The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (5 page)

‘Even a moron like you knows what lies behind talk like that.’

The waiter nodded. ‘The sort of things the Reds used to say, “Those without God—”’

Guzmán cut him short. ‘Well done, Salvador. You’ve served your country yet again.’ He gestured towards his glass and the waiter refilled it obediently. Guzmán lifted the glass, watching the light from the gas lamps illuminate the subtle colours of the wine.

The waiter stepped back, drained and eager to get away. Even though he had done nothing wrong himself, there was always the possibility the guilt of others could attach itself. Just knowing a suspect was enough to suggest complicity.

‘Will there be anything else,
Comandante
?’

‘Not for now. But next time the doctor comes in and meets this other man, call my office. We should talk with the doctor. Make his acquaintance more formally.’

With a stiff bow, the waiter turned and made his way to the bar. Through the haze of blue oil smoke from the large iron grill, Guzmán saw him say something to the cook. The cook glanced across the room, hurriedly averting his gaze when Guzmán stared back. Guzmán noticed Salvador put the empty bottle of Rioja on the counter and then pour himself a cognac, gulping it down before he disappeared into the steaming kitchen.

When he had eaten, Guzmán pulled on his hat and overcoat and left without looking at the staff behind the bar. Such niceties were not necessary here. Bracing himself, he opened the door and stepped out into the flat unrelenting cold.
There were winners and losers. And we won. To the victors the spoils. And to the enemy? Fuck them
. Those like Salvador were just as bad in their own way, always willing to defend or condone or excuse. The ones who would forgive and forget. Because they were weak. From there it was just another step to listening to the arguments of those who advocated Marxism, godlessness, Freemasonry or worse, democracy. Democracy, what a laugh. One vote for all? He stared at a beggar hunched in a doorway, a twisted hand holding a tin cup. Give a vote to that? What fool would let it happen? The war was fought to decide who would run the country. Franco won, and now things were done his way. And those who helped achieve victory reaped their rewards in turn. The
Caudillo
had called for an iron fist and it was people like Guzmán who wielded that fist. That was the way it was and that was the way it was staying. It suited Guzmán very well.

Walking back to the
comisaría
along Calle de Atocha, Guzmán saw the snow thicken in the lamplight, the bleak continuity of the flakes picked out briefly in their weightless descent through the greasy halo of the street lamps. Behind curtains, a weak glow occasionally fluttered from a candle or lamp.
It’s as if the entire city is in hiding. Hiding in the dark, afraid and guilty. Guilty people, guilty for what they had done or guilty for what they had not done. Let them stay that way. Fear restrains them in a way no prison can. Some think they can hide their guilt in the darkness, but it’s the darkness that will betray them
. And there were so many willing to betray them, he knew. And then he, Guzmán, would seek them out just as they had always feared, and he would destroy them. Just the knowledge this was possible was enough to keep most in their place, fearful and suspicious. They could never know who to trust. And when no one can be trusted, everyone is a suspect.

By the time he reached the main road, the snow had turned to slush, making the going less slippery. His feet were soaked. Guzmán cursed, cursing the entire brotherhood of cheating cobblers and bootblacks who conspired to create shoddy footwear and whose toxic polish destroyed the shoes it was applied to. The quality of shoes these days was third rate, the war had drained the country of just about every resource, particularly those which could provide even a minimal degree of comfort.
It’s dog eat dog now,
Guzmán thought. Even so, he still had to make do with badly made shoes.

Outside the
comisaría
, Guzmán saw the two guards on duty. Sentry posts were always chilly affairs, but even more so tonight, he thought. The two men looked thoroughly unhappy, their capes drenched with sleet, rifles cradled with menacing affection.

Guzmán curtly acknowledged their salutes as he entered the building. Inside, a darkened hallway led to the ancient reception desk. A lamp glowed on the desk. The
sargento
looked up from his newspaper.

‘Buenas tardes, Comandante. A sus ordenes.’

‘Muy buenas, Sargento.
Anything new?’ The question suggested an interest but was entirely rhetorical: all Guzmán wanted was to light the stove in his office and dry his frozen feet. Then he noticed the
sargento
’s face. ‘What?’

