The Exile (58 page)

He unslung the rifle and went into the tunnel, making for the light at the far end. He emerged on a long gun terrace cut into the hillside, where rusting cannons stared out across the lonely countryside as they had for the last hundred years. Along the rear of the terrace several regularly spaced supply tunnels led to the arsenal deep inside the mountain, guaranteeing a steady supply of ammunition to the guns. Or would have if this isolated stronghold had ever been attacked. But no enemy ever had need to lay siege to it. Instead, it had been ignored and bypassed, making it a vain and futile monument to bad planning, worthy of Franco himself.

Guzmán took out his Zippo and snapped it into flame as he entered a tunnel halfway along the terrace. Along the walls, a long row of iron rings had been set into the stone just above head height, for the ropes of ammunition carts, he guessed. Bats fluttered out of the darkness, dark whispers whirling past his face. He walked cautiously through the strange, muffled silence, sensing the vast weight of the mountain overhead. And then, behind him, a sudden creaking followed by the sound of falling stones and debris rattling down onto the floor of the tunnel. He turned and lifted the lighter. Though a vague cloud of dust he saw scattered debris along the floor of the passage. Above the debris the curved ceiling sagged, spilling thin streams of dirt and powdered rock through growing cracks in the rough-hewn stone.

He continued down the tunnel, feeling cold air on his face, a silent chill draught that troubled the flame of his lighter, forcing him to pause and shield it with his cupped hand. That pause was fortunate, he realised as he looked down at the gaping drop a few paces ahead. A length of the tunnel floor had collapsed, opening up a deep chasm some twenty metres long between him and the next section of the tunnel. When he leaned forward, in an attempt to see the bottom of the crevasse, a stream of cold air from below extinguished the flame.

Behind him, he heard again the sound of grating rock and flurries of pulverised stone. From the sound of it, the tunnel roof might come down at any moment. That left him no choice but to continue on into the mountain towards the arsenal.

Guzmán looked again at the chasm in front of him. The collapse of the tunnel floor had left nothing, no slight ledge at either side where he might gain a foothold. He stared at the smooth curved stone walls, his eyes settling on the line of rusted iron rings extending along the tunnel. It was possible, he supposed. Possible, though not desirable. There was no guarantee the rings would take the weight of a man. His deliberations were cut short as a further small avalanche of broken stones tumbled down into the tunnel behind him.

Guzmán reached up and seized an iron ring with each hand. He hung from them, making sure they could bear his weight. When both rings survived that test, he launched himself to one side, grabbing a ring further to his left, then bringing his right over to grab the next before reaching out with his left hand again.

It was laborious work, made worse by the weight of the rifle. Within minutes, his fingers knotted from grasping the rusty iron, and soon after, the muscles of his forearms began tightening in painful spasms. If his arms cramped, he might not reach the far side of the crevasse. He was carrying too much weight, he realised. The rifle would have to go.

Guzmán let go of one of the rings. Sweat stung his eyes and he grunted at the effort of supporting his weight with one hand as he tried to shake the rifle strap from his shoulder without sending himself plunging into the chasm.

Finally, the rifle slipped from his shoulder and moments later he heard a sharp clatter as it hit the rocks below. He took a deep breath and continued. He was perhaps ten metres away from the next section of the tunnel, he guessed. That spurred him on as he grasped the next ring and continued his painful journey. And then, as he swung himself along, his outstretched foot hit stone. He shook sweat from his eyes, cursing the pain in his arms and wrists. Another two more rings and he would be across. He reached out, teeth clenched as he extended his arm, running his fingers over the stone, searching for the next handhold. Cramp burned across his shoulders as he hung by one hand, trying to find the iron ring with the other. Something was wrong, he realised as his fingers touched the rough holes where the bolts holding the ring in place had once been. There was only so long a man could support his own weight like this and he twisted and turned, swinging back and forth, creating new geometries of pain in his tortured muscles as he built up the momentum to fling himself forward towards the broken lip of the gaping hole, digging his fingers into the stone as he dragged himself up into the tunnel. A flurry of obscenities followed as he kneaded his forearms, forcing blood through the muscles. And then his cursing was interrupted as a distant sound cut through the darkness, resonating in brittle echoes off the stone walls around him. The sound of footsteps.

