As a future lawyer and a future colleague of Isabel Ferrer’s, he disagrees emphatically with the journalist’s theory. Ponce admits that there are quite a few similarities between these murders, but nothing supports Diego’s conclusion that Isabel had a hand in any of it. Ana still hasn’t spoken to her contact at the CNI, who has twice postponed a meeting. Ponce’s advice is to wait for more information before accusing their young friend of anything. But Diego is annoyed precisely by the fact that Isabel seems to be avoiding him. He hasn’t seen her since she got back from Paris, and they’ve hardly spoken on the telephone either, having just exchanged a few texts. It’s as if she wants to cut off all ties with him. As if she suspects something is up. It would be foolish to think they became intimate friends over the course of a single night spent in a dive bar, but they both got caught up in the same cause and the same mess. Anyways, he’d just like to see her again. Until they have any more information, mainly from the CNI, he won’t say anything to her. Still, he’s sure she has changed somehow. For now, he figures it’s just her grandmother’s death or her heavy workload with the NASB. He really hopes that’s all it is and nothing more.
It gets late, and Diego invites David back to his apartment: they’ll smoke, drink some beers, and share a plate of cold cuts. The next radio show is going to be in a more usual vein—it won’t be about the scandal—so that Diego almost feels as if he’s on vacation. He’s already written up the running order sheet and edited the main interview, this time with a Norwegian author he especially likes, Jo Nesbø, who writes the only crime novels to come out of Norway that Diego can actually understand. There are just a few last t’s to cross, which amount to next to nothing. Even if the stolen babies story is far from finished and the country continues to tear itself to pieces over it, a break can’t hurt, at least for one week. And so, Radio Confidential continues its regularly scheduled programming, before, very likely, returning to the attack in a future edition.
In another Madrid neighborhood, far from Diego’s apartment in Malasaña, a man is seated on his couch, his head hanging as if he has fallen asleep watching television. If he could look out the window, he’d notice police lights. Several squad cars have taken up position in front of the building, and an ambulance is coming down the street, siren wailing. The man doesn’t move. Uniformed police officers race up to the third floor and knock on the half-opened door. They call through the opening, ask if anyone is home, and if they can come in. No response. They arm themselves and enter the tiny two-room apartment. Facing them in the living room as they come through the door is the body of the NASB’s volunteer computer programmer and militant in the Crusaders for Christ, who was also Isabel and Diego’s assailant. His body is still warm. The neighbors called the police only ten minutes earlier, saying they heard a gunshot. At first, it looks like a suicide. But only at first.
When the crime squad and the forensics team arrive, they come immediately to the same conclusion. The man was murdered, but the scene was altered to resemble a suicide. Several elements give it away. The gun next to the victim’s hand—the victim, they now know, is a certain Pablo Martínez, age thirty-two, born in Pamplona—could never have gotten there on its own. If he had killed himself, they would have found it on the floor. The body’s position, seated on the couch, is also a dead giveaway. If he had shot himself in the head, the impact would have thrown him to one side. The traces of blood also indicate the shot was fired at very close range but from above him where he sat by a standing shooter. The investigators find a piece of paper with the words “Forgive me” written on it and placed on the coffee table, as well as several photos showing the victim participating in what looks like an S&M ritual with transvestites and transsexuals.
The authorities begin their search. The apartment is stuffed with religious statues (of different saints, the Virgin Mary, and Christ), and the walls are covered with black-and-white photographs of priests, crucifixes, lithographs, and framed texts in Latin. It could be a monk’s cell, except for the photos on the coffee table. The bedroom is furnished with a single mattress on the floor and a desk holding a laptop, some brochures about the Crusaders for Christ, piles of papers, and some more photos: Isabel Ferrer from close-up, from far away, on the street, and in an office. A date and a time are scribbled on a Post-it, along with an ominous drawing of a skull-and-crossbones. In a drawer are a hunting knife, a semi-automatic pistol, and a full box of 9mm ammunition.
