“And Brian was one of these rebellious agents?”
“No, Brian had infiltrated the group and managed to get hold of the documents they were keeping encrypted on a memory stick.”
“But there must be more than one copy…” interjected Borja.
“For security reasons – that is, so no member of the group might be tempted to sell the information to the highest bidder – there was only one copy in a file locked into a very sophisticated program. It is impossible to copy it if you don’t know the code. Obviously, over time, computer experts and methods can break all manner of codes… But it takes time.”
“And how about the Russians who kidnapped us? What’s their role in all this?” asked Borja.
“The group’s fears weren’t unfounded. One of these dissident agents decided that if, rather than save the world altruistically, he sold on the information, he’d make enough money to outdo the author of Harry Potter. He was negotiating with the Russian mafia, and, somehow or other, they discovered you were the person entrusted with the memory stick.”
“This dissident agent wouldn’t by any chance be a smallish lady with sensual lips?” I asked, remembering the woman who’d accosted Borja in the street and given him that mobile.
“Could be,” the stranger replied in a tone that meant “Yes, it was her”. “Did she get into contact with you?”
“Yes, she did,” confirmed Borja. “She gave me a mobile and asked me to be at the ready, that they’d be in contact with me. I suppose she was referring to the Russians, but, as I knew nothing at that stage about what the keyring contained, I thought she must be referring to my contact in the matter of the statue.”
“Didn’t they ring you?”
“The mobile’s battery went dead, and, as it was such an old model, I couldn’t find a charger that worked…” Borja defended himself. “However, I still don’t understand why Brian gave me the memory stick using the ruse that I was holding on to a spare copy of the keys to his flat. He and I hardly knew each other.”
“That was precisely why. Brian knew they were after him, and, while he awaited instructions, he decided to put the memory stick in a safe place. That’s why he hid it in the keyring and gave it to you. What could be more harmless in a Mediterranean country than asking a neighbour to keep a copy of the key to your door?”
“Well, it almost put paid to us,” I said resentfully.
“I’m very sorry. I’m sure Brian didn’t think you’d be in any danger. Of course, he didn’t think he was up for the chop either…” he added, acknowledging the weakness of his argument.
“So then who did kill Brian? The spy with the sensual lips? The Russians? His dissident colleagues?” I asked.
“Not exactly. In fact, it was a mistake,” he said uneasily.
“A mistake?” I repeated.
“This goddam crisis has affected all of us. Budgets have been slashed all round, and that sometimes means we aren’t as coordinated as we ought to be in my department.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was another group of our agents working on the case that didn’t know Brian was an infiltrator acting as a triple agent. Unfortunately, they decided to neutralize him before he could share the information with them.”
“What a fuck-up!” I shouted.
“Well, Brian was no angel, let’s be clear about that. None of us is.”
“So what are you going to do now?” asked Borja defiantly. “Are you going to take your pistol out and blast us to kingdom come, as they did with Brian?”
The man stared at Borja as if he had a screw loose and sat up.
“Why should I?” he asked after a while. “Where would that get us? Besides, there’s no proof of any of what I’ve been telling you. And who knows, perhaps you will help us identify the English girl to whom you so rashly handed Brian’s keyring?” he said, getting up off the sofa and heading towards the door.
“Don’t count on us,” said Borja. “We have terrible memories.”
“We’ll see about that.”
When he was in the doorway, he turned and said with that perpetual smile of his, “Oh, by the way. I don’t know if this statue you told me about is very valuable, but it is extremely likely that someone, in some corner of the planet, is currently furious with you two guys.”
25
This year Holy Week fell at the end of April. The lunar calendar that shapes the religious year meant Sant Jordi coincided with Holy Saturday in the Easter holidays, to the despair of publishers, booksellers and purveyors of roses, so everyone was sure, in a year of economic crisis, that Sant Jordi would be a flop. To cap it all, the weather forecasters, those birds of ill omen, had predicted rain; despondency was widespread and nobody knew how the day would end. In actuality it wasn’t such a disaster: the sun came out mid-morning and, like every year, the centre of Barcelona was full of its citizenry strolling up and down with books and roses. Pure torture for those who don’t like crowds.
