Blood Wedding (19 page)

‘Sir, now that I remember – the hippy guy, his name’s Jim Cavendish, has turned up, The Diva police have got him in for questioning. Leila Mahfouz seems to have spent most of the night before she died with him. Teniente González thinks there might be a drug connection. Do you want me to go over to Diva?’

‘What does González say?’

‘He reckons they can manage with the interviews. Cavendish speaks good Spanish.’

‘Okay, leave it then. We need you here Monday. That Inspector Sánchez speaks good sense, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir. He seems very balanced.’

Max smiled as he left. He was meant to be keeping Linda, Martín and Davila, all fully informed, separately, and all first.

The weekend was hot and sticky. The air conditioning in Max’s car failed. And the chocolate cake he bought in Granada for the family lunch melted into a gooey mess. He arrived in a bad mood. Then Paula, upset with the lack of progress on the Leila case, kept repeating, ‘The police are doing nothing. Deliberately nothing.’ Until Max snapped, ‘Paula, believe me, we are doing our best. Just give me a break.’

Juan hardly said a word, and avoided Isabel. Isabel, her eyes puffy from crying, fussed around. Only Encarnita was pleased to see him. She loved sticky chocolate. So when Paula declared the heat was too much for her, and she had to go and lie down, Max made his excuses and returned to Granada. In this heat everything that could go wrong does go wrong.

Monday came too soon. Max arrived promptly at 10 a.m. for the Strategy Group’s reconvened meeting and Linda again took the chair. She began the proceedings quietly.

‘Are there any developments?’

Davila spoke first. ‘
Sí
. The murder case in Diva. The hippy the girl spent her last night with has been found and taken in for questioning. I phoned Teniente González just now. No confession or anything. But there was a stack of hashish in his van, and more in his shack. The Teniente thinks there may be a drug connection. He is keeping me briefed.’

‘Drugs? Any sign of drugs from the autopsy?’

‘None. But the Teniente thinks there’s a Moroccan connection. The Muslims go there quite often, and Diva’s on the drug route.’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Max, ‘but the hippies also go over to Morocco. They’re more likely to bring back hashish than the Muslims.’

‘Thank you, Sub-Inspector,’ said Linda. ‘I suspect the drug connection is a false lead. But everything should be pursued.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Well, I’ve now received information on most of the other guys in the Centre. I will summarize it for you. The German citizen, Hakim Lasnami, is the son of a prominent member of the Iraqi Communist Party, and is an active member of the Party in exile. The French citizen, Omar Rahmin, is the son of an Algerian member of the Armed Islamic Group, GIA, who fled to France during the conflict in Algeria. He has been active in anti-war activities, has handed out leaflets supporting armed resistance, and is on the French list of people to be monitored.’

Bonila looked impressed.

‘I even have information from our Spanish authorities. Faslur Hashim is a Moroccan immigrant. He has been arrested for drug trafficking and possession of a false passport. He spent two years in jail in Madrid. After release there have been no charges against him. But he has been seen in the company of members of the Moroccan Groupe Islamique Combattant Marocain, the GICM. I have no information from Belgium on Rizwan Ahmet as of now. But I suspect there will be a connection to militants there.’

Linda paused and took a sip of water. ‘Gentlemen, the evidence is overwhelming. We should go in tonight. I have cleared it with Madrid. Do you agree?’

Comisario Bonila frowned. ‘This is a tough one. It needs careful consideration. What do the others think?’

Coronel Ramirez from the Guardia Civil immediately said, ‘I agree with the
Inspectora.
We should go in now.’

There was silence around the table. Max felt he had to object. ‘Yes, but . . .’

Linda scowled. ‘Yes, but? Sub-Inspector, you always have doubts. What is it this time?’

‘Well, for a start, being a member of the Iraqi Communist Party puts him in opposition to Saddam. Saddam massacred the Party which is partly why the Americans supported him for so long . . . along with his war with Iran of course.’

‘I agree,’ added Martín. ‘I also think terrorists would not risk having a drug runner on board. The Algerian . . . . well, the Islamic Party had won the election fair and square, but the army didn’t accept it. Nothing really against the son apart from leafleting.’

‘Get real,’ snapped Linda. ‘Is it just a coincidence that every single one of our trainee businessmen comes from a background of political militancy?’

