Death of a Nationalist Page 17

  Alejandra stared at him with wide, frightened eyes and he knew that she recognized him, even without his uniform. She said nothing. Tejada sighed. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “If you tell me what happened to your mother, I can try to find her for you. Wouldn’t you like me to find your mother?”

  The little girl regarded him steadily for a moment. Then she said, in a very small voice, “They took her away.”

  “Who did?”

  “You. The guardias.”

  Tejada exhaled slowly. He was not really surprised. The footprint, the search, the girl’s irrational terror: They all suggested the same thing. But it was still not clear why Señora Llorente had disappeared. Had she been arrested? Or were the guardias acting for their own purposes? “Did they say where they were taking her?” he asked, without much hope.

  “To prison,” Aleja whispered. “And they wouldn’t let me come with her. One of them hit me,” she added, “when I wouldn’t let go.”

  Tejada relaxed and realized that he had been tense out of fear for Alejandra’s life. If the girl was telling the truth—and there was no reason he could think of for her to lie—then her injury had been accidental. That meant that Paco’s killer still did not know she was a witness. He thought for a moment. She was coherent now but she did not trust him and it would be difficult to question her about Paco’s murder. The easiest way to get her to trust him would be to find her mother. Tejada felt a certain relief that the guardias had spoken of jail rather than using the ominous euphemism “We’re going for a stroll.” “Why was your mother arrested, Alejandra?” he asked, while mentally composing a memo giving the prisoner’s name, date of arrest, and charges against her, to be circulated to all posts.

  Aleja buttoned her lips.

  “Tell the sergeant, sweetheart,” Ventura coaxed. “It’ll be easier to find your mama if we know more about who we’re looking for.”

  The child remained silent.

  “What had she done?” Tejada tried again, to no response.

  “Did the guardias read a charge?” Ventura asked gently. “Did they use big words that you didn’t understand? Can you remember the words?”

  Aleja maintained a stubborn silence. Tejada remembered that he was dealing not only with Elena’s student, but with the niece of the miliciana he had found by Paco’s body. So young to be a Red, he thought. Even a few days earlier the thought would have angered and disgusted him. Now, he found himself slipping into a vast puddle of melancholy for the minds and hearts irretrievably twisted by the Marxists. Ventura was still cajoling the child, without success. Tejada knew that his role was that of a bully.

  “Tell the truth,” he ordered, as harshly as it was possible to speak while leaning over a sickbed. “Why was she arrested? Black market? Theft? Prostitution?”

  “Sir,” the corporal interjected reproachfully, still in the role of mediator, “she’s only a little girl.”

  “I’m sure she knows about all those things already,” Tejada said dryly. His heart was not in the role. He knew that he was speaking the truth. But so was Ventura. Alejandra Palomino might not be an innocent but she was only a little girl. It didn’t seem fair that the two truths were compatible. Perhaps Aleja sensed his lack of menace. Perhaps she was simply determined not to speak. In any event, she said nothing and merely watched, wide-eyed. He would have to try to convince Lieutenant Ramos to trace Carmen Llorente’s whereabouts without knowledge of the charges against her. He decided that Alejandra’s presence would probably be his best argument. “Can she be moved safely?” he asked Ventura.

  The corporal nodded. “Yes, sir, if it’s just over a short distance. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Thank you.” Tejada bent over Alejandra again. “I’m taking her to see the lieutenant,” he explained, as he picked her up. “He should be able to find out where her mother is. Oh, don’t start crying again,” he added to Aleja, with disgust. “We’re going to find your mother.”

  The sergeant had benefited from watching Ventura, and he carried the girl with more assurance now. It helped that although she was sniffling and whimpering, she was not actively struggling. The guardia outside the Lieutenant’s office barred their way. “You can’t—” he began.

  “This requires the lieutenant’s immediate attention, Guardia,” Tejada interrupted. “I’ll take responsibility.”

  “Err, yes, sir.” He looked doubtfully at Alejandra. “Errr . . . why are you . . .?”

