The Ignorance of Blood (47 page)

The head of security sent out an alert to all guards in the grounds. Falcón gave him a one-line description of Nikita Sokolov. Using some toilet paper, he turned off the shower over Revnik's inert body.

‘He came in from the back terrace,’ said the head of security, ‘but can't have triggered the light sensor.’

Back in the security office they went straight into the screen room. The screens on the right were all dark. The supervisor had seen nothing.

‘If you hug tight to the side of the building it's possible you wouldn't trigger the light sensor,’ he said.

‘Run the footage on suite number six,’ said the head of security.

The supervisor took it back ten minutes. The outside light hadn't come on. They looked closely and could see only a vague dark movement, nothing more.

‘Has the mayor's delegation arrived?’ asked Falcón.

‘Yes, they went straight into the cinema,’ said the guard.

‘What do you mean? Spinola was supposed to talk to the mayor as soon as he arrived,’ said Falcón. ‘And what's happened to the guard looking after him?’

‘I don't know. I've been watching the screens,’ said the supervisor. ‘I can't…’

The head of security held up his hand, radioed the guard, asked the question, listened.

‘He never showed up. He thought responding to my alert about the weightlifter was more important, and he's out in the grounds looking for him.’

‘Find Spinola, you must have him on those screens somewhere. I can't believe you didn't see him leave this office,’ said Falcón. ‘Why didn't the mayor have drinks and canapés before the viewing?’

‘They were running late,’ said the supervisor. ‘There's a dinner afterwards. All I know is that they were met in the reception area by the guests from the Horizonte/I4IT consortium and they went straight into the cinema.’

Ramírez and Ferrera came in panting and sweating.

‘Belenki's confirmed it's Leonid Revnik,’ said Ramírez.

‘Is Belenki secure?’ asked Falcón.

‘I've handcuffed him to the bed, and the door to the staff quarters is locked. There's not much else I could do,’ said Ramírez.

‘We're going to the cinema now,’ said Falcón. ‘Tell us when you find Spinola.’

The cinema doors were shut. The faint sound of the film presentation came through the wooden soundproofed doors. The head of security tapped Falcón on the shoulder, pointed at the projection room. The lock had been shot out. They all took out their guns. Ramírez shoved against the door. It wouldn't open. There was something jammed up against it on the other side. Between them they forced it open. Apart from a dead body on the floor there was another man, sitting quite calmly with his legs crossed, by the projection equipment.

‘Mark,’ said Falcón, nodding.

Flowers said nothing, looked tired, bags heavy under his
eyes. The dead man had fallen on his side, face turned to the corner of the room.

‘Who's this?’ asked Falcón.

‘I don't know,’ said Flowers, sighing, as if this killing had taken something out of him. Falcón knelt over the dead man, who had taken a bullet to the temple. Falcón fingered his hair, felt it was false. He eased up the hair piece, saw that the man had a head shaved down to the skin.

‘What happened here, Mark?’

‘The projectionist set the film running and I told her to get out. I locked the door after her. A couple of minutes later someone tried the door. There's no peep-hole, so I couldn't check who it was. I stood behind the door. He shot out the lock. The first thing that came in the room was a gun. I recognized it as a nine-millimetre Makarov. Given that sequence of events, I didn't bother to ask questions. As soon as his head appeared I shot him.’

Falcón pulled up the man's jacket, yanked his shirt out of his trousers and revealed his naked back, which was covered in tattoos: some Russian lettering, a crucifix and angel wings.

‘This must be Yuri Donstov, also known as the Monk, judging by these tattoos,’ said Falcón, checking the man's pockets, which were empty, not even a set of keys.

‘I assumed from his weapon that he was Russian,’ said Flowers, his exhaustion making him preternaturally calm. ‘Those tattoos must make him mafia.’

‘You're going to have to give me your gun, Mark,’ said Falcón.

Flowers reached across to a low shelf under the projection equipment and handed over his silenced gun.

‘Stand up,’ said Falcón, handing the gun to Ferrera.

He searched Flowers, found a disk.

‘Where did this come from?’

‘I found it on our Russian friend,’ said Flowers.

‘You know what's on it?’

‘I think it contains the material we talked about the other night.’

Falcón turned to the people behind him.

‘Mount a guard on Viktor Belenki. Look out for the weightlifter, Nikita Sokolov. Find Spinola. Cristina, get some handcuffs and come back here. I'll talk to the mayor when we're ready.’

Everybody left. Falcón nudged the projection-room door to, moved in front of Flowers.

‘What time is it, Mark?’

‘You got me there, Javier.’

‘You don't wear the Patek Philippe when you're working?’

‘Breitling for ops,’ said Flowers.

‘And that was how you got paid by Cortland Fallenbach?’

‘It was an opportunity,’ said Flowers, shrugging. ‘You know, we're public servants. We don't get paid very much and I have a number of ex-wives. I think I've spoken to you about them. American ex-wives are more demanding than European ones. And then there's the kids. That's a lot of outgoings. Why do you think I came out of retirement? You don't think I prefer fucking around with these shits to lying on a boat in the Florida Keys, do you, Javier?’

‘What about Mrs Zimbrick?’

‘I'm treating my girlfriend. There's no need to get ugly with her. She's a civilian. An English teacher.’

‘This is hardly what you'd call soldiering, is it, Mark?’

‘What can I say but, needs must, Javier?’

‘You're here at Cortland Fallenbach's invitation?’

‘I'm his security consultant. We got together after you asked me to research I4IT in June. I told him he was going to need help and he agreed.’

‘What happened tonight?’

‘He told me that under no circumstances was anybody to interrupt the showing of the I4IT/Horizonte presentation
movie,’ said Flowers. ‘But he gave me no indication that it was going to come to this.’

