The property was placed in a wild and isolated area of the island of La Palma, very close to the Caldera de Taburiente National Park. It was a volcanic and abrupt area, wild and little visited despite being one of the most beautiful places in the Canary Islands. The strict protection of the park's species made nature’s lovers stop visiting their permitted areas. For that very reason, the owner had built his mansion in that region since it was practically impregnable if you did not have the necessary permission. Chacón had arrived there by helicopter, and a jeep had picked him up at the heliport to take him to the residence.
The wide wheels of the jeep crunched the gravel of the entrance courtyard, and with the sound the welcome protocol was activated. Before getting off the car, Chacon had two boys in front of him who provided him with an umbrella and a bottle of cold beer. Seconds later the owner of all that private jungle appeared and its consequent paraphernalia.
—Paco, dear friend! — he greeted him with a hug—. How's life treating you?
—For what I see, not much better than you— he answered looking around with a circumstances’ smile.
—What can I say? — he led him inside the mansion—. If I must live in seclusion, at least it must be as I like it.
—Yes, of course Hermenegildo.
—Manuel, do you remember? —he said.
—What are you saying, for me you will always be Herme, just as I am Paco and not Cristóbal!
—Well, you're right— he conceded—. Come in and sit in the living room. Rita will serve you whatever you wish. The others are about to arrive.
Chapter 32
The three watched the pieces of the puzzle they had recomposed and that were scattered along the entire glass surface of the table. The newspaper that Jonás had edited— which contained the details extracted from the printing press's mural— and the documents that Juandi and Raquel had collated in the municipal archive.
—Dude, I have it more and more clear— Juandi confessed—. In those files appear operations and names everywhere of the Gladio’s organization. It seems that our friend, "The Little Dictator," welcomed terrorists from the extreme right of the countries annexed to NATO and gave them refuge.
—He didn’t just give them shelter— Jonás added—. But he also recruited them as members of the DGS.
—The DGS?
—The General Directorate of Security— Jonás clarified—. We could define it as an Armed Police, with a license to do whatever it wanted.
—You mean that terrorists came to Spain and put them to policemen? —Juandi exclaimed surprised. What country!
—Not only that, it has also been said that the members of La Gladio managed different governments and, although today it has not been possible to demonstrate with tangible evidence, it has always been an open secret— reflected Raquel—. But this is nothing new, on the Internet it appears thousands of articles about the Gladio, the Francoist police and those conspiracies that people like so much, I don’t know why your grandfather would be so interested in this topic.
—He was not only interested— he said—. He became obsessed. He turned that place into an isolated bunker from the world and dedicated himself to publish his own newspaper with his private investigations for more than thirty years. Colleague —Juandi continued— there are not only theories here. Your grandfather linked that worldwide organization with the Spanish police and the Francoism and showed that it was behind the most famous murders since 1948 and of an indescribable corruption that continues up to nowadays.
—Jonás, do you realize we're talking about murders of powerful people in charge of the government? — Raquel began to point out the different parts of the frame that they had drawn up—. In addition to international terrorists that were hires by the police, extortions, expropriations for the benefit of the regime and secret groups in charge of eliminating all those that were against the chieftain.
At the table the arrows crossed and linked the names of soldiers, politicians, bourgeois and police with cases filed or closed at the time of the regime.
—According to what it seems, Franco obtained financing through the murder and expropriation of some powerful men and maintained its line until he died.
—It's much more! —The giant exclaimed excited—. According to all this, a secret organization called "Tiempos Libres" was dedicated to extorting and liquidate the rich of the republic. Those goods went to the coffers of the regime, which increased its power with the privatizations and creations of monopoly companies, and the worst, Tiempos Libres was directed by terrorists of the far right that came out of Gladio!
—We must organize this story better, take out all the names and their implications up to the present and decide what to do with this.
—What to do? — Juandi said angrily—. Disseminate it, take it out in all the news networks of the country, of Europe, of the world!
—And that we are going to do colleague —Jonás added—; but first we must tie this in the best way. We cannot introduce ourselves and say that even Monchito the one in the bar in front of the parliament is involved.
—Jonás, read my lips, this is too much for us— he tried to calm down—. Macho they have murdered your father! Give all this to the police and let them handle with it.
Jonah changed his face when he heard about his father and stood up.
—Can you see this? —he said—. Head of the political-social brigade in the dictatorship. He continues to run million-dollar companies of which half are ghost. Acquitted of recognized crimes for having prescribed according to the National Audience, and not even the Argentine judges have been able to charge him even one charge despite the torture he carried out under the official mandate —he swallowed saliva—. But they have even imposed him the silver medal on police merit!
He left the card that he held in his hand and pointed to another name with his finger.
