Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  The boy looked at his father, who tried to say something desperate, but with the huge gun in his mouth could not move his jaw.

  —I don’t have anything of that— he pointed to his father—. But he does. If you let me for a minute, I'll convince him to take you where they are.

  Chacon thought about it and pulled the gun out of the man's mouth. He smiled strangely.

  —I'm not going to walk away even a meter— he threatened—. So, don’t try to play it on me.

  Jonás embraced his father, who began to cry on his son's shoulder.

  —Look for La Esmeralda— Antonio Jose whispered into his son's ear as he pretended to cry bitterly—. Find Otto Skorzeny.

  Surreptitiously, Antonio José dropped something on his son's jacket with the expertise of a good magician.

  —Tic, tac— chanted Chacón, barely two meters away. Tic, Tac.

  —What? —Jonás was terrified. We are two, we can with him, only...

  —Tic, tac, gentlemen.

  —Listen to me son, for once in your life— Antonio José cried, this time really—. Search for La Esmeralda; in Iquique...

  —Tic... oh, to take it by the ass!

  Chacón approached with two great strides, raised the weapon with a shocking speed and unleashed a shot in Antonio José Ulloa’s head.

  —Tac— he whispered.

  ****

  Mauro heard the shot even above the roar of his Ducati's engine. A few kilometers from the entrance to the capital he had received a call that had indicated where his objectives were. The radio transmitter attached to the helmet bothered him intimately, it took away the freedom to travel by motorcycle alone with his machine and the asphalt, but a man like him could not be disconnected not even a single minute of the day.

  He parked in anyway on the sidewalk and left at full speed, avoiding the hedges of entrance to the station. The place was deserted, and not just because it was a late hour, since, he could not see anyone behind the ticket counter either. He hurried up to the platforms where the trains left and realized that there was no one either. With all the tranquility of the world, he stuck his hand under his Garibaldi motorcycle jacket and pulled out his Beretta 92 series, a gift he never gave away. He moved forward against the wall, perpendicular to the islet that indicated the exit of the suburban trains and reached the underground passage that crossed under the tracks to the national trains. There was no sound, not even that of the stray dogs that used to hang around the stations in the middle of the night to look for scraps of food. He held his breath and tightened his finger on the trigger, counting mentally the 13 bullets of the Compact L’s pistol charger. Mauro felt no nervousness in the confrontations, but excitement, and for a few years he had learned that during a shooting he had to count his bullets to avoid unpleasant situations. He began to place the muffler in the barrel as he passed through the underpass with crisscrossed and firm treads. His specialized training had taught him to handle such situations, and his innate murderous instinct did the rest.

  When he came out to the flyover that marked the corridors three and four, he saw a shapeless lump on the ground, and a silhouette that was shaped against the lights of the streetlights that were there. From his position Mauro could not see who it was, but what he held in his hand was for no doubt a weapon. He tensed his finger on the trigger and advanced some steps in silence. There seemed to be two people, which coincided with his information, but he could not see what that dark outline of the floor was about. Suddenly everything happened very fast, and in his action code that meant you shoot the first one. From that mass of ground emerged a shadow that pounced on the silhouette that stood with a supernatural roar. It raised its arm and pointed with a gun, but the shot that resonated at the station did not leave from its barrel, but instead of Mauro's Beretta, who tense as he was decided to opt for the "question later".

  The body that was standing was destabilized enough so that he did not have time to raise the gun again before the man on the ground fell on him. Mauro began to run, setting aside one of his basic rules, which was not to rush, and pointed as he approached running. The grunts of the fight echoed in the deserted station, and a heartbreaking scream rose to the iron beams and vanished into the dark night. Mauro fired again, this time mistaking for very little. The figure that was on top of the other one straightened up just to see the armed man who came running and, continued hitting with both fists and an excessive fury. Mauro stopped his career, secured both feet and closed his left eye. He opened his mouth —for the decompression— and pressed the trigger twice in a row. Immediately the figure fell on its side and Mauro began to run again. When he was less than twenty meters from the bodies, one stood up, picked up something from the ground at full speed and jumped onto the train tracks. He sprinted down the slippery tiles of the platform and reached the place where two bodies lay face down. There was a lot of blood, too much for them to be alive. He peered carefully at the edge of the tracks but could see nothing but a distant figure that was lost in the chaos of old factories and abandoned the polygon near the station.

