The Hidden Assassins (22 page)

It was then that she saw the whore. Not the whore herself, but a photograph. She stepped back into the street, confused. Could whores do that now? Advertise themselves in shop windows? They pipe porn into your living room after midnight now, but do they let whores
tout for business like this? She was surprised to find it was an art gallery.

A car gave her a light toot. She stepped back up to the window. She read the card next to the photograph:
Marisa
. Just that—Marisa. How old was she? The card didn’t say. That’s what everybody wants to know these days. How old are you? They want to see your beauty. They need to know your age. And if you’re talented, that’s a bonus, but the first two are crucial for the marketing.

Beyond the window display was a young woman at a desk. Inés went in. She heard her heels on the marble floor. She’d forgotten to look at the whore’s work, but she was committed now.

‘I love that Marisa,’ she heard herself say. ‘I just love her.’

The young woman was pleased. Inés was well dressed and seemed harebrained enough to pay the ridiculous prices. They veered off together to admire Marisa’s work—two woodcarvings. Inés encouraged the woman to talk, and in a matter of minutes had found out where Marisa had her workshop.

Inés had no idea what she should do with this information. She went to El Cairo and ordered a stuffed piquillo pepper and a glass of water. She toyed with the bright red pepper, which looked obscene, like a pointed, inquisitive tongue looking for a moist aperture. She hacked it up and forked it into her cottonwool mouth.

She went home, turned on the air conditioning and lay on the bed. She slept and woke up in the chill of the apartment, having dreamt and been left with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. She had never been
as lonely as in that dream. It occurred to her that she would only be as lonely as that in death.

The painkillers had worn off and she was stiff with cold. She realized that she was talking to herself and was fascinated to know what she’d been saying.

It was 4.30 in the afternoon. She should go to the office and work on the case, but there didn’t seem much point now. For some reason tomorrow had begun to seem unlikely.

She heard herself say: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She went to the kitchen and drank water and swallowed more painkillers. She came out of the apartment and into the street, which was thick with heat after the thin, chilled air inside. She caught a cab and heard her voice ask the cab driver to take her to Calle Bustos Tavera. Why had she asked to be taken there? There was nothing to be gained…

There was something jutting out of the gathered neck of her handbag, which she held on her lap. She didn’t recognize what it was. She pulled open the bag and saw a steel button set flush in a black handle and a straight steel blade next to her hairbrush. She looked up at the driver, their eyes connected via the rear-view mirror.

‘Have you seen that?’ said the driver.

‘What?’ said Inés, in shock at the sight of the knife. But he was pointing out of the window.

‘People hanging hams outside their front doors,’ he said. ‘If they can’t afford them, they’re hanging pictures of hams. A ham manufacturer in Andalucía is distributing them. This guy on the radio was saying it’s a passive form of protest. It goes back to the fifteenth century when the Moors were driven out of Andalucía
and the Catholic Kings promoted the cooking and eating of pork to signify the end of Islamic domination. They’re calling today
El Día de los Jamones
. What do you think of that?’

‘I think…I don’t know what I think,’ said Inés, fingering the knife handle.

The driver switched the radio to another station. Flamenco music filled the cab.

‘I can’t listen to too much talk about the bomb,’ he said. ‘It makes me wonder who I’ve got in the back of my cab.’

Seville—Wednesday, 7th June 2006, 16.00 hrs

Yesterday’s emotionally charged workload, followed by the three evening meetings, an uneven night’s sleep, the flight and the tension caused by the uncertainty of his mission had left Falcón completely drained. He’d briefly told Pablo that Yacoub had agreed to act for them, but not without conditions, then he’d hit his seat in the Lear jet and passed out instantly.

They landed at Seville airport just before 2.30 p.m. and split up agreeing to meet later that night. Back at home, Falcón showered and changed. His housekeeper had left him a fish stew, which he ate with a glass of cold red wine. He called Ramírez, who told him there was to be another big meeting at 4.30 p.m. and gave him a very thin update, of which the best news was that Lourdes, the girl they’d pulled out of the wreckage yesterday, had regained consciousness for a few minutes just after midday. She was going to be all right. There was no news on the electricians or the council inspectors, except that Elvira had arranged a press release and there’d been announcements on TV and radio. Nothing extraordinary had come out of the interviews
with the Informáticalidad sales reps. The one remarkable element in Ramírez’s report was his praise for Juez Calderón, who had been handling a very aggressive media.

