They laughed.
‘What else did Marisa tell you?’ asked Zorrita. ‘You must have something more than that.’
‘I decided to go to see Marisa to ram a stick in the wasps' nest, to see what happened,’ said Falcón. ‘The only thing I had to go on was something one of my officers found while trying to dig up some dirt on her.’
‘Marisa had no criminal record, I know that,’ said Zorrita.
‘The only thing my officer found was that Marisa had reported her sister missing.’
‘When?’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘You really are clutching at straws, Javier.’
Falcón was tempted to tell Zorrita about Marisa's wood carving, but another glance at the family photo on the desktop persuaded him otherwise. He felt weak in front of Zorrita's steadiness, but still resisted the temptation to point up all the other little flaws he'd found.
‘Marisa is no fool,’ said Falcón. ‘If you despised your womanizing father, would you be drawn to an incorrigible womanizer yourself?’
‘I doubt it would be the first time it had happened,’ said Zorrita, still feeling as solid as a rock.
‘Her sister went missing again, but this time she was over eighteen.’
‘So Marisa didn't go to the police.’
‘Her sister is the only family Marisa's got. Father, mother and stepmother are dead. Would you just shrug your shoulders if your sister ran off again?’
‘If I didn't care, yes,’ said Zorrita.
‘She cares,’ said Falcón.
‘You've still got a long way to go with this, Javier.’
‘I know,’ said Falcón. ‘I just wanted to ask you if you'd mind me digging around.’
‘Dig away, Javier. The way you're going, you'll come out in Buenos Aires.’
6
La Latina district, Madrid – Friday, 15th September 2006,19.45 hrs
The early-evening sun was still bright, but low in the sky so it was already dark in the cavernous Madrid streets. Falcón was sitting in the back of a patrol car, which Zorrita had arranged for him. He felt foolish as they left the Jefatura and he lay down across the back seat. The driver saw him out of the corner of his eye. Falcon told him to keep looking straight ahead.
The driver dropped him off at the Ópera metro station and Falcón took the one-stop ride to La Latina. He checked the other occupants of the metro carriage. He was still smarting at Zorrita's scorn for his theory on Marisa Moreno. Was all this getting out of control in his mind? Everything looked dangerously plausible at three in the morning, but laughable by ten. And did he really have to be this careful about his assignation with Yacoub? Were there actually people on every street corner looking out for him? Once your mind had been proven unstable there was always a doubt, and not just to outsiders.
A car went into the garage of the apartment block on Calle Alfonso VI and Falcón ducked in behind it as the door was closing. He walked down into the dark, took the lift up to the third floor, stepped out into an empty landing, rang the buzzer and waited. He sensed the eyeball on the other side of the peep-hole. The door clicked open. Yacoub beckoned him in. They went through the customary pleasantries; Falcón asked after Yacoub's wife, Yousra, and his two children, Abdullah and Leila. There was nodding and thanks, but Yacoub was strangely subdued.
A full ashtray was the centrepiece of the living room, with a smoking, filterless cigarette on its edge. The curtains were drawn. A single lamp in the corner half-lit the room. Yacoub was wearing faded jeans and a white shirt untucked. He was barefoot and he'd shaved his long hair off to a short stubble, which he kept dusting with the palm of his hand as if he'd only just had it done. His head now matched his beard. His eyes seemed deeper set and darker, as if some wariness had put him in retreat to a safer place. He sat on the sofa with the ashtray at his side and smoked enthusiastically, with lips that twitched more than Falcón remembered.
‘I made some tea,’ he said. ‘You're all right with tea, aren't you?’
‘You always ask me that,’ said Falcón, throwing off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘You know I'm fine with tea.’
‘Sorry about the heat,’ said Yacoub. ‘I don't want to turn on the air-con. I shouldn't be here. I'm hiding.’
‘Who from?’
‘Everybody. My people. Your people. The world,’ he said, and, as an afterthought, ‘Maybe myself, too.’
He poured the tea, stood up, paced around the room to bring his nerves back under control.
