Watcher in the Pine (22 page)

“And the fact that my husband is a decent man would make no difference to someone planning to execute him?”

“Theoretically. In practice I don’t know that it arises.” Pedro gestured toward his wound. “If I were you, I wouldn’t question the Severino kids too closely about his decency.”

Elena winced, remembering Dolores’s hopeless sobbing. “What if you make mistakes?” she asked softly, remembering what she knew of Carlos’s career.

He snorted. “I don’t think Luis and Rafa were errors, Señora.”

Elena shook her head. “No, I mean what if
you
make mistakes? Anselmo
knew
something about the lieutenant. But suppose you’re sent off to kill someone who you don’t know? Who you’ve only been told is a danger? It doesn’t really matter that you’re killing without malice then, does it?”

Vargas looked impatient. “That’s a condition of wartime, Señora. Sometimes good men die.”

“And women, as well,” Elena agreed, still thinking of her husband. “But the state kills without malice even when it’s not at war.”

He laughed. “Make no mistake, we are at war, Señora. And France as well, for all the propaganda they print in the newspapers.”

“And after the war?” Elena demanded. “Since we’re still speaking theoretically, there has to be an afterward.”

“After the war,” Vargas repeated slowly, his sparkling cynicism dulled for a moment. “After the war?” His shoulders slumped, and suddenly he looked both younger and sadder. Then they straightened, and he regained his mischievous smile. “Afterwards I sincerely hope there will be time for malice. I would like someone to avenge me, and Luis and Rafa.”

Elena made a gesture of frustration. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Señora.” Vargas shrugged. “Human nature never ceases to puzzle me.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘women’s’ nature,” Elena said, a little bitterly.

“That’s because I’m equally puzzled by Anselmo,” the maquis replied. “He was a good man for years. An innkeeper’s job is to get along with everyone, and Anselmo did that and well. He picked up a lot of information, too, and passed it on faithfully—mostly to Luis, I believe, which is why I don’t mind telling you. Then, the next thing we hear, Calero is dead on patrol, and Anselmo’s disappeared to God knows where. He knew that the best revenge he could have on Calero was to stick with what he was doing.”

“Maybe he didn’t feel that way,” Elena said, noting absently that Pedro seemed to assume that Anselmo was guilty of the lieutenant’s death.

The maquis looked sardonic. “I would bet a fair sum of money that if Anselmo had stayed where he was, Dolores and I would not be enjoying the pleasure of your company. You’ll forgive me if I find that more important than some private vengeance.”

“Because he endangered representatives of the legally constituted state?” Elena asked sweetly.

He laughed, acknowledging a hit. “Of course. Personal feeling doesn’t enter into it at all.”

Elena laughed also, and stood up. “I have to go. I hope you continue to mend.”

“Not too quickly,” the guerrilla said. “The sooner I’m fully recovered, the sooner your Lieutenant Tejada can begin a real interrogation.”

Elena chewed her lip, unable to deny the truth of his words. “Until tomorrow,” she said, eyes on the ground.

“Until tomorrow. Give Dolores my love.”

As usual, Guardia Torres escorted her to the bottom of the stairs. “Vargas say anything interesting?” he asked.

Elena reviewed their conversation with her customary twinge of guilt. “I don’t think so. Mostly we just argued about ethical theory.”

Torres patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t feel bad. You got a surname and birthplace out of him, and that’s better than we could do. He’s read everything under the sun, and when he gets to quoting things he gives me a headache. How about Dolores?”

Elena shrugged. “She asked me to find out if Marisol’s made up with her boyfriend yet.”

“She hasn’t.” The guardia spoke with authority. “I saw his cousin last night. He says the whole family’s been trying to talk sense to them, but it’s no use.”

“You could let her know,” Elena suggested. “It sounds like you know more details than I do.”

Torres flushed. “Well, Eliseo and I play checkers sometimes, and he tells me things. But Dolores doesn’t like me.”