‘You
were
armed.’

‘People calm down when you point a gun at them,’ said Flowers. ‘And if they've got one themselves, you're even.’

‘We're going to have to put you in the cells until we can speak to the American consul.’

A knock on the door. Cristina came in, handcuffed Flowers to the projection equipment stand.

‘Time for an announcement,’ said Falcón.

‘You must be a nice guy, Javier,’ said Flowers. ‘If it was me I'd play the DVD and listen to the bastards howl.’

Time had flown by and the film at that moment ended. Falcón raised the lights and shut Flowers in the projection room. The double doors to the cinema opened and the group filed out, led by the mayor, who was talking to the banker, Alfredo Manzanares. Falcón showed him his police ID card, tried to usher him into the conference room where they were supposed to have had their drinks earlier. Valverde and Ramos intervened, blocked the doorway, started some vociferous protesting.

‘Open the projection-room door, Cristina,’ said Falcón.

The woman from Agesa screamed at the sight of the dead body. Cortland Fallenbach saw Mark Flowers, turned to stone.

‘I think you'll agree that this needs some explanation,’ said Falcón. ‘Close the door, Cristina. Take these people to the private room where they were supposed to be having dinner. Nobody is to leave that room under any circumstances. As you can see, there is a killer on the loose. Detective Ferrera is armed.’

The sight of a dead body had subdued the group completely and they went into the private room like a flock of sheep into a slaughterhouse holding pen.

Falcón took the mayor aside into the conference room
and had just embarked on his devastating introduction to the evening's events when his mobile went off.

‘Belenki's been shot,’ said Ramírez. ‘Shot dead.’

There was a hammering on the door. A security guard said he was needed up in the main office. Falcón took the mayor to join the others in the private room where Ferrera was standing guard.

‘Lock the door. Let nobody in or out,’ he said, and left.

In the security office the supervisor was tapping one of the screens showing the thick-set, stocky weightlifter, Nikita Sokolov, gun in hand, striding up to the main building.

‘He doesn't care now,’ said the supervisor. ‘He's not hiding from the cameras any more.’

‘He's heading towards the main building, so he's not bothered about getting away just yet,’ said Falcón. ‘He must have come back to meet up with his boss, Yuri Donstov. Keep the other guests in the restaurant, clear the reception area, turn the lights off inside, keep them on outside. Whatever happens, I do not want this man shot unless it's absolutely unavoidable. Where's Spinola?’

‘He got out over the main gates,’ said the supervisor. ‘He's on the run and we don't have the manpower to go after him.’

Falcón called Detective Serrano, who was still waiting with Baena in the car in the petrol station nearby. He told him to find Spinola, who would be out on the main road somewhere.

‘Be careful with him. He's in a state. You have to make sure he survives. No accidents.’

By the time Falcón got to the reception area the lights were out in the patio. The shops and art gallery were in darkness. Between him and the main door were two thick marble supporting pillars. Beyond the pillars were four panels of plate glass, two of which were double doors. The mayor's delegation Mercedes was parked outside. No driver. Falcón hid behind one of the pillars. He didn't have to wait long.

Nikita Sokolov came out of the night, his colossal
quadriceps straining against the material of his trousers, biceps with a thick cord of vein bursting out of his polo shirt, which flapped at his waist. He had a thick, white bandage around his right forearm where El Pulmón's bullet had grazed him. The gun, silencer attached, was in that hand. He tried the door to the Mercedes. Locked. He looked through the driver's window, swapped his weapon to his left hand and dealt the glass a savage blow with the butt of his gun. It bounced off. Now that his work was done, Revnik and Belenki shot dead, his mission completed, he was thinking about escape. He checked the unlit main building. Didn't like it. He jogged off to his left. Disappeared back into the darkness.

Falcón told the head of security to stay in the reception area while he sprinted across the patio, down a corridor to the kitchens, which were totally silent on the outside and a cacophony of brutal swearing, hollered orders, clattering pans and sizzling fat on the inside. He ran down the corridors of stainless-steel work surfaces. Diminutive sous chefs with large knives, flaming pans, blow torches and cleavers, glanced over their shoulders as he tore past them. He asked after the mayor's driver, nobody answered. He found a
plongeur
, asked if there was a staff dining room. The man walked him past boiling cauldrons and flat metal griddles crackling and spitting with hot oil. He pointed him to a door with a porthole window at the end of a short corridor, said there was an outside entrance as well.

‘What's out there?’

‘The bins.’

Falcón looked through the porthole. The mayor's driver was sitting at the table in the empty room, eating. There was a window, barred on the outside, and a door, both to the driver's right. Falcón knelt down, crawled into the room. The driver's food stopped on its way to his mouth.

‘Police,’ said Falcón. ‘Carry on eating. Don't look at me.’

He crawled under the window, was just about to get to
his feet when the door out to the bins burst open and Sokolov came in. Blue polo shirt, hairy arm outstretched, white bandage, gun, safety off, finger on the trigger.

‘Keys!’ he roared.

He'd seen the driver on his own, eating. Wasn't prepared for Falcón coming up on his right side, who chopped down with his revolver on Sokolov's bandaged arm. A shot, a dull thud and a crack as the bullet went through the wooden table, before the silenced gun dropped from Sokolov's deadened hand. Falcón lost grip of his own weapon, which scuttled off into the corner. The Russian turned and crouched and Falcón found himself precisely where he didn't want to be: facing off against the former Olympic weightlifter.

Sokolov charged him, caught Falcón in the midriff with his shoulder, wrapped a steel-reinforced arm around his back and lifted him up as if he was nothing more than a cardboard cut-out.