Gonzalo hated cards, hated having a hand in the games his father-in-law sometimes brought him along to as an extra when he was playing with his buddies at the club. There was no logic to the face-offs between card sharks, the men won or lost based not on their cards but their cunning. Who knew what? Who was bluffing? Who had the best hand?
Before seeing the images on Laura’s computer, Gonzalo didn’t understand why she’d decided to become a cop. He understood the reasons Luis gave him for why she got involved in that sad and sordid world. Laura was never one to stand on the sidelines and watch her life go by, that much was certain; she always had to be in the thick of things, the one holding the reins. But she could have found other ways to fight evil, even without quitting her job. Gonzalo was as shocked as Luis was when she chose to join the police; she didn’t have what it took for that kind of work, they all thought, forgetting that the habit doesn’t make the nun. But when he saw the word Matryoshka—the password he’d used to log on to Laura’s computer—on the back of the singed photo, he suddenly got it. Matryoshka are Russian nesting dolls, a game of illusions where there is only one truth, and when it finally appears, the truth and all of its reflections look identical—but that doesn’t mean that they’re the same thing. Our eyes believe what they see: the first doll. If we’re patient, we get to the second one, a little smaller and yet identical, and so on. Three dolls appear, then four. The smaller they are, the more concealed and true. Until finally we discover the last one, almost as small as an index finger. The painstakingly painted miniature, as detailed as the largest doll, is the baby, the whole reason for the game. This embryo is the starting point of everything, it’s where the artisan puts the most thought and effort. And only after all of the dolls have been opened, lined up by size, do we realize that what is identical is in fact different—simply the road we had to travel in order to reach this ultimate secret.
Complicated. Simple. Gonzalo bet that Laura was the one who named the child pornography operation the Matryoshka. A nod to her past, to her real reason for entering the game—and now he was being asked to play. Where am I, Gonzalo? Far away, he’d thought when reminiscing about their childhood games back at the lake house. Now he saw that this wasn’t the case. Laura never hid far; she stayed close so that he could find her easily when he was alone and afraid. All he had to do was to look and see, open each successive doll in order to find the baby. All the same, all different. A game, that’s all it was, a game with its own rules.
He doesn’t know, Gonzalo thought, noting the inspector’s grave expression. He doesn’t know Siaka exists. Laura never told him.
“I’m going to formally request a reopening of the investigation.”
Alcázar ran his hands across the top of his head. A deep fold appeared on his neck, above his collar. He was trying to keep calm, and it was precisely the restraint of his movements that proved how nervous he was. For a moment, Gonzalo felt a déjà vu that brought him back to the conversation he’d had with Laura’s husband the day he told him that she was dead.
“Don’t do this, Gonzalo. Don’t get involved, it’s not worth it. Give me the proof, tell me who the informer is and I’ll take care of it. You have a family and future to think of. You shouldn’t even be here; it’s only chance that brought you. But I owe it to Laura, she was my partner.”
Gonzalo took off his glasses. Sometimes he preferred the hazy world of indistinct shapes. Contrary to what people thought, he could see better this way because there was no point looking. That was how he felt about Alcázar’s blurry face: It was simply a thick fuzzy outline, a smell of coffee and cigarettes. And heavy breathing.
“I owe her, too, Inspector. She may have been your partner, but Laura was my sister.”
Gonzalo put his glasses on again and it all melted away, the appearance of normality rushing furtively back. But it was too late. He stood, preparing to leave, and then remembered that he had one more question for the inspector—who in two weeks would no longer be an inspector.
“After the funeral, you went to see my mother, didn’t you? You were the one who convinced her to sell my father-in-law the lake property.”
Alcázar, too, stood. He’d recovered his habitual aplomb, but Gonzalo picked up on a slightly odd vibe. Not a threat, more like a sense of resignation, the sort someone feels when they’ve done all they can to avoid tragedy and finally throw up their hands.
“From what I understand, she didn’t sell it only to your father-in-law. You’re his partner now, so you benefit as well.”
This was not, in fact, true. Not yet. Gonzalo still hadn’t signed the agreement.
“Why did you intervene on Agustín’s behalf?”
Alcázar’s heavy eyelids moved slowly. His retirement benefits were a joke, so he had to find ways to make ends meet. From time to time, he’d stop by at law firms, poke around, leave a business card here and there. There was always some job that needed to be done, if you knew the game.
“Your father-in-law and I have had our dealings in the past, he in his role as attorney and me in mine as officer of the law. We weren’t always after the same thing, but we’ve always had a good relationship. He filled me in on the situation and I offered my services.”
“Does he know you were my sister’s boss?”
Alcázar smiled, wondering if Gonzalo was really this oblivious or just pretending.
“Is there anything in this city that Agustín González doesn’t know?”
Gonzalo intuited something in the man’s eyes, a deep wound, and suddenly was seized by the idea that Alcázar was many men. And that not all of them were nice.
“How did you convince my mother? What did you say? She hates you; she’d never do anything you said without a pretty compelling reason.”
Alcázar bit his mustache. Was the past a compelling reason for an eighty-six-year-old woman? No doubt it was, as were the fear of losing her only remaining child’s love and the thought of dying alone.
