Mala Vida

by Marc Fernandez

  Only a few minutes after Isabel’s departure, one of the two computer programmers still in the office decides to follow her lead. Hours of coding have worn him out. That leaves only one person left in the NASB’s headquarters, and it will be up to him to lock up and set the alarm on his way out. But he’s not ready to leave yet. There are still a few things he wants to wrap up, and he has an important call to make. He waits a minute to make sure he is alone, then he begins to walk through the office, riffling through papers lying about and even taking photos of a few of them. Then he sits at Isabel’s desk and turns her computer on. No security code. No password. He grins, marveling at what amateurs these sorry people are. He inserts a flash drive and saves onto it a copy of the list of names and addresses of everyone who has contacted the NASB since its launch. The process takes only a few seconds. After double-checking that he is leaving everything as he found it, he turns off the laptop and the lights and leaves the premises. He is barely out the door when the person he has just phoned picks up.

  “It’s done,” he says.

  On the other end of the line, a deep, almost cavernous voice answers him.

  “Good. Continue to follow instructions. You have an appointment in exactly thirty minutes. Go there directly.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  At home now, Isabel’s day isn’t over yet. She knows she still has something important to do. And it’s not something to be taken lightly. Before getting started, she pours herself a glass of Rioja and removes from the fridge some sliced bellota (the best serrano ham there is, a small luxury that she allows herself from time to time) and a whole camembert. Purists would be scandalized by her combination of this ham, a treasure of Spain’s gastronomic heritage, with cheese—moreover, a French cheese. But some people will never change. Isabel may be Spanish, but she is no less French. The advantage of holding two nationalities is that you can have the best of both worlds. She gets comfortable on the couch with her dinner tray and turns on the television. After zapping frenetically through the channels, she stops at a rerun of a crime telenovela, Sin tetas no hay paraíso (No tits, no paradise). She had heard of this soap opera about Colombian drug traffickers when she was living in France; the title made her laugh out loud at the time. She eats her dinner slowly to savor it and finishes her glass of wine, then gets up to fish a thick blue folder out of a chest of drawers in the dining room. It is bursting at the seams and marked with a white label on which she has written in black marker a single number: 4.

  She opens it and begins to look through pages she printed out from different Internet sites, having carefully laid out on the coffee table a series of photos of a man in a business suit. If she wants to pull off their meeting tomorrow, she needs to check some details, go back over a few documents, and, most importantly, clean her weapon.

  7

  A LARGE MANILA envelope was sitting in front of Diego’s apartment door this morning. He almost tripped over it as he was leaving. No name, no address, and, obviously, no return address either. As a journalist, he is used to receiving compromising documents on this or that public or political figure; sometimes they are copies of police statements or anonymous letters accusing someone known to the sender of the most heinous acts and threats. Until now, however, Diego has only ever been sent these at work, never at home. Who in the world could have left these documents at his front door? Who has his address, and who could even get inside his building? He’s asking himself these questions as he walks toward the exit and begins breaking the seal. He sticks his hand in and cuts his thumb on a paper clip that is holding a handwritten note:

  When you have finished reading these pages, the only thing left for you to do is get on a flight to Paris. My source is waiting for you there. She is ready to tell you everything.

  It is signed Isabel Ferrer.

  Reading the signature almost knocks the breath out of him. He turns back immediately. He has to see what’s in the envelope, right now. He clears away books, dishes, newspapers, glasses, and beer cans to make room on his dining room table. Cleaning and tidying were never his strong suits, and he has made even less of an effort these last few days. With a cup of strong coffee in one hand, he turns on his computer and pulls out the file the lawyer has left for him. He doesn’t know why, but he’s positive that it was Isabel Ferrer in person who came right to his front door.

