Robert Wilson - The Ignorance of Blood

‘I left a message on Nikita's phone.’

‘Sokolov?’ he asked, barely able to control his rage at having to pronounce another traitor's name.

‘Yes.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Revnik. ‘We'll handle it. Don't worry.’

Calle Bustos Tavera, Seville – Friday, 15th September 2006, 15.50 hrs

There were two people in the world for whom Falcón would drop everything. One was Consuelo Jiménez and the other was Yacoub Diouri. Ever since he'd tracked down Yacoub four years ago he'd become the younger brother Falcón had never had. Because of Yacoub's own complicated past he'd had a special understanding of the complexities of the family horrors that had led to Falcón's complete mental breakdown back in 2001. In gradually revealing themselves to each other, Yacoub had become synonymous with the reassertion of sanity in Falcón's mind. Now, in the wake of the Seville bombing, he was even more than a friend and brother. He had become Falcón's spy. The Spanish intelligence agency, the CNI, in their sudden, desperate need for agents in the Arab countries nearest their borders, had researched the special relationship between Falcón and Yacoub Diouri. Having seen other Western intelligence agencies fail in their bid to recruit Yacoub, they'd used Falcón to bring him into their fold.

It was for this reason that, when Falcón received a text from Yacoub Diouri as he stood in the courtyard outside Marisa's studio, he went immediately in search of a public telephone. They hadn't spoken since the short break in Essaouira last month. Their only communication had been on ‘business’, via the intelligence service's encrypted website. The CNI had insisted on zero physical contact with Yacoub since he'd successfully penetrated the radical Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, the GICM, in the days after the Seville bombing. It was this group which had been storing a hundred kilos of the high explosive, hexogen, in the basement mosque in a residential quarter of Seville. Yacoub had found out how that hexogen was going to be used, and in doing so the CNI were concerned that his cover had been blown. There had been some tense days in Paris when they thought that their new agent might be assassinated. Their fears had been groundless. Yacoub returned to Rabat, but the CNI were still so nervous that the only contact they'd allowed was on Falcón's August holiday, which had been arranged in April, two months before the recruitment of Yacoub Diouri.

It took him a while to find a public phone. Falcón understood from the text, which they'd arranged between themselves in Essaouira, that this was to be a private conversation and he should not to use his home phone or mobile to make the call.

‘I'm in Madrid,’ said Yacoub, with a quiver in his voice.

‘You sound nervous.’

‘We have to meet.’

‘When?’

‘Now … as soon as possible. I couldn't warn you before because … well, you know why.’

‘I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to get away at such short notice.’

‘I'm not asking you to do this for no reason at all, Javier. It's complicated and important. It's the most important thing that's happened so far.’

‘Is this business?’

‘It's business and it's personal.’

Falcón had something else ‘personal’ going on tonight. He was supposed to be having dinner with Consuelo, just the two of them. Another assignation in the gradual process of their coming together.

‘Are you talking about tonight?’ asked Falcón.

‘Earlier.’

‘It sounds like you want me to catch the next possible train.’

‘That would be good,’ said Yacoub. ‘It's that important.’

‘I'll have to work up a plausible reason for…’

‘You're in the middle of an international investigation. There must be a hundred reasons for you to come to Madrid. Call me when you know which train you're on. I'll let you know where I'm going to be. And, Javier … don't tell anyone that you're coming to see me.’

It was strange how, even after all this time, there were still certain moments which demanded an immediate cigarette. He drove to the Santa Justa station, got caught in traffic and called Inspector Jefe Luis Zorrita, said he needed to talk to him about Marisa Moreno's evidence. Did he have some time this evening? Zorrita was surprised; the case was locked off. Falcón said he had other things to discuss as well. They arranged to meet as close to 7 p.m. as possible.

A thought came to him as he replayed Yacoub's conversation. He wondered if this ‘business and personal’ problem was related to Yacoub's homosexuality. Although Yacoub was a happily married man with two children, he had this other secret life which, to the radical Islamic GICM, would be unacceptable.

The traffic opened up. Falcón moved on, put a call through to his second-in-command, Inspector José Luis Ramírez, whose usual stolid pugnacity had given way to a mixture of anger and excitement after viewing the disks they'd found in Vasili Lukyanov's briefcase.

‘You won't believe this shit,’ he said. ‘A councillor with two girls at the same time. A town planner giving it to a teenager in the ass. A building inspector snorting cocaine off a black girl's tits. And that's the mild stuff. This will crack the Costa del Sol wide open, if it gets out.’

‘Don't let it. You know the rules. Only one computer in our department –’

‘Relax, Javier. It's all under control.’

‘I'm not coming back in today,’ said Falcón. ‘Am I going to see you tomorrow?’

‘Elvira's out. It's quiet here. I'll be here in the morning and I'll stay if you want me to, but I'd rather not.’

‘Let's see how it goes,’ said Falcón. ‘I hope you can have a nice weekend.’

‘Hold on a sec, the GRECO guy, Vicente Cortés, was in here earlier looking for you. He wanted to tell you that he's had a report about a Russian who was found up in the hills behind San Pedro de Alcántara, with a nine-millimetre bullet in the back of his head. Alexei Somebody. A big friend of the guy you found on the motorway with a steel rod through his heart. Mean anything?’

‘More to Cortés than to me,’ said Falcón, and hung up.

At the Santa Justa station, Falcón found that the next AVE to Madrid was at 16.30, which would put him there just in time for his meeting with Inspector Jefe Zorrita. He called Yacoub on a phone in the station, trying to work out when he could get back to Seville and whether it would still be possible to make it to Consuelo's for dinner. Wanting that. Needing that. Even though progress was slow.

‘See Zorrita,’ said Yacoub. ‘I'll let you know where to go afterwards.’

Falcón ate something unmemorable, drank a beer, sunk a café solo and boarded the train. He wanted to sleep but there was too much brain interference. A woman sitting opposite him was talking to her daughter on her mobile. She was getting remarried and her daughter wasn't happy about it. Complicated lives, getting more complicated by the minute.

The prison governor called to say that Esteban Calderón had put in a request to see a psychologist.

The train slashed through the brown, parched plains of northern Andalucía.

Where had the rain gone?

‘He won't see the prison psychologist,’ said the governor. ‘He talks about this woman you know, but he can't remember her name.’

‘Alicia Aguado,’ said Falcón.

‘You're not the investigating officer in Señor Calderón's case, are you?’

‘No, but I'm seeing the officer who is this evening. I'll make sure he contacts you.’

He hung up. The woman opposite had finished speaking to her daughter. She spun the mobile on the table with a long, painted nail. She looked up. The sort of woman who always knows when she's under observation. Dangerous, save-my-life eyes, thought Falcón. The daughter was right to be concerned.