The Ignorance of Blood (41 page)

‘It looks like the Russians want to influence the outcome of whatever this deal is between the mayor's office and the I4IT/Horizonte consortium,’ said Falcón. ‘We just don't know how or when they're going to do it.’

‘And we can't touch Spinola because of Lobo and Elvira,’ said Ramírez.

‘And we can't mount an official operation at La Berenjena either,’ said Falcón. ‘Who knows, it might turn out to be a completely legitimate deal, with no mafia involvement, and we can all go home and sleep easy. On the other hand, with the intelligence we've gathered, I think we have to be available in case things go wrong.’

‘Can we at least do some preparation work?’ said Ferrera. ‘Like get a list of the other guests, warn the manager that we're coming and get some idea of the security set-up at the hotel.’

‘What do you know about this place?’ asked Ramírez.

‘The website says that it's an exclusive celebrity hangout, that royalty has stayed there, and that it's not just an ordinary country-house hotel. They have a head of security and the management is willing to consult on additional security arrangements.’

‘It's important that Elvira doesn't hear about any of this,’ said Falcón. ‘So if it can be achieved in total secrecy, then go ahead.’

‘We might need some help in identifying the players we don't know,’ said Ferrera. ‘There are four suites booked at La Berenjena, so who is this extra person on the I4IT/Horizonte team, and how do we recognize the mafia men?’

‘There are no existing shots of Leonid Revnik and only an old gulag shot of Yuri Donstov,’ said Falcón. ‘The rest should be on the CICO database.’

‘We'll have to take shots of them when they arrive and send them to Vicente Cortés and Martin Díaz for identification,’ said Ramírez.

‘I'll bring a laptop,’ said Ferrera.

‘You'd better brief Cortés and Díaz,’ said Falcón. ‘And I'll talk to the CNI.’

They crossed the main road, climbed the ridge and dropped down to where the Guardia Civil were waiting for them on the outskirts of Cuevas del Becerro. They had a large-scale map of the area and some further intelligence. El Pulmón's gypsy friend had been seen in Ronda buying clothes and shotgun shells. The owner of the farm was touring up in the north and the place was being run by a manager, who had gone down to the coast with his family. There was a stable for twenty horses and the gypsy lived in a small cottage adjoining it. His job was to look after the animals.
He was well known in the area and he knew the country like the back of his hand.

‘Where do you think they're most likely to be at this time of day?’ asked Ramírez.

‘With any luck they'll be having a siesta,’ said the Guardia. ‘But they could be … that's a point – at the back of the stables there's a practice bullring for training the horses with bulls.’

‘Is that what the horses are used for?’ asked Baena.

‘Yes. He's one of the best
rejoneadors
in the business. Fantastic horses. He goes all over Spain and Portugal with them,’ said the Guardia.

‘They won't be out in the fields, not at this time of day in this heat,’ said the other Guardia.

‘Those horses are going to be pretty valuable,’ said Baena.

‘So,’ said Serrano, taking out his revolver, checking that it was fully loaded, ‘we'd better not shoot any of them by accident.’

‘Fuck, no,’ said the Guardia. ‘You do that and you'll have to find at least a hundred thousand euros per animal.’

‘And the rest,’ said Baena.

‘Do you know the practice ring?’ asked Falcón. ‘How many ways in or out?’

The Guardia shrugged. Falcón decided they'd go in their two unmarked cars and not risk taking the Guardia in their green-and-white Nissan Patrols with them.

‘When we get there,’ said Falcón, ‘Serrano and Baena will go into the stables and check them out. Ramírez and I will search the cottage. Ferrera will stay outside and keep watch. If there's no sign of them, we'll move to the practice bullring. The three of you will man the entry points and Ramírez and I will go into the ring.’

‘Toro!’
said one of the Guardia, and they all laughed.

The Guardia led them out into the country and pointed out the entrance to the Finca de la Luna Llena. The farm buildings were not visible from the road. There was a long
two-kilometre slope up from the entrance gates and the main building could be seen at the top of the rise.

