The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (60 page)

‘Sí señor,
Juan Balaguer,
para servirle. Pasa algo
?’

The man stepped backwards into the room. Peralta brought up his identity card and held it alongside his pistol.

‘Policía
? Is this about my mother?’

‘No. You’re under arrest. Get your jacket.’

Peralta continued to aim the gun at the man as he retrieved his jacket from a chair.

‘I demand to know what this is about.’

‘All you need to know is that you are under arrest.’

‘But this is outrageous. I demand to speak to your superior officer. I demand you give me his name. I’ll explain to him.’

‘Señor
Balaguer, we don’t give out our names and you can explain yourself at the
comisaría, entiende?’

The look on Cousin Juan’s face showed he understood very well.

‘Does this concern the war?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I thought it was about my mother. She’s gone missing. We’re here to see a relative, a
Comandante
Guzmán. My mother went to meet him two days ago, we haven’t seen her since. Please, let me explain. Maybe you can help me.’

Peralta motioned for the man to sit on the bed. ‘Go on.’ He pulled up a chair a metre from Cousin Juan and sat down. ‘I’m listening. But make it quick.’

MADRID 1953, HOTEL WELLINGTON, CALLE DE VELAZQUEZ

The tram stopped, spilling a clutch of passengers into the brittle cold. Guzmán pushed his way out of the crowded tramcar, carefully checking for any sign of being followed. Across the street was the Wellington Hotel. Baths and telephones in every room. A hotel for the rich and the powerful – which was why
Señor
Positano and his delegation were staying there.

The opulence of the reception area was impressive: the carpet of the
capitanía general
was far inferior to the one Guzmán walked on as he made for the sleek polished reception desk with its glinting brass rails. The receptionist also clearly thought himself of a higher calibre than normal, given the way he looked at Guzmán as if he had just crawled out from under someone’s shoe.

‘May I help you?’ The man’s voice implied this wasn’t likely.

‘You have a
Señor
Positano staying here,’ Guzmán said. ‘Is he in?’

The man peered down his nose disdainfully. ‘The north American gentleman? What do you want to see him about?
Señor
Positano is a very busy man.’

Guzmán nodded, resigning himself to the fact that there were so many people in the world who couldn’t see trouble when it was right in front of them. Still, it was best not make a scene. Usually. He seized the receptionist by the knot of his tie and in one powerful motion dragged the man across the counter, depositing him on the thick pile carpet at his feet.

‘Is he in or not?’ he growled, looming over the sprawling receptionist. ‘Yes or no. Otherwise, I’ll take you back with me to the
comisaría
and let some of my boys play football with your head if you prefer.’

The man looked at the identity card with the logo of the General Directorate of Security and realised his mistake.

‘The gentleman should have said,’ he panted, trying to get to his feet. ‘
Señor
Positano is in his suite. Please,
momentito.’

Guzmán stepped back to allow the trembling receptionist to get up. A couple of guests across the lobby watched from a leather Chesterfield with sensible indifference. The receptionist hurried behind his desk, keeping a wary eye on Guzmán.

‘Shall I call
Señor
Positano?’ he asked, as if Guzmán had just walked in.

‘By all means,’ Guzmán said, sliding his identity card across the desk as the man dialled the number. There was a brief conversation as the receptionist announced the visitor from the
Brigada Especial.

‘Señor
Positano will be pleased to see you,
Comandante.
Room eighty-seven.’ The man handed Guzmán’s ID back with a shaking hand.

‘Let’s hope so,’ Guzmán said, walking over to the lift. The doors opened and an elderly dwarf dressed like an organ grinder’s monkey beckoned him in.

‘Muy Buenas, señor,’
the man lisped through his remaining teeth. When Guzmán looked more closely, he saw there was no plural: one tooth remained, a stained solitary tombstone in the centre of the man’s upper gums.

The lift whirred upwards, almost silent compared to the hotels Guzmán was more accustomed to visiting.

‘The gentleman is visiting the
norteamericano
?’

‘The gentleman is minding his own business.’

‘They tip well, these
norteamericanos.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘The Dutch. Mean bastards. No tips from them.’

