She was probably in the room with him. Perhaps naked, kneeling before him. She was just a girl, aware of her fate but not beaten by it, her expression resolute but not defeated. Anna was like her mother, born to be free, and she’d hold on to that freedom at all costs, even if it meant subjecting herself to Igor’s depraved humiliations. She would never be broken, Elías was sure of that.
“We can’t touch him, Martin.”
Those were the last words they exchanged. Martin stormed out of the glass-fronted bistro and, outside, turned to look back at Elías, one hand on something that was sticking out of his waistband. Elías realized that it was a dagger. They looked at each other through the misty glass for a second, and then the Englishman seemed to realize that he’d never make it past even one of the bodyguards. Suddenly, Martin’s head began to twitch convulsively; he burst into tears, placed both hands against the window, then rushed off down the street. He disappeared into the Paris rain, withered and distraught, hunched in his beggar’s stance, crestfallen, nursing a sorrow no one would ever understand.
It’s better this way, Elías thought despondently. He wanted no witnesses to what he’d decided to do the moment he saw Igor Stern.
“I have to think about it.”
Ramón Alcázar Suñer had become a stern, arrogant official at the Spanish embassy in Paris. In theory, his mission was to oversee the economic interests of Spanish corporations, but the truth was he was there to keep tabs on Spanish Communists who had settled in France and to round up those sentenced by military tribunals in Spain. Elías knew this, and since returning to France, the two had studiously avoided contact so as not to be undone by a friendship that had benefited both of them more than once. It seemed their relationship had not turned into bitterness or mistrust, despite the harrowing violence each of them had suffered at the hands of the other’s party. From a distance, they sincerely appreciated each other and had somehow managed to preserve the best of their childhood memories. But friendship was something warm and gray in an age of Manichaean black and white: If anyone found out about this meeting, they would both be in a terrible bind.
“Think about what?” Elías protested vehemently. “I’m handing you one of the NKVD’s most important agents on a platter.”
Ramón Alcázar gazed pensively out at the street from the window of his car, feebly raising a hand as though his friend was asking something entirely out of reach.
“What you’re handing me is the opportunity to take revenge for you rather than doing it yourself.”
It was true, there was no denying it. Elías stared at his friend, trying to make him see how much he hated Igor Stern and the lengths he was willing to go for that hatred.
“What do you care? You have no idea what Stern is like, how he torments people, toys with them until he’s bored, like a cat, not killing them.”
Ramón exhaled cigarette smoke, violently.
“I’m not your whipping boy, Elías! Don’t think for a minute you can manipulate me or use me at will. Soviet agents are not my concern. Killing Igor Stern could have serious repercussions.” Ramón’s harsh look softened slightly before he continued. “Is this about the girl? What happened on Nazino is still eating you alive, isn’t it? You did what you could to help them, Elías. No one can blame you or say otherwise. Forget about that girl, about the past, about Stern. Go home to your pretty wife, make love, have kids, and sink into a comfortable, anonymous life.”
It was a lovely idea, no doubt. But they both knew that Elías wouldn’t even consider it.
“Every time I see a girl who reminds me of Anna, I’m afraid. I start following her down the street, watch her for days, clock her routines, find out who her friends and family are. I make a move, talk to them, and in their naïveté they have no idea what’s going on in my head.”
Ramón leaned back impatiently against the car seat. “I don’t need to hear this.”
“But I need to tell you. You have to understand, Ramón. When I see those girls, I feel sick, it’s as if their innocence tarnished me with guilt over what I did to Irina, and what I would have done to Anna if necessary. And I hate them, hate their purity and their blond hair and their angelic expressions. I hate them because they’re like an accusation and I want them to be gone, I want to beat them to death, to disfigure the faces that make me see Irina sinking to the bottom of the river. It’s driving me insane…And Igor Stern is behind it all. He knows how I feel, he understands my weakness and uses it to torture me; that’s the only reason he keeps Anna by his side. She’s the reminder of the day I handed over my coat, and with it what remained of my dignity as a man.”
