“Nice job, boys; you managed to blow your cover,” he announced. “Don’t worry. It so happens that I know the woman you saw with Isabel Ferrer. A word of warning: she’s going to come by to see you in a little while. Just stay calm and be polite, do you hear me? I’ll take care of the rest. Also, you’ll give her what she asks for; that’s an order. I’ll deal with the consequences …”
Surprised by the call, they don’t notice Ana walking toward them until they have hung up the phone. They remain in the van. The one at the wheel fiddles with his phone, the other lights a cigarette and squirms in his seat. The detective walks up to the passenger side of the van and taps at the window. They pretend not to notice. She knocks harder. They continue to stare straight ahead. Ana grabs the handle and yanks the door open.
“What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?” she starts in on them. “Hey you, meathead! I’m talking to you! Are we going to have a nice little chat, or am I going to have to call up your chief again?”
They were expecting to see a woman but not one with a mouth on her like this. The two intelligence agents turn to look at her at exactly the same moment.
“What?” they say back in unison.
“Oh, so now you can talk! I just have one thing to tell you. I know you’re obeying orders and all that, blah, blah, blah. Your orders were to keep Isabel Ferrer under surveillance. I can understand, given the shitload of trouble she’s stirring up. But let me just give you a warning: if you ever hurt her, and I’m not saying you would, or if something ever happens to her, I promise you now that I will find you and take care of you. Capiche?”
“Who the hell are you? You think you can scare us?” the driver retorts dryly.
“You’re taking this the wrong way. I’m just letting you know. Oh, and one last thing. The other day when she was attacked, you were there, right? And you didn’t do anything? A couple of cowards, the both of you. That reminds me, your chief told me to tell you to hand over the photos you took at the scene. I hope you know how to use a camera at least.”
Ana takes the SD card that one of the agents pushes at her and walks off without saying goodbye. She had to pull some strings to find out who put a tail on Isabel. When she learned it was the National Intelligence Center, she immediately phoned her contact there. He owed Ana a favor for the help she gave him on a counterespionage case, so it was easy. From about twenty feet away, she turns around and lets them know with a gesture that she’s not done with them yet.
Knowing nothing about that encounter, which took place while they were recording the interview, Isabel and Diego are heading home, exhausted from staying up all night. Before getting into her car, the lawyer places a hand on the journalist’s arm and brings her face close to his. She kisses him on the corner of his mouth, lets out a “thanks,” and gets behind the wheel. Startled, Diego is still rooted to the spot when she turns the corner. As he steps to the curb, he is almost knocked over by a gray van that passes by him at full speed.
A dark figure hurries down the street. He walks furtively, hands in his pockets, a cap on his head and a black backpack on his shoulders. His face is barely visible, only lit briefly whenever he passes under a streetlamp. It is nearly midnight and time for his appointment. He darts a look behind him every once in a while to make sure no one is following, but he sees no one. Even at this relatively early hour in a neighborhood not far from downtown Madrid, few people are out and about. The truth is that at midweek, only tourists come here; the residents all prefer to stay home. No one has the cash to go out to the bars anymore or watch a League of Champions match, like tonight. Madrid’s two main teams, Real and Atlético, have already been eliminated. And no self-respecting Madrileño would root for Barça, their longtime rival. In any case, ever since the financial crisis hit, fans can no longer treat themselves to stadium tickets or their favorite team’s overpriced soccer jerseys, nor do they even care to pay attention to the temper tantrums of mere kids who are paid millions to run after a ball. “Bread and circuses,” as the saying goes. In the case of the former, you first have to be able to make ends meet to fill your stomach. As for fun and games … some other time. Only the lottery offers any hope, as fantastical as it may be, of a better life, which is to say one where you can pay your rent on time and decently fill your fridge.
He is of average height with a muscular, athletic build that even his parka can’t hide. He slows down when he arrives in front of a tall, modern building. The walls are beige, and crosses feature prominently on the large stained glass windows. Standing in front of the entrance, he looks left and right, clears his throat, and spits on the door of the headquarters of the Church of Scientology in Spain. He laughs, pleased with his little act of vandalism, which he repeats every time he comes this way, and then he continues on down the street.
