Authors: Mark Oldfield
YOU
asked me to come round, you prick.
Where are you? Call me when you get back
GalÃndez waited a few minutes before she left the apartment, wiping everything she remembered touching clean of prints before she went downstairs. She crossed the third-floor landing, hearing only the faint drone of traffic outside. Below, on the ground floor, the front door closed with a loud metallic crash and she heard footsteps as someone hurried up the stairs. She stepped back, hoping the shadowed landing would prevent the passing tenant from seeing her in any detail. As she moved, her heel dragged on the worn tiles, painfully loud. Below her, the footsteps stopped abruptly.
GalÃndez didn't move, tense in the sudden silence. A sharp metallic click, like someone cocking a pistol. She felt a sudden burn of adrenalin. Quietly, she put the metal box on the floor and straightened up, ready to face the person now climbing the stairs towards her with slow cautious footsteps.
A door opened on the floor below. Loud angry voices: a man and a woman arguing. The approaching footsteps stopped and a few seconds later GalÃndez heard them retreating downstairs. She picked up the metal box, waiting until she heard the street door bang as someone left the building before she hurried down past the couple on the landing. They ignored her and carried on arguing, from the sound of it, about money.
The door slammed behind her as GalÃndez went into the street. Cautiously, she looked round, scanning the faces of passers-by, wondering if the mystery visitor was out here, watching. No one gave her a second glance and she relaxed a little. The midday sun felt bright and clean after the dank twilight of Ochoa's building and her mouth watered at the smell of frying potatoes from a nearby bar as she hurried past the shuttered windows of the fortune-teller's shop.
She pushed the metal box into the boot of her car and drove away, past the flea market, vaguely aware of the flocks of tourists clustering round the stalls. Traffic was slow and she watched the vehicles ahead without interest, wondering whether she would be able to identify the victims in Ochoa's photos. And something else troubled her about the executions in that ruined building. Why had the bodies been left and the cellar sealed with concrete during a major offensive?
Behind her, a huge refrigerated truck unleashed a violent blast from the multiple array of horns on the roof of the cab. GalÃndez looked up, startled, and saw the truck driver gesticulating wildly. The traffic was moving again. She sighed and pressed the accelerator, still preoccupied by those black and white images of violent death. Everything linked to Guzmán seemed to throw up more questions. Whether she could get answers to any of them she had no idea.
And that, she suspected, was exactly how Guzmán wanted it.
OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, ABADÃA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÃN DE MARÃA
Guzmán struggled to keep his balance as he stumbled along the last few metres of muddy track into the shelter of the ancient walls. He took a moment to catch his breath, examining the entrance, a low arched doorway with a small carved virgin in a niche above the lintel. It was clear there would be no problem getting inside. Though the door was reinforced with iron bands, the wood was rotten and the ornate bands hung from their fittings.
He pushed open the door with the toe of his boot, aiming the rifle as he stepped into a narrow arched passageway. With such limited room for manoeuvre, the pistol was better suited for close-quarter combat so he drew the Browning instead. To his right were three evenly spaced wooden doors and he checked them, one after another, kicking open the door and entering quickly, scanning the room, pistol held out. All were empty, though the air was thick with a faecal reek, testimony to the long occupation of the building by the escaped lunatics.
The stench followed him down the passageway. Through the arched doorway ahead he saw the walls of a small chapel. Near one of the narrow windows an old oil lantern flickered in the fierce draught. It was the light he had seen from the escarpment. At the far end of the chapel was the altar, its large stone cross wavering in the feeble light from the lantern. As another massive gust buffeted the building, the lantern sputtered, sending a wave of dancing shadows rippling over the chapel walls. Not exactly home from home, he thought, taking off his sodden hat and throwing it onto the lid of a nearby crate to dry.
Other than the cross, there were few signs this had once been a place of worship. The pews were gone, used long ago as firewood. Now, lines of boxes and crates were arranged on either side of the aisle. He looked at the crates, suddenly curious. Unlike every other piece of wood in this crumbling mausoleum, these were not on the verge of disintegration. He leaned forward to inspect one and removed the screws from the lid with his knife. He pushed the lid aside and peered in, seeing a dull metal sheen in the sallow light. Surprised by the contents, he opened another. Yet another surprise.
