A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  He barely breathed, his eyes fixed on her. In an instant they had gone past him and he watched their backs as they carried on up the road. The woman in the middle made another joke, and the three of them broke into laughter again, placing their arms around each other.

  It took a few seconds for Cámara to realise that the water had been placed on the table. He picked up the bill, left the correct money on the metal saucer, stood up and walked away, leaving the bottle unopened.

  THIRTY-SIX

  HE HAD CONTROL over his urination. The valve in his urethra had been undamaged by the bullet, and so he could hold on or pass water like any other person.

  But they did not know that.

  At night-time he was provided with a nappy, which he wore to keep up pretences. But during the day the key to his cell clunked open every half-hour to let him out and visit the toilet. For the first few hours they had changed the guard detailed with this unusual task every three or four visits, but today the same man – called Mata – had been coming to his door, swinging it open and escorting him the few metres through the cells to the primitive bathroom at the end of the corridor. Mata was a big and simple-looking man. Doubtless the others had persuaded him to take on this duty for his entire shift. But he was young – probably no more that twenty-five years old – and did not appear to mind too much: it helped to relieve some of the boredom of being on cell-block duty.

  ‘Hello again,’ Mata chirped as he twisted the key for the tenth time.

  Terreros got up and stood squarely in the centre of his cell.

  ‘Thank you, Mata,’ he said, and stepped out into the corridor.

  There were other men in some of the cells; Terreros had calculated that there were three others apart from himself. They were practically invisible as he walked past, however: the bars over the doors were thick, leaving only thin gaps to peer through inside, making it practically impossible to see anything or anyone unless he deliberately stopped to check. But no matter; they were locked up, could do no harm.

  Mata fell into his wake as they ambled slowly along, the routine now well established between them: opening his cell, the short trip to the bathroom door – a total of sixteen paces. There Terreros would stop and Mata would lean in from behind to open it for him, sliding the bolt and turning another key. Terreros then stepped inside and Mata would close the door behind him. The first few times he had slid the bolt shut and turned the key as well – the regulation belt-and-braces approach. But Terreros noticed that the last three times he had forgone the lock, merely sliding the bolt across on its own.

  Once inside, he would consciously open and close the door of one of the toilet cubicles, making sure that he made enough noise for Mata to hear him. Usually he did not need to pee, and would stretch a little, limbering his arms and shoulders, keeping them as loose as possible. Then he would flush the toilet, wash his hands, perhaps splash his face with water, dry himself, and knock on the door that he was ready to come out.

  This time, however, he really did need to urinate. Not wanting to touch the toilet seat with his hands, he flipped it down with his foot, undid his belt, lowered his trousers and squatted. The tiny opening just in front of his anus had acted perfectly well for the past twenty years, the only real disadvantage being that he could not piss standing up any more; he had tried once, but it merely trickled down his leg.

  The doctors had talked about the possibility of reconstructive surgery. There was nothing left of his genitals to recover or rebuild, but they could take some flesh from his forearm, they said, and do something with that. With an implant he could even achieve some kind of erection. Many men had gone down that route, they assured him, and lived full and satisfying lives.

  And he had laughed at them. At them and their pathetic euphemisms. They could not understand when he refused. Stitch him up, close the wound, make a new hole for bodily functions and he would live with that.

  They had insisted: new methods had been developed, they could do incredible things nowadays. But he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

  How could they understand? Weak men, with only thoughts of comfort, of ‘well-being’ in their minds. What use was ‘quality of life’ if you were already dead? And although they healed the sick, held back physical mortality for so many, he saw them all as dead. Dead in a real, spiritual sense. God himself, he knew, had sent that bullet for him, had cleansed him, purified him through his sacred wound. He did not need to spend his days in an endless quest to satiate lust and desire. The sin of Adam had been erased from him, blotted out. His mutilation was his salvation. How could anyone else possibly understand?

  He folded a piece of toilet paper and dabbed his groin dry before standing and hitching up his trousers.

  Of course, total purity was impossible to achieve in this world. Only Christ himself was capable of that, and so his occasional visits to Sandrita in Ceuta were necessary, justified, logical. They cleansed him once again, made new his purity, kept him focused. And besides, that stage was finished now. He could forget her; he would not be seeing her again. The new phase had begun.

  There was only cold water in the taps. He turned them both on and buried his hands in the stream circling in the basin, looking at his scratchy reflection in the polished metal mirror. The details were unclear, but he knew his own face well, his light brown eyes flecked with small spots of black and yellow.

  He stared back, trying to observe himself as though looking at another person. He liked his eyes; they had a decisiveness about them. Action and intelligence.

  He turned off the taps and leaned over to hit the button on the dryer on the wall. For a few seconds hot air blasted down on his limp, dripping hands. He finished them off on the sides of his trousers and walked back to the door, rapping on it sharply with the knuckle of his middle finger.

  The bolt slid back and the policeman stood before him with a curt nod.

  ‘All right there?’

  Terreros stepped out into the corridor, ready to march back to his cell.

