The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (74 page)

‘Brilliant,’ the sarge said again. ‘It worked a treat.’

‘Enough of the professional admiration,’ Guzmán growled. ‘The problem now is to find them. Nothing must come in the way of those trade talks tomorrow or it’ll be us who take the blame. If that happens, we’re all finished. Particularly me.
Señores, me entiendes
?’

‘Of course I understand,’ Peralta said. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Entendido, mi Comandante.’
The sarge was happier now, sensing action. That cheered Guzmán. He liked to see a man who enjoyed his work.

‘Valverde mustn’t know we’re onto this,’ Guzmán said, looking at Peralta.

‘I haven’t said anything to him that you didn’t tell me to.’

Guzmán sat forward in his chair. ‘Go and see him,
Teniente.
Tell him you’ve some information – that I’m going to follow a lead in Barcelona because I suspect the Dominicans have outlets there. He’ll think we’re even further off the scent than he intended.’

‘I’ll call him now.’ Peralta nodded. ‘When shall I say you’re going to Barcelona?’

‘Tonight,’ Guzmán said. ‘Early evening. He’ll think he has a free hand. We’ll see what he does and then we’ll act.’

The phone rang. Guzmán waited for Peralta and the sarge to leave the room before answering. It was Gutierrez.

‘
Coronel.
How can I help you?’

Gutierrez kept his voice low.
It’s not good if the Head of Military Intelligence is worried about being overheard.

‘Bad news, Guzmán. Positano complained about your visit to see him. Claims you harassed him. The
Caudillo’
s livid.’

‘I think I know what will calm him down,
Coronel,’
Guzmán said. ‘I just need more time. One more night, to be exact.’

‘You don’t have that much time, Guzmán. You stepped way out of line. You of all people know Franco doesn’t expect this kind of disobedience from people he trusts. Just to add to your problems, there’s something else. I’ve been monitoring information requests made to the different branches of security. There’s one you ought to know about. Unofficially, of course.’

‘Just one?’ Guzmán asked.

‘Pay attention, Guzmán. I’m doing you a fucking favour, man. About twenty minutes ago, the Political Information Services of the Falange received a request for information. A person we’d flagged up for scrutiny.’

‘Who’s the person?’

‘They requested and got, an address for a
Señora
Alicia Martinez. That’s all I know.’

‘Who wanted to know,
Coronel
?’

‘The damnedest thing, Guzmán. No one’s been able to find out. Not even me.’

Guzmán slammed down the phone and ran to the door.

MADRID 1953, PLAZA DE SEGOVIA

Peralta sat on the upper deck of the old London bus as it negotiated the Madrid traffic. Earlier, he had stopped to buy cigarettes: a novelty for him. He looked down, watching passers-by making their way along the crowded pavements. He had taken two more pills for the pain and they made him dizzy.

Posadas. How had he fallen for it? The
comandante
thought him a fool, he knew. And the sarge hated him anyway. The documents had been well done. Even Guzmán had been taken in. Now, however, Guzmán had new information. Where had that come from? Guzmán hadn’t even mentioned his source, which confirmed Peralta’s belief the
comandante
still didn’t trust him. And yet he trusted him enough to order him to go and lie to the general. Peralta was caught between those two men, each desperate to triumph over the other. Guzmán’s words came back to him again:
never end up on the losing side.
At the time, it seemed just another addition to the litany of advice Guzmán heaped on Peralta. But it was more than that. It was a code for survival. The bus stopped at Plaza de Segovia and Peralta got off into the biting cold. As he made his way to the military governor’s headquarters, he realised it was time to make a choice. It was a walk of only a couple of minutes and by the time he entered the building, he had decided.

Valverde sat in a leather armchair, booted legs crossed casually. Peralta sat a few metres away. Valverde’s face was as ruddy as ever, the grey moustache neatly combed, every bit the general. He was faintly cordial, making a change from his usual outright disdain. An orderly brought in coffee. Real coffee, strong and delicious.