Montse and Lola were curious to meet Teresa Solana and, at around eleven, Borja dropped by, waving five red roses: one for Lola, and the others for Montse, Joana, Laia and Aina, who, along with Arnau, had signed up for the excursion to the centre and the lunch we’d booked at the Set Portes. The idea was that we’d all walk down the Rambla de Catalunya to the stalls on the Passeig de Gràcia, where Teresa Solana had said she’d be signing books.
“Good heavens!” chirped Joana, after thanking Borja for the rose and looking him up and down. “Why on earth are you wearing a winter jacket on such a hot day?”
“My summer jacket’s at the cleaners,” said Borja.
“Come on, take it off and leave it at home, or you’ll sweat to death!” Joana exclaimed in her best sergeant major’s voice.
“Yes, it is hot,” Borja agreed with a smile.
“Yes, and today is the day of Sant Jordi and we are all family. No need to dress posh!” Montse chimed in. “What’s more, with so many people in the street, they’ll rough up your jacket.”
“All right, if you insist…”
Borja obediently took his jacket off and gave it to Joana.
“You could also take your tie off, while you’re at it,” suggested Joana.
In his short-sleeved shirt and tie, Borja now looked like a Jehovah’s Witness, so he had no choice but to follow my mother-in-law’s suggestion.
“Give that to me.” Joana folded his tie and put it on one of his jacket pockets. Then all of a sudden she exclaimed, “What the hell is this lump? What have you got here that’s so heavy?” she cried, extracting an object wrapped in a handkerchief.
“Careful! It’s very fragile!” erupted Borja when he saw my mother-in-law unwrapping the small stone statue.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Joana, gazing at the tiny object.
“Yes, it’s very nice. Now give it back to me before it gets broken,” said Borja, taking the piece and wrapping it up again.
“Is that a present for Lola?” whispered Joana. “She adores antiques. She will be delighted.”
“Not really… In fact, it belongs to a friend who…”
“And where did you get this copy from? It’s an expensive imitation,” said Joana. And she then added, “Obviously I’ve only ever seen it in photos, but you know, it looks like the genuine article!”
Borja and I glanced at each other in amazement.
“In what photos?” I asked her. “You mean you recognize the statue?”
“Of course, it is very famous. They told us about it in the short art course I went on at La Caixa last year. We pensioners get a special rate. I don’t know if you remember, but I went with a friend, Roser, who couldn’t go to all the lectures because she had an attack of sciatica and —”
“So, according to you,” I cut her off before she recounted her friend’s entire medical history, “what is this exactly?” Borja had unwrapped the statue again to show it to my mother-in-law.
“You really don’t know?” Joana asked, looking very surprised. “It’s
the Baghdad Lioness. I don’t remember exactly how old it is, but it is a museum piece. Archaeologists found it in Baghdad, and that’s how it got that name.”
“So the original must be really valuable…” said Borja matter-of-factly.
“Oh, absolutely! It is quite unique,” said Joana, as if she were an expert. “There’s not another one like it.”
“You wouldn’t remember by any chance in which museum the original could – can – be found?” my brother asked.
“It’s not in any museum, my dear. Unfortunately, it belongs to a private collector who has only allowed it to be exhibited a couple of times. And that was only because the Queen of England used her influence!”
“Do you know the owner’s name?” I asked.
“What do you think I am? A walking encyclopedia?” she grumbled, not understanding why she was being interrogated. “If you’re that interested, you’re sure to find it on the Internet!” And, still muttering, she went into the lobby with Borja’s jacket.
My brother and I were devastated. The fact that Joana had recognized the sculpture meant it was a famous piece, and, though there had been no reports of the theft in the papers, everything pointed to the statue being a very valuable, antique item that had been stolen.
“How come you had it on you?” I whispered to Borja. “Didn’t you hide it among all that stuff you bought at the Chinese bazaar?”
