Death of a Nationalist (18 page)

Tejada had hoped for this reaction, but he found her eagerness oddly pathetic. “I’ll take you to her in a little while,” he said, reminding himself that he had done the child no harm, and in fact some good. “But I would like to ask you a few questions first.”

“Then can I see Mama?”

“Yes, after you answer the questions.”

Alejandra was silent for a little while, visibly digesting this information. “I can’t see her first?” There was a hint of a whimper in her voice.

“I can’t bring you to your mother until you’ve answered the questions,” Tejada explained. “But there’s no need to talk now, if you’re tired. The doctor says you should rest, anyway.”

Aleja’s face twisted in agony. Tejada, watching her, saw that she had understood his gentle threat. It’s not really cruelty, he reminded himself. She wouldn’t even know where her mother was, if I hadn’t found her. And it’s necessary to learn if she has any information. Still he wished that her expression were more childlike and less like those of the adults he had seen interrogated. She was only a little girl.

“I want Mama,” the child whispered. Tejada was about to speak again when she added, with heroic effort, “But I’m tired now. I don’t want to talk.”

The sergeant remembered again the specially trained interrogator he had met in Toledo. The man had been quite proud of his methods, and pleased to share trade secrets. Don’t give them anything. Keep them on tenterhooks, guessing what you know and what you want to find out. Tejada sighed, and disregarded the advice. “It’s not about your uncle Gonzalo,” he said.

Aleja tensed, and looked at him with hunted eyes. “I’m tired now,” she repeated uncertainly.

Dr. Villalba’s last words gave the sergeant an idea. “All right then,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”

Aleja said nothing, but her eyes flickered. Tejada noticed and was encouraged. “You just rest,” he said. “I’ll come back in a little while. We can have a chat and then you can have a snack and go to see your mother.”

He rose and walked away quickly before he could say something that would ruin the lure he had tossed out. He was not quick enough to avoid hearing Aleja start quietly sobbing again.

Chapter 18

G
onzalo did not know how long he sat in the darkness. It’s like being buried alive, he thought. The idea reminded him that he might shortly be buried, not alive. He wondered if he should have taken his chances with the Guardia Civil. He tried to think clearly but nothing made any sense.

He was roused by the sound of someone unlocking his prison. Then the door opened and the woman in black appeared. She had thrown back her veil, and he saw a long, angular face, framed by black curls. She still had Gonzalo’s revolver. She kept it steadily trained on him as she advanced. “Stand up.” To his surprise, her voice was almost friendly. “Turn around.”

He turned and heard her withdraw a few paces. He wondered if he would hear the report before the bullet hit. Then he heard a few more steps and felt someone loosening his bonds. A moment later, his hands were free. He turned around slowly, massaging his wrists, and saw that the bearded Juan (or Andrés) had taken the weapon from the woman and was standing in the doorway. He was no longer aiming the revolver, though. “Manuela’s vouched for you,” the woman said.

“Which means we have to help you,” the man added, ushering him back into the kitchen. Gonzalo sat down. The bearded man sat across from him, while the woman remained standing behind.

“Help?” Gonzalo repeated blankly.

The bearded man grinned suddenly. “I suppose we could start with an apology, comrade. You must have been scared shitless.”

“Just about,” Gonzalo admitted, thinking that the man’s amusement was decidedly misplaced. “You might tell me what’s going on, too.”

“Sorry, my friend, I can’t tell you that.” Juan was brisk. “Now you’ll need false papers, correct? And a reason to cross the border. Possibly a disguise, but I think we’ll hope they don’t have photographs of you.” He inspected Gonzalo critically. “You don’t have any distinguishing features. That’s a plus.”

Gonzalo stared, openmouthed. All of Carmen’s plans seemed to be coming true. He felt that he should be wildly elated. They were offering him his life, and they had not even mentioned payment. “You mean . . . France?” he faltered, too confused to analyze his feelings.

“I don’t know yet,” Juan replied. “Maybe Portugal. We’ll see about a boat from there. Or we could try to send you through Gibraltar.” He shook his head. “The trouble with Madrid is that it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

Gonzalo stiffened at the insult to his home. He knew what the man
meant
, of course, but it made more sense to say that Portugal and France were nowhere. Madrid was the center of things. “I wasn’t planning to leave,” he said apologetically.

“You can’t stay,” Juan said. His voice held the calm conviction of someone stating the obvious.

“I don’t want to leave,” Gonzalo repeated, feeling a little ungracious. It seemed rude to refuse the help offered. Anxious to make his position clear, he added, “I know . . . I won’t live. But I don’t really care.”

The bearded man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not for your benefit, comrade. It’s for ours. We’re not safe as long as you’re here.”

Gonzalo knew the man was right. But his reason for living was linked to staying in the city, and some lingering stubbornness made him say slowly, “Then before I leave the man who killed my . . . wife . . . is a sergeant at the Manzanares Guardia Civil post. I’d like to find him. That was my plan.”