He turns the corner and approaches a nearby office tower, dark except for the top floor. That’s where they are waiting for him. That’s where he will have to report on what he has seen and heard at the NASB. And where he will get his next set of instructions. He senses that things are moving fast now and that they are going to ask him to turn up the heat. He can’t wait. He wants to do something real, something physical. He’s tired of spending his days with his nose glued to a computer screen, typing code with people he hates, which is what he has been doing the last few weeks. He enjoyed flexing his muscles on the lawyer and the journalist, but those jobs were small, and he’s had enough of pretending to be a volunteer computer programmer. He knows it’s God’s will. And that God chose him for this mission. And that even if he doesn’t always like the work, he’s going to have to stay tough and see it through. The Church is in danger, thanks to this gang of Commie infidels. He has to do everything he can to protect it. He feels like a warrior, or rather a crusader—a fighter on the front lines of a battle that is about to break wide open.
He presses the intercom, buzzing twice quickly, which is the code. No name is written above the red button, just two black letters on a red background: CC. By chance, the Crusaders for Christ have set up office only a few hundred feet from the Scientologists. This extreme right-wing group of several thousand followers emerged from a schism with Opus Dei a few years earlier. They are Catholic fanatics who believe that a new war of civilizations is going to engulf Spain. They are as terrified of the former Socialist government as they are convinced it was hoodwinking them. The impetus for the group’s creation was same-sex marriage, which the Socialists legalized as soon as they were in power. The Crusaders of Christ’s purpose now consists mainly in spreading their beliefs, but it has been tough going. Their former accomplices at Opus Dei have a tight grip on the media and the current government—a situation that is pushing the group to radicalize and become more violent. Threatening statements have given way to hard-line actions at mosques, synagogues, and associations promoting HIV/AIDS awareness. They’ve thrown rocks and Molotov cocktails and beat people up. They even set fire to a warehouse belonging to an NGO working for the Red Cross.
He enters and takes the elevator to the top floor. The doors open onto a long, thickly carpeted corridor. The offices that line it are empty at this late hour. All their doors are closed. At the end of the hallway, a light shines from under one door: they are already here. He walks quickly toward it and enters what appears to be a conference room. A group of men is seated around a large, oval table. Some wear dark suits and ties, others clerical vestments. The priests are dressed uniformly in black cassocks. One individual, who is seated regally at the head of the table, stands out from this monochrome assembly: draped in the red-and-black robes of a cardinal in the Catholic Church, he looks for all the world as if he has just arrived from the Roman Curia of the Vatican. He invites the man to take a seat with a simple gesture of one hand, on which he wears a large gold signet ring.
“Good evening, my son. Sit down and tell us everything you know. When you have finished, we will tell you what to do next. So far, you have conducted yourself very well, and I’m sure you will
continue to do so and that you won’t disappoint us.”
13
THE DECISION CAME down exactly as he expected. David Ponce has been dismissed from the magistrature. He wasn’t fired exactly, but he was suspended without pay. However, only until his dismissal is formalized. The disciplinary board took just a few minutes to pronounce a judgment. But Ponce made it easy for them, refusing to answer questions and offering nothing in his defense. What difference would it have made? Their minds had already been made up by the powers that be, and he had no intention of discussing anything with them. The only thing that surprised him was their spinelessness: he expected to be fired, but instead, he was punished, like a child. A provisional sanction until a trial can be held and a verdict delivered on charges of abuse of power and wrongdoing. If Ponce is found guilty, he will be removed definitively. If he is acquitted, he’ll be transferred as far from Madrid as they can send him, most likely some jurisdiction in the sticks. But he is dead sure of how this is going to go down. He’ll be tried and found guilty. For attempting to circumvent the Amnesty Law: guilty. For wanting to expose the worst of the dictatorship: guilty. For inconveniencing the country’s most powerful people: guilty. For fighting for justice: guilty. For asking the country to examine its past, to show some courage, to dig into its collective memory, and to settle the score with history once and for all: guilty on all counts. Special proceedings have been invoked. The hearing will take place imminently. It couldn’t be soon enough for him. In a few weeks, a ruling will be made, and he will be free.
