The Hidden Assassins (37 page)

‘I understood that you were very attached to the leadership,’ said Ramírez, ‘and that moves had been made before now to persuade you to hand over, but you’d refused. So what happened to make you think again?’

‘I thought I’d just explained that.’

‘Two senior members of your party left at the beginning of this year.’

‘They had their reasons.’

‘The newspapers reported that it was because they were fed up with your leadership.’

Silence. It always amazed Falcón how much Ramírez enjoyed making himself unpopular with ‘important’ people.

‘I seem to remember that one of them even said that it would take a bomb to get you to give up the leadership and, I quote: “That would have the satisfying side effect of removing Don Eduardo from politics as well.” That doesn’t sound as if you were actively thinking about giving up your position, Sr Rivero.’

‘The person who said that was expecting the leadership to be conferred on him. I didn’t think he was a suitable candidate as he was only seven years younger than me. It was unfortunate that we fell out over the matter.’

‘That’s not what was written in the newspapers,’ said Ramírez. ‘They were reporting that these two senior members of your party were not pushing themselves forward but were, in fact, pushing for Jesús Alarcón to take over. What I was wondering was, what happened between then and now to bring about this sudden change of heart?’

‘I’m quite flattered to find you so knowledgeable about my party,’ said Rivero, who regained some strength by reminding himself that these men were homicide detectives and not from the sex crimes squad. ‘But didn’t you tell me you were here to talk about something else? It’s late; perhaps we should press on.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ramírez. ‘It was probably just malicious rumour anyway.’

Ramírez sat down, very pleased with himself. Rivero looked at him steadily over the rims of the gold specs
he’d just put on. It was difficult to know what was burning inside him. Did he want to know what this rumour was, or would he prefer Ramírez just to shut the fuck up?

‘We’re looking for a missing person, Don Eduardo,’ said Falcón.

Rivero’s head whipped away from Ramírez to focus on Falcón.

‘A missing person?’ he said, and some relief crept into the corner of his face. ‘I can’t think of anybody I know who’s gone missing, Inspector Jefe.’

‘We’re here because this man was last seen in your household by one of your maids,’ said Falcón, who had spoken each word clearly and slowly so that he could watch the accumulation ease into Eduardo Rivero with the intrusiveness of a medical probe.

Rivero was a practised politician, but even he could not relax and animate himself through the progression of this sentence. Perhaps because it was a line that he’d dreaded hearing and had forced to the bleakest region of his mind.

‘I’m not sure who you could be talking about,’ said Rivero, clutching at the rope of hope, only to find frayed cotton threads.

‘His name is Tateb Hassani, although in America he was known as Jack Hansen. He was a professor of Arabic Studies at Columbia University in New York,’ said Falcón, who removed a photograph from his inside pocket and snapped it down in front of Rivero. ‘I’m sure you’d recognize one of your own house guests, Don Eduardo.’

Rivero leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. He glanced down, stroked his chin and massaged
his jowls with his thumb, over and over, whilst ransacking the furniture of his brain for the inspiration that would take him to the next moment.

‘You’re right,’ said Rivero. ‘Tateb Hassani was a guest in this house until last Saturday, when he left, and I haven’t seen or heard of him since.’

‘What time did he leave here on Saturday and how did he depart from these premises?’ asked Falcón.

‘I’m not sure when he left…’

‘Was it daylight?’

‘I wasn’t here when he left,’ said Rivero.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘It was after lunch, probably four thirty. I said I was going to take a siesta. He said he would be leaving.’

‘When did you wake from your siesta?’

‘About six thirty.’

‘And Tateb Hassani had already gone?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I’m sure your staff will be able to confirm that.’ Silence.

‘When did you last see the cosmetic surgeon, Agustín Cárdenas?’

‘He was here this evening…for dinner.’

‘And before that?’

Silence, while monstrous abstractions boiled up, loomed, subsided and loomed again in Rivero’s nauseated mind.

‘He was here on Saturday evening, again for dinner.’

‘How did he arrive for dinner?’

‘In his car.’

‘Can you describe that car?’

‘It’s a black Mercedes Estate E500. He’d just bought it last year.’

‘Where did he park his car?’

‘Inside the front doors, below the arch.’