OROITZ 1954, MENDIKO RIDGE

The oil lamp swung in her hand as Nieves approached the fortress. High above, the pinnacle of Mari's Peak towered into a hazy sky as she whispered the name of the goddess, invoking her protection, confident Mari would come to her aid, because her cause was just. She came seeking justice for Patxi Gabilondo.

Nieves made for the entrance, negotiating her way over irregular piles of fallen stones. The carved gateway loomed over her, its lintel cracked and sagging under the eternal weight of the mountain. She took a box of wax
cerillas
from her pocket and lit the lantern before entering the tunnel. She walked slowly, distracted, as she planned what she would say to El Lobo when she confronted him. It had seemed a good plan when she'd left home. She was less sure of that now.

A few metres further on, she stopped as she heard faint echoes, growing louder as they reverberated down the tunnel towards her. Even a country girl like Nieves could recognise the sound of gunfire and she slowed to avoid making a noise, wondering who was doing the shooting. She was still wondering that as the man came out of the shadows behind her, clamping his hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping around her body, pulling her close against him. The lamp clattered to the ground

‘Keep quiet.' León's breath stank of garlic and sour wine. Her heart pounding, Nieves fought desperately to break free, though against León's strength there was never much chance of that. As she struggled, she called for help, the repetitive cadences of her voice echoing around her in the tunnel as León wrestled her to the ground.

Once León had pinned her down, it was easy to twist her arm behind her back, securing his hold on her. By way of emphasis, he pressed the muzzle of his service revolver against her head, muttering dark threats.

‘Don't try anything,' he muttered, ‘just walk. Try to get away and you'll suffer.'

Nieves obeyed. His grip was so tight there was no chance of her breaking away. She would have to wait. Perhaps there would be a way out of this. The thought there might not be made her shiver.

‘Cold, Niña?' León muttered. ‘I'll warm you up soon, don't you worry. Now, let's get moving.'

Nieves had no choice. She began walking down the tunnel, wincing at León's fierce grip on her arm.

OROITZ 1954, FORTALEZA DE ZUMALACÁRREGUI

Guzmán listened as the echoes of Nieves' cries receded into silence. He glowered, angry that she had put herself in danger and angry that he had no way of finding her in the warren of tunnels running through the fortress. He continued along the tunnel, aware of soft echoes ahead, like the sound of autumn leaves. Ten metres away, the tunnel ended. Beyond that, he saw the pale wavering light of torches. Someone was expecting company. Crouching in the mouth of the tunnel, he peered into the huge cavern that had once served as the fort's arsenal. He had no idea who might be in there along with El Lobo. Dozens of heavily armed Çubiry, for all he knew. One thing he did know: if he had to get out of the cavern in a hurry, he didn't want to use this tunnel again. He reached down, picked up a stone and scratched a large
X
on the wall as a reminder to avoid this route.

He stepped out into a dank silence, broken by the rustle of bats and the slow drip of water from the cavern roof. At the far side of this vast stone chamber he saw a stack of long wooden crates stacked in neat rows. New crates too. Brand new. A delivery from the Çubiry to El Lobo, without doubt. Cautiously, he went over to examine them. The labels all carried the crest of the Military Governor. The weapons were from General Mellado's armoury. At the other side of the cavern he saw a cluster of great carved stone tables heaped with pyramids of cannon balls, their bulbous outline now muted by a century of cobwebs. Above the tables a long gallery had been carved into the wall of the cavern and from it burning torches threw a fitful, disorienting light over the cavern floor, picking out the large well at its centre, the buckets and pulleys hanging lopsided and rotten from a crooked gantry.

Guzmán paused, listening intently to the silence. A funereal quiet that amplified his cautious steps into shimmering Judas sounds, each ready to betray his presence. Slowly, he turned, scanning the cavern for signs of life. The bleak light from the gallery created long shadows over the skeletal framework of the well, almost hiding the man sitting with his back to the rough stone parapet, a rifle across his knee.

