The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (58 page)

‘I’m positive.’ Guzmán opened the car door and climbed out into the thin sharp air.
Especially since I don’t know if I’ll be coming back.
‘Be back at the
comisaría
around seven.’ He slammed the door. Across the street he saw two armed guards at the gate, saw the way one moved away from the other, spreading the target should Guzmán suddenly try anything. Further inside the main gate was a truck filled with troops.
Franco didn’t get to be leader by
making mistakes or underestimating the enemy. And nor will I. At least when I find out where the enemy is. If I get the chance.

MADRID 1953, CUARTEL DEL CAPITÁN-GENERAL

The car drove away, leaving a trail of thick fumes in the thin cold air. Guzmán crossed the road to the sentry post. The soldier nearest to him stood to attention. The other waited, watching Guzmán closely.

‘Good morning,
señor, papeles por favor.’

The usual routine. The checking of the documents. Guzmán’s identity papers, his special permit signed by Franco himself. He always enjoyed the impact that made. The man nodded and put down the phone in the sentry box.

‘You’re to proceed to the main entrance,
Comandante
Guzmán.’

Guzmán turned and crunched across the gravel towards the arched doorway. They hadn’t wanted his pistol. If they had, it would have meant they no longer trusted him.

More guards at the front door. Within the elegant entrance hall beyond, a number of men in plain clothes. A young man with slicked-down hair and a painfully tight collar – again a careful perusal of Guzmán’s papers.

‘Are you carrying a weapon,
Comandante
?’

‘Of course.’

‘I must ask for it,
señor.
For the duration of your visit.’

Guzmán felt incipient rage glowing. Maybe this was where they dispensed with his services. Maybe dispensed with him. He unholstered the big Browning and handed it over. The young man weighed the heavy pistol in cupped hands.

‘It will be here when you return,
Comandante.’

‘It’d better be,’ Guzmán said, looking the young man in the eye until he flinched.

He followed another flunkey across the opulent carpet to a polished wooden door. The man knocked, a gentle tap that incensed Guzmán with its timidity and deference. The door opened and two large men in plain clothes came forward. One was as tall and as broad as Guzmán. His head was shaved. He stepped towards Guzmán.

‘What?’ Guzmán said.

‘I must be sure you are unarmed,
Comandante.’

Guzmán checked his impulse to fell the man. Shave-Head halted, sensing annoyance.

‘With your permission,
Comandante?
We have a heightened level of security. With the events of last night, you understand.’

Guzmán nodded and the man patted him down professionally. Had Guzmán been armed, the man would have found the weapon. Shave-Head stepped back.

‘Guzmán.’ It was Carrero Blanco, the chest of his uniform glittering with medals. ‘This way.’ The admiral retreated into the office. Guzmán stepped forwards with a curt nod to Shave-Head who solemnly returned it.
Professional courtesy. Right now he’s thinking he could have taken me if need be. He’s wrong.

The office was dark, solemn wooden panels and funereal bookshelves crowded with dark leather-bound tomes with gilded lettering. The desk caught Guzmán’s eye: the papers on it aligned with a precision that made it even easier to despise the man. The admiral took a seat behind his desk and waved languidly at a chair.

‘Bloody business last night,
Comandante.’
Carrero’s tone was cold. ‘Fourteen dead
guardia civiles,
three civilians shot dead by your
teniente
. Did we declare war?’

Guzmán outlined the previous evening’s events, stressing the role of the Dominicans.

Carrero Blanco sighed. ‘You’ll remember the
Caudillo
was hoping there would be no problems before the signing of the trade agreement with the
Yanquis
? I think you probably do because I only fucking told you the other fucking day. And now this.’

‘I’m well aware of the
Caudillo’
s orders,’ Guzmán said, ‘but the Dominicans attacked us, after we raided the Bar Dominicana.’

‘That’s what I find hard to understand, Guzmán. They attack a senior member of the security services with a heavy machine gun and kill over a dozen of the
benemérita.
Why?’

‘I can’t see the motive in such aggressive tactics,’ Guzmán agreed, ‘but it’s clear these men are well trained and highly dangerous.’

‘It’s clear they’re dangerous, Guzmán. But who’s behind them?’

