The Ignorance of Blood (53 page)

‘It's better that neither my mother nor Leila are told about the boy. These women in the Diouri house know each other very well and my mother is not an actress,’ said Abdullah. ‘She will have an audience with Mustafa's mother as soon as she arrives, and that woman is frightening. She might be mad, but she doesn't miss anything.’

‘All right, so how will I get into the house?’

‘I will be accompanying her, but I will not be party to their conversation. I will stay downstairs and let you in.’

‘Do you know the house?’

‘I know everything about that house. When Leila and I were children we were left to play – and you know what children are like. We discovered everything. All the secret passages and back staircases. Don't worry, Javier. Everything will be fine. I think it's best we go our separate ways now. We will arrive in Fès as the grieving family,’ said Abdullah, writing down his mobile number. ‘Call me when you are ready and I'll make sure everything goes smoothly in the house in Fès.’

They embraced again. Abdullah went to the door, fitted his feet into his barbouches. Falcón could see his mind still working.

‘Nothing will change my mind, Javier,’ he said.

‘But remember, Abdullah: your father sacrificed his life so that you would not suffer what he went through,’ said Falcón. ‘You've just read his letter. He did not want to be a spy, and he did not want that life for you either.’

As they set off for Fès the clouds in the western sky were aflame, with the reddening sun already low on the horizon. Falcón drove in silence.

‘I can nearly hear what's going on in your head, but not quite,’ said Consuelo, after half an hour.

‘The usual problem,’ said Falcón. ‘Trust. I don't know whether I've just made a big mistake in assuming that Abdullah is as his father believed.’

‘A “friend”?’

Falcón nodded, turned on the headlights as the sun disappeared behind them. The light in the car was strange, with the flamingo sky behind, dark night ahead, and the dashboard glowing in his face.

‘I just witnessed an extraordinary transformation from a boy into a man in the space of fifteen minutes,’ said Falcón. ‘This is what intelligence work does to you. You question everybody's loyalty. Abdullah's response to that letter, it just…’

‘Didn't quite ring true?’

‘It did and it didn't,’ said Falcón. ‘That's what you could hear going on in my head. For us to gain access to the Diouri house in Fès I must rely on him. I had to tell him everything. I've made myself vulnerable to him.’

‘Was there an alternative?’

‘Originally I was going to ask Yousra to let me in. Abdullah advised against it for perfectly plausible reasons. But when things matter so much, there's always a question.’

‘You're not giving me the full story, Javier. I can tell.’

He should have known.

‘In order to make Darío safe, I have to kill a man first. Abdullah's uncle.’

She looked at him, his profile, the jawline, the cheekbone, the ear, the eye. What had she done to this man?

‘No, Javier. You can't do that. I can't let you do that.’

‘It has to be done.’

‘Have you ever killed a man before?’

‘Twice.’

‘But you've never assassinated someone,’ she said, ‘in cold blood.’

‘There's no other way, Consuelo. I'm doing it for Yacoub as much as anyone else. It will happen,’ said Falcón firmly.

‘Abdullah knows this,’ said Consuelo. ‘And if he's not a friend, when you go to kill this man you might be walking to your death.’

‘We need an alternative plan in case I've been wrong about Abdullah.’

The Hotel du Commerce was on the Place des Alaouites. They parked nearby and went up to their room. It wasn't a class of hotel that Consuelo was used to staying in, but it was right in front of the golden doors of the royal palace.

They had a shower, changed clothes. Neither of them was hungry. They lay on the bed, Consuelo with her head on his chest. Falcón stared at the ceiling. There was a knock at the door.

One of Pablo's agents identified himself, looked nervously at Consuelo.

‘It's all right,’ said Falcón, introducing her. ‘She had to know.’

The agent took out a light brown burnous from the small cabin bag he was carrying.

‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘It has a hood to cover your face.’

Falcón wrestled into the long, ankle-length cloak, put the hood over his head, checked himself in the mirror. The pockets of the burnous went straight through to his trousers. The agent screwed a silencer on to a nine-millimetre Glock handgun, gave it to Falcón. He showed him that it was fully loaded, with one in the chamber, and where the safety catch was. Falcón put it in the waistband of his trousers. The agent laid out a large-scale map of the medina of Fès El Bali on the bed. Showed him the gate where he would come in, where the shop was and the best route from the shop to the Diouri house. He gave him a recent photo of Barakat, let him look at it for a minute, took it back.

‘You will go into Mustafa Barakat's shop at eight thirty,’ said the agent. ‘There will be one other person in the shop, a Spanish tourist. As you enter, another agent will man the
door from the outside. He will be Moroccan. You will shoot Mustafa Barakat, hand the gun to the Spanish tourist and leave the premises. Do not look back. The Moroccan will close the shop behind you.’

‘I'll need a gun for when I go into the Diouri house,’ said Falcón.

‘We will make sure you have one,’ said the agent. ‘It's just a precaution that after the killing you walk away from the shop unarmed.’

‘I want you to show Consuelo where the Diouri house is,’ said Falcón. ‘She's never been to Fès before and the medina can be confusing. I want her to see it for real and memorize a route. If anything happens to me and I do not show at the gates of the house, you must knock at the door and ask for Yousra.’

‘And what will Consuelo do?’ asked the agent.

‘You will give her the weapon intended for me. She will ask Yousra to take her to Barakat's mother.’

‘What do you think might happen to you?’ asked the agent.

‘I have had to inform Abdullah Diouri of this plan.’

‘That was not what we were told,’ said the agent.

‘It was unavoidable.’

The agent looked at his watch.

‘I have to take up my position now,’ he said. ‘I will talk to Pablo. If we are to abort the mission, you will get a one-word text on your mobile telling you just that.’

Consuelo and the agent left.