“I’m not happy leaving it at home. The other day Merche saw what was in that drawer and said we were hoarding lots of junk and it was time to have a clear-out. And as she has keys to the flat and sometimes turns up without prior warning…”
“Good God!” I mumbled.
“But I don’t understand what Joana was saying about the Internet. What did she mean when she said it could help us find out who the owner was?”
“You only have to key in the item’s name on Google,” said Aina, who was stretched out on the sofa waiting for her mother and aunt to finish getting ready. “Twenty euros and I’ll take a look for you right now.”
“Right now?” repeated Borja.
“Yes, while Mum gets ready,” said Aina, getting up off the sofa and looking at Borja as if he’d just come from planet Mars. “It will only take a few seconds.”
“Ten euros,” haggled Borja.
“Fifteen,” my daughter countered defiantly. Borja nodded.
“Grandma! What was the name of that statue?” shouted Aina.
“The Baghdad Lioness!” Joana shouted back from her bedroom. Her window must have been open, because their shouts echoed round the patio.
“I’ll be with you in a minute!” said Aina, smiling as she went into her bedroom.
Borja and I waited for Aina in the dining room. My daughter reappeared a few minutes later clutching a sheaf of printouts. Lola and Montse were still in the bathroom.
“Here you are: all you ever wanted to know about this lion,” she said, handing us the sheets of paper. “Fifteen euros please.”
Borja took the money from his pocket and Aina handed them over. Joana was quite right. To judge by the photos, the statue Borja was holding was a sculpture known as the Baghdad Lioness, an item that was thought to be unique and contemporary with cuneiform writing and the invention of the wheel. According to Wikipedia, it belonged to the Elamite empire, a civilization that had occupied the area to the west of ancient Sumeria and north-west of present-day Iran, in the territory of Kurdistan, five thousand years ago, and it was carved from limestone. When it was discovered in the 1920s during an excavation near Baghdad, it was already missing its hind legs that, according to experts, were originally made of silver or gold. Its present owner was an English collector by the name of Thomas Marlowe, a distant relative of the much-lamented poet, Christopher. What’s more, the little item Borja was fingering in his pocket was worth a fortune, at least fifty million dollars.
“Not exactly small change,” whistled Borja. “Now I see why they are paying me twenty thousand.”
“So Brian’s friend was right. If this little statue is worth what these papers say, then we’ve got embroiled in one hell of a mess!”
“I have, you mean,” whined Borja sorrowfully. “Whatever happens, you are well out of it. From now on, I promise I won’t involve you.”
“Kid brother,” I whispered so the girls couldn’t hear, “I may have many defects, but acting like a rat that jumps ship when it’s about to go under is not one of them.”
Teresa Solana was sitting behind a stall with other writers, looking bored out of her mind. Neither she nor her colleagues had queues of readers waiting to sign their books. A few metres away, an individual by the name of Risto Mejide who was always acting the fool on TV, swearing and creating a furore, could hardly cope with his thronging fans.
Borja went over to the novelist, pecked her twice on the cheeks and did the introductions. Joana, Montse and Lola also kissed her and said they’d been so much looking forward to meeting her.
“He’s the guy who’s always on TV!” said Borja smiling, nodding towards that ghastly fellow who kept endlessly signing copies and letting his fans snap him on their mobiles. “People like to have books by the famous, but they don’t read them.”
“Oh, don’t suffer on my behalf,” said Teresa Solana, returning Borja’s smile. “Sant Jordi is the day of the book, not the day of literature. No need to wear sackcloth and ashes!”
“But aren’t you annoyed when the people who are not real writers get all the attention?” I asked. “It’s encroaching on your professional territory.”
“It’s inevitable,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Luckily this isn’t a profession where you need a membership card – or at least not yet. It has its drawbacks, but lots of advantages as well.”
“Yes, but people are made to think the real writers are those that sell the most.”
“No way! People aren’t that stupid!” she replied.
Teresa Solana seemed resigned to sitting there doing nothing and being observed as if she was an animal in the zoo. Very occasionally someone approached her with a copy of a novel of hers and asked for a signature. Once again, I observed that there were no half measures on the day of Sant Jordi: writers behind the stalls either signed a pile of books or signed next to none.
