Death of a Nationalist Read online

  “Smugglers, sir?” Torres asked, without moving his lips.

  “What?” Tejada spoke softly, without turning his head. “What makes you say that?”

  “We’re at the Plaza de la Cebada, you know, sir.”

  Tejada gave himself a mental kick. He did know. Everyone knew the rumors about the plaza. And here he was, watching a thin, stooping guardia who was behaving suspiciously. He imperceptibly changed course, crossing the square more directly to intercept the guardia, and Torres followed him. The man with the sloping shoulders was moving quickly though, and although the crowds cleared a path for the two of them, breaking into a run would have warned their prey.

  “Torres,” Tejada said quietly. “Alert the others.”

  “Yes, sir.” Torres had already begun veering toward them.

  The crowd shifted, and Tejada caught another brief glimpse of the rapidly moving lone guardia. He was closer now, and Tejada remembered where he had seen those sloping shoulders before. It was Sergeant de Rota, Paco’s partner. The man who reported him missing, Tejada thought. And the one who tried to convince me that Paco was engaged in the black market. He picked up his pace. Paco must have been forced into it, Tejada thought grimly. And who’d be in a better position to do so than a superior officer? Bastard! But Paco wouldn’t have gone along even if he was ordered. They must have had something to twist his arm with. And when I get my hands on Rota he’s going to tell me exactly what it was.

  Tejada glanced across the square. Corporal Torres had signaled the guardias from the other post. They were converging on a point a little ahead of Sergeant de Rota at a deceptively rapid pace. Rota had almost reached an archway leading off the square. Torres and the two other guardias disappeared into it just ahead of him. Tejada saw Rota pause and smiled in triumph. He reached for his pistol.

  “Guardia Civil! Hands over your head!” To Tejada’s chagrin, the cry came from within the archway. Two civilians, their hands raised high, came stumbling out followed by Torres and the two men he had enlisted.

  Before Tejada could figure out what had happened, Rota stepped forward and saluted the three guardias civiles. “Good work, men. Do you need help with them?”

  “No, sir.” It was one of the strange guardias. “It’s just these two.”

  “Excellent. Since I’m off duty, then. . . .”

  “Very good, Sergeant.”

  Tejada opened his mouth to protest but Rota had already stepped past the guardias civiles and through the archway. By the time Tejada arrived, Rota had disappeared down one of the innumerable winding alleys that led from it.

  “What are you doing?” Tejada demanded, as Corporal Torres and one of the strange guardias handcuffed the prisoners.

  “The corporal told us you were looking for smugglers, sir.” It was the other strange guardia.

  “You have a good eye, sir,” Torres added appreciatively. “I wouldn’t have noticed the archway. But we’ve got them, dead to rights. Look in the suitcases.”

  The sergeant realized that berating the men would be both unfair and unwise, especially in front of the prisoners. There was no way for Torres to know that he had mistaken Tejada’s target. Inwardly furious, Tejada bent to open the suitcases.

  “My God!” One of the strange guardias leaned over his shoulder and inspected the contents. “Coffee! You think it’s real? And look, canned milk, too! Is this stuff evidence, sir? I mean, do we take it, or . . . or what?” he finished, trying not to sound hopeful.

  “It’s yours if you want it, gentlemen,” one of the prisoners broke in.

  Tejada looked up at the man and raised his eyebrows. “Are you offering us a bribe?”

  “No,” said the more intelligent prisoner hastily, after glancing at the sergeant’s face. “No, of course not, Officer.”

  “Chocolate,” said one of the guardias dreamily, looking at the contents of the suitcase. He encountered Tejada’s glare and added rapidly, “Evidence, sir, of course.”

  Tejada’s one concern was to get back to the post as fast as possible. Sergeant de Rota had escaped for the time being. But the smugglers might be induced to name him if he was their contact. And even if he was not, it was worth reporting the man’s suspicious behavior to Captain Morales. The captain had struck Tejada as a careful officer. Even without further evidence, he might set a watch on Rota. It occurred to Tejada that these prisoners provided an excellent reason to return to the post and question Alejandra as well. She must have received some impression of the man who killed Paco, Tejada thought optimistically. Thin, sloping shoulders, a slouch . . . I can ask. Biting back his irritation at Rota’s escape, the sergeant gave orders to return to the post.

