—Dad, I don’t need any family history, just get to my house and forget this.
—You know as well as I do that that will not happen— he said bitterly—. As much as I tried that it didn’t happen, you are now involved.
—I don’t understand you.
—A few years ago, I was contacted by SIDE, Argentina's intelligence service— Jonás turned to his father, astonished by that revelation—. They told me a story about how your grandfather had uncovered a clandestine structure that was functioning even before the coup d'état, and that had managed to take hold during the dictatorship. I didn’t believe It, of course, but they presented irrefutable evidence and I was "recruited"
—Recruited? —Jonás could not believe it —. How is that that you were recruited?
—I went to be a SIDE informant. They had been looking for Francisco Chacón de Mena for years, alias Billy the kid, to impute him for crimes against society, but that man has powerful friends and the prosecution aborted any accusation against him.
—And what does that have to do with you? —snapped Jonás—. And with grandpa?
—Your grandfather had been following Chacón for most of his life —Antonio José confirmed—. It was a personal matter. Chacón was the one who stabbed him in the street and gave him for dead after your grandfather found several brutal murders of that murderer committed "in favor of the regime", but with another very different interest.
—Son of a bitch— Jonas hissed.
—And not only that. He returned to finish the job, but thanks to Suarez, the editor of El Caso who was related to the regime and Franco's secret friend, your grandfather was able to flee before they reached him. Suarez sent him abroad and, when he returned to the country, he kept investigating for the newspaper in the region of Almeria and southern Andalusia until El Caso went bankrupt and was bought by an Almeria investor on the advice of your grandfather. During all those years, he continued to investigate in the shadows, getting files, meeting with people who had seen Chacón go too far and his bloody fidelity for the regime; he found evidence that could once and for all dismantle the organization, but he made a mistake.
—A mistake?
—Yes, he underestimated the depth of what he had discovered— Antonio José seemed exhausted—. Your grandfather began a personal crusade against Chacon, a ruthless torturer who licked as he mistreated students and sympathizers of communism in a savage manner. He thought he was going to engage in a hand-to-hand fight against a sadistic beast, but Chacon was only the stylet, the visible armed arm.
—Gladio— whispered Jonás to himself.
—Among others— confirmed Antonio José, who seemed ten years older since they had sat on that bench at the Carmen train station—. Your grandfather was pulling a thread that became a braided rope, with several tough and dangerous ends.
—That doesn’t explain why you have continued to repudiate him until the day of his death— Jonas replied with hate—. If you knew his story, why not grant him forgiveness?
Antonio José lowered his head in sorrow and began to cry. Jonás had never seen his father cry, or even express anything different to haughtiness. When he calmed down a bit, he raised a disheveled face towards his son.
—He couldn’t— he wiped the tears with the back of his hand—. Your grandfather was an exceptional man in some facets of his life, but he was never a father. He left me in charge of my uncles and never cared how I was doing in my life. I came to harbor such resentment against him, against the newspaper and his surname, that even when I learned the truth it was impossible for me to forgive him.
Jonás half-understood what his father meant, but he did not think to delve into the wound. Although Antonio José Ulloa, (or rather, Antonio José Millán), had never exercised like a father, he had never abandoned him. He approached and embraced him in a hug, realizing how much he had lost weight under his traditional suit.
—When he got sick I wanted to do it, tell him I knew it, forgive him, but then the SIDE was dissolved by the Argentine president and the current AFI was formed, a federal agency that decided to "file" certain cases for the sake of international relations— he recomposed himself a little—. Some of the old members then pressed me the nuts to continue in a free form.
—What did they want you to do, Dad? —Jonás asked.
—They knew about the files and documents that your grandfather— it gave him hiccups, and he had to make a huge effort not to collapse again. And, because of his illness, they thought that all this material would come to me in one way or another.
—On other words, that you would wait until he died to take it— Jonas separated from his father again—. Why not ask it to him dad, why not collaborate with him?
—Jonás, more than three years ago I started business with an organization that we knew Chacón directed— he explained—. They have been following me closely for a long time. Talking to your grandfather about it could have complicated the operation.
—And was it better to let him die and then steal the material he had been collecting for over thirty years? —he accused.
Antonio José buried his head again between his knees.
—Jonás, this is not just about crimes of the dictatorship or a murderer, who on the other hand, is already almost seventy years old— he raised his head and the tears shone with the reflection of the spotlight—, not even the massive murders of the wealthy members of the republic, this goes much further.
—I know what it’s about— he answered defiantly—. I have read grandpa’s files, I know that there was an organization that was dedicated to extort and save the dictatorship’ riches.
Antonio Jose made a smile without grace, almost as if his lips did not own the strength to maintain it.
—My son, I wish it was only that— he grabbed Jonás by the shoulders —. It is not about New Force, or Free Times, or any fascist grouping with outdated ideas of forty years ago, what your grandfather had ...