  Diego can see almost immediately that he is holding indisputable evidence that at least one baby was taken by members of Franco’s regime from parents who were in the political opposition. If the association’s spokesperson can find others—and it will take a lot of others—she might be able to prove her accusation of a scandal, but the reach will depend on the number of children removed forcibly from their parents. A birth certificate dating back to the Franco era on which only a first name was recorded. A certificate of death dated the same day. Also, several notarial documents pertaining to the adoption of a little boy (the name was carefully crossed out) who was legally abandoned by his mother—apparently because she was too young to raise him. The other documents are in the same vein. All are photocopies, but Diego is sure that Isabel Ferrer has the originals locked up tight somewhere. In a smaller envelope, he finds a plane ticket for Paris and a note indicating an appointment with an address and a time. The flight leaves early the next morning: Vueling’s first plane of the day out of Madrid–Barajas Airport, leaving at 6:40 a.m. The return is for the same day, on the last flight and arriving in Madrid at 11:55 p.m. All of a sudden, tomorrow is stacking up to be quite a day.

  That only leaves him a few hours to get ready. As soon as he gets to his office, he checks that his recording equipment is working, puts more than one battery in the charger, just in case, and makes two copies of the file found on his doorstep. He plans to glean everything he can from it and from his meeting in Paris for his next show, even though he still can’t guess what he’s going to find out there. The envelope didn’t mention a name, only an address. However, the fact that the lawyer spent almost her whole life in Paris leads him to believe he is going to meet a key source in the French capital. Diego spends the rest of the day in his office, leaving for only a few minutes to grab a sandwich. During his break, he calls Ana to fill her in. She can’t help but laugh at Isabel Ferrer’s audacity and admire her for it too. They agree to meet at the end of the day so Diego can give Ana one of the copies he made of the file. One can never be too cautious under the circumstances. With documents as compromising as these, it will be safer if he shares them with a few trusted collaborators. For now, he still has to write up the running order sheet for Friday’s show and send it to both the producer and the on-air director. He has no intention, however, of giving them a heads-up as to what he has planned, so he makes a fake sheet outlining a phony but plausible show, part of which he might have aired if a file of papers and a trip to Paris hadn’t thrown a wrench into the works. He’ll keep the real show under wraps until the last possible moment; in other words, two minutes before airtime, just as he gets to the studio. It will be too late for his producer to put the brakes on the show, which promises to set off yet more fireworks. Radio Uno’s executives won’t be very amused. As usual. And, also as usual, Diego couldn’t give a damn.

  Trembling with impatience, Ana is standing at the bar with a half-drunk Coke Zero when Diego arrives at Casa Pepe. Before he even has a chance to sit on the stool next to her, she starts bombarding him with questions about the contents of the documents.

  “Look, just read them and see for yourself,” Diego teases her in reply, not without a smile.

  “Stop it! Tell me! Is there at least any proof of any kind of trafficking of children?”

  “Looks like it to me. But there’s something, in particular, that might interest you. … A notarial certificate signed by someone you know.”

  “What? Who?”

  “You can’t guess? Didn’t Isabel Ferrer ask you to investigate De La Vega? It can’t be pure coincidence. He played a key role in the adoption of a lit
tle boy in 1946, signing all the paperwork. It’s not implausible to conclude he was part of the whole system.”

  “I remember seeing something like that when I was investigating him,” Ana replies. “But I didn’t think too much about it. I just thought it was part of his job. But, hold on … Could that have something to do with his murder?”

  “No clue. As far as I can tell, it’s too early to jump to conclusions. The old man certainly had a lot of friends in high places, but he had just as many enemies, too, who could be capable of anything. Let’s say it’s one of any number of hypotheses that could be worth checking out.”

  He orders a beer and grills Ana on her meeting with Isabel Ferrer. The private detective tells Diego how she waited for hours in front of the NASB’s headquarters until she finally saw its spokesperson arrive, then sums up their brief discussion. Ana also explains to Diego how she had to offer her services to the association.