  ‘Thank you, Mata,’ he said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THERE WERE SCUFF marks on the floor, the air conditioning rattled loudly and the polyester sheets had ancient cigarette burns in them at the corners. The Pensión Francia was not luxurious, but it was central – just off the Plaza del Ayuntamiento – relatively inexpensive and more importantly had a single room free with an ensuite bathroom. Although that was ‘bathroom’ in the broadest sense of the term: a sink, toilet and shower basin so small he could barely move in it. Still, it was enough; he could live with it for a while.

  He had sworn at the shaking air vent during the night, but he knew that the real reason he had slept so badly was the slow creeping acid corroding his mind, so that by the early hours his body had started jerking in wrought, angry spasms.

  Over twenty-four hours, now, of separation. She needed time alone, she said, away from him. And although the idea had cut into him deeply, he had accepted it. Not least because he reasoned that by giving her what she wanted he would have a greater chance of her coming back to him eventually.

  But she had appeared so happy, so contented in the street with her friends. So easy and comfortable in herself. Without him. As though a weight had been lifted. She was not suffering without him as he was without her. She was glowing.

  A broken, restless shadow of sleep had only come shortly before dawn. Now it was eight o’clock and his eyes opened wide through some will of their own. After five minutes he gave up trying to force them shut and lifted himself from the bed.

  His phone was on the table on the other side of the room. His only thought was to give her a ring. Just to say hello, that he missed her. That he loved her. She had asked him not to get in touch, that the only way this would work would be by their having a complete break from each other. And he understood. Yet still he wanted to call. She might like it – a romantic gesture. How could she not?

  The knot tightened harder within him.

  Have a shower
first. At least wake properly before picking up the phone. And in the meantime he could work out exactly what he was going to say. It would be important to get the words right. And it still gave him a chance to change his mind about doing it in the first place. It could work, or it could fuck things up. Even more. Call, or no call? It was barely even a question any more, so confused was his thinking.

  He turned on the water and stepped into the shower, steadying himself against the wall, feeling the cool torrent cascade over this shoulders. Soon the clear waters around his feet were joined by the yellow stream of piss as he relaxed his bladder. It was a natural disinfectant, he told himself, calming his guilt as it popped up among the many shouting voices. In a place as grotty as this he should probably have urinated into the shower before stepping into it.

  Droplets fell from his scalp, through the hair above his forehead and into his eyes before trickling down his cheeks and into his mouth. They tasted salty.

  He indulged himself for a few minutes, changing the temperature from hot to cold and back again several times. A poor man’s sauna, he liked to think of it as. It helped him to relax a little, a pause, a parenthesis.

  Finally, he turned off the taps, slid the plastic panel open and reached for the towel. Inside the room, his phone was ringing.

  He slid on wet feet as he jumped out and ran to pick it up. Alicia. He knew it was Alicia. She had had a change of heart. She wanted him back. Everything was going to be all right.

  He pressed the button and lifted it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  His neck throbbed with a heavy pulse.

  ‘Cámara.’ It was a male voice. ‘This is Carlos.’

  ‘Carlos?’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m …’ he began. A pool of water was forming beneath him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Meet me in five minutes at the usual place.’

  He registered something in Carlos’s voice that he had not heard before: excitement.

  ‘Terreros has escaped from custody,’ said Carlos. ‘He’s on the run.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CARLOS WAS STANDING by the main entrance to the cathedral and started strolling away across the square before Cámara reached him. Catch up with me, his body language said. We need to talk away from the main crowd.

  Cámara was still trying to call Torres, to find out what he knew, but his number was engaged. He gave up in frustration, put his phone in his pocket and fell in step with Carlos. The CNI agent immediately began to speak in a low yet audible voice.

  ‘You managed to get through to anyone?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Cámara. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It seems that Terreros had help,’ he said. ‘One of your own. A man named Mata.’

  Cámara shook his head: he had never heard of him.

  ‘He was on guard duty down in the cells,’ continued Carlos. ‘They got friendly. Mata knocked the other guard out cold, then escorted Terreros out to a squad car and drove him away.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  The drama of the situation fuelled Cámara’s concentration, sparking him into life: the sleepless night, the angst over Alicia, were gone.

  Carlos looked at his watch: it was just after half-past eight.

  ‘Almost two hours ago. But the alarm has only just been raised.’

  ‘I need to get back to the Jefatura.’

  This was his case, his suspect. The fact that Terreros had – unbelievably – managed to break out was his concern. He could not remember anyone ever escaping from the police cells. It might even be the first time. The serious crime that his two-man squad was investigating had suddenly become even more serious.

  Carlos did not look at him, keeping his eyes ahead as they strolled round towards the side of the cathedral and the archbishop’s palace, but now he stopped and stared Cámara in the face.

  ‘No,’ he said. Then paused. ‘At least not just yet.’ A sigh.

  ‘There are things I need to tell you first.’

  He started pacing again; Cámara followed. And listened.

  ‘What I’m about to say is top secret,’ said Carlos. ‘It wasn’t necessary for you to know it before, but I believe it is now. And I’m sticking my neck out by telling you, but this isn’t a moment for going by the book. We’re in a full-scale emergency. And we need you.’

