The Exile (32 page)

Sheltering on the escarpment, Guzmán crouched in the mud, the Browning raised as he looked for El Lobo through the drifting smoke.

And there he was, outlined against the lurid flames, a gaunt figure in a long black coat, the deformed face iridescent in the light of the burning building. The range was too great to hit him and a moment later he heard hoofbeats fade in the darkness. As he got to his feet, Guzmán smiled to himself. Lobo knew he had a fight on his hands now.

A faint noise behind him. A tense voice. ‘Put your hands up.'

‘Don't be so fucking stupid,' Guzmán snorted. He turned and glared as Ochoa lowered his pistol. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?'

‘I saw someone following you up the slope to the hermitage, so I rode back to help.'

‘It was Lobo,' Guzmán said. ‘The place was packed with guns and explosives.' He hawked and spat. ‘He rode away over the far side of the ridge.'

‘So it's not over?'

‘No, but thanks for reminding me of that, Corporal.' Guzmán put a foot in the stirrup of his horse, suddenly exhausted.

Ochoa rode up alongside him. ‘Did you get a good look at him, sir?'

Guzmán nodded. ‘Something's wrong with his face. He really does look like a wolf.'

The rhythm of the horses' hooves was comforting and Guzmán stayed quiet for a while, lost in thought. As they reached the valley, he looked up. ‘Did you book me into that
pensión
in the village?'

‘Just as you ordered, sir. The men say the lady who runs it is the best cook for miles.'

‘I'll let you know about that,' Guzmán grunted. ‘In the meantime, there's a slight change of plan. All the munitions in the convent had Çubiry labels on the boxes. You know what that means?'

Ochoa shook his head.

‘It means we're off to St Jean tomorrow. I want to know more about these Çubiry.'

Ochoa raised an eyebrow. ‘A spot of diplomacy, sir?'

Guzmán patted his holster, feeling the weight of the Browning against his side. ‘Something like that, Corporal.'

OROITZ 1954, PENSIÓN ARALAR

The door of the
pensión
opened. A large woman, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Señora Olibari?' Guzmán inhaled the smell of cooking with relish.

‘I'm the widow Olibari. The gentleman must be Señor Ramirez? I hope you've an appetite, señor,' she said. ‘I've done enough
pochas
for six and there's only three guests tonight.' She saw his puzzled expression. ‘White beans, señor, cooked with a ham hock until the meat falls from the bone.'

Guzmán liked the sound of that and followed her up the narrow stairs to his small room. He threw his baggage onto the bed and took a look through the window at the precipitous drop below. As long as the house didn't collapse tonight, that wasn't something to worry about.

He washed with cold water in the small bathroom on the landing and put on clean clothes. On his way up from the
cuartel
, he'd thought about getting an early night. Now, smelling Señora Olibari's renowned cooking, sleep was off the agenda.

As he went downstairs, the smell of cooking grew stronger. Señora Olibari seated him in the dining room at a table set for eight. The furniture in the room seemed to date from a couple of centuries earlier while the walls were decorated with a collection of ancient yokes and other pieces of animal husbandry, interspersed with religious icons. In the vaults below his
comisaría
in Madrid, Guzmán had seen the tools of the Inquisition. Many had been far less intimidating than this collection of rusty agricultural equipment.

He heard footsteps in the hallway as the two other guests joined him for dinner. One was a salesman dealing in irrigation equipment. The other was a priest, on his way to deliver mass at an isolated church deep in the countryside. Both dealt in things in which Guzmán had no interest. His only interest tonight was in Señora Olibari's cooking.

OROITZ 1954, PENSION ARALAR

‘Delicious,' Guzmán finished his second helping. ‘I've never had
pochas
before.'

‘Don't let this be the last time, señor,' Señora Olibari said, spooning more beans onto his plate. ‘The gentleman may as well finish them.'

‘I couldn't possibly,' Guzmán said, allowing her to fill his plate with beans and ham. ‘You've had no problems with rationing here then?'

‘We grow what we eat here. If we relied on
los de Madrid
, we'd be eating grass.'