Guzmán crept forwards, keeping the Browning raised. It was unlikely El Lobo would take a nap here, in the centre of this dank grotto. More likely this was one of his men, taking a furtive break. That was fine. No matter how many men Lobo had with him here, Guzmán would kill them one by one if he had to. Flexibility in combat was necessary to survive in fluctuating circumstances. There was only thing Guzmán would not change now: El Lobo had to die.

The man gave no sign of movement as Guzmán worked his way closer. Slowly, he holstered the Browning and drew his knife. This man would die without his sleep being disturbed.

Holding the knife ready, he moved in for the kill, aware now of a thick odour, both repugnant and familiar. The stench of putrefaction. The pallid torchlight from the gallery played over the man's features as Guzmán spat onto the rough stone floor, clearing the taste of death from his mouth as he glared at the bloated face. In death, the late Señor Bárcenas was no less ugly than in life, though he smelled much worse.

A sudden flash. Powdered stone stung Guzmán's face as he threw himself flat, hearing the rippling cadences of the shot hammer through the dark silence of the cavern.

He lay by the well, trying to see where the shot had come from. A noise to his left as Bárcenas's corpse slid across the stone wall towards him. Guzmán inhaled the stench of rotting flesh as he glowered at the corpulent face half a metre from his. Accurate shooting, Guzmán thought, realising the bullet had not been meant for him. Someone was playing games.

‘I knew you'd come.' A deep, resonant voice from somewhere on the gallery. Guzmán glanced across to the stone tables. There was good cover behind those, enhanced by the heaps of cannon balls piled on them. If he could get among the tables, Lobo would need to lean over the balcony to get a shot at him. And that would make him a target.

Guzmán leaped up and fired, aiming at the sound of the voice. Harsh sharp cracks, the cartridges rattling onto the ground as he ran to the stone tables, firing again as he saw a dark shape rear up behind the balcony. He hurled himself into the shelter of one of the big stone tables as a rapid series of bullets exploded around him, whining away in clamorous ricochets. Sweat trickled down his face as he sheltered under the ancient carved stonework, planning his next move. He was safe for now, but the moment he moved, Lobo was in a prime position to pick him off.

‘You lack finesse,
Comandante
,' the voice said. ‘Men like you have no time for thought, you rely on your brute instincts.'

‘I didn't come here for flattery,' Guzmán grunted, squirming through the space below the table towards the wall of the cavern.

‘You came here to die.' The words bounced around the gallery, low and threatening. ‘Perhaps you didn't realise it before. I'm sure you do now.'

Guzmán rolled onto his back and looked up through a lattice of cobwebs. He still had no clear shot at the gallery, so he twisted and slid forward under the next table.

‘There's no escape from here.' The voice rolled around the walls of the cavern.

‘Not for you, there isn't.' Guzmán scanned the balcony with his pistol. ‘So far, every time I got near you, you ran. You won't do it again.'

A strange noise from above. The sound of cold laughter. ‘Guerrilla warfare.'

Guzmán peered up at the gallery. The echoes made it hard to locate where the voice was coming from. He had to keep Lobo talking. ‘You call running away guerrilla warfare?'

‘Of course. You were so sure I'd walk into your trap, you never thought about other possibilities.' A mirthless laugh. ‘Not until it was too late, anyway.'

Guzmán felt sweat trickle down his back as he struggled to control his anger. ‘What's Bárcenas doing here?'

‘It would have spoiled my plans if you'd been arrested for his murder, so I took him while you spent the night with General Torres's daughter.'

‘I'd say I got the better deal.'

‘I could have killed both of you any time I chose.' Lobo's voice had a sour edge to it. ‘But I don't kill innocent women.' The words rebounded in muted echoes. ‘How does it feel now? Are you afraid like we were, tied to those chairs? Or have you forgotten that night?'

Guzmán wiped a hand across his brow, beginning to understand now. ‘You were at Villarreal?' He tried to remember the faces in that cellar. There was only one he recalled in any detail and that was Arantxa's. ‘Did you think we'd send you home with a warning? It was war.'

A dark figure appeared on the balcony. Guzmán brought the pistol up fast, the bullets glancing off the stone balcony in eccentric patterns of fleeting sparks as the staccato bark of the Browning echoed up into the roof of the cavern, provoking a frenzy of startled bats.