Elena refrained from pointing out that the girl had well-founded reasons for her dislike, then said good-bye to the guardia. She was thoughtful on the way home. A visit from Simón after lunch distracted her a little, but that evening after dinner she said hesitantly, “Carlos?”

“Mmm?” Newspapers and mail had arrived that morning, and Tejada was diligently plowing through a week’s worth of old news. “It says our pilots are giving the Russians hell.”

“Carlos, pay attention. Did you ever check the files to find out if there was any reason anyone would want to kill Anselmo?”

“Montalbán?” Tejada folded the paper. “Yes, a couple of days ago. There was nothing there.”

“He wasn’t a spy or anything?”

“The term is informant. And no, not according to our records. We had nothing against him either, except the business with his sons, but most of the young men around here were more or less on the left, so that wasn’t damning.”

“Do you think he was in contact with the maquis?”

Tejada snorted. “Bandits. And around here, I’d say every second household is in contact with them. Why?”

“Well,” Elena paused, “suppose he was in contact with them. And suppose he did kill Lieutenant Calero, but he wasn’t acting under orders, so to speak. Do you think he might hide from them afterward?”

Tejada looked down at the newspaper and thought about what it had to say about the Communist chain of command. “I sure as hell wouldn’t cross them in his position,” he said con-sideringly. “You think he acted on his own, because of his son? And then fled because he knew that the Reds would come after him just as surely as we would?”

“Does that make sense?” Elena asked, still timid.

“Of course. He found an opportunity to go after Calero, and then he realized that he was in major trouble and took to the hills. But he couldn’t make it on his own, so after a few months he hooked up with the bandits and they disposed of him, using Márquez. Very neat.” The lieutenant smiled briefly. “This is why I like talking to you about my work.”

“The only question is why he went after Calero
then
,” Elena said slowly. “I mean, he’d been nursing a grudge since ’37. Why this fall?”

Tejada shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’d just picked up a new weapon. Why is this on your mind?”

Elena shook her head, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m worried about you.”

Tejada smiled at her. “We’re all prepared against attack, Elena. The new men help. And the shipment we’ve been waiting for finally arrived today, thank God.”

“The shipment?” Elena asked, willing to change the subject.

“Eight hundred rounds of ammunition. And a new set of carbines.” Tejada laughed. “The carbines are nice, but the ammunition was necessary. I wasn’t looking forward to going cap in hand to the Policía Armada.”

“So the roads are back to normal?” Elena said, reflecting that the Guardia had to worry about logistical problems, though never about financial ones. A rag waved at the edge of her mental field of vision, but she was unable to focus on it.

“Yes. With any luck we should be rid of your friend Dolores right after Easter. And the mysterious Vargas. It’s a pain having to divert so many resources to guard duty.”

Tejada was glancing at the newspaper again, so he did not see Elena’s guilty look as she said, “Yes. I suppose it must be.”

There was a brief silence and then Tejada said, “Looks like the Germans will finish with Russia before England.”

“Maybe.” Elena was neutral. “The English are rich. The Russians don’t have much to bargain with.”

“Except Spanish gold,” Tejada said, thinking of the national reserves that the Republicans had sent to Russia during the war.
Expensive English guns
, he thought.
And Spanish gold to bargain with
. “They traded for those weapons!” he exclaimed, enlightened.

“Yes, that was what I meant,” Elena said, puzzled.

“No.” Tejada shook his head. “The maquis. That was why they wanted material from Devastated Regions. I couldn’t figure out the logic of what they’d taken! The only common denominator was that it was portable! They’ve been selling Devastated Regions materials and buying weapons. Or maybe just bartering one for the other.”

“Would the cash value of what they took be enough for those guns you found in the forest?” Elena asked.

“I hope so!” Tejada said fervently. He frowned. “They probably bartered directly. It would be hard to find buyers with that much ready cash.”

“That still means contacts with England,” Elena pointed out.

“Arms dealers will take barter sometimes,” Tejada said.

