Death of a Nationalist (20 page)

Tejada turned on his heel and left, wondering how he could persuade the prisoners to implicate Sergeant de Rota. After a moment’s thought, he went to his room and checked the post duty roster. He was in luck. Guardia Eduardo Meléndez was on duty, but not scheduled for patrol. He found Meléndez on guard outside the makeshift prison. The guardia pulled himself to attention at the sight of Tejada.

“Sir!” Meléndez saluted.

Tejada looked measuringly at the salute. Meléndez’s outstretched fingertips were barely within his reach. Guardia Meléndez was perhaps four inches taller than the sergeant and at least fifty pounds heavier. As a general rule, the sergeant preferred doing his own physical persuasion. But he was in a hurry, and Meléndez’s presence during interrogations was known to be effective. “You know that a pair of smugglers were brought in this afternoon by Corporal Torres?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to want to speak with them. I’d appreciate your assistance, Guardia.”

“At your orders, Sergeant. Do you want me to warm them up a little first?”

Tejada considered. “Nothing too serious. I want them conscious and coherent. Start with one, maybe, and let the other stick around.”

“Yes, sir. I know how it’s done, sir.”

“Excellent. I’ll send for you when I’m ready for the first one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Unfortunately, the room Ramos provided had a window giving onto a courtyard, but Tejada drew the blinds and hoped for the best. He sent for the first smuggler within fifteen minutes of his meeting with Meléndez. When the man was shepherded into the room, he had a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth, and appeared to be walking with some difficulty.

“Sit down,” Tejada said. “I have a couple of questions.” Guardia Meléndez reinforced the command by leaning on the prisoner’s shoulders until he sat on the chair in front of the table.

Tejada picked up a notepad that had been lying on the table and perched comfortably on the edge, looming over the prisoner. “Smuggling’s a serious offense, you know,” he said.

The man was silent. Meléndez cuffed the back of his head lightly. “Answer the sergeant.”

“Yes, sir, I know.” The prisoner’s voice was indistinct.

“I imagine this isn’t a first offense, either,” Tejada continued. “And I wonder what we’d find if we looked at your war record.”

“It’s a first offense, sir,” the prisoner said pleadingly.

“Of course,” the sergeant said, “we could just put you up against a wall and be done with it. And that might be simplest. But I’d like to know who your suppliers are.”

The prisoner looked slightly nauseous. “I—I don’t know who they are, sir.”

“Such loyalty!” Tejada mused, shaking his head. “Honor among thieves, would you say, Guardia?” He set down the pad, leaned forward, and casually backhanded the prisoner, deliberately choosing the side that Meléndez had already hit. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I-I’m not lying.” There was a sob in the man’s voice. “I’ve never seen them. . . . Ow! . . . Oh, God . . . they’ll kill me.”

“So will I,” Tejada said coolly. “And if you don’t cooperate, believe me, I’ll take my time about it.”

“I can’t tell you.” The sob was more pronounced now. Tejada hit the other side of the man’s mouth. “I
can’t
tell you.”

Half an hour later there was blood on the floor and the sergeant’s knuckles were starting to get sore. He knew that patience was the key to successful interrogation but he was not enjoying himself and he was more interested in confirmation than information. He took a risk. “Why are you so frightened of them?” he asked, switching questions. “Have they killed someone before?”

There were a few sobbing breaths, and then a defeated half-nod from the prisoner.

“Who?” Tejada took a firm grip on his excitement. Calm, he thought. Don’t betray interest. Just keep calm.

The prisoner mumbled something. “Speak up,” Tejada commanded sharply.

“An associate,” the man repeated dully. “He tried to rat on them.”

“A guardia civil?” The question slipped out before the sergeant could think better of it.

“No.” The man shook his head. “No, just one of us.” He looked up through puffy eyes and squinted at Tejada. “I . . . oh, God! Is this about that again?”

Tejada glanced over the prisoner’s head at Meléndez, surprised. Meléndez shrugged in puzzlement. “Maybe,” Tejada said, hoping that the answer hid his confusion. Again? he thought. Someone else has been asking questions? “It depends what ‘that’ is.”

“Oh, shit.” The man’s voice was a groan. “About Paco. I told the truth before, you know.”

“Told the truth to whom?” Tejada asked.

