The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (44 page)

‘In which case, they’d want this material very badly if they knew it still existed. Thank God they don’t know we’ve got it. I think we’d better read the rest of these files,’ Galindez said.

Three hours passed. Three hours of reading and note-taking, punctuated by sudden exclamations of surprise. Three hours of Spanish history being unravelled and rewoven by these impersonal, typewritten communications in which the only emotional reference point was the call to arms from the Civil War –
Arriba
España
– at the end of each memo. Three hours of entering names, dates and events into Google – discovering new, subterranean layers of history in the dusty documents. Finding beneath conventional versions of events, other, darker accounts, strewn with violent nuances and complexities. The revelation of previously unknown actors and motives behind apparent accidents and suicides. And other, less subtle operations, the assassinations and attacks, all with full details of the Sentinels’ involvement. Apparently disparate events now remorselessly converged into a deliberate pattern of provocative action aimed at destroying Spain’s emergent and fragile democracy. And disturbingly, the growing realisation of the value of these documents to
los Centinelas.

‘They upped their game after the Atocha killings,’ Galindez said, watching Tali labelling various piles of papers. ‘When they failed to provoke public disorder they went for something bigger.’

‘You can’t get much bigger than a military coup,’ Tali agreed. ‘This material relates to
Operación Galaxia
in 1978.’

‘That didn’t get far.’ Galindez pushed more papers towards her. ‘All three of the main conspirators were arrested while they were planning it.’

‘Assuming they were the main conspirators.’

‘True. There were three people in charge of the operation: a
guardia
lieutenant colonel, an army commandant and a colonel whose name was never revealed. This memo from December 1978 shows Xerxes didn’t think much of them:’

To all who should know:
Galaxia has been aborted. Those entrusted with its organisation have behaved like clowns, meeting in public places and making arrest ever more likely. In order to avoid being compromised, Tactical Leader gave relevant information to the security services and all were arrested. Tejero and Ynestrillas face court martial in due course. Tactical Leader has naturally been cleared by the security services and will not be named in any proceedings.

‘The one they call Tactical Leader betrayed the other conspirators to keep himself safe,’ Galindez continued, ‘and the two who were arrested never talked. No wonder: blowing the whistle on
los
Centinelas
would be far too dangerous.’

‘And then their final attempt in 1982.’ Tali placed a label on top of the pile:
23F
. ‘Twenty-third of February and Lieutenant Colonel Tejero takes over the parliament building and holds the politicians inside hostage. That coup nearly came off.’

‘Nearly,’ Galindez agreed. ‘Until the King stepped in and brought the army back onside. Look at this last memo following the collapse of the
23F
coup attempt:’

It has been agreed unanimously that further military action is undesirable. Tejero’s involvement in this ludicrous action – for which we gave no permission – means he is no longer reliable. In due course he will be sentenced in a civil court. He is of little consequence. We also note the unauthorised involvement of Ynestrillas.
Los Centinelas
previously warned him not to involve himself in any action such as this. He cannot be forgiven. He will be assigned to Tiburón when the time is right.

Politicians of all sides agreed to the so-called Pact of Oblivion: past events which the Reds and their supporters called crimes were to be forgotten in return for our acquiescence to the introduction of democracy. It is important they continue to believe we still adhere to that charade.

For the present we must remain silent, observing and preparing. But we shall not forget and there will be no lasting pact. The betrayal of the
Caudillo
will be avenged and Spain will rise again,
Una, Grande y Libre.
The Reds may forget. We will not, and when our vengeance comes, there will be no mercy and no forgiveness.

When further action is appropriate, we will notify you. Until then, all communications must go through Guzmán. We recognise some of you find Guzmán difficult and unreliable but for the moment, there is no alternative.

Arriba España. Xerxes.

‘Guzmán.
Joder
,’ Galindez said, excited now. ‘So he was still alive and heavily involved in plots to subvert democracy.’ She looked at the memo again. ‘
Mierda
, perhaps he was a
centinela
himself.’

‘They also say Guzmán was difficult and unreliable. Do you think that was because he didn’t support the attempted coups?’ Tali asked.

