Suddenly, a small group of nuns leaves the sacristy and makes their way to the back of the chapel where Isabel is seated. She doesn’t move a muscle. Her eyes are riveted on the smallest one in the group, who is also the oldest. It’s her. Sister Marie-Carmen. She walks with a sprightly gait for someone in her eighties. Isabel hears the nuns laughing as they walk past, moving toward the garden. Then the group splits up. Some return to their rooms, others stay in the chapel, near the stairs at the entrance. Sister Marie-Carmen sits on the low stone wall that borders the garden. Her feet barely touch the ground. She reaches into a pocket for her rosary and leans against a pillar. Isabel watches her every movement as the entire scene unfolds. In five minutes, the first fireworks will go off. She approaches slowly. For the time being, the nun is alone, which is a stroke of luck. But it may not last. Silently, Isabel inches closer. She is hidden now behind another pillar, only a dozen feet from her target, who has noticed nothing. The first burst of firecrackers outside makes Sister Marie-Carmen start. She smiles and returns to her rosary. Now. The noise from outside is deafening. Isabel looks left and right: no one. She steps out from behind the pillar and walks quickly toward the nun. The sister raises her head just as Isabel points the gun at her. Before she can react, the noise of the gunshot dissolves into the detonations of the Mascletà. The lawyer catches Sister Marie-Carmen as she falls forward, then leans her body against the pillar, as if she were praying still. Her head rests on her chest, and a thin line of blood has stained her white-and-blue tunic. Less than thirty seconds later, Isabel walks out the back door and pushes her way through the crowd, the gun now stored neatly in her handbag. The Mascletà finishes with a closing salvo loud enough to rival a nuclear explosion and the public cries out and claps in approval.
Long after the crowds have dispersed, one of the two intelligence agents sent to keep an eye on Isabel is walking in the central square across from City Hall. He has been searching the streets of the historic city center since yesterday but with no luck. He knows she tricked him. It’s a sign that Isabel suspects something is up. For now, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. If he returns to Madrid without a single clue, his director is going to give him a royal dressing down. His colleagues’ mockery will be even worse. He and his partner are going to be teased about this for weeks. When he finally gives up and heads back to Madrid, Isabel has already been home for hours.
10
IT’S A TSUNAMI. A media storm the likes of which the country has not experienced in years. In reality, it has never experienced anything like it. Or almost never. The only time Spain has been shaken like this was on February 23, 1981, the day of the attempted coup d’état, which was subdued less than twenty-fours after it began. Diego can still remember it. He was nine years old at the time. It was the first time he stayed up all night. He and his parents were glued to their transistor radio listening to live reports. That was probably when he decided he wanted to become a journalist. Today, Diego is the one in the eye of the hurricane. And he isn’t the only one. Everyone is talking about his friend, David Ponce. The judge is in the hot seat. Rumors are flying, saying he’s going to be fired. A first for the Ministry of Justice since the dictatorship. Other rumors say he might be charged with abuse of power and wrongdoing. In the gilded chambers where the government and the monarchy sit, David’s show of support for the NASB could not have been greeted with any less enthusiasm. The minister of justice and the executive council of the Order of Magistrates (which has never worn its name so well as it does now—clearly taking orders from the government) are invoking the Amnesty Law. No one in this country wants to even try to understand the actions of the past: they would rather close their eyes. No looking back, ever. The leaders of the regime—if they’re still alive—and their descendants can rest easy. No one will trouble them or look into their affairs.
After Emilia’s story aired on his show, Diego met up with Ana at her apartment. He didn’t want to be alone. A drink would do him some good, preferably with someone he trusts. To talk about the scandal or to just get the scuttlebutt. Ever since Ana got involved with the NASB, they haven’t seen each other much. But he knows she still has her ear to the ground for him. Tonight would be a good occasion for each of them to update the other on their separate investigations and to get the other’s opinion. Ana always has good advice. Above all, her instincts are rarely wrong. Surprise: David Ponce was already there. He, too, needed someone to talk to tonight. So they share what they know, and what they’re thinking: hypotheses, leads, stories, and so on. The judge gives them a detailed account of his meeting with Isabel. The journalist recounts his trip to Paris, and the private investigator enumerates everything she has seen and heard at the NASB’s headquarters, including the news of Isabel’s attack. They make a wily trio, and they enjoy each other’s company—and many drinks—until the early hours of the morning.
Diego walks home. With his mind addled by fatigue and liquor, he is slow to react when someone dressed in black with a hoodie pulled down over his face accosts him a few feet from his building, blocking him from going any farther. The man doesn’t say much, but he still is able to hurt Diego.
“Diego Martin?”
“Yes, what’s this—?”
“Stop butting your nose in where it doesn’t belong, you fucking muckraker!”
That’s all the man says before doubling Diego over with a violent punch to the stomach. By the time Diego catches his breath and recovers his wits, his aggressor has vanished. Diego noticed something, however: the man was wearing a necklace with a pendant that resembled the Maltese cross. Diego was also struck by his voice, which was strangely gentle but firm at the same time and never rose into a yell.