‘So, nobody knows about this meeting,’ said Falcón, encouraging Yacoub to open up.
‘This is just you and me,’ said Yacoub. ‘The only man I can trust. The only one I can talk to. The only one I can rely on not to use what has happened against me.’
‘You're nervous. I can see that.’
‘Nervous,’ he said, nodding. ‘That's why I like you, Javier. You keep me calm. I'm not just nervous. I'm paranoid. I'm totally fucking paranoid.’
These last words were accompanied by a ferocious sideways slash of the air in front of him. Falcón tried to remember whether he'd ever heard Yacoub swear.
Yacoub then launched himself into a long rant about the lengths to which he'd had to go in order to arrive unseen in this apartment.
‘You were careful, weren't you, Javier?’ he said at the end of it all.
Falcón reciprocated with his own procedure, which seemed to have a mildly calming influence on Yacoub, who listened and gnawed at a hangnail. Then he lit another cigarette, sipped his tea, which was too hot, sat down on the sofa, and stood up again.
‘The last time you got like this was after those four days in Paris,’ said Falcón. ‘But you were OK. You were taken back into the fold.’
‘My cover's not blown,’ said Yacoub, quickly. ‘No, there's no problem with that. It's just that they've found the perfect way to keep me … close.’
‘Keep you close?’ said Falcón. ‘You mean in the sense of not straying? Does that mean they suspect you?’
‘Suspect is too strong a word,’ said Yacoub, tucking his hand under his armpit and chopping the air with his cigarette. ‘They like me. They need me. But they are naturally unsure of me. It's the part of my brain that isn't Moroccan that makes them nervous.’
‘We're Andalucíans, Yacoub, same people, same Berber genetic marker,’ said Falcón.
‘The problem for them is that they can't rely on me to think in a certain way. I'm not consistently Moroccan,’ said Yacoub. ‘And that makes them uneasy.’
Falcón waited. If he'd been with another European he'd have asked the question: ‘Is this something to do with you being gay?’ But he had the same problem that the radical Islamist group, the GICM, had with Yacoub, but the other way round; Falcón couldn't rely on him to think like a European. His mentality for argument was more Moroccan. Direct questioning didn't work.
‘Before Friday noon prayers last week, Abdullah, my son, came to see me,’ said Yacoub. ‘I was alone in my study. He closed the door and came to the edge of my desk. He said: “I am going to tell you something that will make you very happy and very proud.” I was confused. The boy is only eighteen. I didn't remember any talk of a girl and, anyway, this would not be the way for that sort of thing to happen. I stood up as if I was about to hear important news. He came over to my side of the desk and told me that he had become a mujahideen and embraced me as a fellow warrior.’
‘The GICM have recruited him?’ said Falcón, cannoning out of his armchair.
Yacoub nodded, drew on the cigarette, took the smoke deep into his lungs and then held open his arms in a gesture of total helplessness.
‘Directly after the Friday noon prayers, he left to continue his training.’
‘Continue?’
‘Exactly that,’ said Yacoub. ‘The boy's been lying to me. He's taken four weekends away in the last two months. I thought he was going to see his friends in Casablanca, but he's been out in the country on military-training exercises.’
<
br /> ‘How was he recruited?’
Yacoub shrugged, shook his head. Falcón doubted that he was going to hear the precise truth.
‘He's been working with me at the factory, just temporarily before he goes to university at the end of the month. We go to a mosque in Salé. There are … elements there. I thought he was steering clear of them … clearly, he wasn't.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’
‘You are the first outsider.’
‘What about in the GICM?’
‘The military commander is not there at the moment. Even when he is, he's not easy to get to see. I've only conveyed my gratitude via an intermediary.’
‘Your gratitude?’
‘What was I supposed to do? I should be happy and proud,’ he said, and sank back down on to the sofa, buried his face in his hands and sobbed twice.
‘And you assume that this has been done to keep you “close”, to control you, to make them feel less uneasy about you.’
