SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, BANCO DE BILBAO
Señor Cifuentes unlocked another door and ushered Guzmán into a badly lit chamber. ‘This is the door to our strongroom.’ Guzmán watched as the heavy door swung open. The bank manager pointed at a line of sacks inside the vault. ‘There it is, Comandante. Twenty sacks of notes, worth—’
‘Five million pesetas,’ Guzmán cut in. ‘Don’t look so worried, no one will steal it.’
‘Of course,’ Cifuentes agreed. ‘And, since the caudillo guaranteed to reimburse us for any losses, our only concern is for the safety of you and the brave men of the benemérita.’
Guzmán nodded, relieved that Cifuentes had swallowed the lie about Franco so completely. ‘I’ll pass on your good wishes to the civil guards in due course.’
‘And may I add, I have every confidence in the success of your operation, Comandante. It’s well known the Spanish police are the best in the world.’
Guzmán stifled a laugh. ‘That’s what we tell people,’ he agreed. ‘Did you make arrangements for my men?’
‘Billeted in the church, as you instructed. The nuns are providing refreshments.’
‘Excellent.’ Guzmán gave the bank manager an encouraging slap on the back, forcing Cifuentes to clutch the vault door in order to stay on his feet. ‘You’ve handled the arrangements very well,’ he said. ‘So well, I’m going to inform the caudillo of your cooperation once this operation is over.’ He cut short Cifuentes’ obsequious thanks with an impatient gesture and hurried up the stairs, wondering how anyone so gullible could reach such an elevated position in the bank.
The church was three hundred metres away, tucked down a quiet side street of shabby offices with dark windows and lowered blinds. Guzmán went up the steps and pushed open the doors. The church shimmered with whispering echoes. Absently, he dipped his hand in the font and crossed himself. As his eyes became accustomed to the unsteady glimmer of votive candles around the altar he saw the civil guards slumped on the pews, resting their heads on their rucksacks, rifles at their sides. He recognised some of the men from the Oroitz garrison, tense and anxious.
The lance corporal leaped to his feet. ‘Buenos días, Comandante.’
Guzmán was not there to exchange pleasantries. ‘How’s the squad?’
‘In good spirits, sir, and looking forward to tomorrow.’
Guzmán doubted that as he looked the men over. ‘Any of these men seen combat?’
‘Of course, sir.’ The lance corporal’s tone was too confident for Guzmán’s liking.
‘Are they clear about what they have to do?’
The lance corporal nodded. ‘When we come under attack, the squad take up position around the vehicle and begin suppression fire at the target. We keep him pinned down while you and the corporal attack from the flank.’
‘That’s it. I’m relying on you to do a good job.’
‘Don’t worry, mi Comandante. El Lobo will be hanging by his heels tomorrow night.’
‘I hope so.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Are the nuns looking after you?’
‘Yes sir, they cook our meals, just like in a hotel.’ He frowned. ‘I imagine.’
Guzmán ignored his salute as he went to the door. Outside, the street was bright in the midday sun. He turned back to the troopers. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, señores.’
The civil guards responded with a barrage of jokes and threats to El Lobo’s manhood. Their boisterous shouts were still echoing round the church as Guzmán left. Deep in thought, he scarcely noticed the warmth of the sun. He was disappointed. Not one of the men had bellowed Arriba España, as they did in the War. Not even a Viva Franco.
Times were changing.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, PENSIÓN EUROPA
Ochoa watched the fishing boats rise and fall as they left harbour and ploughed into the heavy swell. It had been some time since he photographed anything as mundane as this and it felt strange taking pictures that were not of dead bodies, or prisoners undergoing torture. Not that those were his favourite subjects. There was one picture he wanted to take more than any. Not for the first time, he imagined himself looking at his wife down the barrel of his Astra 400 pistol, saying the words he’d rehearsed so many times during long sleepless nights. I never stopped looking for you. He would leave a moment for that to sink in and then kill her and photograph her body. A memory of vengeance.