Elías closed his eyes, spent. His breath was shallow, and he opened his mouth as though struggling for air in the car.
“I want him dead, Ramón. I’m prepared to pay the price.”
“It will be a very high price indeed.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t understand, Elías. If you start this, you won’t be able to stop. They’ll keep asking for more and more. You’ll have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Since the day he’d seen Martin, Elías had had a lot of time to think. His memory of Irina was now so distorted that sometimes he saw her in Esperanza. He would watch his wife, buzzing around their tiny apartment like a bee, and wonder again and again why he hadn’t wanted her to become pregnant. Why he kept coming up with excuses not to bring children into the world. And the truth was that he was afraid, terribly afraid, when he imagined what they’d turn out like—if they would be like him instead of her, if they’d inherit his character, his brooding silences, and the violence that seethed quietly within him, day after day. Sometimes he took off his patch and found himself staring into the mirror, trying to gauge the darkness in his empty socket, searching for a light that was not there. And then he’d wonder if his horrific deformity, the irreparable damage that Igor had done and was symbolized by his empty eye, was hereditary.
“I understand perfectly,” Elías replied.
When his damaged side came out, he had to accept it, accept that the endless suffering he’d seen had destroyed part of his soul. Elías was not the man his father dreamed he would become but the man others had turned him into. Well, then: It was time for others to pay.
Elías pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to Ramón. On it was a detailed list of names and addresses where the French gendarmerie could find and arrest Spanish Communist Party members wanted by Spain for violent crimes. Six names, sentenced to death for an act of revenge in which their only involvement was having come between Elías Gil and Igor Stern.
“When they discover there’s an inside leak, I’ll make sure the Party puts me in charge of the investigation. I’ll find someone responsible,” he said coldly, and then added that he’d need compensation.
“What kind of compensation?”
Elías passed Ramón another note. “This man is a professional torturer. He’s killed several of ours, and he lives here under embassy protection. To avoid suspicion and keep from being a suspect, I need to earn some points. Then I’ll find a way to get posted to Spain. Once I’m there, you make sure Igor Stern disappears forever.”
Ramón nodded wordlessly and remained silent for quite some time, gazing at his friend as though he didn’t recognize him, in a mix of shock, disgust, and sorrow.
“I’d almost prefer you didn’t do this, didn’t sink this low.”
Elías’s eye flashed in anger. How could Ramón ask him to remain dignified when he’d been in the depths of depravity? What did he expect, for Elías to be an honest enemy? Had he disappointed his friend? Well, what a shame, but the rest of humanity had disappointed Elías as well.
They weren’t heroes; they were simply wretched, confused, frightened men.
“I want the torturer. It’s nothing to you, you’ve got a lot of young blood, and it will make a good
alibi for me.”
Ramón Alcázar glanced at the note. He hardly knew the man, perhaps had seen him a couple of times and, needless to say, didn’t like him. And that, it seemed, was enough to sign his death sentence. Though he didn’t know it, the man was as good as dead. Maybe at the moment he was strolling around Paris, admiring Notre-Dame or gazing out over the melancholy banks of the Seine. But he was already dead, and Ramón reddened at how easily he’d just disposed of a life.
“I’ll tell you where he lives and how to ambush him.”
Five minutes later, Elías stepped out of the car and put on his coat. The cold was returning, and with it the sense that all Paris was still, quiet, practically dead.
“One more thing,” he said to Ramón. “When Stern dies, I want you to make sure he knows that I’m the one who sent him to hell.”
Ramón nodded again, glancing at the list of names that Elías was willing to sacrifice for the sake of revenge.
“Don’t you care about what will happen to your comrades, their families? There’s still time to turn back, Elías. I can burn this list and forget we ever saw each other.”
Elías clenched his teeth and stared directly at his friend. “What about me, Ramón? Can I burn my memories and pretend all of these things never happened to me?”
“You’re going to hate yourself for this. You know that, don’t you?”
