Robert Wilson - The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

They confirmed his orders back to him and told him that the apartment did belong to Juez Calderón's sister and that she was currently away on holiday in Ibiza.

The advertising on Avenida de Kansas City flashed past as he headed back into the city. He had to get right across to the other side of town, but there was little traffic and in twenty minutes he'd been allowed through a police cordon and was parked on Calle Tabladilla, opposite a government building about fifty metres down from the incident. The street was empty apart from patrolmen sticking close to the shops underneath the long stretch of the development. One of the men told him that it was all quiet. He radioed through to his partner in the apartment block opposite looking for a view point. He was in apartment 403 overlooking Calle Tabladilla.

It was an oppressive night and the sweat gathered in Falcón's hair as he crossed the street to the grey, stone-clad apartment block with its chrome balconies. It was the kind of place where a young, well-off professional would buy. He took the lift up to the fourth floor and was let in by a young guy in a pair of shorts who had no interest in what was going on. A movie was showing on the television. He sat on the sofa with his girlfriend, drinking beer.

The patrolman was out on the balcony, his binoculars trained across the street. He handed them to Falcón. There was a lot of greenery overhanging the balconies of the apartments opposite, most of which were shuttered. The incident was easy enough to find. It was in the only apartment with any lighting. There were no internal blinds or curtains drawn. There was about 1.50 metres of wall between a large window and the sliding doors out on to the balcony. Calderón and Maddy Krugman were sitting side by side on the sofa. The judge held himself rigid, feet and knees together, arms folded tightly across his chest. Maddy Krugman was almost lying down on the sofa in an absurdly relaxed fashion. They were both dressed as if they were about to go out to dinner. Judging by the direction they were looking, Marty Krugman was standing in front of them with his back to the wall separating the window from the balcony. He came into view for a second. He had no jacket, there was a dark strip of sweat down the back of his creased shirt and he had a gun in his left hand.

The movie on the television finished and was replaced by ads. The young guy came to the doors out on to the balcony.

'What's going on over there?'

'Just a domestic situation that's got out of control,' said Falcón.

'We heard the gunshot – I thought it was on the movie.'

'What time?'

'Just after ten.'

It was now 10.40 p.m. Falcón surveyed the interior walls of the apartment. He found the bullet hole in the wall above Maddy Krugman's head. She obviously hadn't taken her husband seriously enough and had been reminded that this was neither a game nor a replica gun. He called Comisario Elvira and gave his report.

'What's Krugman's mental state been like in the interviews you've conducted?'

'He's an intellectual with an obsessive streak, prone to ranting but controllable. He listens. He's normally civilized and sophisticated, but he's become more disturbed over the past few days, probably as a result of his wife's liaison with Juez Calderón. If he's psychotic it's uncontrollable jealousy that's tipped him over the edge,' said Falcón. 'We've been getting on fine. There's mutual respect. I'd like to go in there and try to talk him down.'

'All right. Call him on the fixed line first. Tell him you're going to knock on the door. No surprises. Garcia, from the Antiterrorism squad, is coming down there and he's bringing a marksman with him. Wait until they arrive.'

'Krugman's not a terrorist.'

'I know that now, but I didn't know that then. I alerted Garcia when the information was imperfect. Anyway, he's got experience in these situations.'

Garcia made contact a few minutes later. Falcón sent the patrolman to bring him up. He came out on to the balcony with the marksman, who seemed satisfied with the angle and went back inside to assemble his gun.

'You're going in?' asked Garcia.

'I know the gunman.'

'There'll be three of you and him on his own. He'll have to keep an eye on you, which will give me possibilities out here.'

'I think I can talk this man down. He's not crazy or on drugs.'

'That's good, but if he does lose control there's not much opportunity for a marksman from out here without endangering the lives of the hostages.'

'What are you saying?'

'It would be better to storm the apartment.'

'I don't think it'll come to that.'

They worked out some emergency signals for Falcón and he made the call to the apartment. Maddy answered the phone before Marty could exert his control over the development. Falcón asked to speak • to her husband.

'It's for you,' she said ironically and held out the phone to Marty.

'I still haven't spoken to the Russians,' said Krugman, chuckling. 'I'm busy.'

'I'm outside, Marty,' said Falcón, leaving the apartment and heading downstairs.

'I thought the shot might attract some attention,' he said. 'This was supposed to be a private thing, but Maddy can be headstrong and I just had to show her I wasn't playing games. Anyway, what can I do for you, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón crossed the street and started going up the stairs to Calderón's sister's apartment.

'I want to come in and speak to you. I'm right outside the apartment door. Will you let me in?'

'I suppose you've got some kind of SWAT team out there with you?'

'No, it's just me.'

'The street is very quiet.'

'It's been cleared for everyone's safety, that's all,' said Falcón. 'We don't want anybody getting hurt, Marty.'

'People have already been hurt,' he said.

'I realize that -'

'No, I mean really hurt… physically,' said Marty. 'This isn't what you think it is.'

'Then what is it?'

'It's private. We're beyond any mediation.'

'I'm not here to mediate.'

'Then you must have come to bear witness to the destruction of people's lives.'

'No, I certainly haven't come for that,' said Falcón. 'I've just come to hear you out.'

'I told Maddy they don't make cops like you back home,' said Marty. 'They like people with square heads that fit neatly into vices. It's easier to narrow their minds that way. They don't see colour or any gradations, just black and white.'

'We only come into people's lives at the crisis points,' said Falcón. 'Sometimes we have to simplify, cut out the grey. I try not to do it, that's all. I'm going to ring the doorbell now and I'd like you to let me in.'

'OK, Inspector Jefe, you can come in. I need a fair man to listen to me. But you have to know something first,' he said. 'By coming in you only endanger yourself. You will not affect the outcome. That is already written. Fate dictated it some time ago.'

'I understand,' said Falcón, and rang the bell to keep the pressure on.

Calderón opened the door. He was sweating heavily and shivering in the chill of the apartment. He had the sunken, pleading eyes of a street beggar. Maddy Krugman stood behind him looking fierce and behind her Marty held the gun to the back of Calderón's head.

'In you come, Inspector Jefe. Close the door, double lock it and put the chain on.'

Krugman was calm. While Falcón dealt with the door, he got the other two to lie down in the hall, hands behind their heads. Krugman frisked Falcón's upper body and thighs and asked to see his ankles. They all went into the sitting room. Calderón and

Maddy resumed their seats. She was quite languid in her movements, as if none of this was her concern and it was just a tiresome family reunion she'd been forced to attend.

'I'll sit here,' said Falcón, choosing an armchair near the sliding doors so that Garcia had a clear view of him.