‘Nobody but the maddest radical would want their son to become a mujahideen … potentially a suicide bomber. All this talk you hear on TV in France or England about honour and paradise and seventy-two virgins, it's just… it's just bullshit. You might find that sort of thinking in Gaza, or Iraq, or Afghanistan, but you won't find it in Rabat – not in my circle.’
‘Let's think this through,’ said Falcón. ‘What are they trying to achieve through this manoeuvre? If it's to keep you close, then…’
‘They want to infiltrate my household,’ said Yacoub. And then, touching his temple: ‘They want to infiltrate my mind.’
‘They're not convinced that they can control you, so they set about controlling all those around you?’
‘Their whole reason for being interested in me is that they know that I can live “convincingly” in both worlds: Islamic and secular, East and West. It doesn't mean they like it. They didn't like the fact that my sixteen-year-old daughter, Leila, was wearing a swimsuit on the beach.’
‘They were watching you on the beach?’
‘When we were on holiday in Essaouira, they were watching us, Javier,’ said Yacoub. ‘Abdullah has stopped playing his music, which I thought a blessing at first, but now I'm desperate for him to be normal. And, can you believe this, he reads the Qur'an. He doesn't play computer games any more. I had a look at the history on his browser … it's all Islamic websites, Palestinian politics – Hamas versus Fatah, the Muslim Brotherhood…’
‘Where is this influence coming from?’
Another shrug.
Does he know? Why isn't he telling me? thought Falcón. Is it someone close to him? Someone in his extended family? When Yacoub had been recruited, he'd said he'd never give up a family member.
‘They find their way in,’ said Yacoub. ‘And you know, until Abdullah came to me with his news last Friday, I didn't think these developments were such a bad thing. It's good for teenagers to have something serious in their lives, something other than violent video games and hip-hop … but mujahideen?’
‘I know it's difficult for you to be calm about this,’ said Falcón. ‘But there's no immediate danger if, as you say, they're trying to keep you close. We have time.’
‘They've taken my boy away from me,’ said Yacoub, who shaded his eyes and sobbed again, before coming back at Falcón, angry. ‘He's in one of their camps. That's 24/7. When they're not running over hills and assault courses, they're doing weapons training and bomb-making. And when that's all over, they're plugged into radical Islam. I have no idea what is going to come back to me, but I'm sure it won't be the Abdullah I knew. It will be their Abdullah. And then how will I live? Looking over my shoulder at my own son?’
The enormity of Yacoub's predicament hit Falcón hard. Three months ago he'd asked Yacoub to make what should have been a personal step towards embracing radical Islam. He had been stunned at the rapidity with which Yacoub had been taken deep inside the GICM organization. It could only mean that he had something that they wanted. And now the GICM were protecting themselves and it meant enclosing not just Yacoub but his whole family as well. And, worse still, there was no way out. Radical Islam was not something you changed your mind about. Once admitted to the close fraternity and their secrets there was no walking away. They wouldn't let you. It wasn't so different – and Falcón couldn't believe he was thinking this – to being part of a mafia family.
‘You don't have to say anything, Javier. There's nothing to say,’ said Yacoub. ‘I just needed to tell someone and you're the only person I've got.’
‘You don't want me to talk to Pablo at the CNI about this?’
‘Pablo? What happened to Juan?’ said Yacoub. ‘Juan was the old, experienced guy.’
‘Juan was given early retirement last week,’ said Falcón. ‘He'd blown it over Madrid and their assessment of his work in the Seville bombing wasn't so good either. Pablo's good. Forty-two years old. Very experienced in North Africa. Totally committed.’
‘No, Javier, you must not tell anyone,’ said Yacoub, the flat of his hand taking on the threat of a chopping blade. ‘If you do they will only use it. That is how these intelligence people think: He's vulnerable, let's use it. You won't use it. I know that. And that's why you always have to be there between me and them. You are, and will be, the only one who truly understands my situation.’
Something like a cramp started up in Falcón's guts. This was different to the dead weight of his responsibility in this matter. That was just a few more rocks in the already unwieldy rucksack. This was the knot of fear making itself felt. Now he was being forced into the unique position of having to decide whether Yacoub was reliable or not. Given the choice between his son, Abdullah, and the anonymous face of the Spanish intelligence agency, there would be no doubt who Yacoub would choose. He'd said it from the very beginning and the CNI had accepted those terms.
