The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (13 page)

A corporal stepped forward with a list on a clipboard. ‘I’ve checked them off, sir. We got them all,
Comandante
.’

‘Any of our lads hurt,
cabo
?’ Guzmán asked.

‘Only the
teniente
.’ The corporal turned to Peralta. ‘That’s a nasty cut, sir. I’ll get one of our first-aid lads to come over and have a look.’

‘Just one to pick up on the way back,’ Guzmán said. ‘Always save the best till last.’

More empty trucks had now pulled up at the roadblock and the
guardia civiles
began to climb aboard, ready to return to barracks. Guzmán pushed Peralta into the cab of their vehicle and climbed in after him, crushing Peralta between himself and the driver. Guzmán gestured to the driver and the truck eased forward over the frozen snow, hesitantly making its way into the road leading back to the city. Behind them, the other vehicles patiently began to form a convoy.

‘Did the Falangists stay behind?’ Guzmán asked the driver.

‘No, they decided they’d come back another day.’ The driver smirked. ‘Last in, first out.’

‘As ever.’ Guzmán nodded.

The convoy made its way slowly towards the city centre. The canvas covers of the trucks were tied closed, shielding the prisoners from view. Passers-by paid little attention: military vehicles were a common sight. The long line of lorries slipped and skidded, making slow and painful progress through the snow. At a crossroads the convoy divided, the majority of trucks heading in the direction of the
comisaría
, while Guzmán’s vehicle and another took a left, heading toward Lavapiés.

‘Stop here,’ Guzmán snapped. The truck drew to a halt, the engine still running. Guzmán got out. Peralta started to follow but Guzmán pushed him back. ‘No, stay here. You’ll only bleed on someone’s carpet.’

MADRID 1953, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE

Peralta watched Guzmán in the rear-view mirror as he walked to the back of the truck, shouting for the men to get down. Dark, caped figures began to clamber from the truck into the snow. Peralta continued watching as they moved towards one of the blocks of flats. The building was unlike those they had just raided; this one seemed well kept and middle class, not the sort of place a wanted Red would hide out. But then, Peralta thought, what did he know? Since he arrived at the
comisaría
that morning, he had been in a different world.

The entrance hall floor was an expanse of cheap tiles, lethally slippery under the
guardias
’ hobnailed boots and Guzmán scowled as his men struggled to stay on their feet. In front of them a wooden staircase curved upwards into the gloom.

‘Number ten,’ Guzmán said. The civil guards began to climb the stairs. Guzmán ordered two men to stay behind, to block any attempted escape. Then he ran up the stairs impatiently, pushing his way through the plodding guards, muttering insults as he went.

They reached the first-floor landing. There were four doors; that meant their target was on the third floor. Guzmán detached two men from the squad to guard the landing and did the same on the second floor, taking the last six men with him to the third floor. A cracked metal plaque announced ‘
Pisos
9–12’ in faded lettering. Guzmán pounded with the butt of his pistol on the door of number ten.

‘Open up. In the name of the Spanish State.
Policía. Abra la puerta
.’

There was a faint commotion inside the apartment. Guzmán took a step back and then kicked the door against its lock. He staggered back, clutching his leg. The door remained unmoved. Guzmán glowered with incandescent rage as he rubbed his leg. ‘Break the fucking door down.
Vamos, coño
.’

The door took some breaking down. It was thick and heavy and clearly bolted in several places. Several of the
guardia civiles
tried ineffectually to shoulder-charge it open while another kicked it with little success. There was a great deal of noise but the door remained unmoved.

A door on the left of the landing opened and a fair-haired woman in a dressing gown looked out at them disapprovingly. ‘
Qué pasa
?’

‘Back inside, now,’ Guzmán barked. ‘
Policía.
’

The woman retreated into her flat, her face showing her disgust. Behind her, Guzmán saw a thin child, stick legs in threadbare shorts, eyes wide with concerned interest.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Guzmán realised the men were getting nowhere with the door. ‘Stand back.’ He pointed the Browning at the door lock. ‘Watch this. Just like Hollywood.’

The blast in the confined hallway was painfully loud and accompanied by a sudden cry of pain as the bullet ricocheted from the lock, taking off a piece of the nearest civil guard’s ear as it went. The man swore and clutched his head, bleeding copiously. Guzmán scowled at the lock and cursed it. He kicked the door again, though more carefully than before, but it remained firmly closed.

