returned. Guzmán snapped on an electric torch. The beam was thin and weak but enough to guide them back to the stone stairway. Peralta followed Guzmán, aware of the sarge panting at his heels, his breath fetid, like some street dog. Peralta was still shaking as he stepped through the ancient doorway into the low corridor. He felt comforted by the fact that the report was where he’d said, on Guzmán’s desk.

‘There’s a river down there,’ the sarge said in a low voice. ‘You’d have gone in it. They all do. No one ever came down here and went back up. Except us.’

‘Sarge, give it a rest,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘It’s just hard for you to deal with an honest man when you meet one.’

‘As if there’s any such thing,’ the
sargento
snorted. ‘Not in this fucking country.’

BADAJOZ 1936

The firing slowed to a sporadic crackle. Desultory shots kept the oncoming Moors pinned down around the lip of the plateau, but they were gaining ground, scrambling up the rocky pathway, crouching as the bullets whined around them and returning fire while their comrades began crawling forwards through the grass. The Moors were veterans with years of experience of colonial war in Africa and they knew how to fight. The men who opposed them were largely volunteers, experienced but hardly professional, their spirits weakened by continuous defeats at the hands of the Fascists. For a while they felt secure with the African troops pinned down by their fire. Now, as the ammunition ran out and the Moors inched towards them, they began to feel the terror again. The terror of approaching death.

The kid saw what was happening. Those who panicked, who turned and ran to the welcoming shelter of the trees, made good targets. They were cut down by the fire of the Moors, pitching backwards and rolling in the dusty grass. The Moors’ aim was deadly and there were very few wounded. That was just as well, since any wounded would soon face the bloody wrath of their enemies and none would die quickly or without suffering.

The kid began to crawl up the slope, pushing his rifle along in front of him. It was hard work and the scrubby ground was sharp beneath him. But he pressed low to the ground, keeping his head down as bullets whined above. He paused, sweat running freely down his face. To his right he saw the corporal moving in a similar manner, careful to remain hidden in the grass. Progress was slow and the screams from behind them were unsettling. The kid rolled on his side and looked back.

Freed from the terrible fire that had kept them pinned down, the Moors advanced past the pile of their comrades’ bodies, rushing forward to engage the Republicans. Those men who could not flee were helpless against the long bayonets. It was hard for the wounded: there was no hope of putting up effective resistance and even less of surrendering. Many died under the long knives of the Moors. It was grim work and the kid heard them die, heard their shouts and screams for help to God, their friends, their mothers. One man managed a
‘Viva La Republica!’
before his screams told the kid he too had met the vengeance of the Moorish troops.