The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (71 page)

‘I know,’ Guzmán said. ‘But these things can be changed – as long as you’re cooperative. You just have to know the right people. Like me.’

‘Really?’ Jaime asked.

Guzmán nodded. ‘Tell me, the material from the United States, did you destroy it?’

Posadas looked down. ‘They told me to.’ His face told Guzmán he was lying.

Guzmán restrained an urge to slap him. ‘Jaime, if you kept any of that material, it will help you a great deal in getting your job back. Now, what did you do with it?’

‘I did wonder if I was doing the right thing. So I brought it home. Just in case.’

Guzmán looked at him in surprise. ‘Here? You’ve got it here?’

‘Over there, in the drawer.’

Posadas went over to the bureau by the window and rummaged in a drawer. Guzmán followed him, and stood by the window. Snow was falling again, blurring the light of the street lamps. The cleaner was still at work in the office opposite. Guzmán turned to see what Posadas was doing.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ Guzmán snapped, pointing to the growing pile of pornographic magazines on the table. Guzmán could see the titles;
Hombre, Chicos, Macho.

Jaime pushed past him, shoving some of the magazines to one side. ‘I’m sorry, I put the papers in these – I didn’t think anyone would ever look for them in there. Look, it’s in this one.’ He opened one of the magazines and took out a couple of sheets of typed paper. Guzmán saw the words at the top:
Alto Secreto:
Alfredo
Positano.

‘And the other material?’ Guzmán asked.

‘Somewhere in these other magazines,’ Jaime said. ‘I’m not sure which. I’ll find it, though.’

Guzmán looked out of the window again. The snowfall was heavier now. The light in the office across the street went out. He turned away and took the paper over to the lamp to read it. Framed against the window, Jaime continued babbling a litany of apologies as he rummaged through his magazines.

The window exploded in a white hailstorm of shattered glass. Something wet hit Guzmán in the face and he staggered backwards, colliding with Jaime’s armchair and falling heavily. He lay, winded for a moment. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood. He looked over to Posadas. The young man was lying face down, motionless. Guzmán saw no sign of a wound until he rolled Jaime onto his back and then he understood. The sniper across the street had fired one round straight between Jaime’s shoulder blades. Guzmán could have put his fist in the exit wound. He looked round the dingy apartment and saw the splashed blood on the walls. It was Jaime’s blood that had blinded him momentarily.

Pushing the paper Jaime had given him into his pocket, Guzmán crawled to the door, knowing if he stood up he would make himself a target. He reached for the door handle and twisted it. The door opened and, as it did, the wood above him suddenly trembled and splintered under the impact of bullets. Guzmán heard no shots. It was a professional then, using a rifle with a silencer. He crawled forward into the hallway, scrambling to his feet once he was clear of the door. To his left, the hall led to a single window. Guzmán could see the steps of a fire escape through the glass. To his right was the landing and beyond were the stairs. He heard the sound of footsteps in the lobby. Drawing the Browning, Guzmán ran to the top of the stairs. Four men were starting to make their way up, weapons drawn. Guzmán raised his pistol and fired, hitting the nearest man in the face, sending him tumbling backwards into his comrades. Guzmán fired again, scattering the survivors as they dived for cover.

He ran back down the hall towards the window. Hearing the sound of feet on the stairs behind him, he turned and fired at the man crossing the landing. The man ducked back out of sight. Guzmán ran to the window and tried to open it. The catch was old and rusty and he abandoned it for a moment, turning to fire as the man came down the hallway after him. This time, the man fell, clutching his belly. Guzmán fired again and the man keeled over against the wall and lay still. There was no time for subtlety now, and Guzmán brought the butt of his heavy pistol down on the metal window catch, breaking it away from the rotten wood. Hearing something, he quickly turned, aiming back up the hallway, but saw no one. No one alive, anyway. He tugged the window open with one hand, still aiming the pistol down the hall. Outside the window, the flimsy-looking fire escape led down to a narrow alley running between the buildings.

Guzmán swung his legs over the sill and slid out onto the fire escape. Crouching on the small platform, he aimed down the corridor, resting his hands on the sill. Let them come, he thought, raging. They would all die. But no one came. They were either waiting for back-up or they’d gone. But whatever they were doing, they’d bought enough time for the sniper to get away from the building opposite. Guzmán briefly considered going back to Posadas’ room to search for the other intelligence material but decided against it – if his attackers were expecting back-up, he would be cornered in there.