“Luis Severino,” Elena said suddenly. “That cart to San Vicente. To the border.”

“Our helpful chauffeur!” Tejada snorted. “I hope I never have to explain to the colonel that I blithely hitched a ride with a maquis who was dropping off escaped prisoners, and possibly stolen goods.”

“He wouldn’t let you get the suitcases,” Elena remembered. “He didn’t want you near the back of the cart. Suppose he was not only dropping off the Valencians, but also picking something up.”

Tejada made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Elena, you are brilliant, and you are the joy of my life, but for goodness’ sake don’t have any more insights this evening. I would hate to have to court-martial your husband for incompetence.”

Chapter 17

T
ejada had hoped to be able to spend that Saturday with Elena, to make up for their previously aborted trip to Santo Toribio, but the rest of his week was absorbed in administrative tasks. The new guardias created almost more problems than they solved, not least because of the resentment the natives of Potes felt at the influx of armed strangers. (Two days after their arrival, Torres was stopped on the street by Fermín the grocer, and asked frankly how he could understand what “those foreigners” were saying. Himself a native of Sevilla, Torres was more amused than irritated by the comment, but he made no friends when he repeated it in the barracks.) Three of the newcomers were married, and one had children, and Tejada was forced to hastily find rooms for them with local residents, who were less than enthusiastic about their presence. Several of the guardias themselves grumbled about their new posting.

Their complaints became more pronounced as the maquis learned of the Guardia Civil’s increased numbers, and expressed their disapproval. The warning shots that the Potes guardias had learned to expect as a routine part of patrol became more frequent, and less benign. Four days after the arrival of reinforcements, Guardia Ortíz returned from a patrol with one of the new guardias, indignant. “Pablo Roldán took a potshot at me!” he exclaimed. “And the bastard wasn’t even aiming to miss! I winged one of his friends, at least. I’d expect it of a foreigner like Vargas! But Pablo! I never would’ve believed it! We went to school together!” The next day one of the new guardias was hit in the arm while on patrol. Then a group of four was ambushed near Camaleño. The shooting that followed left one maquis dead and three of the four guardias injured, one of them critically. The wounded men had been hit in the stomach and shoulder, and a bullet had grazed the head of the third. The maquis were shooting to kill.

Knowing that his force was rapidly being reduced to its original size, Tejada wondered with alarm if he had done the right thing in asking for reinforcements. He communicated his theory to Madrid about how the maquis had been financing their purchases of arms, and received no reply. When he asked if there was any suggestion whatsoever that the maquis had received arms from a foreign government, he was told that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would communicate with the Ministry of Defense as soon as any definite information was known. Colonel Súarez, displeased with Tejada’s casualties, began to hint that there had been no problem in the Liébana until his arrival there. The lieutenant’s only comfort was that the Policía Armada’s force was being similarly preyed on, and that they, too, were suffering casualties.

Preoccupied with these worries, Tejada also suffered from a vague feeling that he was neglecting Elena. He had hoped that she would make friends with some of the other guardias’ wives, but although she dutifully visited them, she did not show any enthusiasm for pursuing the acquaintances. She walked less, and spent a good deal of time napping, and Tejada was torn between the conviction that this was good for her health and the fear that it meant she was depressed. When he hesitantly apologized about not being able to walk to Santo Toribio with her on Saturday, she rolled her eyes. “I doubt I could make the walk anyway now,” she snapped. “My back is killing me.” Tejada hastily expressed sympathy, and escaped to the post, unwilling to listen to a detailed review of his wife’s symptoms. When he arrived, he was greeted by a detailed review of the wounded Guardia Moreno’s symptoms, which failed to improve his mood.

Monday morning, the lieutenant met with Márquez and Battista to review the post’s duties during Holy Week, and to try to come up with possible ways of minimizing injury to the force. He also summarized his theory about ways the maquis were obtaining arms. “If you’re right, sir, why not have more men guarding Devastated Regions?” Battista suggested. “That should cut off the maquis’ piggy bank. Don’t send out any pairs of new men without at least one experienced guardia. That’ll get them used to the countryside.”