This is an unexpected development, so when the director of the crime squad gets the report from his men at the scene, he calls the CNI immediately. A memo had gone out after Isabel Ferrer was assaulted, instructing officers to report to the intelligence services if they found even the slightest evidence implicating Martínez in any way. Nicolás Ortiz arrives in person and asks the police to seal the crime scene. Meaning touch nothing and leave immediately. Only the forensics expert and the unit chief for the crime squad are allowed to remain. The CNI’s agents get to work. Ortiz approaches the photos on the coffee table showing the victim surrounded by transvestites and transsexuals and then stops in his tracks. He leaves the apartment and gets Ana on the phone.
“We’ve got a problem,” he tells her and explains that the computer programmer is dead.
“Shit! That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Ana says with shock. “What are you going to do?”
“We’ve taken over the investigation, so it should be all right. This would be a good time to pay a visit to the Crusaders for Christ. In my opinion, they’re the ones behind this. They couldn’t stand to see the photos you sent them. It’s a long way from there to bumping off the guy, I’ll admit. I wasn’t expecting this. But it proves one thing: they’ve got a bad case of nerves, and they’re capable of almost anything. Isabel Ferrer is in grave danger. She is clearly their next target. I’m going to step up her protection and call her back into headquarters.”
“OK, let me know what happens. I’ll be in touch.”
This time, it is a formal summons that Isabel receives. The courtesy calls are over. Even if her last visit to the CNI ended rather badly and she slammed the door on her way out, she was free to leave. She was unsettled by what Ortiz knew about the murders of the notary and the nun and surprised to learn he found out about her trip to Barcelona and the doctor’s death. Isabel feels certain he knows more than he is letting on, which worries her a bit. Now she is being escorted by three agents—none of whom was assigned to her original surveillance—who have come for her at the offices of the NASB and are driving her back to CNI headquarters. They wouldn’t tell her anything, but one of them served her a yellow paper summoning her to their office for questioning in a case. No further information. She follows them out under the astonished gaze of the association’s volunteers, whom she tried to reassure as she prepared to leave by telling them not to worry and that she would be back soon. Isabel and the officers get into an unmarked car, and the gray delivery van starts up behind them as they pull away from the curb. In less than five minutes, the convoy arrives at its destination. Then it’s the same thing all over again. The windowless basement room. And a long wait.
A young woman enters and offers Isabel a coffee and a sandwich, but she refuses to eat. The woman turns to leave, then changes her mind and walks back toward the lawyer. She puts one hand on her shoulder, bends down close to her face, and congratulates her for everything she has done. Then she leaves, closing the door softly behind her. Surprised, Isabel wonders if the woman’s action wasn’t part of a script, a ploy designed to put her at ease. She doesn’t have long to think it over before Ortiz enters. His face is drawn. Before Isabel has a chance to say anything or ask if she is going to be held in custody, he places on the table an envelope from which he removes a pile of photos taken from the computer programmer’s apartment and spreads them out in front of her.
“Hello, Isabel. I apologize for ordering you in so abruptly, but given how our last conversation ended, I thought it would be simpler to send my men for you,” he begins.
“There have been some new developments, and it’s imperative that we talk, plainly this time.”
He announces that the NASB’s computer programmer has been murdered and that he was her assailant as well.
“The rat was there all along. … I suppose he was the one who stole the association’s contact list, too. But why am I here? I have nothing to do with his death, I hope you don’t imagine it was me who—”
“No, no, we already have an idea who is behind this, which is why I wanted to bring you in right away. You are the primary target of the Crusaders for Christ. We found evidence in the victim’s apartment that they have been planning your murder. They radicalized some time ago, and they’re looking for any means possible to get themselves on the map and steal attention from their more powerful rival, Opus Dei. Killing the spokesperson of the families whose children were kidnapped by the Franco regime would bring them unprecedented publicity.”