Elías muffled himself up in his coat and said goodbye to his friend. Yes, he’d hate himself forever, but that was nothing new. Self-loathing had been with him since the day he struck Irina to keep from drowning in the river off Nazino Island.
26
BARCELONA, NOVEMBER 2002
The newly inaugurated building was blindingly white, in sharp contrast to the earth tones of those wedged around it. Its open-plan architecture afforded magnificent views of the rooms inside, which were bathed in sunlight; sparse, neutral furnishings seemed to induce well-being. Gonzalo had to admit that his ex-brother-in-law was one stylish architect. He designed light, airy spaces that were perfectly suited to his discreet, elegant personality.
Guests had gathered on one of the sprawling upper balconies, created by eliminating the bay of the façade overlooking the plaza below. From that lovely wide-open space they could see most of the city’s historic quarter, the cathedral towers as well as the rooftops of old buildings in the Raval. A small cadre of impeccable waiters stood lining the wall, awaiting the host’s signal to begin parading around with trays held aloft, plying guests with canapés and glasses of cava. Pleasant music played in the background; Gonzalo listened closely and decided it was Bach, one of his sacred pieces. Very fitting.
That morning, Luis had picked out a neutral-colored suit and skipped the tie, a reflection of his decorous character—unpretentious despite the glowing tributes—and proportionate to the visual impact of both building and creator. The fact that it had been dubbed “the Aldo Rossi,” after the Italian master architect, was a display of pride that couldn’t be blamed on Luis.
“Gonzalo, what a surprise!”
Gonzalo saw nothing out of the ordinary in Luis’s sincere exclamation, nor in the friendly, self-assured way he shook his hand.
“I saw in the paper that your building was being inaugurated and thought it would be a good time to stop by and see you.”
Luis nodded slowly, though a slight hint of doubt flashed in his eyes; his expression had become almost imperceptibly more questioning, mistrustful.
“We just landed. I’ll be here in the morning but we go back to London tomorrow night.” The plural included a slim-waisted blonde almost six feet tall, poured into an elegant pearl-gray dress with matching shoes. Luis gently guided her over to introduce her to Gonzalo: Erika, the English fiancée. “We’re getting married in a month,” he said, and it sounded strangely like an alibi.
Gonzalo exchanged a few polite words with her in English, they had a toast, and she made a discreet exit.
“I was hoping we could have a little talk, just the two of us,” Gonzalo ventured, angling them to a corner of the enormous balcony.
Luis smiled politely and handed him a glass of cava, plucked off a passing tray. He seemed to need people to see his display of affability.
“This really isn’t the time or place for that kind of conversation, as I’m sure you can see. And the truth is, my schedule is a little tight.”
Gonzalo downed his cava and pulled out a cigarette. These were the most disturbing, agonizing days of his life, but he was trying to keep calm. Sometimes he pretended it was all simply a long, suffocating nightmare, and that helped a little, made things slightly more bearable.
“I think we both know that you’d better find an opening in your schedule, Luis. Otherwise you’ll be making time for the police.”
Luis had the good sense and dignity not to feign incredulity or babble idiotically. He simply clenched his right fist slightly, more unconscious gesture than open threat. A nice, elegant warning. That was Luis.
“I guess I’m supposed to tell you what I think or feel now.”
Gonzalo finished his cigarette.
“I really don’t care what you feel or think right now. I’ll be waiting for you in ten minutes, in the plaza across the street. If you don’t show, I’m going to the police.”
Shortly thereafter, they sat face-to-face at a greasy hole-in-the-wall, slot machines pinging in the background. Both men were out of place, too extravagant among the small-time neighborhood thugs who were regulars at this foul-smelling dive bar.
“I don’t understand you,” Luis said finally, still staring at Gonzalo. His once friendly expression was now dark, deep, and mysterious.
“That’s what I should be saying. I saw the tape, Luis. You were there the day Atxaga attacked me; you stole Laura’s computer. It was right there in front of me the whole time, so obvious that I didn’t see it. And it didn’t click until I heard Siaka’s message.”