“And the countryside used to them,” Tejada agreed. “It’s not a bad idea. But I feel like I have to justify the reinforcements to the colonel.”

“And it’s stepping on the Policía Armada’s toes,” Márquez objected. “Besides, with all due respect, sir, what if your idea about them bartering construction materials for arms is wrong? I don’t think the stuff they took would buy the kind of guns they have, unless the English or somebody were helping them out.”

Tejada snorted. “I’d rather not be the man who didn’t notice an invasion,” he said. “But it’s hard to start beating the hills for English spies when the maquis are getting so much local help, and I don’t know where to start. The colonel’s stonewalling me, and Madrid is stonewalling, too.”

“They probably don’t know anything about it,” the sergeant pointed out.

“That or it’s not politically expedient to tell me,” Tejada sighed. “Either way, it doesn’t help.”

“We need information,” Márquez summarized.

“And the only question is where we can get it,” Tejada finished.

There was a short silence. All three officers looked glum. Then Battista said, “Our best bet is Vargas.”

The lieutenant nodded, and opened the filing cabinet behind his desk. He flipped through it, pulled out the folder with Torres’s and Carvallo’s reports on the prisoners, and read silently for a moment. “As far as I can tell from this,” he said slowly, “we’ve learned that the prisoner is one Pedro Vargas, presumed Catalan, university educated, veteran of the Red army. Worked closely in the mountains with Luis Severino and Rafael Campos, both deceased. In other words, damn all.”

“How did he end up with a name like Pedro Vargas if he’s Catalan?” Battista demanded.

“Phone book, probably,” the lieutenant said dryly. “Get Torres down here, and see if he has anything to add.”

Torres, when he appeared, was unable to add much more. “He’s a slippery one, sir,” he apologized, in response to Tejada’s questions. “He talks pleasantly enough, seems to enjoy it even, but if you ask a specific question he’ll just turn it off with a joke, or quote some philosopher and spin you a long speech about something totally different. Hard to pin down.”

“If the carrot’s not working maybe we should just go with the stick,” Tejada said. “What’s Carvallo picked up?”

“Nothing, sir.” Torres shook his head. “He’s a bloody mess after Carvallo’s through with him, but he won’t say a word if he’s beaten.”

“We could try him in the bathtub,” Tejada suggested.

“Carvallo did, three nights running. Didn’t get anywhere. He finally overestimated the timing and nearly drowned him.”

Sergeant Márquez whistled. “Tough one. Electric shocks?”

“We could, I suppose.” The guardia looked dubious. “But”—he hesitated and looked at Tejada. The lieutenant nodded encouragingly and Torres continued. “I don’t think he’ll crack. Everything we’ve gotten so far has been from being nice to him.”

Tejada sighed. “Well, it’s not much, but I guess we don’t have much choice.” Then, because the guardia looked downcast, he added, “You’re doing a good job, Torres. Just keep it up.”

“Thank you, sir.” Honesty compelled Torres to add, “Really, your wife has done better than all of us, though.”

“What?” Tejada said.

“She was the one who figured out he was a Catalan,” the guardia explained, generously giving credit where it was due. “And she’s read some of those books so she can follow him when he starts trying to spin some tale.”

“I see.” The lieutenant spoke quietly. There was a faint crackle of paper as the report in his hand wrinkled in his grip. “I hadn’t realized she visited Vargas so frequently.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Practically every day. I think he relaxes around women,” Torres added sagely. “Flirts a bit, you know.”

“I can imagine.” Tejada was acutely conscious that Márquez and Battista as well as Torres were watching him closely. He turned the discussion to other ways of finding information about the bandits, and took notes on his colleagues’ suggestions automatically. Eventually, Torres and Battista left to go on patrol. Márquez, whose wrist had just emerged from a bandage, began to type a requisition. Tejada stayed at his desk, ostensibly making notes on the Vargas file, but actually doodling, barely noticing his surroundings.