Isabel takes the news hard. She always knew there could be risks for her if she took up the case of the stolen babies; she was aware of the danger, and she never ran from the possibility. But, no, getting shot, she never imagined it could come to that. It’s beyond her worst nightmares. Threats she can deal with. The assault she handled well enough. But a murder attempt, by Catholic fundamentalists no less … Shit, she thinks to herself, the country has gone completely off its rocker.
“Well, now that you know, it’s time to make a decision,” Ortiz continues. “I’m going to offer you a deal, but no one outside of this room can know about it. For my part, I give you my word.”
Nicolás Ortiz is taking a big risk. An enormous risk even. A carefully considered decision that cost him a few nights of sleep. He knows he’s putting his neck on the block if his superiors ever discover what he is about to do. He trusts his men, but people can change loyalties. Over the course of his long career, he has never had to confront a moral dilemma such as the one he is facing now. He weighed the pros and cons, he went back to the beginning, and he examined them again, and then he made his choice. By listening to his heart more than his head, to the man he is, a Socialist, and not to the cop he became by training. It was difficult to make up his mind, but once he did, he looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. He hasn’t smiled in a very long time. It convinced him that he made the right choice. And that if things go wrong, he will be ready to take the blame. And he won’t regret a thing.
His offer leaves Isabel speechless. The truth is she hardly has any choice in the matter. She manages to thank him for being sensitive enough to her situation to give her a week to make up her mind and for stepping up her protection in the meantime by putting the two agents in the gray van at her disposition. Ortiz is certain that the Crusaders for Christ will waste no time in recruiting another assassin to put their plan into action.
She is already ninety-nine percent sure what her decision will be, but, for appearances’ sake, she asks for time to think about it. She is going to have to act fast, find a way out of the NASB, and appoint a proper replacement as president. If she doesn’t, Isabel will have nothing but trouble, the kind that will get her thrown into prison. The agents who searched her apartment found documents and weapons. Enough proof to convince Ortiz of her involvement in the five murders. She doesn’t understand why he is making her this offer when he has everything he needs to have her arrested. Or perhaps she does understand, perfectly. He knows the government will do everything in its power to prevent the families from getting the answers they are demanding, and the Amnesty Law will never be overturned, that all of their complaints will be rejected by the courts and that justice will never be done. Perhaps this former anti-Franco militant and Socialist tells himself that, after all that has happened, Isabel’s victims only got what they deserved. That it was a dirty job, but someone had to do it so that an old score could finally be settled with history.
It’s been quite a week, in so many ways. The dramatic arrest of the hardcore leadership of the Crusaders for Christ has set off a torrent of reactions across the political spectrum. Surprised by this latest development and trying unsuccessfully to maintain a semblance of sangfroid, the government is on the defensive, a position the Socialists in the opposition are playing to their advantage by attacking wherever they can. A cardinal, a bishop, and several priests have been charged with conspiracy, attempted murder, and engaging in organized criminal activity. As fanatical, dangerous, and sectarian as the Crusaders for Christ are, the group emerged from within Opus Dei, and so the Catholic Church in Spain has unanimously condemned their treatment: arrested, handcuffed, and scheduled for trial as common criminals. When your brothers-in-arms are up shit creek, you have to stick together, no matter what your differences might be. All told, twenty arrests have been made. In addition to the prelates, the accused include several nuns, leaders from the business community, various employees in different ministries (Justice, Health, and Foreign Affairs, no less), and some parliamentary assistants. Half of those have been placed in detention pending trials, and the rest have been released on bail.