  “As you were, Guardia,” Tejada said pointedly, and pushed open the door.

  Ramos was, as usual, behind his rickety table, pounding furiously at his typewriter. He looked up as the door opened and received a general impression of sports jacket and crying child. “This room is off-limits to civilians,” he snapped. “Who let you . . . Tejada! What the hell’s that?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Tejada raised his voice over the little girl’s sniffles, but spoke with his usual calm. “This is Maria Alejan-dra Palomino Llorente.”

  Ramos inspected the girl the sergeant was carrying. “So what?”

  “She’s the girl I told you about, sir,” Tejada said, not mentioning that his information about Maria Alejandra had been considerably augmented since the last time he had spoken with Ramos. “The one who might have information about the matter you asked me about.”

  “Oh,” Ramos digested this and took in the bandage on Ale-jandra’s head. “Jesus, Tejada, did you have to hit her that hard?”

  Tejada stiffened but his voice was colorless as he said, “No, sir. She was injured by accident, sir, in an unrelated matter. Her mother was arrested this morning, and she’s been quite upset since then. I thought perhaps a few phone calls to trace Señora Llorente might help calm her down, so that I could ask her questions and get some answers.”

  “What’s the charge against her mother?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Where’s she being held?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Jesus!” Ramos glared at his subordinate. “And you think a few phone calls will help?”

  Tejada had an answer ready. “The likeliest place is here or the Alcalá post, sir. But inquiries could radiate outward. I know the woman’s name and when she was arrested. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “You can’t waste the afternoon,” the lieutenant protested. “You’re scheduled for patrol.”

  “Yes, sir. At your orders,” Tejada agreed. “What do you want me to do with the girl then?”

  Too late, Ramos saw that he had been maneuvered into a trap. “Can’t you just take her back where you found her?” he asked, without much hope.

  “It’s some distance, sir,” Tejada informed him smugly. “As I mentioned in my report last night—”

  “All right, don’t take her back then!” Ramos said irritably. “Find some place to put her.”

  “Where, sir?”

  The lieutenant gritted his teeth. “I’m not running a goddamn kindergarten,” he said.

  “No, sir,” his subordinate agreed, meekly.

  “She can’t stay.”

  “No, sir.”

  Lieutenant Ramos rummaged on his desk, and finally came up with a grubby length of paper. “Here’s the list of men on patrol this morning. You can ask any of them if they know this Llorente woman. After that you can make some phone calls.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Can’t you make her be quiet?”

  “She doesn’t like uniforms, sir,” Tejada explained.

  “So that’s why you’re in that getup.” The Lieutenant grinned suddenly. “By the way, did you see that kid—what’s his name?— Jiménez, when he came back this morning?”

  Tejada grinned back. “Yes, sir. Very . . . vivid, sir.”

  Ramos snorted appreciatively. Whatever he planned to say next was interrupted by a quick rap on the door. Then the door opened, and a man with a neatly trimmed mustache, wearing the dark uniform of an army lieutenant, entered and saluted Ramos. Ramos return
ed the salute, and glanced at Tejada questioningly. The newcomer explained himself. “Dr. Villalba, at your service, Lieutenant. I understood there was a medical emergency at your post?”

  “Here, sir,” Tejada said, quickly deciding that any apology for Moscoso’s exaggeration would be a waste of breath. “This child is the patient.”

  The doctor looked startled. “You do realize, Sergeant, that my services are intended to be put solely at the disposal of the Guardia Civil?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tejada was wooden. “With respect, sir, this child’s health is of importance to an investigation undertaken by the Guardia.”

  Dr. Villalba was inclined to grumble but Ramos hastily supported Tejada and the doctor was finally persuaded to take Maria Alejandra downstairs and conduct a routine examination. Tejada thankfully surrendered Alejandra into his and the ever-helpful Corporal Ventura’s care and began his search for Carmen Llorente.

