The Exile (6 page)

She frowned. ‘That sounds serious, what's the problem?'

‘Nothing we can't handle,' Atienza said, ‘but it pays to be careful.'

She sighed. ‘OK, I'll take your advice. But I need somewhere to stay – any ideas?'

‘No problem. When you arrive, drive into the centre of the village, park near the tourist office and then walk down the street towards the main square. There's a
pensión
called the Aralar. It's a bit old-fashioned but it's cheap and comfortable. I'll drive over and collect you in the morning.' He paused. ‘You didn't come in uniform, did you?'

‘I'm a forensic scientist,' Galíndez said. ‘Plain clothes.'

‘Good, because you need to be careful. It's best if no one knows you're GC. If anyone asks, say you're a hiker.' He took a breath. ‘Have you got Madrid licence plates?'

‘You know, you're starting to make me feel paranoid,
Sargento
.'

‘There's no need,' Atienza said. ‘But a lot of people from Madrid have had their cars vandalised by the local youth. They call it
Kale Borroka
, it's supposed to be a form of low-level urban resistance. They cut their teeth on that and then move up to the big league once they've toughened up.'

‘The big league being ETA?'

‘Like I said, just be careful.'

‘I will.' Galíndez ended the call. Atienza's warning was a stark reminder she wasn't on holiday here. She'd inspect the site tomorrow and be away before dark.

Back in the car, she reached under her seat, feeling for the Glock in its polymer holster. That was a comfort. As she started the engine, she felt the plastic container of tablets in her back pocket. That was a comfort too.

Something glimmered in the distance: the fleeting glint of light on water. Seconds later, a deep roll of thunder.

A hundred metres ahead, the shrubs and trees lining the roadside ended abruptly in a long patch of scarred concrete, separated from the road by a wire fence. Puzzled, she slowed and pulled up by the fence to check where she was. Legutio was just up the road, she realised, poring over the map. This strange concrete scar was all that remained of the
guardia cuartel
destroyed by ETA's bomb two years ago. She started the engine and drove on, following the Urrunaga Dam, the dark waters flickering beneath elongated stammers of lightning.

The village was small and it took only a few minutes to find the Pensión Aralar. Just as the
sargento
said, the place was a little dilapidated but had a homely feel, with an ancient dining room on the ground floor. Her room was comfortable and from the window she had a spectacular view of the dam as the storm rolled in. Within a few minutes, sudden whip-cracks of thunder exploded overhead as gusting rain drummed relentlessly against the windows.

That evening, Galíndez ate alone in the big stone-floored dining room. She had no appetite and asked the
dueña
for something light. Señora Olibari returned with a bottle of red wine and a large plate of
txipirones
, baby squid served in their ink. Galíndez savoured the tender squid, mopping up the ink with bread. The fresh taste of the sea made her hungry and she was considering ordering something else when the
dueña
returned with the dish of the day,
trucha a la Navarra
, a fat lake trout, wrapped in slices of Serrano ham and baked until crisp, the trout soaking up the salty juices of the meat. Galíndez ate the trout with relish, washing it down with more wine. The food made her cheerful and the old lady commented on her flushed cheeks as she brought Galíndez a thick slice of Basque gateau and a glass of purple liquid with two dark berries lurking beneath the surface.

‘Home-made
patxaran
, señorita. It's good for you.' Señora Olibari spread several coloured brochures on the table. ‘If you're sightseeing, you might be interested in some of these.' As Galíndez took the brochures, the old lady looked at the dark rings around her eyes. ‘It's a man, isn't it,
querida
?' she said sadly. ‘That's why you're not sleeping.'

Galíndez looked up, her cheeks full of gateau, and nodded. Satisfied with her hearty appetite, if not her sleeping habits, Señora Olibari returned to the kitchen. Galíndez tried a sip of
patxaran
. It was certainly an acquired taste, she decided, though she drank it for its alleged medicinal value as she flicked through the tourist leaflets.

