Read Online The Exile by Mark Oldfield - Free Book Online

sending him stumbling backwards into the coat rack by the door.
    â€˜No whores?’ Mellado hissed. ‘You were given explicit instructions and you failed to obey.’ He took a kick at Faisán. ‘Try harder next time, chico .’ He smirked at Guzmán as he went to the door. ‘He’s still learning. I’ve put him in charge of executing an anarchist. Let’s see what he makes of that.’ He slammed the door behind him as he went out into the courtyard.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Comandante ,’ Faisán said. ‘I’ll just get a cloth from the general’s inner sanctum to stop the bleeding.’ He hurried away to a door at the end of the office.
    Since Faisán had left the door open, Guzmán leaned in, curious. In the far corner of the room, Faisán was dabbing blood from his lip with a field dressing. But what interested Guzmán was the machine in the centre of the room, an angular contraption of metal and wood with leather straps hanging from it. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
    â€˜A portable garrotte.’ Faisán nodded proudly. ‘The latest model.’
    Guzmán ran a hand over the garrotte, admiring its sinister elegance. The device consisted of a heavy iron base holding a wooden column about four feet high fitted with a small seat for the victim. A pair of leather restraints were fitted to the base for the victim’s ankles with another pair behind the seat to secure the wrists.
    Guzmán saw a label on the packing case. ‘Mind if I take this? I’d like to get one of these for my comisaría in Madrid. I’ll order it from them if they’re any good.’
    â€˜Be my guest, sir.’ Faisán nodded. ‘It’s a French company, we find them most reliable.’
    â€˜Typical,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘We don’t make things any more in this country.’ He pulled the label from the case and glanced at it before putting it in his wallet.
    Ã‡UBIRY PÈRE ET FILS, AGENTS D’EXPORTATION
    26 RUE DE VICTOR HUGO, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE
    I’ll leave you to it,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to go and find my table.’
    Faisán came after him. ‘Could I ask you about this thing with the anarchist, sir?’
    â€˜What about it?’
    â€˜I don’t really know how these things should be done. What would you advise?’
    â€˜Don’t mess about with the garrotte,’ Guzmán said. ‘Shoot him. Tell him he’s about to die and put a round in the back of his head while he’s praying.’
    â€˜He’s an anarchist, Comandante ,’ Faisán protested. ‘He won’t want to pray.’
    â€˜They all want to pray when the time comes, believe me.’ Guzmán laughed.
    Guzmán’s feet echoed on the marble steps leading to the banqueting hall. From inside, he heard the clatter of cutlery and crockery. As he reached the entrance, a woman stepped out from behind one of the Doric columns flanking the ornate doors. It was not a pleasant surprise. Her unkempt dark hair and thick calves together with her hopeless Spanish accent led Guzmán to think she was French.
    â€˜ Comandante Guzmán?’ A tobacco-stained smile. ‘Jeanette Duclos, I am journaliste . Can I ask you about the bandit?’
    Guzmán stared at her. ‘What did you say?’
    â€˜I hear something about a bandit, El Lobo, he has robbed many banks, I hear?’
    â€˜I hope whoever you heard that from has left the country.’
    â€˜So, will you tell me about him?’
    He shook his head. ‘Perhaps in France you can ask the police questions without getting a slap but this is Spain. You won’t write anything without official approval.’
    â€˜ Excusez-moi , I will write what I wish. It is a free country.’
    â€˜Of course it’s not, mademoiselle , don’t be ridiculous,’ Guzmán said. ‘Spain is a dictatorship. Write