All Is Silence (18 page)

The Old Man glanced over at his new captain. He knew him well. He recognised the surge in his breathing, the wake of a confrontation.

‘There was a man outside,’ said Brinco suddenly. ‘Taking photographs of the cars. I don’t like people taking photographs of cars.’

‘And what happened?’ asked Mariscal uneasily. ‘Did you send him to hospital for taking snaps of a few vehicles?’

‘No. He’ll just have to buy a new camera, that’s all.’

Mariscal looked at Lucía and made a gesture of patience and apology with his arms. Agreed to have his photograph taken with the journalist’s own camera. A way of making up for the damage.

‘Go ahead!’ he said finally. ‘An old gallant can be persuaded to do anything!’

The boss positioned the brim of his hat, then crossed his arms with confidence, allowing the metal handle of his cane to appear next to the pocket silk handkerchief. Wrought silver with a pheasant’s head.

‘That cane is a beauty, Mr Mariscal.’

‘The silver is silver, my girl, and the wood is from Itín. Always getting harder.’

His face seemed to harden as well, with carved features, as if offering a natural resistance to the succession of flashes.

‘Is that it? If all goes well, you’ll sell every copy. It’ll be a great day for the
Gazeta
!’

‘And if it doesn’t go well?’ asked Víctor Rumbo. This time he looked past her face. Lucía Santiso felt invaded by the piercing gaze of someone commonly known as Brinco, who now addressed her directly. ‘If you wait outside, I’ll tell you who nobody is.’

She hesitated. Said, ‘I’ve a lot of work.’ And then, ‘I’ll wait.’

Carburo got out of the van and approached the newspaper seller in the kiosk on Camelio Branco Square in Noitía.

‘The
Gazeta
,’ he growled.

This was his way of asking for things. The newspaper woman realised this and handed him a copy.

‘No, no, I want them all.’

Now she did look at him in surprise. But this being the Ultramar, she was used to not sticking her nose in. She handed him all the copies. Finally let out, ‘Has it got your obituary or something?’

Carburo pointed at the front page, with a picture of Mariscal. ‘The boss is in it.’

His portrait occupied the centre of the page. His hat and white suit gave him the appearance of a dandy, which was reinforced by the way he grasped his cane in the middle, lifting the handle to the height of his chest.

‘Yes, I saw. He looks very smart,’ said the kiosk woman with a hint of irony. ‘Obviously he’s the one who wields the stick. Why don’t you take some flowers, Carburo? They’re my last ones.’

The giant stared at the roses. ‘No, I’m not hungry.’

He has a sense of humour, thought the woman. Only when he imitates himself.

‘
THE OLD MAN
is sorry.’

Víctor Rumbo got up from the rock where they were sitting next to Cons lighthouse, by the crosses in memory of dead sailors, and chucked a stone in the water. Turned around and stared at Fins. ‘Sorry he’s been so good to you.’

‘What did he think? That I was going to come and buy some dynamite from him?’

‘See what a troublemaker you are? The Old Man’s right. Why is it so hard for you to be more pleasant? More . . . honest?’

‘Honest? What do you mean?’

‘Set your price. That would be the honest thing to do.’

‘What’s your price? Help me. Get yourself out of this web as soon as you can. It’s not going to last for ever, Brinco. The judicial system will work, sooner or later.’

‘You’re dumb. Don’t refuse my offer. I’m not going to be a grass. An informer. You know why? For one simple reason. There’s more money on this side. The Old Man said, “Go talk to him, I’m still not sure if he’s dumb or not.” And I asked him, “How will I know, Mariscal?” He said, “If he burns any money, then he’s dumb.” How much do they give for a dead policeman, Fins? A medal perhaps. And a couple of lines in the newspaper.’

‘Sometimes they don’t even get that.’

‘Do you want medals? We’ll buy you some medals. Do you want to appear in the newspaper? Better to do it when you’re alive than when you’re dead.’

‘Yes, it’s always a bit more lively.’

They laughed together for the first time.

‘Then you could devote yourself full time to your artistic photography . . .’

As he was making this suggestion, Víctor Rumbo pulled a couple of photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket. Handed one to Fins.

‘As you see, we have people we can trust in all places. This is one you took of me in Porto airport with Mendoza. An interesting trip, as I’m sure you heard.’

