The Ignorance of Blood (9 page)

‘What about the Islamic calling cards left near their bodies?’ asked Zorrita.

‘Nobody thinks that those killings were carried out by any radical Islamist group,’ said Falcón. ‘It's believed they were terminated by their co-conspirators.’

‘Who are, as yet, unknown.’

‘We're coming to that.’

‘What about the company that owned Horizonte?’ said Zorrita, squinting at the evening sunlight coming in through the window. ‘The media tried to make something of them – a couple of American Christian fundamentalists.’

‘I4IT own Horizonte. It's an American investment group run by two born-again Christians, called Cortland Fallenbach and Morgan Havilland. They are so far removed from this situation as to be completely untouchable and, for legal reasons, we have as yet been unable to gain access to I4IT's European offices here in Madrid.’

‘And presumably the lives of the Catholic Kings, as the media now calls César Benito and Lucrecio Arenas, have been taken apart.’

‘That has been, and still is, a time-consuming business. The CNI's banking and accounting department are working their way into the offshore world. Benito and Arenas were what are known in that world as Hen-Wees – High Net Worth Individuals. Their assets are hidden behind nominee directors and shareholders and unregistered offshore trusts.
It will be pure luck if somebody manages to find something in the next six months that we can act upon.’

‘So you're blocked,’ said Zorrita. ‘And the whole of Spain knows what Javier Falcón is after.’

‘I think I only want what any police officer in my position would want,’ said Falcón, leaning forward in his chair. ‘To catch the people responsible for casing that mosque and planting the Goma 2 Eco device, along with the bosses who ordered them to do it.’

Zorrita held up his hand to calm Falcón down, nodded his agreement.

‘You're not getting anything from the suspects in your custody and the two ringleaders have been “executed”,’ said Zorrita. ‘So where else have you got to go?’

‘I've decided to take a long look at the violence,’ said Falcón. ‘Where do a bunch of conspirators, sophisticated men like Lucrecio Arenas and César Benito, access that sort of violence?’

‘As you say, every news channel and paper, apart from the ABC, are calling this the Catholic Conspiracy. What with the national obsession with Opus Dei, the PR campaign by the Church to counteract all this has been unprecedented,’ said Zorrita. ‘Do Opus Dei have an Improvised Explosive Device division?’

The two men smiled at each other.

‘What we
do
know from our suspects in custody and other inquiries is that Arenas's motivation was
not
his Catholic beliefs,’ said Falcón. ‘The Hen-Wee spoke from his heart.’

‘And César Benito was in construction,’ said Zorrita.

‘Where there's always large amounts of black money, which can be hidden away in the offshore world.’

‘But you're not getting anywhere by following the money,’ said Zorrita.

‘Only that there's undoubtedly money-laundering involved and that both men were well set up in property in the Costa del Sol.’

‘The Russian mafia,’ said Zorrita. ‘I know it's a knee-jerk reaction when you hear the words “money-laundering” and “Costa del Sol” in the same sentence, but after the recent Marbella town council scandal…’

Falcón nodded.

‘And you think they're going to be easier to penetrate than the offshore world?’ said Zorrita.

‘Let's just take a look at the violence,’ said Falcón, holding up a finger. ‘In that period around the 6th June bombing there were five expressions of violence. The first was the murder of Tateb Hassani, who was vital to the conspiracy for his drafting in Arabic script of the extremists' plans for taking over Andalucía. He was found on the Seville dump, poisoned and mutilated, on the morning of the explosion. Murdered because a) he knew too much, b) he would always be a vulnerable point to the conspiracy and c) it got everybody's hands dirty. The second expression of violence was the bomb itself which, as I said, was designed to point the finger at Muslim extremism whilst increasing the prestige of Fuerza Andalucía, making them the preferred partners of the ruling Partido Popular.’

‘The third, presumably, was Esteban Calderón's murder of his wife,’ said Zorrita, ‘which derailed the investigation into the Seville bombing.’

‘And four and five were the executions of Lucrecio Arenas and César Benito,’ said Falcón. ‘They had to be killed once we'd caught the other half of the conspiracy, because there were direct links between them. It would only be a matter of time before Arenas and Benito gave up the bombers they had employed.’

‘So there's a clear motive in every case.’

‘Except Calderón,’ said Falcón.

‘He was beating her, that was clear, and he's never denied it,’ said Zorrita. ‘If he didn't kill her, then why didn't he just call the police when he discovered her dead body in their
apartment? Why did he try to dispose of her body in the river?’

‘He made a serious error of judgement.’

‘You're telling me.’

‘Another angle,’ said Falcón. ‘What was the worst thing that could have happened to our investigation of the Seville bombing?’

‘I agree, losing Calderón at that stage was a disaster for you.’

‘He was at the top of his game,’ said Falcón. ‘Giving good direction. Keeping the media away from my squad, the counter-terrorism guys and the CNI. If you were at the zenith of your career, would you choose that moment to murder your wife?’

‘He chose that moment to start abusing her.’

‘And that was important.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think that when Marisa Moreno saw Inés in the Murillo Gardens she noticed somehow that she was being abused,’ said Falcón. ‘I've just been speaking to her, getting her family background. Her natural mother “disappeared” in Cuba. Her attitude to her dead father was not exactly respectful. He was, like Calderón, an inveterate womanizer. She had more time for her Sevillana stepmother than she did for him.’

‘This isn't going to stand up anywhere near a court, Javier.’

‘I know; all I'm trying to do here is find weaknesses. The only killing about which there's a very slight doubt in my mind is that of Inés.’

‘But not in
my
mind, Javier.’

‘Two hours after I'd been to see Marisa this afternoon I got an anonymous phone call telling me to keep my nose out of things that were not my concern.’

