The Hidden Assassins

by Robert Wilson

  ‘Keep at it, José Luis,’ said Falcón. ‘If you want a really impossible task, try looking for the fake council inspectors.’

  ‘I’ll add that to the list of two and a half million hernia ops I’ve still got to go through,’ said Ramírez.

  ‘Another thought,’ said Falcón. ‘Contact all the Hermandades associated with the three churches: San Marcos, Santa María La Blanca and La Magdalena.’

  ‘How’s that going to help?’

  ‘Whatever’s happening here has some religious motivation. Informáticalidad recruits from church congregations. Ricardo Gamero was a devout Catholic attending San Marcos. The Abdullah Azzam text was sent to the ABC, the main Catholic newspaper, and it included a direct threat to the Catholic faith in Andalucía.’

  ‘And what do you think the Brotherhoods in these churches could have to do with it?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. You’d be too exposed as a known Brotherhood but, you never know, they may have heard of a secret one, or seen strange things going on in the churches that might give us some leverage with the priests. We have to try everything.’

  ‘This could get ugly,’ said Ramírez.

  ‘Even uglier than it is already?’

  ‘The media are all over us again. I’ve just heard that Comisario Lobo and the Magistrado Juez Decano de Sevilla are going to give another press conference to explain the situation following Juez Calderón’s dismissal,’ said Ramírez. ‘I heard the one at the Parliament building earlier today was a disaster. And now the television and the radio are full of arseholes telling us that since Calderón’s arrest on suspicion of murder and wife abuse, our investigation has completely lost credibility.’

  ‘How has all this got out?’

  ‘The journalists have been all over the Palacio de Justicia, talking to Inés’s friends and colleagues. Now they’re not just talking about the evident physical violence, but also a prolonged campaign of mental torture and public humiliation.’

  ‘This is just what Elvira was frightened of.’

  ‘A lot of people have been waiting a long time to get Esteban Calderón down on the ground and, now they’ve got him there, they’re going to kick him to death, even if it means our investigation is effectively destroyed.’

  ‘And what do Lobo and Spinola hope to achieve in this press conference?’ asked Falcón. ‘They can’t talk about a murder investigation that’s in progress.’

  ‘Damage control,’ said Ramírez. ‘And they’re going to talk up del Rey. He’s due to come on afterwards, with Comisario Elvira, to give a recap of the case so far.’

  ‘No wonder he was so word perfect with us,’ said Falcón. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea for him to talk about what we’re working on now.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ said Ramírez. ‘You’d better call him.’

  Del Rey had switched his mobile off. Maybe he was already in the studio. Falcón called Elvira and asked him to give a rather cryptic message to del Rey. There was no time to explain the detail. Falcón picked up the sketch from the computer operator in the preschool. At least it looked like a drawing of a real person. A man in his sixties, possibly early seventies, in a suit and tie, some hair on top with a side parting, no beard or moustache. The artist had included the man’s height and weight as given by the security guard, he was on the small side at 1.65m and 75 kilos. But did it look like the man they wanted to find?

  Back in the car he took a look at the lists given to him by Diego Torres, the Human Resources Director at Informáticalidad. Marco Barreda was not one of the employees who’d spent time in the apartment on Calle Los Romeros. Maybe he was too senior for that. He called the mobile number David Curado had given him and introduced himself with his full title.

  ‘I think we should talk face to face,’ said Falcón.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘It’ll take fifteen minutes of your time.’

  ‘I’m still busy.’

  ‘I’m investigating an act of terrorism, multiple murder and a suicide,’ said Falcón. ‘You have to make time for me.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help. I’m neither a terrorist, nor a murderer, and I don’t know anybody who is.’

  ‘But you did know the suicide, Ricardo Gamero,’ said Falcón. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m in the office. I’m just on my way out.’

  ‘Name a place.’

  Deep breath from Barreda. He knew he couldn’t brush him off forever. He named a bar in Triana.

  Falcón called Ramírez again.