  ****

  Mauro Delle Chievo knelt by the body of Antonio José Ulloa and turned him around with a sensitivity that could be interpreted as morbid rather than respectful. The guy had a hole in the crown the size of a penny. Mauro knew very well that way to execute, since it was said that the professional murderer, the one who really was a true connoisseur of crime, murdered with a single bullet from the front up.

  He approached carefully to the other body and turned it around with the tip of his Italian shoes. Before he could react, the old man extended his arm and pointed a huge cannon pistol at his head. Mauro reminded him of those old Dirty Harry movies. Both looked into each other's eyes in the reigning blackness of the platform and scrutinized each other secretly. The young man was not afraid —he had lost it many years before, in a cell in Cyprus at the hands of a member of the Gray Wolves —, but he was curious to know if that old man was brave enough to shoot him.

  —Fucking asshole! — roared the old man, lowering the weapon—. You shot me spaghetti from the balls!

  Mauro raised his arm and squeezed his Beretta against his right leg.

  —Try it— Chacón challenged—. And I make you a new face.

  —I thought that the one on the floor was you— he explained—. I couldn’t let them escape.

  —And yet you've done it— he leaned back, but a grimace of pain forced him to his knees—. Help me!

  Mauro picked up the old man and noticed that a trickle of blood ran down the back of his hand; his lip was split, his right eyebrow was shattered, and his cheekbone began to swell.

  —Thank God you have shit marksmanship— he mumbled—. You just brushed my forearm.

  —Well, it seems that you've also hit your face on the ground— the young man laughed at the old man's murderous look.

  Chapter 30

  I put aside the General's tricks to get into the role of journalist. The murders in Spain of years past possessed a glamor that can hardly be admired today. In the words of my good friend Eugenio, "Now you kill little and badly". It is still killing, usually by skirt’s messes and money, but with much less grace. With the Jarabo’s case we signed up a bit. A wealthy Dandy who lived to spend and cheat the incautious women who fell in his arms, until something went wrong. He charged the moneylenders, to those who he had sold a jewel of his lover in a snub attack, by not allowing them to return to recover the jewel pledged.

  With the case of the "Hand cut" I learned to be a real journalist, of those who investigate and gather clues, since until then I had done nothing more than recite or beautify the teletypes that came to me in the newspaper Diario Madrid. In the weekly El Caso, I really knew the human condition. Thus, between rogue events and the smell of blood and gunpowder, I forgot what had taken me to work for El Caso, because we had enough to circumvent the censorship and find traces in that Spain of crimes’ events. The problem is that things sometimes take root where you cannot er
adicate them, and a special case brought me back to the mortal sin of obsession.

  That case was that of José María Ruiz, a tailor from Luna Street. That day, May 1, worker's day, I was with Suarez arranging some things of the next number when Sacristán González, a police’s friend, called us for a crime (at that time it was usual for the police to call us, because we had a car that we let them use). Since there was nobody else to celebrate the holiday, I went there, at number 3 Grilo Street. When we arrived, José María cried on the balcony screaming "I killed them, I killed them all for not killing others". The wretch broke a hole in his forehead when we tried to negotiate with him through the door. When we entered, he was still alive. I remember how he grabbed my shirt and said to me "I had to kill them, I had to do it, or they were going to torture them". Those were his last words.

  I spent the next few days talking with Genoveva Martín, the concierge, who told me that the man, who had everything in life, went mad for constructing for him a new villa in Villalba. I also knew that a few meters before, at number 1 of the same street, a shirt’s maker named Felipe de la Breña Marcos had been beaten to death with a candelabra a few years before, apparently it was a robbery. That case was not clarified, but I could know through my good source of information Mr. Gonzalez, that that guy also owned a farm a few hundred meters from the tailor, also in Villalba. I borrowed the "Berlinetta" from the newspaper, and there I went.