‘Teniente,’
Valverde said, ‘you said you have something for me? If not, I have to tell you there are at least a thousand things more important than talking to you.’

‘Of course,
mi General.’
Peralta took a sip of coffee.

‘Never mind the fucking coffee,’ Valverde said. ‘This isn’t a social visit.’

Peralta flinched. ‘First, there’s something I have to ask, General. A family matter.’

Valverde snorted. ‘If you want a loan, forget it. I already made arrangements to pay you for information on Guzmán and so far all I’ve had is shit. In fact, I wondered if he was passing on crap to you just to fuck me about. That had better not be so,
Teniente.’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir,’ Peralta lied. ‘But if I may just ask you this one favour…’

Valverde sighed. ‘If you must.’

‘Gracias, mi General.
It’s this. If something were to happen to me, my parents are dead. I have only a small police pension.’

‘Jesús Cristo, hombre,
so you do want money? You fucking beggar.
Joder.’

‘No,
mi General.
I want nothing. It’s María. If something happens to me, I want you to take care of her and the baby.’

‘Why? Do you think Guzmán’s going to kill you? Presumably for incompetence. One could see his point.’

‘I’m not joking,
mi General.
I only ask this one thing. And I have information.’

Valverde sighed. ‘Of course I’d see my own niece taken care of if anything happened. I love that girl. All the more since I’ve got none of my own. She’s a lovely child. She married badly, that’s all.’

‘As you say,
mi General.’

‘So that’s dealt with. If you die, I’ll take care of María and the baby,’ Valverde said cheerfully. ‘Now, you say you’ve got information?’

Never end up on the losing side.
Peralta took a deep breath and began.

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

Guzmán was almost running as he got to the reception desk.

‘Sargento.
I need you to make a few arrangements while I’m out.’

‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’

‘I’m going to check out the location of the Dominicans,’ Guzmán said. ‘To make sure they’ll be in when we come calling.’

‘Muy bien, jefe.
You know where they are then?’

Guzmán slid a piece of paper across the desk. ‘This is the address. It’s the pharmaceutical warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria. I’m going to have a look. If they’re there, I’ll call, so have a squad on standby with the trucks ready.’

‘Don’t take them on alone,
jefe.’
The sarge seemed almost genuinely concerned.

‘One other thing,
Sargento.’

‘Of course,
jefe.’

‘Don’t give this address to Peralta and don’t tell him what’s going on until after I call and you’re on the way.
Entendido
?’

‘Understood, sir. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Bueno.
I’ll see you later.’

Guzmán stepped out into the cold. Things were happening at last and he felt the calm that came before combat. In the street small snowflakes fell softly from a threatening sky. But the weather was of no importance. He was getting closer to them, he could feel it. They had played games with him.
Him.
No one played games with him. Very few had attempted it and they had, without exception, regretted it. So far at least.

Guzmán climbed into the Buick and started the engine. He drove as fast as possible given the icy roads. This was his fault. He hadn’t thought they would go after
Señora
Martinez. He thought her a part of his life that was outside work – as if it followed that his enemies would respect such boundaries. He had been stupid and careless. Again.

MADRID 1953, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE

Señora
Martinez opened the door cautiously after his first muffled knock. She peered out into the gloomy hallway.
‘Quien es
?’ Her voice echoed in the darkness. She recognised the bulky shape.
‘Comandante
?’

Guzmán stepped forward, melting snow dripped from his coat and hat.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Let me in,’ Guzmán said quietly. ‘You’re in danger.’ He stepped into the small apartment. A single lamp illuminated the table where
Señora
Martinez had been sitting. Her book was still open under the lamp.

‘Danger.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Not that
teniente
again?’

‘Worse. I need to get you out of here,
señora.
They’ve been watching you. Get your coat on.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s little Roberto?’

‘At a friend’s house.’

‘We’ll pick him up later but we have to go right now.
Ahora mismo.’

