The Ignorance of Blood (42 page)

‘One of my clients ratted on me,’ said El Pulmón. ‘Told the Russian I was still selling Italian product.’

‘Aha!’ said Ramírez.
‘Now
we get the full story. Was Carlos Puerta the rat?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘We picked him up on some associated business,’ said Falcón. ‘He described the Russian for us. He saw the whole thing from outside your apartment block.’

‘That fucker. He's still crazy about Julia. And then he got himself badly strung out. Needed more dope and his money ran dry.’

‘And the Russian stepped in with a little bribe,’ said Ramírez. ‘Puerta's dead. Committed suicide this morning. Happy?’

‘Joder,’
said El Pulmón, head bowed.

‘We need to find Nikita Sokolov,’ said Falcón. ‘How did you make contact with him?’

‘I called Miguel, the Cuban. That was my only way in.’

‘You know how to catch a Russian bear?’ said Ramírez.

El Pulmón shook his head.

‘Honey,’ said Ramírez. ‘We're going to cover you in honey and tether you out in the sun and wait for Nikita to turn up.’

El Pulmón looked from Ramírez to Falcón to see if he was going to be more friendly.

‘When we bring Sokolov in,’ said Falcón, more reasonably, ‘you're going to identify him.’

‘You're fucking kidding.’

‘It's either that or the honey treatment,’ said Ramírez.

‘And you'd like to get the guy who shot Julia, wouldn't you?’ said Falcón.

El Pulmón's shoulders dropped. He stared into the footwell and nodded.

A quarter to five and Falcón was making his way up to the main square in Osuna. A strange town, which looked unassuming from the outside, but the low, tiled, whitewashed houses gave way to opulent sixteenth-century mansions from the time when New World wealth had found its way into deepest Andalucía.

The Plaza Mayor had colossal palm trees which shaded the few bars, the 1920s casino and the empty square. Yacoub was early and Falcón watched him sitting alone in the heat at a table on the pavement. He had a
café solo
and a glass of water beside him. He was smoking and looking remarkably unperturbed, compared to their last two meetings.

Pleasantries over, Falcón sat at the small, round metal table and ordered a plate of squid and a beer, with a coffee to follow.

‘You're looking more relaxed,’ said Falcón.

‘I've passed another loyalty test,’ said Yacoub. ‘The GICM
say Abdullah isn't ready yet. They put him through his paces in training and his platoon commander says he needs to toughen up mentally. They don't want to lose someone of his intelligence and potential through poor preparation. They wouldn't think of giving him any sort of mission for at least another six months.’

‘Your strategy worked then.’

‘That's how you have to be with radicals. If you don't show the same fervour as they do, you're suspect.’

‘Will they involve you with the mission when he
is
ready?’

‘I don't know. I've been told I will be involved, but who knows with these people?’ said Yacoub. ‘Whatever … it doesn't
solve
my problem. I've still lost a son to radical Islam, I'm just in a slightly better position to stop him getting killed.’

‘We've got time now,’ said Falcón.

‘And what is time going to do for us? You think I'm going to be able to change his mind? And, even if that were possible, then what? Hide him for the rest of his life? Hide myself?’ said Yacoub. ‘No, Javier, you're not thinking straight. What I've come to terms with over the last week is that this is a lifelong commitment. That's why I suffered so much. I've been thinking short term. I couldn't see beyond the horror of Abdullah being drawn into this organization. Because I have the mentality of a dabbler, I was kidding myself that there was still a way out. Now I know there isn't, and I've started to think much longer term. Not years, but decades. My Western mentality has always tempted me into the belief that there was a “quick fix”, as the Americans like to call it. And, of course, there is one, but it always breaks. So now I've gone back to my Arab way of thinking and I've re-taught myself the art of patience. My purpose is different now. I will crush them, but… in the end.’

‘What about the immediate problem you had with your Saudi friend, Faisal?’

‘Yes, I wanted to thank you for being so discreet with the British,’ said Yacoub.

‘They put me under a lot of pressure,’ said Falcón. ‘They've even brought in Mark Flowers.’

‘Don't go near him,’ said Yacoub. ‘He has the smell of rot about him.’

‘Tell me how things went with Faisal.’

‘That was part of the test. That was why the GICM sent me to London. They want to see where my loyalties lie,’ said Yacoub. ‘One of the things they feel sure about the Western mind is that it has grown soft.’

‘Soft as in sentimental?’

‘They believe that Westerners no longer have the necessary endurance for duty. They attribute it to a decadent culture in which love, money, family – all the things that a Westerner would betray for – now have greater value than political, patriotic, religious and moral beliefs. The Westerner has become a victim of the importance of self in their minds. And so they wanted to see where on my integral scale did my son and lover appear, compared to what they consider to be more manly beliefs.’

‘Were there any surprises?’ said Falcón.

‘They've forced me to think,’ said Yacoub. ‘It's been humiliating and exhilarating.’

The food arrived. The waiter set down the plate of squid, some chips and salad, bread and a glass of beer.

‘You're looking stricken, Javier,’ said Yacoub. ‘Is what I'm saying bothering you?’

‘If we've gone soft and, as you say, lost sight of our beliefs, why are you fighting for us? What are you fighting for?’

‘That's a good question. Any soldier needs to know what he's fighting for,’ said Yacoub. ‘Before I went into this, I thought I knew. It's only having been on the inside, by concentrating on what I'm fighting against, that I've understood. And it's not Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. They're like phantoms now. But is it what Bush tried to replace those ogres with: that ultimate Western ideology?
So while I watched young men blowing themselves up, killing their fellow Muslims because of an intense religious belief, I asked myself: Am I fighting for freedom and democracy?’

