‘Abi isn’t the same man as José Luis.’
‘But Abi needs a home, and Sunset is his life,’ said Cámara. ‘Of course he’ll carry it on. And he’ll need Paco even more than José Luis did.’
He gave them a knowing look.
‘By my reckoning,’ he said, ‘you’ll be in an even stronger position than before. Certainly that’s how things are looking from our end. Which is why we want to continue with the old system. Dealing with you.’
Bogdan stared hard.
‘Only dealing with us?’
‘Your system works,’ said Cámara. ‘And as you said, José Luis was the one who started the problems. Now he’s gone we can go back to how things were before.’
Bogdan’s face barely betrayed any expression, but Cámara thought he could catch a glimmer of raw greed flashing somewhere within his eyes.
‘By the way,’ Cámara said. ‘Your methods are commendable. The Guardia Civil have been keeping an eye on you, as you might suspect. But so far they can’t work out how you get the material to Paco.’
‘How …?’ began Dorin.
‘We have informants,’ said Cámara. ‘On the inside.’
Both men looked impressed. Dorin smiled broadly; Bogdan tittered softly.
‘I knew,’ he said, pointing a finger at Cámara. ‘These guys, I said. These guys must have good contacts. How else can they survive for so long. Get so big.’
Cámara smiled with them.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘You’ll agree that I’ve been very frank with you. And I hope that we can mark this moment as a new beginning. All obstacles removed. Clean slate.’
‘Clean slate,’ said Bogdan.
‘What we need to do now,’ said Cámara, ‘is establish a new working arrangement. Collection and distribution should continue as they have done. No point fixing something that isn’t broken. But the quantities involved will be changing.’
‘We’ve been supplying Paco with steady amounts,’ said Bogdan. ‘A kilo of grava, half a kilo of mercancía and the same of melocotón.’
‘What’s the cocaine situation like?’
Bogdan looked uncomfortable, as though he’d swallowed something he shouldn’t.
‘It’s fine,’ said Cámara. ‘No one’s listening: no need for code words. And besides, they’ll be changing soon.’
‘Demand for cocaine drops sometimes,’ said Bogdan at length. ‘Kids want the newer drugs. But it’s steady in the long run. People come back to it.’
‘Like an old friend,’ grinned Dorin.
‘Paco still takes a kilo off us each delivery.’
‘That’s a lot of cocaine.’
‘There’s a lot of kids at Sunset.’
‘OK,’ said Cámara. ‘But we want these numbers to grow. From now on I want you to double all of that.’
Bogdan’s eyes widened.
‘You reckon you can handle that much?’
‘Sure,’ said Bogdan. ‘What about Paco?’
‘Don’t worry about Paco. He’ll take it. I’ve been speaking to him as well.’
Bogdan nodded. Something in him seemed to be relaxing, the guard beginning to slip. Cámara had just one more question to ask.
BANG!
The door blew open with an explosive force, bright lights flashing, the sound of hurried, shouting, urgent voices echoing in the room. Instinctively, Cámara gripped the grenades tight in his hands and drew his arms into his chest. He felt an impact to his side, a hard, armoured weight hurtling into him and throwing him to the floor. His breath was pushed out of him as he smashed into the cement, staring up at a gun barrel as it was thrust into his face.
‘GUARDIA CIVIL! GUARDIA CIVIL!’
He couldn’t make out how many were there: he saw a forest of legs clad in black, high leather boots over their ankles, knee pads, and holsters strapped to their thighs. On the far side of the room, Dorin and Bogdan had both been pushed head-first to the floor, men kneeling over them and pinning them still, pulling twisted wrists up tight behind their backs. Neither said a word, no grunt of pain or complaint.
Meanwhile the men in uniform continued to bellow orders, as though needing to shout, as well as wrestle, them into submission. Gloved hands began to move over their bodies. Cámara saw Bogdan’s revolver being placed into an evidence bag before he, too, became the subject of a thorough frisking.