She looked round the table. ‘I formally propose we go in tonight.’

Comisario Bonila, still with a worried frown on his face, finally uttered his judgement. ‘I suppose so.’

Max knew Davila would follow.

‘Yes, if the Comisario agrees.’

‘Martín?’ questioned Linda.

‘I still have doubts, but we can’t risk not going in.’

‘And our yes but Sub-Inspector?’

Max knew he was clutching at straws. ‘The evidence does not seem convincing to me – we’re almost condemning people just because they are involved in politics. But . . . yes.’

‘Ah. A shift from yes but to but yes. The rest of you?’

There was never any doubt they would agree.

‘Sub-Inspector Romero knows exactly where the Centre is. I suggest he goes with the advance group,’ said Linda.

‘Full equipment, flak jackets, the lot. They may be armed,’ added Martín.

‘Should we inform the Diva police?’ asked Comisario Bonila. Then remembering his rank, he added, ‘I shall inform General Lopez immediately, and also inform Teniente González with an order to him to keep this top secret.’

‘How quickly can we go?’ asked Linda.

‘3 a.m. is the best time to catch everyone off guard,’ replied Martín

‘Okay,’ said Comisario Bonila. ‘Assemble here 10 p.m. for full briefing. I will order maps and everything else. A helicopter will be based in Diva. In case the press get nosy, we are having a farewell bash for one of our officers. Top secret.’

Max felt a thrill of excitement.

At 10 p.m. everyone reassembled in the conference room.

‘Everything is in order,’ reported Comisario Bonila, striking a pose of the competent commander-in-chief. ‘I will now hand over to General Miguel Ponte from the CGI. He has flown in specially from Madrid, and will be in charge of the operation.’

A tall, fit man with greying temples stepped forward.

‘Right. We strike exactly at 3 a.m. That gives us plenty of time to assemble in the hills outside the Centre. A helicopter will support us. It’s already on the Diva pad. The second car will pick up Teniente González and, and . . .’ He paused, and looked at his notes. ‘Ah, yes, Sargento Mario León. That means we will have three people present who have been round the Centre before. We go straight to the bedroom and dormitory as Sub-Inspector Max Romero has described. We depart with twenty-minute intervals between us, and assemble in the car park outside Capa for final instructions. Okay, men. Only shoot if you have to. But if necessary . . . shoot to kill. Any questions?’

There were none. At 1.30 a.m. all assembled in the car park.

‘Everyone here?’ asked Bonila.

Max looked around. ‘We’re still waiting for the car with González and León.’

‘Hell. Where can they be? Better wait a few minutes.’

Ten minutes later a car drew up. González, León and the driver got out.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said González. ‘This fool of a driver went to the wrong bridge.’

‘No matter. Two CGI men have gone on ahead to spy out the place. We wait here until they report back.’

Everyone paced up and down, most smoking. There was no moon, just myriads of bright stars, the black silhouette of the mountains etched against the dark sky.

Finally the reconnaissance group returned.

‘No sign of life. Assume they’re all asleep. We can drive to half a mile of the place, then go on foot until the Centre’s fully surrounded. We go in first.’

They drove in complete silence. Max, González and León circled the Centre, and waited on the far side in the hill. Max looked at his watch. 3 a.m. precisely. He could just make out shadowy figures running into the building. He turned to González and León.

‘Go.’

They scrambled down to the back of the house, and waited, guns ready, blocking escape. There was a loud bang, the smell of gas, shouts, and a single shot from inside the building. Max checked his pistol, breath bated. Three minutes later General Ponte appeared.

‘It’s all over,’ he shouted. ‘Got them all. One wounded. The chopper’ll get him to hospital.’

Max put his pistol back in its holster, and together with González and León entered the building. There was an acrid smell of tear gas. Five men in underpants lay spread-eagled on the floor of the dormitory; one lay on his bed, the sheet bloody, his arm dangling towards the floor, towards his spectacles.

‘Okay,’ said General Ponte. ‘You can get dressed. We are taking you into custody under the anti-terrorism law of Spain.’

‘The chopper’s landed, sir.’

‘Right. Carefully now. We don’t want a fatality.’

‘What shall we do with the others, sir?’