“Are you crazy?” Juan demanded, just as the woman raised her voice to say with sudden intensity, “How do you know he’s a sergeant at the Manzanares post?”

Gonzalo shrugged, uncertain which question to answer. Juan looked over Gonzalo’s head at his companion, and then said slowly, “Good question. How do you know he’s a sergeant at Manzanares?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time for it.” Again, it was the woman who spoke.

Gonzalo shrugged again and did his best to summarize his investigations into the identity of Viviana’s murderer as quickly as possible. They already knew about Manuela, and he saw the bearded man nod slightly at a few points and relax as Gonzalo told them what she had said. Encouraged, Gonzalo went on to describe his accidental discovery of the chocolate wrapper and his later dealings with the black market. The bearded man tensed again, and the woman moved around so that she could see Gonzalo’s face. Gonzalo explained about Aleja’s lost notebook, and added his plan of hiding and observing the guardia who was supposed to call on his sister. “But then Manuela came and warned us,” he finished. “So I missed the chance. He’s probably met with Carmen already. I hope she’s all right,” he added, aware that they did not care about Carmen’s safety and somewhat ashamed that he had not thought of her more during his imprisonment.

“You’re sure Paco was mixed up in the black market?” the bearded man said, ignoring Gonzalo’s last statement. His voice was grim.

“It would help if I knew who Paco was,” Gonzalo retorted.

“You don’t know? Oh, shit.” The man frowned. “Paco was the name of that dead guardia. The one who your Viviana was killed for. But what the hell was he doing with the black market? I thought you said he was a perfect choirboy?”

Gonzalo realized that the last question was not addressed to him but to the woman. She nodded. “I did. I thought he was.” She sounded sad. “He was . . . oh, an ideal Fascist, I thought. Loud and blustery, and too shortsighted to know what he was fighting for. A stupid man, in many ways. But not a hypocrite.”

“You knew him?” Gonzalo asked, with surprise and a touch of fear.

“Fairly well.” The woman’s voice might have been bitter, or amused, or simply rueful. It was hard to tell. “He was a very valuable source of information.”

“You mean he was a spy?” Gonzalo blurted out the words before he could stop himself. He grieved briefly for a man who had died trying to serve the Republic, and then he realized that pinning the guardia’s murder on Viviana might be tremendously convenient for . . . someone. He shuddered slightly. No wonder they were interested in finding out who had killed Viviana.

“Not precisely,” the woman said, still rueful. The man frowned at her, gesturing her to silence, and she shook her head. “What difference does it make, Andrés? He’s dead.” She turned back to Gonzalo. “Paco thought he was in love with me. A real hearts and flowers affair. It wasn’t hard to get him to talk about his work. He was the type who didn’t think that women really troubled their heads over wars and politics.” She sighed, and her voice shook slightly as she added, “As I said, a stupid man. But honest enough, in a clumsy sort of way. We assumed he’d died for that.”

“You think someone found out about his connection to you?” Gonzalo asked, his mind working rapidly.

“Yes.” The woman nodded. “It made sense. He is—he was— from a prominent family. It would have been embarrassing to them for him to be court-martialed. We thought they’d decided on a quiet assassination but we didn’t know if he’d told them anything first. He could have identified me . . . and a few other people.”

“How did they find out?” Gonzalo asked.

“The idiot sent money.” Juan had apparently decided that it could not hurt to tell Gonzalo more. “To his ‘fiancée.’” Juan snorted, either in contempt or amusement. “Not that we didn’t appreciate Burgos currency. But someone was sure to notice it sooner or later. And try to trace this ‘Isabel’ who was receiving the payments.”

“‘Isabel’ seems to be a name that turns up a lot,” Gonzalo remarked dryly.

Juan smiled. “It’s a common name, comrade.”

Gonzalo nodded and suddenly remembered something. “The smuggler I talked to said that Paco didn’t care about money. He said he ‘sent it all to some girl.’ Would that have been you, too?”

The woman—Isabel, for lack of a better name—looked thoughtful. “Yes, in fact . . . oh, yes, that makes sense. About six months ago he started sending money. He said . . .” She closed her eyes. “Let me get it right. Something like: ‘I have a little extra pay now. I’m not proud of what I’m doing to earn it, but I don’t have any choice. So if it’s of help to you, I’m glad.’”

Juan laughed. “So he turned to a life of crime to help support Isabel?” he said. “That’s pretty rich.”

“Or else someone figured out who ‘Isabel’ really was,” Gon-zalo suggested. “And blackmailed him.”

“If he was being blackmailed he wouldn’t have had spare cash,” Juan pointed out.

Isabel shook her head. “No, I see what he means. If Paco only got involved with the smugglers because he was coerced, he wouldn’t care about the money.” Her face softened for a moment. “It would be typical of him to try to give it away, if he felt it wasn’t rightfully his. Naturally, all that he’d inherit from his father was ‘rightful’ but this wouldn’t be. That was how he thought.”

