Death of a Nationalist (21 page)

“Hello, sir,” Jiménez said easily. “I’ve been trying to keep Aleja entertained.”

“That’s very kind of you, Guardia,” Tejada said, bemused. “I didn’t know you knew English,” he added.

Jiménez smiled, flattered. “I don’t really, sir. Just songs from the movies. And I saw
Top Hat
again, while I was on leave.”

“Oh.” Tejada nodded vaguely. He was aware of the existence of movies, but they were not a form of entertainment that had ever appealed to him.

“Listen, sir.” Jiménez rose and dropped his voice, slightly. “I’ve found something out, I think. Aleja . . . her full name’s Alejandra Palomino.”

“Yes.” Tejada nodded. “So?”

“So”—Jiménez cast another glance at the girl, who was sitting up and watching them closely—“I thought it sounded familiar, sir. And then I remembered. That was the name on that notebook we found last week. By the”—he glanced at Aleja again—“you know.”

“I know,” Tejada said dryly. “But it’s an admirable deduction, Jiménez.”

“I gave her her notebook back, sir.” Jiménez seemed rather deflated. “I hope there wasn’t anything wrong with that. But it was in Lieutenant Ramos’s office, and he said to take it and . . . er . . . get it and the brat out of there, so . . .”

“It’s fine,” Tejada said impatiently. “Was there anything else?”

“No.” Jiménez was worried. Perhaps he had done something wrong and Tejada was too kind to say so. He justified himself by adding, a bit nervously, “That’s how I found out that Aleja likes the movies, too. From that picture.”

“What picture?” Tejada asked, startled.

“This one, sir. You must have stuck it in her notebook without thinking.” Jiménez held out a little white square, anxious to please. “Aleja wanted to keep it but I said that it must be yours.”

Tejada automatically took the photograph he was offered and looked down at the snapshot of Paco’s Isabel. “What does this have to do with the movies?” he asked, feeling stupid.

“You don’t recognize her, sir?” Jiménez said, a little disappointed at his idol’s lapse from omniscience. “It’s Ginger Rogers. The American actress.”

Chapter 20

T
he long, cruel winter fought its last battle that weekend, and the bells that rang out on Easter morning clanged through air cold enough for madrileños to see their breath. Gonzalo, strolling toward the Eastern Cemetery, kept his hands buried in his pockets and wished that the weather had tempted more people outside. His cold fingers slipped around the slick-coated passport buried in one pocket: “José Hernán-dez Ibañez. Date of birth: April 23, 1914. Place of birth: Illescas, province of Madrid.” The passport slid away from his fingers, and a few pieces of paper crackled. He did not draw them out. He already knew their contents by heart. One was a handwritten note from María José Hernández, begging her dearest and best-beloved brother to make as much haste as possible to Navarra, where their poor mother, who had been taken ill, wanted desperately to see her son before she died. The other was an official permission to travel, which looked very impressive to Gonzalo, although the bearded Juan/Andrés had warned him not to let anyone examine it too closely.

José, Gonzalo thought to himself firmly. José. He and his mentors had spent Saturday practicing in the dimly lit kitchen. Long hours of casual conversation and always at an unexpected moment. “What do you think, José?” “Isn’t that right, José?” Isabel and Juan had taken turns stepping out of the room and calling, at random moments, “José! Come quickly!” Perhaps because of his nervousness, and perhaps because the situation was in fact funny, Gonzalo had been unable to answer to the name “José” without grinning broadly the first few times. His coaches had been strict with him, though. He had gotten reasonably quick at responding to the new name.

Then they had rehearsed his story. Juan had put on his glasses and folded his arms across his chest. “May I see your papers, please? And where are you heading, Señor Hernández? No, no, José, don’t offer to show your papers too quickly. They’ll see you’re nervous. Just answer the questions. Now, try it again. What business do you have in Navarra, Señor Hernández?”

It had been an entertaining way to pass the time. On Friday evening, Juan had returned with the news that Gonzalo’s documents would not be ready until Easter. “That’s fine, though,” the bearded man had reassured Gonzalo. “Because it means you’ll get to do some nosing around, to find out what Paco was doing in the black market.”

“How?” Gonzalo had asked.

“Do you remember when . . . the other comrade asked if you’d ever heard of Diego Báez?” Juan had asked.

Gonzalo had nodded. All of his memories of the tense moments when Juan had stuck a gun in his back were very clear.

“Báez is a middleman,” the bearded Communist had continued, satisfied at the wordless response. “The Fascists are too smart to deal directly.” He spoke with a touch of regret. “We think this Báez knows who the guardias are who are involved and who the smugglers are. He takes a cut from both sides. They pay him for anonymity.”

“Sounds like a dangerous job,” Gonzalo had commented.

“Some people will do anything for money,” the Communist sneered, with the fine scorn of someone who would do anything for a cause.

“How do I find him?” Gonzalo asked.