This was not the work of lunatics, Guzmán thought angrily. The madmen didn't have laces for their shoes, far less crates of rifles and grenades. Nor did they have sacks of banknotes bearing the stamp of the Banco de Bilbao like those propped against the mildewed chapel walls around him.
Guzmán had been right that El Lobo would have hiding places for his supplies hidden up in the hills. That was what enabled him to carry out his robberies at will, without the need to visit village stores or raid farms. Even so, he'd expected the bandit might have a few modest stashes of tinned food, maybe some hay for his horse and a few boxes of ammunition, not a fucking arms dump like this.
He looked round, wondering how one bandit got all these crates up here. Even using mules it would be difficult to avoid being seen. He knelt by one of the crates and read the label by the flame of his lighter.
ÃUBIRY PÃRE ET FILS, AGENTS D'EXPORTATION
26 RUE DE VICTOR HUGO, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE
A difficult task all right, though not for experienced smugglers.
Dark rage burned as he thought about those French bastards in their absurd feathered hats and antiquated clothing. Because they looked like fools, he had not taken them seriously. That had been a serious oversight. The Ãubiry had long experience in shifting contraband around this region. That was all well and good if the merchandise was destined for the
estraperlo
, the black market that augmented Spain's feeble economy. It was something else if they were selling weapons to the resistance. The first was a minor crime the authorities could ignore. The second merited a death sentence no matter what country the bastards lived in.
He could forget about burning ancient byres and shepherds' huts. This was El Lobo's lair and Guzmán needed to destroy it immediately. That had been his plan all along. With no weapons and no money to replace them, El Lobo's only option would be to hit another bank truck â using insider information as he had before, not knowing that the only shipment of money in this region would be in a truck full of civil guards.
He reached down and took a grenade from the second crate. Brand new. He put it on the lid of one of the unopened crates and cursed as it rolled off and clattered onto the floor. He smiled to himself. At least the pin was still in.
He unfastened his hunting jacket and rummaged through his pockets in search of a cigarette. Along the corridor, he heard the sudden howl of the gale and then the muffled impact as the door closed again. And then, the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stone passageway towards him. The metallic clinking of someone wearing spurs. More than one, from the sound of it.
Ochoa watched the smoke rise into the wind as the squad set fire to the remains of another derelict byre.
âThere's a storm getting up,
Cabo
,' Ruiz called.
Ochoa looked toward Mari's Peak where scrawls of lightning traced white fire across the darkening sky.
âBe nice to get back to the
cuartel
,' Ruiz muttered, climbing back into the saddle. âWe must have burned a dozen of these things today. You really think it will stop El Lobo?'
âAll you need to worry about is who's doing the cooking when you get back to barracks,' Ochoa said. âI'm going to stick around and wait for the boss. You take the men back down to the
cuartel
.'
âMe?' Ruiz grinned. â
A sus ordenes, Cabo
.'
âAnd post sentries before you eat,' Ochoa said. âThe
comandante
likes things done in a proper military manner.'
âDon't worry, we don't want to get on the wrong side of him.'
As the squad moved off down the track, Ochoa trained his binoculars on the mountain, trying to pick out the convent through the gusting rain. He watched the slope for a moment and then spurred his horse forward. The ground was slick and treacherous, but he kept the horse moving at a brisk pace, troubled by the dark figure he'd just seen on the escarpment, climbing up towards the convent. The
comandante
was not alone up there.
OROITZ 1954, ABADÃA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÃN DE MARÃA
Guzmán moved quickly, looking for cover. There was space behind the altar, a small alcove sheltered from the rest of the chapel, and he moved towards it, quietly. His foot connected with something and he gritted his teeth as the lost grenade rattled away into the shadows below the altar. The footsteps in the passageway stopped.
