The Ignorance of Blood (52 page)

‘She was cut up with a chain saw.’

‘As you've probably already gathered, that is not my method,’ said Sokolov. ‘Sometimes I have to satisfy the needs of others. The two who did that were animals, but they were brought up on brutality. They know nothing else.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘They are dead. They were captured by Revnik's men on Monday night and taken away to be … processed.’

‘Was that why you and Yuri Donstov were in the Hotel La Berenjena last night?’ asked Ramírez. ‘Was that just revenge?’

‘I will tell you things, Inspector, but I would like you to guarantee me one thing.’

‘I'm not sure I can offer you any guarantees.’

‘Just this one,’ said Sokolov. ‘I want everything I tell you to come out in court.’

‘Any reason?’

‘There are people in Moscow who should know the sort of a man Leonid Revnik was.’

‘I think that can be arranged.’

‘Leonid Revnik had the backing of the Supreme Council of
vory-v-zakone
in Moscow to terminate Yuri Donstov's operations in Seville. He was given this because he'd told them that Donstov had killed two directors on the Costa del Sol. This was not true. Revnik had executed them himself. You do not kill a
vor-v-zakone
without repercussions,’ said Sokolov. ‘Very quickly our supply lines of heroin from Uzbekistan were cut. Then Vasili Lukyanov died in a car accident last Thursday on his way to Seville.’

‘So, it
was
revenge in the Hotel La Berenjena last night?’

‘I did you a favour, killing Revnik.’

‘Why's that?’

‘He had agreements with people. Politicians,’ said Sokolov.
‘He'd keep Seville clean in return for big favours on the Costa del Sol.’

‘Why did you have to kill Marisa Moreno?’

‘She was at breaking point. She could not be relied upon to keep her mouth shut.’

‘What did she know?’

‘She knew people by face and name. If she found out that I was not working for Revnik any more, she might have felt that her sister was safe enough and would start talking to you,’ said Sokolov. ‘She would also reveal that she'd been forced to have a relationship with the judge.’

‘Esteban Calderón?’

‘Him.’

‘Why did she have to do that?’

‘Information.’

‘I thought it was so that she could provide you with a key to the judge's apartment.’

‘You might be right.’

‘Did
she supply you with the key?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was done with that key on the night of June 7th/June 8th this year?’

‘It was used to get into the judge's apartment.’

‘But the judge wasn't there, was he?’

Sokolov glanced over at the observation panel.

‘His wife was there,’ he said.

‘Were you the person who gained access to the judge's apartment that night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you murder the judge's wife, Inés Conde de Tejada?’

‘If that was her name, yes.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Because I was instructed to do so by Leonid Revnik.’

‘Did you know why you were instructed to kill her?’

‘Of course. I had to make it look as if the judge had
murdered his wife, so that he would be removed from the investigation of the Seville bombing,’ said Sokolov. ‘One thing we didn't expect was for him to try to get rid of the body. Fortunately, I'd left a man watching the apartment and he was able to report the judge to the police … otherwise he might have got away with it. And that would not have been fair, would it, Inspector?’

Ramírez and Sokolov looked at each other across the table. The translator stared, mesmerized.

‘No, that wouldn't have been fair,’ said Ramírez, and his next question came out with his heart in his throat. ‘Do you know who was responsible for placing the bomb in the mosque on Calle Romeros, in the barrio of El Cerezo, in Seville on 5th June 2006, which exploded the following morning?’

‘I know that it was organized by Leonid Revnik, but I don't know who put the bomb there.’

‘What about the building inspectors?’

‘I don't know anything about that,’ said Sokolov. ‘That was not my work.’

‘What about the murders of Lucrecio Arenas and César Benito?’

‘I killed César Benito in the Holiday Inn, near the Real Madrid football stadium,’ said Sokolov. ‘Another of Revnik's men shot Lucrecio Arenas at his home in Marbella.’

‘Name and where can we find him?’

‘I don't know who did it, but you'll probably find him in the
puti club
near Estepona, which was run by Vasili Lukyanov,’ said Sokolov.

‘You were a friend of Vasili Lukyanov,’ said Ramírez. ‘He was coming to join Donstov when he was involved in an accident. He had money and some disks with him…’

‘It was all stolen from Revnik,’ said Sokolov. ‘We were having cash-flow problems, so the money was to get us through the next few months. The disks: Vasili thought we
could use them to get involved in the building project here in Seville.’

‘Was that all?’ asked Ramírez. ‘There were a lot of people on those disks, more than sixty. There were also a couple of encrypted disks, which we haven't been able to unlock.’

‘With the disks that Vasili was bringing, Yuri said we'd be able to force Revnik out into the open so that we could kill him. I don't know the people who were filmed,’ said Sokolov. ‘The encrypted disks contain the real accounts of all Revnik's businesses on the Costa del Sol. They were very important to him. That was valuable information for the tax authorities.’

‘I'd like to thank you for being so co-operative in our first interview,’ said Ramírez.

‘As you say, Inspector, it's all over for me now.’

‘But normally you people don't talk to the police.’

‘Those two directors that Revnik shot were
vory-v-zakone.
They should have been paid off, not killed. Once Revnik had done that, and put the blame on Yuri Donstov, in my eyes he forfeited the right to the terms of
vory-v-zakone.
I will tell you anything you need to know about him.’

Falcón left the observation room and knocked on the door of the interview room. Ramírez came out with the translator, who excused herself.

‘Great interview, José Luis,’ said Falcón. ‘Not your usual style.’

‘Pure luck, Javier. I was going to go in hard about cutting women up with chain saws and shooting them in the face but, you know, the translator. So … I was gentle.’