‘Corporal Ochoa?’ Ochoa turned to see a young man, well wrapped in a thick lambswool overcoat, his wide-brimmed hat jammed tightly down to his ears. He looked like one of the men who sold stolen nylons on the black market. ‘Rafael Faisán, General Mellado’s assistant.’ He held out his hand.
Ochoa thought he would trust a gypsy with his wages before he trusted this man. He stared at Faisán’s outstretched hand without taking it. ‘What do you want?’
‘The general asked me to see you,’ Faisán said. ‘He wants you to take some pictures. He said he’d square things with the comandante.’
‘All right. What kind of photos?’
‘We’ll pay two hundred US dollars. For your discretion as well as your time.’
Ochoa’s expression didn’t change. ‘What am I taking pictures of?’
Faisán gave him the details. It was not what Ochoa was expecting and he thought about it for a moment, slightly disappointed because it was so vile.
‘I’ll do it, but a job like that is worth five hundred.’
‘I must say, Señor Ochoa, you know the value of your work.’ Faisán reached into his thick coat and took out a thick envelope. ‘There’s five hundred dollars here, the two hundred I offered, plus three hundred I was going to steal.’
Ochoa put the money into an inside pocket. ‘When do you want it done?’
‘Right now, Corporal,’ Faisán said, smiling.
Ochoa liked him even less when he smiled.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR
‘Don’t fucking knock, come in.’
Guzmán came in and closed the door behind him. ‘Buenas tardes, mi General.’
‘Have a seat, Leo.’ Mellado waved at one of the armchairs near his desk.
Guzmán noticed the pile of paperwork on Mellado’s desk. ‘If you’re busy, General, I can come back another time?’
‘I won’t be a minute.’ Mellado looked up from the papers in front of him. ‘These are intelligence reports from our agents. Bad news, too. More people are getting involved with the resistance. Can you imagine, after all we sacrificed?’
‘Dreadful,’ Guzmán agreed, thinking that any sacrifices he’d made during the war had always been for his own benefit. ‘A few arrests will put a stop to that.’
‘I wish it was that simple. It’s going to take a lot of blood to stop this, I’d say.’
‘Be careful,’ Guzmán said. ‘You know Franco’s forbidden anything that could upset the Yanquis until he’s got their money in his pocket.’
‘Is that a threat, Leo?’ Mellado growled. ‘Did Gutiérrez tell you to threaten me?’
‘It’s what Franco ordered.’
‘Franco?’ Mellado sneered. ‘I’m sick of hearing about him. Anyone would think he won the war.’ He put down his pen and gathered the reports in front of him together. ‘That’s enough of these traitors for one day. Time for a brandy.’
Guzmán watched as Mellado opened the drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. A deep drawer, full of red-covered intelligence reports. He shoved the reports on top of the others and went to the drinks cabinet to pour two large glasses of Carlos Primero.
Mellado sighed as he put down his glass, ‘First drink of the day’s always the best.’
‘I had lunch with a girlfriend yesterday,’ Guzmán said casually.
‘Joder, got yourself a novia, have you? You always were one for the ladies. How much does this one charge?’
‘She’s General Torres’s daughter, actually,’ Guzmán said, irritated.
‘Fucking hell, little Magdalena?’ Mellado whistled. ‘She’s gorgeous, what does she see in you?’ He saw Guzmán’s expression.
‘Only joking.’ Mellado picked up his glass and went for a refill. ‘A talented woman, Magdalena, and that’s with her clothes on.’
Guzmán stayed silent.
‘By the way, I sent Faisán to hire your corporal this afternoon. I need some photos taken. We always get a few pictures of the girls who pass through the cells. A little reminder.’ He winked. With his one eye, the effect was disconcerting. ‘I paid him well, don’t worry.’
‘Fine,’ Guzmán said, wondering how much he was talking about.
Mellado looked at his watch. ‘Christ, I’ve got a briefing with my watch commanders.’
