Robert Wilson - The Hidden Assassins

'Thanks for that, Mark. Now why don't you tell me about Los Martires Islamicos para la Liberacion de Andalucia?'

'I first heard about them at the end of last year as El Movimiento rather than Los Martires. My source in Algiers told me that they were a disaffected faction of the Algerian GIA, the Armed Islamic Group, who had crossed the border into Morocco and teamed up with a local group, whose goal at the time was the liberation of the Spanish enclaves in Morocco: Ceuta and Melilla. The Algerians brought with them a network, with operatives already installed in Madrid, Granada, Malaga and Valencia.'

'But not Seville?'

'I'm coming to that,' said Flowers. 'My source told me that what the Moroccans could supply was finance. They were cash rich from their connections in the hashish trade in the Rif mountains. What they didn't have was a network and a strategy. Both Ceuta and Melilla are small enclaves, well protected and well supplied by the Spanish mainland. The Algerians saw the money and told them to think big. Liberate Andalucia, cut off the Spanish supply line to Ceuta and Melilla, and this Western corner of the Islamic kingdom is whole once again.'

'You'd need an army and a navy to take Andalucia.'

'And there's the British in Gibraltar, who might have an opinion on the matter, too,' said Flowers. 'But that is not the point. The liberation of Andalucia is an inspiring ideal that fills the hearts of Islamic fanatics with a warm Allah-infused glow. It is the dream that will draw followers to the cause. My source also read the Algerians' intentions wrong. They didn't want access to the hashish trade because of finance, they wanted to tap into their smuggling routes to get people and material across to Spain.'

'Has that been happening?'

'Nobody's been caught,' said Flowers. 'Smuggling routes generally exist because they're allowed to. There's a constant stream of hashish from Morocco and cocaine from South America coming into the long, unpatrollable Iberian coastline, and there's plenty of money to keep the authorities happy and quiet.'

This talk made Falcon's sweat run cold. The money, organization and corruption were all in place to make a devastating campaign on Andalucia seem likely rather than crazy.

'What about Seville and the MILA?' asked Falcon.

'Some Afghans arrived in Morocco in January.'

'Where in Morocco? How do your sources get such information? Why aren't we getting it?'

'There's no base. There's no town hall with posters outside advertising "MILA Meeting Tonight". I have one source, at the wrong level, who is able to give me bits and pieces. You don't just walk into these groups off the street. You have to be vouched for. It's all to do with family and tribal ties. I believe my source's information, but I'm wary of sharing it because he's peripheral to the group's leading council.'

'Which means it could be invention?'

'You see, Javier, being given information doesn't necessarily make the picture any clearer.'

'Tell me about the Afghan connection.'

'Some Afghans arrived, offering the group a Seville connection. They said he was capable of giving recce and logistical support, but did not have the capacity to carry out an attack.'

'Name?'

'He couldn't give me one.'

'One of the worshippers in the mosque here told me that there had been a visit from a group of Afghans and that the Imam had spoken to them in Pashto.'

'I'd be careful about putting those two pieces of information together without more corroboration,' said Flowers.

'What's the news on Abdelkrim Benaboura?' asked Falcon. 'He doesn't seem to be high risk and yet there's a clearance problem with his history. What does that mean?'

'That they don't know who he is from a certain date, which is normally around the end of 2001 and the beginning of 2002 when the US went into Afghanistan and the Taliban regime broke up and dispersed. You have to remember, until 9/11 the US and European intelligence network in the Islamic world was negligible. We sorted out who was who on our own turf in the years that followed, but there were, and still are, very large gaps-as you'd expect from an introverted religion that stretches from Indonesia to Morocco and Northern Europe to South Africa. Factor in the difficulties of identification, given the clothes these people wear, the headgear and facial hair, and histories are not so easily matched to people.'

'You still haven't told me anything about Abdelkrim Benaboura.'

'Why do the CNI think it's so important for you to recruit Yacoub now, right at the moment when you're supposed to be heading the biggest murder enquiry of your career?'

'The CNI think they might have discovered something even bigger.'

'Like what?'

'They weren't prepared to say.'

'What have they got that's made them think that?'

'You don't miss much, Mark, do you?' said Falcon, but Flowers didn't answer. He was deep in distracted thought until he looked at his watch, knocked back his whisky and said he had to go. Falcon walked him to the door.

'Have you tried to recruit Yacoub Diouri yourself?' asked Falcon.

'Something worth remembering,' said Flowers, 'he doesn't like Americans. Now, who was that beautiful woman who left just as I arrived?'

'My ex-wife.'

'I've got two ex-wives,' said Flowers. 'It's funny how ex-wives are always more beautiful than wives. Think about that, Javier.'

'That's all you do, Mark, leave me with more to think about than when you arrived.'

'I'll give you something else to roll around your brain,' said Flowers. 'The CNI planted the story about the MILA in the press. How about that?'

'Why would they do that?'

'Welcome to my wonderful world, Javier,' said Flowers, walking off into the night.

He stopped at the end of the short avenue of orange trees and turned back to Javier, who was silhouetted in the doorway.

'One last piece of advice,' said Flowers. 'Don't try to understand the whole picture…there's nobody in the world who does.'

Seville-Wednesday, 7th June 2006, 04.05 hrs

Manuela lay in bed alone, trying to ignore the faint click of Angel's fingers on the keys of his laptop in another room. She blinked in the dark, holding back the full contemplation of something very horrible: the sale of her villa in El Puerto de Santa Maria, an hour's drive south from Seville on the coast. The villa had been left to her by her father, and every room was packed with adolescent nostalgia. The fact that Francisco Falcon didn't much like the place and loathed all the neighbours, the so-called Seville high society, had been erased from Manuela's memory. She imagined her father's spirit writhing in agony at the proposed sale. It was, however, the only way that she could see of repairing her financial situation. The banks had already called her before close of business, asking where the funds were that she'd told them to expect. It was the only solution that had come to her, in the death and debt hour of four o'clock in the morning. The estate agent had told her the obvious: the Seville property market would be stalled until further notice. She had four possible buyers for her villa, who were constantly 261 reminding her of their readiness to purchase. But could she let it go?

Angel had been calling her all day, trying to restrain the excitement in his voice. His conversation was full of the ramifications of Rivero's retirement and the great new hope of Fuerza Andalucia, Jesus Alarcon, who he'd been steering around all day, after interviewing him for the profile in the ABC. Angel's media manipulation had been brilliant. He'd kept Jesus off camera when he visited the hospital and got him to talk privately to the victims and their families. His greatest coup had been to get him through to Fernando Alanis in the intensive care unit. Jesus and Fernando had talked. No cameras. No reporters. And they'd hit it off. It couldn't have been better. Later, when the Mayor and a camera crew got through to intensive care, Fernando had mentioned Jesus Alarcon, on camera, as the only politician who hadn't sought to make any media capital out of the victims' misery. It was pure luck, but a total masterstroke for Angel's campaign. The Mayor had just managed to squeeze back the nervous smile that wanted to creep across his face. Consuelo couldn't stop herself. Why should she? She couldn't sleep. What better way to remember carefree sleep than to watch the experts; the calm faces of the innocents, eyelids trembling, softly breathing, deep and dreamless in their beds. Ricardo was first, the fourteen-year-old, who'd reached the gawky age, where his face was stretching in odd directions, trying to find its adult mould. This wasn't such a peaceful age, with too many hormones shooting around the body and sexual yearning fighting with football in his mind. Matias was twelve and seemed to be growing up quicker than his elder brother; easier to walk in somebody else's footsteps than to tread out one's own, as Ricardo had done with no father to guide him.