Death of a Nationalist (17 page)

“Comrades.” He clenched one fist but raised it only to the level of his face, making the greeting almost furtive.

“Comrade.” Gonzalo’s companion returned the salute, but bowed his head deferentially. “Everything quiet?”

“Yes.” The older man turned his attention to Gonzalo. “You’re a friend of Javier Arcé’s?”

“Yes.” Gonzalo nodded, uncertain what was expected of him. How the hell did Javier know these people? he wondered. And who are they? He felt that he was being measured but was not certain for what. Anxious to break the tense silence he added, “I got quite a shock when I heard he’d been arrested.”

“So did we all,” the older man said dryly, and the tension in the room lessened slightly. “Why are the guardia civil looking for you?” In this atmosphere of passwords and secrecy the question was startlingly direct.

Gonzalo paused. This was not the question he had expected. The answer seemed too obvious to warrant the risk of saying it aloud. But the man with the white mustache was waiting for an answer. “I am . . . I was . . . a carbinero,” Gon-zalo said slowly. “I’ve been in hiding since they told us to report to Chamartín stadium.” Too late, it occurred to him that the question might be a trap.

“And that’s
all?”
the man asked, with emphasis.

“Yes,” Gonzalo said, surprised. His curiosity got the better of his fear. “Why do you want to know?”

“We need to know who else is affected.” The woman spoke for the first time. Her voice did not match her appearance. It sounded young, unexpectedly ragged, and tear-choked. “We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help,” Gonzalo said. He was remembering his last conversation with Manuela, and pieces of random information were rapidly falling into place: Javier’s tendency to go for walks at strange hours, his unusual knowledge about the black market and the Guardia Civil. Gonzalo had wondered at the time how political a garbage collector could be. It had not occurred to him that Javier might have been arrested not merely as a city employee. “I only knew Javier socially.” The past tense slipped out easily. If Javier had been arrested as a spy, the best one could hope was that he was dead.

The white-haired man raised his eyebrows. “We
have
spoken to Javier’s wife.” His voice suggested disbelief.

Gonzalo was puzzled. He had only known Javier through Carmen’s friendship with Manuela. Manuela could have explained that better than anyone. So why hadn’t she? “I don’t understand,” he ventured.

“She told us you seemed very anxious for information, the last time you spoke to her.” The man’s voice held the hint of a threat, and Gonzalo was aware that Juan (or Andrés) had moved to stand behind him. Then he felt something poke him gently in the back. He twisted and saw that the bearded man was holding a pistol.

“I suggest that you give some explanation, Señor Llorente,” the man said quietly in Gonzalo’s ear. “We’ve taken a considerable risk in bringing you here. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Gonzalo’s hands, which had gone automatically to his coat pocket, froze, and then slowly moved away from his sides. The woman silently came forward and disarmed him with an efficiency that suggested she had done this before. Gonzalo’s mind worked frantically, trying to find a plausible explanation, but all that occurred to him was the truth. “I asked Manuela about a murder,” he said cautiously. “My . . . my wife . . . was killed the day before Javier was arrested. I wanted to find her killer.” It was the first time he had called Viviana “my wife.” But “friend” and “comrade” were too cold, among these frightening strangers, and the old, inaccurate term seemed to fit best.

“Why did you ask Javier’s wife?” That was the woman. The man with the white mustache frowned at her, and Gonzalo guessed that she was not supposed to have a part in the interrogation.

“Manuela found her.” Gonzalo winced. “And I knew a guardia civil had killed her. I wanted to find out which one, and. . . .” He stopped.

“Why was your wife killed?” That was the older man again.

Gonzalo hesitated, but the nudge of the gun against his kidneys was persuasive. “There was a guardia civil there, dead. They thought she’d killed him, I suppose.”

The man with the white mustache frowned. “And this dead guardia. What was your interest in him?”

“None,” Gonzalo said. “But I thought if I found his partner I might find . . . the man I was looking for.”

“What does the name Diego Báez mean to you?” The question was sharp, as if the man hoped to catch Gonzalo off guard.

Gonzalo shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him,” he said, wondering if he was going to come out of this alive, and also wondering a little what exactly “this” was.

“What about Paco López?”

“I don’t know him either.” Gonzalo was very aware of the gun pressed to his back. He knew that there was small chance his questioners would believe he was telling the truth. He swallowed, trying to muster saliva. “I came here for help,” he said, as steadily as he could. “Because Manuela warned me that someone had tipped off the Guardia Civil about me. I don’t know anything about any of this.”

No one spoke for a moment, and Gonzalo had the impression that everyone was waiting for a sign from the white-mustached man. Finally, the old man spoke. “That being the case, comrade, you will not mind if we hold you here temporarily. You understand our position.”

