She shrugged, stubbed out the cigarette and Ramírez gave her another.
'There was no restaurant. We were taken to an apartment where we were told we could stay. They left us there saying they would be back in the morning. Later there was a knock on the door and three big Russians came in. They beat us up very badly and took our passports. All three men raped me. Sergei was taken away. I was locked in the apartment. Every day men came to have sex with me and left without a word. After three months the three Russians came back with another Russian. He made me strip and inspected me as if I was an animal. He nodded and left. I had just been sold. They brought me to Seville and put me in a flat. They treated me very badly for six months and then things got a little better. I was allowed to leave the apartment to work in a club. I served drinks and did… other things. They gave me my passport but dislocated my finger,' she said, holding up her hand, ' so that I would remember… They needn't have bothered. I was scared anyway. Too scared to run - and where would I go with no money and looking like this? They told me my family's address and what they would do to them. They also told me that they had Sergei here and what would happen to him if I ran.'
She asked for water. Serrano brought in a chilled bottle. She smoked hard. The translator didn't look as if she'd be able to bear much more of Nadia's story.
'I am allowed a little money for food and cigarettes. I am trusted, but one mistake and I'm beaten and locked up in the apartment,' she said, pointing at her eye. 'This was from my last mistake. They saw me in a bar talking to Sergei. It was the second time I'd seen him. We met by accident one night and he told me where he worked.'
'How long ago was that?'
'Six weeks,' she said. 'I was beaten and locked up for two weeks.'
'But you saw him again?'
'Twice. Two weeks after I got out I found the house where he worked. We just talked. He told me what had happened to him. The work he'd had to do on the building sites - dangerous work where men died - how much he hated Europe and wanted to get back to Lvov.'
'Did he tell you who he worked for?'
'Yes, I don't remember the name. It wasn't important. He was the owner of the construction sites where Sergei had worked.'
'When was the second time?'
'Wednesday morning he came to the apartment and told me to get my things… that we were leaving. He said that the man he worked for was dead on the floor of his kitchen and that he had to run.'
'Why did he have to run?'
'He said he didn't want to go back to the building sites. He said we had to be quick, that the police were going to come and he had to move very fast.'
'Did he have money?'
'He said he had enough money. I don't know how much that was.'
She blinked, tried to swallow but couldn't. She sipped the water. Ramírez gave her another cigarette.
'You didn't go?' said Falcón.
'I couldn't. I was too scared. He said goodbye and that was it.'
'Can you remember exactly what he said when he told you his employer was dead?'
She put her face in her hands, pressed the fingertips into her forehead.
'He just said he was dead.'
'Did he say he'd been murdered?'
'No… he was dead, that's all.'
'And since then - has anybody been to see you about Sergei?' asked Falcón.
She pointed at the bruises on her arms.
'They knew Sergei would come to see me,' she said. 'They held me down and did some things to me, but
I couldn't tell them anything. All I knew was that he had gone.'
She looked up at the clock, nervous.
'What did they ask you?'
'They wanted to know why Sergei had run and what he'd seen, and I told them that he'd only seen a dead man lying on the floor. That was it,' she said. 'Now I have to go.'
Falcón called Serrano in, but he'd already left and been replaced by Ferrera. He told her to get the girl back to the bar on Calle Alvar Nunez Caleza de Vaca in twenty-three minutes. Ramírez gave her his cigarettes. She grabbed the money, stuffed it down the front of her skirt and left.
The translator struggled to fill in the receipt, as if the last quarter of an hour had removed some of the purpose from her life. Ramírez reminded her of the confidentiality agreement she'd signed. She left. Ramírez smoked in silence, his legs braced on either side of his chair.
'It's our job to listen to that,' he said, 'and do nothing. That's what we're paid for.'
'Go and take a look at Alberto Montes,' said Falcón. 'He's had those stories up to here.'