‘Did Agustín Cárdenas stay the night here?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time did he leave on Sunday?’

‘At about eleven in the morning.’

‘Were you aware of that car leaving your house at any time between Agustín Cárdenas’s arrival and his departure on Sunday morning?’

‘No,’ said Rivero, the sweat careening down his spine.

‘Who else was present at that dinner on Saturday night?’

Rivero cleared his throat. The water was getting deeper, winking at his chin.

‘I’m not sure what this could possibly have to do with the disappearance of Tateb Hassani.’

‘Because that was the night that Tateb Hassani was poisoned with cyanide, had his hands surgically removed, his face burnt off with acid and his scalp cut away from his skull,’ said Falcón.

Rivero had to clench his buttocks against the sudden looseness of his bowels.

‘But I’ve already told you that Tateb Hassani left here before dinner,’ said Rivero. ‘Maybe four hours before dinner.’

‘And I’m sure that can be corroborated by the domestic servants on duty here at the time,’ said Falcón.

‘We’re not accusing you of lying, Don Eduardo,’ said Ramírez. ‘But we must have a clear idea of what happened here, in this house, in the hope that it will explain what happened later.’

‘What happened
later
?’

‘Let’s take it step by step,’ said Falcón. ‘Who attended the dinner, apart from yourself and Agustín Cárdenas?’

‘That will shed no light on the disappearance of Tateb Hassani, because HE HAD ALREADY LEFT THIS HOUSE!’ roared Rivero, hammering out the last six words with his fist on the desk.

‘There’s no need to upset yourself, Don Eduardo,’ said Ramírez, leaning forward, full of false concern. ‘Surely you can understand, given that a man was murdered and brutally dealt with, that the Inspector Jefe has to ask questions that may appear mystifying but which, we can assure you, will have a bearing on the case.’

‘Let’s go back a step,’ said Falcón, to make it sound less unrelenting. ‘Tell me who prepared Saturday’s dinner and who served it.’

‘It was prepared by the cook and it wasn’t served. It was brought up to the room next door and laid out as a buffet.’

‘Can we have those employees’ names please?’ said Falcón.

‘They left straight afterwards and went home.’

‘We’d still like their names and phone numbers,’ said Falcón, and Ramírez handed over his notebook, which Rivero refused to accept.

‘This is an infringement…’

‘Tell us what happened after the dinner,’ said Falcón. ‘What time did it finish, who left and who stayed, and what did those who stayed do for the remainder of the night?’

‘No, this is too much. I’ve told you everything that’s relevant to the disappearance of Tateb Hassani. I’ve cooperated fully. All these other questions I consider to
be outrageous intrusions into my private life and I see no reason why I should answer them.’

‘Why was Tateb Hassani a house guest of yours for five days?’

‘I told you, I’m not answering any more questions.’

‘In that case, we must inform you that Tateb Hassani was suspected of terrorist offences, directly linked to the Seville bombing. His handwriting was on documents found in the destroyed mosque. You were therefore harbouring a terrorist, Don Eduardo. I think you know what that means regarding our investigation. So we would like you to accompany us down to the Jefatura and we will continue this interview under the terms of the antiterrorism—’

‘Now, Inspector Jefe, let’s not be too hasty,’ said Rivero, blood draining from his face. ‘You came here enquiring about the disappearance of Tateb Hassani. I have cooperated as best I can. Now you are changing the nature of your enquiry without giving me the opportunity to address the matter in this new light.’

‘We didn’t want to have to force your hand, Don Eduardo,’ said Falcón. ‘Let’s go back to why you entertained Tateb Hassani as your house guest for five days…’

Rivero swallowed and braced himself against the desk for this next lap of the course.

‘He was helping us to formulate our immigration policy. He, like us, did not believe that Africa and Europe were compatible, or that Islam and Christianity could cohabit in harmony. His particular insights into the Arabic mind were extremely helpful to us. And, of course, his name and stature added weight to our cause.’

‘Despite the fact that he rarely visited his homeland,
had spent his entire adult life in the USA and that he had to leave Columbia University under the cloud of a sexual harassment case, which cost him his apartment and all his savings?’ said Falcón.