“Of course.” Gonzalo did not trust himself to say more. It would be too embarrassing if his voice trembled.

“As a gesture of good faith, then . . . until we establish that you are what you say you are . . .” The man picked something up from the counter beside him. As he stepped forward, Gon-zalo saw that the object was a coil of rope.

Gonzalo submitted to having his hands bound without resistance. In any case, it would have been difficult to resist. The older man’s strength belied his white hair, and the younger man—Juan or Andrés—remained, pistol at the ready. Gonzalo was marched, firmly but not ungently, into a sort of pantry that adjoined the kitchen. It was more like a large closet than a room, windowless, with shelves set into its walls. The shelves were bare, but someone had placed a stool in one corner. “You can sit, if you like,” said the older man. “We’ll be back in a little while.”

Gonzalo sat, aware that the younger man’s pistol remained steadily trained on him. The older man backed out, and the man holding the gun followed. The door to the pantry swung shut, leaving Gonzalo in total darkness. He heard a key turn in the lock. There were muffled voices outside the door. Then there was only silence.

Chapter 17

T
ejada was pensive as he changed out of his uniform and into the clothing that Jiménez brought him. The young recruit had thoughtfully provided not only a jacket but a clean ironed shirt. There was something odd about the fact that Jiménez had not only civilian clothing, but an actual change of shirts, while he had nothing but his uniform. Of course, Jiménez was new to the Guardia, and still probably had a lot of clothes from his life as a civilian. But this is what I wanted, the sergeant thought, to get away from being Señorito Carlos. To just be a member of the Guardia Civil, without all that damn nonsense. Well, now I’m a guardia civil. And girls scream at the sight of me. It was not, he knew, a little girl’s shrieks that troubled him but the memory of an older one’s choked whisper. He shrugged into the ill-fitting jacket and went downstairs to see Aleja.

The child was lying where he had left her, with Corporal Ventura squatting beside her. The pharmacist had bandaged her head, and placed a cold compress on it. She was looking more alert, and much calmer. “No,” Ventura was saying, as the sergeant came within earshot. “I have a boy who is bigger than you are and two who are littler. But no little girls. Do you have any brothers?”

“No.” Aleja seemed rational enough. “There’s just me.”

“Then your mama and papa must take extra-special care of you,” Ventura observed.

Aleja’s lip quivered. “My papa’s dead. Mama takes care of me.” A few tears leaked out. “I want Mama.”

“Of course you do,” Ventura murmured. He glanced over his shoulder, and rose. “Where’s her mother, sir?” he asked in an undertone.

“I don’t know,” Tejada replied quietly. “I was just up to trying to find out when she got hysterical.” He bent, to be at eye level with the girl. “Hello, Alejandra. How are you feeling now?”

Alejandra stared at him with wide, frightened eyes and he knew that she recognized him, even without his uniform. She said nothing. Tejada sighed. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “If you tell me what happened to your mother, I can try to find her for you. Wouldn’t you like me to find your mother?”

The little girl regarded him steadily for a moment. Then she said, in a very small voice, “They took her away.”

“Who did?”

“You. The guardias.”

Tejada exhaled slowly. He was not really surprised. The footprint, the search, the girl’s irrational terror: They all suggested the same thing. But it was still not clear why Señora Llorente had disappeared. Had she been arrested? Or were the guardias acting for their own purposes? “Did they say where they were taking her?” he asked, without much hope.

“To prison,” Aleja whispered. “And they wouldn’t let me come with her. One of them hit me,” she added, “when I wouldn’t let go.”

Tejada relaxed and realized that he had been tense out of fear for Alejandra’s life. If the girl was telling the truth—and there was no reason he could think of for her to lie—then her injury had been accidental. That meant that Paco’s killer still did not know she was a witness. He thought for a moment. She was coherent now but she did not trust him and it would be difficult to question her about Paco’s murder. The easiest way to get her to trust him would be to find her mother. Tejada felt a certain relief that the guardias had spoken of jail rather than using the ominous euphemism “We’re going for a stroll.” “Why was your mother arrested, Alejandra?” he asked, while mentally composing a memo giving the prisoner’s name, date of arrest, and charges against her, to be circulated to all posts.

Aleja buttoned her lips.

“Tell the sergeant, sweetheart,” Ventura coaxed. “It’ll be easier to find your mama if we know more about who we’re looking for.”

The child remained silent.

“What had she done?” Tejada tried again, to no response.

“Did the guardias read a charge?” Ventura asked gently. “Did they use big words that you didn’t understand? Can you remember the words?”