  The two guardias from the Cuatro Caminos post readily agreed to accompany their colleagues and the evidence of smuggling. The walk back to the post was a quiet one. Guardias Díaz and Soriano were occupied in escorting the prisoners and speculating on what would become of the seized goods. Corporal Torres was wondering why Sergeant Tejada did not seem better pleased. Tejada was wishing that the party could travel faster.

  Lieutenant Ramos was initially annoyed to see Tejada return early, but his irritation soon disappeared. He heard the formal report of the four guardias and then dismissed all of them but Tejada. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, when the door had closed. “Do you think these are the men who have been receiving our supplies?”

  Tejada paused before answering. “They might be, sir,” he said. “But I’m not sure.”

  Ramos frowned. “Then why did you single them out? Do you think they have information?”

  “It’s possible.” Tejada considered how best to admit that the men had in fact been arrested almost by accident. He could think of no way to do so without sounding incompetent. “But actually there was a slight miscommunication between Corporal Torres and me.” He took a deep breath and then told his commander his version of their afternoon arrests.

  Ramos shook his head when Tejada had finished. “Next time, make sure you make your target clear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I don’t think there’s any harm done,” the lieutenant went on encouragingly. “You say that this Rota wasn’t actually engaged in any criminal activity.”

  Tejada paused. He had been positive that there was something suspicious about Rota, but crossing a plaza while off duty wasn’t a crime. “He looked suspicious, sir,” he said, aware that it was a weak argument. “And he avoided assisting us with the smugglers.”

  “He did give a reason,” the lieutenant pointed out.

  “Well, yes,” Tejada admitted. “But . . . well, he didn’t acknowledge us at first.”

  “Weren’t you trying to hide from him?” Ramos asked.

  Tejada had to admit that the lieutenant had a point. “I suppose. But there was a feeling that something was wrong, sir. It’s hard to quantify. But I was positive.”

  Ramos sighed. “I’m not saying there’s no such thing as a hunch. But the man’s an officer, Tejada. And it’s a serious charge to level at someone of that rank with no proof.”

  “But there wouldn’t need to be a formal charge, sir. If you could just alert Captain Morales informally, I’m sure that he’d take the necessary steps.”

  “How would you feel if someone informally alerted me about you?” Ramos demanded.

  “No one would!” Tejada said, annoyed. “Because there’s nothing to alert you about! I’m not making this up, sir. He disappeared too fast. No greeting. Nothing. It was suspicious.”

  “I’m not arguing,” Ramos said. “But I can’t call a superior officer and tell him that my sergeant thinks one of his men lacks social graces. If you just had something, Tejada . . . any-thing more than just a feeling. Did he stop to speak to anyone in the square? Was he carrying any packages?”

  For a moment, Tejada was tempted to invent a suspicious circumstance. Then he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Me, too,” said the lieutenant. “But maybe it isn’t a wasted effort. T
alk to the prisoners. If they’ve got cans in their suitcases, they’re not just running the small stuff. Try to find out about their supplier.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tejada saluted. “Is there an unoccupied interrogation room, sir?”

  The lieutenant snorted. “We’re in a fucking dormitory, Tejada. What do you want, the Alcázar de Toledo?”

  “Very good, sir,” Tejada said, correctly interpreting this reply as a no. “Please inform me when a room becomes available.”

  “I will. Dismissed.”

  Tejada turned on his heel and left, wondering how he could persuade the prisoners to implicate Sergeant de Rota. After a moment’s thought, he went to his room and checked the post duty roster. He was in luck. Guardia Eduardo Meléndez was on duty, but not scheduled for patrol. He found Meléndez on guard outside the makeshift prison. The guardia pulled himself to attention at the sight of Tejada.

  “Sir!” Meléndez saluted.