  ‘Have you got the printout of all calls made on Ricardo Gamero’s mobiles?’

  Ramírez crashed around the office for a minute and came back. Falcón gave him Barreda’s number.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Ramírez. ‘That was the last call he made on his personal mobile.’

  ‘While I think about it,’ said Falcón, ‘we need the list of calls the Imam made on his mobile. Especially the one he made in front of José Duran on Sunday morning, because that is the electricians’ mobile number.’

  The bar was half full of people. Everybody was looking at the television, ignoring their drinks. The news had just finished and now it was Lobo and Spinola. But Ramírez had been wrong, it wasn’t a press conference; they were being interviewed. Falcón walked through the bar, looking for a lone young man. Nobody nodded to him. He sat down at a table for two.

  The interviewer, a woman, was attacking Spinola. She could not believe that he hadn’t known about the campaign of terror conducted by Calderón against his wife. The Magistrado Juez Decano de Sevilla, an old-school pachyderm with saurian eyes and an easy, but quite alarming, smile, was not uncomfortable with his moment in the hot seat.

  Falcón tuned out of the pointless argument. Spinola was not going to be drawn. The female interviewer had lost herself in the emotional aspect of the case. She should have been hitting Spinola on Calderón’s ability to perform and his integrity as a judge in the investigation. Instead she was looking for some riveting personal revelation and she had gone to precisely the wrong man for it.

  A young guy in a suit caught Falcón’s eye. They introduced themselves and sat down. Falcón ordered a couple of coffees and some water.

  ‘You people are having a hard time,’ said Barreda, tilting his head at the TV.

  ‘We’re used to it,’ said Falcón.

  ‘So how many times has it happened that a Juez de Instrucción has been found trying to dispose of his wife’s dead body during a major international terrorism investigation?’

  ‘About as many times as a valued member of an antiterrorist squad has committed suicide during a major international terrorism investigation,’ said Falcón. ‘How long have you known Ricardo Gamero?’

  ‘A couple of years,’ said Barreda, subdued by Falcón’s swift response.

  ‘Was he a friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you didn’t just see him at Mass on Sundays?’

  ‘We met occasionally during the week. We both like classical music. We used to go to concerts together. Informáticalidad had season tickets.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘On Sunday.’

  ‘I understand that Informáticalidad use San Marcos and other churches to recruit employees. Did anybody else from the company know Ricardo Gamero?’

  ‘Of course. We’d go for coffee after Mass and I’d introduce him around. That’s normal, isn’t it? Just because he’s a cop doesn’t mean he can’t talk to people.’

  ‘So you knew he was in the antiterrorist squad of the CGI.’

  Barreda stiffened slightly as he realized he’d been caught out.

  ‘I’ve known him two years. It came out eventually.’

  ‘Do you remember when?’

  ‘After about six months. I was trying to recruit him to Informáticalidad, making him better and better offers, until finally he told me. He said it was like a vocation and he wasn’t going to change his career.’

  �
��A vocation?’

  ‘That was the word he used,’ said Barreda. ‘He was very serious about his work.’

  ‘And his religion,’ said Falcón. ‘Did he feel the two were bound up together?’

  Barreda stared at Falcón, trying to see inside.

  ‘You were a friend he met at church, after all,’ said Falcón. ‘I would have thought you were bound to talk about the Islamic threat. And then once it came out…the nature of his work, I mean. It would seem a natural progression to at least discuss the connection.’

  Barreda sat back with an intake of breath and looked around the room, as if for inspiration.

  ‘Did you ever meet Paco Molero?’ asked Falcón.

  Two blinks. He had.

  ‘Well, Paco,’ continued Falcón, ‘said that Ricardo, by his own admission, had been a fanatic, that he’d only just managed to transform himself from being an extremist to being merely devout. And that he’d managed to achieve this through a fruitful relationship with a priest, who died recently of cancer. Where would you describe yourself as being on that integral scale between say, lapsed and fanatical?’