“That’s something you need to ask her.”
As soon as he was back outside, Gonzalo called Siaka. It took two rings for him to answer.
“I see you missed your train to Paris.”
“There are others, I can wait a little longer. I’ve made my decision. Have you made yours?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you absolutely sure? There’ll be no turning back, Lawyer Man.”
Gonzalo realized that his palms were sweaty. No, of course he wasn’t sure. He thought of Javier, that day up on the cliff before he jumped. He thought of his son’s fear and the way his anxiety vanished when Gonzalo took his hand. Who would be there to help Gonzalo?
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“All right, then. Do you have a piece of paper? I’m going to give you the password to the confidential file.”
Gonzalo took a piece of paper and pen from his briefcase and leaned on the hood of a parked car, cell phone lodged between his shoulder and ear.
Rather than take down what Siaka said, though, he held the pen motionless; the phone fell to the ground. Gonzalo didn’t need to write the password—he knew it. Five capital letters: IRINA. He automatically reached into his pocket for the locket he’d found in his mother’s bomber jacket, fingers stroking the letters engraved so long ago. Though they were partially illegible, their impact on Esperanza had been enormous the day he showed her the faded photo of a woman and girl.
He could hear Siaka’s voice coming from his phone on the ground. “Lawyer? You still there?”
Gonzalo picked up his cell. “I’ll call you later.”
Twenty minutes later he strode into Agustín González’s office, ignoring the secretary’s furious protestations. His father-in-law was on the phone and gave him a look of surprise before motioning his secretary to leave. For a full minute, Gonzalo stood there, refusing Agustín’s silent invitation to take a seat. When the man hung up, he pressed h
is spread fingers down on the desk.
“I hope you have a good reason for storming into my office like this.”
“I’m not selling.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’m not selling the land and I’m going to appeal my mother’s sale of her seventy-five percent. I have reasons to believe she signed under duress.”
Agustín was staggered. He looked at his son-in-law as though he’d lost his mind.
“So you’re going to report yourself? Because as far as I’m aware, you’re the one who convinced her.”
“Don’t toy with me, Agustín. I know you sent the inspector who does your dirty work to convince her. I don’t know how he did it, but I’m going to prove he took advantage of his authority. And if necessary, I’ll use my mother’s fragile mental health.”
“Do you mind telling me what on earth is the matter with you? We had an agreement.”
“You wouldn’t understand. I could sit here all day and explain it to you and you still wouldn’t understand.”
“I presume you know what this means.”
“I know exactly what it means. The merger is off, and I can’t say I’m sorry about it. I’ll speak to Lola; we’ll have to rethink our options, but we’ll manage.”
Agustín banged a fist on the table. “Who do you think you’re talking to? This project is going forward with or without you, do you understand? You’ll sell that piece of shit property or I’ll destroy you!”
Gonzalo blinked as though he had an eyelash in his eye. His self-assurance was wavering.
“Like it or not, I’m your daughter’s husband. If you come after me, you come after her and your grandchildren as well.”
“Don’t be a fool. They are my family. You are not.”
Gonzalo swallowed and stood tall. “Do as you see fit. The lake property is not for sale.”
He walked out of the office with a lightness in his shoulders that he hadn’t felt for ages. Glancing sidelong at Agustín’s secretary, what he saw was a dinosaur at a wooden desk, a lifeless insect with a bitter expression and sagging flesh. He’d been so close, he thought, walking nimbly down the hall and into his own office with a spring in his step. Luisa was typing up a memo.
“The sign from the balcony—where is it?”
“In the storeroom, why?”
“Put it back out and have it repainted. I want it in big letters.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s no merger.”
“Dear God! And in my mind I’d just kissed the unemployment line goodbye.”
Gonzalo glanced at the stack of files on his assistant’s desk, resigned.
“We might both end up in that line, but we’re going to put up a fight. Oh, and the geraniums, put them back out, too. I like them there.”
“The way you like the Russian in the apartment next door?”
Gonzalo blushed. “Don’t be impertinent. I’m a married man.”
“Of course you are, and I planned to be a virgin when I got married.”
Luisa was radiant with unexpected satisfaction. Gonzalo himself, despite his decision, was not so optimistic. Acts of bravery are often leaps of faith that have unforeseeable consequences. But he couldn’t deny that at that moment, he, too, felt what some people might describe as happiness.
He phoned Lola. She’d already heard the news—Agustín had been quick. Gonzalo let her vent, listening to a string of objections regularly punctuated by tears, which seemed more of indignation than sadness. Her father had given her all the details and for ten long minutes she emotionally blackmailed Gonzalo, talking of the children’s futures, the house, and anything else that occurred to her. He let her talk.
“We’ll speak tonight, Lola.”
He hung up feeling bittersweet. Nobody said the lean wolf had an easy life. Checking his watch, Gonzalo picked up his briefcase: There was still time to make it to visiting hours at the retirement home. His mother was going to tell him everything, starting with what it was that Alcázar knew and how he’d broken her determination not to sell the lake property, and then who Irina—the woman in the locket—was. And this time he wasn’t going to let her tangle herself in a web of silence or run off to her desert island of memories.