The prisoner said, “Look,” in a voice that tried to be calculating but sounded pleading, “if I tell you what I know about Paco—about who was asking for him and everything—will you give me a chance? Please?”

“I’m listening,” Tejada said, as neutrally as possible.

“I thought Paco was killed by a Red.” The words were a mumble, partly because some of the prisoner’s teeth were missing. “But then, this guy came—he pretended to be a customer— and he wanted to know all about Paco, and about the sniper who killed him, and about what had happened to the sniper.”

“And you told him?” Tejada asked, scribbling notes furiously. “He had a gun,” the prisoner explained. “And I thought he might be a guardia. But what he was really interested in was who killed the sniper. Then he pulled a fast one and took off, and that’s not like a guardia. And I thought maybe he was a Red too. But you’re guardias, and now you want to know about Paco as well so . . .” He trailed off, sounding despairing.

Tejada had intended to work his way toward Sergeant de Rota, but the prisoner’s information intrigued him. If someone else was asking questions about Paco’s death, then perhaps Paco had in fact been killed by the Reds. Or perhaps someone was being clever, the way someone had been clever about the rations, and was trying to shift blame. “Tell me
exactly
how you met this man, and what he asked you, and what you told him,” he commanded.

It was a long and tearful story, broken frequently by pleas and curses from the prisoner. But Tejada finally gathered that the unknown questioner had shown a surprising interest first in the sniper who had supposedly killed Paco, and then in the identity of the guardias who had been on the scene first. If someone’s looking for me, he thought, it’s because of the missing rations. . . . They know that I’m investigating that. But that’s a funny way to identify me. Unless they really are interested in the sniper. . . . Alejandra’s aunt, what was her name . . . Viviana. Who would be interested in her, unless she somehow was related to the black market? He needed time to think but he also knew that to relax his pressure on the prisoner would be fatal. “Tell me about your supplier,” he ordered, returning to his original question, because he could think of no other one.

“I can’t.”

Thwack
. “Give me a name.” Tejada flexed his fingers surreptitiously. They felt bruised. He was severely tempted to turn the interrogation over to Meléndez and go somewhere quiet to let his hands recover and think over the information about Paco, but persistence was key. “A name,” he repeated.

“Diego.”

Tejada remembered the memo Lieutenant Ramos had shown him a few days earlier. “. . .
His partner, Sgt. Diego de Rota,
reported him missing
. . .” He took a deep breath. “Surname.”

“I don’t know.”

Thwack
. “Surname.”

“Báez. Diego Báez.”

Tejada wished that he had had more experience with interrogation. He had come so close to getting information pointing to Sergeant de Rota. I’m an idiot, he thought. If I hadn’t pushed, I could have gone to Ramos with just the given name. Of course, he could be lying. He tried to inspect the prisoner. The man’s face was a bloody mess, so his expression was difficult to read. More experienced men presumably had a feel for when prisoners were telling the truth.

“Where can I find him?” Tejada asked, because that seemed like the next logical question.

The prisoner was silent. “In your own time, Guardia,” Tejada said, nodding at Meléndez.

Watching Meléndez work was not pleasant but Tejada had to admit that he was effective. Within an hour, he had gathered that Diego Báez was an intermediary who received illegal merchandise from persons whom the prisoner insisted were unknown and passed it along. The prisoner maintained that he did not know where Báez was to be found but he admitted that he and his colleague were scheduled to meet with the mysterious Diego on Sunday afternoon at the grave of one Maria Dolores Torrecilla in the Eastern Cemetery. Tejada, judging that he had obtained all the information he was going to get, sent the exhausted man back to his cell.

When Meléndez and the prisoner had left, Tejada inspected his notes, meditatively sucking at one knuckle. He tasted blood and wondered absently if it was the prisoner’s or if he had grazed his own hands. Lieutenant Ramos would probably be pleased to hear about Diego Báez. He would almost certainly be pleased if the guardia succeeded in capturing Báez on Sunday. It briefly occurred to Tejada that finding guardias willing to work over Easter would be something of a challenge. He decided that the ever-enthusiastic Jiménez would be a necessary addition to the party. But the information he had obtained was enigmatic. Is someone looking for me? he wondered. And why? Does it have to do with Alejandra’s aunt? Idly, he doodled the dead miliciana’s name on the pad. Viviana Llorente. The sister of Carmen Llorente, who was being held at Cuatro Caminos, in connection with the disappearance of her brother. Her brother Gonzalo, Tejada thought slowly, who is a Red. Who’s been in hiding. Who might want to know who killed his sister. Gonzalo Llorente.