‘It wasn't from me,’ said Zorrita, deadpan.

They laughed.

‘What else did Marisa tell you?’ asked Zorrita. ‘You must have something more than that.’

‘I decided to go to see Marisa to ram a stick in the wasps' nest, to see what happened,’ said Falcón. ‘The only thing I had to go on was something one of my officers found while trying to dig up some dirt on her.’

‘Marisa had no criminal record, I know that,’ said Zorrita.

‘The only thing my officer found was that Marisa had reported her sister missing.’

‘When?’

‘Eight years ago.’

‘You really are clutching at straws, Javier.’

Falcón was tempted to tell Zorrita about Marisa's wood carving, but another glance at the family photo on the desktop persuaded him otherwise. He felt weak in front of Zorrita's steadiness, but still resisted the temptation to point up all the other little flaws he'd found.

‘Marisa is no fool,’ said Falcón. ‘If you despised your womanizing father, would you be drawn to an incorrigible womanizer yourself?’

‘I doubt it would be the first time it had happened,’ said Zorrita, still feeling as solid as a rock.

‘Her sister went missing again, but this time she was over eighteen.’

‘So Marisa didn't go to the police.’

‘Her sister is the only family Marisa's got. Father, mother and stepmother are dead. Would you just shrug your shoulders if your sister ran off again?’

‘If I didn't care, yes,’ said Zorrita.

‘She cares,’ said Falcón.

‘You've still got a long way to go with this, Javier.’

‘I know,’ said Falcón. ‘I just wanted to ask you if you'd mind me digging around.’

‘Dig away, Javier. The way you're going, you'll come out in Buenos Aires.’

6

La Latina district, Madrid – Friday, 15th September 2006,19.45 hrs

The early-evening sun was still bright, but low in the sky so it was already dark in the cavernous Madrid streets. Falcón was sitting in the back of a patrol car, which Zorrita had arranged for him. He felt foolish as they left the Jefatura and he lay down across the back seat. The driver saw him out of the corner of his eye. Falcon told him to keep looking straight ahead.

The driver dropped him off at the Ópera metro station and Falcón took the one-stop ride to La Latina. He checked the other occupants of the metro carriage. He was still smarting at Zorrita's scorn for his theory on Marisa Moreno. Was all this getting out of control in his mind? Everything looked dangerously plausible at three in the morning, but laughable by ten. And did he really have to be this careful about his assignation with Yacoub? Were there actually people on every street corner looking out for him? Once your mind had been proven unstable there was always a doubt, and not just to outsiders.

A car went into the garage of the apartment block on Calle Alfonso VI and Falcón ducked in behind it as the door
was closing. He walked down into the dark, took the lift up to the third floor, stepped out into an empty landing, rang the buzzer and waited. He sensed the eyeball on the other side of the peep-hole. The door clicked open. Yacoub beckoned him in. They went through the customary pleasantries; Falcón asked after Yacoub's wife, Yousra, and his two children, Abdullah and Leila. There was nodding and thanks, but Yacoub was strangely subdued.

A full ashtray was the centrepiece of the living room, with a smoking, filterless cigarette on its edge. The curtains were drawn. A single lamp in the corner half-lit the room. Yacoub was wearing faded jeans and a white shirt untucked. He was barefoot and he'd shaved his long hair off to a short stubble, which he kept dusting with the palm of his hand as if he'd only just had it done. His head now matched his beard. His eyes seemed deeper set and darker, as if some wariness had put him in retreat to a safer place. He sat on the sofa with the ashtray at his side and smoked enthusiastically, with lips that twitched more than Falcón remembered.

‘I made some tea,’ he said. ‘You're all right with tea, aren't you?’

‘You always ask me that,’ said Falcón, throwing off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘You know I'm fine with tea.’

‘Sorry about the heat,’ said Yacoub. ‘I don't want to turn on the air-con. I shouldn't be here. I'm hiding.’

‘Who from?’

‘Everybody. My people. Your people. The world,’ he said, and, as an afterthought, ‘Maybe myself, too.’

He poured the tea, stood up, paced around the room to bring his nerves back under control.

‘So, nobody knows about this meeting,’ said Falcón, encouraging Yacoub to open up.

‘This is just you and me,’ said Yacoub. ‘The only man I can trust. The only one I can talk to. The only one I can rely on not to use what has happened against me.’

‘You're nervous. I can see that.’

‘Nervous,’ he said, nodding. ‘That's why I like you, Javier. You keep me calm. I'm not just nervous. I'm paranoid. I'm totally fucking paranoid.’

These last words were accompanied by a ferocious sideways slash of the air in front of him. Falcón tried to remember whether he'd ever heard Yacoub swear.

Yacoub then launched himself into a long rant about the lengths to which he'd had to go in order to arrive unseen in this apartment.

‘You
were
careful, weren't you, Javier?’ he said at the end of it all.

Falcón reciprocated with his own procedure, which seemed to have a mildly calming influence on Yacoub, who listened and gnawed at a hangnail. Then he lit another cigarette, sipped his tea, which was too hot, sat down on the sofa, and stood up again.

‘The last time you got like this was after those four days in Paris,’ said Falcón. ‘But you were OK. You were taken back into the fold.’

‘My cover's not blown,’ said Yacoub, quickly. ‘No, there's no problem with that. It's just that they've found the perfect way to keep me … close.’

‘Keep you close?’ said Falcón. ‘You mean in the sense of not straying? Does that mean they suspect you?’

‘Suspect is too strong a word,’ said Yacoub, tucking his hand under his armpit and chopping the air with his cigarette. ‘They like me. They need me. But they are naturally unsure of me. It's the part of my brain that isn't Moroccan that makes them nervous.’