As soon as Diego gets into his apartment, he calls Ana and David to warn them.
“Well, it’s getting so we’re going to have to watch our backs. Be careful, both of you, will you? That was just a friendly warning. Let’s not let them make it worse.”
“Don’t worry,” Ana reassures him. “We’ll be ready for them.”
Threats like these are common in their line of work. They have seen plenty of others. These attacks tell them one thing, though: they are making some people uncomfortable. Who? People in power, most likely, and they are starting to come out from the shadows. It’s normal that the government would feel threatened by the accusations of the NASB, but who could be behind these threats? These aren’t the preferred methods of the government’s thugs, who usually apply pressure in much more subtle ways. They’re going to have to widen their search.
Three days after the last explosive episode of Radio Confidential, the media is still covering the story 24/7, and the government is struggling to contain the fallout. The country has split in two. After the demonstrations set off by the economic crisis—to protest imposed austerity measures and draconian budget cuts to health care, in particular—even bigger and noisier ones are being announced in major cities. History’s scars, so hastily bandaged, are opening into a gaping wound again.
Radio Uno, under fire from the Ministry of Communications, is also struggling to get a handle on the situation. Caught between a rock and a hard place, the station directors called Diego in to announce they are pulling him off the air for a week, a punishment that not only gives the station a black eye but will affect their ratings, as they well know. Pulling the show that just scored record audiences is hardly a smart business move. The numbers don’t lie: over three million people tuned in during Emilia Ferrer’s interview. And that’s not even counting the hundreds of thousands more who downloaded the podcast. All told, over five million people listened to the show.
The Ministry of Justice is equally divided over the case of Judge David Ponce. The union that he presides over is reluctantly offering its support. In the corridors of the Audiencia Nacional, his colleagues are avoiding him. Better not to be seen with him, for now at least. The general consensus is that he is persona non grata. His meeting with the minister, which is said to have gone d
own violently, certainly didn’t help his case. According to some sources who were present and who quickly leaked the information to the press, the two men nearly exchanged blows. Shouts and insults. Doors slamming. Neither one would listen to the other. The judge is expected to be dismissed, not in a few days but in a matter of hours. It will be a dramatic move, and it will only set people more on edge. The ship of state is sailing for rough seas. Mayday!
Making matters worse, David has been receiving death threats since he appeared on Diego’s show. The old-fashioned way: a tiny wooden casket in his home mailbox. Another left at his office in the courthouse. Some more modern ones too. Dozens of emails. Offensive texts. “We’re going to kill you!” “Next stop: the cemetery!” “Death to the traitor!” “You’ll burn in Hell!” Some of them were sent by a fringe group going by the name of Francoists United. Others came from groups linked to Catholic extremists and people who were just nostalgic for the dictatorship. He filed complaints as a matter of principle, knowing nothing would come of it. He knows he doesn’t have much time left before they show him the door, maybe only a matter of hours. To stay a step ahead of his superiors, he has already prepared and signed the paperwork to open an investigation for crimes against humanity, kidnapping, and child trafficking. No matter his fate, it will take several weeks for his request to be examined in full, which should give Isabel Ferrer enough time to gather more proof. His likely replacement will do what he’s told until the Constitutional Court rules on the question. The judiciary apparatus has been officially set in motion. All he can do now is wait and pay the consequences—dearly, no doubt.
Too many people. Not enough room. A peculiar atmosphere has taken hold of the headquarters of the NASB. The offices are packed. People are standing and sitting anywhere they can. Both euphoria and anxiety hang in the air. The cheers of victory that greeted David Ponce’s announcement have given way to fear. The staff celebrated that first step in the direction of truth and justice. But today, they are afraid. Afraid that the judge will be removed. Afraid that the inquiry will be dismissed. And afraid, above all else, for themselves. Over the last few days, anonymous letters have been arriving. No one paid them much attention initially. The members of the executive committee were expecting the association to receive hate mail. However, this is something else: letters have started to arrive at the homes of everyone who ever had any contact at all with the association. The same letter for everyone. But personalized. “Dear (first name).” Followed by an incoherent message:
“You were a Red Commie, you are a Red Commie, and you will die a Red Commie.
Communist scum do not deserve to live or procreate. God protects His own. If He decided your child should die, then that’s the way it is. And if you think he is alive, which remains to be seen, know that the family that raised him gave him more than you ever could.”
An emergency meeting has been called. Isabel, who came home from Valencia the day before, asked Ana to come. The executive committee’s ten members are all present. Isabel’s face is drawn as she reveals to them that she was the victim of an attack, which isn’t the reassuring news they were hoping for.
“I have asked Ana to help us with this,” Isabel continues. “We were talking before the meeting, and she thinks that either we are still experiencing fallout from the computer hack or, and this would be worse, that we have been infiltrated by someone passing themselves off as a volunteer. In any case, we know that our members’ contact information has been stolen and that someone is using it with the intention of silencing us.”
No one says a word or looks at each other. A few people sigh, and others hold their heads in their hands. Ana jumps in; she’d rather not let their despair sink in if that’s still possible at this point.