‘Yes, I heard something about it,’ confirmed Fins, suppressing his surprise. Without further ado, he stretched out his hand for Víctor to give him another image. Brinco toyed with the photograph, using it to make the arching movement of an airship.

‘This isn’t one of yours!’

Fins examined every corner of the photographic paper. Tried to ascertain if it was a montage. He was amazed. It showed Brinco with the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar. Both of them laughing.

‘Yes, yes . . . that’s right! No, you’re not hallucinating. With Pablo Escobar, on the Naples estate between Medellín and Bogotá. You should have seen the zoo. He had elephants, hippopotamuses, giraffes, lakes with black-necked swans . . . But the thing he liked best was cars. That day he was over the moon. His wife had just bought him a car driven by James Bond. He showed me another car that had belonged to Bonnie and Clyde . . . No, there’s no trick. It’s authentic. A real treasure, right?’

He stretched out his hand for Fins to return it.

‘How much do you think it’s worth . . . was worth?’

Brinco pulled out a lighter and set the image on fire. Let it burn to cinders. Then handed Fins the third and final photograph.

‘This is the tops! A work of art.’

It was one of the photos Fins had taken from the docks, showing Leda in the window with a look of pleasure and Víctor embracing her from behind.

‘Keep it . . .’

He stood up. Threw another stone into the sea. Headed back to the car, which was parked on the track leading to the lighthouse, but first turned around.

‘The day you know your price, write it on the back.’

‘How did it go?’

Mariscal was waiting for him in the back room of the Ultramar.

‘He’s turned ugly and there’s no changing him,’ replied Brinco.

The Old Man was about to say something, but interrupted it with a cough. He had this ability. He realised when something was inappropriate and stopped himself in time by drowning it in his throat.

‘His father . . . Did he ask you about his father?’

‘No, we didn’t discuss the old days.’

‘Better like that,’ said the Old Man, standing up, swinging his cane, gazing at the little owl. ‘
Mutatis mutandis
, what do you know about his companion, that busybody who helps him?’

‘She’s another one. Doesn’t stop digging around. She’s not afraid of anything.’

‘There’s always something.’

‘Well, she has a cat. I didn’t know there were police cats!’

Brinco had used a touch of irony and the Old Man appreciated his effort.

‘Once, in the cinema, somebody launched a cat from the top balcony. The Madman of Antas probably. He ruined the film. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to catch a good cat.’

A MAP OF
the world with pinned notes: tax haven, offshore, mother port, supply ship, transfer, unloading, consignment . . . The lines of routes and journeys indicated in different colours. The black line shows tobacco, the yellow line videotapes, and a third line, in red, cocaine. A green line, the transfer of personnel. One of these shows the following stages: Porto–Río–Bogotá–Medellín–Mexico–Panama–Miami–Madrid, with the initials VR–OM: Víctor Rumbo–Óscar Mendoza. In another section, photographs have been affixed using pins with different-coloured heads. There are more notes and Post-its placed according to their colour in such a way that they create a certain symmetry. The chart is like a kind of family tree, with the following label at the top: ‘Limited Company’. The section devoted to personnel is headed by photographs of Mariscal Brancana, Macro Gamboa, Delmiro Oliveira and Tonino Montiglio, with several other, unidentified silhouettes. Lower down are Óscar Mendoza, with a question mark between brackets, and Víctor Rumbo. They appear as a hub from which there are connections to different places. One of the larger ones: Círculo Ltd, with dozens of photographs. One of the many secondary portraits shows Leda Hortas framed in the spy’s window, and another one, Chelín Balboa, who seems to be smiling at the camera. A third section, denominated ‘Grey Area’, shows establishments, properties and businesses that act as fronts or laundries. Last of all is a chart called ‘Shady Area’, with branches leading to courts, security forces, communications, customs and banks. Here, like a kind of epigraph, are not specific notes, but codified numbers.

The map, photos, pins, coloured stickers, the different sections, all indicate a craftsman’s patient hand and give the small workroom the appearance of a classroom. This is the space used hour after hour by Sub-inspector Mara Doval. Even though she’s younger than he is and one of the first women in the body of investigators, Fins refers to her in private as Mnemosyne or The Professor. Tall and spindly. Long curly hair, a nest for the wind. She’s making the most of her solitude and working barefoot at the moment. Wondering where to place the photograph of Dead Man’s Hand.