  I could not find the shirt’s maker's property, but the tailor's property was where they had indicated me, half-built. According to the neighbors, José María argued again and again with the masons with regards to the partition of a room, to the point of dismissing several of them. There, half buried by the bricks that Mr. Ruiz himself had kicked down, I discovered a tank of more than 1000 liters of empty fuel and several torn bags and covered by cloth, buried in a hole made in the foundations. Investigating, I learned that the tailor was a regular at Casa Pascual, a small-time restaurant on Luna Street, where he met most of his clients, members of the RENFE of the nearby Atocha station. I also met there Francisco Chacón, second of the DGS part-time, and a full-time torturer butcher. This Francisco, known as "Billy the Kid", was also a regular client of Ruiz, and blacksmith smuggler for work and charity of the State, to the greater glory of the Generalissimo.

  Jonás continued reading the newspaper that his grandfather had left him while he cried like a child, crouched in a dirty abandoned warehouse where the train tracks branched off to leave the city of Murcia. He read until the tears made his eyes sting. He read to try to understand why all this was happening. He read to try to forget what had just happened to his father, but nothing in that diary could appease the pain that was pressing on his chest, preventing him from breathing.

  ****

  He took a taxi on Avenida del Infante Juan Manuel, many meters away from the station. He had passed by no less than ten taxis down the endless Calle Torre de Romo, but he had left them behind in a panic. The more meters that he put between him and that damn station, the more secure he was, although he knew it was a false security, because those assassins could be tracking him at that very moment. He gave the driver the address of a hotel that was on the other side of the city, only to have more time to think. He rummaged in his backpack and took out his wallet. He barely had fifty euros left, so he could not afford accommodation if he wanted cash, unless he went through a cash machine, which he did not want to do. He felt the diary, which he had hastily taken along with the copy of El Caso that he had made himself. He continued to search in the backpack and touched something hard ... the cell phone! He had totally forgotten his cell phone. He connected it and saw that he barely had a ten percent battery left. He reviewed the list of missed calls and saw that most were from Raquel and Juandi. There were also two or three of his mother, and one of his father. When he saw that number, his eyes got wet again. He looked at the time. It was close to midnight. He called his friend, who picked up the second tone, almost as if he had been waiting for his call.

  —But where have you been dude? — Juandi exploded as soon as he picked up—. We've been trying to talk to you all day! Listen, Rachel and I ...

  —My father is dead.

  —What? Excuse me, I think I have not heard you well— there were a couple of beats on the loudspeaker—. Covering disgusts!

  —You have heard well Juandi— Jonás could barely speak—. My father has died, Francisco Chacón has murdered him.

  —But what the hell...! — a sigh came—. I'm sorry, man, I'm so sorry.

  —Hey, you must help me.

  —Jonás, you know you don’t have to ask me that, just tell me what to do.

  —I'll take the first bus, which leaves in three hours — he explained—. I need you to come and pick me up at the station when I arrive; I barely have money and...

  —Well, of course, Man! —he exclaimed in relief—. I thought you were going to ask me for something difficult.

  —Listen, I don’t have much time— the battery began to emit a whistle of protest—. As soon as I get to charge this gossip that...

  The mobile issued a final sound of protest and died. Jonás hit it on the taxi seat.

  —Hey, do you have a universal charger? — he asked to the taxi driver.

  Chapter 31

  He bought a charger in one of the 24-hour multi-service stores that filled the surroundings of the station and looked for a solitary place to connect it. Instantly, he received a pile of messages that he discarded without even looking at them. He called his friend, who picked up almost before the first tone sounded.

  —Really Jonah, you cannot keep doing this— complained his friend—. You tell me they killed your father, that I must go after you and then you hang me ...