A visit to the Lauburu Agro Farm didn't excite her and she pushed the leaflet aside. Another brochure advertised a guided walk up the Pico de Mari, a tall peak said to be used as a perch by a Basque goddess, while yet another colourful flyer extolled La Cueva, a large cave once used by local bootleggers. The photographs of several wax dummies of absinthe makers in nineteenth-century costume failed to excite her. She had her own itinerary for this trip.

After dinner, the storm passed over and she went to her room to sit by the window, enjoying the cool evening air as she watched the vast expanse of water darken until it merged into the night. Somewhere out on the lake a bird screeched, shrill and unearthly, the echo rippling around the shore. And then an immense silence, broken only by the faint lapping of water and an occasional dull roll of thunder from the departing storm. The silence was disturbing and Galíndez lay awake staring at the bottle of tablets on her bedside table, wondering whether to take a couple. She was still wondering as she fell asleep.

VILLARREAL, 8 MARCH 1937

‘You're a spy.' Surprise and accusation in his voice.

‘Who'd suspect a pregnant woman?' She smiled. ‘They were late coming to get me
– your invasion slowed them down. In the end I had a goatherd's daughter for a midwife.'

He looked away, angry. ‘You know we shoot enemy spies?'

She took a long pull on her cigarette. ‘That's rich,
chico
. Last time I saw you, we were on the same side. You had the uniform and everything. Anyway, you're full of yourself for someone who's
– what do you call it? – oh yes, a traitor.'

He glanced round, suddenly wary. ‘Don't say that again. And stop calling me
chico
.'

‘You used to like it.'

He snorted. ‘You were a whore then. It cost ten pesetas to fuck you.'

‘When you paid. I've got an IOU that says you owe me sixty pesetas.' She put a hand on his arm, soft and tentative. ‘So what do I call you now?'

He told her his name. That was his only name now, he said, his voice heavy with threat. ‘Why did you volunteer to be a spy?'

‘To fight the fascists, like you were supposed to. That's why they sent you to Badajoz.'

He tossed the cigarette away, a chain of red sparks in the dusk. ‘Things changed.' He peered at the infant nestling in her arms. ‘Who's the father?'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You're the smart one, chico. Work it out.'

‘How? You must have fucked half the regiment.'

‘Until I gave it up and signed up for active service.' A faint smile on her lips. ‘I only had one man after that
– and that wasn't for very long – remember?'

He glared at her. ‘
Joder
, what am I going to do with you?'

‘I don't know,' her eyes widened with feigned innocence, ‘but I'd say you've got some thinking to do.'

3

SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR

Guzmán sank back into the soft leather seat of one of General Mellado's limousines, struggling to breathe. For the hundredth time, he ran a finger under the tight winged collar, trying to loosen the deadly grip of his bow tie. Formal dinners were best avoided as far as he was concerned but there was no avoiding this one. General Mellado not only demanded he attend, he'd sent a car for him.

‘If you want a drink,
jefe
, there's booze in that cabinet in front of you,' the driver said, as courteously as could be expected of a man with so many scars across his face.

Guzmán opened the door of the cocktail cabinet and glanced at its contents. A large range of spirits and mixers, a shaker, jars of olives and cocktail cherries. Everything a man might need, he thought, noticing the Walter PPK in a leather holder on one side of the cabinet

‘The general said you were with the Moors in the war,
jefe
?'

A moment's surprise. Of all the things Guzmán expected from a thug like him, conversation wasn't one of them. ‘I commanded a squad of Moors for a while,' he said. ‘Anti-insurgency work in the mountains.'

‘You kill any of them, sir?'

‘Of course not,' Guzmán said. ‘They were on our side.'

‘I would have killed them,' the
legionario
muttered. ‘I'd have got a machine gun and shot the fucking lot.' He banged the steering wheel with his fist.

‘They were good soldiers,' Guzmán said. ‘And they never complained either.'

