The Exile (54 page)

Magdalena looked across the room, unaware of his furtive appraisal.

Ochoa got to his feet. ‘He wouldn't like me talking to you like this.'

‘No, I suppose not.' Magdalena ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. She glanced at her watch. ‘If you'll excuse me, I have to get ready.' She got up and went to the door with him.

Ochoa paused. ‘Thing is, señorita, we all have secrets that are best left alone.'

‘I couldn't agree more, Corporal.' Magdalena smiled.

Ochoa hurried downstairs, aware of her watching him until he went out into the street and the heavy door clanged to behind him.

OROITZ 1954, TORRES PABELLÓN DE CAZA

Guzmán moved along the hall. The walls were adorned with weapons, though he doubted any had ever been used by General Torres. The house was furnished entirely in shades of brown, plain masculine tables and chairs. A smell of leather and polished wood. No sense of warmth or comfort. He quite liked it.

On the far side of the house he came to a large salon, perfumed by a sad air of tobacco. More austere furnishings. An oak door on the far wall with a gilt plaque:
Oficina
. The door was unlocked and he went in. In front of him was a large desk. The walls were filled by shelves piled with files and ledgers. He checked the desk and found nothing of interest. On one of the shelves by the far wall were several bottles of Carlos Primero. He could always make time for an expensive brandy, especially at someone else's expense, and went over to get a quick one.

He poured a couple of fingers into a glass, splashing some onto a pile of papers. As the ink on the papers began to run, he reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief to mop up the drink and felt the thick envelope he'd taken from Mellado's drawer. Domestic cleanliness was suddenly forgotten. He took a seat and tipped the contents of the envelope onto the desk. He looked at the first picture. General Mellado, slightly younger, posing for the camera. Behind him, a pile of black shapes. The photo was not of good quality and it took a moment for Guzmán to realise they were dead tribesmen, the bodies heaped together, ready to be burned.

The second picture was of Mellado again, in the uniform of the legion, standing with two soldiers. All had cheery grins on their faces, and each was holding a Moor's head by the hair. Guzmán sighed. None of this was a surprise. Mellado's bloody antics in the legion were well known. Idly, he flicked to the third photograph.

He reached for the tumbler of brandy and took a sip. He'd thought nothing that Mellado could do would shock him. He'd been wrong. He looked at the photograph again and then swallowed the rest of the drink. Putting down his glass, Guzmán stared at the picture of a grinning Mellado, his arm wrapped around a soldier's shoulders. No heads, no burned corpses. The only horrific thing in the photograph was the soldier's face. Pale, shiny scar tissue, lines of stitch marks where the doctors had failed to put his face back together properly. The lopsided snarling mouth. Like a wolf.

Guzmán flipped the photo over. It was dated August 1947. So, Mellado knew El Lobo. Not only did he know him, he'd served with him. It made no sense. Impatient, he got up and went to get another brandy. As he did, his foot caught on the carpet and he stumbled. Furious, he pulled his foot from the rucked carpet, staring at the wooden floorboards exposed by his clumsiness. And not just floorboards, he saw as he pulled the carpet back further.

‘
Puta madre
.
'
Guzmán examined the trapdoor carefully. At one end, a metal ring lay flat in a shallow recess. He flicked it up and heaved the trap open. Below, a short flight of wooden stairs descended into shadow. He drew the Browning and went down into the darkness, seeing only vague outlines from the meagre light coming through the trapdoor. Stretching his arms in front of him, he examined his surroundings as best he could. By the far wall was a small desk cluttered with paper and, next to it, two wooden chairs. A secret room, hidden under Jiménez's workplace. Guzmán smiled with grim satisfaction. He'd been right: Jiménez was hiding something.

A breath of air drifted down from above, filling the room with a strange dry rustling. Guzmán ran his hand along the wall, feeling papers, lots of them, though it was too dark to see what they were. And then his fingers closed on a light switch and a solitary bulb in the ceiling threw sallow light across the room. As the light grew stronger, he looked round in growing disbelief. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.

OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

Begoña Arestigui finished her ironing and put the ancient iron to cool on the same flat stone it had rested on since Grandmother Arestigui had arrived at the farm in the mid nineteenth century. She pressed a hand on the small of her back. That was annoying – despite the poultice she'd applied a few days before, the pain still hadn't gone. Back pain and she wasn't yet forty. It was depressing. One day, when Nieves married, Begoña would have to run the farm alone. It would be hard work if she was fit. Far harder if she suffered with her back. She dismissed the thought. She'd worked hard all her life, little point complaining now.

She went into Grandpa Arestigui's study and swivelled the big brass telescope up towards the mountain, peering through the eyepiece at the upper pastures, seeing the faint plume of smoke rising into the mountain air from the old fortress. That was unusual, since the crumbling structure was unsound. None of the villagers went near it. But someone was up there.

The old grandfather clock chimed the hour and Begoña frowned as she saw the time. Nieves had set off at seven that morning, taking a sack of flour to trade at the market in the village. She was over an hour late. But she had been late before, the rhythms of country life were like that. On these lonely paths through the hills there was always the possibility of running across some distant acquaintance or relative and such encounters always required an exchange of news and gossip. Begoña sighed. Perhaps she was just being foolish.

Or perhaps not. It had been a long time since she had experienced such a sense of foreboding. Some called these things premonitions or second sight, others even called it witchcraft. Begoña had no name for them since the feelings came naturally. And what she felt now was that something bad was coming.

She went to the front door and stepped outside. A faint breath of wind stirred the remaining leaves on the trees and she shivered. Something was coming all right, something dark and destructive. If it was a storm, it would be a big one. Begoña Arestigui had lived at Lauburu Farm for thirty-five winters. Had walked through this wood every day of her life. Had even had her first kiss among these gnarled trees. She had never been afraid here. She was afraid now.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, COMISARÍA DE LA POLICÍA ARMADA

Ochoa hurried up the steps into the police station.

‘
Buenos días
.' The officer behind the desk had a mouthful of stale roll and spluttered soggy crumbs onto the desk as he greeted the visitor. When he saw the name of Ochoa's unit on his ID card, he dropped the pleasantries and hurried away in search of his boss, a red-faced
sargento
.

‘So you're from the Special Brigade?' The
sargento
saluted. ‘
A sus órdenes
.'

‘Where's Capitán Viana?' Ochoa asked.

‘It's a shame you didn't come earlier,' the
sargento
said. ‘The
capitán
got a telegram a couple of hours ago. He's gone to collect a file sent by special courier.'

‘Really? Where from?'

‘The capitán said a courier was delivering the material to the pensión at Oroitz.'

‘Show me his office.' Ochoa followed the
sargento
down the hall to a small drab room. ‘You can go now,' he said. ‘Close the door after you.' Once the
sargento
had left the room, he locked the door.

An envelope bearing the crest of the Spanish post office lay on the table. It had been opened with a neat cut along the top of the flap. There was no sign of the telegram and Ochoa rifled through the desk drawers without finding it. Annoyed, he knelt and ran his hands under the narrow gap between desk and floor. His fingers brushed something and he slid it out, his eyes widening as he recognised it. He had one of these in his pocket. The identification card of a member of the
Brigada Especial
. He opened it and looked at the details below the photograph. It was Viana's card.

Puzzled, he sat in the
capitán
's chair, running through the things he would tell Guzmán when he phoned him. He stretched out his leg and heard a sharp clatter as his boot hit the metal waste-paper bin. Reaching down, he lifted the bin and inspected it. It was empty, apart from a heap of roughly torn scraps of paper. Ochoa upended the pieces of telegram onto the desk and started to rearrange them.

OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

As she heard footsteps running towards her, Begoña thought about hiding but decided that was ridiculous. Her ancestors had slain Charlemagne's rearguard, they were not frightened by an autumn breeze. She stood her ground as the noise grew louder.

‘Nieves?' Begoña stared as her niece came running out of the trees. Her hair was tangled with burrs and pieces of leaves. ‘
Por Dios
, what happened?'