‘You know I don’t like him,’ said Ramírez, ‘but he’s been doing a very good job. Since our big news yesterday the investigation has been completely stalled, but Calderón is making us look competent.’

‘Realistically, what’s the earliest we can expect to get to the epicentre of the bomb?’ asked Falcón.

‘Not before 9 a.m. tomorrow,’ said Ramírez. ‘Once they get down to the rubble directly over the mosque they’re going to be working by hand, under bomb squad and forensic supervision. That’s going to take time and the conditions are going to be horrible. In fact, they already are. The stink down there gets into you like a virus.’

‘It’s been confirmed with 99 per cent certainty that one of the dead in the mosque is a CGI source,’ said Comisario Elvira, opening the 4.30 p.m. meeting. ‘We won’t have complete confirmation until the DNA samples are matched to those taken from his apartment.’

‘And what was he doing in there?’ asked Calderón.

‘Inspector Jefe Barros has the report,’ said Elvira.

‘His name is Miguel Botín, he’s Spanish, thirty-two years old and a resident of Seville,’ said Barros.

‘Esperanza—the woman who gave Comisario Elvira the list of men believed to be in the mosque—she had a partner who was in the destroyed building,’ said Falcón. ‘Was that Miguel Botín?’

‘Yes,’ said Barros. ‘He converted to Islam eleven years
ago. His family came from Madrid and his brother lost a foot in the March 11th bombings. Miguel Botín was recruited by one of my agents in November 2004 and became active just over fourteen months ago, in April 2005.’

The only noise in the pre-school classroom was from the mobile air-conditioning units. Even the steady grinding of the machinery outside had receded as Barros began his report.

‘For the first eight months Botín had very little to tell us. The members of the congregation, most of whom were of non-Spanish origin, were all good Muslims and none of them were in the slightest bit radical. They were all sympathetic to the story of his brother and they were all outraged by the London bombings, which occurred not long after Botín became active.

‘It was in January this year that Botín first started to detect a change. There was an increase in outside visitors to the mosque. This had no noticeable effect on the congregation, but by March it seemed to be having a discernible effect on Imam Abdelkrim Benaboura. He was preoccupied and appeared under pressure. On 27th April my agent made a request to plant a microphone in the Imam’s office. I had a discussion with the Juez Decano de Sevilla, who was issued with my agent’s report. The evidence was deemed to be largely circumstantial and a bugging order was refused due to a lack of hard evidence.

‘On my agent’s request, Botín stepped up his activities and started following Imam Abdelkrim Benaboura outside the mosque. Between 2nd May and the date of this report, which was Wednesday, 31st May, Botín saw the Imam meet with three pairs of men, on ten
separate occasions at ten different locations around Seville. He has no idea what was said at any of these meetings, but he did manage to take some photographs, only two of which show clearly visible people. On the basis of this report, with the photographic evidence, another bugging request was made last Thursday, 1st June. We did not receive a reply prior to the explosion yesterday morning.’

‘How many men are visible in these two shots?’ asked Falcón.

‘Four,’ said Barros, ‘and since the CGI in Madrid have sent down a set of shots from the apartment they raided yesterday, we’ve been able to identify two of them as Djamal Hammad and Smail Saoudi. We have no idea yet who the other two men are, but the shots are currently in the hands of the CNI, MI6 and Interpol. Obviously I would like to have made this information available sooner, but…’

‘What about these ten different locations?’ said Calderón, cutting in on the self-pity. ‘Is there anything exceptional about them? Are they near public buildings, addresses of prominent people? Do they appear to be part of a plan of attack?’