‘Fucking tough lock,’ one of the men muttered.

‘Five rounds through the door,’ Guzmán barked, ‘on my command. Aim…’ the
guardia
eagerly aimed their weapons at the wooden door, the sound of the rifle bolts hard loud and metallic.

Inside the flat a woman screamed. Footsteps came towards the door. The voice of an elderly man: ‘Don’t shoot, we surrender.’

Guzmán gave the wounded
guardia
an ‘I told you so’ look, although it was lost on the man, who was now trying – without success – to bind a field bandage around his head.

‘Stop bleeding, that’s an order.’ Guzmán’s sense of humour blossomed at times like these. The civil guard didn’t share it.

The bolts on the door slid back and a key turned in the lock. The door opened inwards. Guzmán thrust himself forward, still limping slightly, pistol in hand. He was confronted by a grey-haired man of about seventy, wearing glasses, and a dressing gown that had seen better days.

‘Can I help you,
señores
?’ He was clearly shaken but attempting to maintain his dignity. ‘Santiago Mendoza
para servirles
.’

Guzmán smashed his pistol across the man’s face, shattering his glasses and knocking him to the floor where he lay groaning as Guzmán and the
guardia civiles
crashed into the house, trampling the old man underfoot.

A woman’s voice, ‘Santiago? Santiago,
que pasa
?’

Guzmán stormed through the entrance hall and into a well-furnished, if shabby, living room. Every wall covered in books. Books reached up to the ceiling, shelf after shelf. Against the window two people sat on a divan, an elderly woman, and a somewhat younger man, wearing a polo-necked sweater under a sober tweed jacket.

‘
Señora
Mendoza?’ Guzmán asked. The woman nodded.

‘And you will be Ernesto Garcia Mendoza, also known as
el Profesor
,’ Guzmán said. ‘We have a long-standing appointment,
señor.
’

The man stood up, releasing the woman’s hand. ‘That’s me,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘These people have nothing to do with any business you have with me, officer. I can assure you they have only helped me because I—’

‘
Joder. Coño
. I know who you fucking are. You’re a traitor and these people are traitors as well. You’re all under arrest.’

The woman shrieked as a
guardia
dragged her husband into the room, blood running down the old man’s face.

Christ almighty, why is everyone is bleeding today
? Guzmán wondered. ‘Take them to the
comisaría
,’ he ordered. ‘Arrange prison places for them.’

‘We would like to remain together,’ Mendoza said quietly.

‘No you wouldn’t,’ Guzmán said, ‘not where you’re going.’

The couple were led away.
El Profesor
turned to Guzmán, ‘I’d like to speak with your superior officer. ‘I have information I’m prepared to exchange for their freedom.’

Guzmán’s face reddened with fury and his big fists clenched as he pushed his face towards the professor, his words accompanied by a spray of angry spittle. ‘I report to the fucking
Caudillo
directly, you little prick.
Generalísimo
Francisco Franco himself. I’m not some half-arsed copper come round to tell you you’ve parked in the wrong place.’

‘The
Brigada Especial
? the professor said calmly. ‘Clearly I underestimated my own importance.’

‘You’ll see how important you are,’ Guzmán growled, turning to the remaining
guardia civiles
. ‘Take him down to the truck. If he tries to get away, shoot him. It’ll save time later.’

‘I’m glad to hear Franco’s justice remains so consistent in both its assumptions and its application,’
el Profesor
murmured defiantly.

Guzmán’s reply was immediate. He smashed his fist into the professor’s belly and the man crumpled, exhaling noisily. The two
guardia
kept the professor from falling to the floor. Even in pain, the man tried to make a last impotent protest, but failed. Taking his weight between them, the two
guardia civiles
frog-marched him down the stairs.

‘Tie him before he goes in the truck,’ Guzmán called after them. He waited on the landing until their footsteps died away and then knocked on the door of number eleven. No answer. He put his ear to the door. Nothing. Number twelve didn’t answer either. Guzmán sighed. He pulled the shattered door to number ten closed as best he could. No doubt the place would be looted by tomorrow, and then the Falange would allocate the flat to someone else – friend, lover, relative, it didn’t matter as long as you were connected to the elaborate mechanisms of power permeating every aspect of Spanish life. Still, that was how it worked and, for Guzmán, it worked very well. He knocked on the door of number nine. There was someone in there, at any rate.