He climbed down the fire escape awkwardly, scanning above and below with the Browning as he descended the rickety steps to the alley. There was no sign of his attackers and he made his way to the far end of the alley, emerging into a small street. Seeing a bar, he went in and ordered a brandy; the barman poured it quickly before making himself scarce in the kitchen. Guzmán realised the few customers in the place were also looking at him curiously. It was when he looked into the mirror behind the bar that he understood. His face was a streaked red mask of Posadas’ dried blood. Guzmán hurriedly found the toilet and cleaned up before returning to the street.

At a stall a man was frying
churros,
placing the lines of batter into the deep hot fat before covering them with sugar and salt. The smell of frying filled the cold air. Guzmán bought a paper bag full. They tasted of salt and fat and sugar. Luxury. Guzmán strolled down the cold street, peering into shop windows, savouring the sweet-salt batter. He walked contentedly, breath steaming in the winter chill. Some people could cook
churros
just right, he thought, and when they do, there’s nothing finer on a cold night like this. He wandered on, window shopping while he ate, the grease dribbling down his chin. He had one thought, and it almost spoiled his enjoyment of the
churros.
He didn’t yet know how he was going to deal with Valverde and Positano. He could expect little help from Gutierrez: the
coronel
was clearly waiting to see what happened in the next two days. Even though Gutierrez didn’t trust Valverde, he was biding his time, playing games with photographs, not committing himself. He had no need to take sides yet, the bastard. The man was a survivor, Guzmán thought, you had to give him that.

A shop ahead was still open. Its window was almost empty, the shelf covered with what looked like it had once been a piece of velvet. At the centre was a large glass ball with a handwritten card next to it:

Juanita, Genuine Gypsy – Fortunes told – Tarot and palm readings Love potions – Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored

Guzmán stopped, finished the last churro and screwed the paper up, tossing it into the gutter. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he entered the shop. The room was small and draped with dark cloth embroidered with the moon and the stars in silver thread. There was a strong smell of paraffin from the single lantern that gave the room its ghastly pallor. The air felt colder than the street outside. Guzmán’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom and, as they did, he saw the old woman sitting in the shadows. Dressed in black, ancient hands clasped on her lap, her face marked her out as the genuine gypsy her sign proclaimed. When she spoke, her voice was dry and rasping.

‘Muy buenas noches, hijo.
Can I help you?’

‘Muy buenas, señora,
I’d like my palm read,’ Guzmán said, still smacking his lips from the
churros.

‘Cómo no, hijo
? Pull up a chair. No, come nearer,
señor,
that’s it, I don’t bite.’

Guzmán shrugged, pulling his chair closer to the old woman. She smelled of smoke and roses: it reminded him of his time in Andalusía. There had been more smoke than roses then, he remembered. And fewer gypsies. Afterwards.

‘Qué te pasa, hijo
? Unlucky in love?’ The woman took his large hand in her wizened claws. Guzmán straightened his fingers, felt her sharp nail trace the lines on his palm.

‘Bad things are happening,’ he said. ‘I want to know how they’ll turn out.’

The gypsy sighed. ‘We all do,
hijo. A ver.’
She bent closer to his hand. ‘I see a woman. Is there a woman in your life?’

‘The possibility exists.’

‘She wants you. She’s searching for you. Dreaming of you. Yet she can’t find you.’

‘The woman I’m thinking of knows exactly where to find me,’ Guzmán said.

‘Really? So you know her already?’

‘Yes. Her name is—’

The gypsy interrupted, ‘I know what her name is,
hijo.
I can hear her friend talking to her, using her name: Ana, Ana María.’

Guzmán snorted.
‘Joder,
she’s called Alicía. What kind of gypsy are you?’

The old woman continued staring at Guzmán’s palm. She frowned. ‘I see great violence. Were you in the war?’

‘Who wasn’t?’

‘And I see…’ She stopped, releasing Guzmán’s hand as if it had burst into flames.

‘What?’ Guzmán asked.

The old woman struggled to her feet, crossing herself frantically. ‘Get out.
Por Dios.
Leave me alone. I can see no more.’