—Delle Chievo, alias "Caccola" —he continued—. International terrorist member of the Gladio. He managed the secret operations of the political-social brigade in Spain until Franco died, to later leave and go with Pinochet and a long list of dictators. To this day, and following his family tree that my grandfather owned, his two grandchildren are sitting at this moment in the parliament.
He went to another place in the frame. Vermilion motes had appeared on his face, and he was sweating profusely despite the humidity and cold of December.
—According to all this, state military factions, secret services, ghost press agencies, diplomats and a succession of businessmen, politicians and traffickers so long as the tail of the strike —he took a deep breath and dropped into one of the chairs—. Who do you want me to deliver this, the police, the politicians, the press?
Juandi understood what his friend meant, and he let himself fall, too, defeated.
—Well, we'll have to do something— he said dejected—. That guy cannot go clean of dust and straw.
Jonás stood up again and approached to his friend. The brightness in his eyes had returned.
—For the moment I'm going to take a shower —he expressed resolute—. And then I must buy a plane ticket; I'm going to Chile.
When removing his jacket, a small pen drive fell from one of his pockets; he put it absently in the laptop bag where they kept the documents that they had been examining. He would check it later.
****
The heat and humidity attacked him as soon as he got off the plane. The short trip along the track that he had to walk to reach the closed area (and with air conditioning) of the airport, made him end with the clothes soaked. He had not thought that in that part of the world they were in the middle of the tropical summer. At the airport he exchanged a portion of the money he had taken out in Madrid, and he was given an exorbitant amount of ocher-colored Chilean peso notes. Jonás was surprised to see that on the notes it was marked the amount of 10,000 and 20,000. They charged him a juicy commission, but he did not care. Then he went into a store and bought a pair of shorts, four diff
erent brightly colored T-shirts, and leather sandals. When he approached the counter to pay, he included an elegant felt hat. He was startled when he was told 5,500 pesos, but when he made the change mentally he realized that it had cost him less than seven euros.
He bought a plane ticket for national flights to the Diego Aracena’s airport, which was located about fifty kilometers from Iquique, at the PAL Airlines company, and then he went on a walk and made some more purchases at the gigantic Comodoro Arturo Merino international airport, as if he was an ordinary tourist.
****
The trip lasted two and a half hours, and Jonás took the opportunity to read a little more about the region, that corvette called La Esmeralda, and the culture of the place. He wished with all his soul to read a little more of his grandfather's diary, but for some reason, he did not want to take it out on the plane. He considered it intimate, something he should do when he was alone, like when you visited the grave of a relative to talk to him.
The airport was much larger than Jonás had imagined, but what caught his attention was that more cargo planes could be seen than passengers’ planes. Jonás watched amused as a couple of animals that looked like oxen came down from a huge freighter and walked them as if such a thing by the terminal. He heard someone saying that he was leaving Chucumata airport, and he remembered that they called it that in a colloquial way. He left the terminal and got on a bus line with the Cruz del Norte emblem on the sides. During the agitated journey to the city —due to the state of the road—, he felt a deep sense of emptiness. He had never been very attached to his father but seeing him die in that way had been a terrible blow. In a few months he had lost his grandfather and now his father, because of an issue he did not even fully understand. He was immersed in a game of conspiracies, spies, assassins and confabulations that he had not asked for and that he did not want. He felt a terrible desire to cry, but he restrained himself because he did not want to attract attention.
The city was thrown over him as soon as he got off the bus. The station was just a stop with a sheet metal roof where there was a bar a few meters away. All the road and the halt and the bar were completely crowded with people who laughed and joked with each other effusively. As soon as he set foot on the hot asphalt, a man in his fifties approached him and grabbed his hand with his own, small and toasted by the sun.
—Good morning sir— he greeted, offering him a wide smile that revealed small, perfect teeth—. If you look for a place, Luis shows it to you.
—Thanks— he replied self-consciously—. But it will not be necessary.
—Whatever you order— he insisted, without blunting his broad smile—. The park, the nitrate fields.
—No thanks.
—I can take you to the Mall, if you need to buy something
-—To the Mall?
—Supermarket— he clarified—. Supermarket.
He still did not let go his hand, and Jonás began to get nervous.
—Luis searches for you— he insisted—. Good lodging, a very good place to eat, or visit the port, the corvette...
—How did you say?
—To visit the corvette— Luis felt that the business was there—. A beautiful museum in honor of the great corvette La Esmeralda, the pride of the army...
—Okay— Jonás wanted to stop that guy’s verbiage whatever—. Take me to the museum.
****
The impressive structure of the corvette jutted majestically from its mooring in the harbor, above the fishing boats. At the entrance, a ticket seller offered guided tours at an affordable price, while groups of tourists delightfully took photos. Jonás addressed her, who received him with a pleasant smile.
—Good morning, what do you want? —she said in perfect Spanish—. The entrance fee is one thousand pesos, but I recommend you a visit with one of our guides for only a thousand pesos more.
