The Exile (63 page)

He thought about those consequences, his eyes narrowing as he imagined them at the drunken mercy of General Mellado and his thugs. The usual cycle of torture: the humiliation of being forced to strip and then the rape and abuse before the torture began in earnest. Electric shocks, beatings, immersion in freezing water, the sequence quite possibly culminating on Mellado's garrotte. That was the way these things were done. He could do nothing now. Trying to help them would not only be stupid, it would be the end of his career. Maybe the end of him.

But it could be done, though he would need to drive fast if he was to get them over the border before the authorities closed down the region. He'd done stupid things before and survived. Once in France, they would be safe. He could probably lie his way out of it after that. And another thought nagged him now. Magdalena had said she would be at Lauburu around seven. That meant she would arrive to make her collection just as the might of the security forces closed in on the farm. Who knew what Mellado's psychotic
legionarios
might do to a woman on her own?

He had a sudden recollection of a witch's eyes looking up at him in the cellar at Villarreal. Nieves' eyes. His mind made up, Guzmán went to the door.

Seventeen years ago, he couldn't save the mother. Perhaps that had been her destiny. But he could save the daughter. Perhaps that was his.

OROITZ 1954, CARRERA DE LAUBURU

Heading towards Lauburu Farm, Magdalena Torres slowed as she saw a line of cars ahead by the verge. As she passed, she glanced at the men standing by the vehicles. Heavy-set faces with dull expressions, broad shoulders crammed into suits that looked out of place in the countryside. And, as she passed, she caught a glimpse of the white hair and ragged clothing of another century and her heart sank. They had arrested Mikel Aingeru.

Something weighed in her stomach. Turning a bend, she pulled over by a tangled clump of gorse and reversed the car off the road, into the bushes. She sat motionless, resting her hands on the wheel. How typical of the secret police to pick on an old man like Mikel. The only crime he ever committed was to teach the forbidden language of his people. His clandestine teaching had awakened a generation of children to their heritage. And he had taught Magdalena so much more.

She climbed from the roadster and retrieved the Colt from under the spare wheel in the boot. Mikel once told her there was a time to help and a time to be helped. It was time for her to help him now.

Keeping low, she worked her way through the scrub until she was close enough to hear the men talking.

‘What do you want?' someone asked. It was not Mikel's voice. But it was Mikel who answered and Magdalena listened, her eyes widening with horror. She listened to it all and then, as the men's talk turned to other things, she slid away, silent and careful, making her way back to the spot where she had left the Pegaso.

A hundred metres from the car, she stopped and lowered herself into the grass, her heart pounding as she watched the burly man in a dark suit examining the vehicle. Staying low, she moved stealthily towards the trees and crawled through them, not daring to stand until she reached the far side of the wood. Then she started to run.

OROITZ 1954, CARRERA DE LAUBURU

Guzmán drove fast, ignoring the squeal of tyres as he took the bends of the steep mountain road without slowing. His head rang with a single question. What the fuck were Begoña and Nieves thinking of? They should have been tending their farm, not involving themselves in something that carried the death penalty.

He struggled to put his anger aside. The women needed his help, that was all that mattered. He would drive them to France and drop them somewhere on the border away from the customs posts. There were Basques across the frontier, they would still be among their own people. He turned onto the road leading to Lauburu Farm and accelerated, hearing the Hispano Suiza's powerful engine rise to the challenge.

Up ahead, he saw workmen standing by a line of cars parked at the side of the road.
Fucking roadworks.
He floored the accelerator and the Hispano Suiza hurtled forward, the wheel vibrating in his hands.

Guzmán didn't see what hit him. He heard only the sudden devastating noise of the impact as the car flipped over, skidding across the road in a shower of sparks, the metal screeching as the vehicle righted itself and careered into the verge on the far side of the road. A sudden sharp pain in his ribs as he slammed into the steering wheel. Unsteadily, he climbed from the wrecked vehicle, clutching his side. Around him, dark shapes emerged from the trees. He was surrounded by soldiers. A hundred metres away, a black sedan emerged from a narrow track in the woods and purred down the road, gliding to a halt alongside him. He watched as the rear window slid down.