Falcón looked at his watch, still some time to go. He remembered the DNA swabs, put a couple in his pocket. He took the gun out, put it on the bed, paced the room. He lay down with the gun on his chest, had to get up again. Too hot, stripped off the burnous. Time got stuck, wouldn't move on.

Forty minutes later Consuelo returned. He locked the door behind her and went back to pacing the room.

‘You saw the house?’ he asked.

‘It's not far,’ she said. ‘You're tense, Javier. You're still thinking about Abdullah. We've got to clear your mind. Tell me everything that worries you about him.’

‘Was the transformation too quick? Was it too complete? Did it feel rehearsed? Was there something playing behind his eyes when he said the words: “You can count on me”? Why did he offer his services when his father had just sacrificed his life for him? Did he pledge his loyalty a little too quickly and too hard? Is he acting?’

‘You're too wired for this.’

‘It's just the paranoia talking. I'll be all right once I'm moving.’

‘Your shirt is soaked through. Take it off. Put this on.’

He looked at his watch for the hundredth time. Not quite 20.05. He peeled off the shirt. She rubbed him down with a towel. He put on a T-shirt, got back into the burnous. He checked the gun, slipped it into the burnous and down the waistband of his trousers. He walked around. Comfortable.

‘It's time,’ he said.

She gripped his shoulders, slipped her arms around his neck, kissed his face. He held her, almost delicately, feeling the individual ribs with the tips of his fingers.

‘This isn't it, Javier. This isn't the end, I know it. This is the new beginning. Believe me,’ she said, and squeezed him hard. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I do,’ he said, but his eyes said something different over her shoulder.

They parted. He held her hands, looked into her eyes.

‘When you came to see me that night, before the negotiations with the Russians, you could have lied to me. You could have easily drawn me into their corruption. That you didn't, that you were so furious at what they were trying to do, even at the risk of your own child, was magnificent, and I fell for you all over again,’ he said, and let her hands
fall from his. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to know that I do not regret any of this.’

‘It's taken me all my life to find you, Javier,’ she said. ‘And I know you'll be coming back.’

Falcón pulled the burnous hood with its elfin point over his head. The door closed after him and she immediately wanted him back, didn't believe her own words now that he was gone. She wondered what she would do with herself if this was to be the last time she saw him. She went to the window. He came out of the building beneath her, walked towards the royal palace, turned at the end of the street, raised his hand and was gone.

Falcón walked swiftly. Now that he was on the move his mind was clear. He felt a tremendous solidity in his torso, as if he was wearing an armour of clean and shining steel as light as his own skin. He called Abdullah on his mobile and told him he was on his way. He passed through various gates, the Bab Semarine, up Grand Rue des Merenids to the Bab Dakakan. It was only a matter of taking a right at the Bab Es Seba and a long walk by the Boujeloud Gardens and he was in Fès El Bali. He was in his stride now, walking towards the Bab Boujeloud. More activity here, more tourists. Full of hustlers. The burnous did its job. Nobody came near him. He went through the gate into the medina.

The tourist traffic became more intense. The shops were heaving with people. Brass trays glowed in the yellow light, next to mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture, camel-bone framed mirrors, silver jewellery, colourful scarves. His hood trapped the cinnamon smell from the
pastilla
food stalls. He dodged some mule droppings. The streets were clogging up with slow-moving gaggles of tourists. He tried not to look at his watch. Not a Moroccan thing, to be too concerned about time. He would get there. The timing would be perfect. Wood smoke shunted out the food smells. The stink of curing
leather. Old men sitting out drinking tea, fingering their worry beads. A boy crouched, sweating as he fanned the flames of the fires beneath the massive blackened boilers of the hammam. The hiss of steam. The ponderous clopping of a donkey's hooves on cobbles. He turned left at the Cherabliyin mosque. The streets were darker and emptier here. He joined up with another main thoroughfare. The carpet shops. He saw his destination. His hand gripped the butt of the gun.

He stopped, took a deep breath, glanced at his watch for the first time: 20.29. Do not think. Do not engage. Two shots would be enough. He crossed the street, heading for the door to the shop, pulled the gun out of his waistband, thumbed off the safety catch under his burnous. Just as he reached the doorway a figure in a pale blue jellabah flitted in front of him, slipped over the threshold, so that they were in the shop together. What the fuck? Too late, he was committed now. The Spanish tourist was coming up off his cushion. Mustafa Barakat was standing and spreading his arms wide. He was smiling even as Falcón pulled out the gun. He was going to embrace the figure in the pale blue jellabah. Then he was not. His eyes widened over the pale blue cotton shoulders of the man, whose right arm punched in, once, twice, three times. Barakat fell back on a pile of carpets. The word on his lips never made it into the air. The killer put his foot on to the pile of carpets next to Barakat's face and drew the knife across the dying man's throat. He said something in Arabic and stood back. Barakat's white jellabah was already blossoming with a vast, shining bloom of blood. His throat gaped and gargled, blood leaked on to the carpets, the arterial pressure already gone from the ferocious stabs to the heart. Abdullah turned to Falcón, held out the knife in his bloody hand. Despite his closeness to Barakat in his death throes, his pale blue jellabah had only a small smear of blood across the arm. The CNI agent playing
the tourist was in a state of shock at this development. Falcón spoke to him quickly in Spanish as he knelt down and dipped a DNA swab into Barakat's blood.

‘Take the knife. Carry on as planned. Any water?’

The agent took the knife, handed over a bottle of water he'd been carrying. Falcón put the gun back in his waistband, washed Abdullah's hand. Threw the bottle to the agent and left the shop. The metal blind rolled down behind them. Abdullah led the way off the street and down into the alleyways of the medina. He was crying. His shoulders were shaking, abdomen trembling.