‘Of course not. Protestants. What do you expect?’

‘Courtesy. Civility. These are things one expects.’

‘And money.’

‘Hombre.
That goes without saying.’

‘And the Italians?’

‘They don’t tip. They ask for the address of a whore, then they don’t tip.’

‘Perhaps the whores are disappointing? Maybe that’s why they don’t tip.’

‘The whores are perfectly adequate. They should tip.’

‘What of the English?’

‘The English? Who knows? They don’t speak our language. They complain a lot.’

‘About what?’

‘Who knows? They don’t speak our language. They shout.’

‘But you get by? Even with all these tight-fisted foreigners?’

‘I get by. A man must live.’

‘I think must is too strong,’ Guzmán said, philosophically. ‘There’s no
must
about it.’

‘As the
caballero
says: he knows more than I do about that. I press this button. This is my life. People use the lift to come in and go out. I spend my days and nights in here. I go up. I come down.’

‘I understand.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘And having come down, you go up again.’

The dwarf nodded appreciatively at his understanding.

They reached Positano’s floor. Guzmán wasn’t sorry; the lift dwarf was beginning to emit bodily odours usually encountered in piles of executed prisoners. He opened the cage door and waved Guzmán out with a flourish, one hand extended hopefully. Guzmán bent and shook the man’s hand.

‘I wish the
señor
a good day,’ the dwarf said, solemnly.

‘The
señor
is very grateful,’ Guzmán said. The small monkey-suited man peered at him with rheumy eyes as the lift sank downwards and slowly disappeared from view. Guzmán waited until the lift had gone. Nothing so depressing as a dispirited dwarf, he thought. They deserved no tips, the Italians were right about that.

The carpet on this floor was even more luxurious than that in the lobby. The hotel was clearly of a much higher standard than the drab austerity of most of Spanish hotels, but decor was far from Guzmán’s mind as he approached the door of room eighty-seven. He had considered on his way over how to approach Positano – not least because of the possibility the Dominicans might be there. The
surviving
Dominicans, at any rate, Guzmán thought with a smile.

He wondered whether Positano might strike first. Probably not. This was a high-profile hotel. A strange place to have a shootout with the security services. Perhaps, Guzmán thought, he should just go in with his pistol out and see what happened. End it right here, one way or the other. But that would displease the
Caudillo
and would certainly end his career, assuming he survived.

He knocked on the door. Positano opened it at once.

‘Señor
Positano.
Comandante
Guzmán.
Brigada Especial de Policía.’

‘Ah yes, we have met. Please come in.’

The room was opulent, all dark velvet and polished wood. Positano waved Guzmán to a sofa by a large window, flanked by floor-length curtains. Guzmán crossed the room, braced for an attack.

‘Nice room,’ he said, sinking into the soft upholstery of the sofa.

‘The US taxpayer’s paying.’ Positano indicated a large drinks’ cabinet. ‘May I offer you something? No, of course, you’re on duty, I apologise.’

‘This isn’t America,
Señor
Positano,’ Guzmán said sternly. ‘I’ll have a large brandy.’

Positano poured two large glasses of brandy. Guzmán took the proffered glass and inhaled the aroma. Positano sat in a leather armchair, and looked across at him, waiting for him to speak. Guzmán took his time savouring the Napoleon brandy. Perhaps a man who poured such large drinks couldn’t be all bad.

‘Señor
Positano, we’re very concerned about your Dominican colleagues,’ Guzmán began. ‘It would be helpful for my department if you could tell us their whereabouts.’

Positano took an elegant sip of his brandy and said nothing. That was good. Now Guzmán could return to disliking him.

‘Comandante,
I know you had some sort of run-in with those boys, and I know they can be a little wild, but let me explain something.’

‘Those boys killed over a dozen
guardia
last night,’ Guzmán said. ‘Explain that.’

Positano smiled reflectively. ‘I did hear about that,
Comandante.
And we deeply regret it. If it really was the Dominicans, well, that’s a matter for the appropriate authorities, of course. We understand that.’

Guzmán took another mouthful of brandy, not wanting things to turn violent until he’d finished it. ‘I understood these people are a part of your trade delegation.’