‘No, he must have been heavily involved if they all had to go through him, surely? Let’s check and see if there’s any further mention of him in these papers.’

Tali shuffled through the memos impatiently, skimming the contents, reading out the names of several politicians still in office as well as artists and intellectuals who had pledged support for the coup. Other documents revealed the addresses of safe houses and contact numbers. Most chilling of all was a thick wad of names and addresses of those
los Centinelas
intended to execute once the coup was under way. But no further mention of Guzmán. And no more plots; 23 February 1982 seemed to signal an end to
los Centinelas
’ activities.

‘Perhaps they gave up?’ Tali wondered. ‘The
Pacto de Oblivio
worked as it was intended to: it forced them to accept democracy.’

‘Maybe not.’ Galindez looked again at the last memo. ‘Xerxes ends by suggesting they went along with the pact to take the heat off them after the failed
23F
coup. But he clearly didn’t plan to honour the pact – quite the reverse. They thought they’d bide their time before having another go.’

‘But surely they can’t still be waiting thirty-odd years later? Democracy’s well established now.’

‘A lot of people back then were willing to support violence to prevent the introduction of democracy,’ Galindez said. ‘And we’ve got the names here of hundreds of people involved – many of them still in important public positions. This is political dynamite.’

‘It’s dynamite all right,’ Tali frowned, ‘and we’re sitting on it.’

Something was nagging at Galindez’s memory. ‘Tali, that last memo said Ynestrillas was not forgiven – he was assigned to Tiburón. What do you suppose that meant?’

‘I don’t know, but his name rings a bell.’

‘Hostia.
Of course it does. He was the guy on the cover of that old newspaper we found in Guzmán’s office.’

‘You’re right. Let’s see exactly what happened.’ Tali went over to Galindez’s laptop and entered the name into Google. ‘It’s the same person all right –
Comandante
Ynestrillas. Assassinated in Madrid in 1986 by ETA along with two colleagues. Here’s the same photo of their bodies.’

‘And the memo from Xerxes says Ynestrillas was assigned to Tiburón. So maybe it wasn’t a terrorist killing. Perhaps this Tiburón did it?
Puta madre,
Tali, what if this Tiburón was Guzmán?’

Tali looked hard at Galindez. ‘
Hostia
, this just gets worse, Ana María. They murdered a senior army officer in broad daylight to keep him quiet. If they could do that, what would they do if they knew we’d got this information?’ She slumped onto the sofa. ‘We’ve got to do something with these papers. They incriminate too many important people. We don’t want to be the only ones who know about this.’

‘I can’t just give them back,’ Galindez said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

‘Why not? Say you picked them up by accident – that’s more or less the truth.’

‘Even if I give them back to the archive how do we know the
centinelas
won’t find out? They’d guess we’d read them. We’d still be a target. Besides…’

‘What?’

Galindez knew Tali was going to be angry. ‘I can’t give them back. I’ll lose my job. I took restricted papers using a high-level security clearance. It would get Uncle Ramiro into trouble and there’d be an inquiry. I’d be fired. Christ, I might even go to prison.’

‘So you’d rather be hunted and killed by a secret fascist group, Ana?’ Tali’s anger burned in her cheeks. ‘Sorry if I don’t sound all that supportive.’

‘But if I wreck my career…’

‘We’ll still be alive, for fuck’s sake. You’d find another job.’

‘Yes, probably at Superprecios stacking shelves and watching
Dora La Exploradora
on afternoon TV. There’s got to be a better way.’

Tali sighed. ‘Isn’t there someone who’d know what to do with these papers?’

‘It would have to be someone powerful – someone they couldn’t get at.’

‘Your Uncle Ramiro?’

‘No. He’d arrest me himself. He’s old school.’

‘You think of someone then.’ Tali pushed a pile of newspapers to one side and Galindez sprawled next to her on the sofa. She saw the copy of
El Pais
on the top.

Tali noticed the silence. ‘What?’