‘The general sir, General Valverde, he’s here.’

Something must be wrong
. Guzmán felt the adrenalin surge, his mind clearing, ready for action.
They always come for you at night
.

‘Where is the general?’

‘Your office, sir. I lit the stove and offered him coffee. He said he’d wait for you.’

‘And how long has he been here?’

‘Ten minutes, sir.’

‘
Muy bien
. Listen, go to the kitchen and make some coffee. Use the real coffee in the officers’ cupboard – but lock it away again when you’ve done, it’s hard to get decent coffee even on the black market.’ He pushed the key across the desk. ‘I’ll be with the general.’ He turned to go through the double doors that led to his office. ‘And I want the key to the cupboard back afterwards,
me entiendes
?’

The
sargento
grinned, an unpleasant act, since it gave an unwanted view of his broken and rotting teeth. ‘
Entendido, mi Comandante
.’

The bulb of the electric light in Guzmán’s office spilled harsh white light over the sullen decay within. The ancient paper on the walls was peeling and an air of damp contested the other accumulated smells the old building jealously harboured. The general was sitting at Guzmán’s desk, warming his hands by the small wood-burning stove. Guzmán looked round quickly, making sure he had left no papers lying about.

‘
Mi General
, this is a pleasure. Had I known you were coming…’

The general’s big ruddy face was not improved under the baleful light. His shaggy eyebrows contrasted with the neatly trimmed moustache. The immaculate uniform was ablaze with braid and medal ribbons.

‘No need for small talk, Guzmán, thank you. I’ve no more time for it than you. What I have to say is best said in person, not on the telephone.’

‘Of course,
mi General
. How may I be of service?’

‘Sit down,
Comandante
.’

Guzmán pulled up a chair, aware of how the power balance between them was enacted, the general sitting at Guzmán’s desk with Guzmán outside the warm radius of the stove, necessarily attentive. This was because the general thought his status was so much greater than Guzmán’s. Guzmán did not agree.
Valverde knows his authority counts for very little here. We play this game; he thinks he is superior, I act as if it were true. But these are formalities. We both know who I answer to
.

‘You’re doing well, Guzmán,’ Valverde said. ‘I understand you’ve made a number of important arrests in the last few weeks.’

Guzmán nodded. ‘The usual,
mi General
: traitors, agitators, Liberals. Enemies of the State who thought their conspiracies would go unnoticed. They may go unnoticed for a while but they don’t get away. I don’t let them.’

‘Indeed. Your abilities in this field are particularly impressive, Guzmán. As I knew they would be when I first met you at Badajoz.’

‘The general was very kind to me,’ Guzmán said, without sincerity.

‘Your physical and mental prowess were evident even then,’ he said. ‘That was why I recommended you to the
Caudillo
.’

‘For which I’m grateful,
mi General
.’

‘You’ve worked hard in this post, Guzmán.
Hombre
, you’ve been in the
Brigada Especial
since 1941.’

‘As the general knows.’

‘An excellent record in the army as well: and you attained the highest decoration your country could bestow on you.’

‘Again, this is well known to the general. Even if it is, if I may say so, history.’
Nothing beats being modest
, Guzmán thought, knowing how much it would annoy a braggart like Valverde.
Why don’t you just shit or get off the pot
?

‘But a glorious history, Guzmán, Spain’s history changed by the crusade against the Reds. By the actions of the
Caudillo
and, let me add, by men like you and me. That history will be told long after we are gone. Never forget it,
hombre
. And let no one else forget it, that’s what I say.’

Guzmán nodded, despising the vanity of the man.
Cretin. After we are gone we are dust.
Nada más.
Does he think a few lines in the history books will give him immortality? Probably, since the man’s ego is immense. General Valverde, hero of Badajoz, defender of the faith. Second in command to General Yagűe, architect of the first major victory of the Civil War. Valverde is still revelling in his role as hero after all these years. He remembers the times that brought him wealth and power. It’s always as well to remember the other side of the coin. The real work. I wonder if he’s already forgotten the dust of the bullring at Badajoz, as they herded in the beaten, the wounded, the women and children, shrunken, starved faces dirty and gaunt as they cowered before the bayonets of Franco’s Moorish troops?
Guzmán remembered it very well. Standing next to Valverde and his officers, watching the machine gunners mow down the prisoners.