“Would he keep sending you information? If he knew you were on the other side?” Gonzalo said.

Juan swore softly. “For six months, he could have been feeding us false information!”

“No.” Isabel was positive. “I told you. He could never have been an agent. He was too . . . open. Too poor a liar. I don’t mean he couldn’t keep his mouth shut because he was good at that. But you always
knew
he was hiding something. You might not know what, but you’d know it was
something.
”

“But how else could he be blackmailed?” Juan objected.

This time it was Isabel’s turn to snort softly. “Someone probably threatened to tell his mother he was still in contact with me. She didn’t approve of me. Starched old bitch. He was the one who made a big thing about keeping our letters clandestine, ‘until my mother is won over,’ to use his own words. The entire system was so complicated that I knew for sure it would go wrong. That’s what I mean about how he’d have made a poor agent.”

Juan was tapping his glasses nervously against the table. “That doesn’t change anything, then. They would have cared more about a security risk than about black marketeering.”

“Probably,” Isabel agreed. She smiled briefly at Gonzalo. “At least, thanks to your chocolate seller, we know the smugglers thought his death was a coincidence.”

“I’m glad to be of help,” Gonzalo said dryly. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of finding this sergeant for me, in exchange for my information?”

Juan shook his head. “Absolutely not. We can’t let personal grudges get in the way of the cause.”

Gonzalo knew that Juan was right. But it was hard to care more about a cause than about Viviana. He brooded as Isabel said, “I still wish we knew more about Paco’s involvement with the black market. If he told someone outside the Guardia Civil. . . .”

Juan nodded. “We’ll find out. But first we have to get
him
out of here.” He turned to Gonzalo. “You’ll have to stay underground a little longer. It takes time to get papers. We’ll get you out of the city when we can.”

Gonzalo felt the stirring of rebellion. He was a man, not a suspicious parcel to be handed quickly from one person to the next. He supposed it was only natural for these people not to trust him fully but he wished that they would not treat him like an infant, fit only to be passed passively from hand to mysterious hand.

“Let me try to find out about your Paco’s involvement with the black market,” he volunteered. “No one knows me as part of your group, and I can spend my time in Madrid doing something useful then.”

The man and woman exchanged considering glances. “It’s not a bad idea,” Isabel said slowly. “It doesn’t risk any of us, but. . . .”

“But,” the bearded man agreed. He studied Gonzalo through narrowed eyes. “Are you a Party member?”

Gonzalo hesitated. The truth might well be the wrong answer to this question. And the wrong answer could be dangerous. He had been a Socialist before the war, and simply a carbinero for the duration. None of his hosts (Rescuers? Captors? What was the right name for them?) had volunteered an affiliation. “Worried I’m a Fifth Columnist?” he asked, as lightly as possible.

“That,” the bearded man agreed, “or simply a loose cannon. We can’t let you hare off to shoot guardias for the sake of some private vengeance.”

Gonzalo took a chance. “My word as a Party member,” he said quietly. “I won’t do anything that’s not for the good of the cause.”

Juan (or Andrés) looked at him for a long moment. Then he took out the revolver and handed it to the woman. “I’ll see if my superiors agree,” he said, without taking his eyes from Gonzalo’s. “You won’t mind waiting here.”

“Here?”
Gonzalo asked, with a feeble attempt at humor. “Or in the closet again?”

“Here,” the man replied, smiling slightly. He turned to Isabel. “Watch him.”

She nodded, and Gonzalo felt his stomach clench. They were being very polite, and even kind, to risk helping him. But he was still little better than a prisoner. Juan (or Andrés) departed, and Gonzalo was left sitting across from Isabel. Her face was friendly, but she was still holding the gun, and he had no doubt that she would use it if he made any attempt to escape.

Gonzalo could think of nothing to say that would not be construed as a suspicious request for information. The woman was equally silent. He invented a dialogue between them. “So, where are you from?” Her inky black hair and pale, Celtic features suggested an imagined answer. “Galicia, along the coast.” “I’ve heard it’s very pretty there.” “Yes, beautiful. You’re from Madrid?” “Yes.” “When did you join the Party?” The imaginary conversation stopped here. Gonzalo wondered if the bearded man would try to verify his claim that he was a Communist. I gave my word to them as a Party member, Gonzalo thought. But if I get the chance to meet this sergeant it won’t be breaking my word. Not if I was never a member in the first place. If only I get the chance. . . .

“Would you like something to eat?” Isabel’s voice broke in on his reverie.

“Please,” Gonzalo said.

She smiled. “There should be something in the icebox.”

He was puzzled and then saw that the gun was trained on him. Isabel might be trying to be kind, but she was taking no chances. After a long pause, he rose and headed toward the icebox in the corner.

There was some stale cornbread. He ate and offered some to her as well. She refused, but with an apologetic smile. He munched in peaceable silence. The kitchen was dim now, shadowed as the sun dropped behind the building that backed onto it.