‘I’ll be off then,’ Guzmán said, getting to his feet.
‘No, hombre, you stay here, I’ll only be half an hour at most.’ Mellado pointed unsteadily at the drinks cabinet. ‘Help yourself.’ He gave a wave of his riding crop as he left.
Guzmán waited until the general’s footsteps died away across the courtyard. The drawer where the intelligence reports were kept was locked and he cursed himself for not watching Mellado more carefully when he closed it. He examined the desk, seeing the drawer underneath, thin and flat, designed for storing blotting paper and other items of office equipment. He opened it and looked down at a tangled mess of rubber bands, pencils and rusty nibbed pens. A key lay on top of some sheets of blotting paper and he tried it in the lock. The big drawer opened and he reached in for the bundle of reports, all bearing the crest of the Military Governor’s office.
Opening the first folder, he smoothed its pages with the palm of his hand. It was a similar format to the one used by his men at Calle Robles: a series of printed forms with neatly laid-out sections for the different entries. Entries recording the place of surveillance and the time the suspect was observed. The telephone numbers of people called by the suspect, the names of friends, relatives and acquaintances and their addresses. A section indicating if the behaviour of the friend, relative or acquaintance merited a new file being opened on them. This evidence carried a lot of weight: people were imprisoned and tortured on the basis of these files. Sometimes they went to the firing squad.
Guzmán put the file to one side and reached for another. He skimmed it quickly and went on to the next, working fast, the pile of files growing on the general’s desk. Finally, he found the name he was looking for: María Vidal. He opened the file and flicked through the pages, checking each one, wanting to know exactly what the girl had done so he could give Magdalena a detailed account later. He reached the last page and put the file with the others. Things were much worse than he’d imagined.
In his comisaría in Madrid, Guzmán always made sure his men kept these files updated and ensured each section was completed properly. They worked long into the night compiling those dossiers, and with good reason: they were the memory of the regime and the contents were used to calculate the retribution necessary for those who defied it.
The files in front of him were different. Apart from the name and address on the cover, each was as pristine as the day it had left the printer. Whatever reason Mellado had for keeping these women prisoner, none of it was recorded in the reports. He looked up and saw the door to Mellado’s inner sanctum ajar. It was possible there was information in there, waiting to be entered into the reports. There had to be an explanation.
He went to the door and fumbled with the light switch. The solitary bulb glowed, weak and ineffectual, though there was enough light to see the rows of shelves, the boxes of filing piled high. And then he stopped, staring at the stark apparatus in the middle of the room and the naked body strapped into it.
Mellado had put María Vidal in the garrotte.
She had been dead for some time. Her wrists and ankles were secured by the leather cuffs attached to the machine and he saw the marks on her skin where she’d struggled. It had not been a quick death, he guessed. Her face was congested and mottled, her dead staring eyes bulged from their sockets. As he turned to leave, he heard Mellado’s voice booming across the courtyard as he returned from his meeting.
Guzmán ran back into the office, trying to keep the folders aligned as he bundled them into the drawer and closed it. He stepped back, checking there was nothing out of place on the desk. The middle drawer under the desk was still slightly open. When he pushed it, the drawer didn’t move.
Outside the door, Mellado was dressing someone down for being sloppily dressed,
Guzmán pushed the drawer again. When it still wouldn’t close, he pulled it open a little, trying to clear whatever was catching in the metal runners at the side. That didn’t work either. On the other side of the door, the general was now expounding on the need for sartorial propriety. Guzmán pulled the drawer further out, and felt it start to move smoothly again on the metal runners. He heard the soft impact of something on the carpet beneath the desk and saw a brown cardboard envelope, slightly chewed up on one side where it had been caught in the runners. He bent down and retrieved the envelope. There was folded paper inside, possibly banknotes. He pushed the envelope into his jacket pocket and closed the drawer.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, AVENIDA DE LA LIBERTAD
Sargento León’s boots clattered on the ceramic tiles as he stepped into the house. Jeannette Duclos shut the door behind him.