‘I fucking hate them,' the legionnaire said, glancing at Guzmán in his mirror. ‘When I was with the general in Morocco, we killed plenty of them.'

‘That was different.' Guzmán shrugged. ‘We were at war with them then.'

The driver drew his index finger across his throat. ‘In the desert, the general used to pay one
real
for every Moor's head we cut. We made good money.'

‘The general certainly knows how to get the best out of his men,' Guzmán sneered, knowing most legionnaires wouldn't have joined up without the opportunity to indulge their murderous inclinations on a regular basis.

The legionnaire nodded. ‘We come across one of their schools one day. They were teaching kids to read and write in heathen. By the time we'd done, there were heads everywhere. Can't remember how much I made, but it was a lot.'

The limousine crunched to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the mansion.

‘It must have been tough, fighting children,' Guzmán said. ‘Did you get a medal?'

‘We did what we were told. That was what we were there for.'

Guzmán opened the door. ‘Those days are over,' he said and got out.

‘Hang on, I'm supposed to get a tip. The going rate's a hundred pesetas. The general himself set that.'

‘Then go and ask him for a hundred fucking pesetas.' Guzmán slammed the door and walked off towards the mansion.

The white marble façade of the building was illuminated by the dazzling beams of two very large searchlights on the lawn. Guzmán went up the steps to the entrance, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. Several military policemen with sub-machine guns were standing inside the doorway. One stepped forward to confirm Guzmán's identity.

‘
Buenas, Comandante
. Sorry about the lights, they're brighter than the general expected. But as he says, they'll come in handy if there's an air raid.'

‘I'm sure,' Guzmán agreed. ‘Do you want me to leave my pistol?'

‘No, sir. The general said it would be an insult to a war hero like you.' He pointed to a long hallway. ‘Go down that hall and follow the path through the cloisters.'

Guzmán set off down the hall. The door at the end opened into a cloistered garden, surrounded by elegant alabaster walkways. As he walked, he noticed the thick iron bars of a heavy door set into an alcove. Cells were always of interest and he looked round casually to make sure he was alone. Cautiously, he put his hands against the door and pushed. It opened into a narrow stone passageway, so low he was almost obliged to stoop. Vague light shone through a narrow slit in the wall at the end of the passage. Ahead on the right were three dark metal doors, reinforced with steel bands.

Quietly, he opened the flap of the spyhole on the nearest door and peered in. A woman was sitting on the bed in the cell, her right hand cuffed to the metal frame. Aware of his presence, she glanced up and looked away quickly. He heard her rapid breathing, saw the bruises round her eyes. She was terrified. He opened the spy flaps on the other two doors and saw a woman in each cell. He went back along the passageway.

‘Excuse me, señor?' Guzmán looked down, seeing the bars of a cell set below ground level. A pale face looked up at him, a young woman, about sixteen or seventeen, he guessed.

‘I've been arrested,' she whispered. ‘They won't let me tell my parents.
Mamá
will be worried sick.' She pushed a sheet of notepaper through the bars, ‘Please let her know I'm here.'

‘I don't know what you've done. Just tell the truth when they question you.'

‘Please, for the sake of the Blessed Virgin, señor?'

Guzmán took the paper from her and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘What's your name?'

‘María Vidal,' she whispered. ‘God bless you
.
'

Guzmán went back into the garden. Across the path, something rustled in the shrubs. He drew the Browning and thumbed back the hammer. ‘Come out with your hands up.'

A man came out of the bushes. Young, sallow-faced, his hair a gleaming helmet of brilliantined curls. An expensive dinner jacket that must have cost a fortune on the black market.

‘Who the fuck are you?' Guzmán grunted. ‘I could have blown your head off.'

‘Rafael Faisán, assistant to General Mellado. May I ask who the gentleman is?'

‘Guzmán,
Brigada Especial
.'

‘I'm afraid those cells are private,
Comandante
.'

‘I got lost,' Guzmán growled. ‘Who are those women you've got locked up?'