  Tejada looked measuringly at the salute. Meléndez’s outstretched fingertips were barely within his reach. Guardia Meléndez was perhaps four inches taller than the sergeant and at least fifty pounds heavier. As a general rule, the sergeant preferred doing his own physical persuasion. But he was in a hurry, and Meléndez’s presence during interrogations was known to be effective. “You know that a pair of smugglers were brought in this afternoon by Corporal Torres?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to want to speak with them. I’d appreciate your assistance, Guardia.”

  “At your orders, Sergeant. Do you want me to warm them up a little first?”

  Tejada considered. “Nothing too serious. I want them conscious and coherent. Start with one, maybe, and let the other stick around.”

  “Yes, sir. I know how it’s done, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send for you when I’m ready for the first one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Unfortunately, the room Ramos provided had a window giving onto a courtyard, but Tejada drew the blinds and hoped for the best. He sent for the first smuggler within fifteen minutes of his meeting with Meléndez. When the man was shepherded into the room, he had a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth, and appeared to be walking with some difficulty.

  “Sit down,” Tejada said. “I have a couple of questions.” Guardia Meléndez reinforced the command by leaning on the prisoner’s shoulders until he sat on the chair in front of the table.

  Tejada picked up a notepad that had been lying on the table and perched comfortably on the edge, looming over the prisoner. “Smuggling’s a serious offense, you know,” he said.

  The man was silent. Meléndez cuffed the back of his head lightly. “Answer the sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” The prisoner’s voice was indistinct.

  “I imagine this isn’t a first offense, either,” Tejada continued. “And I wonder what we’d find if we looked at your war record.”

  “It’s a first offense, sir,” the prisoner said pleadingly.

  “Of course,” the sergeant said, “we could just put you up against a wall and be done with it. And that might be simplest. But I’d like to know who your suppliers are.”

  The prisoner looked slightly nauseous. “I—I don’t know who they are, sir.”

  “Such loyalty!” Tejada mused, shaking his head. “Honor among thieves, would you say, Guardia?” He set down the pad, leaned forward, and casually backhanded the prisoner, deliberately choosing the side that Meléndez had already hit. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I-I’m not lying.” There was a sob in the man’s voice. “I’ve never seen them. . . . Ow! . . . Oh, God . . . they’ll kill me.”

  “So will I,” Tejada said coolly. “And if you don’t cooperate, believe me, I’ll take my time about it.”

  “I can’t tell you.” The sob was more pronounced now. Tejada hit the other side of the man’s mouth. “I can’t tell you.”

  Half an hour later there was blood on the floor and the sergeant’s knuckles were starting to get sore. He knew that patience was the key to successful interrogation but he was not enjoying himself and he was more interested in confirmation than information. He took a risk. “Why are you so frightened of them?” he asked, switching questions. “Have they killed someone before?”

  There were a few sobbing breaths, and then a defeated half-nod from the prisoner.

  “Who?” Tejada took a firm grip on his excitement. Calm, he thought. Don’t betray interest. Just keep calm.

  The prisoner mumbled something. “Speak up,” Tejada commanded sharply.

  “An associate,” the man repeated dully. “He tried to rat on them.”

  “A guardia civil?” The question slipped out before the sergeant could think better of it.

  “No.” The man shook his head. “No, just one of us.” He looked up through puffy eyes and squinted at Tejada. “I . . . oh, God! Is this about that again?”

  Tejada glanced over the prisoner’s head at Meléndez, surprised. Meléndez shrugged in puzzlement. “Maybe,” Tejada said, hoping that the answer hid his confusion. Again? he thought. Someone else has been asking questions? “It depends what ‘that’ is.”

  “Oh, shit.” The man’s voice was a groan. “About Paco. I told the truth before, you know.”

  “Told the truth to whom?” Tejada asked.

  The prisoner said, “Look,” in a voice that tried to be calculating but sounded pleading, “if I tell you what I know about Paco—about who was asking for him and everything—will you give me a chance? Please?”

  “I’m listening,” Tejada said, as neutrally as possible.

  “I thought Paco was killed by a Red.” The words were a mumble, partly because some of the prisoner’s teeth were missing. “But then, this guy came—he pretended to be a customer— and he wanted to know all about Paco, and about the sniper who killed him, and about what had happened to the sniper.”