‘A part, yes. But they are Dominican businessmen. The Dominican Republic is a great friend of the United States,
Comandante
Guzmán. They are here to promote various businesses in their own country. But they are a little unconventional, I’ll grant you that.’

‘So far,’ Guzmán said in a patient voice, ‘they’ve purchased properties used for criminal activities, are suspected of decapitating a police informer, selling contaminated illegal drugs resulting in a number of deaths, and murdering fourteen members of the
guardia civil.
That’s more than unconventional in any country.’

‘The Dominican Republic is a tough place.’ Positano shrugged. ‘Maybe we were unwise to take them at face value. Still, I’m sure you can cope with them – if it really was them who did these things.’

‘You don’t seem too concerned,’ Guzmán said.

Positano waved a manicured hand. ‘These things are beyond my experience.’

‘Maybe these days,
señor.
But back in the day you too were, let’s say, a little wild. No?’

Positano’s suave expression lost its air of hospitality. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,
Comandante.’

‘I’d be happy to remind you.’

‘I think maybe you should.’

‘Well, for starters,
Señor
Positano, I understand in your youth you had a less than romantic notion of St Valentine’s Day.’

Positano glared at Guzmán. ‘Well,
Comandante
Guzmán, perhaps they were wrong when they said Spanish Intelligence is a contradiction in terms?’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘Ancient history, water under the bridge. St Valentine? I’m sure I don’t know where you got that from.’

‘From your court records,
Señor
Positano.’

Positano smiled. It was a smile Guzmán recognised very well: a slight movement of the facial muscles into a caricature of normality while hiding a rapid calculation of strategies of violence and harm. It was the smile Guzmán saw every day in the mirror.

‘I never think rank is an indicator of ability,
Comandante.’
Positano maintained his flat smile. ‘For example, there aren’t many officers of your rank who attend meetings with the Head of State or his ministers.’

Now it was Guzmán who was forcing a smile. That made him angry.
They were following me. And I never noticed. Worse, I never thought about it.

‘The
Caudillo
talks with anyone he wishes. We’re all at his command.’

‘Of course, that’s the way dictatorship works. Franco whistles and you bark.’

Guzmán shrugged. He wasn’t going to be angered by a bit of name calling. As long as it wasn’t his name. ‘I’m employed by the Head of State and
Generalísimo
Franco is my boss. I believe your bosses talk to their workers too, if they wish?’

Positano laughed. ‘It can happen. But the Head of State chatting with a major? Let’s cut the crap,
Comandante.
I know a lot about you.’

In which case you may be dead when I leave this room,
Guzmán thought. ‘Really?’

‘Really. We can mobilise more extensive resources than you think.’

‘Clearly they’re less visible than your Dominicans.’

Positano shrugged. ‘We borrowed those guys from the Dominican Republic to gather economic intelligence for this delegation. We thought they’d fit right in, speaking Spanish and all. We were wrong,
Comandante.
When they started getting involved in crime we tried to rein them in, but they’ve gone rogue. I have no idea where they are.’

‘They are criminals,
Señor
Positano, and they’ll be dealt with,’ Guzmán growled.

‘Understood,’ Positano said pleasantly. ‘All I want is for the trade talks to go ahead.’

‘You must be desperate to have such a pressing need to trade with us.’

Positano’s smile vanished. He leaned forward.

‘Don’t fuck about with me,
Comandante.
You know the score. Your shitty country is broke and it was Franco who broke it. How long can you keep control of a starving population with the tinpot economy you’ve got? Instead of development, you guys have put all your efforts into killing one another for the last sixteen years. Your agriculture’s a hundred years out of date, the Church interferes in government policy and guys like you keep the war going while ex-generals get rich milking the pieces of the economy Franco gave them to keep them loyal. What you’ve got,
Comandante,
is a goddamned mess, and unless you get your hands on some hard cash, some of those walking skeletons out there are going to decide it’s time for another war – and if there was a war, what do you think you’d fight it with? An army equipped for keeping civilians under control? They wouldn’t last a week. We haven’t forgotten Franco’s flirting with Hitler either, I’ll tell you that.’