  Cámara adjusted his pace so that it mirrored Carlos’s exactly, his hands behind his back, just like the spy’s.

  Carlos took a breath, then continued.

  ‘You’ll have guessed by now that Terreros’s Veteran Legionarios’ Welfare Association was a front for something else. He’s concerned about his former comrades all right, but not exactly about protecting their pension rights. Or rather, some of what he does involves that, but behind it there’s another secret operation running in parallel.’

  He paused as a couple of schoolgirls with bright rucksacks on their backs skipped past on their way to the first class of the morning.

  ‘We know that over the years Terreros has built up a network of ex-legionarios,’ said Carlos. ‘He’s running a private secret service, if you like. Paid for by money from Segarra, who’s secretly far more right-wing than he publicly lets on. Espionage, security …’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘And sabotage, almost certainly.’

  ‘Terrorism,’ said Cámara.

  ‘This isn’t the time to start arguing over nomenclature.’ Until now Carlos’s voice had been low, almost gentle. But for a second he lost his calm. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  At the archbishop’s palace they swung left, gravitating towards the quieter side streets where there was less chance of being overheard. Cámara was aware of Carlos breathing deeply, trying to compose himself. And curiously it made him feel calmer by comparison: the CNI man seemed disturbed.

  ‘You think Terreros is dangerous,’ he said.

  ‘We have to work on that assumption,’ said Carlos.

  ‘This network …’

  ‘We know little about it.’ Carlos laughed drily. ‘All we know for certain is that is exists and Terreros is at its head. But we don’t know who else is involved, how many operatives he has or what he’s planning. Only that he is planning something. And given who he is, his background and a disturbing lack of concern for human suffering, our fears could not be greater.’

  ‘Segarra was involved,’ said Cámara. ‘Possibly still is.’

  ‘Correct.’ Carlos nodded. ‘But our information is that he was a paymaster, nothing more. He can’t tell us anything.’

  The implication was clear: the CNI had been monitoring Segarra, probably for some time.

  ‘Alarm bells have been ringing about Terreros for several years,’ Carlos continued. ‘And we’ve been trying to get a handle on his organisation, shed light on it in some way. But so far we haven’t come up with very much. My superiors would kill me if they could hear me telling you this, but right now I think it’s only best if we get things out into the open. There’ll be time for finger-pointing and recriminations later.’

  ‘I’m assuming,’ said Cámara, ‘that his agenda is …’ He left the sentence for Carlos to finish.

  ‘Terreros is a conservative churchgoer. Unmarried. The Legión is his family. He believes in everything that it stands for – tradition, old-fashioned values, the unity of the Spanish State. You get the picture.’

  ‘So why are you trying to stop him?’ asked Cámara. ‘Are you trying to tell me these aren’t the same ideas that the current government – your superiors – espouse?’

  ‘You’re not an idiot, Cámara,’ Carlos spat. ‘Don’t act like one. These things are more complex. Terreros is a loose cannon. We had him under virtual house arrest down in Ceuta. We could control him there. But now he’s on the mainland and he’s on the run.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’ said Cámara. ‘As you say, best to get everything out in the open. And if I’m going to have a chance of ca
tching him—’

  ‘Five minutes before I called you,’ said Carlos, ‘I got a message saying the squad car Terreros escaped in had been found north of the city, in Saplaya. You’ll find all this out when you get back to the Jefatura. Not least because Mata’s body was inside it.’

  Cámara’s breath caught in his throat.

  ‘He’d been shot in the head,’ said Carlos.

  They stopped. Cámara coughed and put his hand against a wall.

  ‘Be in no doubt as to how dangerous Terreros is,’ said Carlos, glancing to the sides to see if anyone was around before continuing. ‘Or how dangerous the situation is.’

  Cámara took a breath before they carried on walking.

  ‘Saplaya,’ he said. ‘Switch cars …’

  ‘Get rid of Mata – possibly there was another accomplice there.’

  ‘Someone had to leave a car there for him at least,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And then …’ Cámara paused. ‘Carry on driving north.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ said Carlos.

  ‘To Catalonia.’

  ‘That is our working assumption.’ Carlos’s face was a picture of tightly controlled emotion. ‘Is it falling into place for you now?’ he said.

  ‘He’s going to—’ Cámara started.

  ‘I’m going to share something else with you,’ Carlos interrupted him. ‘Something I shouldn’t but which is necessary given the circumstances.’

  Cámara was silent.

  ‘Our understanding,’ said Carlos, ‘is that the govern, the Catalan regional government, is planning a unilateral declaration of independence. The assassination of Segundo Pont has changed the political landscape. There has been a lurch away from his more moderate position. The radicals are in full control now, and they want to seize their opportunity.’

  ‘I’ve heard talk,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Yes, well, the rumours are true. It’s totally unconstitutional, of course, but the Catalans are intent on forcing the agenda. Tensions with Madrid have never been higher. And I’m choosing my words carefully.’