The gun barrel was removed from the end of his nose and eyes that he recognised stared into his face. Corporal Rodríguez gave him a hard, unforgiving look, then unhooked Cámara’s fingers from the grenades.
‘I’ll take these,’ he said, being careful to unhook the cords from the clips and prise them away safely.
Cámara closed his eyes.
‘Oh, God,’ he said softly. Everything around him, the room, the men inside it, his world, the investigation, everything that he had been working for, seemed as glass and now proceeded to shatter in front of his eyes.
All those promises, all those words, all gone. Rodríguez had got what he needed, had got the glory that he so desperately craved, the medal that would crown a long and – until then – undistinguished career. And Cámara was left with nothing. Not even any crumbs. Just a pawn in some other, greater game.
He let his body go limp as the Guardia Civil officers continued with their farce, offering no resistance when they cuffed his wrists behind his back, reacting with customary resignation when he was officially informed that he – and the others – was under arrest. Marching dutifully with head bowed out into the street. And sitting in gloomy silence between two guards in the back of a Guardia Civil van for the short ride to the station.
He wondered how long this would last, how long they would have to keep it up. He was led back into Rodríguez’s office and forced to sit down. Keeping his gaze fixed on the floor he didn’t look into their faces when Bogdan and Dorin were marched in behind him. When the Romanians were bundled out again, led back to a van to drive them to a larger Guardia Civil office in Bétera, Cámara thought that he might finally be released, that the charade might come to an end.
He looked in vain for Rodríguez, the only one there who could vouch for him. But Rodríguez had left with others for Bétera. Cámara was alone with two officers he had never seen before.
They cast him into the single cell, closed the door and turned the key.
Cámara rubbed life back into his wrists, put his head down on the floor, and went straight to sleep.
FORTY-SEVEN
The bar on Calle General Yagüe stayed open till late. The irony of the street name – dedicated to one of Franco’s most successful and bloodthirsty commanders from the Civil War – was not lost on her. Here, of all places. There had been talk about changing it.
She sat by the window with a clear view out across to the drab, grey office building on the other side, and the inconspicuous doorway at its middle.
Over two hours had passed now, but still there was no sign. Had she arrived too late? She pushed the thought away as she sipped her coffee: such behaviour would be so untypical as to be impossible. Yet it was now approaching eleven o’clock.
The bar was empty save for the barman and a blind lottery-ticket salesman catching a last cognac before heading, presumably, for home. There was no sign of the balding man with the staring eyes, nor of the woman – with or without her leather jacket. She had caught no sign of either of them – or anyone else tailing her – since she had left Atocha station. Which did not mean that she was no longer being tailed. But she felt as confident as she could be that no one knew where she was right now. No one was watching her.
To be doubly sure she had gone up to the blind man and bought a ticket from him. Everything about him – his mannerisms, the tilt of his head, the smell about him that spoke of an entire day out on the street sweating and drinking and smoking – had an authenticity about it. From what she had seen of the others who had been tailing her, they were not so good as to be able to fake this. The guy was real, she felt certain.
Now she was doubly glad for the shawl attached to her new top. The temperature had dropped a little, and, jacketless, she could wrap it around her shoulders, help keep herself warm. The coffee helped too, milky and sweet to smooth her nerves. She’d been rattled earlier, but now she was here. She had made it.
She drank the last of the coffee and swirled the dregs around in the bottom of the cup. It was already paid for: if she needed to, she could leave without delay.
And the thought seemed to herald something, for no sooner did she look up than she caught sight of what she had been waiting for: a lone figure emerging from the doorway on the other side of the street and heading down the pavement, head slightly dipped, hurried steps.
In an instant Alicia was out on the pavement herself. No cars were coming and she crossed over, falling in behind her quarry, keeping a distance, treading as lightly as she could so as not to be heard.