  “Well, I should have expected that,” Diego tells her. “You’re right to do it. And they’re going to need an investigator with your talents. But try to remain discrete all the same. I wouldn’t want something to happen to you. If this lawyer is right, this could go down very badly. And you know as well as I do that the government won’t hesitate to use any means necessary, legal or illegal, to protect itself. They did it with the ETA; they can do it again.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing,” says Ana. “I’ll remind you that I escaped without a scratch from under the boot of the Argentine generals. Well, almost without a scratch. In any case, someone’s got to do it, and it may as well be me. And that way, I’ll be the first to find out anything, and I can pass it straight to you. But listen, you’ve got a plane to catch at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Try not to miss it, will you? Don’t stay up all night.”

  “Yes, Mommy!”

  Diego walks home feeling reassured on the one hand and worried on the other. With Ana working for the NASB and in close contact with Isabel Ferrer, he can be sure he will be the first and the best-informed journalist in all of Madrid. He wonders, though, if his friend isn’t putting herself in harm’s way. He knows only too well where that can lead.

  She made the right choice to rent a full-size sedan. At the very least, it’s comfortable: leather interior, tinted windows, and deep, wide seats. She can even stretch out her legs. On the passenger seat, she has spread out a couple of files. On the dashboard, she has placed the envelope labeled “4.” She won’t need to look at that again. By now, she has memorized its contents by heart. And she knows exactly what her target looks like. After leaving Madrid, Isabel drove for thirty minutes until she got to the ultra-chic Moraleja district, located ten miles or so from the city center. She drove twice along its perimeter, then several times past a large, white villa with red shutters that had a high wrought-iron fence and a thick hedge protecting the house from prying eyes. She finally parked on the edge of the forest that circles this affluent enclave and that is home to Spain’s wealthiest and most famous personalities.

  One of these is Adolfo Ibañez. The president and CEO of the Mediterranean Savings Bank was born and raised here. Adolfo’s father founded and built the bank and was one of Franco’s financiers. His father also played an indispensable role in a number of financial transactions, some of which allowed certain groups on the far right, such as the Phalanx, to line their coffers. He ruled over his bank with an iron fist right up until he died, which was an eventuality he had prudently anticipated by handing the reins off to his son. For the last ten years, Adolfo has run the bank that made its fortune in the Franco era, and then he dropped off the radar before returning to prominence in the wake of the APM’s election victory. Easy enough to do when certain cabinet ministers draw fees from the bank by serving on its board of directors. Twenty-five thousand euros for a place at the table, a perfectly legal guarantee of currying favor in the halls of power. It was also a form of insurance against the possibility that any legislation that would force banks to prevent money laundering or to report on the financing of political parties could tarnish its reputation and put a damper on its booming business.

  Isabel wasn’t surprised to discover a link between the APM and Mediterranean Savings Bank. To tell the truth, it doesn’t even interest her. What does interest her is whether Adolfo Ibañez is going jogging today. Whether he will leave his house, take a left, continue on into the forest, run around the lake, and follow the same route to return home. It is an hour-long jog that he takes three or four times a week, early in the morning or late in the evening, depending on his work. She bet that he would get a workout in the morning today. So she drove out in the middle of the night. Since 3:00 a.m., she has been waiting for him, comfortable in her luxury rental car, which she has parked discreetly at the head of a small trail. The banker should run very close to where she is. But he won’t see her.

  It’s still dark outside. A baroque ensemble is playing softly through the car’s speakers: the final notes of Mozart’s Requiem, sung by the exceptional voices of the Montserrat Boys Choir. Isabel likes to let her thoughts drift away on a piece of classical music. It calms her. Makes her feel better. She set her phone alarm in case she dozes off, which is exactly what happens. Her iPhone’s beeping pulls her out of a light sleep. It’s five o’clock, and the forest is waking up, but the residents of Moraleja are still in bed. She rubs her eyes and wipes a damp towel across her face, takes a thermos from a plastic bag, and pours herself a cup of hot coffee. She even risks getting out of the car to stretch her legs and answer the call of nature. She’s been holding it in for hours and can’t wait any longer. Anyways, she’ll have a better chance of hitting her target if she doesn’t have to pee. The only observer of her quick escapade is a passing deer. No reason for alarm: the animal is unlikely to go to the cops to report seeing a woman crouching in the bushes just before Adolfo Ibañez died.