  None of the men at his own post knew anything about Car-men Llorente, and a quick phone call to the Alcalá post (where Captain Morales tactfully refrained from asking about progress in Tejada’s investigation) was also fruitless. But a call to the post in Cuatro Caminos yielded a hasty consultation, and then a voice that said, “Sergeant Martínez speaking . . . Yes, Sergeant. María Carmen Llorente is being held in connection with the disappearance of her brother, Gonzalo.”

  “What’s happened to him?” Tejada demanded.

  “He’s a Red. He didn’t show at Chamartín, and he’s been in hiding since. Someone gave information against him yesterday.”

  Shit, Tejada thought. No wonder Alejandra didn’t want to tell us. Damn. This’ll make it hard to get anything out of her. Aloud, he said, “I have Llorente’s niece here, in connection with something else. Where’s her mother being held? I’d like to drop her off.”

  There was a sound of rustling paper, and then the voice on the other end of the line confirmed that Carmen Llorente was being held at the new prison, just north of the Cuatro Caminos post. She was not in solitary confinement and had not yet been interrogated. “We’re letting her cool her heels a bit,” Sergeant Martínez explained. “That usually makes them more eager to cooperate.”

  “Good luck,” Tejada said briefly. “Her daughter is stubborn as a mule.”

  “The women are always the worst,” the other commiserated. “But listen, we’re pretty crowded here. I don’t know if the captain will approve a transfer.”

  “She’s only seven,” Tejada said, alarmed at the idea that his counterpart might saddle him permanently with Aleja. “She won’t take up much space.”

  “Hold the line,” Martínez said. After a few moments of consultation he returned. It was hard to tell tone of voice on the telephone but Tejada would have been willing to bet that the other man was reluctant. “All right. You can dump the brat on us.”

  “Thanks. I’ll owe you one for this.” The phone call ended on an amicable note.

  Tejada looked at the information he had scribbled on the nearest available scrap of paper. So Carmen Llorente had a brother in hiding. He remembered the way Carmen’s neighbor had said, “She lives with her—” and then hastily changed the sentence. Aleja was probably trying to protect her uncle. After a few moments’ thought, Tejada headed downstairs. He met Dr. Villalba at the edge of the infirmary. “That’s a very lucky little girl you have there, Sergeant,” the doctor said, after accepting Tejada’s salute.

  “Lieutenant?” It occurred to Tejada that a child who had been clubbed while her mother was being arrested for treason could not perhaps be called entirely lucky, but Dr. Villalba was clearly pleased with his diagnosis.

  “Children’s skulls are more easily fractured than adults,” the doctor explained. “A little harder and that blow would have broken the cranium. And that,” concluded Villalba with a certain macabre enthusiasm, “could have been very messy.”

  “I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Tejada risked a question. “She should make a full recovery, though?”

  “Well, it’s in God’s hands,” the doctor said, with a certain air of disappointment. “But I think it’s likely. Keep her quiet for a while. And if she has any relatives, tell them to feed her up. She’s suffering from malnutrition.”

  Tejada wondered briefly if medical training had the unintentional side effect of divorcing doctors’ brains from their external surroundings. Since Villalba was a superior officer, he did not point out that most children in Madrid were probably suffering from malnutrition. He thanked Dr. Villalba, saw him out, and then returned to Alejandra. “Good news,” he said carefully, sitting down beside her. “I think I’ve found your mother.”

  Aleja struggled to sit up. “Can we go see her now?” she asked.

  Tejada had hoped for this reaction, but he found her eagerness oddly pathetic. “I’ll take you to her in a little while,” he said, reminding himself that he had done the child no harm, and in fact some good. “But I would like to ask you a few questions first.”

  “Then can I see Mama?”

  “Yes, after you answer the questions.”

  Alejandra was silent for a little while, visibly digesting this information. “I can’t see her first?” There was a hint of a whimper in her voice.

  “I can’t bring you to your mother until you’ve answered the questions,” Tejada explained. “But there’s no need to talk now, if you’re tired. The doctor says you should rest, anyway.”