‘There’s a significant building within a hundred metres of each meeting place, but that’s the nature of a big city,’ said Barros. ‘One of the meetings was in the Irish pub near the cathedral. Who knows if that was the perfect cover for three Muslims who didn’t drink alcohol, or whether their meeting outside the only remaining structure of the twelfth-century Almohad mosque was significant.’

‘When was the first request to bug the Imam’s office turned down by the Juez Decano?’ asked Falcón.

‘On the same day it was applied for: 27th April.’

‘And why wasn’t the second bugging request authorized and acted on?’

‘The Juez Decano was away in Madrid at the time. He didn’t see the application until Monday afternoon—5th June.’

‘What was Miguel Botín’s description of the Imam’s state of mind during this month when he observed him more closely?’ asked Falcón.

‘Increasingly preoccupied. Not as engaged with his congregation as he had been the previous year. Botín became aware of him taking medication, but wasn’t able to find out what it was.’

‘We found Tenormin on his bedside table, which is a prescription for hypertension,’ said Gregorio from the CNI. ‘We also found an extensively stocked medicine cabinet. His doctor says that he has been treated for hypertension for the past eight years. He’d recently been complaining of heart rhythm problems and was on medication for a stomach ulcer.’

‘When will we get access to the Imam’s apartment and your findings?’ asked Falcón.

‘Don’t worry, Inspector Jefe,’ said Juan, ‘we’ve been working with a forensics team since the moment we opened the apartment door.’

‘We’d still like to get in there,’ said Falcón.

‘We’re nearly finished,’ said Gregorio.

‘Does the CNI have an opinion about Botín’s findings and the Imam’s doctor?’ asked Calderón.

‘And has someone gained access to his mysterious history?’ asked Falcón.

‘We’re still awaiting clearance on his history,’ said Gregorio.

‘The Imam was under a lot of pressure,’ said Falcón, before Calderón could mount another attack on Juan. ‘Hammad and Saoudi were known operators in the logistics of attacks. They met with the Imam. Were they asking the Imam to act in some way? Perhaps they were calling in a favour, or a promise made some time ago in his inaccessible history. Under those circumstances, what do you think would put a man like the Imam under severe stress?’

‘That they were asking him to do something that would have very grave consequences,’ said Calderón.

‘But if he believed in “the cause” surely he would be happy?’ said Falcón. ’It should be an honour for a radical fanatic to be asked to participate in a mission.’

‘You think the pressure came from being a reluctant accomplice?’ said Gregorio.

‘Or the nature of what he was being asked to do,’ said Falcón. ‘There’s a different pressure in storing an unknown product for a week or two, say, and being asked to actively participate in an attack.’

‘We need more information on the Imam’s activities,’ said Elvira.

‘It hasn’t been confirmed yet, but we think it likely that Hammad and Saoudi were in the mosque when the building was destroyed,’ said Falcón. ‘Confirmation will come with DNA testing. The other two men photographed by Miguel Botín have to be identified and found if we want to know how the Imam was implicated.’

‘That is in hand,’ said Gregorio.

‘I’d like to talk to the agent who ran Miguel Botín,’ said Falcón.

Inspector Jefe Barros nodded. Comisario Elvira asked
for a résumé of the situation with the electricians and the council inspectors. Ramírez gave the same very thin update he’d just given to Falcón.

‘We know the CGI antiterrorist squad did not have the mosque under surveillance,’ said Falcón. ‘We have two men posing as council inspectors, who were clearly intent on gaining access to the mosque. The electricians were responding to a blown fuse box. We have to look at the possibility of a link between the fake council inspectors and the electricians. I cannot believe that a legitimate electrician would not have come forward by now. The obvious advantage of being an electrician is that you can bring large quantities of equipment into a place, and witnesses have confirmed that this was the case.’

‘You think that
they
planted the bomb?’ asked Barros.

‘It has to be considered,’ said Falcón. ‘We can’t ignore it just because it doesn’t fit with the discoveries we’ve made so far. It also does not exclude the possibility that there was already a cache of explosives in the mosque. We must talk to your agent. What state of mind is he in?’