‘Nice place you’ve got here, mademoiselle,’ León said. ‘Did your father buy it?’
‘None of your business, Sargento, just stick to the matter in hand.’
She was a bitch, he thought, though he kept his opinion to himself since there were a number of reasons why she commanded respect and it was sensible not to forget any of them.
She opened a door at the end of the hall. ‘This is the library. We’ll talk in here.’
León went in and took a seat by the desk. He noticed a bottle of Napoleon brandy on the cocktail cabinet. ‘Any chance of a drink, mademoiselle?’
‘No. This isn’t a social visit.’
‘As short as you like,’ he said, ‘just so long as I get paid.’
Jeanette smiled. ‘You’ll be paid all right.’
‘I give you the map and you give me the money?’
‘Bien sûr. Did you think we were having this conversation because I like you?’ She leaned forward, suddenly conspiratorial. ‘We want you to go with the truck, Sargento. Make sure it stops in the right place.’
He hadn’t expected that. ‘They’ll suspect something. I’m in the catering corps now.’
‘Ah, you’re scared? Traitors often are.’
‘Given the help your family gave the Nazis, that’s a bit rich,’ León muttered.
Her expression didn’t alter, but the tone in her voice disturbed him. ‘Is that something you wish me to convey to my father?’
‘No, mademoiselle. If you want me to go in the truck, I’m happy to do it.’ It was best to lie. Her father had a long memory for those who slighted him.
‘Don’t worry, our men know you. You can slip away while we do what’s needed.’
‘What if I’m recognised? One witness and I’d be in front of the firing squad.’
She tilted her head, almost coquettish. ‘There’ll be no witnesses, Sargento.’
‘All right.’
‘A present for you.’ She pushed a book across the table. ‘My latest work. Shall I sign it?’
León picked it up and frowned. ‘It’s in French.’
‘Clever of you to notice.’ She got up. ‘We’re done. Don’t forget your book, will you?’
León reluctantly picked up the book and looked at her photograph on the fly leaf. ‘Why do you still use your married name? Your husband’s been dead for years.’
‘I can assure you, it’s not from affection. It just makes things easier. People can be so prejudiced about my family’s name.’
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESIDENCIA DEL GOBERNADOR MILITAR
The door crashed open as Mellado staggered in. ‘Still here, Leo?’ He threw his hat across the room, missing the peg by a metre.
‘I like it here,’ Guzmán said as he watched Mellado pour them a drink. ‘By the way, I saw Carrero Blanco yesterday.’
‘I know,’ Mellado said. ‘He called here to see me, the Jesuit fuck. Thinks he’s a cut above the likes of me. What did say?’
‘He’s worried about El Lobo. He also heard something about dead women,’ Guzmán said, stony-faced. ‘At a party, apparently. We were with Señorita Torres so I wasn’t listening.’
Mellado smirked. ‘Keeping an eye on little Magda’s assets, were you, Leo?’
Guzmán forced a smile. ‘Carrero Blanco said something about a ball?’
‘The harvest ball.’ Mellado nodded. ‘It’s a big event. I invite party members, the great, the good and the fucking rubbish – anyone who’s worth influencing. I send the women prisoners up there for entertainment.’ He grinned. ‘Not their entertainment, though. Sometimes a guest gets a bit excited and one of the women dies. It’s no great loss, they’re fucking Reds, for God’s sake.’
‘He must have got the wrong idea,’ Guzmán said. ‘He never listens to people.’
‘I might have known that God-bothering cabrón would be worried about protocol,’ Mellado said angrily. ‘I’m not doing anything I didn’t do in the war, for Christ’s sake. Franco and the rest were fucking grateful back then. Things haven’t changed. People have to fear us: without fear, there’s no law and no order.’
‘I don’t think Carrero Blanco understands the ball is properly organised.’