'I don't know how your meeting went with Calderón this morning,' said Ramírez, 'but that has clarified one thing. We definitely have Russian mafia involvement in this case.'
He stubbed out his cigarette in the cheap tin ashtray. They walked back up to the office. Ramírez jangled his car keys.
'I'll put some men on the bus stations this afternoon, check the airport, send Sergei's photograph down to the ports and e-mail the Policía Judiciária in Lisbon,' said Ramírez, and left for lunch.
Falcón stood at the window. Ramírez appeared below him and walked the length of the main block of the Jefatura to his car. In the adjoining block of offices Falcón could see another man standing at his window looking down at the same dull scene - Inspector Jefe Alberto Montes. Falcón's mobile vibrated. Isabel Cano wanted to talk to him in her office sometime before 9 p.m. He said he would do his best and shut the phone down.
Montes opened his window and looked down the two floors into the car park. Falcón took another call. Consuelo Jiménez asked him to dinner that night at her house in Santa Clara. He agreed without thinking because he was so fascinated by Montes, who was now leaning out of the window, both elbows on the ledge. Nobody opened their window to 45°C heat in an air- conditioned office. Montes's head turned. He backed away and closed the window.
Falcón went home for lunch. The heat and Nadia's story had ruined his appetite, but he managed two bowls of chilled gazpacho and a chorizo sandwich. He spoke to Encarnación to find out if she'd let anybody in the house yesterday. She said she hadn't but that she had left the front doors open for an hour in the morning to try and circulate some air. He went up to bed and drifted off into a doze in which his mind played back disturbing versions of the day's interviews, which culminated with a view into a cell whose walls bore the faint, bloody prints of human hands. He dragged himself to the shower to wash away the appalling sense of dread that had accompanied the last image. The water poured through his hair and over his lips and the thought came to him that it was time to stop being the detective monk and to immerse himself in life.
On the way to the Jefatura he took a call from Alicia Aguado, who'd already listened to the Sebastián Ortega tapes. She was interested in talking to him if Pablo Ortega was happy and the prison authorities amenable.
Falcón told her about the discussion he'd had with Pablo Ortega that morning, how the actor had been reluctant to allow something that might result in the deterioration of Sebastián's already fragile state of mind.
'Well, there's bound to be some history between those two,' she said. 'Just as there was between Sebastián and his mother who abandoned him twice, in divorce and death. I'm sure Pablo Ortega knows that if his son is willing to talk to us they'll both end up on the couch. The expression he used - "stirring things up" - won't just be in his son's mind, and that will be making him uncomfortable. Perhaps I should meet him. He's probably got some fame paranoia and won't like it if just anybody starts rummaging about in his private thoughts.'
'I'm going out that way this evening. I'll drop in and see him again,' said Falcón.
'I'm free tomorrow morning, if he wants to have an informal meeting.'
From the car park of the Jefatura he could see that the offices of the Grupo de Homicidios were full. Everybody was reporting back after a long week on the hot streets. As he headed for the rear entrance he glanced up at Montes's office and found the man stan
ding there at his window. His stomach was straining against his white shirt, his tie was down his chest. Falcón gave him a short wave. He did not react.
The noise coming from his office had the excitement of the impending weekend, August and the holiday season about it. The squad was about to lose Perez, Baena and Serrano for two weeks, which was going to mean a lot more footwork for the three left behind. He expected to find them all in shorts with cold beers in their hands in full readiness, but they were sitting on desk corners, smoking and chatting. Falcón stood at the door, smiling and nodding.
'Inspector Jefe!' shouted Baena, as if he was three beers ahead of the game.
Perez and Serrano gave extravagant salutes. He was going to have to wait until Perez came back from holiday before he tore a strip off him about failing to search the Vegas' garden properly.
'So the holidays have started,' said Falcón.
'We filed our reports,' said Perez. 'We spent the whole afternoon out at the bus stations and Santa Justa. Carlos even went out to the airport for you as a going- away present.'
'No Sergei?'