Luis smiled. “Pretty clever, my using Aldo Rossi’s name. He’s quick, a smart kid, but it would never have occurred to him if I hadn’t written down what to say. I was hoping that by having him call you and mention the architect’s name, you’d put two and two together.”
“You wanted me to catch you?”
Luis shrugged, indifferent. He’d been wondering for some time how and when his desperation to escape would end, how long it would take for the men who killed his son and destroyed his marriage to figure out that it was him and not Laura who had tortured and killed Zinoviev.
“Turns out I’m not a good killer. I don’t have what it takes, the coolness, the mettle. It’s not worth the suffering I’ve caused or the suffering I feel. I guess I’m looking for a way to put an end to the whole thing.”
Gonzalo tried to imagine what the man must have gone through after the death of his son. Still mourning when he decided to move to London, Luis fell into the arms of a beautiful girl in an attempt to forget the woman he loved. Here was the evidence: Behind the successful and triumphant façade lay a man consumed by sorrow, perhaps shame—alone, unable to repair the damage done.
“When Alcázar went to Laura’s apartment and accused her of Zinoviev’s murder, she knew it was you. And yet she protected you.”
“I told her myself. I wanted her to see what her selfishness, her determination had done to me. I wanted to accuse her of turning me into a monster. I waited for hours on the old sofa, my hands bloody, the nail gun on the table. When she walked in, I didn’t even have to tell her what I’d done.”
There, in the dimly lit bar, Luis recounted the scenes of horror and what he’d said to Laura.
“I told her I was going to turn myself in, but she convinced me not to. She thought fast and decided I should leave the country, go back to London, pretend I had nothing to do with it. It would look like the mafia settling a score, that kind of thing was common. Laura knew how investigators’ minds work,
how judges think. Later, I realized she knew that, sooner or later, I’d be caught. If not by the police, then by the Matryoshka. She knew I wouldn’t survive prison and that I could never stand up to those people. So she gave me the perfect alibi…When I found out about her suicide, I realized no one was going to hold me accountable. She took all the blame. Until you turned up with your suspicions, found her laptop, and asked for the case to be reopened.”
Gonzalo squinted slightly and gave Luis a look, as though trying to hypnotize him, but was met stubbornly with Luis’s implacably calm expression, exquisite manners, self-restraint, and alluring smile. He’d hardly narrowed his eyes, but his expression had become a delicate line nailed to the bar’s filthy yellow wall, had taken on a helplessness that not even he was aware of. The affable, polite, sensitive man sitting before him was also that other one—the one acting like he had nothing to do with Zinoviev’s torture and death. Luis himself probably didn’t even understand why he’d done what he’d done; it had all been so fast, and by the time the insane impulse that had overtaken him subsided, Zinoviev was a mass of flesh in his trembling hands. His mind took refuge, cloaked in a dark veil that was impervious to pity or reason. All he could think of was hurting his son’s murderer, ripping apart every inch of his life in the most painful way possible. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or didn’t know how to stop the orgy of violence that went on for hours. Each time Zinoviev’s voice begged hoarsely for mercy, something ordered Luis to be even more vicious.
“Why did you steal Laura’s computer from my car? Were you afraid I’d find something to incriminate you?”
Luis calmly smoothed back his hair, as though discipline and self-control were the most important things at that critical moment.
“When I found out you were asking for the case to be reopened, I guessed that you had Laura’s laptop. So I simply followed you and waited. I had no intention of hindering the investigation, even though I was pretty sure you’d find out Laura didn’t kill Zinoviev. But I decided to take the risk because I had to learn who his accomplice was, the person who was with him at the lake the day my son died. I had to know, I needed closure. And that information was on the computer. At first I thought that if I kept sending you files, you’d keep your word and carry the investigation through to the end, but then I realized that Alcázar and your father-in-law had convinced you to back out. So I decided to take action.”
A Million Drops Page 51