TWENTY-FIVE
Wednesday, April 16th, 2008
Marbella, Spain
It was eight o’clock by the time the two women had read to this point in the narrative. Leticia’s parents had arrived earlier with Emilio. At first, he sat on Jenny’s knee quite happily while they continued reading. When he started yawning, they realised that they were as tired as he was.
“Time for supper. We’ll finish reading in the morning.” Jenny switched the laptop off and they went into the kitchen with Encarni, to scavenge what they could and prepare some supper.
Leticia’s parents spoke no English but they were the most friendly and natural people Jenny had ever met. José was a small skinny man with skin so clear that it appeared to be transparent in the lamplight. He looked more like a doctor or an artist than a check-out clerk in a supermarket. His wife was quite the opposite. Large, ample bosomed and dark skinned, with her hair tied back in a typical Spanish bun, she could have been an ex-flamenco dancer.
Together the three women made up dishes of tapas from what they could find in the kitchen, while José opened a fine bottle of Rioja from the wine cellar. Despite the recent traumatic events, the ambience was relaxed, mainly because of little Emilio, who was a born clown. He laughed and chattered at the table and had them all in stitches with his antics. Clearly he had inherited his mother’s cheerful, outgoing personality. His grandparent’s lack of English didn’t present a problem. Smiles and gestures were sufficient to complete the conversation. It was a long time since Jenny had felt so at ease and she began to revise her feelings about her new ‘family’.
Leticia also felt uplifted by the happy atmosphere and managed to put aside her private grievings. They had agreed not to discuss or even think about Charlie’s extraordinary story until they finished it the next day. Tonight was a family affair and it was a great success.
They made up beds for everyone and by ten thirty they were all asleep. In Jenny’s case, benefitting from the second full night’s dreamless sleep that she had enjoyed for many months.
The man in the small black car had been sitting outside the da Costa’s apartment building since six o’clock. Although it was a warm evening, he had parked the car in the sun where he could see the entrance clearly, but he couldn’t be seen. He had waited there for each of the last four evenings, but there had not yet been a night when the whole family had gone out and left the apartment empty. He hoped that tonight would be an exception. Leticia had been out all day and still hadn’t returned. Would the rest of the family follow her?
After about thirty minutes wait, he saw Leticia’s father park his battered red Volkswagen on the other side of the street, walk into the building and get into the elevator. Then just after seven, both her parents came out with their grandson and drove off. His patience had finally been rewarded.
The man moved his car into the shade at the side of the building until darkness fell. It was eight thirty when he went into the hall and pressed the button for the fifth floor. In less than a minute he had picked the Yale lock and entered the da Costa’s dwelling.
He spent a full hour searching the five-roomed apartment meticulously, methodically and expertly, leaving no visible trace of his visit. He was especially painstaking in his search of the bedrooms which were obviously Leticia’s and Emilio’s. But despite his expert examination of the apartment, he didn’t find what he was searching for. Supressing his disappointment, he ensured that he’d disturbed nothing, then left as quietly and efficiently as he’d arrived.
Shortly after nine o’clock, Chief Inspector Pedro Espinoza finished editing his report for the Examining Magistrate. He handed it to the duty officer to be delivered the next morning and went out into the fresh air for the first time that day. There was a tapas bar just down the street from the Comisaría and he sat at an outside table, lit up a cigarette and ordered a cold beer.
He had spent a couple more hours rereading the Bishop dossier once more. Trying to find some common thread between two deaths, months apart, in different countries, seemingly accidental, seemingly unrelated. He knew there had to be something, but once again he had found nothing.
Espinoza had a sine qua non approach to his investigations. Find a motive for the crime and you’ll most likely find the culprit. In his experience, he’d found there was often motive without crime, but seldom crime without motive. So his only possible access into the criminal’s mind, if there was a crime, was to find that motive. Not just for Jenny’s father-in-law’s death, but her husband’s too. His instinct told him the deaths had to be connected. The Ipswich police had sent him a copy of the verdict of Ron’s inquest. It was totally non-committal, but he didn’t believe that fatal accidents to both father and son could be a coincidence. He knew there had to be a common motive and he had bluntly asked Jenny exactly that.