Mellado sighed. ‘Pious bastard. Of course it’s organised, using rules and regulations. My rules and my regulations, anyway.’
‘You’re a man who always does things by the book.’
Mellado poured himself more brandy. ‘It’s all down to my records, Leo. I keep track of everything. Someone changes their socks, one of my operatives will make a note of the time, the place and the colour.’ He leaned forward, peering uncertainly at Guzmán with his bloodshot eye. ‘That was an exaggeration, by the way.’
‘Even so, you’ve always been known for your record keeping.’
‘It’s almost perfect,’ Mellado agreed with drunken modesty.
‘Which reminds me,’ Guzmán continued. ‘Señorita Torres wondered if you were holding the daughter of one of her employees, a María Vidal. I said I’d ask you.’
‘María Vidal?’ Mellado rolled his eye, deep in thought. ‘We do have a girl by that name. She’s still being questioned.’
‘What did she do?’
Mellado’s eyes narrowed. ‘The silly bitch attended meetings of a resistance group. We raided their meeting place and she was arrested. Do you want to see her file?’
Guzmán stared. ‘What?’
‘The intelligence file, Leo. It’s all in there, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Guzmán agreed, uncomfortable now.
‘The key’s in that middle drawer and the files are in the drawer to your right. Help yourself.’ Mellado watched Guzmán carefully. ‘Open it and have a look, Leo. Go on.’ His voice was low, threatening.
Guzmán shook his head. ‘I don’t need to. Your word’s always been good enough for me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Better get moving. I’m driving up to Oroitz tonight.’
They shook hands. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, chico,’ Mellado said.
Guzmán scowled as he went to the door. If he wanted luck he’d see a gypsy.
‘Leo?’ Mellado called. ‘Drop in at the harvest ball on Saturday night if you can. Starts at nine. It’ll be just like the old days.’
A pale sun muffled by clouds, the sea the colour of lead. Sitting up front with the driver, Ochoa watched gulls wheeling over a small boat as the nets were drawn in. He sat quietly, his camera on his lap. From time to time, he glanced in the mirror, watching the couple sitting in the back with Faisán. The glass partition made it impossible to hear what was being said but it was clear they were upset. The woman was weeping into a crumpled handkerchief while the man appeared to be struggling to contain his emotions, though without much success. It was best not to dwell on such things and he looked away towards the sea.
Faisán knocked on the glass partition and the driver slowed. In the distance, Ochoa saw houses clinging to the hillside and below them, the rocky cliff face reaching down into the sea. The car halted on a patch of yellowing grass. Faisán jumped out, still talking to the couple, patting them on the arm, giving them some sort of reassurance. He saw Ochoa waiting and called for him to photograph the pair, backing away to keep himself out of the shot. Ochoa took several pictures and then Faisán began to direct the couple, instructing them to walk towards the camera, to look up at the hillside, stand together, now apart. To link arms. Each time, Ochoa waited as Faisán gave them new instructions and then aimed the camera again, dazzling them with the sudden light of the flash.
Faisán drifted away, engaging in conversation with the driver, and Ochoa found himself standing with the couple, not even knowing who they were, let alone why they were so upset. It was the woman who broke the silence.
‘Why do you have to take so many pictures?’ Her voice cracked with grief. She gestured at Faisán. ‘That gentleman said you had to take a couple of photographs for the newspapers, but you’ve never stopped. It’s not fair.’
The man was more reticent. ‘My wife is right,’ he said cautiously, unused to arguing with authority figures. ‘Can’t you just take us to where it happened?’
‘All I know,’ Ochoa said, ‘is that I was told to take photographs.’ He had been told other things as well. It was not for him to reveal those.
The man looked back down the slope towards Faisán, suddenly uncertain.
‘Who are you, señor?’ Ochoa asked, annoyed at Faisán. Clearly the kid didn’t know how these things should be done. That, or there was something seriously wrong with him.