The press has had a field day with this unexpected turn of events in the stolen babies case. This time, much of the reporting has been sympathetic to Isabel Ferrer. Similarly, the ongoing demonstrations by families and members of the NASB have turned into rallies in support of its president. Ever since the press broke the news of the existence of the Crusaders for Christ, the country has been utterly stunned. The CNI is equally dumbfounded. Nicolás Ortiz, who led the investigation from its beginning, cannot believe the kind of organization the CNI managed to bring down. A sort of religious cartel, in fact. With the same pyramid-like structure favored by drug traffickers and the mafia. All members of the Crusaders of Christ must pledge a percentage of their salaries to the group. A seamlessly organized racket, as revealed by accounting files seized during the investigation. But what was the most screwball, even the most outrageous, aspect of the group? Everyone had a code name: CC1 for the leader, CC2, CC3, and so on down the line, depending on one’s place in the hierarchy. The computer programmer, Pablo Martínez, was CC189. The investigation is only getting underway, but it is already apparent that the Crusaders for Christ had nearly eight hundred members in its ranks.
Diego hasn’t missed a beat. The revelations will obviously be the topic of an upcoming show. He and Ana were glued to the television for hours. Ortiz had given the private detective a heads-up that something was going down, but he didn’t let on as to the size and importance of what was called Operation CC. Ortiz was too busy planning the police presence and surveillance on the Crusaders for Christ to keep their appointment, but he also didn’t want to tell her anything concerning Isabel on the phone. So Ana and Diego are still in the dark on that subject. The only thing Ortiz let slip was that the lawyer had accepted an offer he made and that Isabel would tell them about it herself. He doesn’t want to get involved in their friendship, and anyways, it’s up to her to tell them or not. Despite Ana’s insistence, he said no more than that.
For her part, Isabel has not been following the news. She has a few more loose ends to tie up before she leaves. Isabel had no choice but to say yes to Ortiz. It was either that or a trial and a prison sentence for committing five murders in the first degree. Suffice it to say she would have spent the rest of her life behind bars, she never would have come out alive, and the NASB would have been irreparably damaged. It’s to save herself, of course, but also in the best interests of all of the families she hoped to defend that she has made the decision to leave the country. Her suitcases are packed, a real estate agency will find a renter for her apartment, which will provide a small but regular income until she gets on her feet, and her files are in a secure storage locker that only she knows about. All that’s left to do is say goodbye: to the members of the NASB, but also to Diego, David Ponce, and Ana, all of whom she is meeting for dinner. And there is one other thing. For that, she has asked Ana to accompany her.
The two women haven’t seen each other since Isabel’s
return from France, and Isabel is somewhat apprehensive at the idea of meeting the private detective again. She could hear it in Ana’s voice when she called her—how hurt Ana is that Isabel waited this long to get in touch. She apologized and promised to explain everything later that evening at Casa Pepe. Isabel has already gone to the bar to ask the owner if he would agree to close the place early one more time. For her. For Diego. For David. For Ana. He agreed begrudgingly, but his complaints were only for show. The truth is he could never say no to something for Diego. Everyone will gather there at ten o’clock that night. No one but Isabel knows that this will be a rather unusual dinner. She asked Ana to meet her at eight o’clock. Two hours should be plenty of time to do what she needs to do. Isabel has filled a large cardboard box with five thick file folders. The ones that are numbered. The ones containing the information she gathered on her five victims. She closed the box, sealed it with packing tape, and put it in the trunk of her car.
The detective is right on time. Ana seems reserved but otherwise happy to see Isabel again. Their destination is the Casa de Campo, Madrid’s largest public park. The former hunting grounds of the royal family are now a public park stretching thousands of acres in the west of the city. At night, the area is known to be frequented by prostitutes and drug dealers, but families flock here in the daytime for its zoo, its lake, and its amusement park. The sun has not yet set when they arrive. Isabel hasn’t told Ana why they are there, and the silence in the car is oppressive as Isabel finds a place to park at the entrance. Joggers and parents pushing strollers pass by, as do the first prostitutes of the evening. It’s that time of day when two worlds, day and night, overlap. Isabel asks Ana to help her carry the box; it isn’t particularly heavy, but it’s a conversation opener.
“What the hell are we doing here? What is this thing? What’s in it?” The private detective sounds annoyed.
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