'The girl was as close as we got,' said Serrano.
'That guy's just going to disappear,' said Baena. 'I would if I had the Russian mafia chasing my ass.'
'Did you have any luck with the other residents of Santa Clara?'
'Hardly anybody was around,' said Perez. 'Cristina called all the private security companies and most of the people are away. Those we did interview had seen nothing.'
'Did you manage to start work on the key we found in Vega's freezer?'
'Not yet. By the time I'd dropped Nadia off the banks were all shut.'
'OK. Start work on that on Monday morning,' said Falcón. 'What about the ID trace on Rafael Vega?'
'Nothing yet, but Cristina and I had an interesting talk down at Vega Construcciones this afternoon,' said Ramírez, 'with Golden Boy, the accountant. He was responsible for getting the computer system installed and he's been having a closer look at some of the projects.'
'What is Golden Boy in Vega Construcciones?' said Falcón. 'Is he just Francisco Dourado, accountant, or is he something more?'
'He thinks he should have been made the finance director by now… but he hasn't,' said Ramírez. 'Rafael Vega was not prepared to let go of the money, or rather, he was not happy for someone to know that much about his business.'
'So he's the book-keeper.'
'Exactly, but since Vega's death he's had freedom of access. He had it before, but he was too scared about getting caught. As I said, he knows the computer system inside out and Vázquez isn't IT savvy enough to stop him.'
'So what are we looking at?' said Falcón. 'Do we have any names for a start?'
'Vladimir Ivanov and Mikhail Zelenov,' said Ferrera, handing over two photos and profiles of the Russians. 'These came through just now from Interpol.'
Vladimir Ivanov (Vlado) had a tattoo on his left shoulder, was fair-haired, blue-eyed with a scar under his jawline on the right side of his face. Mikhail Zelenov (Mikhas) was dark and heavy (132 kg) with green eyes that were just slits in the fat of his face. Their illegal activities covered the full spectrum of mafia activity - prostitution, people-trafficking, gaming, internet fraud and money-laundering. They both belonged to one of the main mafia gangs - Solntsevskaya - which had more than five thousand members. Their sphere of operation was the Iberian peninsula.
'On the two projects which those guys are involved in, there are two sets of books,' said Ramírez. 'The first ones have been prepared by Dourado, based on figures given to him by Vega. The second set have been kept by Vega himself and they show how the projects are really being run.'
'Money-laundering has arrived in the Seville construction industry,' said Falcón.
'The Russians are pretty well financing the whole thing. They supply all labour and materials. Vega Construcciones supplies the architect, the engineers and the supervising site workers.'
'So, who owns the building and what did Rafael Vega get out of it?'
'The ownership details are with Vázquez,' said Ramírez. 'All property deeds and deals are handled by him. We haven't moved on him yet. I thought we should talk first. All we know at the moment is that it's a joint project, with all the cash coming from the Russians and the expertise from Vega… There has to be some balancing out somewhere.'
'Vega is providing the shell through which the whole thing can work,' said Falcón. 'So that's significant. But we'll have to fix up a meeting with Vázquez tomorrow. The two of us.'
'What about me?' asked Ferrera. 'I was involved in this part of the investigation, too.'
'I know you were, and I'm sure you've done good work,' said Falcón. 'But Vázquez needs to feel the full weight of seniority in this case. We might even have enough to apply for a search warrant. I'll call Juez Calderón.'
'So what am I going to be doing?' said Ferrera.
'We're losing three men as from tonight,' said Falcón. 'By tomorrow morning we'll all be foot soldiers.'
'But I'll be the only one actually on my feet.'
'We have to find Sergei. He's sixty hours ahead of us now, which means we've probably lost him, but he, at the moment, is our only possible witness. There's got to be one last push at his possible escape routes. I'll ask Juez Calderón if we can put his photo in the press.'
Falcón dismissed them, told them all to go to the bar La Jota and he'd buy them a beer. They filed out. He held Ferrera back.
