‘So how did that first meeting go?’ asked Pablo.
‘We hit it off immediately, which doesn’t happen to me very often,’ said Falcón. ‘These days I seem to find it hard to get on with people of my own class and background, while I seem to have a talent for engaging with misfits.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Juan.
‘I suppose living with my own horrors has given me the ability to understand the complexities of others, or, at least, not to take things at face value,’ said Falcón. ‘Whatever, Yacoub and I became friends in that first meeting, and, although we don’t see very much of each other, we still are. In fact, he called me last night to say he wanted to meet in Madrid at the weekend.’
‘Did Yacoub know your story?’
‘He’d read it in the press at the time of the Francisco Falcón scandal. It was big news over there that the famous Falcón nudes were actually painted by the Moroccan artist, Tariq Chefchaouni.’
‘I’m surprised some journalist hadn’t tried to track him down before,’ said Pablo.
‘They had,’ said Falcón. ‘But they didn’t get any further than the outside of Abdullah Diouri’s house in Fès.’
‘You said Yacoub was a misfit,’ said Gregorio. ‘He doesn’t sound like one. Successful businessman, married, two children, devout Muslim. He seems to fit in perfectly.’
‘Well, that’s how it looks from the outside, but from the moment I first met him I knew he was restless,’ said Falcón. ‘He was happy with where he was and yet he felt he didn’t belong there. He’d been torn away from his own family and yet Abdullah Diouri had made him a part of his and given him the family name. His real father had never come to search for him and yet he was treated no differently to Diouri’s own sons. He told me once that he didn’t just respect his kidnapper, Abdullah Diouri, he loved him as a father. But despite this acceptance from his new family, he never lost that terrible feeling of having been abandoned by his own. That’s what I call a misfit.’
‘You say he’s married,’ said Pablo. ‘How many wives does he have?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Isn’t that unusual for a man such as Yacoub Diouri?’ asked Juan.
‘Why don’t you just ask your question to my face instead of wheedling—’
‘Because we’re interested in the extent of your relationship with Yacoub. If he’s told you intimate details about himself, then that has meaning for us,’ said Juan.
‘Yacoub Diouri is homosexual,’ said Falcón, wearily. ‘His marriage is something that is expected of him by his society. It is part of his duty as a good Muslim to take a wife and have children, but his sexual interest is exclusively with men. And before you let your prurient interest get carried away, I mean men, not boys.’
‘Why do you think that detail should be important to us?’ asked Juan.
‘You’re spies, and I just wanted you to know that his homosexuality is not an area of vulnerability.’
‘Why are we questioning you about Yacoub Diouri?’ asked Juan.
‘First I’d like to know how Yacoub came to tell you he was homosexual,’ said Pablo.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Pablo, but he didn’t make a pass at me,’ said Falcón. ‘How did you find out about him?’
‘There’s a lot of cooperation between the intelligence services these days,’ said Juan. ‘Prominent, devout and monied Muslims are…observed.’
‘Yacoub and I were talking about marriage once and I told him that mine hadn’t lasted very long, that my wife had left me for a prominent judge,’ said Falcón. ‘I told him about Consuelo. He told me that his own marriage was just for show and that he was gay and that the fashion industry suited him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was full of attractive men who weren’t looking for a permanent relationship which he couldn’t offer.’
Silence. Juan let it be known that it was time to move on.
‘So what happened after you became friends with Yacoub?’ asked Pablo.
‘I saw him quite a lot at the beginning, several times over three or four months. I’d started learning Arabic and went down to see my Moroccan family in Tangier whenever I could. Yacoub would invite me over. We talked, he helped me with my Arabic.’
The CNI men drank their beers in unison.
‘And what happened with Consuelo?’ asked Juan, blowing smoke out into the night air.
‘As I explained, I’d already told Yacoub about Consuelo and my interest in her. He was quite happy to come to Seville and try to help me out. He liked the idea of being a go-between.’
‘How long was this after you’d split up with Consuelo?’
‘Nearly a year.’
‘You took your time.’
‘You can’t rush these things.’
‘How did you communicate,’ asked Pablo, ‘if she wouldn’t speak to you?’
‘I wrote her a letter and asked her if she’d like to meet Yacoub,’ said Falcón. ‘She wrote back and said she would very much like to meet him, but it would have to be alone.’
‘You never even got to see Consuelo?’ said Juan, amazed.
‘Yacoub did his best for me. They liked each other. He asked her out to dinner on my behalf. She refused. He offered to play gooseberry. She turned him down. There were no explanations and that was the end of it,’ said Falcón. ‘Why don’t we have another beer and you tell me the purpose of this intrusive and personal examination?’
In the kitchen Falcón caught sight of his transparent reflection in the darkened window. He hadn’t revealed himself to that extent since being in the hands of Alicia Aguado more than four years ago. In fact, he hadn’t been intimate with anyone other than Yacoub since then. It hadn’t exactly been a relief to talk to strangers like that, but it had brought back a powerful resurgence of his feelings for Consuelo. He even saw himself in the reflection of the window unconsciously rubbing the arm that had brushed against her yesterday. He shook his head and opened another litre of beer.
