The Ignorance of Blood (45 page)

‘This is where the King and Queen stay when they come,’ said the manager.

The head of security showed them the extent of the perimeter fence, which consisted of five-centimetre-thick steel bars two and a half metres high, topped with razor wire. There was a three-metre-wide dog run on the other side and a further fence. Every metre of the perimeter fence was filmed by CCTV cameras, which were under constant supervision in the screen room of the main security office.

‘We provide the minimum requirement,’ said the head of security, ‘but if we have ministers or heads of state they will usually bring their own people.’

‘Have this Horizonte/I4IT group brought any of their own people with them, or made any special security requests?’

The security man shook his head.

‘If you want to move around the hotel without drawing attention to yourselves you should wear the staff uniform,’ said the manager. ‘Black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat for men and a black belted dress for women.’

‘Do you know what the mayor's delegation are doing after the event?’ asked Ramírez.

‘They're all going back to the city. The car bringing them will wait.’

‘How many security guards patrol the grounds?’

‘Four in the grounds, two in the main building, one of whom looks after the CCTV screens,’ said the head of security. ‘All armed.’

‘What could go wrong?’ asked Ramírez, cheerfully.

The manager looked at him nervously. They shook hands and the head of security took them on a tour of the main building. He described what the mayor's group would be doing, where and when. Drinks and canapés at ten o'clock in the conference room. A half-hour show in the cinema at ten thirty, followed by dinner in a private dining room at eleven. They inspected the projection room at the back of the theatre and were introduced to the technician, who had just been briefed by Antonio Ramos, the chief engineer of Horizonte, as to what was required and been given the necessary DVD showing the proposed construction project. They'd completed the sound-system test and were ready to go.

Outside in the lush gardens, privacy was the theme of the nine suites. Once inside, or out on the terrace, there was no sense of there being a neighbour. A good thirty metres separated each suite. At night security guards were told not to walk in the lit areas but to keep to the dark.

‘There's camera entry to each suite,’ said the head of
security, ‘and light sensors if you approach the front door or terrace.’

Falcón's team went back to the security office and changed into their staff uniforms in the toilets. The only problem was for Ferrera, who had nowhere to put her gun in the simple black dress. Falcón and Ramírez tucked theirs down the backs of the trousers and covered them with the waistcoats. Ferrera left her revolver in the security office, went to reception to check on the changes in the reservations, saw Taggart's cancellation and Fallenbach's booking of the presidential suite. On the way back she took a call on her mobile.

‘Alejandro Spinola has just left home in a taxi,’ said Ferrera, coming into the security office. ‘He's heading out of the city on the Huelva road. Looks as if he's coming early. Detective Serrano wants instructions.’

‘I don't want any more people in here, or it'll look too crowded,’ said Falcón. ‘They should wait down the road in that petrol station we were in.’

They went into the CCTV-screens room with the head of security.

‘Why are all these screens on the right dark?’ asked Ramírez.

‘They only light up if the sensor on the terrace of any of the suites is triggered,’ said the screen supervisor. ‘Nobody's sitting out at this time of night so they're all dark.’

‘How does it work with guests arriving?’ asked Ramírez.

‘When they make the booking they give their car registration, model and colour and the number of people who will be staying. When a car arrives at the gate we check it against our list and, if it complies, let it in. If we have VIPs staying and they bring in other guests, we'll ask them to roll down the window and identify themselves to the camera. Our guest list today have not asked for anything unusual so we'll admit everybody on the vehicle registration. Of course,
we have another opportunity to check the people in the car when they arrive at reception. In fact, here's a car arriving now.’

A dark BMW had pulled up at the gates. The guard at the screens checked it against his list, let it in.

‘This is the guest party registered as Sanchéz,’ he said.

The car came up the drive, parked in front of the main building. A young woman got out of the passenger side of the car. She was tall, with extraordinary long legs, and was wearing four-inch heels. Her hair bounced on her shoulders as she made her way to the reception.

‘No secret cameras in the bedrooms?’ asked Ramírez. Ferrera hit him on the arm.

‘Names?’ asked Falcón.

‘Isabel Sanchéz and Stanislav Jankovic. She's Spanish, he's a Serb,’ said the guard.

The woman appeared on the screen at reception, handed over her ID and her partner's passport.

‘Can we isolate her face?’ asked Falcón. ‘Download it and send it back to our organized crime experts, Cortés and Díaz in the Jefatura.’

‘Who do you think it is?’

‘On the basis of Cortés's description of Viktor Belenki's girlfriend as “fucking gorgeous” I thought she might be worth checking out,’ said Falcón.

Ferrera went to take her laptop out. The guard at the screens told her not to bother. He downloaded the image, pasted it into an email and sent it off to Díaz. Thirty seconds later Díaz was on the line, confirming Isabel Sanchéz as their informer known as Carmen.

‘So this Serb, Stanislav Jankovic, is in fact Viktor Belenki, right-hand man to Leonid Revnik,’ said Ramírez. ‘Do you have any cameras outside the front doors to the suites so we can pick up his face?’

‘Once inside the car port they have total privacy,’ said the
head of security, ‘but, of course, they can check the identity of someone coming to their door with the camera entry system.’

‘This must be Alejandro Spinola's taxi arriving at the main gate,’ said Ferrera.

‘What do you do in this scenario?’ asked Ramírez.

‘He has to identify himself and state his business,’ said the head of security.

Alejandro Spinola got out of the cab and pressed the buzzer, identified himself to the camera. He was told to go to reception. They opened the gates.

Isabel Sanchéz had her room key by now, went back to the car which moved off to her suite and reversed, out of sight, into the car port. Alejandro Spinola arrived in reception. The cab returned to the front gate.