  ‘I’ve always been very devout,’ said Barreda. ‘There’s been a priest in every generation of my family.’

  ‘Including your own?’

  ‘Except mine.’

  ‘Is that something you feel…disappointed by?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Was that one of the attractions of the culture at Informáticalidad?’ said Falcón. ‘It sounds a bit like a seminary, but with a capitalist aim.’

  ‘They’ve always been very good to me there.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a danger that people with like minds and with the same intensity of faith might become, in the absence of a balancing outside influence, drawn towards an extreme position?’

  ‘I’ve heard of that happening in cults,’ said Barreda.

  ‘How would you describe a cult?’

  ‘An organization with a charismatic leader, that uses questionable psychological techniques to control its followers.’

  Falcón left that hanging, sipped his coffee and took the top off his water. He glanced up at the television to see that Lobo and Spinola had now been replaced by Elvira and del Rey.

  ‘The apartment which Informáticalidad bought on Calle Los Romeros near the mosque—did you ever go there?’

  ‘Before it was bought they asked me to look at it to see if it was suitable.’

  ‘Suitable for what?’ asked Falcón. ‘Diego Torres told me…’

  ‘You’re right. There wasn’t much to look at. It was entirely suitable.’

  ‘How upset were you by Ricardo’s death?’ asked Falcón. ‘That’s a terrible thing for a devout Catholic to do: to kill himself. No last rites. No final absolution. Do you know why people commit suicide?’

  A frown had started up on Marco’s forehead. A trembling frown. He was staring into his coffee, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to control emotion.

  ‘Some people kill themselves because they feel responsible for a catastrophe. Other people suddenly lose the impetus for carrying on. We all have something that glues us into place—a lover, friends, family, work, home, but there are other extraordinary people who are glued into place by much bigger ideals. Ricardo was one of those people: a remarkable man with great religious faith and a vocation. Is that what he suddenly lost when that bomb exploded on 6th June?’

  Barreda sipped his coffee, licked the bitter foam from his lips and replaced the cup with a rattle in its saucer.

  ‘I was very upset by his death,’ said Barreda, just to stop the barrage of words from Falcón. ‘I have no idea why he committed suicide.’

  ‘But you recognize what it means for a man of his faith to do that?’

  Barreda nodded.

  ‘You know who Ricardo’s other great friend was?’ asked Falcón. ‘Miguel Botín. Did you know him?’

  No reaction from Barreda. He knew him. Falcón piled on the pressure.

  ‘Miguel was Ricardo’s source in the mosque. A Spanish convert to Islam. They were very close. They had great respect for each other’s faith. I have a feeling that it was as much Miguel Botín as Ricardo’s old priest, that pulled him back from the brink of fanaticism to something more reasonable. What do you think?’

  Barreda had his elbows up on the table, his fingertips pressed into his forehead and his thumbs pushing into his cheekbones, hard enough for the skin to turn white.

  Falcón had Barreda right there on the brink, but he couldn’t get him to move that last centimetre. His mind seemed locked in a state of great uncertainty and doubt. Falcón still had his ace up his sleeve, but what about the drawing? If he showed it to him and the man was unrecognizable he would lose his present advantage, but if it was a close likeness it could blow the whole thing open. He decided to play the ace.

  ‘The last time you saw Ricardo was on Sunday,’ said Falcón. ‘But it wasn’t the last time you spoke to him, was it? Do you know who was the last person on earth that Ricardo spoke to before he hanged himself out of his bedroom window? The last number on the list of mobile calls he made?’

  Silence, apart from the television burble at the far end of the café.

  ‘What did he say to you, Marco?’ asked Falcón. ‘Were you able to give him absolution for his sins?’

  The whole bar suddenly erupted. All the men were on their feet, hurling insults at the television. A couple of empty plastic bottles were thrown, which glanced off the TV, whose screen was full of del Rey’s face.

  ‘What did he say?’ Falcón asked the man nearest to him, who was shouting: ‘Cabrón! Cabrón!’ in time with the rest of the men in the bar.