‘I’m sorry, I should have said,’ the man spluttered, absurdly apologetic under the circumstances. ‘I’m Luis Vidal and this is my wife María Carmen.’
‘It’s our daughter, María,’ Señora Vidal said, suddenly choked by grief.
‘Killed by a madman,’ Faisán added as he came up behind Ochoa.
Señora Vidal began weeping again.
Ochoa looked up the hill. Shrub, a few stunted trees. Heaps of soil. Some freshly dug, others sprouting grass. A number completely grassed over.
‘You have to identify the body,’ said Faisán. ‘It’s important Corporal Ochoa takes as many photographs as possible because we need a complete set for General Mellado. He has to see everything. I’m sure you understand.’
The couple understood nothing. That was clear as Faisán gave them instructions to proceed up the windswept hillside, accompanied by the sudden bursts of light from Ochoa’s flash. The ground flattened out and Ochoa saw more heaps of soil by a line of gorse bushes. They were not a natural phenomenon.
Looking back down the hill, Ochoa noticed a dark car pull up. Several burly men in fatigues got out, lifting a white-wrapped bundle from the back seat. He saw the men coming up the hill, obscured by a row of stunted trees a hundred metres away. He understood now why Faisán was keeping the couple talking.
‘Stand over there,’ Faisán told the couple. ‘Keep going, Corporal.’ His voice was sharp and petulant.
As Ochoa raised the camera, he saw the men coming through the trees.
Flash: The couple looking at Faisán.
Flash: Faisán walking to the bushes. The couple watching him.
Flash: Faisán, obscured by branches, heaving something from the bushes. A strange smile on his fleshy lips.
Flash: Faisán dragging the bundle towards them. The couple staring, apprehensive.
Flash: The couple staring at the pale shape as Faisán unwrapped the single sheet, revealing the naked body inside.
Flash: The woman’s hand over her mouth.
Flash: A young woman’s face, her eyes wide, her mouth wide open in a last attempt to draw breath on the garrotte. Her tongue lolling from her mouth, swollen and black.
Flash: The woman on her knees. The man pathetically trying to comfort her. Faisal behind them, pistol raised.
Flash: Two bodies, face down by their daughter’s corpse.
Ochoa spat bile into the soil. He watched the driver come up the hillside, carrying a shovel. A metre away, Señor and Señora Vidal were still bleeding into the coarse grass.
Faisán came towards him. He was smiling. ‘I did it,’ he said, as if he had surprised himself. ‘The general said I could do it if I tried. He had faith in me.’
‘Why did you kill them?’ Ochoa asked, spitting again.
‘Their daughter managed to smuggle out a letter from her cell and they came to the mansion, asking after her,’ Faisán said. ‘The general was mightily displeased.’ He took out a gold cigarette case and put a Turkish cigarette between his fleshy lips. ‘Can I buy that camera?’
‘You can if you’ve got the cash.’ Ochoa shrugged. ‘It’s expensive, mind.’
‘Tell me when to stop,’ Faisán said, counting out the notes into Ochoa’s hand.
Ochoa kept him waiting.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN
As Guzmán stepped into the room, Magdalena came to him and he put his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her body crushed against his. He felt her breath against his chest, the beating of her heart as she raised her face to kiss him. He delayed it. It was best to tell her first.
She felt him tense. ‘What’s wrong, Leo?’
‘Mellado arrested María Vidal.’
‘Heavens, what’s she done?’
‘I’m not sure. All I know is that she’s dead.’
Magdalena raised a hand to her mouth for a moment. ‘Did she try to escape, is that it?’
He pulled her close in a clumsy embrace. ‘I don’t know what happened yet.’
‘She must have done something dreadful.’ Her blue eyes were wide.
‘She must have,’ Guzmán agreed.