Quietly, he slipped behind the altar. It was a good hiding space, protected by solid walls on each side. Behind him, he noticed a rotting wooden door. His view of the chapel was restricted, to a view of the first row of crates near the window. That was enough. Once they reached those, his visitors would make a good target. All he need do was stay put and let them come into range. And, as he waited, he saw his hat, perched on the crate where he'd left it to dry.
Two men came into the chapel. Wide-brimmed plumed hats, bandoliers of ammunition slung across their chests. Cavalry boots fitted with elaborate spurs.
A low cautious voice. âLobo?'
Guzmán pressed himself against the wall. As long as he didn't move, he was invisible to them. For now, at least.
âLobo?
Dónde estás
?' The other man's voice, worried now.
They were getting closer; Guzmán saw their approaching shadows on the worn tiles.
Sudden caution in the man's voice. â
Attention
, François,
regarde le chapeau
.'
Guzmán didn't understand his words but he could interpret their sudden caution: they had found his hat. He heard the sound of weapons being cocked and slowed his breathing, ready to make his move.
The outside door opened with a dull thud and a stream of cold air blew down the passage, almost extinguishing the lantern. Slow, heavy steps in the passageway.
One of the Frenchmen called out, his voice tense. â
Qui est-ce
?'
A deep sonorous voice. â
Soy yo
, Lobo.'
Guzmán eased his head around the edge of the wall and stared past the two Ãubiry at the figure in the doorway of the chapel. A man in a dark overcoat and black slouch hat. A big man, taller than Guzmán, and broader too. But it was the man's face that concerned Guzmán most. He had the face of a wolf.
Some massive injury, Guzmán guessed. The right side of Lobo's face was almost normal. The left side was a huge expanse of ivory scar tissue running from above the left eye down to the jawbone. The crude lines of scars where the wound had been stitched pulled the left side of the man's face up, giving him a perpetual lopsided snarl.
â
El dinero
?' one of the Frenchmen asked, switching to Spanish.
âIt's here. Help yourself,' Lobo said. âCount it if you want.'
A rustling sound, grunts from one of the men as he picked up a sack of banknotes.
âIt's hard to carry so much cash,' one of the Frenchmen laughed.
âMuch easier to spend it, no?' There was no humour in Lobo's voice.
The other man grunted with exertion as he helped his comrade with the sack.
Now was the time, Guzmán decided. Leap out and kill them all.
He was too slow.
Two shots, flat and percussive. The heavy clatter of men and weapons on the stone floor.
Guzmán stayed where he was behind the altar wall. He hadn't expected Lobo was about to kill the deliverymen. Not that he minded, since the odds of him killing Lobo had just gone up. He stepped out from behind the altar, the Browning raised in a two-handed grip. The Ãubiry were not the only ones who were careless, Guzmán realised as he saw Lobo half-hidden behind a row of crates, a
Yanqui
M1 carbine at his shoulder.
As the firing started, Guzmán threw himself flat and the chapel rang with demented echoes as Lobo emptied the thirty-round magazine in his direction, the bullets whining off the walls around him.
There was no arguing with such firepower and Guzmán sheltered behind the altar, looking for a way out. He saw the ancient door behind him, though he had no idea where it led or even if it would open. He looked round for other options and in the shadows behind the altar, he saw the dark object on the floor.
Guzmán slid forward on his belly, stretching until his hand closed on the grenade. In the chapel, he heard sudden heavy footsteps moving towards the passageway. Guzmán hadn't anticipated Lobo making a run for it and he came out from behind the altar, furious as he realised his quarry was escaping.
A metre away, he saw the box of grenades he'd opened earlier. He pulled the pin from the grenade in his hand and lobbed it into the crate. Then he turned and charged at the ancient door, his shoulder lowered.
The rotten wood disintegrated under the impact and Guzmán plunged through it, briefly glimpsing the escarpment rushing up to meet him. The impact as he hit the muddy slope winded him, and he slid for several metres down the sodden hillside before he could bring himself to a halt. A moment later, the convent roof exploded in a shower of rotting timber and stone, quickly followed by a second explosion that brought down a section of the front wall in a cascade of rubble.