‘Despite that,’ said Rivero. ‘His insights were invaluable.’

‘How much did Fuerza Andalucía pay him for this work?’

Rivero stared into the desk, terrified by this burgeoning demand for more and more improvisation. How was he ever going to remember any of it? Fatigue got a foothold in his viscera. He viciously shrugged it off. He had to hang on, like a fatally wounded man he had to keep talking, to overwhelm any desire he might have to give up. The flaws were developing inside him. His shell had been weakening from the moment that DVD had come anonymously into his possession and he’d had to view the hideousness of his indiscretions. The cracks had spread further when Angel had come to see him. He had listened, his white mane of hair gone wild and his face battered by excessive alcohol, as Angel had told him how he’d saved him. The rumour had been rife, like a wildfire consuming the tinder-dry undergrowth, gathering strength to leap up into an enormous conflagration. Angel had saved him, but it had come at a price. The time had come to step down or be destroyed.

That conversation with Angel had weakened him more than he knew. Over the days the flaws spread through him until every part of him was ruined. Every step now was a step down into the dark. Murder had come into his house and a desecration of the sanctity of the body. He could not think, after it had taken
place, how such a thing could have happened to him in a matter of weeks. One moment brilliant and whole, the next corrupt, fractured, fissured beyond repair. He had to get a grip on himself. The centre must hold.

‘You must remember what you had to pay for such invaluable advice,’ said Falcón, who had been watching this immense struggle from the other side of the desk.

‘It was 5,000,’ said Rivero.

‘Was that with a cheque?’

‘No, cash.’

‘You paid him with black money?’

‘Even policemen know how this country works,’ said Rivero, acidly.

‘I must say, Don Eduardo, that I do admire your poise under these very stressful circumstances,’ said Falcón. ‘Had I been in your shoes and found out that the man I’d paid €5,000 for his advice on immigration had also been involved in a terrorist plot to take over two schools and a university faculty, I would be in a state of shock. That this man should also have been responsible for writing out those appalling instructions to kill schoolchildren, one by one, until their demands had been met would devastate me, if I were you.’

‘But then again, you are a politician,’ said Ramírez, smiling.

Sweat was raking down his flanks, his stomach was embarking on a ferocious protest, his blood pressure was screaming in his ears, his heartbeat was so fast and tight that his breathing had shallowed, and his brain gasped for oxygen. And yet, he sat there, tapping the side of his nose, bracing himself against the desk.

‘I have to say,’ Rivero said, ‘that I cannot begin to think what this means.’

‘So, you had this dinner on Saturday night,’ said Falcón. ‘It wasn’t served, but was laid out as a buffet. How many people attended that dinner? So far, we have yourself and Agustín Cárdenas, but you’d hardly go to the trouble of a buffet for just two people, would you?’

‘Angel Zarrías was there as well,’ said Rivero, smoothly, thinking, yes, they could have Angel, he should go down with them, the little fucker. ‘I quite often have buffets on Saturday nights, so that the servants can go home and enjoy dinner with their families.’

‘What time did Angel arrive?’

‘He was here around 9.30, I think.’

‘And Agustín Cárdenas?’

‘About 10 p.m.’

‘Did he arrive with anybody else?’

‘No.’

‘He was alone in the car?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re saying there were only three people for dinner?’

Rivero didn’t care about the lying any more. It was all lies. He stared into his desk and let them fall from his tongue, like gold coins worn to a slippery smoothness.

‘Yes. I quite often have a buffet and whoever turns up…turns up.’

Falcón glanced at Ramírez, who shrugged at him, nodded him in for the kill.

‘Do you know one of your staff called Mario Gómez?’

‘Of course.’

‘It was he who laid out the buffet in the next room on that Saturday night.’

‘That would be his job,’ said Rivero.

‘He told us that he’d served Tateb Hassani with at least one meal a day since he’d arrived in your house, up here in these rooms.’

‘Possibly.’

‘He knew who Tateb Hassani was, and he saw you accompanying him upstairs to dinner with Angel Zarrías at 9.45 on Saturday night. Some hours later Tateb Hassani was poisoned with cyanide, horribly disfigured and driven from here, in Agustín Cárdenas’s car, to be dumped in a bin on Calle Boteros.’