  Before getting back in the car, Isabel opens one of the rear doors and pulls out a long black case. She removes a rifle and places a telescopic sight on it and a silencer on its barrel. She takes five bullets and loads them into the magazine. She’s feeling very sure of herself, but she prefers to have enough ammunition for any eventuality. It is the first time she will take aim from such a long distance. Even with the sight, she tells herself that she might have to shoot more than once to hit him. Especially since her target will be moving.

  The sky is starting to lighten. It will be sunrise any minute. Isabel takes her seat in the car and lays the rifle down next to her. Her plan is to let the banker run by once before setting herself up for his return approximately thirty minutes later. That’s when she’ll have to leave the comfortable interior. She’ll take position outside behind the engine, which she’ll use to steady herself and hide partially from view. At exactly 6:12 a.m., Adolfo Ibañez runs quickly past Isabel at a distance of about one hundred and fifty feet. He suspects nothing. Only minutes away now. Isabel lights a cigarette, smokes about half of it, takes a few sips of water, then decides to pick up the rifle. She lays a blanket near the front right tire so as not to get herself wet in the morning dew. She waits. At 6:47 a.m., she spies in the distance the silhouette she has been waiting for: her target. He is coming, headphones on, his face redder than it was before. Isabel picks up the rifle, kneels down, steadies herself against the car, and looks through the sight. Adolfo Ibañez appears, as if he were a character in a video game. Almost unreal. Isabel inhales deeply, holds her breath, aims at his forehead, and pulls the trigger. Less than a second later, the banker is lying on his back on the ground, blood running from a hole between his eyes.

  The lawyer doesn’t move for a full minute. Then, without even approaching the body to look for signs of life, she disassembles the rifle, picks up the shell that dropped at her feet, tidies up inside the car, and then puts the key unhurriedly into the ignition. It is not yet seven in the morning. She doesn’t want to take too long to get back to Madrid. The morning rush hour will start around eight o’clock. As she merges onto the
highway leading into the city, she can’t help but smile. It only took her a single shot. If her shooting instructor could see her now … Isabel thinks about the hours she spent at the police shooting range in Paris, located underneath a parking lot off a busy avenue near the Champs-Élysées. Call it a professional perk for criminal lawyers. Not many civilians are let in on the Paris cops’ best-kept secret. A rare exception can be made, however, for people they like, such as Isabel. She’s still feeling a little nostalgic as she closes the door of her apartment behind her, exhausted from her mostly sleepless night. She never even noticed the delivery van parked in front of her building.

  8

  DIEGO FEELS A hand on his shoulder and jumps. It is only the smiling flight attendant asking him to turn off his iPhone in preparation for landing. He does as he is told and takes off his headphones. He was listening to a live album by Noir Désir, a French rock band he discovered a few years ago but that he hasn’t listened to for a long time. As he was settling into his seat to catch up on lost sleep, the thought of waking up in Paris gave him the idea to try them again. It couldn’t hurt his French, either. He had been troubled by the story of this band and its lead singer, who went to prison for beating his girlfriend to death. He had even discussed the case on his show.

  He stretches as best he can, rubs his eyes, and looks out the window. The sky is overcast, but he can make out the outlines of Paris through the clouds. He can see the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Stade de France, where he was never so cold as that January day when France played Spain in the stadium’s opening match (who schedules an outdoor match in winter?). The Airbus continues its descent, and the Sacré-Cœur Basilica appears. In less than an hour, that’s where he’ll be, he tells himself. His appointment with an undivulged source as set up by Isabel Ferrer will take place precisely there, in the 18th arrondissement.