'I've just had another thought,' he said. 'You got on well with Sr Cabello. I want you to go back to him, and it's going to have to be tonight, because José Luis and I need to go into Vázquez with the information tomorrow morning. I want you to find out from him which properties he sold to Rafael Vega and, in the case of the strategically placed ones, which developments they opened up.'
Falcón drove her to the bar La Jota and bought his round of beers. He called Calderón, no answer. He left the squad in the bar and, on the way to Isabel Cano's office, dropped in on Edificio de los Juzgados. It was silent. The security guard said that Calderón had left at 7 p.m. and that he hadn't seen Inés. Falcón called Pablo Ortega and asked if he could stop by his house to show him some photographs.
'You and your photographs,' said Ortega, irritably. 'As long as you make it quick.'
Isabel Cano's office was open but empty. He knocked on the desktop and she shouted from her office for him to come in. She was sitting at her desk with her heels off, smoking. Her head was thrown back and her hair spilled down the black leather chair. She smiled at him out of the corner of her face.
'Thank God for the weekend,' she said. 'Have you recovered your marbles yet?'
'If anything, the idea has consolidated in my mind.'
'Cops,' she said, wincing at their mental incapacity.
'We lead very sheltered lives.'
'But it doesn't mean you've got to be stupid,' said Isabel. 'Please don't make me capitulate when I've only just started on Manuela. It's bad for my image.'
'Can I sit down?'
She waved vaguely at a chair with her cigarette fingers. Falcón liked Isabel Cano but sometimes she could be abrasive. There was no subject too delicate not to be slapped on the table and filleted like so much fish.
'You know what I've been through, Isabel,' he said.
'Actually, I don't,' she said, surprising him. 'I can only imagine what you've been through.'
'Well, that'll do,' said Falcón. 'The fact is I feel like a man who's lost everything. All the things that made me human were brought into question. People need a living structure to give themselves a sense of belonging. All I have is memory, which is unreliable. But what I do have is a brother and a sister. Paco is a good man who will always do the right thing. Manuela is complicated for a whole bunch of reasons but which all boil down to the fact that she didn't get the love she wanted from Francisco.'
'I don't feel sorry for her and nor should you,' said Isabel.
'But despite what I know about Manu
ela - her avarice, possessiveness and covetousness - I need her to be my sister. I need to hear her call me her hermanito, her little brother. It's sentimental, illogical and offensive to your legal mind… but it's the way it is.'
Isabel's leather chair creaked. The air conditioning breathed. The city slumped in silence.
'And you think you'll get it by giving her the house?'
'By coming to an agreement on the house, which I no longer want to live in, I will open up the possibility. If I don't, I will have to bear the brunt of her hate.'
'You might think you need her, but she knows she doesn't need you. You have become dispensable because you are no longer a full-blood relative. You are just a barrier,' said Isabel. 'When you give people like Manuela something, all they want is more. They are incapable of love. Your gift will not give what you crave, but it will create resentment, lending her hate more purpose.'
Each sentence was like a slap across his face, as if she was bringing a hysteric back to reality.
'You're probably right,' he said, shaken by her verbal brutality, 'but my nature dictates that I have to take a risk and hope you're proved wrong.'
She threw up her hands and said she'd draft a letter
for him to read. He offered to take her for a drink and a tapa in El Cairo but she declined.
'I'd offer you a drink here, but I don't keep any in the office,' she said.
'Let's go to El Cairo, then,' said Falcón.
'I don't want what we're going to talk about now to have any chance of local broadcast.'
'Have we got anything else to talk about?'
'What you mentioned to me this morning.'
'Esteban Calderón,' said Falcón, sitting back down.
'Did you ask me about him now because he's going to get married to Inés?'
'They announced it on Wednesday,' he said.
'Do you remember who handled your divorce with Inés?'
'You did.'
'So why is Esteban's history any business of yours?'