The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (77 page)

‘Work it out, Guzmán. He helps us. We help him. We get airbases. We put our planes here. If the war with Russia comes, we bomb the Soviets from here. Much faster and much more effective.’

‘And they drop their bombs on us?’ Guzmán asked.

Positano shrugged. ‘Who cares? Listen, once the US starts trading with you, the rest of the world will join in as well. Hell, there’ll be all sorts of rewards. Maybe we’ll get the Brits to give you Gibraltar back.’

‘Just like that? The country has to change to suit you
Yanquis
?’ Guzmán stared malevolently at Positano. The pain made him lower his head and he saw the piles of sacks, the pool of his vomit on the dark mildewed burlap, and amongst the undulating folds, the dull sheen of the Browning.

‘Just like that, Guzmán. What do you think will happen when this country wakes up to find there’s enough food for everyone? Even the strictest party member is going to think we did him a favour by machine-gunning the
Caudillo
’s car.’

‘I grasped that part of the plan,’ Guzmán said. ‘Although I thought that it was going to be the Dominicans doing the shooting.’

‘There you go, Guzmán. Wrong again. The plan was for them to keep you busy. Get you so mad you wouldn’t see what was going on right under your nose.’

‘They did that all right,’ Guzmán said, grudgingly.

‘The Dominicans did a good job,’ Positano continued. ‘In their country they were part of the special forces. We just borrowed them from old General Trujillo. Another dictator. Completely fucking mad. But a great ally. Until we say different.’

‘So why don’t you get rid of him?’ Guzmán struggled not to look at his pistol. There was no way he could reach it. Not yet. Not from where he was. Not in this pain.

‘Well, that’s the thing.’ Positano smiled. ‘He may be a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch. Franco isn’t. Makes all the difference.’

‘If your Dominicans did such a good job, what happened here?’

‘Well, comes a time, Guzmán, when people become surplus to requirements. I had to terminate their employment.’

‘You killed all of them?’ Guzmán asked, with sudden professional interest.

‘All but one,’ Positano said. ‘One disappeared a few days ago. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Just so we know where to send the medal.’

‘You know where you can put it,’ Guzmán said. ‘Shame he was the only one.’

Outside, someone pounded on the front gate.

‘Expecting anyone?’ Positano asked casually.

‘No one in particular. Just my
teniente, sargento
and a squad of the
guardia civil.’

Positano grinned. ‘I think you may be disappointed. Look behind you.’

Guzmán turned. Even as he did, he realised his mistake. The rifle butt cracked across the back of his head and another mist of shimmering pain tore through him, blinding him. He sprawled face down, unable to move. He cursed and struggled, but by the time he could see again, Positano had opened the front door and returned to cover Guzmán once more with the automatic rifle.

Guzmán lifted himself, taking his weight on his forearms, and saw the newcomer.

‘Buenas noches,
Guzmán. I see you’ve met the welcome committee.’

Guzmán raised his head. Sweat dripped from his face.

‘A sus ordenes, mi General.’

‘Please, Guzmán,’ Valverde said, a triumphant smirk beneath the white moustache, ‘no need for formality now,
hijo de puta.
Not now you’re about to die.’

Positano was still aiming the automatic rifle at Guzmán.

‘Have our friends from the Caribbean been looked after?’ Valverde asked.

‘Just as you asked, General.’ Positano nodded.

‘No trouble? No one escaped?’

‘Not one. I told you. I do a thorough job, General. They won’t be talking to anybody about this operation.’

‘At least you saved me this one.’ Valverde stepped towards Guzmán, unfastening his holster. ‘So rare as a general one gets to shoot anyone these days,’ he crowed, the revolver in his hand.

‘You haven’t got the guts,’ Guzmán said. ‘You let others do the business while you watch. I’m sure you have a similar arrangement with your wife.’

Valverde’s cheeks flamed as he struggled to keep control.

‘Guzmán, Guzmán. Always thinking you have the upper hand. Franco’s favourite assassin. His Dark Angel of the Sword. But not now,
cabrón.
We’ve played you like a bull and now it’s you who is waiting for the sword. But first,
cabróncito,
let me show you just how fucked you are. Then we’ll get rid of you once and for all. Come in,
señores.’