‘You’re smiling, Javier,’ said Juan, as Falcón came back. ‘After an ordeal like that, I’m impressed.’
‘I’m solitary, but not depressed,’ said Falcón.
‘That’s not bad going for a middle-aged homicide detective,’ said Pablo.
‘Being a homicide detective isn’t such a problem for me. There aren’t that many murders in Seville and I crack most of them, so my work with the homicide squad actually gives me the illusion that problems are being resolved. And, as you know, an illusory state can contribute to sensations of well-being,’ said Falcón. ‘If I were trying to resolve something like global warming, or the oceans’ dwindling fish stocks, then I’d probably be in much worse mental shape.’
‘What about global terrorism?’ asked Pablo. ‘How do you think you’d cope with that?’
‘That’s not my job. I investigate the murder of people by terrorists,’ said Falcón. ‘I realize that it can be complicated. But at least we have a chance at resolution and tragedy brings out the best qualities in most people. I wouldn’t want your job, which is to foresee and prevent terrorist attacks. If you succeed, you live as unsung heroes. If you fail, you live with the death of innocents, the scourge of the media and the admonishment of comfortable politicians. So, no thanks—if you were thinking of offering me a job.’
‘Not a job exactly,’ said Juan. ‘We want to know if you’d be prepared to provide a connective piece or two for the intelligence jigsaw?’
‘I’ve told you that I’m not really spy material any more.’
‘In the first instance, we’d be asking you to recruit.’
‘You want me to recruit Yacoub Diouri as an intelligence source?’ asked Falcón.
The CNI men nodded, gulped beer, lit up cigarettes.
‘First of all, I can’t think what Yacoub could possibly tell you, and secondly, why me?’ said Falcón. ‘Surely you’ve got experienced recruiters who do this sort of thing all the time.’
‘It’s not what he can tel
l us now, it’s what he could tell us if he was to make a certain move,’ said Pablo. ‘And you’re right, we do have experienced people, but none of them have the special relationship that you do.’
‘But my “special relationship” is based on friendship, intimacy and trust, and what will happen to that if one day I say: “Yacoub, will you spy for Spain?”’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be just for Spain,’ said Gregorio. ‘It would be for humanity as a whole.’
‘Oh, would it really, Gregorio?’ said Falcón. ‘I’ll remember to tell him that, when I ask him to deceive his family and friends and give information to someone he’s only known for the last four years of his complicated life.’
‘We’re not pretending it’s easy,’ said Juan. ‘And equally, we’re not going to deny the value of such a contact, or that there are moral implications in what we’re asking of you.’
‘Thank you, that’s put my mind at rest, Juan,’ said Falcón. ‘You said “in the first instance”—does that mean there’s a second one as well? If so, you’d better tell me. I might as well try to digest that with the first lump of gristle you’ve just thrown me.’
The CNI men looked at each other and shrugged.
‘We’ve just been told that they’re going to release the antiterrorism unit of the Seville CGI into this investigation,’ said Juan. ‘We think there’s a mole leaking information and we want to know who it is and who he’s leaking it to. You’re going to have to work closely with them. Your insight would be invaluable.’
‘I don’t know what makes you think I can do this work.’
‘You’ve just scored very high points in your interview,’ said Pablo.
‘What was my score on moral certitude?’
The CNI men laughed as one. Not that they found it funny, it was just the relief at having got the ugliness over and done with.
‘Do I get anything in return for all this?’ asked Falcón.
‘More money, if that’s what you want,’ said Juan, puzzled.
‘I was thinking less in terms of euros and more along the lines of trust,’ said Falcón.
‘Like what?’
‘You tell me things,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m not saying yes or no, you understand, but perhaps you could tell me what’s so important about this annotated copy of the Koran that we found in the Peugeot Partner…’
‘That’s not going to be possible at this juncture,’ said Pablo.
‘We’re beginning to think that what we’ve found here in Seville,’ said Juan, overriding his junior officer, ‘is the edge of a much larger terrorist plan.’
‘Larger than the liberation of Andalucía?’ asked Falcón.
‘We’re inclined to think that it’s a sign of something that’s gone wrong in a plan that we know little about,’ said Juan. ‘What we think we have in our possession, in the form of this copy of the Koran, is a terrorist network’s codebook.’
17
Seville—Tuesday, 6th June 2006, 21.00 hrs
The restaurant was in the middle of the first service to the early tourists, before the main rush of locals at 10 p.m. Consuelo left her office to keep her second appointment with Alicia Aguado. She had been out only once, to her sister’s house for lunch. They had talked exclusively about the bomb until the last minutes of the meal when Consuelo had asked her if she could be at her home in Santa Clara at around 10.30 p.m. Her sister had assumed that there was a problem with the nanny.
‘No, no, she’ll be there looking after the boys,’ said Consuelo. ‘It’s just that I’ve been told I need someone who’s close to me to be there when I get back.’
‘Are you going to the gynaecologist?’
‘No. The psychologist.’
‘You?’ her sister had said, astonished.
‘Yes, Ana, your sister, Consuelo, is going to see a shrink,’ she said.