Guzmán stood up, annoyed. ‘What did you see?’

The gypsy backed away. ‘I saw the dead. All of them.
Dios mío,
how many? I saw them dying. And I saw who killed them.’

‘Who?’

‘You,
hijo de puta.
What are you?’ She backed away and staggered, grasping at the drapes for something to keep her upright. One of them ripped from the nails holding it and she stumbled and fell to the floor, thrashing beneath the dirty black fabric. ‘Get out. Get out.
Dios ayúdame.’
She began to crawl, moaning softly for the Lord to help her.

Guzmán threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the floor in front of the gypsy. ‘That was rubbish. But here, get yourself something with this.’

The woman picked up the money.

‘So you didn’t see what’s going to happen to me?’ Guzmán asked, irritated.

The gypsy looked up, dark eyes reflecting the dim lamp. ‘Death,’ she said. ‘I saw you and the others. You were bleeding and beaten.

They were standing over you. Laughing.’

‘Mierda,’
Guzmán walked to the door, ‘some fucking fortuneteller you are.’

After he had stormed out, the gypsy struggled to her feet, hurried to the door and locked it, fearful he would return. She shuffled back to her chair. Picking up the lamp, she held it close to inspect the banknote. It was real, enough money to feed her for a long time. Carefully holding the lamp away from the drapes, the gypsy burned the banknote and ground the ashes into the floor before spitting on them. She heard the woman’s voice again, this time more faintly. The man denied knowing her but the gypsy had heard the voice clearly.

‘You’re a liar Ana María.’

She’d heard it all. Their laughter, a door opening and then the screaming. She shuddered. She was an old woman. She couldn’t stand an experience like this again. When she touched his hand, she heard him wondering whether to pay her or kill her. He thought it unlucky to kill a gypsy, that was what saved her and why he left the money. Still worse, she had heard more than one voice arguing as to whether she lived or died.

She shuddered. Her sister lived in Jerez. In the morning she would pack her things and take the bus there. She could no longer stay here. Not now. Not now he knew where she lived. Not after what she had seen.

25

MADRID 2009, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

The car sheltered in darkness beneath the strange outline of the old church. There were few people about. No one to notice two women in a darkened car.

‘What time is it?’ Galindez asked.

Tali looked at her watch. ‘Almost midnight. How appropriate.’

‘Listen, I still feel stupid for accusing you of helping the
Centinelas.
It was ridiculous. Forgive me?’

Tali shifted uneasily in her seat.
‘No te preocupes.
Shit happens.’

‘I’d rather you said you forgive me.’

‘Por Dios,
drop it, will you?’ Tali’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘I’m wound up enough already, OK? We still don’t know what Judge Delgado is going to do with those papers we gave him and we’ve probably got Sancho and his ugly mate trailing us. And if that’s not enough, now we’re going back into Castle Dracula.’

‘Fair enough,’ Galindez sighed. ‘Shall we go in and get it over with?’

‘Let’s. It’s time we knew what’s hidden down there.’

Galindez shuffled the pages of the manuscript she’d been reading by torchlight. ‘I have a feeling this paper won’t be going into Luisa’s final report after all.’

‘Publish it in a forensic journal, Ana. That will give it more credibility anyway.’

‘We’ll see. After tonight, I may have more to add to it.’ Galindez put the manuscript on the back seat and got out of the car. Pale light from the street lamp spilled in, illuminating the title page. Bold, black letters:
Guzmán: The Vengeance of Memory.

*

The street was silent. Deep layers of nuanced shadow broken by pallid street lights. They crossed the road cautiously, peering into the surrounding darkness with nervous apprehension. Tali approached the big arched doorway, taking the key from her bag. A sound across the street made Galindez turn. She saw only parked cars in dense shadow. The scrape of a shoe. She gestured to Tali to open the door. Turning back to face the darkened street, Galindez felt for the Glock, pulling it from her waistband. Holding it with both hands, she scanned the shadowed cars across the street, trying to locate the source of the noise. A shadow slowly detached itself from the rest, taking shape as it moved into the pallor of the street light. The shadow of a tall man in a raincoat and hat. The air was suddenly cold. A lighter flickered abruptly, illuminating the face of the man. Galindez felt a moment of fear.
I did see him the other night. How?