Galindez pursed her lips. ‘
Mira.
’ The newspaper’s front page was taken up with a colour photo of a well-dressed man with an immaculate coiffured mass of grey hair. ‘What about him?’ Galindez said, pointing to the headline:
Top Judge Tries to Seize
Franco’s Assets.

‘Bernadino Delgado? The judge who tried to have Tony Blair arrested for war crimes when he changed planes in Madrid?’

‘That’s him. A massive publicity hound, always picking fights with government and big business and bringing high-profile prosecutions…’

Tali hugged her. ‘And he’s staunchly anti-Franco and antifascist.
Hostia.
That’s brilliant. The
centinelas
would have more to worry about than us after that.’

‘Yes, he’d give the names of everyone in those documents to the media in a heartbeat. The
centinelas
couldn’t keep that quiet.’

‘That’s the plan then?’

‘Definitely. We’ll give the papers to the judge and let him deal with them.’ Galindez reached into the pocket of her jeans for a tissue.

‘Did you cut yourself?’ Tali asked, noticing the crumpled tissue smeared with dark, congealed blood.

14

MADRID 1953, PUERTA DEL SOL

The temperature had fallen again and the cold animated the city. People moved quickly and purposefully, limiting the time they spent in the chill air. Guzmán and Peralta crossed the road, dodging through the traffic, Guzmán returning cat calls from irate drivers as he went. They entered the café.

‘You look like you could do with something to eat,’ Guzmán said.

‘I’m not sure about that, seeing as how you were ready to kill me a little while ago.’

Guzmán looked up, his heavy-hooded eyes expressionless. ‘To be accurate,
Teniente
, it was the
sargento
who was going to kill you.’

‘He doesn’t do anything unless you tell him to.’

‘I’d like to think so, though I have my doubts. But since he’s not going to kill you, can’t you give it a rest now?
Hostia
, I’ve never known anyone complain so much.’

Peralta decided to try and restore some normality to the situation. ‘Have you and the sarge worked together for long?’ he asked.

‘Long enough. I met him in 1939. I’d just been promoted to
capitán
. I was given a special assignment. Franco had taken an interest in me and he kept putting me on special details. Seeing if I was up to the job.’

‘What job?’

‘The one I’ve had ever since. This job,’ Guzmán said, beckoning the waiter. ‘Plate of eggs. Coffee, and a large brandy.’

‘Plate of eggs and coffee.’ Peralta couldn’t face brandy, despite what had happened earlier beneath the
comisaría
. His stomach wouldn’t take it.

Guzmán lit a cigarette. Seeing the
teniente’s
expression, he offered one to Peralta. ‘You can always buy yourself some. We do pay you, you know.’

‘I know. I keep forgetting. What was this special job? Or can’t you say?’

‘It was the summer of 1939,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’d got the medal two years earlier. After that, Valverde and then Franco kept me on as a sort of errand boy attached to their staff. I didn’t care, I was a kid. But after a few months, they started putting things my way. Naturally, I always accepted. There wasn’t really a choice.’

‘What sort of jobs?’ Peralta asked.

‘Coffee making.’ Guzmán smiled. The waiter brought their drinks.

‘Making coffee?’

‘Puta Madre, coño,
don’t you remember the War? When old General Queipo de Llano was commander of Andalucía? The radio crackling every night with his broadcasts about how they’d captured Republican women – “Now the Reds’ women know we are real men,” he’d say. And radio calls from his men out in the field: “We’ve captured a
Señor
Fulano, what are your orders,
mi General
?”’

‘And what were his orders?’

‘That’s the point. He never said “shoot them in the back” or “rape their women and then kill the lot of them and burn them in a pit”. No, he’d say “give them coffee, plenty of coffee”.’ Guzmán laughed.

‘You find that funny?’

‘Of course, it made us laugh. And that’s why we said it ourselves, see?
Dales café
. And then the bullet. It’s what he ordered when they arrested that
maricón
, Lorca.
Que le den café, mucho café.
And of course they did. Bang. Well, two shots, that’s what Queipo said. One for being queer and one for being Red. You don’t know your history too well, do you,
Teniente
?’