‘But you’re the most sane person I’ve ever known,’ said Ana. ‘If you’re nuts, then what hope is there for the rest of us?’
‘I’m not nuts,’ she’d said, ‘but I could be. I’m on a knife-edge at the moment. This woman I’m going to see will help me, but she says I need support when I get home. You are the support.’
The effect on her sister was shocking, not least because it had been an unsettling realization for both of them, that perhaps they weren’t as close as they’d thought.
As she left the safety of her office, Consuelo felt something like panic forming in her stomach and, as if on cue, she remembered Alicia Aguado’s words: ‘Come straight to me from your work. Don’t be distracted.’ It started up some confusion in her, a voice asking: Why shouldn’t I? And as she fastened her seat belt, her mind swerved away from its earlier objective and she thought about driving past the Plaza del Pumarejo, wondering if he would be there. Her heart raced and she hit the horn so hard and long that one of the waiters came running out into the street. She pulled away and drove straight through the Plaza del Pumarejo, eyes fixed ahead.
Fifteen minutes later she was in the lovers’ seat in the cool blue room, her wrist exposed, waiting for Alicia Aguado’s inquisitive fingers. They talked about the bomb first. Consuelo couldn’t concentrate. She was busy trying to hold her fragmentary self together. Talk of the shattering effects of the bomb was not helping.
‘You were a little late,’ said Alicia, placing her fingers on the pulse. ‘Did you come straight here?’
‘I was delayed at work. I came as soon as I could get away.’
‘No distractions?’
‘None.’
‘Try answering that question again, Consuelo.’
She stared at her wrist. Was her heartbeat so transparent? She swallowed hard. Why should this be so difficult? She’d had no problem all day. Her eyes filled. A tear slipped to the corner of her mouth.
‘Why are you crying, Consuelo?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘No,’ said Aguado, ‘it’s the other way round. I’m just the guide.’
‘I fought a momentary distraction,’ said Consuelo.
‘Were you reluctant to tell me because it was of a sexual nature?’
‘Yes. I’m ashamed of it.’
‘Of what exactly?’
No reply.
‘Think about that before our next meeting and decide whether it’s true,’ said Aguado. ‘Tell me about the distraction.’
Consuelo related the incident of the previous night, which had finally precipitated her call for help.
‘You don’t know this man?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen him before, had some kind of casual contact?’
‘He’s one of those types that walks past women and mutters obscenities,’ she said. ‘I don’t tolerate that sort of behaviour and I make a scene whenever it happens. I want to discourage them from doing it to other women.’
‘Do you see that as a moral duty?’
‘I do. Women should not be subjected to this random sexism. These men should not be encouraged to indulge in their gross fantasies. It has nothing to do with sex, it’s purely a power thing, an abuse of power. These men hate women. They want to verbalize their hate. It gives them pleasure to shock and humiliate. If there were women foolish enough to get involved with men like that, they would be physically abused by them. They are wife-beaters in the making.’
‘So why are you fascinated by this man?’ asked Aguado.
Tears again, which were combined with a strange sense of collapse, of things falling into each other and, just as the gravitational pull of all this inner crumpling seemed to be achieving a terminal velocity, she felt herself untethered, floating away from the person she thought herself to be. It seemed to be an extreme form of a phenomenon she referred to as an existential lurch: a sudden reflective moment, in which the question of what we are doing here on this planet spinning in the void seemed unanswerably huge. Normally it was over in a flash and she was back in the world, but this time it went on and she didn’t know whether she was going to be
able to get back. She leapt to her feet and held herself together in case she came apart.
‘It’s all right,’ said Alicia, reaching out to her. ‘It’s all right, Consuelo. You’re still here. Come and sit beside me again.’
The chair, the so-called lovers’ chair, seemed more like a torturer’s seat. A place where instruments would be inserted to reach unbearably painful clusters of nerves and tweak them to previously unexperienced levels of agony.
‘I can’t do this,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I can’t do it.’
She fell into Alicia Aguado’s arms. She needed the human touch to bring her back. She cried, and the worst of it was that she had no idea what her suffering was about. Alicia got her back into the chair. They sat, fingers intertwined, as if they were now, indeed, lovers.
‘I was falling apart,’ said Consuelo. ‘I lost sight…I lost my sense of who I was. I felt like an astronaut, floating away from the mother ship. I was on the brink of madness.’
‘And what precipitated that sensation?’
‘Your question. I don’t remember what it was. Were you asking about a friend, or my father, perhaps?’
‘Maybe we’ve talked enough about what’s troubling you,’ said Aguado. ‘Let’s try to end this on a positive note. Tell me something that makes you happy.’
‘My children make me happy.’
‘If you remember, our last consultation was terminated by a discussion about how your children made you feel. You said…’
‘I love them so much it hurts,’ finished Consuelo.
‘Let’s think about a state of happiness that’s free from pain.’
‘I don’t feel pain all the time. It’s only when I see them sleeping.’
‘And how often do you watch them sleeping?’
Consuelo realized that it had become a nightly ritual, watching the boys in their careless sleep was the high point of every day. That pain right in her middle had become something she relished.