‘Not good. He’s a young guy, only a little older than Miguel Botín. We’ve been recruiting in that age group because they can connect more easily with each other. His relationship with Botín was close. The two of them had a religious connection.’

‘Were they both converts?’

‘No, my agent was a Catholic. But they both took their religion seriously. They respected and liked each other.’

‘We’d like to speak to him
now
,’ said Falcón.

Barros left the room to call him.

‘The forensics need to make contact with the wives
and families of the men who were in the mosque,’ said Elvira. ‘They have to start extracting DNA as soon as possible. The woman who represents them, Esperanza, says she will only talk to you.’

Elvira gave him the mobile number. The meeting ended. The men dispersed. Elvira hung on to Falcón.

‘They’re sending me some more people down from Madrid,’ he said. ‘No reflection on you or your squad, but we both know the demands that are being made. You need more foot soldiers and these are all experienced inspector jefes and inspectors.’

‘Anything that’s going to relieve pressure, I’m happy with,’ said Falcón. ‘As long as they don’t complicate things.’

‘They’re under my jurisdiction. You don’t have to deal with them. They’ll be assigned where they’re needed most.’

‘Have the Guardia Civil been able to get more information on the route of Hammad and Saoudi from Madrid to Seville?’

‘It’s taking time.’

Barros pulled Falcón aside as he left the room.

‘My agent’s not back from lunch yet,’ he said. ‘They’ll call me as soon as he gets in.’

‘It’s just gone 4.30 p.m.,’ said Falcón, giving him his mobile number. ‘He’s running a bit late, isn’t he?’

Barros shook his head, shrugged. Things were not going well for him.

‘What’s your agent’s name?’

‘Ricardo Gamero,’ said Barros.

Falcón called Esperanza and they arranged to meet in some nearby gardens. He asked to bring a female police officer with him.

Cristina Ferrera was waiting for him outside the preschool. He briefed her on the way. Esperanza recognized Falcón as he got out of the car. Introductions were made. They piled back in. Esperanza sat next to Falcón, Ferrera was behind, staring at Esperanza as if she recognized her.

‘How are the women holding up?’ asked Falcón. ‘I imagine the circumstances are very difficult for them.’

‘They oscillate between despair and fear,’ she said. ‘They’re devastated by the loss of their loved ones and then they see the news—the assaults and damage to property. They feel a little more secure since your Comisario came on television and announced that violence against Muslims and vandalizing of their property would be dealt with severely.’

‘You’re their representative,’ said Ferrera.

‘They trust me. I’m not one of them, but they trust me.’

‘You’re not one of them?’

‘I’m not a Muslim,’ said Esperanza. ‘My partner is a convert to Islam. I know them through him.’

‘Your partner is Miguel Botín,’ said Falcón.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He wants me to convert to Islam so that we can get married. I’m a practising Catholic and I have some difficulties, as a European, with the treatment of women in Islam. Miguel introduced me to all the women in the mosque to help me understand, to help me get rid of some of my prejudices. But it’s a big leap from Catholicism to Islam.’

‘How did you meet Miguel?’ asked Ferrera.

‘Through an old school friend of mine,’ said Esperanza. ‘I ran into the two of them just over a year ago, and after that Miguel and I started seeing each other.’

‘What’s your friend’s name?’ asked Falcón.

‘Ricardo Gamero,’ she said. ‘He does something in the police force—I don’t know what. He says it’s administrative.’

Seville was a village, thought Falcón. He told Esperanza what they needed from the women and said that Ferrera would accompany her to collect and mark up the DNA samples.

‘We’ll need a sample from Miguel Botín as well,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m sorry.’

Esperanza nodded, staring into space. She had a clear, unadorned face. Her only jewellery was a gold cross at her neck and two gold studs in her ear lobes, which were visible as her slightly crinkly black hair was scraped back. She had very straight eyebrows and it was these that first gave away her own emotional turmoil, and then the moisture flooding her dark brown eyes. She shook hands and got out of the car. Falcón quickly told Ferrera how Ricardo Gamero fitted in and asked her to find out if Esperanza knew what her partner had been doing.