Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  Jonás looked at it with interest and he gave it back to Juandi.

  —And what’s so special?

  The blonde tasted his moment of glory during a brief instant and took afterwards another copy of the newspaper, this one from his friend’s pocket. Jonás looked at it and he shrugged.

  —Look at the number and the year —Juandi helped—. Is the number 125 from the year 1966.

  Jonás agreed. Juandi took again the newspaper that he had shown his friend before and he indicated him the number and the year that came printed in the right corner.

  —There are the same! —Jonás exclaimed—. But this can’t be!

  —And that is not all —he guided his friend to corkboard and pointed to the place where lots of names and dates were marked—. They are the same that are in the newspaper that your grandfather kept down here.

  —But that means...

  —It means that your grandfather discovered something big when he was working —Juandi finished—. And he has been the last thirty years investigating it and publishing related cases in his own newspaper.

  ****

  I think we should leave it for a moment —Juandi proposed.

  —Yes, you are right —Jonás stretched to. His legs ached, his back, and he noticed a strong pressure between the eyes that was the prelude to a considerable migraine—. Besides, the generator is running out of fuel.

  —Uffff, how many hours do we have been here?

  Jonás look at the watch and didn’t have the strength to calculate the numbers. He was tired, but not only physical, but mentally too. They have spent hours stuck in that basement, forcing the eyes and the meninges, trying to decipher the clues that his grandfather had left scattered around as crumbs. In that instant, Jonás realized of a name that until that moment had passed unnoticed to him. He approached in a hurry and read it again repeatedly. Juandi looked at his friend with interest, but without opening his mouth. Jonás open his backpack and took from it the folders that he had picked in his grandfather’s store in the Äguilas dock. He went to the board and he went alternating the wall’s corkboard sight to the certificates that were in the folders.

  —Colleague, I already know what my grandfather did here —Jonás declared.

  ****

  —Dude, I have it more and more clear. —Juandi confessed—. Operations and names of the Gladio organization appear in those files everywhere. It seems that our friend, “The little dictator” hosted terrorist from the extreme right of the countries that were annexed to the OTAN and gave them a place of refuge.

  —He didn’t only give them refuge —Jonás added—. But also recruited them as GDS’s members.

  —The DGS?

  —The General Security Directorate —Jonás clarified—. We could define it as some armed police with the license to do whatever they want.

  —Are you saying that terrorists came to Spain and they put them as polices? —Juandi exclaimed astonished—. What a country!

  —Not only that, it has been also said that the La Gladio’s members managed the governments, although up to nowadays it hasn’t been demonstrated with tangible evidence, it has always been an open secret —he reflected—. But that is nothing new, in internet they appear thousands of articles about the Gladio, the Francoist police and those conspirations that people like so much, I don’t know why my grandfather was so interested in that subject.

  —He was not only interested in it Jonás —Juandi said—, He was obsessed with it. He turned this place into an isolated bunker from the world and he dedicated himself to publishing his own newspaper, with personal investigations during more than thirty years.

  —Yes, it seems so.

  Jonás stood up and started again to question himself his grandfather’s motivations, and the reason why they were still there giving importance to an old man’s deliriums and follies that it was clear that he had lost his mind with postwar conspiracy’s theories

  —Jonás, friend —Juandi continued—. Here there are not only theories. Your grandfather related that world organization with the Spanish police and the Francoism; and not only that! But also uncovered what was behind the most famous murders since 1948 and a corruption that comes up to our days.

  —Yes, and it’s all presumptions and speculations —he answered bitterly—. Without proofs or evidences that justify that he said the truth, like any other theory that circulates in the net.

  —How that there are not proofs! —Juandi was starting to irritate again—. I’ve already seen three or four official documents, signed and sealed. I’m sure that in all those folders we find something else.

  —I hope so.

  Jonás sat again and took a new file, that he compared with the newspapers that his grandfather printed in that basement. They continued doing that during all afternoon. Before the sun finished hiding, they had unraveled that gibberish and they both were up to nerves.

  —Do you realize what we have found down there? —commented Juandi—. If what your grandfather suggests is true we could talk about something very big.

  —First we’ll have to check that these documents’ veracity —Jonás added—. If they are true, we’ll have to analyze what we are going to do with them.

  —Veracity? some of those documents are sealed, by the government itself!

  Jonás agreed and grabbed his fiend by the shoulders. That was not going to like him, but he decided that it was the best.

  —Colleague, you must do me favor.

  —Tell me.

  —Take all the documents and go back to Madrid —looking at the grimace that was starting to draw in his friend’s face, Jonás decided to cut to the chase—. Juandi, now I know the reason why my grandfather quit the newspaper and finished working for El Caso; because they tried to kill him and because he had to exile to run away from Franco’s regime.

  Juandi wanted to reply, but Jonás grabbed his wide shoulders with more strength. In the eyes of the young man shined a determination and he had never seen it before. Jonás had found al last his news and he was going to follow it up to the end.