After Ponce’s drive-through appearance before the disciplinary board, its twelve members asked him to leave the room and wait in the corridor, like a common defendant summoned before a judge. All the same, it was strange to have the shoe on the other foot. He knew what he risked by coming alone, without counsel, and what they were plotting for him. He used the time to call Diego and let him know how it was going.
“I’m dead meat,” Ponce concluded, summing up the morning’s events. “Isabel Ferrer is going to have to stick it out, even if I’m removed from the case. They’ll have to appoint a replacement, but that’s only to give the appearance of following procedure. From now on, we have to take the fight to the streets and the media. When are you going back on the air?”
“Damn, how are you taking it? Listen, if there’s anything I can do … Wait, I have an idea. Why don’t you come on the show, in the studio? Not a bad move, don’t you think? I’m expecting to go back on this Friday. You could respond to Isabel’s interview, live. She is more than ready for this, don’t worry about that. I think she understands exactly what needs to be done to prevent this scandal from being brushed under the rug.”
It’s decided. With the magistrate live in the studio, Diego is going to go back on the air with guns blazing. The suspense will be intensified by the fact that, in the meantime, Ponce plans to avoid the hordes of cameras and microphones that are waiting for him to leave the hearing. Instead, he takes a side door normally reserved for high-profile figures appearing in court who would rather not see their problems with the justice system plastered on the front page of every paper. To exit this way requires going into the basement and taking a long corridor that follows the path of the building’s wastewater pipes, then coming out onto a small side street that runs parallel to the courthouse. No, he’s not going to give the press anything, not now. He’ll save his first public statement for Diego’s show. But that’s not all; before hanging up, the two friends agreed on a little surprise for Diego’s listeners: an announcement that will set tongues wagging in the hallways of the courthouse. The journalist would have liked to have Isabel as a guest on his show, too, along with the judge, but she declined his invitation. No need for her to be there, she made it clear to him: Diego already has the interview that he wanted. Which is true. But he would have liked to see her again.
In the meantime, Diego has an appointment with Ana. She found something. Also, she has pictures to show him. The detective didn’t say much more than that on the phone, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that she has something big. In no time, he is rapping on the window of her agency. Her office is located on the ground floor of a small building. Her apartment is above it, on the first floor, and the two spaces are linked by a spiral staircase. She doesn’t draw much of a distinction between her private life and her professional life. Like Diego, she lives for her work. It’s what gets her out of bed in the morning, and it’s what keeps her going. Whether Ana likes it or not, her imprisonment during the years of the dictatorship in Argentina and the brutal interrogations she endured at the hands of the secret police have left deep scars. The kind you don’t see. The kind that haunt you. The kind that wake you up in the middle of the night screaming. Not only was she working within a clandestine organization to overthrow the generals in power, but she had only just begun to transition to a woman. This incited her torturers to abuse her even more atrociously. She wasn’t exactly a man then, but she wasn’t fully a woman either. The bastards went crazy on her. She still has nightmares, thirty years later. She never tires of telling Diego: “If I ever find the guy who did that to me, I swear I’ll kill him with my bare hands.” He believes her. He knows Ana’s capable of it.
For the moment, it’s the middle of the day. She opens the door and invites the journalist to talk upstairs. “We’ll have more privacy up there, and we’ll be more comfortable,” she explains, locking the front door and pulling the blinds over the windows of the agency. In the apartment, she starts by bringing up the photos on her computer taken by the intelligence agents of Isabel’s attack. Diego is surprised at first that Ana could get her hands on these, but he bursts into laughter when he hears the story of how she did. He squints, moves closer to the screen, and looks at them one after the other. His gaze is drawn first to the terrified expression on the lawyer’s face. He feels a tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat. Something else he sees makes him look closer. He zooms in, but the photo quality is mediocre, and when the picture breaks into pixels, he can’t make out what it is he thought he saw. Still, he’s almost certain: it is the same man who attacked him.