  Aleja’s face twisted in agony. Tejada, watching her, saw that she had understood his gentle threat. It’s not really cruelty, he reminded himself. She wouldn’t even know where her mother was, if I hadn’t found her. And it’s necessary to learn if she has any information. Still he wished that her expression were more childlike and less like those of the adults he had seen interrogated. She was only a little girl.

  “I want Mama,” the child whispered. Tejada was about to speak again when she added, with heroic effort, “But I’m tired now. I don’t want to talk.”

  The sergeant remembered again the specially trained interrogator he had met in Toledo. The man had been quite proud of his methods, and pleased to share trade secrets. Don’t give them anything. Keep them on tenterhooks, guessing what you know and what you want to find out. Tejada sighed, and disregarded the advice. “It’s not about your uncle Gonzalo,” he said.

  Aleja tensed, and looked at him with hunted eyes. “I’m tired now,” she repeated uncertainly.

  Dr. Villalba’s last words gave the sergeant an idea. “All right then,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Aleja said nothing, but her eyes flickered. Tejada noticed and was encouraged. “You just rest,” he said. “I’ll come back in a little while. We can have a chat and then you can have a snack and go to see your mother.”

  He rose and walked away quickly before he could say something that would ruin the lure he had tossed out. He was not quick enough to avoid hearing Aleja start quietly sobbing again.

  Chapter 18

  Gonzalo did not know how long he sat in the darkness. It’s like being buried alive, he thought. The idea reminded him that he might shortly be buried, not alive. He wondered if he should have taken his chances with the Guardia Civil. He tried to think clearly but nothing made any sense.

  He was roused by the sound of someone unlocking his prison. Then the door opened and the woman in black appeared. She had thrown back her veil, and he saw a long, angular face, framed by black curls. She still had Gonzalo’s revolver. She kept it steadily trained on him as she advanced. “Stand up.” To his surprise, her voice was almost friendly. “Turn around.”

  He turned and heard her withdraw a few paces. He wondered if he would hear the report before the bullet hit. Then he heard a few more steps and felt someone loosening his bonds. A moment later, his hands were free. He turned around slowly, massaging his wrists, and saw that the bearded Juan (or Andrés) had taken the weapon from the woman and was standing in the doorway. He was no longer aiming the revolver, though. “Manuela’s vouched fo
r you,” the woman said.

  “Which means we have to help you,” the man added, ushering him back into the kitchen. Gonzalo sat down. The bearded man sat across from him, while the woman remained standing behind.

  “Help?” Gonzalo repeated blankly.

  The bearded man grinned suddenly. “I suppose we could start with an apology, comrade. You must have been scared shitless.”

  “Just about,” Gonzalo admitted, thinking that the man’s amusement was decidedly misplaced. “You might tell me what’s going on, too.”

  “Sorry, my friend, I can’t tell you that.” Juan was brisk. “Now you’ll need false papers, correct? And a reason to cross the border. Possibly a disguise, but I think we’ll hope they don’t have photographs of you.” He inspected Gonzalo critically. “You don’t have any distinguishing features. That’s a plus.”

  Gonzalo stared, openmouthed. All of Carmen’s plans seemed to be coming true. He felt that he should be wildly elated. They were offering him his life, and they had not even mentioned payment. “You mean . . . France?” he faltered, too confused to analyze his feelings.

  “I don’t know yet,” Juan replied. “Maybe Portugal. We’ll see about a boat from there. Or we could try to send you through Gibraltar.” He shook his head. “The trouble with Madrid is that it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

  Gonzalo stiffened at the insult to his home. He knew what the man meant, of course, but it made more sense to say that Portugal and France were nowhere. Madrid was the center of things. “I wasn’t planning to leave,” he said apologetically.

  “You can’t stay,” Juan said. His voice held the calm conviction of someone stating the obvious.

  “I don’t want to leave,” Gonzalo repeated, feeling a little ungracious. It seemed rude to refuse the help offered. Anxious to make his position clear, he added, “I know . . . I won’t live. But I don’t really care.”

  The bearded man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not for your benefit, comrade. It’s for ours. We’re not safe as long as you’re here.”