  —Ok colleague, what do you want? —he gave in.

  —I need you to go to any organism where you can authenticate those documents. Raquel can help you, she knows about these things —at the mention of the woman, Juandi got nervous. Jonás tried to calm him down—. My grandfather in some way put together proofs against a Francoism important group and kept them in the newspapers that he himself manufactured, maybe for the fear to be found and that they steal him those certificates or another thing. I must finish to put together all the pieces, and when we have it all bring it up to light.

  —May I stay —he begged—. We’ll work all night and we’ll return both to Madrid with the work that we have done.

  —I need you there.

  An hour later, Juandi took the bus that will leave him in Madrid at midnight.

  ****

  Although he didn’t like to attract attention, Cristóbal Asensio needed certain inevitable security measures when he travelled. In general, he moved alone, except when visiting cities that he knew very well that he could be localized. In the occasions when he came to Madrid, Barcelona or any of the European capitals, he made himself accompanied by Ibrahim Shamir, an ex Mossad that he has “adopted” when he was about to be shot in 1997 by the government that he worked for, after an operation failed in Jordania. Ibrahím had a reliability and a fidelity worthy of a Swiss watch, but his greatest defect was that he sang like a cat in an aquarium, and for Cristóbal, discretion was one of the most important requirements in his life.

  He went through the carpeted corridor and pointed to Shamir the room next to him. The Israeli wanted to check before his room, but Cristóbal didn’t allow him. Although he was not more in his golden years, Asensio had traveled a lot of the world, and he didn’t need a hormone treated nanny and with a curry smell to check his own room.

  The Hesperia always had been one of his personal choice, and he especially liked the Madri
d. When he came into his room he felt recomforted. He was a man of battle but had always been inclined to certain doses of luxury from time to time.

  He took out his shoes (he could not stand those Italian shoes) and went into the spacious bathroom in which there were all types of soaps and perfumed candles all arranged in a harmonious order. He left the hot water running and put the bathtub plug. Meanwhile the steam started to blur the mirrors, he lit a few candles and prepared two salt sachets to scatter them over the water when the level had reached the right point. He felt good. Although he didn’t like very much that city, it seemed that this time it would not play him a bad turn, as the previous occasions in which he had been there.

  —It seems like you are enjoying the pleasures of a good bath —a voice recited from the background of the room.

  Asensio became tense and he put his hand in the armpit pocket, where he kept his stylet. He thought in his gun, but he remembered that he had left it in the jacket that was hanged in the entrance clothes rack.

  —Easy my friend —he stopped him with serenity in his voice—. Come and talk with me.

  Asensio recognized the voice and he cursed himself for not having taken more precautions. He went to the antechamber and saw a man sitting comfortable in one of the design arm chairs. He was crossed leg, and on top of the knee he supported one hand that, although Asensio couldn’t see everything, he knew that he was hiding a gun.

  —You know that this hotel’s Japanese restaurant is one of the most acclaimed of the capital? —he said with animosity—. We could leave aside any suspicion and have a bite.

  —What do you want? —the old man gruff.

  —Chat, nothing else —he made a perfect smile. Asensio told himself that he seemed more like a movie’s actor than a splendid hitman.—. Or we could also drink a good bourbon in the Scottish bar.

  —Don’t fuck me!

  —Come on man, we would not even have to leave the hotel! —he winked to him—. If you want you could even invite the Moorish, for me there is no problem.

  —Look Mauro —said Asensio that was beginning to lose his patience—. Tell me what you want, or you get your ass out of here.

  The man stood up and went to the old man, that stood hard-and-fast and on guard.

  —What I want— his tone, that was friendly before, had hardened—. It’s about the files.

  —I don’t have them.

  —Really? —he shrugged and put the gun away in a holster under the American jacket—. Perfect then!

  Cristóbal stared at him as he walked through the luxurious room, touching with the finger tips the objects of decoration.

  —Well, nothing, I leave —he announced cheerful—. I’m sorry for your bath.

  He went to the door, but when he got to the bathroom he went it. The old man heard that the taps were being closed.

  —Cristóbal my friend —he said rising his hands—. You must be careful with the water; is precious possession to waste it.

  He came back to the room, he gave a look and winkled an eye to the astonished old man.

  —I’m going to taste that delicious Japanese restaurant, that’ve told me that they prepare a tuna in teriyaki sauce that is a scandal —he took the doorknob, and his smile expanded—. Ah, and if I find out that you have cheated on me, I’ll behead the gorilla in the suit and then I’ll find you.

  —Don’t threaten me Mauro —Cristobal spitted with anger—. You know what I’m capable of.

  —Come on, Billy, I’m not a child any more —he hardened his face—. Every person has its moment, and yours passed decades ago; now it’s my turn.

  When he left the room, the old man went to the bathroom and emptied the bathtub. That son of a bitch had come into his room and had threatened him. There was no time for nonsense.