“Yep, it’s the same guy who punched me the other day.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not one hundred percent, but look at that, there, around his neck. It looks like a red cross, like the one my attacker was wearing. And he has the same build. Yeah, I’d say it’s him.”
“Well, that’s one thing we’ve settled. The real question is who this guy is, and who is giving him orders. I’m going to call my contact at the CNI to find out if he can trace him. In the meantime, look at this.”
Ana walks around to the other side of the coffee table where she placed her computer and hands him two envelopes stuffed with papers.
“What’s this?” Diego asks.
“I told you that I thought I had seen the name of that nun somewhere. Well, I went through all my files and, if you can believe it, I found her. Don’t get up; you won’t believe it.”
“What? Go on, tell me!”
“I found her name on papers relating to that notary, Pedro De La Vega. The one that Isabel hired me to investigate.”
“What?”
“You see? I told you!” says Ana excitedly.
“How? What’s the connection?”
“Well, if you can believe it, she worked in a maternity ward in Madrid when she was young. We’re talking in the forties and fifties. That was also when the notary was just opening his practice. As he was just starting out, he took on a lot of insignificant work, not like later, if you see what I mean. Real estate transactions. Registering small businesses. And adoptions. He even developed quite a specialty in those.”
“I’m not following …”
“Wait, let me finish! He legalized about a hundred adoptions for couples in a single year, 1946. And in a lot of these papers he prepared for the court, who is the character witness for the adopting families? A certain Sister Marie-Carmen … The dea
r old nun! Isn’t that the greatest?”
Diego is speechless, stunned by what Ana has just told him. He tries to recover from the shock, but it’s a struggle. His mind is racing. It is too much to process. He needs a minute to absorb what the detective has discovered. In the time it takes to drink the coffee she made him, the motor starts up again. The engine roars back to life. The brain cells begin firing again. Thanks to Ana, he has a new angle on the case. A notary and a nun, both murdered in two different cities, several months apart. They were killed in almost identical ways, by a single bullet to the head, fired at close range. A notary and a nun who knew each other or who, at the very least, had been in contact years earlier. A notary and a nun whose names appear on adoption papers completed during the dictatorship. It’s no coincidence.
Diego decides to start over from the beginning. First, the notary’s murder. He also needs to find out more about the death of Sister Marie-Carmen. But he can’t do everything at once. He has to prepare his show with David Ponce and the interview with Isabel Ferrer. Then, he’ll look into De La Vega and try to get access to the files on both murders. Then … Well, he’ll see what he knows then. He and Ana agree to wait a few days before getting started. They each have a job to finish. Everything in due time. Patience and reflection are both key to this kind of work. No need to rush. In principle, they are the only ones who have established a link between the two victims. They’re well ahead of the media, who don’t give a damn about the death of an old notary and a wrinkled, elderly nun, even in such violent circumstances, when a national scandal is threatening to shake the country to its very core.
Diego has received confirmation that he can go back on the air. When he told Radio Uno’s directors that the next show would include not only an interview with Isabel Ferrer but also a special appearance by David Ponce, they released the news immediately. Everyone has been talking about it since Friday morning. Even though the journalist refused to build up the suspense by making any hints about the content of the show, which infuriated the station’s communications director, the news dropped like a bombshell. The next episode of Radio Confidential is so highly anticipated that many station employees are foregoing Friday night plans to stick around until the show airs. Everyone wants to watch the show live. Diego could not be more exasperated. For someone who records his show every week in the isolation of the basement studio at a time when the station is practically deserted, the number of people who are still sitting in their offices or making their way toward the studio is starting to get on his nerves. When he sees Radio Uno’s president and most of its executive board, followed by several cameramen, squeezing into the tiny control booth while the producer tries to make room for them all, his temper explodes. He’s on in less than fifteen minutes, but the only thing he knows right now is that he will not do the show in front of a “studio audience.”
Mala Vida Page 12