The fair-haired woman opened the door. She looked at Guzmán with contempt. ‘Yes?’

Guzmán ignored the tone of her voice. ‘I want to talk to you about your neighbours,
señora
. We’ve just arrested them.’

‘Ah. The old couple. That would explain why you needed so many men.’

‘They were harbouring a dangerous criminal,
Señora
…?’

‘Martinez.’

‘
Señora
Martinez.’ Guzmán pronounced her name slowly as if he were writing it in his notebook. ‘Well,
Señora
Martinez, I want to know what you can tell me about those people.’

She looked at him impassively. ‘There’s little I can tell you. An elderly couple, very quiet. They have the odd visitor but other than that, they keep very much to themselves.’

Guzmán pushed the door. The woman resisted for a moment and then gave up as the door forced her back into her own apartment. The room was furnished plainly, the cheap furniture and the darns in her clothing evidence of her poverty.

‘There’s no need to force your way in, officer,’ she protested. ‘I’m giving you all the help I can.’

Guzmán sneered. He ran his eyes over her and watched how she backed away from him, how she squirmed uncomfortably under his blatant, hungry assessment of her body.

She was in her late thirties, he guessed. A long pretty face, high cheekbones, slightly lined and drawn from work and a lack of food. That was normal. His eyes ran over her breasts, her hips and then back to her face. She coloured slightly at his belligerent scrutiny.

From the back room a child’s voice piped up. ‘
Quien es
?’

‘No one,
mi vida
. Just a policeman. Stay there.’

Guzmán looked over to the door and saw the dark haunted face of a boy aged somewhere between six and ten. Like many kids, the boy was far too thin, his skin sallow and pale. He stood there like a little scarecrow, gangly and awkward.

‘Are you a policeman?’ he asked, unable to check his curiosity.

Guzmán looked at him. ‘Yes. Are you a good boy?’

‘
Si, señor. Me llamo Roberto
.’

‘Then go back to your room and close the door, Roberto,’ Guzmán said firmly. ‘Like your
mamá
told you.’

The boy reluctantly went into his room and closed the door, his dark eyes still fixed on Guzmán as the door closed.

‘Nice boy,’ Guzmán observed. ‘Just the one son, then?’

‘He’s not my son, my husband’s dead. He’s my nephew. I’ve had him since my sister died of cancer five years ago.’

Guzmán nodded. He could have offered condolences, but that was not his way. Besides, he didn’t care.

‘Look, I have things to do, is there anything else you need to know, officer?’

Guzmán looked around the flat. ‘In my line of work you have to know everything. Sometimes it takes a while to get a feel for what it is you actually need to know.’

Señora
Martinez looked confused. ‘I have nothing to do with that couple next door, if that’s what you are thinking. Only to say good morning now and again.’

‘Really? Nothing else? Did you ever fetch their shopping, for example?’

He saw the answer from her expression. She struggled to answer and when she spoke, there was an element of sincerity, an attempt to convince, to justify. But for Guzmán there were just lies and the truth. And he could recognise both.

‘A few times. As I said, they are elderly. The lady sometimes had problems with her knees: there are so many stairs in this building. I only collected a few groceries.’

Guzmán was again looking at the neckline of her dress, at her breasts. It was a predatory gesture, one of a cat to a mouse. She reddened, and he was pleased to see a thin line of sweat on her upper lip, despite the cold of the apartment.

‘Groceries,’ Guzmán repeated flatly.

It was very quiet in the flat. Quiet and cold. Guzmán towered over
Señora
Martinez. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his notebook. Without asking permission, he sat down at the cheap battered table with its faded lace tablecloth.

‘Do you have a pencil?’ Guzmán watched the woman’s hips as she went to a cupboard and bent to a drawer. She handed him the pencil, avoiding eye contact, conscious of the fierce intensity of his gaze, aware of her own complicity in supplying him with the means of condemning her. He wrote in the book at length and without looking up, knowing her attention was now fully on him. There was something he enjoyed about committing people to writing, inscribing them into official memory, condemning their actions, their words, their entire being into the immutable history of a police file. He looked up, straight into her pale eyes which were, as he expected, riveted on the battered leather notebook and the chewed pencil in his hand.