It wasn’t a subtle approach, but it might have produced something. Unfortunately it hadn’t. Sra. Bishop was understandably nervous and had seemed overwhelmed by his question, but she obviously knew of no possible connection. So he had been obliged to rule out foul play in his report. He had never handed in a report with such a feeling of uncertainty and he didn’t like it at all.
The Chief Inspector ordered some tapas with a large glass of Rioja and ate his supper at the pavement table. He did that more and more these days. Since his separation from Soledad there was no reason to go home for his meals. It was easier and cheaper to eat tapas for one than to buy groceries, then cook and wash the dishes. And it was more sociable to be surrounded by several other diners than to sit with a television screen in front of his eyes.
He paid the bill and walked back to his office. There were still a few matters he wanted to finish before he went home for the night. He would have another look at the Bishop file the next day, if he had the time. Maybe the night would help him to find a fresh approach.
In Washington, Sonia Nicolaides was diligently trawling through the files in Pires da Silva’s laptop, vainly trying to detach her conscious self from what she was reading and viewing. She had already been physically sick several times, but she overcame her nausea to continue drilling down into the mass of dreadful depravity to reveal the full extent of the ring’s activities.
She had now uncovered a number of “shadow sites”, containing the most repulsive filmed material she had ever come across. The shadow sites were hidden behind respectable web sites, possibly even without the domain owner’s knowledge. By entering certain coded instructions these apparently innocuous sites opened up to display their filth to the members of the ring. She had identified sites in France, Belgium, Russia, Ireland and South Africa and had started compiling a list of the email addresses which accessed them. Sifting for information which could lead to identifying the originators of the material. Those who made fortunes in this inhuman activity. When she felt confident that she could fool these evil perverts, the next step was to start impersonating da Silva and continuing his communications with the other members of the ring.
Sonia brought herself up to speed on the day’s new messages. She saw there were no new emails on the clean address, but there were a number of fresh messages received on the three dirty addresses that morning. It was now evening in Europe, so the time difference worked in her favour. She could study the messages, compile her notes and files and prepare her replies in her own time, when she was ready to start playing the game. When she was ready to start dismantling at least this one strand of the global spider’s web of depravity.
The following morning, everyone in York House was up by seven. After a quick breakfast, Encarni took Emilio out for a walk on the beach and José went off to his job at the supermarket.
The two women started reading the rest of the history.
BOOK ONE
PART THREE: 1975 - 2007
TWENTY-SIX
January - March, 1975
Lisbon, Portugal; Geneva, Switzerland
In January, hundreds of activists, both right-wing and left-wing, were
killed or injured during a right-wing congress in Porto. For the first time, COPCON, the armed forces communist political secret police force, fought with the Guarda National Republicana, the National Republican Guard. Other Portuguese cities were affected the same way. Violence and political stand-offs were more and more frequent.
Public demonstrations became common and more violent as agricultural workers fought over the farms and landholdings they had stolen from absentee owners. All agricultural production had stopped and even the families of the usurpers were facing lean times. Moderate political meetings were invaded by communist supporters, often resulting in fatalities and wounded. Lisbon became a very dangerous place, with thousands of homeless immigrants and criminals eagerly taking advantage of the uncertain situation. Vandalism was ripe and burned-out cars and broken shop and office windows lined every street. Despite the increased resistance of active moderate and right-wing supporters, the militant left was pushing the country on an irreversible slide towards full Marxism. Civil war seemed more and more likely.