Nieves fell into her arms and Begoña held her, feeling her slight body pressed against hers, wracked by violent sobs. When Nieves calmed down, Begoña took her back to the house and poured a glass of
patxaran
.

Nieves drank it, holding Begoña's hand tight. ‘I saw him, there was blood everywhere.'

‘Saw who? What's happened?'

‘Patxi Gabilondo. El Lobo shot him after robbing a truck on the old road yesterday.'

Begoña stared at her. ‘Is he badly hurt?'

Nieves lowered her face, her tears falling into the lap of her dark skirt. ‘He's dead.'

Begoña took a deep breath. ‘I know where the killer is.'

Nieves looked up, her face streaked with tears. ‘How do you know?'

Begoña pressed a hand to her breast. ‘I know,' she said simply. ‘He's in the old fortress.'

‘So what shall we do?' Nieves asked.

Begoña knew there was only one response to the murder of an innocent like Patxi. She went to the fireplace and took down a battered short sword hanging beneath Grandfather Arestigui's portrait, a sword allegedly pulled from the body of one of Charlemagne's knights after the massacre at Roncesvalles. She went to the window and raised the blade towards the old fortress. Her voice trembled with the power of the storm and the ice of ancient winters as she invoked the power of the goddess. ‘I curse the man who did this,' she said, going on to enunciate a list of torments that would befall Patxi's killer. She finished the incantation and turned back to Nieves. ‘He walks as a dead man now.'

OROITZ 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

Capitán Viana parked his car near the
cuartel
. A woman was walking up towards the village and he called to her, asking for the location of the Pensión Aralar. The woman looked at him, puzzled. She didn't speak Spanish. He glanced round, hoping to find someone who spoke a Christian tongue. As he did, he saw the name he was looking for on the painted sign hanging above the door of a large house further up the street. Pensión Aralar.

‘
Buenos días
.' Viana smiled as Señora Olibari opened the door. He held up his ID. ‘I've come to collect a file. I believe it was delivered recently?'

‘That depends who you are, señor,' Señora Olibari said, keeping the door half-closed.

‘My name's Guzmán. Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán.'

‘Of course.' Señora Olibari beamed. ‘I've been expecting you.'

She ushered Viana into the living room and offered him a seat in her best armchair. He sat, ill at ease, surrounded by horse brasses and cow bells. ‘Has the gentleman come far?'

‘Far enough.' Viana had no intention of being questioned by a peasant.

When Señora Olibari made another tentative attempt at conversation, he cut her short. ‘The file, please, señora. I'm in a hurry.'

‘I'll get it.' She nodded. ‘If you'd like to use the telephone, señor, you're very welcome. It's the only one in the village, apart from the one at the cuartel.'

She bustled down the hall to the small sitting room at the back of the house. Double windows gave a spectacular view of the valley. In the distance, she saw the white smudge of Lauburu Farm where the witches lived. She paused, listening for the sound of her guest moving. When she heard nothing, she went to one of several large paintings on the wall, portraying rustic scenes from Basque life a century earlier. Taking hold of a gloomy depiction of cattle crossing a river with their ruddy-faced drovers, she lifted the painting from its hook, revealing a small safe set into the wall. She entered the combination: 18071936. A number she had chosen with care: the date the Civil War began. But though the war was long over, her work continued.

The safe door swung open on well-greased hinges. Somewhere along the hall she heard a creak. She froze, alert for further sounds of movement, and exhaled quietly, hearing none. This was an old house. It creaked all the time. She took a pair of shears from the safe. In contrast to the ancient farming gear in her living room, these were practically brand new, given to her when the telephone was installed. Quickly, she used them to cut the phone cable. Whoever her visitor was, it had never occurred to him that she would be able to recognise Comandante Guzmán. But then, Guzmán hadn't known that either.

Her orders for a situation like this were very specific. Reaching into the safe, she took out the file with its typed label:
Cdte L. Guzmán. Alto Secreto.
She placed the file on a stool and reached back into the safe for the Luger. It had been some time since she had used it, though not so long that she'd forgotten how to kill a man.