The bearded man (whom Gonzalo continued to think of as Juan) had tapped his glasses on the table, a nervous gesture the carbinero was beginning to recognize. “That part might be difficult. But we think that Báez is scheduled to meet with some of his distributors on Sunday.”

“An Easter egg hunt?” Gonzalo asked dryly.

“Exactly,” the other grinned. “At the Eastern Cemetery. But we don’t know what time.”

“I can’t haunt a cemetery all day!” Gonzalo had protested. “I’ll be spotted for sure.”

“Why not? You’re visiting your sainted mother’s grave on Easter. Or you could just say you’re checking to see if any of the dead have risen.”

“For Christ’s sake, Juan—”

“Exactly.”

So Gonzalo, as José Hernández, was strolling toward the cemetery as the Easter bells tolled their joyful greeting that morning. His documents were in his coat pocket, for easy access. In the pocket of his shirt, hopefully secure from pickpockets, was a thick roll of bills—not the useless paper Carmen had given him, but a small fortune in Burgos currency.

“Let’s call it Paco’s last contribution to the cause,” Juan had said the previous evening with a brief grin, as he handed it over to Gonzalo. “Use this to get whatever information you need. Oh, and José—”

Gonzalo blinked for a moment, and then managed to say, “Yes?”

“No funny business with guns this time. It won’t work. According to our sources, Báez has close links to the Guardia Civil. He’s tough.”

So Gonzalo was unarmed. His hands clutched the passport again. He reached the main entrance to the cemetery, and strolled south, looking for the grave of María Dolores Torrecilla.

The newer section of the cemetery was crammed with identical, unadorned graves. The older part, up ahead, was full of smashed angels, and chipped headstones. He hurried past the new graves, with their grimly similar epitaphs: 1910–1936. 1915–1937. 1920–1938. FELL SERVING THE REPUBLIC. Gonzalo had rather liked cemeteries before the war. Now he had too many acquaintances in them. He winced each time a face attached itself to one of the names on the tombstones. Most of them had no flowers in remembrance, even today. It was dangerous to publicly mourn the soldiers of the Republic. He reached the elaborate pre-war tombs with relief. María Dolores Torrecilla’s was deserted when he found it but directly opposite, a pair of proud families (perhaps rivals, in some distant past), had erected little family mausoleums, complete with doors to the niches within. One of the doors had been partially destroyed, either by accident, or through the zealous efforts of some anti-clerical madrileño. Gonzalo glanced around, and then stepped into the semidarkness and settled down below the statue of the Virgin to wait.

The cold of the marble seeped through his clothes, making his back ache, but gradually the spot where he was sitting warmed, and when he tried to shift his position some while later, he realized that the rest of the slab was icy in comparison. But the mausoleum was almost too good a hiding place. No one could see him, but he could not see anyone either. He would have to rely on his ears and hope that Báez or his compatriots made some sound to alert him. He strained to hear. Once in a great while he caught the clatter of wheels on cobblestones but few vehicles were out and about on Easter. The sounds of distant churchbells were clearer. They began muted and swelled to a climax as he waited.
Alleluia, alleluia
. The cacophonous clangs thundered through the cemetery with arrogant joy. God is risen again in Spain, now and forever.
Alleluia
. Gonzalo shivered in his hiding place and wondered if he would hear Báez’s footsteps over the sound of the bells.

It was nearly noon, and the Easter mass was over when Gon-zalo became aware that someone else was in the graveyard. It was not footsteps that alerted him but the sharp smell of pipe smoke. He risked a glance out of his hiding place. There was nothing to the left, but to the right, among the slabs near the entrance, a man in a gray-green trench coat was strolling along the path. He wore gloves and a scarf that partially covered his face.

Gonzalo took a deep breath and stepped out of the mausoleum. The man had paused in front of one of the graves and removed his hat. He seemed to be reading the inscription, lost in thought. Gonzalo walked toward him, trying to look like a mourner while surreptitiously observing the newcomer. “Dark,” Juan had said. “Maybe five seven, five eight. And well fed, the bastard.” The description could have fit many people. It fit the solitary mourner. It was the man’s corpulence that decided Gonzalo. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir,” he said as he raised his hat, hoping he sounded casual.

The man looked up. “Good morning.” He sounded mildly surprised. “Happy Easter.”

“And to you.”

“Thank you.” The man nodded and returned his attention to the unembellished grave.

Gonzalo wondered wildly how to continue the conversation without betraying himself or scaring off Báez—if it was Báez. “Fine day,” he commented.

“Yes.”

“But a bit cold.”

The other nodded without replying.

“What brings you out here today then?” Gonzalo asked awkwardly, rapidly concocting a story about a promise to a dying grandfather to visit a grave every Easter, in the event that the unknown man asked him a similar question.

The man shrugged. “Personal reasons.”

“Of course.” Gonzalo hesitated. “Are you from around here?”

The man turned to face Gonzalo and raised his eyebrows. “Because,” Gonzalo continued desperately, “if you are, I wonder if you might know a friend of mine. By the name of Báez.”