They walked three blocks in a straight line. The area was largely made up of office and apartment buildings: it was relatively quiet at this time. An occasional car passed.
At the fourth crossroads, her quarry turned right on to a narrower street. A few paces further on the hazard lights of a car flashed as it was unlocked. The quarry climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
Less than a second later, Alicia opened the door on the passenger side and climbed in hurriedly, slamming it closed behind her.
‘Whatever you do, don’t ever come to me looking for a job as a secret agent,’ said a voice from the driver’s side. ‘That’s the worst tail I’ve ever had.’
The engine burst into life, they pulled out and the car slipped into the grid of the surrounding streets.
‘But at least you didn’t call me. That’s one thing to be thankful for.’
‘I’ve thrown my phone away,’ said Alicia.
‘Under the circumstances I’d say that’s probably wise.’
‘Did you know? Know that I was being tailed?’
Light from a nearby street lamp flashed through the window as they rolled past: Marisol’s face had a tired looseness about it, like a cliff face about to collapse into the sea.
‘It was to be expected,’ she said. ‘You’ve stumbled on something, and there are very worried people trying to …’ She hesitated.
‘To what?’ asked Alicia. ‘To just keep tabs on me? Or should I be more concerned for my safety?’
Marisol kept her eyes on the road ahead, fingers gripped tight against the wheel.
‘Perhaps it was wrong of me,’ she said at last, almost whispering the words. ‘To get you involved.’
‘If you’re worried about yourself, you needn’t be. I shook them off several hours ago. No one knows I’m here with you now.’
Marisol’s shoulders lifted as she breathed in, her lips tight like a knot.
‘That’s your mistake,’ she said. ‘They’ll know, all right. It’s what you have to assume at all times. The moment you think you’ve given the slip is when you make mistakes.’
The traffic lights ahead were red. Marisol ignored them, slowing to make sure no one was coming before pulling out and turning left.
‘Were you waiting for me in the bar across the road?’ she asked.
Alicia nodded. Marisol shrugged.
‘Then they know.’
‘The barman?’
‘The barman is one of those stubborn types,’ said Marisol. ‘Refuses to be bought. It’s his clientele you need to watch out for.’
‘The only other person there was a lottery-ticket salesman,’ said Alicia. ‘A blind man.’
Marisol shook her head, glancing at the street behind them through her mirror.
‘Then just about now they’ll be hearing all about you.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, he’s genuinely blind,’ said Marisol. ‘And a genuine lottery-ticket salesman. But for an extra bit of cash he’ll pass on a bit of gossip.’
‘But he couldn’t see me! He’s blind!’
‘Well, only partially. But the sketchiness of his vision will be filled in by a host of other details: the sounds you made, your smell, that kind of thing. And he’ll know that you walked out in a hurry. And at what time. If they’re not on to us already, then they soon will be.’
Alicia slumped into her seat.
‘That’s why I’m sorry I got you involved,’ said Marisol. ‘I blame myself.’
‘I thought, once I’d given the others the slip …’
‘Waiting for me right outside the Ministry of Defence building? Did you think that was a good idea?’
‘I had no choice. Besides, I was convinced I’d lost them. How would anyone know I was there?’ She sighed. ‘Too late now,’ she said. ‘How long have we got?’
‘They know my car registration,’ said Marisol. ‘Once they work out what’s happened, which may already be the case, they’ll put out an alert for my car, get the traffic police involved. I suspect we’ll be pulled over soon on some minor count, then held until bigger fish come to collect us and take us away.’
Something stirred inside Alicia, deep fears burnt into her consciousness by previous experience, years before, of incarceration, of abuse and torture. She could feel the physical scars flickering, like antennae picking up signals of danger. Of the need to flee.
She could open the car door, jump out at the next junction, or when Marisol slowed down. But would there be any point? What were the chances that she would be found sooner or later? And she had come here for something. What use was it getting caught without at least obtaining what she needed?