‘If they're out and about, they're going to see us coming over this rise,’ said Ramírez.

‘That's if they're looking out for us,’ said Falcón. ‘El Pulmón isn't expecting anybody to find him out here.’

‘Shotgun shells?’ said Ramírez.

‘That's the minimum he'd need to take on Nikita Sokolov,’ said Ferrera.

The two cars coasted down the track, engines idling, into the farm buildings. The stables were behind the main house and the cars came to a halt in front. Silence. No movement. Too early in the afternoon even for cicadas. They got out, guns ready. Nobody slammed the car doors. Baena trotted up to the far end of the stable block, checked round the back, held up his thumb, went into the building at the far end. Serrano took the door next to the cottage. Ferrera moved silently between the buildings, listening for voices and movement.

The cottage was open. Ramírez took a quick look around, just three rooms. Empty. Falcón pointed to the ceiling. Went upstairs. Nothing there. Outside, Ferrera was waiting, told them she'd heard voices in the practice ring. Serrano came out of the stables and the four of them headed for the practice ring, guns out.

Falcón stood in the middle of the main entrance to the practice ring. There was a stone staircase on the outside wall of the ring where spectators could go up to watch from a roofed seating area above the main gates. Ramírez went right, Serrano left.

Two minutes. Ramírez came back at a trot.

‘Serrano's positioned at the entrance for the animals, just in case; there's a small bull in there,’ he said. ‘The only other way out would be to run up the seating in the ring and then down the stone staircase here.’

An animal snort came from inside the ring.

‘There's at least one horse in there,’ said Falcón.

‘Let's take a look,’ said Ramírez.

Ramírez went up the staircase, crawled the last five steps, came back down.

‘Two guys, both gypsy-looking, one horse. The horse is tied up. It's got padding around it. One guy, who looks like El Pulmón, has a cape. The other guy is holding a mock-up of some bull's horns.’

‘El Pulmón practising his old moves.’

‘There's a lance leaning up against the wall of the ring and there's a shotgun next to it.’

‘This is the only way out on a horse, isn't it?’ said Falcón.

‘There's no way to manoeuvre a horse in the bullock pen.’

‘All right,’ said Falcón. ‘Cristina, you go up to the seating area above and cover us. Fifteen seconds and we go in.’

Ferrera crept up the steps. Falcón nodded to Ramírez, who opened the door. They slipped in, closed the door behind them. The two men were facing away from them. The horse seemed to acknowledge their entrance with a nod of the head and a snort.

‘Roque Barba!’ shouted Falcón, gun out, pointing directly at the man with the cape. ‘Police!’

It happened at lightning speed. The gypsy dropped the practice horns and in one leap was on the back of the horse. El Pulmón threw his cape up in the air and it came spinning towards Ramírez.

‘Freeze!’ shouted Ferrera, from above.

The gypsy slapped a button on the barrier and the main door to the practice ring sprung open. He slipped the rein and picked up the picador's lance. The shotgun was too low down for him. El Pulmón hesitated, thinking about reaching for it. The gypsy put the horse between El Pulmón and Falcón, dropped his head low to the horse's neck, tucked the lance under his arm. El Pulmón grabbed the padding at the side of the horse and kicked his feet up in the air. With a jab of the gypsy's heels
the horse took off out of the open door. Falcón and Ramírez scrambled to one side; the steel tip of the picador's lance flashed past at face height. Ferrera let off a shot over their heads. It didn't stop them. In the space of twenty metres El Pulmón got his leg up over the rear of the horse. The gypsy chucked the lance and hauled his friend up behind the saddle. El Pulmón grabbed hold of his waist. The horse galloped the length of the stable block. Falcón and Ramírez ran out of the practice ring in time to see the horse getting into its full stride, kicking up dust and heading for the fields above the farm.

‘What a fuck-up,’ said Ramírez.

‘I didn't want to risk shooting the horse,’ said Ferrera, from above.