Jonas took a quick look at the row of boys lined up at the entrance, perfectly dressed in light-colored jackets with the logo of the museum and a drawing of the ship. None of them suggested him anything special.
—Of course! —he exclaimed delightedly—. I would love a guided tour
The girl smiled and pointed to the line of employees waiting for their customers.
—In case you want, we have special prices that include a visit to the salt mines.
The woman grabbed him gently by the elbow and called one of the boys, who approached smiling. While introducing him to Carlos (who was the guide's name), Jonás saw himself trying to decode for what the hell his father had sent him there, if that was the right place.
—I would love it— he added—. But what I want now is to know more about the history of the Esmeralda.
—In that case, if you want to follow me— Carlos said, showing the entrance with kindness and taking over from the receptionist—. Jennifer tells me that you are Spanish.
—That’s right.
—Well, you see, it's funny, because the name La Esmeralda originates in the Spanish frigate...
Carlos continued talking as he led him inside the boat, perfectly preserved and restored as a museum.
—The first battle of La Esmeralda... —the boy continued to prattle—... that later would have a huge...
Jonás barely paid attention to Carlos's rehearsed explanation, although he nodded as if that were the most interesting thing on the planet. He did not understand why his father had sent him there with the last words he had spoken in his life, but he considered that the enigma of the deceased Otto Skorzeny was not going to be resolved in that ship-museum.
—But it was not until March 2010 when it was signed for reconstruction —the guide continued—. Follow me please.
They entered another room that appeared to be the command post of the corvette. Huge nautical charts gleamed under the thick glass of a lectern in the center of the room.
—In this room, the commander...
Jonás spent the rest of the morning going through each board of that museum without finding anything relevant to the matter that had brought him there. He returned two hours later to try to find out if something had escaped to him but came out with the same feeling of emptiness and helplessness.
—Yes, I already know that story— he lied, not even knowing what Jose had explained (that's how the new guide was called) —, a friend of mine, Otto Skorzeny, told it to me. Do you know him?
The boy looked at him with a face of not understanding, as if Jonás had asked him the result of the Napierian logarithm of 1435.
—No, I don’t know him, is he also a historian? — he said.
—Not exactly, but he has a very interesting story—. Jonás had thrown that line desperately, but it was clear he was not going to get anything out of there—. The fact is that now I must leave. Will you take me to the exit?
—Yes— the guide answered missed—. Follow me please.
The frustration was seizing him. There was nothing there that could point out any clue to what his father had wanted to tell him. He left the boat with grief and went to the nearest bar when the sun was already at the top of the luminous blue sphere of the Chilean coast. Before reaching the corner, he felt a sharp pressure in the lower back, and the unmistakable perception of a sharp tip penetrating his skin a few millimeters.
—We made a deal— he said point-blank, a voice tinged with hatred. I told you everything I knew in exchange for leaving me alone.
—I think not... —Jonás replied.
—I told Anabel that I was done with this! — he hissed angrily.
—I don’t know any Anabel, nor am I here to break any deal— he clarified—. I only came because my father told me to look for Otto Skorzeny before he died! —he choked—. Those were his last words.
After an uncomfortable silence, the oppression of the object that pressed on his kidneys became loose.
—At two in the Valparaíso cafeteria
Saying that, he turned around and disappeared into the corvette. Jonás did not turn around in ti
me to see who he was.
****
The Valparaíso coffee shop was an elegant place of tropical style located on the seafront, next to the beach. A wooden porch with four tables were placed as a terrace, and inside the walls were decorated with traditional Chilean motifs and a mix of Caribbean and Aztec influences. When Jonás came in, there was no one else besides the waiter, a Chilean with his hair up to his back and sunglasses —despite being in the gloom behind the bar. He thought about having a coffee but, he became encouraged at the last moment with one of the cocktails that were announced in bright colors from a board.
—Vacations, right? — the smiling waiter interposed—. Because only those who are on vacation ask for a "Chicharrito" before lunch.
Jonás reciprocated with another smile and nodded. He liked the man when he saw him. After a half hour of friendly talk with Carlos —that was the barman’s name—, in which no one entered, an avalanche of people suddenly arrived and flooded the place in a few minutes.
—The workers— explained Carlos, who got lost in the rowdy crowd that requested their lunches.
Jonás felt immediately uncomfortable between the cacophony and the shouts of the workers of the nearby complex, so once he had located the place where he would meet with the stranger who had put a knife in his kidneys, he left with the intention of doing a little tourism At two o'clock he sat down again at the same table, and a few seconds later a man entered. Despite collecting all the German stereotypes, his white skin had taken on a slight tan due to the intense tropical sun, and his blue eyes gleamed in his face in tune with the sea behind them. The stranger sat down at the table and fixed a hard look on Jonás.
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