‘He could have been mistaken for civilized, if he hadn't confessed to seven murders,’ said Falcón.

‘What else do we want from him?’ said Ramírez. ‘He seems keen to talk.’

‘Don't look at me, this is your investigation now, José Luis. I have to be out of the building in three minutes,’ said
Falcón, telling him about his suspension. ‘What you should do is go through all those faces on Vasili Lukyanov's disks with Cortés and Díaz and get them to identify all the building inspectors. Then look into the backgrounds of all the other men and see if any of them were trained electricians, possibly even army trained. Interview them and see if they crack. I think that was one of the things Lukyanov was bringing with those disks. The answers to the Seville bombing conspiracy.’

They shook hands, clapped each other on the shoulder. Falcón went to the bottom of the staircase.

‘And one other thing, José Luis: Ferrera and Pérez are on their way to Lukyanov's
puti club
to pick up Marisa Moreno's sister,’ he said. ‘From what Sokolov's just said, they're dangerous people out there. They should have full back-up before they go in.’

‘You'll be reinstated, Javier,’ said Ramírez. ‘They're not going to be able to –’

‘Not this time, José Luis,’ said Falcón, and with a quick salute he went up the stairs.

31

Ceuta – Wednesday, 20th September 2006, 15.30 hrs

The Hotel Puerta de Africa was a new four-star hotel in the Gran Via of the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, a short taxi ride from the ferry terminal. Under a later instruction from Pablo, Falcón had left his car in Algeciras on the Spanish mainland, which meant they could take the quickest hydrofoil across the Straits of Gibraltar. On the way over he had told Consuelo almost everything of the contents of Yacoub's letter, but had not let her read it. There were things that weren't for her eyes. He left her in the taxi and went into the gleaming white hotel atrium, which looked as far from Africa as you could get. He asked for Alfonso and was pointed across the marble floor to the concierge's desk. He hit the bell. A man in his forties with a heavy moustache and matching eyebrows came out. Falcón told him he was a great admirer of Pablo Neruda and was taken into his office.

‘You didn't bring your car?’ said Alfonso, making a call.

‘We're in a cab.’

‘Good. It's less complicated. I'll get you through the border in a few minutes. There'll be a car waiting for you on the
other side. Don't worry. They'll find you. There's another cab outside. Transfer your bags and get going.’

That was it. There was a five-minute drive to the Moroccan border. The cab went straight through to the Moroccan side without stopping. The driver took their passports, got them stamped, came back and told them to go to the Customs guy with their bags. At Customs they were taken to a Peugeot 307 and given the keys. Not a word was spoken. They got in, eased through the crowds and drove along the coast to Tetuan. He called Yousra from there, and asked her to meet him in the Hotel Bab Mansour in Meknes. Abdullah had already flown in from London. He would drive her there.

Through the Rif mountains was a beautiful drive but exhausting, so Falcón took the route via Larache and Sidi-Kacem. It took three and a half hours, but they gained a couple of hours in time difference so it was just 5 p.m. when they parked up in the garage of the Hotel Bab Mansour in Meknes. Yousra, Leila and Abdullah were waiting in the bar area, drinking Coke. The women were dressed in black, Abdullah in charcoal grey. Yousra looked composed until she saw Falcón. He went over, hugged the three of them to him. He introduced Consuelo, told Yousra he needed to speak to Abdullah alone for a while.

In the bland businessman's hotel room Falcón handed over Yacoub's last letter, which Abdullah read sitting on the edge of the bed. Until now Abdullah had been holding it together, playing the man of the family. The letter destroyed him. He went into the reading experience as an eighteen-year-old boy and its initial effect was to reduce him to a child. He lay on his side on the bed and bawled silently, with the face of a starving baby. Then he sat himself up, wiped his tears from his eyes and rebuilt himself into a twenty-five-year-old man there and then. Falcón burnt the letter in the hotel waste bin.

‘We won't talk about that letter now,’ said Falcón. ‘Just let it sink in.’

‘When I heard his name on the news in London, I couldn't believe it,’ said Abdullah. ‘I could not believe he'd done that. So that letter was terrible, but it was a relief, too.’

Abdullah stood up and embraced Falcón.

‘You've been a good friend, Javier. My father would not have entrusted these things to you if you had been anything less,’ he said. ‘If ever you need me, you can count on me – and I mean that. Even in the same way as my father.’

‘Don't even think about it, Abdullah.’

‘That's not something I need to think about,’ he said. ‘I know. You can count on me.’

‘I
do
need your help now,’ said Falcón. ‘Has your mother ever been to the Diouri house in Fès?’

‘Of course. She goes there every month. She saw that as one of her duties as my father's wife,’ said Abdullah. ‘She mustn't know what you are going to do, though. She is very fond of Mustafa. As my father said, Mustafa was like a brother to him, and that was how she treated him.’

‘And he was an uncle to you,’ said Falcón.

‘But an impostor,’ said Abdullah, looking Falcón in the eye. ‘What my father didn't tell you in the letter is that Mustafa is very charismatic. Apart from anything else, he sells a lot of carpets. The tourists love him even as he despises them. My advice to you is not to engage.’

‘I need Yousra to get me into the Diouri house afterwards.’

‘That is perfectly possible. It will be quite natural for her, under these circumstances, to go to Fès and mourn with the other women there. They will expect it of her,’ said Abdullah. ‘The woman with you, Consuelo, is this boy her son?’

Falcón nodded, stunned by the transformation of Abdullah from the slack-limbed teenager he'd known on the family
holiday a month ago, to this focused young man he'd become in the last half-hour.