Magdalena pulled away and went across the room to her record player. Guzmán saw the HMV badge, a small dog peering into the trumpet of a wind-up gramophone. He watched as she shuffled through a pile of records. He had never had such a beautiful woman, not even the ones he’d paid in Yanqui dollars. For once, Carrero Blanco had been right: a woman like her wasn’t for the likes of him. That made him want her all the more.
She put a record on the turntable. The speaker hissed for a moment and he heard a woman’s voice, the French words slow and smoky.
‘Who’s that?’ He stood behind her, unaware she was crying.
‘Juliette Gréco,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s called “Autumn Leaves”.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Guzmán said, hoping it was.
‘You’d better go, you must have a lot to do preparing for your operation.’ Her back still turned to him.
He nodded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ll talk then.’
She turned to face him and he saw her tears for the first time. ‘You will come back to me, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ And then he left, closing the door behind him. He went down the stairs into the street, troubled.
No one had ever worried about him on a job before.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE SAN JUAN
The narrow streets were empty, their cobbles black and slick with rain as he wandered past the basilica, following a narrow alley deep into the old town. Finally, he stopped to look at a handwritten sign in a shop window. The window was almost empty but for a shelf covered with a piece of ancient black velvet. In the middle of the velvet was a large glass ball. A handwritten card was propped against the ball and Guzmán stared at the words through the smeared glass:
Amaya, Genuine Gypsy from Jerez – Fortunes told -
Tarot and palm readings.
Love potions
Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored
The room was dark, lit only by the dubious light of a paraffin lantern hanging from a nail on one side of the room. The walls were draped in dark cloth embroidered with the moon and stars in silver thread. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a woman dressed in black, sitting at a table. A smell of smoke and roses. Rain hammered against the window.
‘Buenas tardes.’ He put his dripping hat on the table. Then he stared. ‘You again?’
‘The gentleman is surprised?’ the gypsy asked.
‘I thought you were a whore?’ He frowned. ‘Or a man.’
‘Those are merely labels, señor. How can Amaya help?’
‘When I have problems, I always consult a gypsy.’
‘Quite right.’ She held out her hand. ‘Let me see your palm.’
Her touch was like ice as she traced the lines on his palm with a broken fingernail. ‘I see bad things,’ she muttered. ‘Any woman who follows you...’ A slow intake of breath.
‘What?’
‘I see footsteps following yours. They end in...’ She stopped.
‘They end in what? In Madrid?’
‘No, señor, they end in shadow. The shadow.’
‘Death?’
‘That’s one interpretation. Nothing is ever certain.’
‘I’m certain you’re full of shit,’ Guzmán growled, reaching for his hat.
‘I see what I see,’ the gypsy said. ‘And I see the shadow round you.’
‘Most likely you’ve got the clap, that’s why you’re raving.’ Guzmán threw down a couple of banknotes. As he stood up, his hat fell to the floor and he reached down to retrieve it. ‘Get yourself some penicillin on the black market before your mind goes completely.’
The gypsy watched him stamp off down the street before she picked up the money and pushed it into the folds of her dress. And then her mouth sagged open as she saw his wallet on the table. She opened it and saw his identity card and behind it a thick wad of money, much of it American dollars. And there was something else, folded neatly behind the identity card. She unfolded the mimeographed document and struggled to read the text requiring all personnel below the rank of coronel to obey his orders and to give any assistance he might request. The paper was signed by the head of state.
When she finished reading, her hands were shaking. Her client was in the policía secreta. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the shadow around him: he was cursed. Death walked beside him.
She thought quickly. The smart thing would be to leave town with the money. That was the gypsy in her. The survivor in her realised it would go badly if she did that and he found her. And how hard would it be for someone so powerful to track her down? She went to the door and peered out into the rain. At the end of the street, she saw his dark shape, walking towards the seafront. She ran down the street after him.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CATEDRAL DEL BUEN PASTOR
Jeanette Duclos sat in an empty pew behind a row of soberly dressed women waiting for confession. The cathedral fluttered with soft echoes, bathed in a trembling light from several large candles illuminating a painfully graphic carving of the Crucifixion near the altar. Jeanette waited patiently until the last of the penitents left the confessional. She heard the priest’s spluttering cough and the faint slap of his feet on the stone floor as he walked to the sacristy. And then the sound of another taking his place.
