The Exile (3 page)

The night porter tried to nod, which was foolish since Guzmán's pistol was still pressed against his forehead. ‘It's the door behind the gentleman.'

Guzmán turned to look without taking the gun from the man's head. ‘Good. I'll use the phone in there. I want some supper as well. Get me a bottle of brandy and a large sandwich and do it quickly. But knock first or I'll shoot you in the doorway,
entendido
?'

The porter was shaking violently and the chance to make up for whatever he had done to bring Guzmán's anger down on him was highly appealing. ‘Understood, señor. Although I don't know where I can get a bottle of brandy at this time of night. The bar's locked.'

Guzmán walked over to the door of the manager's office and opened it, feeling for the light switch. The room was suddenly bathed in a sickly glow like an undertaker's candle. He turned. ‘For all I care,
hombre
, you can prise it out of the hand of a dying nun in the gutter. Just fuck off and do it.' He slammed the door in the porter's face.

Guzmán sat at the manager's desk. Out of professional habit, he tried the drawers. They were locked. That suggested the possibility of discovering something incriminating. It would be worth searching the room before he left. If nothing else, perhaps he would find something that would enable him to coerce the manager into not charging him for his room.

He dialled a Madrid number and listened to the phone ringing at the other end.
National Security
, he thought angrily,
and they're all fucking asleep.

A knock at the door as the night porter came in bearing a tray with a length of hurriedly sliced loaf stuffed with chorizo, and a bottle of Carlos Tercero. The porter placed the plate on the desk, and next to it, the bottle of brandy with an insultingly small glass.

Guzmán noticed an envelope on the tray. ‘What's this?'

‘Your mail, sir.'

Guzmán gestured for him to leave and listened to the phone ringing, using his free hand to open the bottle. As he raised the bottle to his mouth, someone answered.

‘Is that you, Guzmán?' Gutierrez didn't sound happy. But then, he rarely did.

‘
Buenas noches, mi Coronel.
Times must be hard if you've got to answer the phone at this time of night.'

‘This is my personal number now, Guzmán, so do try to address me correctly, will you? I've been a
general de brigada
since last week.'

Guzmán shook a fist at the wall of the office.
Mierda. Every fucker gets promotion but me. I've done everything they asked and more and the cabrónes piss on me. Puta madre.

‘No need to congratulate me, Guzmán. How are things in the Basque Country?'

‘Fine. I met with the clients earlier this evening.'

‘And how did the negotiations go?'

Guzmán swallowed a mouthful of brandy. ‘Abandoned due to sudden bereavement.'

‘Really? I didn't expect you'd do it so quickly. How many?'

‘Eight.' Guzmán felt a spasm of anger at the sudden silence. ‘What?'

‘There were supposed to be ten.'

‘Eight showed up. The organiser, Etxarte, said two couldn't make it. There's also a quartermaster, but he keeps his distance so he can't betray them if he's captured.' He swallowed more brandy. ‘You didn't mention a quartermaster in your briefing.'

‘That's because I didn't know, Guzmán. So don't fucking gloat.'

‘I can only work with the information I'm given,' Guzmán said, gloating. ‘There's a password. Actually more than a word, because Basques can't say anything in less than half a page. ‘“
In the mountains, the snows are burning”
– that's how they recognise one another.'

‘Very poetic,' Gutiérrez sneered. ‘Now you're up there,
Comandante
, there's some more business to attend to and it's a little more important than learning a few Basque phrases. You've heard about El Lobo since you arrived, I imagine?'

‘Of course. He hides up in the hills among the wolves and goats. Shoots at the local
policía
and
guardia civil
from time to time. He's just a bandit – not a problem for the security services.' A long silence. It was the silence that always preceded some ludicrously demeaning order from Gutierrez. Guzmán clenched his fist.

‘A bandit?' Gutierrez snorted. ‘You haven't noticed that the underground press refer to El Lobo as a guerrilla hero who's returned to continue the Civil War? How there are groups of young Basques wanting to join him in his struggle against the State?'

‘So what? Look how I dealt with those traitors this evening. One clip of ammunition – well, two – and they're gone. Send the
guardia
after this Lobo.'

Silence. Guzmán realised where this was leading. ‘I'm not doing it. You told me—'

‘Things have changed,' Gutierrez cut in. ‘El Lobo robbed an army payroll truck earlier today, not ten miles from Bilbao. He left four
guardia civiles
dead and got away with a great deal of money. Real money as well: dollars, not pesetas. There's uproar here. The Basque region is supposed to be calm. When I said you were in the area, Franco told me to give you the job.'

Guzmán took another swig of brandy.
So, Franco remembers I'm useful?
‘All right, I'll go after El Lobo.'

‘Excellent. We want him dead as soon as possible. And not a hero's death either: we don't want him to become a martyr. Is that clear?'

‘Absolutely. Where do I start?'

‘There's a village up in the hills called Oroitz. El Lobo's been very active round there. I understand there's a
guardia
barracks there so you can use the squad as you see fit.'

‘
Bueno.
I'll go up there and take a look,' Guzmán said, ‘but I'll need some of my boys from the
Brigada Especial
to get a job like this done quickly.'

‘I've already arranged for someone to join you up there,
Comandante
. He was about to be posted to Calle Robles, I think he'll be of use to you.'

‘One man?'

‘I believe you know him,' Gutiérrez said. ‘Corporal Ochoa.'

‘Ochoa?' Guzmán grumbled. ‘I remember him. But he's a photographer, for fuck's sake. And he's miserable.'

‘He's a good man, and in any case, he's all I can spare. He'll arrive the day after tomorrow. We've also got a number of informants in the area, so naturally I'll pass on any information from them as soon as it's available.'

‘Who's going to handle communications between us?'

