The Ignorance of Blood (51 page)

‘Thanks very much for being so considerate, Inspector,’ she said. ‘But I used to live in Miami. There the ugly stuff happened in your living room.’

‘Did they cut women up with a chain saw there, too?’

‘Only if they were feeling kind,’ she said.

‘Guess what?’ said Ferrera, appearing on Falcón's shoulder.

‘Comisario Elvira wants to see you.’

‘When?’ asked Falcón.

‘Probably since he got a call from the Juez Decano de Sevilla at around two o'clock this morning,’ she said. ‘Ramírez is about to give Sokolov his first interview.’

‘Is Inspector Jefe Tirado from GRUME in the building?’

‘I'll find out,’ said Ferrera. ‘By the way, last night Juan Valverde gave me the name and address of the
puti club
where they're holding Marisa Moreno's sister, Margarita, or at least where he had sex with her.’

‘You'd better get out there then,’ said Falcón. ‘Contact the local Guardia Civil and take Sub-Inspector Pérez with you.’

‘OK, Detectives Serrano and Baena are going through Alejandro Spinola's apartment looking for evidence of his involvement with the Russians and sending inside information to Horizonte.’

Falcón went up to Elvira's office. The secretary sent him through. Elvira looked barricaded behind his desk and didn't even let him sit down.

‘I can't believe you mounted an operation like that without getting my approval.’

‘Normally I would have done, but you told me I was not to have any contact with Alejandro Spinola on pain of being suspended,’ said Falcón. ‘Not only did I realize that Spinola himself was in danger, but I could also see that he was potentially drawing other people into a dangerous situation in the Hotel La Berenjena. I therefore had to act without your approval of the plan.’

‘The plan?’

‘The improvisation,’ said Falcón, correcting himself. ‘There hasn't been much time for planning.’

‘Do you know what the Juez Decano told me last night?’ said Elvira. ‘That you'd hounded his son to his death.’

‘His suicide, you mean,’ said Falcón. ‘Remember, Detectives Serrano and Baena were present and the truck driver was emphatic.’

‘We'll see.’

‘Alejandro Spinola told me he was into Belenki and Revnik for gambling debts and cocaine and that he'd leaked confidential information about competitors' bids for the Isla de la Cartuja development to Antonio Ramos, Horizonte's chief construction engineer. He'd also betrayed his own cousin by introducing him to Marisa Moreno, who was being coerced by the Russians,’ said Falcón. ‘That was a guy I didn't hound nearly enough.’

‘I can only hope that with Belenki, Revnik and Marisa Moreno dead and Antonio Ramos keeping his mouth firmly shut, we can gather enough evidence to prove you right,’ said Elvira, who looked at his watch. ‘As it is, Inspector Jefe Falcón, I am going to have to suspend you from duty with immediate effect, pending a full inquiry. Inspector Ramírez will run the investigation from now on. You will leave the building by eleven o'clock. That is all.’

Falcón left the Comisario's office, went down to his own, where Inspector Jefe Tirado was waiting for him, chatting to Ferrera. Falcón told him the latest intelligence about Darío being held in Morocco and that it would probably be a matter for the CNI, working with the Moroccan authorities. He also told him about his own suspension from duty and that he would ensure that the CNI contacted Comisario Elvira with news of Darío. Tirado left. Ferrera looked at Falcón, shook her head in dismay. He went into his office, closed the door and called Pablo, who'd just arrived in the Jefatura and was on his way up the stairs to his office. He took out Yacoub's letter, reread it. This was going to be a hard sell.

Ferrera let Pablo in, said she was leaving for the Costa del Sol, pulled the door shut. Pablo put his briefcase down, sat. He was angry. Falcón decided to let him start.

‘We've just heard from Saudi intelligence,’ said Pablo. ‘They've been in touch with the British, too, confirming that no members of the Saudi royal family were on board that vessel and there will be no press release for at least twenty-four hours on the matter. How much did you know?’