The eyebrows contracted into a frown. “I might. What’s your friend’s first name?”

Gonzalo licked his lips. “Diego.”

There was a long pause while the wind whistled loudly and Gonzalo grew acutely aware that he was defenseless. Then the man said, “What do you want with Diego Báez?”

“Information,” Gonzalo said quietly. “He might know some things I want to find out.”

The man was still frowning as he said, “I know Diego, a little. But he’s pretty close mouthed. What makes you think he’ll tell a stranger anything?”

The man emphasized the word
stranger
slightly, and Gonzalo noted that his claim of knowing Báez had been neatly discounted. He hesitated, and then took the plunge. “I might be able to make it worth his while.”

“He stays in business by keeping his mouth shut,” the man pointed out.

“This wouldn’t hurt him,” Gonzalo replied carefully. “And the pay is good.”

The man glanced around, and then took a step closer to Gonzalo. “What are you interested in?”

Gonzalo felt a certain relief that the preliminary fencing was over. “A guardia civil named Paco López,” he said softly. “He was killed a little over a week ago. How was he connected with the black market?”

“And who wants to know?”

It was Gonzalo’s turn to keep silent and raise his eyebrows. The man shrugged and smiled slightly, tacitly admitting that this was an inappropriate question. “I have nothing to do with murder,” he said flatly. It was not a completely convincing statement.

“I didn’t say you did,” Gonzalo replied evenly. “López’s murder doesn’t matter. I need to know who he was working with.”

“And you’re telling me this wouldn’t shut my business down?” Báez shook his head, and half-turned away, as if to go. “Sorry.”

“Two hundred pesetas,” Gonzalo said quietly. He remembered the way Juan and Isabel had spoken mysteriously of “us.” “We don’t want to compete,” he added. “We’d just like to know how he got involved, and when.”

Báez turned back. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“No names?”

Gonzalo hesitated, and then nodded.

“For two hundred pesetas?”

Gonzalo nodded again.

“Make it three hundred.”

Gonzalo, who had five hundred pesetas in his breast pocket, opened his mouth to agree, and then remembered that seeming too eager might be a bad idea. “Two fifty,” he said.

For form’s sake, Gonzalo allowed himself to be bargained up to two hundred and seventy-five. Báez seemed to be in a hurry, glancing at his watch frequently as they spoke.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Paco got involved six months ago. He was brought in by someone else, as a messenger. I don’t know details. Now give me the money and beat it. I’ve got another appointment.”

“Who recruited him?”

“You said no names.”

Gonzalo cursed mentally. “Three hundred pesetas,” he said aloud.

One of Báez’s gloved hands went to the pocket of his coat and for a moment Gonzalo wished fervently for a weapon. Then the hand emerged again, gripping a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Here.” Báez bent over the marble slab, and leaned the paper against it to scribble something. “Call this number if you want more information.” He smiled suddenly. “Just ask for Paco’s boss. You’ll get him.”

“Thanks.” Gonzalo took the scrap of paper and folded it with fingers made clumsy by the cold. He reached inside his coat and tucked the phone number into his breast pocket. Then he drew out the roll of bills. Báez watched avidly as Gon-zalo counted out the twenty peseta notes.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Báez said. He smiled again, as if something amused him. “Now, if you’ll allow me to say so, I don’t think graveyards are very healthy places.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The voice came from behind the two men.

Gonzalo jumped, startled nearly out of his wits. Báez whirled around. A guardia civil was standing in back of the white marble slab behind them like a ghost newly risen from its grave. He was pointing a gun at the two men. “Don’t move,” he said, his voice conversational. “You’re covered from behind as well.”

Gonzalo stood, paralyzed. So close, he thought, with a familiar crushing sense of hopelessness. So close. Then Juan’s last words came back to him with chilling clarity. If something does go wrong, try to hold out for twenty-four hours.

Báez had already recovered. “Good afternoon, Señor Guardia.” To Gonzalo’s amazement, he took a few steps toward the man with the gun. “I think perhaps we haven’t met.” Báez was at the edge of the pathway now, and he stepped onto the narrow strip of earth separating the headstones, as if to make his way toward the guardia. He extended his hand. “My name is . . .”

There was the brief report of a rifle, and then Báez fell between the graves. The guardia had not moved. “Good shot, Torres.” He barely raised his voice. Then, to Gonzalo, he added, “I’d advise you not to move, Señor . . .?”

Gonzalo stood, mute. Would it be better, he wondered, to give his false name and passport, or would this only serve to implicate him further? Could he protect his mentors by giving his real name? But then, what about Carmen? He heard footsteps, and then felt someone grab him from behind. The guardias did have the graveyard surrounded, then. A trap, Gonzalo thought despairingly. But for me? Or for Juan and Isabel? Or maybe even Báez? But how did they
know
?

“Señor Llorente, perhaps?” the guardia asked courteously.