Robert Wilson - The Hidden Assassins

They stood in the violet light of a sun that was beginning to set on this catastrophic day and, with the machinery inexorably clawing away at the piled rubble, their murmured prayers, guttering candles and the already wilting flowers were both pathetic and touching, as pitiful and moving as the futile deaths of all humans in the vast grotesqueness of war. As the lawmen backed away from the shrine, Elvira's mobile rang. He took the call and handed it to Falcon. It was Juan from the CNI, saying that they had to meet tonight. Falcon said he would be home in an hour. The hospital was calm after the frenetic activity of the day. In the emergency room they were still picking glass out of people's faces and suturing lacerations. There were patients in the waiting room, but there was no longer the horror of the triage nurse wading through the victims, skidding on blood, looking into the wide, dark eyes of the injured, silently pleading. Falcon showed his police ID and asked for Lourdes Alanis, who was in the intensive care unit on the first floor.

Through the glass panels of the intensive care unit Fernando was visible at his daughter's bedside, holding her hand. She was hooked up to machines but seemed to be breathing on her own. The doctor in the ICU said she was making good progress. She had sustained a broken arm and a crushed leg, but no spinal injuries. Their main concern had been her head injuries. She was still in a coma, but a scan had revealed no evidence of brain damage or haemorrhaging. As they talked, Fernando left the ICU to go to the toilet. Falcon gave him a few minutes and went in after him. He was washing his hands and face.

'Who are you?' he asked, looking at Falcon via the mirror, suspicious, knowing he wasn't a doctor.

'We met earlier today by your apartment block. My name is Javier Falcon. I'm the Inspector Jefe of the homicide squad.'

Fernando frowned, shook his head; he didn't remember.

'Does this mean that you've caught the people who destroyed my family?'

'No, we're still working on that.'

'You won't have to look very far. That rat hole is crawling with them.'

'With who?'

'Fucking Moroccans,' he said. 'Those fucking bastards. We've been looking at them all this time, ever since 11th March, and we've been thinking…when's the next time going to be. We always knew that there was going to be a next time.'

'Who is "we"?'

'Alright, me. That's what I've been thinking,' said Fernando. 'But I know I'm not alone.'

'I didn't think the relations between the communities were so bad,' said Falcon.

'That's because you don't live in "the communities",' said Fernando. 'I've seen the news, full of nice, comfortable people telling you that everything is all right, that Muslims and Catholics are communicating, that there's some kind of "healing process" going on. I can tell you, it's all bullshit. We live in a state of suspicion and fear.'

'Even though you know that very few members of the Muslim population are terrorists?'

'That's what we're told, but we don't know it,' said Fernando. 'And what's more, we have no idea who they are. They could be standing next to me in the bar, drinking beer and eating jamon. Yes, you see, some of them even do that. Eat pig and drink alcohol. But it seems that they're just as likely to blow themselves up as the one who spends his life with his nose to the floor in the mosque.'

'I didn't come here to make you angry,' said Falcon. 'You've got enough to think about without that.'

'You didn't make me angry. I am angry. I've been angry a long time. Two years and three months I've been angry,' said Fernando. 'Gloria, my wife…'

He stopped. His face came apart. His mouth thickened with saliva. He had to support himself against the basin as the physical pain worked its way through. It took some minutes for him to pull himself together.

'Gloria was a good person. She believed in the good that exists in everyone. But her belief didn't protect her, it didn't protect our son. The people she spoke up for killed her, in the same way that they killed the ones they hate, and who hate them. Anyway, that's enough. I must get back to my daughter. I know you didn't have to come and find me here. You've got a lot on your plate. So I thank you for that…for your concern. And I wish you well in your investigation. I hope you find the killers before I do.'

'I want you to call me,' said Falcon, giving him his card, 'at any time, day or night, for whatever reason. If you're angry, depressed, violent, lonely or even hungry, I want you to call me.'

'I didn't think you people were supposed to get personally involved.'

'I also want you to tell me if you're ever contacted by a group who call themselves VOMIT, so it's important on two levels that we keep in touch.'

They left the toilet and shook hands outside, where, on the other side of the glass, his daughter's life was readable in green on the screens. Fernando hesitated as he leaned against the door.

'Only one politician spoke to me today,' he said. 'I saw them all parading themselves before the cameras with the victims and their families. This was while they were operating on Lourdes' skull, so I had time to look at their ridiculous antics. Only one person found me.'

'Who was that?'

'Jesus Alarcon,' said Fernando. 'I'd never heard of him before. He's the new leader of Fuerza Andalucia.'

'What did he say to you?'

'He didn't say anything. He listened-and there wasn't a camera in sight.' The sky darkened to purple over the old city like the discoloration around a recent wound that had begun to hurt in earnest. Falcon drove on automatic, his mind buried deep in intractable problems: a bomb explodes, killing, maiming and destroying. What is left after the dust clears and the bodies are taken away is a horrendous social and political confusion, where emotions rise to the surface and, like wind on the susceptible grass of the plain, influence can blow people's minds this way and that, turn them from beer-sippers into chest-thumpers.

The three CNI men were waiting for him outside his house on Calle Bailen. He parked his car in front of the oak doors. They all shook hands and followed him through to the patio, which was looking a little dishevelled these days. Encarnacion, his housekeeper, wasn't as capable as she used to be and Falcon didn't have the money for the renovation required. And anyway, he'd grown to enjoy living in the encroaching shabbiness of his surroundings.

He dragged some chairs out around a marble-topped table on the patio and left the CNI men to listen to the water trickling in the fountain. He came back with cold beers, olives, capers, pickled garlic, crisps, bread, cheese and jamon. They ate and drank and talked about Spain's chances in the World Cup in Germany; always the same-a team full of genius and promise, which was never fulfilled.

'Do you have any idea why we want to talk to you?' asked Pablo, who was more relaxed now, less intensely observant.

'Something to do with my Moroccan connections, so I was told.'

'You're a very interesting man to us,' said Pablo. 'We don't want to hide the fact that we've been looking at you for some time now.'

'I'm not sure that I've got the right mentality for secret work any more. If you'd asked me five years ago, then you might have found the ideal candidate…'

'Who is the ideal candidate?' asked Juan.

'Someone who is already hiding a great deal from the world, from his family, from his wife, and from himself. A few state secrets on top wouldn't be such a burden.'

'We don't want you to be a spy,' said Juan.

'Do you want me to deceive?'

'No, we think deceiving would be a very bad idea under the circumstances.'

'You'll understand better what we want by answering a few questions,' said Pablo, wresting the interview back from his boss.