Guzmán held out his glass for more wine. ‘Really? Who are the ones from Madrid?'

She snorted. ‘The government. Not the
caudillo
, of course, he's just one man, after all. No, it's the ones who surround him, the cronies, the city people and those who run the black market.' She paused. ‘Many people round here supported Franco, you know. A lot of our men joined the
Requetés
when the war started. They went to war to fight for God and the King.'

‘Spain gave them little in return once the war ended,' the priest muttered.

‘Those
Requetés
were good men, warriors of Christ who always took mass before battle,' Señora Olibari murmured with a dreamy expression.

The priest sighed. ‘Though they were betrayed after Franco's victory.'

Guzmán smiled to himself. Even a priest was capable of treachery after a few drinks.

‘And look what's happened since,' the salesman said, suddenly animated. ‘Basque language forbidden, wealthy businessmen building factories that pollute the countryside and getting rich while ordinary folk are left to struggle.' He took a breath. ‘
Perdón
, Señor Ramirez. I get a bit worked up sometimes. We're treated as second-class citizens.'

‘Better times are coming,' Guzmán said diplomatically as the widow poured her guests large glasses of
patxaran
. ‘Though they won't come any quicker with that bandit El Lobo around.' He sniffed the aniseed aroma of the
patxaran
with distaste. This was one drink he'd never have any truck with.

‘A fearful character, from all accounts,' the salesmen said, though he was more interested in his
patxaran
. ‘I'm sure the
guardia civil
will take care of him before long.'

Señora Olibari laughed. ‘Those oafs? Look out of the door tomorrow, señor, and see what they're doing to keep order. It takes them all morning to have breakfast. They wander round, poking into people's bags, threatening the men and talking dirty to the women. They treat us like they treated the Reds. They won't catch El Lobo. He's too cunning.' She noticed Guzmán's empty glass. ‘Would you care for a drop of
patxaran
, Señor Ramirez?'

He saw the empty bottles on the table. The wine had run out. ‘Thank you, señora.' At least it contained alcohol.

‘Are you working, or is this a holiday?' Señora Olibari asked.

‘I'm here on business,' Guzmán said. ‘But tomorrow I'm off to France to see some friends. It's about time I paid them a visit, so I'm going to turn up unannounced.'

Señora Olibari's face lit up at the idea. ‘
Qué sorpresa
.'

He sipped the
patxaran
. ‘You're right, señora. It's going to come as a big surprise.'

16

MADRID, JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL CENTRO DE INVESTIGACIÓN, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE

‘Buenos días
, Ana María, how are—' Isabel stood in the doorway, looking round in surprise. Overnight, the office seemed to have shrunk. The tables and shelves were now filled with teetering stacks of letters, arranged in alphabetical order, each stack carefully labelled with coloured post-it notes.

‘You've been busy,' Isabel said. ‘Wherever you are.'

Galíndez appeared from behind one of the towers of paper. Her face was streaked with dust. ‘
Hola
.
I came in early to get these letters sorted so we could start coding them.'

‘Christ, how early was that? This must have taken you ages.'

Galíndez shrugged. ‘Only a few hours.'

Isabel ran a finger over one of the letters and stared at the dust on her fingertip. ‘So what do we do with them? They're a health hazard.'

‘They're a bit dusty, I admit,' Galíndez said, stifling a sneeze. ‘But the information we get from them is going to be really useful.'

Isabel took a letter from one of the stacks and studied it. ‘And all these were written to the Church authorities by parents wanting help to trace their stolen baby?' She frowned. ‘We can't investigate ten thousand missing children.'

‘Of course not,' Galíndez said. ‘We're going to analyse the letters and identify which clinics had the highest rates of child theft, so we can focus the investigation on them.'

‘That makes sense,' Isabel said. ‘But we still have to read all of these?'

‘We read them and then code the information in them,' said Galíndez. ‘Then I analyse the data and identify patterns in it.'

‘It's not enough just to read them?'