Montse and Lola felt sorry for her and both bought a book. Montse’s was called A Not So Perfect Crime and Lola chose A Shortcut to Paradise, in the hope that the title was a good omen. Lola asked her to dedicate the book to Borja and then gave it to him.
“I can’t wait to hear how it all went,” said Teresa Solana, referring to the assignment she’d given us. “I hope you’ve got some interesting anecdotes I can use in my novel…”
“Oh, lots! I think you’ll have no reason to complain,” said Borja, smiling. “Why don’t you drop by the office on Wednesday and we will give you a full report. I am sure you won’t be disappointed.”
“When the book comes out, I’ll send you a couple of copies. I’ve already got my title: The Sound of One Hand Killing. And thanks again for your help. I don’t know what I’d have done to finish it on time without your help!”
Just then, some women friends came over to say hello to the novelist and we took our leave. We walked down in the direction of La Rambla, prepared to continue our pilgrimage as far as the statue of Christopher Columbus. However, when we saw crowds surpassing our worst expectations, we decided to turn tail and head straight to the Set Portes for our paella.
“This afternoon we’ll go and see Pilar Rahola, and I’ll ask her to sign her last book for me,” said Joana, as we strolled down Via Laietana. And then she added: “Now she is what I call a famous writer!”
I winced at her awe before the raucous star of Catalan chat shows.
EPILOGUE
When the thunderclap resounded, Lord Winston Ashtray, weighing in at over two hundred and forty pounds, was comfortably seated by the side of the splendid fireplace that heated the library in his mansion on the Lifestyle Ends estate, in th
e county of Oxfordshire. Lord Ashtray was smoking one of his cigars and reading the memoirs of the first Lord Ashtray, who made his fortune in India and suffered the Sepoy Mutiny in his own flesh, in the shape of the loss of a limb, before returning to England and receiving from the hands of Queen Victoria the title that allowed his descendants to warm a seat in the House of Lords for the next one hundred and fifty years. A large slice of the wealth of Lord Ashtray’s extensive family originated from that stout, moustachioed forebear, whose portrait dominated the library, and the fifth lord considered it his duty not to depart this world before he had finished the seven volumes of memoirs the first Lord Ashtray had bequeathed to posterity in general and his heirs in particular. Sadly, the first Lord Ashtray wasn’t as deft with the pen as he was with the sabre or his investments, and his great-great-grandson had sat in the same wing armchair every afternoon for almost five decades and still hadn’t reached the end of volume one.
Three months ago the present Lord Ashtray had celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday. He was no spring chicken any more. If he didn’t get a move on, he pondered, the Grim Reaper would take him before he’d had time to finish the diaries. As the fifth lord, in his idiosyncratic way, was a God-fearing man, he was afraid that if he met his Maker before he got to the end, his lack of respect for the man responsible for his good fortune would sentence him to spend eternity meandering around Lifestyle Ends like a soul in limbo with the literary ghost of his one-armed great-great-grandfather as his sole companion. This thought pinned him to that armchair in the library every afternoon in the vain hope that, with each new paragraph, the stale prose of the first Lord Ashtray might come to life.
When he heard the thunderclap, Lord Ashtray sighed, looked out of the window and tried to concentrate on his reading, between yawns. How could it be, he wondered, that his forebear who had lived in the glorious era of Queen Victoria, at the height of the British Empire, on which the sun had never set, never had anything interesting to relate? Why the devil should he be interested in the dresses Lady Stouter wore at the official receptions held by the Resident in Delhi or the opinions of Count Dumbderly on the hazards of playing cricket during the monsoon season? Why should he have to dwell on Lady Reeker’s bunions or Lord Pile’s problems with the spicy local cuisine, problems that derived from his rash abuse of the same because he enjoyed it the hotter the better? Lord Ashtray glanced at the time on the grandfather clock that was buried under two centuries of accumulated dust, stared at the empty glass of cognac next to the Venetian-glass ashtray that contained the ash from his cigar and sighed yet again.
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