Aleja maintained a stubborn silence. Tejada remembered that he was dealing not only with Elena’s student, but with the niece of the miliciana he had found by Paco’s body. So young to be a Red, he thought. Even a few days earlier the thought would have angered and disgusted him. Now, he found himself slipping into a vast puddle of melancholy for the minds and hearts irretrievably twisted by the Marxists. Ventura was still cajoling the child, without success. Tejada knew that his role was that of a bully.

“Tell the truth,” he ordered, as harshly as it was possible to speak while leaning over a sickbed. “Why was she arrested? Black market? Theft? Prostitution?”

“Sir,” the corporal interjected reproachfully, still in the role of mediator, “she’s only a little girl.”

“I’m sure she knows about all those things already,” Tejada said dryly. His heart was not in the role. He knew that he was speaking the truth. But so was Ventura. Alejandra Palomino might not be an innocent but she
was
only a little girl. It didn’t seem fair that the two truths were compatible. Perhaps Aleja sensed his lack of menace. Perhaps she was simply determined not to speak. In any event, she said nothing and merely watched, wide-eyed. He would have to try to convince Lieutenant Ramos to trace Carmen Llorente’s whereabouts without knowledge of the charges against her. He decided that Alejandra’s presence would probably be his best argument. “Can she be moved safely?” he asked Ventura.

The corporal nodded. “Yes, sir, if it’s just over a short distance. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Thank you.” Tejada bent over Alejandra again. “I’m taking her to see the lieutenant,” he explained, as he picked her up. “He should be able to find out where her mother is. Oh, don’t start crying again,” he added to Aleja, with disgust. “We’re going to find your mother.”

The sergeant had benefited from watching Ventura, and he carried the girl with more assurance now. It helped that although she was sniffling and whimpering, she was not actively struggling. The guardia outside the Lieutenant’s office barred their way. “You can’t—” he began.

“This requires the lieutenant’s immediate attention, Guardia,” Tejada interrupted. “I’ll take responsibility.”

“Err, yes, sir.” He looked doubtfully at Alejandra. “Errr . . . why are you . . .?”

“As you were, Guardia,” Tejada said pointedly, and pushed open the door.

Ramos was, as usual, behind his rickety table, pounding furiously at his typewriter. He looked up as the door opened and received a general impression of sports jacket and crying child. “This room is off-limits to civilians,” he snapped. “Who let you . . . Tejada! What the hell’s that?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Tejada raised his voice over the little girl’s sniffles, but spoke with his usual calm. “This is Maria Alejan-dra Palomino Llorente.”

Ramos inspected the girl the sergeant was carrying. “So what?”

“She’s the girl I told you about, sir,” Tejada said, not mentioning that his information about Maria Alejandra had been considerably augmented since the last time he had spoken with Ramos. “The one who might have information about the matter you asked me about.”

“Oh,” Ramos digested this and took in the bandage on Ale-jandra’s head. “Jesus, Tejada, did you have to hit her that hard?”

Tejada stiffened but his voice was colorless as he said, “No, sir. She was injured by accident, sir, in an unrelated matter. Her mother was arrested this morning, and she’s been quite upset since then. I thought perhaps a few phone calls to trace Señora Llorente might help calm her down, so that I could ask her questions and get some answers.”

“What’s the charge against her mother?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where’s she being held?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Jesus!” Ramos glared at his subordinate. “And you think a few phone calls will help?”

Tejada had an answer ready. “The likeliest place is here or the Alcalá post, sir. But inquiries could radiate outward. I know the woman’s name and when she was arrested. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“You can’t waste the afternoon,” the lieutenant protested. “You’re scheduled for patrol.”

“Yes, sir. At your orders,” Tejada agreed. “What do you want me to do with the girl then?”

Too late, Ramos saw that he had been maneuvered into a trap. “Can’t you just take her back where you found her?” he asked, without much hope.

“It’s some distance, sir,” Tejada informed him smugly. “As I mentioned in my report last night—”

“All right, don’t take her back then!” Ramos said irritably. “Find some place to put her.”

“Where, sir?”

The lieutenant gritted his teeth. “I’m not running a goddamn kindergarten,” he said.

“No, sir,” his subordinate agreed, meekly.

“She can’t stay.”

“No, sir.”

Lieutenant Ramos rummaged on his desk, and finally came up with a grubby length of paper. “Here’s the list of men on patrol this morning. You can ask any of them if they know this Llorente woman. After that you can make some phone calls.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can’t you make her be quiet?”

“She doesn’t like uniforms, sir,” Tejada explained.

“So that’s why you’re in that getup.” The Lieutenant grinned suddenly. “By the way, did you see that kid—what’s his name?— Jiménez, when he came back this morning?”