‘Pretty well nothing, except that there was a Saudi connection. Yacoub didn't even tell me his real name.’

‘That was a very dangerous game you were playing there, Javier,’ said Pablo. ‘He was an assistant to the Saudi Minister of Defence.’

‘Think how you and the British would have behaved if you'd known that last week,’ said Falcón. ‘And if the Americans had been informed?’

‘I'm not sure that blowing a ship up on the high seas is what I would call a contained intelligence operation,’ said Pablo.

‘Did Saudi intelligence come directly to you, or higher?’

‘What do you think?’ said Pablo. ‘I've been made to look an arsehole on my own territory. As soon as Yacoub got off the plane in Málaga I had a man on his tail. After you met him in Osuna I had two agents, front and back of the hotel. And still a GICM logistics cell can put a power boat, packed with high explosives, at the disposal of an amateur, to complete a fucking impossible mission. We were nowhere…’

‘How could I have helped you?’ said Falcón. ‘I didn't know about the power boat or the
Princess Bouchra.’

Pablo grunted, looked out the window into the hot car park.

‘I've got a problem,’ said Falcón, ‘and I'm going to need your help.’

‘I don't know why. It seems that amateurs have just as good a chance as the professionals,’ said Pablo. ‘Is this about Darío?’

‘Partly,’ said Falcón. ‘But in order to get to Darío I have to kill someone first.’

Silence. Pablo's brain ticked over.

‘The problem is,’ said Falcón, continuing, ‘this person is someone that both you and the Moroccans would very much like to interrogate, but Yacoub's last request was that, while he wants this person killed, he does not want him tortured to death.’

‘This isn't what you talked about in Osuna,’ said Pablo. ‘It couldn't have been. He'd have had to tell you he was going to die. So, somehow you've heard from Yacoub, but not by email. Did he write you a letter?’

‘You can read it in a minute.’

‘In the meantime, you want me to agree to facilitating a mission in a foreign country in which you assassinate an anonymous but valuable intelligence source,’ said Pablo. ‘Fuck off, Javier. That's all I can say.’

‘I thought that might be your attitude.’

‘You're in no position,’ said Pablo. ‘Let me read the letter.’

Falcón handed over the letter, sat back while Pablo read it.

‘I want a copy of this and I'm going to have to make a call,’ said Pablo. ‘Would you mind waiting in the outer office?’

Falcón left the room. Ten minutes later Pablo called him back in.

‘It seems that assurances were given to the Saudis from higher up,’ said Pablo. ‘Ministers of Defence and those close to them are very powerful people, especially when they buy military equipment. I have been instructed to make the necessary arrangements for you. But are
you
, the Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios, really going to do this?’

‘Not that it makes any difference, but I've been suspended from duty, pending an inquiry into the events of last night.’

‘I won't ask.’

‘I have to admit it's not my preferred method of meting out justice, but not only is it my friend's last request, it's
also the only way to rescue Darío. With Barakat alive on the outside we wouldn't get near the boy,’ said Falcón. ‘And I know you used to run agents in Morocco before you were given the Madrid job and you can help me.’

‘I can arrange a firearm for you, give you some men on the ground, and I can clear it with the Moroccans after the event,’ said Pablo. ‘Or I can get a professional to do it.’

‘As you can tell from the letter, there's something personal about this. I have no idea what it is, but I don't think Yacoub would ask me to do it unless he had good reason.’

‘And what about the boy?’

‘First of all, you have to contact Comisario Elvira and tell him that you believe Darío is in Morocco and he will relieve Inspector Jefe Tirado from the search for him here,’ said Falcón. ‘As soon as I've dealt with Barakat your men have to seal off the information that he's dead until I've rescued Darío. I'm not sure how I'm going to get into the house in Fès unless Yousra, Yacoub's wife, or Abdullah maybe, could help me get in there.’

‘How are you going to get to Fès?’

‘Drive to Algeciras. Ferry to Ceuta. I could be in Fès by this evening.’