‘I do have some information about one of the members of the trade delegation,’ Guzmán said. ‘A
Señor
Positano.’

Carrero blanched. ‘The head of the delegation, Guzmán? What about him?’

‘He has an interesting past,
mi Almirante.
Involving organised crime and murder.’

Carrero shrugged. ‘That’s a description that would fit most of our government, Guzmán. Including you, come to that. What do we care? He does what he wants in his country and here, in ours, we welcome him as an honoured guest with our hands open,
entiende?’

‘Most of these
Yanquis
have been against us since we won the war. They call us fascists and Nazis,’ Guzmán snarled.

Carrero Blanco sighed and ran a hand over his brilliantined hair. ‘Guzmán,’ his voice was patient, as though talking to a particularly slow schoolboy, ‘times are changing. The Nazis are gone. The British and the
Yanquis
and the Russians saw them off. Germany is rubble and America and Russia are the major powers now. The old empires have crumbled or have started to – just look at the British. But for America and Russia it’s just beginning. A great game of chess. And their kings and queens will be hydrogen bombs.’

‘And why will that concern us, sir?’

‘Can’t you see the checkmate that will emerge from such a confrontation?’ Carrero asked, amused at Guzmán’s failure to grasp the situation. ‘They’ve already divided Germany. The rest of the world will follow in taking sides. It will be best if we too take sides. The
Yanquis’
side, naturally.’

‘So the Americans will win?’

‘No one will win. There won’t be a war. Not for a long time anyway. Their weapons are too powerful. No, Guzmán, this will be a long strategic game. And best of all, we have something the Americans can use in their strategy.’

‘Which is what,
Almirante
?’

‘What they want from us, Guzmán, is somewhere to put their planes and their bombs. Somewhere from where they can attack the Reds.’

‘There are other places, sir. Britain, France, even Italy. All nearer to Russia.’

‘Spain offers them security,
Comandante.
A people who take orders, who obey the rule of law and who’re ruled with an iron fist. A country officially opposed to Communism.’

‘Of course.’

Carrero’s voice rose as he warmed to his theme. ‘It’s clear, I hope, Guzmán, that this trade delegation is a forerunner to something much more important. A military agreement with the
Yanquis. Hombre,
imagine it. They get land to build bases on. There’s plenty of land in Spain. We get hard currency and we also get military aid. For God’s sake, Guzmán, the army is weak. Even the French could beat us if there were a war. With the Americans on our side, no one will think about trying to subvert the true and proper governance of Spain. Naturally, we want them to offer the best price possible. Our negotiators will take a strong stance.’

‘Until the
Yanquis
make a good enough offer?’

‘Any sort of offer. We aren’t going to reject anything.’

‘But these Dominicans…’ Guzmán grumbled.

‘Degenerate criminals.’ Carrero’s voice was icy. ‘Which means you’ll need to deal with them. But not until we order it. There’s no room here for your personal vendettas. If you do anything before then,’ Carrero frowned, ‘we shall take severe action against you. Severe action, Guzmán.’

Guzmán glowered. Carrero was talking about death. His death. Franco’s Golden Boy, the hero of Badajoz. Expendable.

‘And while we’re on the subject,’ Carrero growled, ‘the
Yanquis
say that they’re missing a member of their delegation. Strangely enough a Dominican. Is that something you’d know about?’

‘Not at all,
mi Almirante.
There were no Dominicans inside that bar last night.’

‘Good. But remember what I said. Fuck up and you’re out. In more ways than one.’

‘I’ll do my duty, as always.’

‘Another thing, Guzmán.’ Carrero stared across the desk. ‘General Valverde has a suggestion as to why you’re obsessed with these Dominicans. He claims you’ve taken money from them. That had better not be true, Guzmán.’

Guzmán didn’t sweat easily. He was sweating now. ‘That’s preposterous. The
almirante
knows very well Valverde holds a grudge against me, mainly because I keep him under observation. On the
Caudillo’
s orders.’

‘I know.’ Carrero said. ‘But if it were true about the money, Guzmán…’ He left the threat unsaid, waving a hand to signal an end to their meeting.