In the midst of this anarchy, the APA international team was still doing great business. Thanks to Mario Ferro in Luanda, who was digging up deal after deal, they signed up several more profitable contracts, all through InterCommerce. Charlie had been right, business was booming and there was more in the pipeline to fulfill their commitment to Olivier and to Bettencourt SA. After the disappointment of Portugal and the failure of the Angolan project, he and Nick were determined to get to Geneva in style and make their fortunes as shareholders in their new business venture. But it was not to be as simple as that. Events got in the way.
On February 12th, Jorge Gomez took the midday flight to Geneva. He visited several banks and company offices which were on his list of active investigations and stayed that night in the Hotel d’Auteuil. The next morning he had more meetings then lunched in the Café du Commerce. After lunch he took the train to the Swiss capital, Berne.
He was disappointed to find the InterCommerce office where it was supposed to be, at 413, Veldenstrasse, and to meet the young Swiss German director, Herr Marcus Schügler, who seemed to be running a genuine Swiss business. Herr Schügler showed him around their small, but well appointed offices. Full of industrious, efficient Swiss employees, processing contracts and making telephone calls in various languages. He was well acquainted with APA, a large client of theirs, but had never heard of the Bettencourt family. Gomez swallowed his disappointment and promised to be in touch, then took a train to Zurich to continue his investigations, before flying back to Lisbon with several pieces of incriminating evidence for his files, but still nothing concerning APA.
Marcus Schügler called Ruiz Bettencourt in Geneva to advise him of Gomez’s visit. The message was transmitted to Olivier and Charlie. Their security barrier was working well.
Towards the end of February, Nick called Henriques in Angola to get an update. The mine-owner sounded more worried than before. “There’s a lot of bad things happening around here now that the so-called ‘Transitional Government’ is in charge, he said. There’s hardly any Portuguese troops anywhere and the rebels seem to have a free hand everywhere. We’ve had the MPLA up here, marching around the compound, showing off with their guns and terrifying everyone. The only thing that’s saving us is the FNLA contingent that’s north of us guarding the coast road to the border and Cabinda. Mobuto’s sent a unit down from Zaire to strengthen their hold up here. The MPLA aren’t strong in this area so they don’t want to get into a fight, yet. They’re coming in small groups, probably spying out the land, getting ready to make a move when they’re ready. It’s just like a bloody rehearsal! There’s talk of the Americans funding the FNLA, so we’re praying that’s true, but if it’s bullshit, we’ll be finished here.”
Nick tried to talk him into getting out, but soon realised he was wasting his breath and gave up on it. Apart from offering his sympathy for the Angolans’ plight, there was nothing he could do and little to discuss, the diamond project was panned. Their grand plan to float an Angolan diamond business on the stock exchange was bust and there was no way that they could manage to operate the InterCommerce arrangement for diamonds from Angola.
He and Charlie resigned themselves to missing a great opportunity. They just hoped their friends would emerge unscathed from the chaos that was engulfing the Portuguese colonies.
“You know, Olivier, I simply can’t get my head around this at all.”
“Around what, Charlie?”
They were in Olivier’s office at APA, reviewing the status of the remaining international contracts.
“The whole, insane political bullshit in this country.”
“Well, I’m with you all the way, but what particular insanity do you mean?”
“Let me ask you a question. OK?” Charlie had never looked more serious. “If you made a Balance Sheet of Portugal’s assets and liabilities, what value would you put on anything, or everything? I mean, what is the value of the State of Portugal, as a going concern?”
“Well, the whole country is virtually bankrupt. And those few pieces that aren’t, like APA, will be very soon. So, I suppose the answer is that the only value is in the colonies, with their oil and mineral resources, agricultural and fishing production and low cost labour force.”
“Exactly right! So why is the whole agenda with the army, with Cunhal and his Russian cronies, with the government, in other words with everybody, to move the country further and further towards a communist regime? Apparently with the objective of handing Portugal over to the Russians, when there is nothing left of any value? It simply doesn’t make any sense.