‘Capitán Viana is coming up there to deal with that side of things. He's just transferred to us from naval intelligence. I haven't met him in person yet, but I've heard good things about him. He'll be in touch in the next day or so.'

Guzmán looked at his sandwich, wishing Gutiérrez would fuck off. ‘Is that all?'

‘Not yet,' Gutiérrez sighed. ‘There are certain complications.'

Guzmán realised he was not going to like this. ‘What might they be?'

‘Firstly, General Mellado, the Military Governor, is causing problems. He's asked Franco for permission to implement martial law over the entire region.'

‘Mellado's a character,' Guzmán said. ‘We used to call him Madman in the war. He's always been overenthusiastic.'

‘Far too enthusiastic for my liking, Guzmán. Frankly, if I had my way we'd get rid of him. He's a part of the past now, it's time he retired. But Franco's not keen on removing him. He hates change.'

‘No change there, then,' Guzmán muttered. ‘Why do you want rid of him so much?'

‘Don't get me started. Mainly because he doesn't realise we need to be aware of our image abroad these days. We need foreign trade and the economy is still a shambles.'

‘Last year, you said the American trade deal would solve all our problems.'

‘And so it will, when they finally part with the money,' Gutierrez said. ‘But the
Yanquis
have a peculiar aversion to the ways we deal with issues of public order. If General Mellado sends in his troops, it would cause massive unrest and if the bodies start piling up, the Americans will turn pale and pull the plug on the deal. We'll remain a nation of paupers.'

‘Has anyone told Mellado that?'

‘You worked with him, didn't you? He's not a great listener.'

‘I could have a word,' Guzmán suggested. ‘I'm sure he'll see sense.'

‘Do that. Remind him that Franco himself has forbidden him to take action.'

‘I will. Is that all for tonight?'

‘I hope I'm not keeping you from your bed, Guzmán? Because there are other factors you need to know about. Things that make the situation even more sensitive.'

Here we go.
Guzmán waited in silence for the bad news.

‘The US Ambassador is holidaying in France,' Gutierrez said, ‘Biarritz, to be exact.' He's taking the US Special Envoy with him, the man who's going to hand over the money for the trade deal next week.'

Guzmán exhaled loudly. ‘So what?'

‘My point is, the two Americans we'd least like to be near the Basque country right now are practically camped out on the border. We don't want their holiday spoiled by reports about Spain's internal problems.'

‘I'll be discreet.' Guzmán took another pull of brandy.

‘Good, and it goes without saying that you're explicitly forbidden to cross the border into France,
Comandante
. An international incident would be disastrous.'

Guzmán picked up a pencil lying by the blotter on the desk. ‘I've got the message.'

‘I hope so, because otherwise Madrid will be a distant memory for you.'

‘I'm looking at a map of the area as we speak,' Guzmán said, doodling on the blotter. ‘I've already identified the key issue.'

‘I imagine that involves working out your chances of survival?' Gutiérrez's voice was faint and distorted. ‘I'd forgotten your close attention to detail. Just don't expect to be paid for working through the night.'

Before Guzmán could tell him to fuck himself, Gutierrez hung up.

Guzmán swallowed another mouthful of brandy and looked down at his doodle; his chances of survival did not depend upon the calculation of unfeasible odds or the likelihood of failure. They hinged on a simple axis between the two outcomes now scrawled on the blotter, competing with the mosaic pattern of innumerable coffee cups.
Him or me.

That was enough strategic planning for one night and he reached for the sandwich. Strangely, the night porter had made it just the way he liked: roughly cut bread with the chorizo hacked into thick greasy chunks. Things were looking up. Once this job was completed, he could be back in Madrid within days.

The envelope was still lying on the tray. Guzmán picked it up, seeing the crest of the Military Governor's office. He tore it open and slid out the embossed card:

T
HE
M
ILITARY
G
OVERNOR
G
ENERAL
J
OSÉ
M
ELLADO
REQUESTS
THE
PRESENCE
OF
D
ON
L
EOPOLDO
G
UZMÁN

AT
A
CHARITY
DINNER
IN
SUPPORT
OF
THE
S
ECCIÓN
F
EMENINA
OF
THE
F
ALANGE
.

F
RIDAY
, 1 O
CTOBER
1954. 8.00
P
.
M
.
PROMPT
.

B
LACK
T
IE
.

Guzmán groaned. An evening with the parasites and sycophants of the party was a dismal proposition, even if it did involve a free meal, particularly since the members of the
Sección Femenina
resembled a troupe of third-rate Italian opera singers, although marginally larger, perhaps.

It was time to get some rest but, tired as he was, Guzmán found it hard to break the habit of a lifetime. He took out his key ring and used one of the locksmith's picks attached to it to open the manager's drawers. Despite a thorough search, he found nothing incriminating and went to his room, taking the half-empty bottle with him for a nightcap.

Weak light from a single bulb threw angular shadows over the cheap furniture as he lay on the bed in his squalid room, unable to sleep. The mattress was hard and the pillow smelled of ancient sweat and tobacco. As he rolled onto his back, he saw a large carved effigy of the crucified Christ on the wall above. If that fell, it would kill him. The thought amused him.

Outside, the rain had stopped and a languid breeze stirred the faded curtains. Through the window, he heard the slow rhythm of breaking waves. Irritated, Guzmán stormed across the room and slammed the shutters. Freed from the disturbing cadences of the sea, he sank into his habitual dreams of gunfire, explosions and screaming.

VILLARREAL, 8 MARCH 1937

Most of the prisoners were killed at once, avoiding the inconvenience of guarding them.

Those chosen were forced to their knees as the legionnaires took up position behind them, waiting as their officer lit his cigarette before he gave the order to fire. Moments later, four were left alive. The Poet, the woman and two others. They would be questioned later.