‘We can do voice in reception as well,’ said the guard. ‘That being where we're most likely to have conflict.’

The guard at the screens flipped a switch. They heard Spinola ask to speak to Antonio Ramos. The receptionist put a call through. Spinola spoke to Ramos inaudibly. The receptionist summoned a bell boy.

‘Any ideas what this is about?’ asked Ramírez.

‘I should think it means that the Russians have got their hooks into Spinola, possibly some time ago,’ said Falcón. ‘They've told him who appears on the disks and he's going to use that information to the best of his ability.’

‘To blackmail the I4IT/Horizonte consortium round to the Russian way of thinking?’ said Ramírez. ‘He's leaving it late in the day.’

‘Nothing like an imminent contract-signing to speed up the process,’ said Falcón. ‘He's giving them forty-five minutes to agree to the RussiansW demands, with Fallenbach breathing down their necks. I think you could call that brinkmanship.’

The bell boy appeared, leading Spinola down the path.
Viktor Belenki came out of his suite and lit a cigarette, got Spinola's attention, nodded.

‘Go in close on Belenki,’ said Falcón. ‘Send a shot of him back to Díaz, just to check.’

Even in black and white Belenki was impressive, with blond hair and high cheekbones, and an animal muscularity under a white shirt and black trousers. He paced in leisurely fashion up and down outside his suite, smoking all the while, taking the night air. Spinola went into Ramos's suite. Several minutes eased past. Díaz called to confirm that the so-called Serb, Jankovic, was Viktor Belenki.

‘Look at the state of Valverde,’ said Ramírez.

Juan Valverde, the I4IT Europe boss, came out of his suite, fists rammed into the pockets of his towelling robe which gaped to show a pair of brief swimming trunks. His jaw was set and he looked thunderous under knitted eyebrows. He walked across to Antonio Ramos's suite.

‘He's had at least some of the bad news,’ said Ramírez.

Viktor Belenki started on his third cigarette. Suddenly he stood still. A development. Juan Valverde came out, his towelling robe now done up tight, looking less ominous, more scared. Antonio Ramos followed him, staring into the path as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening to him. They walked quickly over to Alfredo Manzanares's suite.

‘I wouldn't involve the banker at this stage, would you?’ asked Ramírez.

‘We don't know how Spinola has put the Russian's proposal to them,’ said Falcón. ‘Valverde and Ramos must have a good relationship with their bankers, if not Manzanares personally. They're either going to try talking him round, or invoke the earlier agreement, whatever that was, between his predecessor, Lucrecio Arenas and the Russians.’

Viktor Belenki seemed content with the way things were
going. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it underfoot and, hands in pockets, kicked it on to the grass.

‘Are you seriously expecting violence here?’ asked the head of security, reacting to the tension in the room.

‘By all accounts, we're dealing with some very unpredictable people,’ said Falcón.

‘But he's just one guy, isn't he?’

‘We don't know,’ said Falcón. ‘There is no existing photograph of Leonid Revnik and only a gulag shot of Yuri Donstov, although he does have extensive tattoos – if we can get that close. The only instantly recognizable mafia man we can identify is Nikita Sokolov, an ex-weightlifter.’

‘Another party at the gate,’ said the guard at the screens. ‘This is the Ortega couple.’

The car came through the gates and up to the main building. A man and a woman got out, went into reception. They were both in their late forties, obviously Spanish. Señora Ortega had an extensive list of demands, which she elaborated during the check-in process.

‘You can't invent a woman like that,’ said Ramírez. ‘So, only the Cano party still to arrive and Alejandro Spinola's dinner companions, the mayor's delegation.’

‘Did you see the Zimbricks or the Nadermanns when they came in?’ asked Falcón.

‘Sure,’ said the man at the screens. ‘They looked like tourists.’

‘Do you have copies of their passports?’

‘On the screen over here,’ said the head of security.

Falcón clicked through the Nadermanns, but his hand faltered at the second American passport, belonging to a Nathan Zimbrick. Staring out of the screen was Mark Flowers.

‘Have you got anywhere on the property which would do as a lock-up?’ asked Falcón, clearing the screen, unable to compute what the CIA agent's presence meant.

‘We've got some staff buildings down by the perimeter fence, where drivers can sleep,’ said the head of security. ‘There's a room there we could use to keep people until the Guardia Civil can come and take them away.’

Fifteen minutes passed. Viktor Belenki went inside, came back out in an expensive-looking suit and tie. Valverde and Ramos left Manzanares's suite on their own, hunched, not talking, body language declaring their complete failure. They headed off to the presidential suite.

‘So Alfredo Manzanares told them to fuck off,’ said Ramírez, ‘and then called their boss to tell him his senior executives have been compromised.’

‘Cortland Fallenbach knew about this,’ said Falcón. ‘I'm sure of it.’

‘He was only booked in when Charles Taggart's suite was cancelled,’ said Ferrera. ‘I don't think this evening was originally a part of his schedule.’

‘Valverde and Ramos have been the main contacts for the mayor and the town planning office for a long time, so Fallenbach probably sees the value in keeping them in place until the deal is signed,’ said Falcón. ‘Then they're out of their jobs.’

Ten more minutes. They stared at the entrance to the presidential suite where they'd seen the two men disappear. Nothing.

‘Look at Belenki,’ said Ramírez.

The Russian was leaning slightly forward and staring into the night as if he was beginning to suspect they'd all somehow escaped over the perimeter fence. He turned and went into the car port. At that moment Alejandro Spinola came out of Ramos's suite at a sprint. He'd obviously been waiting for Belenki to disappear and, as Ramos's suite was the furthest bungalow from the main building, he had a good hundred metres to cover.