Walking out of the office, Gonzalo headed for the elevator. The underground parking garage was only half lit since one of the large fluorescents had burned out. Gonzalo clicked the remote on his SUV to guide himself by its flashing taillights and the beep the vehicle made before automatically unlocking its doors. His spot was at the back, between two thick cement pillars, which necessitated endless maneuvering in order to fit between them each morning. If he’d sold the lake property, he would have gotten a larger spot on the upper level, where Agustín and his associates parked at no risk of scratching their paint on columns. Tough luck.
He opened the back door to put down his briefcase.
“Remember me, asshole?”
Gonzalo barely had time to turn. A look of shock flashed in his eyes and he opened his mouth to shout, but he didn’t have a chance.
Something heavy struck the base of his skull. He became intensely dizzy and felt everything lose texture. The second blow caused him to fall flat on his face. And then came something sharp that pierced all the way to his lung—once, twice, three times, in rage.
9
TOMSK, WESTERN SIBERIA, EARLY MARCH 1933
They were exhausted after a long journey through soft snow, which in some places was up to their knees. It had been several arduous days of crossing ghostly forests and traversing grubby hills and swamps, constantly set upon by the guards and their minions. Elías carried little Anna in his arms. She was very pale and shivered the entire time; although her mother tried her best to warm her body, a tattered shawl was simply insufficient. Bundled inside Elías’s coat she could breathe slightly better. Irina was too tired to carry her anyway, although she refused to admit it. Still, she sang to her, cooed in her ear, made up stories about mythical animals, and pointed out anything she could in an attempt to turn their journey to hell into some sort of adventure her daughter could bear.
But even Irina paled at the sight of the immense complex extending along the frozen river’s banks, where finally they were ordered to stop. They’d arrived at Tomsk, where all of the deportees had been sent for distribution to the camps of Siberia. Makeshift wooden barracks and watchtowers were visible from the right bank of the Tom. On the river’s other side lay the city, and beyond that, the mining areas. There were thousands of deportees, and more and more kept arriving. Mounted patrols continuously drove them on, guiding humans like a river toward the camp’s entry, a gap in the barbed-wire fencing.
Elías observed the macabre spectacle before him with his one eye.
“What kind of insanity is this?” Enormous cargo barges were arriving at improvised docks, and hundreds of people were being forced to climb onto them through portholes and beneath canopies. Claude, stricken, said he wouldn’t go.
“It’s important that we stick together. From what I overheard from the guards, the authorities were totally unprepared for this. There are too many of us, no administration, and there has already been major turmoil. Last night, from what they said, there was a massacre. They’re sending us upriver, to other camps beyond where the Tom joins the Ob.”
Irina stared at him in alarm. They looked otherworldly, but their cold and fear were totally real.
“That can’t be. There’s nothing there, out beyond the Ob.”
Claude shrugged, gazing at her with bulging eyes, his face so gaunt they looked like huge black bubbles.
“Well, that’s where we’re being sent—into the nothing.”
Elías refused to accept it. Like many, he still believed that his ending up there had been some terrible mistake and that somebody in some office of the Kremlin would be sorting i
t out right now. Like him, others clung to absurd hopes to keep from succumbing to despair. Some had children or brothers in the Red Army, even in the police; they were the most arrogant, and the guards showed more restraint with them, just in case. Others took refuge in their ignorance, refusing to doubt—mothers with young children, housewives or factory workers with only minor offenses such as missing work, writing something snide on a bathroom wall, or simply leaving home without their internal passport. There were also a vast number of peasants who’d entered Moscow or Leningrad illegally, attempting to escape the famine of the countryside. They seemed resigned to their fate, trusting that it couldn’t be too bad. Their hope was to be sent back to where they’d come from, wait there for a time, and then try once more to reach a big city, perhaps with better luck.
By moving farther back into the Tomsk camp, they managed to stay together. The barrack they took refuge in was shockingly overcrowded—so much so that it was hard to breathe—but the guards wouldn’t let them leave, much less get anywhere near the bridges leading to the city.
During their days there, Elías saw Igor Stern prowling the camp several times. He seemed to grow stronger by the day, and his band of henchmen crueler. Igor often strolled the barges and barracks with a thick birchwood club, its tip round and hard. He’d beat stragglers like an impatient shepherd trying to keep his flock together. Elías felt strangled by rage so deep that he often fantasized about creeping through the snow one night, sneaking into Igor’s tent—a luxury that the monster had wangled from the guards—and slitting his throat as he slept.
He knew this was impossible, of course: Igor was untouchable. But the mere idea of it afforded him a few moments of calm. What upset Elías most, however, was seeing Michael and Martin, his old comrades, trail after him like lapdogs. They’d become lackeys, running from one place to another as the column’s rear guard, robbing anyone who lagged behind and then rushing to hand over the booty to Igor or one of his lieutenants. It revolted Elías.
One morning he decided to talk to them, to make them see reason, but Claude convinced him that it was pointless.
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