Tejada grinned back. “Yes, sir. Very . . . vivid, sir.”

Ramos snorted appreciatively. Whatever he planned to say next was interrupted by a quick rap on the door. Then the door opened, and a man with a neatly trimmed mustache, wearing the dark uniform of an army lieutenant, entered and saluted Ramos. Ramos returned the salute, and glanced at Tejada questioningly. The newcomer explained himself. “Dr. Villalba, at your service, Lieutenant. I understood there was a medical emergency at your post?”

“Here, sir,” Tejada said, quickly deciding that any apology for Moscoso’s exaggeration would be a waste of breath. “This child is the patient.”

The doctor looked startled. “You do realize, Sergeant, that my services are intended to be put solely at the disposal of the Guardia Civil?”

“Yes, sir.” Tejada was wooden. “With respect, sir, this child’s health is of importance to an investigation undertaken by the Guardia.”

Dr. Villalba was inclined to grumble but Ramos hastily supported Tejada and the doctor was finally persuaded to take Maria Alejandra downstairs and conduct a routine examination. Tejada thankfully surrendered Alejandra into his and the ever-helpful Corporal Ventura’s care and began his search for Carmen Llorente.

None of the men at his own post knew anything about Car-men Llorente, and a quick phone call to the Alcalá post (where Captain Morales tactfully refrained from asking about progress in Tejada’s investigation) was also fruitless. But a call to the post in Cuatro Caminos yielded a hasty consultation, and then a voice that said, “Sergeant Martínez speaking . . . Yes, Sergeant. María Carmen Llorente is being held in connection with the disappearance of her brother, Gonzalo.”

“What’s happened to him?” Tejada demanded.

“He’s a Red. He didn’t show at Chamartín, and he’s been in hiding since. Someone gave information against him yesterday.”

Shit, Tejada thought. No wonder Alejandra didn’t want to tell us. Damn. This’ll make it hard to get anything out of her. Aloud, he said, “I have Llorente’s niece here, in connection with something else. Where’s her mother being held? I’d like to drop her off.”

There was a sound of rustling paper, and then the voice on the other end of the line confirmed that Carmen Llorente was being held at the new prison, just north of the Cuatro Caminos post. She was not in solitary confinement and had not yet been interrogated. “We’re letting her cool her heels a bit,” Sergeant Martínez explained. “That usually makes them more eager to cooperate.”

“Good luck,” Tejada said briefly. “Her daughter is stubborn as a mule.”

“The women are always the worst,” the other commiserated. “But listen, we’re pretty crowded here. I don’t know if the captain will approve a transfer.”

“She’s only seven,” Tejada said, alarmed at the idea that his counterpart might saddle him permanently with Aleja. “She won’t take up much space.”

“Hold the line,” Martínez said. After a few moments of consultation he returned. It was hard to tell tone of voice on the telephone but Tejada would have been willing to bet that the other man was reluctant. “All right. You can dump the brat on us.”

“Thanks. I’ll owe you one for this.” The phone call ended on an amicable note.

Tejada looked at the information he had scribbled on the nearest available scrap of paper. So Carmen Llorente had a brother in hiding. He remembered the way Carmen’s neighbor had said, “She lives with her—” and then hastily changed the sentence. Aleja was probably trying to protect her uncle. After a few moments’ thought, Tejada headed downstairs. He met Dr. Villalba at the edge of the infirmary. “That’s a very lucky little girl you have there, Sergeant,” the doctor said, after accepting Tejada’s salute.

“Lieutenant?” It occurred to Tejada that a child who had been clubbed while her mother was being arrested for treason could not perhaps be called entirely lucky, but Dr. Villalba was clearly pleased with his diagnosis.

“Children’s skulls are more easily fractured than adults,” the doctor explained. “A little harder and that blow would have broken the cranium. And that,” concluded Villalba with a certain macabre enthusiasm, “could have been very messy.”

“I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Tejada risked a question. “She should make a full recovery, though?”

“Well, it’s in God’s hands,” the doctor said, with a certain air of disappointment. “But I think it’s likely. Keep her quiet for a while. And if she has any relatives, tell them to feed her up. She’s suffering from malnutrition.”

Tejada wondered briefly if medical training had the unintentional side effect of divorcing doctors’ brains from their external surroundings. Since Villalba was a superior officer, he did not point out that most children in Madrid were probably suffering from malnutrition. He thanked Dr. Villalba, saw him out, and then returned to Alejandra. “Good news,” he said carefully, sitting down beside her. “I think I’ve found your mother.”

Aleja struggled to sit up. “Can we go see her now?” she asked.