Guzmán looked at the big doorway and any last vestige of hope drained away. A gust of wind blew in a small cloud of snow, the icy chill sharp on his sweat-soaked body as Peralta entered, pale and cadaverous as ever, the collar of his cheap overcoat turned up against the biting wind. At least he looked suitably shamefaced, Guzmán noted.

‘Buenas noches, Teniente,’
Guzmán sneered. Peralta stood a pace or two behind the general and said nothing. ‘I always had you down for a traitor,’ Guzmán spat, taking some comfort from Peralta’s pained expression.

‘But not
you,’
he said as a second figure emerged from the darkness of the doorway, closing the big wooden door behind him.

‘Sorry, sir. Nothing personal. Just the money, see,’ the sarge said. ‘Too good to turn down.’

‘Well, I hope you got your thirty pieces of silver out of this fuck in advance,’ Guzmán said, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

‘Really, Guzmán, I think comparing yourself to Christ is perhaps a little too much.’ Valverde raised the revolver and shot Guzmán in the thigh. He cried out and fell back onto the sacks, pressing the wound with his hands to staunch the flow of blood.

‘He’s to be taken alive,’ Peralta shouted angrily. ‘You promised he’d have a fair trial.’

Guzmán gritted his teeth and continued to squeeze the wound. He was dizzy. If he lost too much blood he was finished. His strength would ebb away and with it his chance of – what? Escape? That was impossible now. The best he could hope for was getting his hands on Valverde and the general was still keeping his distance, flanked by Positano and his automatic rifle.

‘What did you get,
Teniente
?’ Guzmán asked. ‘A few dollars for drink like the sarge?’

‘Some things are more important than money,
mi Comandante,
’ Peralta said.

‘Teniente
Peralta needed some assistance with his personal finances.’ Valverde looked mockingly at Peralta.

‘I bet he did,’ Guzmán said. ‘His wife won’t manage on his pension when he dies before the year’s out. Terrible thing, cancer,
Teniente
. Very painful way to go. Agony, they tell me. Still, you’ll find out soon enough, I hope.’

Peralta’s mouth fell open. ‘How could you know that?’

‘Didn’t your
mamá
ever tell you?’ Guzmán grunted. ‘Never go to a Nazi doctor.’

‘Splendid.’ Valverde beamed. ‘Your
teniente
betrays you for an insurance policy and your
sargento
sells you out for the price of a four-course meal.’

‘It was a bit more than that, sir,’ the sarge said. Guzmán nodded appreciatively.

‘And you, Guzmán, you betrayed your country, fought for the ungodly and you’ve lied to everyone from the
Caudillo
downwards.
Joder,
if Christ had returned you’d have lied to him.’

‘I’ve always been consistent,’ Guzmán muttered.

‘Can we get on with this?’ Positano said. ‘I need to make sure the machine gun upstairs is ready. And you need to be out of here, General, ready for when the news of Franco’s assassination breaks.’

‘Indeed,’ Valverde said. ‘If I could have that rifle for a second, I’ll just send
Comandante
Guzmán to hell, where he belongs.’

‘I’ll be waiting when you arrive,’ Guzmán growled, ‘fucking your mother. Again.’

Positano kept the rifle aimed at Guzmán until the general had taken it from him.

‘Heavy beast.’ Valverde weighed the rifle in his hands. ‘Is it on single shot?’

‘Yes. But can we get a move on?’ Positano said again. ‘I need to be ready for when your Head of State drives past. It has to go smoothly.’

‘Of course,’ Valverde agreed. ‘Although, there’s been a slight change of plan.’

He turned and fired the automatic rifle from less than a metre into Positano’s chest. The blast threw Positano backwards, the immense spray of blood on the wall behind him black in the half light. Cordite smoke rose from the body and, for a moment, his shirt flickered with flame around the wound.

‘Yanqui
bastard,’ Valverde said. ‘Telling me to hurry.’

‘What the fuck?’ The sarge stared at Positano and then back at the injured Guzmán.

Clearly Peralta wasn’t going to tell him: the
teniente
stood motionless, shocked.

Valverde laid the automatic rifle by Positano’s body and took out his pistol.

‘Teniente.
Draw your weapon and keep Guzmán covered, would you?’

Peralta reached into his coat and produced his service revolver.

‘What are you going to do with that,
Teniente
?’ Guzmán sneered.