  “And you told him?” Tejada asked, scribbling notes furiously. “He had a gun,” the prisoner explained. “And I thought he might be a guardia. But what he was really interested in was who killed the sniper. Then he pulled a fast one and took off, and that’s not like a guardia. And I thought maybe he was a Red too. But you’re guardias, and now you want to know about Paco as well so . . .” He trailed off, sounding despairing.

  Tejada had intended to work his way toward Sergeant de Rota, but the prisoner’s information intrigued him. If someone else was asking questions about Paco’s death, then perhaps Paco had in fact been killed by the Reds. Or perhaps someone was being clever, the way someone had been clever about the rations, and was trying to shift blame. “Tell me exactly how you met this man, and what he asked you, and what you told him,” he commanded.

  It was a long and tearful story, broken frequently by pleas and curses from the prisoner. But Tejada finally gathered that the unknown questioner had shown a surprising interest first in the sniper who had supposedly killed Paco, and then in the identity of the guardias who had been on the scene first. If someone’s looking for me, he thought, it’s because of the missing rations. . . . They know that I’m investigating that. But that’s a funny way to identify me. Unless they really are interested in the sniper. . . . Alejandra’s aunt, what was her name . . . Viviana. Who would be interested in her, unless she somehow was related to the black market? He needed time to think but he also knew that to relax his pressure on the prisoner would be fatal. “Tell me about your supplier,” he ordered, returning to his original question, because he could think of no other one.

  “I can’t.”

  Thwack. “Give me a name.” Tejada flexed his fingers surreptitiously. They felt bruised. He was severely tempted to turn the interrogation over to Meléndez and go somewhere quiet to let his hands recover and think over the information about Paco, but persistence was key. “A name,” he repeated.

  “Diego.”

  Tejada remembered the memo Lieutenant Ramos had shown him a few days earlier. “. . . His partner, Sgt. Diego d
e Rota, reported him missing . . .” He took a deep breath. “Surname.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Thwack. “Surname.”

  “Báez. Diego Báez.”

  Tejada wished that he had had more experience with interrogation. He had come so close to getting information pointing to Sergeant de Rota. I’m an idiot, he thought. If I hadn’t pushed, I could have gone to Ramos with just the given name. Of course, he could be lying. He tried to inspect the prisoner. The man’s face was a bloody mess, so his expression was difficult to read. More experienced men presumably had a feel for when prisoners were telling the truth.

  “Where can I find him?” Tejada asked, because that seemed like the next logical question.

  The prisoner was silent. “In your own time, Guardia,” Tejada said, nodding at Meléndez.

  Watching Meléndez work was not pleasant but Tejada had to admit that he was effective. Within an hour, he had gathered that Diego Báez was an intermediary who received illegal merchandise from persons whom the prisoner insisted were unknown and passed it along. The prisoner maintained that he did not know where Báez was to be found but he admitted that he and his colleague were scheduled to meet with the mysterious Diego on Sunday afternoon at the grave of one Maria Dolores Torrecilla in the Eastern Cemetery. Tejada, judging that he had obtained all the information he was going to get, sent the exhausted man back to his cell.

  When Meléndez and the prisoner had left, Tejada inspected his notes, meditatively sucking at one knuckle. He tasted blood and wondered absently if it was the prisoner’s or if he had grazed his own hands. Lieutenant Ramos would probably be pleased to hear about Diego Báez. He would almost certainly be pleased if the guardia succeeded in capturing Báez on Sunday. It briefly occurred to Tejada that finding guardias willing to work over Easter would be something of a challenge. He decided that the ever-enthusiastic Jiménez would be a necessary addition to the party. But the information he had obtained was enigmatic. Is someone looking for me? he wondered. And why? Does it have to do with Alejandra’s aunt? Idly, he doodled the dead miliciana’s name on the pad. Viviana Llorente. The sister of Carmen Llorente, who was being held at Cuatro Caminos, in connection with the disappearance of her brother. Her brother Gonzalo, Tejada thought slowly, who is a Red. Who’s been in hiding. Who might want to know who killed his sister. Gonzalo Llorente.