Guzmán retraced his steps from the office, walking across the deep carpet to collect his pistol. Guzmán replaced the gun in its holster and looked across the plush hallway. The big shave-head in the black suit was standing to one side, hands clasped in front of him, an undertaker waiting for the hearse. He saw Guzmán looking at him, and inclined his head slightly, staring at him as he walked to the door and then out to Calle Bailén. Guzmán walked down the steps, past the guards and crossed the road, still feeling the man’s eyes on him. He dodged a passing tram and reached the far pavement before he turned to look back. The big man was standing at the gates.
Show the rabbit to the dog,
Guzmán thought, turning and walking towards the Plaza de España,
and the dog remembers him for ever.

An icy wind troubled the wizened leaves of the trees as Guzmán entered the deserted plaza. He looked at his watch before slowly making his way back to the main road. He strolled past the shrubs and bushes lining Calle Asturias, towards the General Fanjul Gardens. By then it was clear he was being followed and the gardens offered good opportunities for cover and escape if needed.

MADRID 1953, JARDINES DE GENERAL FANJUL

The wind came from the mountains, raw and sharp. Guzmán stopped, took out his cigarettes and lit one, casually looking back along the tree-lined road. The man was about forty or fifty metres away. Dark hat and coat, like almost every other man in Madrid. Except that he was following Guzmán. The man gave the appearance of not being aware of Guzmán, suddenly turning down one of the narrow gravelled pathways and moving out of sight. Guzmán walked from the gardens, across the road and climbed the steps leading to Calle Cardoso. He climbed quickly, pausing at the top to catch his breath and then turned as if going to the Carmelite convent. The man following him would have to hurry in order not to lose him, and, as Guzmán knew well, when people hurry, they get careless.

The pistol left his holster smoothly, satisfying and solid in his hand. He cocked the hammer. Heard footsteps on the stone steps, climbing quickly. The man was so intent on reaching the top of the steps he looked up only as he climbed the final flight, and when he did, Guzmán towered above him, the Browning aimed at his chest.

‘Hijo de puta.’
Guzmán stared down at the man below standing frozen, his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the pistol.
‘Señor
Lopez,’ Guzmán said, keeping the pistol aimed at the private detective, ‘I do believe you’re following me.’

Teodoro Lopez nodded slowly, fear making his limbs unreliable, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. That was good, Guzmán thought. It was hard to fake that sort of fear. However, being shitscared didn’t mean knicker-sniffer Lopez was harmless.

He waved the man up the steps, lowering his pistol but keeping it pointed at the man’s belly. At this distance, a round or two would destroy most of Lopez’s intestines, blowing them and probably a section of his spine down the stone stairway. Lopez reached the top of the steps and Guzmán pressed the pistol against him, frisking him with his left hand.

‘This is becoming a habit,’ Guzmán said angrily.

‘I can explain,
Comandante.’
Lopez was breathing heavily.

‘You’d better.’ Guzmán slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and aimed the pistol at the shivering private detective through the thick material of his overcoat. ‘If you try to run, I’ll shoot you.
Entiende
?’

The man nodded. ‘
Si,
I understand,
Comandante,
perfectly.’

‘We’ll take a little walk,’ Guzmán said, genially. ‘I want to ask you a few questions.’

‘I’ll be very cooperative,’ Lopez said, stumbling alongside Guzmán as they began to walk slowly along Calle de Irun. The streets were still hazy with mist. On their right, a grassy bank led up to the stark ruins of the Montaña barracks.

‘You followed me to the
capitanía general,’
Guzmán said.

‘Not followed,
Comandante,
no,’ Lopez stammered.

‘Don’t fuck about,’ Guzmán hissed, giving Lopez a shove in the side with the pistol. ‘How did you know I’d be there?’

Lopez swallowed. ‘I received a telephone call.’

‘From who?’

‘My employer. My real employer, I should say.’

‘I could lose my patience here, Lopez. You told me before you were employed by my cousin Juan. Who is this real employer?’

‘It is very hard to say,
Comandante.
Every transaction has been by telephone.’

They came to a wooden bench and Guzmán ordered Lopez to sit. The frosty grass slope rose behind them, punctuated with frozen shrubs and wizened trees. They sat, breath steaming in the bitter cold.