They were all watching the galloping horse when from the far side of the stable block came another rider on a black stallion. The gypsy's horse was badly encumbered by its protective padding, and the black stallion, which was a beautiful beast, had no difficulty in catching up.

‘Fuck me,’ said Ramírez. ‘That's Baena.’

Baena was ducked low by the horse's neck, arse up in the air, looking every bit the professional rider. He reached out and grabbed El Pulmón's fluttering shirt and yanked it hard. El Pulmón had no stirrups and came straight off the back of the horse. Baena pulled up and was on him, gun in his face, his other hand hanging on to the stallion's rein. El Pulmón had landed on his back and was badly winded, rolling around and cycling his legs in the dust, trying to get some air into his remaining lung. The gypsy reined in the padded horse, which came up on his hind legs, while its rider stood up in the stirrups and did three or four complete turns as he looked back. Ferrera ran for the car, picked up Falcón and Ramírez and they joined the gasping El Pulmón. Baena calmed the stallion, which had been alarmed by the rush of the arriving car.

‘I didn't know you could ride, Julio,’ said Falcón.

‘I went to riding school for years when I was younger,’ he
said. ‘I fancied myself as a
rejoneador
but, you know what happens. Not many people make it. I did a couple of years in the mounted police, but it was too boring. I tell you, when I saw that stallion already saddled up I thought, I've got to have a go. That's a quarter-million euros' worth of horse there.’

They lifted El Pulmón into the back seat of the car, cuffed him face down. The gypsy on the padded horse was still there, pacing his animal to and fro.

‘What about him?’ asked Ramírez. ‘He came at us with a lance.’

‘We haven't got time for that,’ said Falcón. ‘We've still got a long day ahead of us. Take that horse back to the stables and let's get on with what we came here for.’

They drove back to the farm buildings while Serrano and Baena walked the stallion to the stable block. Ramírez righted El Pulmón, sat him up in the middle of the back seat. Falcón got in the other side.

‘I'm not talking to you,’ said El Pulmón. ‘Fucking Narcs.’

‘You don't have to talk to us,’ said Ramírez. ‘We're taking you back to Seville and throwing you to the Russian bears. You'll talk to them. Your old friends. They're the ones who supply you with dope, let you make a lot of money, and kill your girlfriend.’

‘What?’

‘You didn't hear about that?’ said Falcón.

‘They killed her?’ said El Pulmón.

‘We're homicide cops,’ said Ramírez.

‘We're looking for the guy who shot the Cuban, Miguel Estévez,’ said Falcón. ‘He's the same guy who went into your bedroom and, for no reason at all, shot Julia Valdés.’

‘In the face,’ said Ramírez.

‘His name is Nikita Sokolov,’ said Falcón. ‘He used to be a weightlifter. Stocky guy. Very muscular legs. Remember him?’

‘You'll be glad to know, Roque, that you winged him,’ said Ramírez. ‘With that shot from your Beretta, you drew blood.’

‘I used to get my product from the Italians,’ said El Pulmón. ‘At least I knew where I was with those guys. They spoke my language. Then back in March this stocky Russian turned up and started giving me different stuff, very pure. The Cuban, Miguel, came along to translate.’

‘So why did they come to see you yesterday?’ asked Falcón.

‘I was due a delivery.’

‘What about the gun? Your Beretta?’ asked Ramírez.

‘I was still selling Italian product. I didn't want to drop my old suppliers because I didn't know how long the Russian stuff was going to last. The Russian wanted me to sell his gear exclusively. A few weeks ago the big guy hung me out of the window to make his point, warned me that he would install his own dealer if I didn't stop selling the Italian shit. So I got myself prepared.’

‘Didn't clear your girlfriend out, though, did you?’ said Ramírez.

‘I didn't think they'd come to
kill
me,’ said El Pulmón. ‘It was just a delivery, but I was nervous enough to take precautions. And, fuck, I wish I had got Julia out of there.’

‘So what happened?’