‘You were appointed to this position by the
Caudillo
himself. That in itself indicates how highly he valued your conduct in the
Cruzada
,’ Valverde said, interrupting Guzmán’s memories.

The general was unusually talkative tonight, Guzmán thought. He was a man accustomed to giving orders, not inclined towards discussion and certainly not small talk. But he was boring and Guzmán’s mind wandered, remembering again that afternoon at Badajoz. It had been very interesting to watch, Guzmán recalled, very colourful and well organised.

‘The
Caudillo
was very kind,’ Guzmán said. ‘Because of my age I think he had a bit of a soft spot for me. And of course I’d been wounded.’

The general nodded, looking into the gloom at the edge of the circle of light from the bare bulb in the ceiling. He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, belatedly offering the packet to Guzmán. Both men exhaled smoke into the bitter light.

‘He saw something in you, Guzmán, something that was needed in men who were to shape their country’s destiny. He saw how you responded to adversity and he liked what he saw. The way you were willing to fight to the death for the Cause.’

Something’s wrong. Suddenly Valverde’s my best friend. He must want something
.

‘Guzmán, I too admire those qualities the
Caudillo
observed in you. Perhaps I haven’t said so lately, but then in my position one can’t have favourites nor can one single out a particular individual for praise no matter how worthy. I’m sure you understand that.’

As was so often the case when dealing with Valverde, there was nothing to do but nod in agreement. There was a knock at the door and an orderly brought in their coffee, pouring it into the ancient cups that were the
comisaría
’s best china. The orderly saluted and left.

‘Perhaps you haven’t had the recognition you deserve.’ Valverde paused to wipe coffee from his moustache. ‘That can change. I’ve got a business proposition for you, Guzmán. Something that will adequately reward you for your work on behalf of the
Patria
.’

Adequate reward? Does he think I’m stupid? He knows damn well I get by like everyone else: the bribes, the gifts, skimming off the deals of others. Not as much as a general can make, of course, but
then the secret of success is not to get greedy. Everyone, from high-ranking government officials dipping their snouts into the trough of public funds, right down to the local Falange members with their bribery and petty intimidation, all of them use the power available to them to get that bit more. It’s how the country is run
.

‘If there is some matter in which I can be of service to the general,’ Guzmán said, ‘I would be only too pleased to help.’

Valverde leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Your talents are exceptional, Guzmán, no one can sniff out Reds and traitors like you. You would have done well in the Inquisition.’ The general smiled stiffly. ‘And make no mistake,’ he continued, ‘we still need an Inquisition in this country. After the
Cruzada
we dealt with many of our enemies. But there are those who still feel the
Caudillo
was too lenient, too…’

‘Soft?’ Guzmán tried not to sound incredulous.

‘That’s a soldier talking.’ Valverde smiled, approvingly. ‘Let’s say, he was merciful. It’s likely he was badly advised. Great leaders are always surrounded by a profusion of advisors and each of them has their own agenda. Decisions in such a context are always complicated.’

Treacherous bastard,
Guzmán thought.
Is he trying to draw me into criticising Franco? What the hell is he up to? I’m having none of this. Franco – lenient? Fuck me. It would be easier to argue the Blessed Virgin had twins
.

‘I’m surprised to hear the general considers that the decisions of the Head of State need to be revised, complex or not. If I may say so.’

Valverde flushed angrily. He finished his coffee, trying, with limited success, to calm himself. ‘I put that badly,’ he grunted. ‘I wouldn’t want you to take what I said as any form of criticism of the
Caudillo
. Naturally that wasn’t my intention. But in a great country like ours, the business of government involves many people of lesser talent, with the result that decisions are often ill-informed. These are not faults of the
Caudillo
, of course.’