“Remember what I said before? Why did they bring back Cunhal, twenty-five years after he dropped out of sight, just to bankrupt the country? They’ve saved this guy, taken him to Russia, paid a fortune to support him and his entourage, brought him here and backed him again. They’ve bet the house on him for twenty-five bloody years, for what?”
“There’s only one possible answer. They want the colonies.”
“Well, mark my words, Olivier, they’re going to get them, and it won’t be pretty.”
“Things are getting out of hand, António. You have to intervene. You still have massive support in the country. You must show the people that the right-wing still has a voice in Portugal. Show them you’re not finished, that you’re determined to find a fair solution.” Alvaro Cunhal was speaking at a clandestine meeting of twelve men at Tancos military airport, about sixty miles north of Lisbon.
Ex-President António Spinola looked bewildered. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Alvaro. For the last year you’ve been fighting me and undermining my position and now you want me to intervene. What’s going on?”
“Civil unrest in Portugal. That’s what’s going on.” Cunhal tapped the table with his knuckles. “If we don’t calm things down we’ll have a civil war on our hands. If that happens, what do you think the chances of a political compromise are?”
“Is that what you want, a compromise? I thought it was communism or nothing.”
“António, I believe in communism. I’m a Marxist, I always will be. But first and foremost I’m a Portuguese and I love my country. I don’t want communism in Portugal at the cost of civil war, so we have to do something before it’s too late.”
So what do you want me to do?”
“Take over the Presidency again and force the Junta and the MFA to see sense. Most of them are ambivalent. Communism is the soft option because there isn’t anything else to attract them. They want a strong personality, someone who can offer a real alternative to left-wing fanaticism. You’re the only man who can do it. Get Soares and Gonçalves to sit down together and hammer out an agreement. The others will follow like sheep. I’ll support you, if you do it.”
“You can count on our support too, General.” Air-Vice Marshall Coelho Dominguez was commanding officer of Tancos air force base. “I can have ten thousand paratroopers around the Lisbon barracks so fast the MF
A won’t know what hit them.”
“Of course you also have our unconditional financial support.” The speaker was a member of the Espirito Santo family, one of the richest banking dynasties in the country.
“Now you’re talking.” The tall thin American civilian smoking a cigar in the corner of the room spoke for the first time. “Sounds like we have a plan. Let’s get down to the detail.”
The next day, Cunhal visited the Prime Minister in Belem. Vasco dos Santos Gonçalves was not the brightest star in the firmament, but he was a fanatical Marxist. After listening to the PCP leader’s summary of the meeting, he asked, “So how do we take advantage of this?”
Cunhal gave him his advice and after a few more minutes discussion, he left the palace and Alberto drove him back to Lisbon. He said nothing about his plan to the bodyguard. The man seemed to be becoming a bit too friendly with the remaining capitalists.
On the morning of March 11th Nick was driving Charlie to the airport when they were turned back at a roadblock. All the roads into Lisbon were barred with wooden barricades. They were manned by workers, men and women, from adjacent offices and factories.
General Spinola, the ex-President, had attempted another unsuccessful coup d’état, sending two Fiat T-6 fighters and two helicopters from Tancos airforce base to bomb the barracks south of Lisbon. Immediately after the departure of the aircraft, the air base commander and his two senior officers were arrested and imprisoned by COPCON officers. The paratroopers sent to take the Lisbon barrackes were left leaderless and began to fraternise with the left-wing members of the MFA. By eleven o’clock, the attempted coup had failed and Spinola and his closest aides had already fled to Spain by helicopter. The rest of his supporters were rounded up and thrown in prison alongside those who had been festering there since the last failed coup in the previous September.
Within hours, banks, factories, schools, offices and shops were occupied, closed down and encircled by pickets. Left-wing fanatics rampaged through cities and towns, vandalising cars and buildings and running riot, attacking anyone who looked wealthy. It was a witch hunt. It was not safe to go outside.
The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set Page 17