She lied to me
, he thought.
She
knows
what’s been happening, and she lied to me. If she’d asked me in advance I wouldn’t have minded
.
She’s always wandering off on her own—to the carpenter’s and to Father Bernardo and I don’t mind. I’m not jealous. I trust her. I haven’t put any limits on her freedom. But Vargas is different. He’s a guerrilla, an enemy soldier. He’s dangerous. She’s only seen him caged and pathetic and she feels sorry for him, but she doesn’t know what he’s done
. Tejada was unable to crush the appalling thought that Elena might know considerably more than he did about Vargas’s activities in the mountains. No
. She would have told Torres. She would have told
me
. She wouldn’t betray me. But if she’s talked to him frequently, what do they find to talk about if not that? He can’t have that much in common with her. He’s a Catalan. It’s not as if they know the same places or people. Unless he did university in Madrid. They would have been there around the same time. But she would have mentioned that. She would have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she visit him? She can’t be in sympathy with the maquis. Not knowing what happened to Calero. Not after everything that’s happened in the last week. Not after all I’ve told her. But she can’t see anything in Vargas personally. Torres said he flirts. Elena’s never flirted. She’s not the eyelash-batting type, thank God. So why did she visit him? And why didn’t she tell me?

Márquez finished his typing, pulled the sheet free, and scavenged for an envelope in his desk. Then he glanced at his watch. It was almost two. “You’re staying for lunch, sir?” he asked easily.

Tejada looked up. “What? No. I promised Elena I’d be home today.”

“All right. I’ll hold the patrols until you get back then. We should have someone here, just in case.”

Tejada escaped from his office with relief. It had been cloudy all day, and it started to rain as he walked home. The wind drove the cold droplets viciously against his cloak. He hurried along with his head bent against the weather. His neighbors in Potes had never been overly friendly, so he did not notice how the few people on the streets slid away from him as they saw his expression.

The apartment was warm, and smelled of soup. Elena levered herself out of the armchair as she heard the door slam, and came to meet him. “Good, you’re here. I’m sorry it’s just leftovers. I don’t know why I’ve been so tired—” She broke off as she saw his face. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Elena backed up instinctively, and sank into a chair. “Tell you? About visiting Vargas, you mean?” she faltered.

“Yes, about visiting Vargas!” Tejada’s numbed sense of betrayal finally gave way to fury. “Why do I find out from Torres—from
Torres
—that my wife has been having cozy chats with a dangerous criminal?”

Elena gulped. “Dolores asked me to visit him,” she said softly. “To find out if he was all right. I didn’t even think I’d be able to . . . only then Torres seemed to think it was all right.”

“
Who the hell is Torres to be telling you what’s all right
?”

“It wasn’t planned!” Elena cried. “It just happened the first time. And then. . . and then I felt sorry for him.”

“Sorry for him?” Tejada echoed disbelievingly, beginning to pace back and forth. “The bastard tried to kill me!”

“And you tried to kill him!” Elena retorted, relieved from the pressure of his eyes on her face. “And he’s tortured on your orders! So, yes, I felt sorry for him. Besides, I liked talking to him. He was easy to talk to. It was like being at home again.”

Tejada froze, staring at the floor. “At home in Salamanca, or at home in Madrid?” he asked softly, terrified of the answer.

“Either! Both!” Elena choked on a sob, and all of the misery of her life in Potes bubbled out of her. “Somewhere where people read and write and where there are theaters and concerts and things to
do!
Where the educated people aren’t all priests and Fascists! I can’t talk to anyone here!”

“That’s ridiculous. What about the Álvarez kid?” Tejada protested. “What about Dolores Severino, for God’s sake?”

“They’re children!” Elena cried. “And neither of them has ever even seen a movie! Or ridden a streetcar! I wanted to talk to an adult! Someone who’s read and traveled and . . . and is from my world. The world that used to be my world. I hate it here, Carlos! You have your work, it’s easy for you—”