Robert Wilson - The Hidden Assassins

Barreda stared at Falcon, trying to see inside.

'You were a friend he met at church, after all,' said Falcon. 'I would have thought you were bound to talk about the Islamic threat. And then once it came out…the nature of his work, I mean. It would seem a natural progression to at least discuss the connection.'

Barreda sat back with an intake of breath and looked around the room, as if for inspiration.

'Did you ever meet Paco Molero?' asked Falcon.

Two blinks. He had.

'Well, Paco,' continued Falcon, 'said that Ricardo, by his own admission, had been a fanatic, that he'd only just managed to transform himself from being an extremist to being merely devout. And that he'd managed to achieve this through a fruitful relationship with a priest, who died recently of cancer. Where would you describe yourself as being on that integral scale between say, lapsed and fanatical?'

'I've always been very devout,' said Barreda. 'There's been a priest in every generation of my family.'

'Including your own?'

'Except mine.'

'Is that something you feel…disappointed by?'

'Yes, it is.'

'Was that one of the attractions of the culture at Informaticalidad?' said Falcon. 'It sounds a bit like a seminary, but with a capitalist aim.'

'They've always been very good to me there.'

'Do you think there's a danger that people with like minds and with the same intensity of faith might become, in the absence of a balancing outside influence, drawn towards an extreme position?'

'I've heard of that happening in cults,' said Barreda.

'How would you describe a cult?'

'An organization with a charismatic leader, that uses questionable psychological techniques to control its followers.'

Falcon left that hanging, sipped his coffee and took the top off his water. He glanced up at the television to see that Lobo and Spinola had now been replaced by Elvira and del Rey.

'The apartment which Informaticalidad bought on Calle Los Romeros near the mosque-did you ever go there?'

'Before it was bought they asked me to look at it to see if it was suitable.'

'Suitable for what?' asked Falcon. 'Diego Torres told me…'

'You're right. There wasn't much to look at. It was entirely suitable.'

'How upset were you by Ricardo's death?' asked Falcon. 'That's a terrible thing for a devout Catholic to do: to kill himself. No last rites. No final absolution. Do you know why people commit suicide?'

A frown had started up on Marco's forehead. A trembling frown. He was staring into his coffee, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to control emotion.

'Some people kill themselves because they feel responsible for a catastrophe. Other people suddenly lose the impetus for carrying on. We all have something that glues us into place-a lover, friends, family, work, home, but there are other extraordinary people who are glued into place by much bigger ideals. Ricardo was one of those people: a remarkable man with great religious faith and a vocation. Is that what he suddenly lost when that bomb exploded on 6th June?'

Barreda sipped his coffee, licked the bitter foam from his lips and replaced the cup with a rattle in its saucer.

'I was very upset by his death,' said Barreda, just to stop the barrage of words from Falcon. 'I have no idea why he committed suicide.'

'But you recognize what it means for a man of his faith to do that?'

Barreda nodded.

'You know who Ricardo's other great friend was?' asked Falcon. 'Miguel Botin. Did you know him?'

No reaction from Barreda. He knew him. Falcon piled on the pressure.

'Miguel was Ricardo's source in the mosque. A Spanish convert to Islam. They were very close. They had great respect for each other's faith. I have a feeling that it was as much Miguel Botin as Ricardo's old priest, that pulled him back from the brink of fanaticism to something more reasonable. What do you think?'

Barreda had his elbows up on the table, his fingertips pressed into his forehead and his thumbs pushing into his cheekbones, hard enough for the skin to turn white.

Falcon had Barreda right there on the brink, but he couldn't get him to move that last centimetre. His mind seemed locked in a state of great uncertainty and doubt. Falcon still had his ace up his sleeve, but what about the drawing? If he showed it to him and the man was unrecognizable he would lose his present advantage, but if it was a close likeness it could blow the whole thing open. He decided to play the ace.

'The last time you saw Ricardo was on Sunday,' said Falcon. 'But it wasn't the last time you spoke to him, was it? Do you know who was the last person on earth that Ricardo spoke to before he hanged himself out of his bedroom window? The last number on the list of mobile calls he made?'

Silence, apart from the television burble at the far end of the cafe.

'What did he say to you, Marco?' asked Falcon. 'Were you able to give him absolution for his sins?'

The whole bar suddenly erupted. All the men were on their feet, hurling insults at the television. A couple of empty plastic bottles were thrown, which glanced off the TV, whose screen was full of del Rey's face.

'What did he say?' Falcon asked the man nearest to him, who was shouting: 'Cabron! Cabron!' in time with the rest of the men in the bar.

'He's trying to tell us that it might not have been Islamic terrorists after all,' said the man, his tremendous belly quivering with rage. 'He's trying to tell us that it could have been our own people who've done this. Our own people, who want to blow up an apartment block and schools, and kill innocent men, women and children? Go back to Madrid, you fucking wanker.'

Falcon turned back to Marco Barreda, who looked stunned by the reaction around him.

'Fuck off back to Madrid, cabron'!

The bar owner stepped in and changed the channel before someone put a glass bottle through the screen. The men settled back into their chairs. The fat guy nudged Falcon.

'The other judge, he beat his wife, but at least he knew what he was talking about.'

The television showed another current affairs programme. The interviewer introduced her two guests. The first was Fernando Alanis, whose introduction was lost in applause from the bar. They knew him. He was the one who'd lost his wife and son, and whose daughter had miraculously survived and was now fighting for her life in hospital. Falcon realized that this was the man they were all going to believe. It didn't matter what he said, his tragedy had conferred on him a legitimacy that Juez del Rey's vast experience and command of the facts totally lacked. In the other chair was Jesus Alarcon, the new leader of Fuerza Andalucia. The bar was silent, listening intently. These were the people who were going to tell them the truth.

Barreda excused himself to go to the toilet. Falcon sat back from the table in a state of shock. He'd lost all the leverage he'd just created. Why hadn't Elvira given del Rey the message that he shouldn't mention the other angle of the investigation? Now that the mistake had been made, it was clear that, even as an enquiry, let alone a possible truth, it was totally unacceptable to the local populace.

The topic of the TV discussion was immigration. The interviewer's first question was irrelevant, as Fernando had come to the cameras well primed. There wasn't a sound in the bar as he started to talk.

'I'm not a politician. I'm sorry to say this in front of Sr Alarcon, who is a man I've grown to respect over the days since the explosion, but I don't like politicians and I don't believe a word they say, and I know I'm not alone. I am here today to tell you how it is. I'm not an opinion-maker. I am a labourer who works on a building site, and I used to have a family,' said Fernando, who had to stop momentarily as his Adam's apple jumped in his throat. 'I lived in the apartment block in El Cerezo which was blown up on Tuesday. I know from the media people I've met over the last few days that they would like to believe, and they would like the world to believe, that we live in a harmonious and tolerant modern society here in Spain. In talking to these people I realized why this is the case. They are all intelligent people, far more intelligent than a mere labourer, but the truth of the matter is that they do not live the life that I do. They are well off, they live in nice houses, in good areas, they take regular holidays, their children go to good schools. And it is from this point of view that they look at their country. They want it to continue in the way that it appears to them.