-—Stand up, both of you!
The voice echoed between the empty and open platforms of the station, like a crow fluttering strongly among the iron beams. Both turned like a spring, but the figure was already less than two meters from them, with the barrel of a huge pistol pointing at them. Standing there and smiling at them with a malevolent expression of satisfaction was Cristóbal Asensio, or rather Francisco Chacón, alias Billy the kid.
Chapter 28
Although the road meandered on the edge of a cliff bathed by the sea, he did not stop its accelerated journey, invading the opposite lane. The howling of the engine resounded at each of the corners, and the tailpipe spat out small wisps of smoke as the revolutions increased as they came out of a closed curve. The two-cylinder engine of the Diavel buzzed like a furious bee when they squeezed the 162 HP of power, but thanks to its Diablo tires and the progressive suspension, it remained firm in every committed centimeter of the asphalt. He had always been enthusiastic about the Ducati, but this model in special, the Diavel Coal, was his greatest weakness.
Without slowing down one apex he could see the sign indicating that he was less than 150 kilometers from his destination. He calculated that in less than an hour he would be there and accelerated a little more. The motorcycle responded with a snort and a brutal impulse.
He had been told where the targets were, and although he had been warned that they would soon leave the city, he had not bothered to take the BMW or one of those public transports that boast of being so effective. For him, a journey of more than an hour, was a perfect excuse to enjoy his Ducati, and although he could have arrived earlier on the highway, what good was a machine like his if he could not enjoy it on a road like that? He had chosen the longest road —but the one that suited his tastes best—; after all, it only mattered him. If the objectives escaped, he would find them after, he always did, but his enjoyment was primordial. When he left the coast’s road and entered the community of Murcia, Mauro accelerated the engine of his Ducati to reach 250 kilometers per hour.
Maybe he even had time to drink a good cappuccino before he fulfilled his mission.
****
Raquel was nervous but tried to hide it and don’t worry Juandi anymore. They had tried to contact Jonás all afternoon, but the phone was still disconnected. They even called the friend’s father, but on his phone jumped the same warning of out of service. Jonas's mother confirmed that Antonio José had gone on a business trip, but that she had also tried to call him, and it had seemed very strange that he did not carry it on.
Without knowing what else to do, they decided to leave the house, as they looked like two animals locked in a tiny cage. They ate heartily at one of the downtown restaurants, and then decided to kill time by documenting. Raquel parked her Mercedes in a free space on the periphery and they took line 4 of the Colon’s metro. In that way they would not increase their anxiety by looking for parking in an area of Madrid where it was practically impossible to find it. When they were on the Recoletos promenade —in the so-called "Alameda del Arte" — they accessed the national library, the great building topped by an immense staircase and a sculpture at the entrance of Alfonso X The wise. They passed directly through the exhibition halls -—which were crowded — and went up in the elevator to the first floor, where the National Newspaper Library was located. An enormous room was divided with numerous indicative signs of the different digital chambers. In the press section they left behind the humorous antechamber, the sports hall, the religious one and the scientist one to enter a narrow corridor that ended in a cabinet with several computers and the political press sign. Raquel stayed there while Juandi went to the illustrated press room, where one could see the most representative lithographs on the covers of newspapers, magazines and feuilletons.
Raquel began the search without direction, only following the instructions of the search engine that asked for key words. She tried several of them and since she did not obtain any kind of profitable results, she also introduced the geographical scope; in the end she chose among the titles that jumped to the screen. He chose Acción socialista but did not find what she was looking for. She changed to the Action in Madrid since 1916. Everything was documented in detail, but she was looking for something else. She tried several titles, but although they dated from the date she wanted, they did not provide relevant data. In the end she found a headline that caught her attention; AC documents of contemporary activity. She introduced one of the names that Juandi had obtained in his review of the documents that same morning —and that he had written down a list— and obtained several results. Animated, she fine-tuned the tracking by entering dates and data, obtaining large derived results in one direction: The financial activity of Madrid. When Juandi returned, Raquel already had several copies on the table.
—Bualah! —she exclaimed, showing him the screen—. They are here. Those little guys that you have in all the certificates started with the organization Free Businessmen after the war, and they changed their names and transferred the activities to their descendants until today, which includes four "honorary members" and several sons or grandsons of those who founded the first organization.
—Only now it is not an organization —Juandi completed—. But a political party.
—Yes! —Raquel cheered—. And look at the names of the "honorifics".
Juandi leaned a little closer to the screen and hit a shoe on the floor that echoed on the lonely walls of the room.
—One of the political-social brigade, one of Gladio, a state councilor and an escort of the chieftain himself.
—A part of those documents kept by Jonás’ grandfather were writings of the constitution of a society— sentenced Raquel.