  ****

  Although the door was opened, Antonio José didn’t trust to enter. They had told him that address as the place to go in case of emergency, but he didn’t know what he will find there. He expected a solution.

  After five minutes of doubt —walking upside down without deciding—, he pushed the door and went up the five steps that separated the sidewalk with the interior building yard. The urine smell impregnated every corner of the neighborhood, but for Antonio, that wasn’t the worst. A couple of youngsters raised their greasy hair to look at him, and although they wanted to tell him something, they were so doped up that they couldn’t articulate not a decipherable word. He went forward more quickly and went in without stopping in number 35, one of the several equal buildings that populated the community. He went with nausea by the filth accumulated in the stair landings and went up at a high speed through the stairs up to the third flight. When he reached the floor, he hit in insistently the door, until a girl that seemed to have been sleeping several weeks in a row opened him, barely enough to see him by one eye.

  —What you want guy? —he said in a pasty voice.

  —Let me in.

  —What do you...!

  He secured one of his expensive shoes against the door’s edge, and with the other leg he gave a kick that wide opened it. The girl flew at least a meter and landed on the floor.

  —But what...

  —Anabel! —he yelled! —. Come out from wherever you have hide in.

  —This way —it was heard on the back.

  Antonio José crossed the living room with two big strides and he went in what it might be the kitchen —although besides a little oven and a microwave there was nothing more there—. In the next room he found the woman of about thirty years old, laid behind a table with two Mac computer monitors that didn’t match in that environment as much as a goat in a museum.

  —Antonio José —she greeted.

  —You didn’t have a nastier place to mount your base?

  —Here they don’t look for me.

  In that moment came in the girl that had opened him the door. From her nose went out a little thread of blood that stopped in her upper lip.

  —Che, what happens to this fucking asshole? —she roared with a strong accent.

  —Nothing happens Gisela —she calmed down her roommate—. I know him.

  The girl looked at him murderously and sipped the blood in her nose. She went banging the door with her foot, angry.

  —And to what do we owe this pleasant visit? —she ironized—. We told you to come only in an emergency.

  —And it is; “the kid” has contacted me.

  The woman stood up as a spring. In her green eyes shined a spark of avidity.

  —What did he want?

  —Come on Anabel, you know what he wanted.

  —And why did he suppose that you knew where he was?

  —Are you kidding me? During months we have given to understand to everyone that seemed appropriate, that was going to acquire...how did you call it? , ah, yes, throw the line —he stopped to breath— Well, it seems that he has bait the hook.

  —Good.

  —Good? —the man became exasperated—. Good nothing!

  —This was what we were searching for.

  —You, is what you were searching!

  —Calm down José Antonio —she searched between some papers on her table and chose one—. I’m going to tell you what we are going to do.

  Chapter 20

  At 8o’clock in the morning he was again in front of the corkboard, ready to finish what his grandfather had left by halves. For some reason, the old man had camouflaged that profs that he had in his power with articles of the “false” newspaper El Caso, and he had hide it all in that basement of the printing office, but, why? ; Jonás supposed that the fact that they tried to kill him and to be persecuted by the regime up to oblige him to exile had something to do with all that, but he didn’t understand why when his grandfather returned to Spain after the Francoism’s downfall he didn’t take to the surface all the plot to make justice; instead he locked himself in that old store to print and hide those proofs. Something did not fit in that story, but he was thinking find out t
he reason cost what it cost.

  ****

  The telephone rang again, but this time he decided not to pick it up. He was tired of that affaire. And thought to stay aside. He didn’t have to intervene. He would tell the truth to his wife and all it would be fixed. He could even retire and live his last years travelling with her or buy a mobile home and hit the road.

  —Yes? —he answered dry.

  —Mr. Ulloa?

  —Who else? Tell me.

  —I have what you asked me —he made a pause waiting for an answer, and as it didn’t arrive, he continued—. Besides the house I the beach, your father owned the store in the dock, as you know, and two commercial fist floors in Carlos III street that know belong to you...

  —Carrasco —he interrupted abruptly—. Don’t tell me what I’ve already know.

  —Well, the fact is that your father didn’t own more properties as such, but a friend that works in real estate indicated me that some possessions are not inscribed in the property register, but they do appear in the Municipal Register.

  —Carrasco, I’m not interested in the in the legal slang, so go to the point.

  `All right, the point is that I’ve called to the Municipal Register of the places that your father sometime time had been settled —he took air—. In Águilas he only owns what you already know, in Madrid there is only the property that you have bought from him years ago, and then it exists the small first floor in his native city, in Mula, but that is not inscribed in the property’s register.

  —A first floor? —José Antonio asked—. In Mula?

  —Yes, look, it has been a hard time for me in finding it out, and it has been thanks to my Municipal register’s colleague that I...

  —What type of first floor? —Ulloa cut.

  —A printing Office —he answered in a hurry—. It’s not inscribed because it has been abandoned for several years, but in the Municipal register your father appears as it owner. But, I warn you that although it’s free of debts, you should do an inheritance tract to transfer...