‘Move and I’ll fire,
Comandante.
Remain still and I guarantee you’ll receive medical help and a fair trial.’ Peralta’s face showed too much doubt to take him seriously.

‘Are you going to shoot the
Caudillo
yourself,
mi General
? Or will you order the
teniente
to do it?’ Guzmán called to Valverde.

Valverde walked across the loading yard, pistol in hand. ‘No one is going to shoot the
Caudillo
,’ he said. ‘Not now. I know you’ve probably tipped off Gutierrez in Military Intelligence. So we have to change things.
You
were going to shoot Franco, Guzmán. You were in league with this
Yanqui
and his Dominican accomplices. There was a fallout over the money and you killed them. The
teniente
and I arrived and managed to stop you carrying out your planned attack. No one will question your guilt. There’s more than enough evidence, I’ve made sure of that. And of course there’s also the matter of who the hell you are. Because I understand your so-called mother and cousin had grave doubts you were any relation of theirs.’

‘Call them as witnesses.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘And the private detective.’

Valverde raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, well. A few new stars in heaven tonight, then, Guzmán? You’ve been busy. But do you know what? The witnesses you didn’t kill, Positano did. Alvarez and Posadas. That means you’re the last one.’

‘So this was all your idea?’ Guzmán grunted, sweat coursing down his face. He was trying not to vomit. ‘A diversion to keep me off the scent?’

‘All of it.’ Valverde nodded. ‘You wouldn’t understand. At heart you’re just a thug. No subtlety. But you do –
lo siento
– did, have Franco’s ear. Not any more. Positano helped plan it: the CIA are good at these things. We knew the Dominicans would enrage you so much you’d decide whatever else happened, you had to kill them. They would probably have seen you off anyway, given they were some of the finest of the Dominican Republic’s armed forces.’

Guzmán spat bloody phlegm onto the sacking in front of him. ‘I’m always up for a fight,
mí General.
Some things don’t change.’

‘Of course, Guzmán, and you’re one of them. By taking my bribe, you cut yourself off from Franco, and even then, you never saw what was happening. We had you watched constantly, waiting to add to your troubles. We watched you at the
comisaría,
and when you visited
Señora
Martinez. All the time we had our eye on you.’

‘Señora
Martinez?’ Guzmán asked, feeling his stomach sink.

Valverde laughed. ‘Ah yes, the lovely
Señora
Martinez. We thought she would appeal, Guzmán. It was Positano’s idea.
Hombre,
for a man who’s been under surveillance for years, you behave as if you didn’t care who knew your business. We’d long known that whenever you met a woman who took your fancy in the course of a raid, you’d return and fuck them. Not that they had any choice. The French call it
droit de seigneur.’

‘I call it admirable,’ the sarge muttered. Valverde glared at him.

‘When you arrested
el Profesor,
you also spent some time intimidating
Señora
Martinez,’ he gloated. ‘Once your
sargento
tipped off my man, we popped in and had a word with her.’

‘Gracias, Sargento,’
Guzmán said coldly. The sarge looked down in discomfort.

‘You aren’t much of a policeman, Guzmán,’ Valverde chortled. ‘Even before we put pressure on her, she’d been playing you for a fool. You thought she was a widow?’

‘She is,’ Guzmán muttered.

‘Her husband’s doing fifteen years in a prison camp near Pamplona,’ Valverde laughed. ‘Any idiot could have found that out without much effort. But not you, Guzmán. One sniff of her and you thought with your dick. Let me tell you, by the time you returned that night, we’d spoken to her, discussed terms and she was ready to play you like a gypsy’s fiddle.’ Valverde paused, his face florid now, triumphant. ‘But if you don’t believe me, you’d better hear it from the horse’s mouth.
Adelante, señora.’

Guzmán peered through the stinging sweat. The darkness around the warehouse entrance moved, and a figure emerged into the pale light encircling Guzmán and his tormentors. Guzmán stared, bewildered.
No. Please, not this.
No matter how bad things got, he could not have imagined this.

‘Say hello to the
comandante,
my dear,’ Valverde instructed
Señora
Martinez.

Guzmán stared, helpless as she came forward, face pale, hands clasped in front of her. She looked hesitantly at Peralta. The
teniente
looked away, keeping his pistol aimed at Guzmán.