  ‘He’s trying to tell us that it might not have been Islamic terrorists after all,’ said the man, his tremendous belly quivering with rage. ‘He’s trying to tell us that it could have been our own people who’ve done this. Our own people, who want to blow up an apartment block and schools, and kill innocent men, women and children? Go back to Madrid, you fucking wanker.’

  Falcón turned back to Marco Barreda, who looked stunned by the reaction around him.

  ‘Fuck off back to Madrid, cabrón’!

  The bar owner stepped in and changed the channel before someone put a glass bottle through the screen. The men settled back into their chairs. The fat guy nudged Falcón.

  ‘The other judge, he beat his wife, but at least he knew what he was talking about.’

  The television showed another current affairs programme. The interviewer introduced her two guests. The first was Fernando Alanis, whose introduction was lost in applause from the bar. They knew him. He was the one who’d lost his wife and son, and whose daughter had miraculously survived and was now fighting for her life in hospital. Falcón realized that this was the man they were all going to believe. It didn’t matter what he said, his tragedy had conferred on him a legitimacy that Juez del Rey’s vast experience and command of the facts totally lacked. In the other chair was Jesús Alarcón, the new leader of Fuerza Andalucía. The bar was silent, listening intently. These were the people who were going to tell them the truth.

  Barreda excused himself to go to the toilet. Falcón sat back from the table in a state of shock. He’d lost all the leverage he’d just created. Why hadn’t Elvira given del Rey the message that he shouldn’t mention the other angle of the investigation? Now that the mistake had been made, it was clear that, even as an enquiry, let alone a possible truth, it was totally unacceptable to the local populace.

  The topic of the TV discussion was immigration. The interviewer’s first question was irrelevant, as Fernando had come to the cameras well primed. There wasn’t a sound in the bar as he started to talk.

  ‘I’m not a politician. I’m sorry to say this in front of Sr Alarcón, who is a man I’ve grown to respect over the days since the explosion, but I don’t like politicians and I don’t believe a word they say, and I know I’m not alone. I am here today to tell you how it is. I’m not
an opinion-maker. I am a labourer who works on a building site, and I used to have a family,’ said Fernando, who had to stop momentarily as his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. ‘I lived in the apartment block in El Cerezo which was blown up on Tuesday. I know from the media people I’ve met over the last few days that they would like to believe, and they would like the world to believe, that we live in a harmonious and tolerant modern society here in Spain. In talking to these people I realized why this is the case. They are all intelligent people, far more intelligent than a mere labourer, but the truth of the matter is that they do not live the life that I do. They are well off, they live in nice houses, in good areas, they take regular holidays, their children go to good schools. And it is from this point of view that they look at their country. They want it to continue in the way that it appears to them.

  ‘I live…I mean, I lived in a horrible apartment in a nasty block, surrounded by lots of other ugly blocks. Not many of us have cars. Not many of us take holidays. Not many of us have enough money to last the month. And we are the people living with the Moroccans and the other North Africans. I am a tolerant person. I have to be. I work on building sites where there is a lot of cheap immigrant labour. I have a respect for people’s rights to believe in whichever god they want to, and to attend whichever church or mosque they want to. But since 11th March 2004 I have become suspicious. Since that day, when 191 people died in those trains, I have wondered where the next attack is coming from. I am not a racist and I know that the terrorists are very few out of a large population, but the problem is that…I don’t know who they are. They live with me, they live in my society, they enjoy its prosperity, until one day they decided to put a bomb under my apartment block and kill my wife and son. And there are many of us who have lived in suspicion and fear since 11th March until last Tuesday, 6th June. And now it is we who are angry.’

  Barreda came back from the toilet. He had to go. Falcón followed him out into the heat and fierce light of the street. All his advantage and initiative had gone. They stood under the awning of the bar and shook hands. Barreda was back to normal. He’d recomposed himself in the toilet and perhaps been strengthened by listening to Fernando Alanis’s speech on his way back.