‘You're a fucking terrible driver.' Mellado laughed. ‘Good job my lads only clipped you. Didn't you see them waving for you to stop?'

Guzmán saw now what had hit him: a military vehicle, the front bumper reinforced with a protruding steel frame. A roadblock.

‘What the fuck's going on?' He reached into a pocket for his handkerchief to mop blood from the cut over his eyebrow.

Slowly, Mellado got out of the car. ‘You're in a hurry, Leo, where are you off to?'

Normally, Guzmán was attuned to self-preservation. This was no normal situation. He had to think carefully.

‘I asked where you're going.' Mellado's voice was sharper now.

‘To make arrests at the farmhouse,' Guzmán said, thinking quickly. ‘I need to question the two women there.'

‘Really?' Mellado's face showed no interest. Certainly no sign of belief.

‘El Lobo's been hiding out near here,' Guzmán said, getting into his stride. ‘I want to arrest the women at Lauburu, they've been involved in the robberies.'

‘I know about them. I'd have known sooner, if you'd bothered to tell me.'

Guzmán winced as a shard of pain shot through his ribs. ‘I didn't get a chance.'

‘Good job I don't rely on you for my information.' Mellado waved to the driver of a dark SEAT sedan parked up the road, its engine idling. The car rolled towards them.

‘All these Basques know each other, Guzmán,' Mellado said as the sedan pulled up. ‘Many are only too pleased to pass on all they know. That's how we recruit so many agents here.' He gestured to someone in the car. A man got out, brushing down his velvet frock coat, smoothing his hands over the mane of silver hair tied back in a ponytail.

‘
Comandante
.' Baron Çubiry bared his teeth, though the gesture was far from a smile. He turned to Mellado. ‘I've provided you with both information and a spectacular amount of money, General
.
I believe it's time to honour your side of the bargain?' He turned to Guzmán. ‘Blood is thicker than water, I think you said,
Comandante
?' His mouth set in a thin smile. ‘You spilled my son's blood, now I'd like to return the compliment.'

‘Give him the pistol,' Mellado said. A man in a dark homburg and overcoat stepped forward, taking a pistol from his coat pocket. It took a moment for Guzmán to recognise Faisán. The young man smirked as he cocked the pistol and handed it to the Baron.

‘All yours, Monsieur Çubiry,' Mellado said, taking a step back. ‘You wanted the
Comandante
and you've paid very well, so make the most of it.' He smiled at Guzmán. ‘See? I can get information from other sources beside you. Carry on, Baron.'

Guzmán locked eyes with Çubiry as he took a step towards him.
Fuck him. Fuck them all.
He no longer cared. Perhaps Begoña and Nieves might still get away without his help. But he knew that was not true. By the time they realised what was happening, it would be far too late.

‘A last word?' Baron Çubiry smiled. ‘Some last futile curse, perhaps?'

‘Your son died squealing like a pig,' Guzmán said through clenched teeth. ‘He shamed himself, he shamed you and he shamed the bullet I put in his cowardly head.' He spat onto the ground. ‘At least it put an end to your family line.'

‘Not at all.' Çubiry grinned. ‘You forget my daughter. She's more man than my son ever was. Who do you think organised the robbery of your bank shipment?'

Baron Çubiry raised the pistol, aiming into Guzmán's face. Guzmán stared back, waiting. Faisán moved back, watching over the Baron's shoulder as Çubiry pulled the trigger.

A thin, metallic click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Surprised, Çubiry turned to Mellado, about to ask what was going on. No words came as he stopped, staring as Mellado lifted the lid of the boot and stepped back to let him see the contents.

‘
Mon Dieu
.' Çubiry's eyes were wide with horror. ‘My child...'

Faisán shot him in the back. As Çubiry sprawled on the ground, Faisán shot him twice more, the body jerking at the impact of each bullet. Faisán put away the pistol and went over to the General's Cadillac.

‘You should see your face, Leo,' Mellado cackled. ‘It's a picture.'

Dazed, Guzmán looked at the crumpled body in front of him.

‘As if I'd let a bandit shoot you. You might be a bad bastard but you're our bad bastard. Çubiry's a Frenchman – you think I'd trust him?'