‘Cuffs and hoods. Take them outside, and wait for the van.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take the pictures outside. Make sure there’s a good shot, but nothing which identifies them or this place.’

General Ponte turned to the assembled officers. ‘Right. Tear this place apart. Photograph everything first. Anything of interest: computers, disks, mobiles, diaries, into the bags. Anything suspicious, call me, Inspectora or Inspector Sánchez. Remember, anything could be booby-trapped.’

Linda stepped forward. ‘Let’s divide this up. Two to a room. Teniente González and Sargento León – you do that little prayer room outside. Sub-Inspector Romero and Coronel Ramirez – you take the kitchen. Be careful, could be ricin or other toxics hidden there. You others split into pairs and cover every room. And congratulations, men. I’m sure the Prime Minister will be pleased.’

Max and Coronel Ramirez went to the kitchen. Ramirez turned to Max.

‘Okay. I’ll do the food cupboards. You do the fridge and rubbish. Careful. Anything suspicious, call me over.’

Max went to the fridge, and systematically took out everything, checked it, then placed it into the bags. Nothing. He then began on the rubbish. His plastic gloves were now sticky with sweat. Nothing. He felt anxious about the wounded man. What if they had got it wrong? There was no gun by the man’s bed, only his glasses.

‘Could be something here,’ said Coronel Ramirez. ‘Looks like they’ve hidden this jar at the back.’ He gingerly took out an unlabelled jar, half full of white powder, and carefully put it aside. He noticed Max looking at it. ‘Could be something nasty here. Ricin or whatever.’

They worked in silence. Soon there was nothing further left to examine and they returned to the dormitory. Everyone had finished. Dawn was breaking.

‘Anything?’ asked General Ponte.

‘Could be something here, sir,’ said Ramirez. ‘White powder in an unlabelled jar.’

‘Okay. Take all the files, computer stuff etc. We’ll go through it all thoroughly.’

After all the excitement, Max felt a sense of let-down, a sense of foreboding growing. They drove back in silence. Once in the conference room, General Ponte addressed them.

‘Well done, men. I have to return to Madrid immediately to brief the Minister. Inspectora Jefe Concha will organize the interrogation of the suspects. Meanwhile, you all get a good rest. I’ll put out a press statement.’

Linda broke in: ‘Make sure it leads with the suspected ricin. We want the front page.’

Martín interrupted: ‘No. That’s not the way to do it. Never put it in writing. Let the media know that it’s from official, but off-the-record, sources.’

‘Agreed,’ said Linda. ‘And the same source can say the police believe there is an ETA connection.’

Max sighed. They all broke up, and he returned to his flat. The danger had been exciting, but now he felt like a burst balloon.

The moon leaves a knife
Hanging in the sky
An ambush of lead
That lies in wait
For the agony of blood.

Frederico García Lorca,
Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding)

in a version by Ted Hughes

Any excitement, any sense of achievement, had passed, and the image fixed in his mind was that of the man lying on a bloody bed, one arm outstretched to reach for the glasses on the floor. Max had helped carry him, wrapped in the bloody sheet, to the helicopter. The medical orderly had done his best to stem the flow of blood, had assured everyone present that the young man would live. But Max felt he was carrying a dead man. He slept badly. That image of the hand dangling above the glasses recurred as he tossed and turned. The air conditioning, now repaired, was on full, losing another battle against the heavy, stifling heat. Max got up in the middle of the night and took a puff of his inhaler, and drank a full glass of water. When he awoke his head throbbed, his mouth was parched, his eyes red and itchy. He took a cold shower. For ten minutes he felt cool and alert. But then the heat, heavy and oppressive, returned.

He took the bus down to Gran Vía. A heat haze lay over the city, guarding the pollution. Granada lay entombed in dirty, streaky smog. The Granadinos who had not escaped to the beach were in a foul mood, blaring their horns at the least provocation. Max got off before the bus even reached Gran Vía, and willed his legs to walk into the police station. He climbed the stairs to report to Davila. He knocked and entered.

‘Max, how are you? You look as if you’ve come from the night of the living dead. Join the club. Bugger all to report. The bastards keep banging on about their innocence. We got their CVs right, so that’s something. But they say all they were doing was opposing an illegal invasion, and there’s no law against that. The Inspectora has been asking for you. She thinks you might have some bright ideas on how to break them down.’