Tejada filed the name for future reference. Finding a former Republican soldier was a low priority, compared with locating the man stealing rations from the post. But Tejada reflected comfortably that if it ever became imperative to capture Gonzalo Llorente, he knew the perfect bait to use. After a moment’s thought, he rose, and for the second time that day went in search of food for Llorente’s niece.

A little knot of excited guardias drew Tejada’s attention as he passed the cafeteria. They were clustered around one of the tables, apparently examining something. Snatches of conversation floated through the open doorway. “You shouldn’t . . . not during Lent.”

“Listen, Your Holiness, I haven’t had a decent smoke in six months and these are the real thing.”

“He’s right. You could wait ’til after Easter.”

“Screw you. You wouldn’t be so holier-than-thou if it was a girl.”

“What are ‘
bis-cu-its
’?”

“What are what? Oh, my God,
biscuits
. English butter cookies.”

Tejada stepped into the room and raised his voice. “Has something exciting occurred?”

The conversations died, and a ring of sheepish guardias turned to face him. “Err . . . no, Sergeant. It’s nothing,” one of the younger men ventured.

“What’s on the table?” Tejada asked mildly, noting that the guardias seemed to have bunched in front of one table as if to obscure his view. He recognized one of them. “Durán? Can you explain this?”

“Errr . . . we heard you’d captured a pair of smugglers, Sergeant,” Durán gulped. “Guardia Soriano was just telling us about your your initiative, sir. About how sharp-eyed of you it was to spot them. And showing us the . . . the evidence, sir.”

“Showing you?” Tejada raised his eyebrows. “It sounded as if there was a full-scale auction in progress.”

Durán gulped again. “Surely, it’s better than the Reds getting it, sir. And . . . and . . . well, I mean, there’s Gauloises and everything.”

“He’d sell his mother for a pack of Gauloises.” The voice from the back of the crowd was indistinct.

Durán turned, indignant. “I didn’t notice you offering to share any!”

The little group dissolved into recriminations. Tejada thought for a moment, wondering how literally true the statement “He’d sell his mother” might be. “I haven’t spoken to Lieutenant Ramos about what to do with the seized goods,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard. “You understand that until it’s been inventoried, no one has any claim to it.”

There was a general sheepish mumble of “Yes, sir.”

“However,” Tejada went on, “two suitcases were seized. I imagine that one will be sufficient as evidence, provided that it is full and contains samples of every item found.”

“Yes, sir!” The chorus was more enthusiastic this time.

Tejada stepped forward, and the group parted to let him see what was on the table. As he had expected, a suitcase was lying open, with its contents strewn about. The guardias quickly turned their attention back to the forbidden luxury goods, and negotiations resumed. Tejada picked up the brightly colored tin marked BISCUITS. There was stiff competition for the chocolate, and men would probably come to blows over the cigarettes and coffee before too long, but no one seemed to covet the little metal box particularly. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, considering. He had never been part of anything remotely illegal before. But he had loved English cookies as a child . . .
he’d sell his mother
. “Is anyone especially fond of these things?” he asked, holding up the tin.

The guardias briefly returned their attention to him, and then there was a general shaking of heads. “In that case . . .” The sergeant tucked the tin under his arm and made a discreet exit, leaving a favorable impression among the guardias.

“I thought we were in trouble there for a minute,” Soriano commented.

“Nahh,” one of the Manzanares post hastened to reassure him. “The sergeant’s all right. He could have scooped everything, you know, or made us give up the cigarettes. But he’s a gentleman.”

“I wonder if he likes those cookie things?
Bis-cu-its
,” said Durán thoughtfully.

Tejada headed for the infirmary. I won’t ask, he told himself. I’ll just offer them to her. And then maybe she’ll
want
to tell me. To his surprise, he found Guardia Jiménez sitting by Alejandra’s bedside, singing to her: “
Heaven, I’m in
heaven/and the cares that hung around me through the week/seem
to vanish, like a gambler’s lucky streak
. . .” The young man stopped singing as Tejada approached. Alejandra, who had been sitting up in bed and smiling, slumped and regarded Tejada with wary eyes.