‘Isn't that part of it?’

‘You know who soldiers fight for?’ said Yacoub. ‘Each other. The guys in their platoon. They don't crawl out to a wounded comrade for democracy. They don't mount an assault on an enemy position because of freedom of speech.’

‘And you?’ asked Falcón. ‘You don't have a platoon.’

‘I only have those closest to me. And I realize that in this respect I am a Westerner. Ideology breeds fanatics, and fanatics compete with each other to be more fanatical, until all the original clarity of their ideology has gone,’ said Yacoub. ‘The fanatics have damaged me by taking away what is dear to me, and I will hold them to account for it. I know my enemy now. I've lived with the narrowness of their minds, seen their vision of the future, heard their uncompromising views. I've had to absorb their ruthlessness, too, and now I'm beginning to make it my own.’

Falcón finished the food, downed the beer. Yacoub made his every action seem banal. The waiter came over with the
café solo
and a glass of water, took away the detritus of the meal.

‘You've changed,’ said Falcón.

‘As I said, you can intellectualize as much as you like when you're on the outside, but I only found out the emotional truth by being on the inside,’ said Yacoub. ‘This feeling of purpose I have is from knowing that I'm fighting for those I love.’

‘Not revenge?’

‘Revenge too, but it's not the only driver,’ said Yacoub. ‘The disturbing and unsettling reality is that
love
is the other driver. I'm not sure that love and revenge aren't inextricably entwined. But what about you, Javier? What are you doing here? You didn't bring me here to talk about this.’

‘Maybe the GICM are right and we Westerners have gone
soft,’ said Javier. ‘Last night I turned my back on all my principles. I negotiated with criminals, stole evidence, allowed myself to be corrupted and, finally, I walked away from murder.’

‘Why?’

‘Not revenge,’ said Falcón. ‘Just love.’

‘Whose love?’

‘Consuelo's. And because I love her son, Darío.’

‘And what has the boy got to do with any of this?’

‘He's been kidnapped.’

Yacoub stiffened on the other side of the table and leaned slowly across to look at Falcón, who told him everything down to the whole horror of the previous night, which came back to him with surreal intensity.

‘So if the Russians haven't got the boy, who has?’ asked Yacoub.

‘I think he's in Morocco.’

‘Why?’

‘Because one of those threatening calls I took, after seeing you in Madrid, told me that something would happen and when it did I would understand my responsibility for it and that I would “recognize” it. And now I do recognize it. Don't you … Arturo?’ asked Falcón, using Yacoub's long-forgotten Spanish name.

‘When did they take him?’

‘When I was with you in London,’ said Falcón. ‘They took him from a football club shop in the Sevilla FC stadium while his mother was on her mobile phone.’

The two men were staring at each other, alive as hunting hawks, not daring to blink.

‘And you think the GICM are responsible?’ asked Yacoub.

‘I don't know. They could be.’

‘What would they gain from it?’

‘To mess up my head. To put me under pressure. To make sure that my attention was diverted elsewhere,’ said Falcón,
‘so that they could achieve what they wanted with their new recruit.’

‘And …? Go on. Say it.’

‘To screw up my relationship with you,’ said Falcón. ‘Because I would know that the only reason it had happened was because of our involvement with each other.’

‘So they're testing
your
resolve, too,’ said Yacoub. ‘And what have they found?’

‘That while love and family ties can be considered soft and sentimental,’ said Falcón, ‘they have also, throughout history, driven us to as savage a ruthlessness as any ideology or religious fanaticism.’

‘Listen to me, Javier,’ said Yacoub, fixing him from across the table with his dark eyes. ‘You must not reveal, under any circumstances, what I told you in London. It is vitally important. If you do, I can guarantee that you will never see Darío again.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ said Falcón. ‘I thought your strategy had worked and this Saudi thing was over.’

‘It is over, for the time being, but the intelligence services still want to know what happened,’ said Yacoub. ‘And believe me, they will set everyone on you to find out what I've told you. But you must
not
tell them.’

‘So you know where Darío is?’

‘No, I don't. But I think I know what this is about, and I will find out where he is,’ said Yacoub, standing up. They embraced at the table. Yacoub kissed him on the cheek.

‘One thing I don't understand,’ said Falcón, ‘is why you told me all that stuff in London when you knew it could be so dangerous to you.’

‘First of all, you are my only true friend,’ said Yacoub. ‘And, strange to say, there are some things that can only be safe in the hands of a good friend. Secondly, it was imperative to me that you would be the one person who would know and understand the whole truth.’

25

On the road from Osuna to Seville – Tuesday, 19th September 2006, 18.00 hrs

Driving back to Seville, Falcón talking on the mobile to Ramírez, the sun low in the sky, the glare so penetrating that it hurt even through sunglasses – or was it something else twitching in the back of his mind, alongside Darío, making him uneasy?

‘Where are you, José Luis?’

‘I'm in the control tower at the airport. The private jet hired by I4IT/Horizonte is due in around five past seven,’ said Ramírez. ‘The flight plan out has just been logged for tomorrow. They're going to Málaga, taking off at midday.’

‘El Pulmón?’

‘In the cells.’

‘Detectives Serrano and Baena?’

‘They're parked outside the Andalucían parliament building, waiting for Alejandro Spinola to come out,’ said Ramírez. ‘Sub-Inspector Pérez is in a car outside the town planning office on the Isla de la Cartuja, because one of my contacts in the town hall told me that the mayor has a meeting there at seven thirty.’

‘And you've been in touch with the manager of the hotel?’