  —Friend, I swear I will explain everything to you as soon as I arrive, but now I don’t have much time, the battery...

  Dude I need to know what this is about— he asked—. I want to help you.

  —You already do it -he lowered his voice a little. Listen partner, if you cannot sleep you can help me in something else.

  —Sleep? Are you kidding?

  The phone was not charging fast enough, so it had to abbreviate.

  —Listen, this is very important, take note— he went over the names—. Find everything you can about Otto Skorzeny and something called the Esmeralda.

  —The Esmeralda?

  —Yes, in Iquique— he concretized—. It could be a town, a city, a village, whatever the hell, but try it, do you want?

  —Ajá— he wrote down.

  —I'll arrive in Madrid around eight or nine in the morning— he informed—. If you've found something, you'll tell me there, now I'm going to turn off the phone

  —Okay— he sentenced—. I'll be waiting for you at the terminal.

  —Thanks friend

  —At youh commandh my master— he imitated. Doh youh neehd someth moreh?

  —Shut up idiot— he answered smiling.

  -Ifh youh asks me ...

  Jonas hung up and set about looking for somewhere to hide until his bus left.

  ****

  After an over-abundant breakfast of potato omelet, calamari in sauce and a piece of apple pie, Jonah was much better. He had not eaten more than twenty-four hours, and the day promised to be long. His friend and Rachel watched him amused without saying a word.

  —What?

  You look like you just arrived from Somalia.

  —Dodging bullets makes you hungry.

  The mention of what had happened the night before left them speechless again, since the young man had not wanted to tell them anything yet. After the copious breakfast they went back to Raquel's house in the urbanization. During the trip Juandi overwhelmed with questions to his friend, but he did not answer until they were inside the beautiful duplex of her boss.

  —Dude, you have Raquel and me looking like crazy— Juandi could not take another second—. But this whole subject has a lot of crumb.

  —First things first—
Jonás interjected—. What did you find out about Iquique and Skorzeny?

  —look, this Skorzeny had no mystery; a Nazi who was smarter than the broom and feared throughout Europe. The dude belonged to the SS, and after the war he took refuge in Spain, with our generalissimo. Then he dedicated himself to hide other Nazis who wanted to escape. He was never charged with any crime and died of an attack in 1975.

  —Died?

  —Yes, what happened, you expected something else?

  —No, keep going.

  —Well, that on the one hand— he went to the table and picked up a notebook—. And now about the Esmeralda. Jonas, I don’t know what you're looking for, but with the name Esmeralda I get thousands, if not millions of results all over the world, from jewelry, to cities or football teams, but I found one that I think is the one we are looking for, although it is a little... atypical.

  —Let it go, Juandi— he became impatient.

  —Well, you see, La Esmeralda was a corvette of the Pacific War, part of the Chilean Navy. Here you have the details— he passed to him the information he had taken from the Internet— but the only significant thing is that it has a museum and everything.

  —Where?

  —Here's the good stuff— he smiled—. In Iquique, a coastal city in Chile.

  ****

  The country house had a certain resemblance to the famous Naples Villa of the drug dealer Pablo Escobar, and Chacón hated it at first sight. That had always seemed the easiest way to fall when you held business in the hands of those who you did not want to know certain details; by means of ostentation. He himself was an important businessman, with more millions in secret accounts than he could ever spend, but except for the exception of one or another caprice, he did not show off the pomp and opulence of other wealthy men.

  The Jeep drove them down a narrow unpaved road, from which they could only see the palm leaves that hit the roof and the windows of the vehicle. After several turns, appeared before them a mansion that embraced the entire horizon and from which only highlighted the orange slate roofs, a strange variety imported from Norway. The country house was surrounded by Canaries’ pines, willows, tajinastes and cedars, all of them fireproof due to the volcanic lands. Chacón was not very fond of plants or animals, but that Canary’s variety called his attention because of his capacity for survival. The bark burned on the outside, but it had developed the peculiarity of continuing to live inside.