When she hears the door groan, her first reaction is to find her sandals and put them on. When she lifts her eyes, she comes across the familiar faces of Fins Malpica and Superintendent Carro. And a third, unfamiliar man in uniform. Her look registers the significance of badges and stripes. He can’t help himself, even if only for a moment, gazing at her painted toenails.

‘Mara Doval, sir.’

The lieutenant colonel puts on some glasses and slowly, geologically explores this world emerging from the darkness. His gaze begins and ends with those feet.

‘All this work . . .’

‘No, it wasn’t just me.’ Fins makes the most of this opportunity to laud her to the skies. ‘The goddess of memory, sir. It’s all in her head.’

She tries to stop him with the language of signs, but Fins refuses to heed them. ‘What’s more, she’s the only one around here who really speaks other languages.’

They sit down at a round table, in the middle of which is an Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder. Mara presses a button, and the tape plays the voices of two women. A phone call between Leda and Guadalupe. Mara mouths the words. She knows every single sentence that is coming. The constant references to Lima and Domingo.

‘Please tell us, Fins, who is on the cast list,’ says the superintendent when they’ve finished listening.

‘The one placing the call is Leda. Leda Hortas is in a relationship with Víctor Rumbo, known in Noitía as Brinco. A celebrated pilot of speedboats. He seems to be on standby at the moment, but everything indicates his power in the organisation has grown. Leda’s role, at this point, is to keep an eye on the customs patrol boats. She’s phoning a beauty salon. The other voice is that of Guadalupe, Mr Lima’s wife. Lima, sir, is Tomás Brancana. To everyone in Noitía, Mariscal. The Old Man. The Boss. The Dean.’

‘And Domingo? Who is Domingo?’

‘Domingo is the name used to refer to the customs patrol boats.’

‘Is that as far as we’ve got?’

Mara Doval stands up to consult something on one of the charts. She removes a photo. Places it on top of the table. But first replies to Alisal’s question, ‘One other thing, sir. They don’t need a spy any more. They’ve hired a customs chief directly.’

‘I imagine these are all hypotheses,’ suggests Alisal.

‘Listen,’ says Fins. ‘They’re very careful, cover their tracks, but occasionally they let in a ray of light. Listen.’

He presses ‘play’. Leda is taking her leave of Guadalupe in a less formal tone than usual, and says that this will be their last conversation.

‘Why is that?’ asks Guadalupe in surprise.

Leda is obviously feeling very happy. ‘We’re going to move. It’s about time!’

‘And what about Domingo?’

There is a short pause. Leda finally lets out a laugh. ‘He won the lottery!’

‘But Mr Lima never told me anything.’

There is another pause. Leda, more distant, ‘You know you don’t just say those things.’ Then, ‘Ciao. Farewell!’ And she hangs up the phone.

‘That’s a beauty!’ remarks Alisal. ‘A real indiscretion.’

‘A rarity, sir,’ confirms Fins. ‘They have very good connections at the phone company. They always know when they’re going to be tapped. Here we were lucky. And very patient.’

‘Lots of patience with that pedicure, right, Mara?’ remarks the superintendent.

She nods.

‘How do we know Lima is Mariscal?’ asks the lieutenant colonel suddenly.

Fins Malpica stands up, unlocks a drawer in the filing cabinet and pulls out a folder. Inside, in transparent plastic sleeves, are several handwritten sheets of paper, some creased, torn and put back together.

‘The boss’s handwriting,’ says Fins with satisfaction. ‘He never places a call. Never shows himself where he doesn’t have to. Measures every single step he takes. Lives like a hermit. But here is his hand giving orders. In this scribble is the Old Man’s twisted mind. A treasure for graphology. At last!’

Lieutenant Colonel Alisal has come to check a report of corruption in the barracks of the Civil Guard. Superintendent Freire was right. But with these new revelations, the expression on his face is now that of a shocked, confused man.

‘What quantity of cocaine are we talking about? Our statistics say we’ve been keeping them under control . . .’

‘Statistics, as someone said, are the first lie.’

Fins feels he is able to be precise only through irony. ‘I believe some of them may even have been doctored by the hand of the organisation’s foremost lawyer, Óscar Mendoza.’

Alisal is downcast. Their gazes follow Mara Doval when, having opened a second drawer, she returns with another surprise. This time it’s a chess set. She places it on the table. The pieces are large, expertly made, and imitate medieval figures. The colours are striking. Red and white.