Guzmán ran a hand over his face. ‘Who the fuck's that?' He pointed to the woman's body crammed into the boot of the sedan, her mottled face staring out at him, the great black tongue lolling from her lips, her pale naked body covered in bruises.

Mellado laughed. ‘Jeanette Çubiry. Perhaps you knew her as Jeanette Duclos, that was her married name. Yet another favour I've done you.' He slammed the lid of the boot. ‘Although, to tell the truth, killing the Baron was a favour to someone else. I just let you share it.'

‘Who?' Guzmán glanced along the road to the farm. Time was running out.

‘One of my informants, Leo. A proper informant, better than anyone Gutiérrez ever recruited, I bet. Or you, for that matter. And someone who wanted Çubiry dead very badly.' He gestured at the body lying in the road. ‘That French bastard thought he could use the money he stole from your bank truck to bribe me into letting him kill you.'

‘You got the five million back?'

‘I did. But my informant gave me something worth much more: the names of resistance groups all over the region.' His eye glittered. ‘I've declared martial law, Leo. We're picking up suspects right now, traitors every last one.'

Guzmán thought quickly. ‘Let me arrest those women. This is personal.'

‘No need, Leo. I've got people to do that.' Mellado gave a signal and an open-topped khaki truck pulled away from the line of military vehicles waiting by the verge. It drove past slowly, giving Guzmán time to see the sullen faces of Mellado's bodyguards staring at him over the tailboard. He felt something twist in his stomach.

‘I want to do it,' he said. ‘They thought I was stupid. Let me deal with them.'

Mellado shrugged. ‘You'll have to walk then. I can't spare another vehicle and I've got the harvest ball later. There's still a hundred things to do.' He walked back to the Cadillac and Faisán opened the rear door for him. As the car's powerful engine throbbed into life, Mellado leaned out of the window. ‘Did you think about my job offer, Leo?'

‘It sounded good.' The words were like soot on his tongue.

‘Good lad. You go and help the boys clear up at the farm if that's what you want. They're keen to get it over with so they can get back for the ball. It's just along that fork in the road back there, if you fancy dropping in. I reckon we'll be up all night, don't you, Faisán?'

Faisán smirked. ‘I certainly hope so,
mi General
.'

‘We'll discuss the job later, then, Leo,' Mellado said. ‘Iron out the details.'

Guzmán leaned against the car, exhausted. Through the half-open window, he smelled the air inside the vehicle: a sour odour, fetid and rank. Mellado said something to the driver and Guzmán stepped back as the car moved off, followed by the line of vehicles carrying the general's entourage. Within a couple of minutes Guzmán was alone, with only his wrecked car and the corpse of Baron Çubiry for company. He looked up the road, seeing the olive-green truck in the distance lumbering towards the farm, carrying Mellado's battle-hardened mercenaries, all keen to get their work over so they could attend General Mellado's annual night of depravity.

He started to run.

OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

Begoña Arestigui stood in the doorway of the farmhouse watching the sun set. Behind her in Grandfather Arestigui's study, Nieves was lighting the big oil lamp. Begoña took a seat at the table by the window and put on her reading glasses before she went back to her needlework. ‘I should have told you about your mother,' she said softly. ‘She was such a wild one, she couldn't bear country life, that's why she went to the city. We heard she'd joined the anarchists but nothing more until the war began. She sent me one letter and the next I knew was when a drover arrived with you, wrapped in a blanket. All he said was that someone had paid him to bring you here. Much later, I found out she'd been killed. I should have told you, I'm sorry.'

‘It's Comandante Guzmán I'm angry with,' Nieves said. ‘He was there, and yet he never said anything to me.'

‘But he didn't kill your mother,' Begoña said. ‘You said yourself it was León.' She got to her feet. ‘There's something I should have showed you years ago.'

She went across to the old portraits and family photographs on the wall and reached for a large framed painting of the beach at Zarauz. She turned it, revealing a somewhat blurred sepia photograph of a tall, well-built young soldier with brilliantined hair, his arm around a young dark-haired woman, dressed in militia uniform. A note at the bottom of the photo, in Begoña's careful handwriting.
Arantxa, Bilbao, 10 Mayo 1936.
‘I don't know who the soldier is, the detail isn't very good.'