Guzmán crossed the room to the window and looked out from behind the faded curtain. It was getting dark and the road gleamed, slick with ice and sleet. He saw his car on the other side of the road. There were few others, but he noticed one vehicle, a hundred metres down the road. There was someone in it: he saw the glow of a cigarette. Someone waiting. Guzmán scanned the shrubbery at the front of the building. From the window he saw only confused shadows pooled under the tangle of scrubby trees. One of the shadows moved. No casual observer would have seen it. A slight movement, slow and calculated.

‘Vamos, señora,’
Guzmán urged. Alicia Martinez pulled on her coat and picked up her handbag. She paused at the door, straightening her hair in the chipped mirror. Guzmán raged, but he raged in silence. He waited while she locked the door, knowing they would probably kick it down anyway.
Señora
Martinez was calm. He liked that. It was only when he took out the Browning as they descended the stairs that she began to look worried. He checked the magazine. It was loaded with soft-nosed bullets, ammunition made not just to kill but to inflict the maximum possible injury. He liked that too.

Sleet fell in slanting lines through the pale glimmer of the street lamps, the wind driving needle-sharp ice against their faces as they ran towards the car.
Señora
Martinez went first with Guzmán following, the big pistol in his hand. Guzmán pulled open the driver’s door, keeping an eye on the vehicle down the road. Alicia Martinez was already in the car, looking anxiously at him as he peered into the darkness.

The shot came from the shadows across the road. There was the sound of a man running and from the shadows another shot from a handgun, the muzzle flash a white star in the darkness, the bullet whining somewhere above Guzmán’s head before noisily impacting on the building behind. Guzmán brought the Browning up and fired twice, the sound of his pistol loud and percussive, the ejected cartridges rattling like coins on the ground. There was a cry of pain and Guzmán heard the man’s weapon clatter onto the wet road. Guzmán climbed into the car, started the engine and accelerated forwards. There were no more shots, but Guzmán saw the sudden illumination of headlights behind them as the car down the road moved forward in pursuit. Alicia Martinez was trying to slide down in her seat to get herself below the level of the windscreen.

She placed her hands on the dashboard as Guzmán slid the car around a corner at high speed
‘Dios,
what have I done?’ she asked, her voice taut and anxious.

‘You’re safe now,’ Guzmán said, putting his foot down hard. The Buick’s tyres squealed in protest. He smiled to himself.
She’s in big trouble and she blames herself? Any normal person would blame me
for all this. For being careless.
There was only one place she would be safe: behind the reinforced door with its multiple locks at Calle Mesón de Paredes. Guzmán was taking her home. The car that had been pursuing them was nowhere to be seen in the mirror. All they needed to do now was collect the boy and then he could leave them safe in his fortified
piso.
And, once they were safe, he would pay a visit to the warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria. It was time to settle this.

MADRID 1953, CALLE PRECIADOS

Calle Preciados was busy, the shops bustling with customers.
There’s plenty of money about,
Guzmán thought. That reminded him of Valverde’s bribe and he cursed. He’d have to burn it. If they could link the money to the Dominicans, Valverde’s case would be proved and Guzmán would be finished.
Joder.
He had underestimated Valverde. The general had been clever, working to increase his influence with Franco, promoting his economic plans, playing his long game as he encouraged the
Caudillo
to embrace the deregulation of foreign investment. But the poisoned drugs, killing Capuchón and the shooting of the
guardia civiles
, all those were crimes Valverde could be judged for, if a link could be proved. And proof was in short supply. It wasn’t the general who was in the shit right now. It was Guzmán.

The most unexpected event had been the sudden appearance of Guzmán’s mother and Cousin Juan. Whoever found them and brought them to Madrid must have known he wasn’t the real Guzmán. If that came out, he was dead. He should have killed every last fucker in their village when he had the chance. But then he thought he had. Who found him out? Positano and his CIA? But why would the CIA care about someone like Guzmán? The
Yanquis
didn’t give a fuck during the
Guerra Civil
when Guzmán and others like him were slaughtering anyone who even remotely was suspected of being a Red. He’d had been a quick learner back then.