‘Could you remember everything you've read in over ten thousand letters?'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Exactly, so we identify particular pieces of information and give them a numeric code,' Galíndez said, animated. ‘Then we create a data collection sheet with a list of the questions we want answered and work our way through the letters, recording the information as we go.'

‘So it's like filling in a questionnaire?' Isabel said, looking happier. ‘I can do that.' She glanced at the stacks of paper surrounding them. ‘I think.'

‘
Estupendo
. I've already prepared the questions.' Galíndez pushed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘You read the letter and then it's just a matter of ticking boxes as you go.'

‘We tick boxes?' Isabel sighed with relief. ‘Why didn't you say so in the first place?'

‘You have to tick the right boxes.' Galíndez frowned. ‘That's why I've written guidelines for completing the sheets.' She saw the look Isabel gave her. ‘Just so we're consistent in the way we complete them.'

Isabel shook her head slowly. ‘I wonder what shaped your personality, Ana? Was your
mamá
frightened by a computer when you were a baby?'

‘I'll ignore that,' Galíndez laughed. ‘In any case, I don't know why you're worrying, we already agreed your skills should be used for carrying out interviews with the parents.'

‘But there are thousands of letters. Isn't it going to take ages to code them?'

‘That's why I got some help.' Galíndez looked at her watch. ‘She should be here soon.'

Isabel groaned. ‘Not one of Luisa's students? They all talk as if they were force-fed dictionaries when they were tots.'

‘All I know is that she's called Claudia and she's studying for an MA. I don't know the title of her dissertation, but you can bet it's extremely long.' She turned, hearing a knock at the door. ‘Speak of the devil.'

A tall blonde young woman looked down at her. ‘Dr Galíndez? I'm Claudia Infante, your temporary assistant.'

‘Have a seat.' Galíndez introduced Isabel and then filled Claudia in on her plans for the data collection. Claudia picked up a copy of the coding sheet and flicked through it.

Isabel watched her. ‘Looks horrendous, doesn't it?'

‘I worked on a few surveys in my vacations,' Claudia said. ‘I think it's pretty straightforward.' She looked at Galíndez. ‘But I'm not very familiar with quantitative methods of analysis, Profesora Ordoñez doesn't like that kind of approach.'

‘Tell me about it,' Galíndez muttered. ‘Don't worry, just code them and I'll take care of analysing the data.'

Isabel looked again at the piles of letters. ‘It's going to take ages for two people to get through all these, especially since we've got a deadline. That's what your friend the minister of the interior said, no?'

‘You're friends with Rosario Calderón?' Claudia asked, impressed.

‘I wouldn't say we were friends.' Galíndez glanced at the towering stacks of paper. ‘Isabel's right. We need more people to help with the coding. I'll ask Luisa if we can borrow a few more students.'

Claudia looked up from the questionnaire. ‘Maybe you should ask Profesora Vasquez? She's head of the School of Applied Statistics. My friend Angelina is on her research methods course and she said the
profesora
is always looking for placements for her students.'

‘Really? I'll go and see her,' Galíndez said, heading for the door.

‘This is more like it,' Isabel said, watching Claudia and the fifteen newly arrived statistics students filling in the data collection sheets. ‘They even brought their own computers.' She glanced at the students again. ‘Notice anything about them, Ana?'

Galíndez looked at the students for a moment. She shook her head. ‘No. Should I?'

Isabel lowered her voice. ‘Look again. Studious, obsessive attention to detail, rigid concentration on the job in hand? See how neatly they put the letters and coding sheets to one side when they've completed them. Who does that remind you of?'

Galíndez gave her a puzzled look. ‘Who were you thinking of?'

‘Never mind.' Isabel smiled. ‘When do I start interviewing some of the parents?'

‘It's all arranged,' Galíndez said. ‘I contacted a parents' support group who're willing to talk to you about their experiences.' She handed Isabel a piece of paper. ‘Here's their details. Their next meeting is this evening. Sorry it's such short notice.'

‘That's OK, I can make it,' Isabel said. ‘In the meantime, I suppose I'd better show willing and code some of these letters.'