The car swerved as Marisol pulled the wheel to the left, taking the smaller streets, avoiding the wider boulevards where there was greater danger.
‘You’ll have guessed why I came,’ said Alicia.
Marisol said nothing.
‘You know more than you let on last night,’ Alicia continued. ‘All the stuff about not having the whole picture, it’s nonsense. You know everything. It was just some kind of test, you wanted to see if I could work it out.’
The car swerved again. Ahead was a rubbish truck blocking the street, men hauling a large container round the back to be lifted and emptied. It was too late to reverse out; another car had come in from behind and trapped them. Marisol watched it through the mirror; Alicia caught her nervousness and cast a glance at the headlights over her shoulder.
‘Them?’
Marisol paused.
‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’
Alicia leaned over and grabbed her arm.
‘Listen, Marisol, there may not be much time. I don’t need you to tell me the whole story; I’ve pretty much worked it out for myself. All those code words from the Middle Ages: Clavijo, Abravanel, Covadonga. And then there’s the history of Cabrera itself. It’s pretty bloody clear what they’re doing there, what’s going to happen. But I need documentary proof, I need paperwork, something to demonstrate that this is all true. That the government is going to—’
‘It’s all right,’ interrupted Marisol. Her eyes were fixed on the mirror, staring at the car behind. In front, the rubbish men were finishing with the container, wheeling it back to its position.
‘You don’t have to argue your case.’
‘You want me to know the truth,’ said Alicia. ‘You want people to know. That’s why you called me to Madrid. Now one person is already missing as a result of this. Nacho, my marine biologist friend. My life is possibly in danger, and perhaps yours as well. You just need—’
‘I get it. That’s enough.’
The rubbish men trotted back to the truck, grabbed the handles at the side and the wheels started rolling. Marisol put her own car into gear and followed closely, eyes flicking constantly back to her mirror. After a pause, the car behind stirred into life.
At the junction, the rubbish truck swung left. Marisol went to follow it, slowing down to a near standstill. When she saw that the car behind was coming in the same direction, she suddenly jerked the wheel to the right
and pressed the accelerator, hitting the kerb as she spun round and went the other way.
‘Are they following us?’ she asked.
Alicia looked back through the window.
‘They’ve stopped where they are,’ she said.
‘Have they pulled in behind the rubbish truck?’
‘No. It looks like they don’t know exactly where they’re going themselves.’
‘Then it’s them,’ said Marisol. ‘They don’t want to give themselves away but they don’t want to lose us either.’
The car gave a surge and Alicia was pushed back into her seat.
‘Hang on. We’re going to have to put some distance between us.’
For the next few minutes Marisol swerved this way and that as she sped along the largely empty streets. They were lucky: most of the traffic lights were in their favour, and where they weren’t, Marisol ignored them. Neither of them spoke, both concentrating on the road, both looking out for any tails, or any sign of the police.
Minutes later, having weaved a criss-cross route across the north of the city, they pulled out on to a wider street. Alicia thought it looked familiar. Trees appeared, and in the distance, in the middle of a park area, some ancient stone structure.
‘Here?’
‘Some anomaly,’ said Marisol. ‘I don’t know why, but there are hardly any security cameras around this area. I know, because I know where the others are.’
She found a space away from the street lamps and brought the car to a stop, turning off the engine and letting her hands fall from the wheel.
Alicia looked out through the windows.
‘Can’t see anyone,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ve—’
‘Never assume they don’t know where you are,’ repeated Marisol. ‘It’s a basic and dangerous mistake. Do you have any cash on you?’
Alicia nodded. Marisol reached for her bag and pulled out her purse.
‘You’ll need some more,’ she said, handing over all the notes she had. ‘Don’t use your cards for anything, particularly not public transport.’
She paused and looked Alicia in the eye. Neither could see the other well in the gloom of the car, but a silent communication passed between them.
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