—I do not understand, that is not so serious— Juandi said.
—Only by itself, but next to each new corporate name there are included certificates of property transfers that had been expropriated.
—Explain in your words that a ...
Rachel snorted and let out a long sigh.
—What I mean is that those guys, important figures of the Franco regime, were also the founders of societies related to the regime, and that changed their name every certain number of years up to nowadays.
—Why would they do such a thing? —Juandi asked surprised.
—I don’t know, and that's what scares me.
Chapter 29
It seemed impossible that in a train station, no matter how late, no one appeared. Jonás looked desperately for a waiter, a reviewer, a cleaning woman, someone! Whoever distracted that psychopath's attention.
—Give it to me— Chacon ordered, looking directly at Ulloa—. And maybe I will not kill you.
—I do not have it— Antonio José sentenced—. But you can let my son go and I'll take you where it is; he doesn’t know anything, he's only here because my father left him a printing press full of junk.
—I know— he gave a smile that chilled the blood even more than the breeze—. I saw it burn, is a pity.
Jonás tensed, but the gun barrel turned immediately in his direction.
—Relax lad, or I’ll put a bullet between those beautiful eyebrows.
—Chacón ...
—Asensio, my name is Cristóbal Asensio —he corrected with fury—. If you call me again in any other way, I'll liquidate both of you and look for the pen drive on my own.
Jonás listened about the pen drive and frowned, surprised. He looked even more at the face of that guy, who was only half in the darkness of the poorly lit platform. Even so, it was easily recognizable. Jonás had seen him in the last few days in a multitude of photographs of the newspapers that were at that moment hanging in the backpack of his back. Chacon saw the involuntary gesture of Jonás touching his knapsack and smiled again that way. It looked like a white shark about to devour its prey.
—Come here kid! —he called Jonás. Antonio José stepped forward—. Get out of the way
The tone of his voice was so sharp that he could saw through the skin.
—I said he doesn’t know anything.
Chacon approached just a step, and with a speed improper of his age he hit him in the temple with the butt of the pistol. Before Antonio José could protest, he put the cannon in his mouth.
—Kid, take out what you have in that backpack or you'll be taking off your father's brains up to San Juan.
Jonás obeyed and left the backpack on the ground, near his father's knees. With great care he began to release the straps.
—Slow— ordered Chacon—. And when you open it, do not even think about putting your hand inside, you empty it on the floor and you take two steps away.
Jonás did so. When the contents of the backpack were scattered on the station’s floor, the old man approached a meter without diverting the gun barrel from Antonio Jose’s mouth. He inspected the remains of the bag and removed them with the tip of a shoe that shone brightly under the streetlights of the station.
—Where are the pen drive and the file? —he asked.
—What pen drive? I don’t know anything about any pen drive.
Chacon turned on his side and pushed the barrel of the pistol violently into the back of his father's mouth. Antonio José gave two violent retches and his eyes filled with tears.
—Don’t touch my balls, kid— he syllabized slowly—. It would not be the first head that I flew.
—There is everything that you want— answered Jonas desperately—. The newspaper’s cuts that relate you to the Gladio’s members...
Francisco Chacón nodded impatiently. When he turned to Jonás, his eyes had changed, they were no longer those of an old man; in them, absolute cruelty could be seen without a doubt.
—You think a give a shit about those old newspapers! — he shouted, pushing the barrel deeper into Antonio's throat as he forced him to his knees—. Do you think someone cares a fucking shit that I saw with assassins or gangsters in the regime of the dictatorship?
—They could lock you up for crimes against humanity— Jonás threatened him, though his tone
of voice was much less violent than he had expected—. I understand that they are searching for you, to judge you.
The old man laughed in the damp night that resounded in every corner of the station. Could it be possible that no one had appeared there?
—Well, it seems that the intelligence in your family skips two generations— joked the old man—. If you ever have a son, he will be a luminary. To me the judges give me the same, especially that South American Argentine. Kid, no one is interested in an old fogey in the last days of his life, for many thrashings that they prove that I have given reds in the postwar period, and even less, old newspapers written by a dead crazy.
—They are not just beatings— Jonás wielded red with fury—. You killed people!
The old man thought for a few seconds and changed the weight of the body to the other foot. The night seemed to descend from temperature to every second, and the fingertips for Jonás began to ache.
—Son, the people of this time are sensitized against almost everything —he argued—. Nothing impacts them beyond the moment of the news. No one is frightened by the horrors committed in a turbulent time, and no one will judge a repentant old man who was forced to commit savage acts. Dress it up with some tears and I'm sure they'll even give me another medal.
He grabbed Antonio José by the hair and dragged him a couple of meters, until he faced Jonás.
—I don’t give a fuck about all that! —he roared a few centimeters from Jonás’ face—. All I want is that damn pen driver!
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