She stepped into the cramped black box and knelt by the grille, inhaling the sweat and stale breath of the penitents who had passed through before her. The grille slid to one side. She saw dark flashing eyes beneath his cowl, a sudden movement of silver hair. A deep sonorous voice.
‘Ave María Purísima.’
‘Sin pecado concebida.’
‘How long since your last confession, my child?’
‘About twenty-eight years.’
A muffled laugh. ‘Do you still drink?’
‘Frequently.’
‘Men?’
‘Constantly.’
A deep chuckle. ‘Shameless, just like your mother. May she rest in peace.’
‘I have something for you, Papa. That thing you said you wanted.’
‘You always were a thoughtful girl.’
Jeanette took a scroll of paper from her bag and pushed it though the opening.
She heard his grunt of satisfaction. ‘How much did León ask for this?’
‘He left that to us, Father. But he expects a lot.’
‘People with expectations are usually disappointed. What do you think he deserves?’
Jeanette began fastening her coat. ‘I leave that to you, mon père,’ she whispered. ‘But don’t they say the wages of sin are death?’
‘How very true.’ A deep chuckle. ‘I’ll see he’s paid in full.’
The grille closed. Jeanette crossed herself and went out into the shadows.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS
The lights of the city glimmered through the dismal night as he watched a couple strolling by the harbour. And then another shape by the quay, emerging from the shadows of the old town. It was Guzmán. The target he’d been hoping for. He pressed the rifle stock to his cheek, ready to take the shot. Breathing slowly, easily, letting the weapon become an extension of his body. And then something came out of the darkened street behind Guzmán, its coat inflating in the wind like a bat. Viana frowned as he saw the gypsy’s turban, the high cheekbones and missing teeth. As Guzmán turned, Viana fired.
Behind him, Guzmán heard footsteps on the wet cobbles. He turned and saw the gypsy, her soaking dress and cloak flapping around her. He watched her carefully, suspecting an attempt to extract more money from him.
‘Your wallet, señor,’ she panted. ‘You left it on the table. I didn’t touch any of the money, see for yourself.’
He took the wallet from her. ‘You knew I’d come after you if you stole it,’ he grunted, handing her a hundred pesetas. He begrudged her this reward, but it was best to be careful. The last thing he needed was to be cursed the night before a job. Once was enough in any man’s lifetime.
The gypsy continued protesting her innocence. He had no time to waste listening to her attempt to increase the reward for her uncharacteristic honesty and he turned away to go to his hotel. A sharp torrent of rain rattled against his back, the noise almost drowning out the sudden noise of the shot.
The gypsy crumpled like a broken doll, folding into the wet pavement, blood welling from the hole in her forehead. Guzmán knelt and plucked the wet hundred peseta note from her hand. It was wasted on her now. There was nothing more he could do for her and he hurried up the boulevard to his hotel where Ochoa was waiting.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS
Through the rifle sight he saw the gypsy fall, dead before she hit the ground. He cursed her for ruining his shot. Still, he would get another chance at Guzmán, he knew. And next time there would be no gypsy to save him. He was cold now, soaked by the rain as he left the eyrie where he kept these deadly vigils. He hid the rifle in its waterproof case in a small recess by the chimney before climbing down the wooden fire escape. Back in his hotel room, he made a call to Madrid. Gutiérrez answered at once.
‘Carrero Blanco had lunch with Guzmán and General Torres’s daughter,’ Viana said.
‘That’s a strange trinity.’ Gutiérrez’s voice was faint down the crackling line. ‘Did you deliver the message?’
‘I did but he still hasn’t made contact.’
‘I need to think about this,’ Gutiérrez grunted. ‘Keep me informed if anything else happens, Capitán.’