“I want to start by saying that for the moment, we don’t know anything for sure. These are just hypotheses. No one on the executive committee is under suspicion, of course. If there is a leak, it’s not coming from here. On the other hand, let’s be clear: I’m not judging you, but I think that you were overwhelmed by everything that was happening early on, and because of the urgency of the situation, you let everyone in who wanted to help. Everyone and anyone at all, I’d go so far as to say. I’ve asked Isabel for her permission, and if you all also agree, I want to check the backgrounds of the principal volunteers, starting with the ones who joined after the press conference. I’ll need their names and contact information, from the entry-level receptionist to the most experienced IT specialist. It will take me a couple of days, so I’m counting on your discretion in the meantime. Not a word of this meeting to anyone else. And keep your eyes open; you never know.”
After an update on the legal situation and the growing pile of new cases that have arrived since Emilia’s interview aired, Isabel and Ana decide to continue their conversation outside, where they can speak freely. Until they know more about the origin of the leak, they have to take every precaution. What the lawyer didn’t tell the executive committee, so as not to frighten them even more, is that she has also received death threats at home. Exactly like the ones David Ponce received. The noose is tightening. She is going to have to move faster.
In the main room at headquarters, one of the computer programmers who offered his services the day of the hack and who stayed on to manage the tech operations hasn’t missed a beat of what has been happening in the office. Although he doesn’t know what was disclosed at the meeting, judging from the worried expressions on the faces of the committee members as they exited the room, he can guess that his plan is paying off. He turns his computer off and excuses himself to take a cigarette break. He tries to listen in on some of the conversations around him but decides it’s safer not to; he doesn’t want to attract any attention. When he is out on the sidewalk, he switches the SIM card in his phone and dials a number that he knows by heart.
“Father?”
“Yes, my son, what is it?”
“They’re panicking. The letters are getting to them. The lawyer isn’t doing any better, judging from the look on her face. What should I do now?”
“Good, very good. Come for your instructions tonight; same time, same place as the other day. In the meantime, don’t do anything except watch and listen.”
“Yes, Father. See you tonight.”
“May God bless you.”
11
IN THE MIDST of all this chaos, news has arrived that is diverting attention from the stolen babies: a nun has been murdered in Valencia. Diego is on it, of course. To tell the truth, he has some time on his hands. Since he was pulled off the air, he hasn’t left his apartment except for food, cigarettes, and coffee at Casa Pepe. He’s making the best of the situation to get some rest and has declined all invitations from the press, particularly the television stations, who wanted him to come on to “debate” the topic of the stolen babies. With Ana’s help, however, he has managed to get an appointment with Isabel Ferrer for the next day. Until then, he’s taking it easy. Putting the case aside for a day or two, he’ll be able to think more clearly when he comes back to it. He has also used the time to get caught up on his current obsession, True Detective. With everything happening lately, he has already missed half of the first season.
He has also allowed himself to surf the Internet for information on this latest murder. Browsing from site to site, Diego lost track of how he got to Levante, one of Valencia’s two regional dailies. Maybe he was looking for a video of the Falles festival, which has just ended. His wife Carolina loved the Falles. They went many times, although he would drag his feet because he found the racket of the Mascletà to be intolerable. But he always gave in to her. And he had to admit, he liked the energy of this city that closed its streets to traffic and became an immense open-air bar. He was still playing the memories in his head as he stared at the headline on the paper’s home page: “Who Gunned Down a Nun During the Falles? Our Exclusive Investigation.” He starts clicking on all the articles he can find, including a long one on Sister Marie-Carmen’s b
ackground. A Carmelite sister expertly assassinated during the Mascletà—there’s a story there, for sure. And one that is sure to become a topic on his show very soon. An unusual murder and little to nothing known about it except that the old nun was discovered in the cloister, shot in the head. The presumed time of death, according to the coroner and the statements of the other sisters, coincides exactly with the Mascletà. As for a motive, the police have come up empty.
He calls Ana to talk about this latest murder and to ask her to see what she can find out. The detective currently has her hands full running background checks on the NASB’s volunteers.
“Yes, I saw that. It’ll make quite a story for you, now that you mention it. Hold on! What did you say the sister’s name was?”
“Sister Marie-Carmen. Why?”
“I’m not sure, but the name sounds familiar. I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere. Give me some time to finish this job first, and then I’ll get on it.”
“OK, keep me posted. That would be bizarre, don’t you think? It would make a great show, though,” says Diego before switching gears. “What are you working on, something to do with the NASB?”
“Yep, I thought so. And, yeah, it’s those anonymous letters. Do you remember, I mentioned them to you in passing? If you ask me, the NASB had all their information stolen when their site was hacked just after the press conference. These people are nice and hard-working, but when it comes to security, they’re total amateurs. I just want to be sure they haven’t been infiltrated by some nutcase fascist, or worse.”
“Don’t be too hard on them. The volunteers are doing their best. After everything they’ve been through, it’s pretty brave of them to pick this fight. I mean, have you noticed the pandemonium they’ve created? At the same time, they’re doing the right thing; they can’t give up. You’ll let me know if you find anything out?”
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