‘What can I do to make your situation any easier?’ asked Falcón.
‘You're a good friend, Javier. The only true friend I've got,’ said Yacoub. ‘You will be the one to help me with the plan to save my son.’
‘I doubt he could walk away from being a mujahideen very easily, especially after he's been to one of their camps.’
‘I think the only way would be for him to be arrested on his way to a mission,’ said Yacoub.
‘Those would be extraordinary circumstances,’ said Falcón. ‘For the GICM to let you know what was being planned … unless you were directly involved.’
‘There you have it, Javier,’ said Yacoub. ‘It would also depend very much on whether my survival is considered critical.’
Falcón and Yacoub looked at each other for some time, smoke steadily rising from Yacoub's fingers and dissipating over his shaven head.
‘What?’ asked Yacoub.
‘I can't believe you said those words.’
‘We were naïve, Javier. We have absurdly idealistic minds. It was no accident that you were chosen to recruit me. All these agencies have people specifically employed to size you up, to perceive whether you have the necessary strengths and weaknesses for the work required of you. And I'm not talking about whether you're a good manager of people or handle stress well, but whether, under the right circumstances, you could torture a man to get the necessary information or …’
‘Or be ingenuous enough to be completely malleable, or perhaps, utterly predictable?’ said Falcón.
‘The CNI saw in you a need. They knew your history. They knew that you no longer viewed the world in the blinkered way that most people see it, that you demanded a different perspective. They fed it to you. You fed it to me. We didn't know the sort of people we were dealing with. Possibly we imagined that they might be like ourselves, and we could enter their world beneath the surface of everyday life and change things. And what happens? We meet completely ruthless minds who beat us into corners and force us to behave – or else.’
Falcón looked around the darkened room. Their situation – meeting in an anonymo
us Madrid apartment to discuss unseen dramatic developments – was so far removed from real life that he was suddenly desperate for the surface; but like the diver surrounded by sharks, who still needed to decompress, he had to hold the line, not panic.
‘You envisage a situation where you will give us information about an imminent attack, which will enable us to intercept Abdullah's group and arrest him, but…’
‘It will irrevocably undermine my position in the GICM and I will be immediately executed.’
‘No,’ said Falcón.
‘Yes,’ said Yacoub. ‘It's the only way.’
‘But you realize all that will happen is that Abdullah will end up in jail, where he will gravitate to the radical elements which exist in Spanish prisons, and he will come out even more zealous than he went in. Having done his time he will be welcomed back into the group, and all you will have achieved is your own death,’ said Falcón. ‘You have to let me draw on some experience in this matter. Pablo and others in the CNI must have come across this type of situation before. They will have ideas on how to handle it.’
‘You're my friend,’ said Yacoub. ‘I'm in this because of you. By that I mean I wanted to do this and you were the only one I could trust. I don't want you to start talking to others. As soon as you do that, I lose control and they start to run the situation; and believe me, they will look after their own interests, not mine. Before you know it, we'll be in a hall of mirrors, not knowing which way to turn. And this is my son, Javier. I can't allow him to be sucked in, manipulated, turned into a piece of the game, a fanatic's mass murderer, who will imagine in his adolescent mind that in killing and maiming…’
‘Yacoub, you're letting this get out of control in your mind.’
‘This is my Moroccan side,’ he said, leaping to his feet and pacing around the room, scratching at childhood scars on his head which had been laid bare by the severity of his haircut. ‘I get very emotional. I can't seem to calm myself down, or rather, I can calm down. I do calm down. And you know how I do it?’
Falcón waited for him to come back into his line of sight, but Yacoub leaned over the back of the armchair, his face so close the tobacco breath was sharp in Falcón's nostrils. ‘I imagine Abdullah safe … away from all this … this madness. I imagine myself under a funeral shroud and able to see the sun coming through the cotton, the breeze playing over the material, and I am at peace for the first time in my life.’
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