‘We'll book you a room in the Hotel du Commerce. It's quiet, out of the way, and you won't draw attention to yourself as you would if you were in the Palais Jamai or the Dar Batha. It's still in the old town, but in Fès El Djedid, rather than Fès El Bali, where Barakat has his shop and the Diouris have their house,’ said Pablo. ‘What about Yousra?’

‘I'll call her. She'll meet me in Fès.’

‘Leave your car in Meknes, meet her there. The Hotel Bab Mansour has a garage. We'll organize a room for you. Take a taxi from there,’ said Pablo. ‘Don't turn up in a Spanish-registered vehicle; Barakat will have his informers in Fès.’

‘Consuelo will be coming with me.’

‘Really?’

‘There's no question of her staying here.’

‘Why tell her?’

‘I already have.’

‘Call me from Ceuta,’ said Pablo. ‘Go to the Hotel Puerta de Africa and ask for Alfonso. Tell him you're a great admirer of Pablo Neruda and he'll look after your border crossing.’

Falcón went down to the forensics lab, picked up some DNA swabs and continued to the observation room to see Ramírez's first interview with Nikita Sokolov. He was waiting for the right moment to interrupt, but was also fascinated to see how Ramírez would play the Russian. They were still working their way through the preliminaries. The translator sat well back from the table between the two men. Sokolov leaned forward, a large white bandage around his head. His huge bulk made him look like a figure from a cartoon. His face bent down was oddly sad, as if remorse could potentially take up residence. Occasionally, when he'd become a little stiff, he'd hook his arms over the back of the seat and sit up straight, then his face would lose that look of sadness and become devoid of any recognizable human emotion.

‘I'm just going to summarize that for you,’ said Ramírez, concluding a fairly long opening statement. ‘There are five murders that we can charge you with today. There are no questions about any of them. We have witnesses and we have your weapon with your fingerprints on it. And in the case of the first two murders we also have your blood at the scene. These killings are: Miguel Estévez and Julia Valdés in the apartment of Roque Barba in Las Tres Mil Viviendas on Monday, 18th September. And Leonid Revnik …’

Ramírez paused as Sokolov spat a contemptuous globule of sputum at the floor.

‘Leonid Revnik,’ continued Ramírez, ‘Isabel Sanchéz and Viktor Belenki in the Hotel La Berenjena on Tuesday, 19th
September. You will be charged with all these murders later this morning. Do you understand?’

The translator did her work. Sokolov turned his mouth down and nodded as if this was a reasonable summary of a couple of days' work. He did not look at the Cuban woman as she spoke. His eyes were fixed on Ramírez's forehead, as if this was where he was planning his first assault on his way out of the room. Ramírez was extraordinarily calm. His interview style normally tended towards the aggressive, but he'd decided on a different approach with Sokolov, although the Russian did look impervious to aggression.

‘Given that these five murders will put you behind bars for the rest of your life, I was wondering if there were any other killings you'd like us to take into consideration at the same time?’

Sokolov's response was very surprising.

‘I would like to help you, Inspector,’ he said, ‘but you must understand that this is my job. I was an “enforcer” for a number of years on the Costa del Sol with Leonid Revnik and his predecessor before I joined Yuri Donstov in the same capacity. I was given the names of people I was required to kill, but I did not always remember them. It was just business. If you can be specific and remind me of the circumstances, I might be able to help.’

Ramírez was momentarily wrong-footed by the tone of this reply. He'd been expecting a belligerent silence. It made him concentrate on his adversary. Falcón began to think that inside Sokolov's brutal frame there must be a young man with a briefcase, a set of pens and an eagerness to please. Then it occurred to him that the last thing this sort of work needed was craziness. What it demanded was discipline, calmness, attention to detail and a clear uncomplicated mind. Maybe weightlifting wasn't such bad training for the work.

‘I was thinking of Marisa Moreno,’ said Ramírez, jogging himself back into the interview. ‘You knew her, of course.’

‘Yes, I did.’