Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

‘She’s another one. Doesn’t stop digging around. She’s not afraid of anything.’

‘There’s always something.’

‘Well, she has a cat. I didn’t know there were police cats!’

Brinco had used a touch of irony and the Old Man appreciated his effort.

‘Once, in the cinema, somebody launched a cat from the top balcony. The Madman of Antas probably. He ruined the film. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to catch a good cat.’

A MAP OF the world with pinned notes: tax haven, offshore, mother port, supply ship, transfer, unloading, consignment… The lines of routes and journeys indicated in different colours. The black line shows tobacco, the yellow line videotapes, and a third line, in red, cocaine. A green line, the transfer of personnel. One of these shows the following stages: Porto — Río — Bogotá—Medellín — Mexico — Panama — Miami — Madrid, with the initials VR — OM: Víctor Rumbo—Óscar Mendoza. In another section, photographs have been affixed using pins with different-coloured heads. There are more notes and Post-its placed according to their colour in such a way that they create a certain symmetry. The chart is like a kind of family tree, with the following label at the top: ‘Limited Company’. The section devoted to personnel is headed by photographs of Mariscal Brancana, Macro Gamboa, Delmiro Oliveira and Tonino Montiglio, with several other, unidentified silhouettes. Lower down are Óscar Mendoza, with a question mark between brackets, and Víctor Rumbo. They appear as a hub from which there are connections to different places. One of the larger ones: Círculo Ltd, with dozens of photographs. One of the many secondary portraits shows Leda Hortas framed in the spy’s window, and another one, Chelín Balboa, who seems to be smiling at the camera. A third section, denominated ‘Grey Area’, shows establishments, properties and businesses that act as fronts or laundries. Last of all is a chart called ‘Shady Area’, with branches leading to courts, security forces, communications, customs and banks. Here, like a kind of epigraph, are not specific notes, but codified numbers.

The map, photos, pins, coloured stickers, the different sections, all indicate a craftsman’s patient hand and give the small workroom the appearance of a classroom. This is the space used hour after hour by Sub-inspector Mara Doval. Even though she’s younger than he is and one of the first women in the body of investigators, Fins refers to her in private as Mnemosyne or The Professor. Tall and spindly. Long curly hair, a nest for the wind. She’s making the most of her solitude and working barefoot at the moment. Wondering where to place the photograph of Dead Man’s Hand.

When she hears the door groan, her first reaction is to find her sandals and put them on. When she lifts her eyes, she comes across the familiar faces of Fins Malpica and Superintendent Carro. And a third, unfamiliar man in uniform. Her look registers the significance of badges and stripes. He can’t help himself, even if only for a moment, gazing at her painted toenails.

‘Mara Doval, sir.’

The lieutenant colonel puts on some glasses and slowly, geologically explores this world emerging from the darkness. His gaze begins and ends with those feet.

‘All this work…’

‘No, it wasn’t just me.’ Fins makes the most of this opportunity to laud her to the skies. ‘The goddess of memory, sir. It’s all in her head.’

She tries to stop him with the language of signs, but Fins refuses to heed them. ‘What’s more, she’s the only one around here who really speaks other languages.’

They sit down at a round table, in the middle of which is an Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder. Mara presses a button, and the tape plays the voices of two women. A phone call between Leda and Guadalupe. Mara mouths the words. She knows every single sentence that is coming. The constant references to Lima and Domingo.

‘Please tell us, Fins, who is on the cast list,’ says the superintendent when they’ve finished listening.

‘The one placing the call is Leda. Leda Hortas is in a relationship with Víctor Rumbo, known in Noitía as Brinco. A celebrated pilot of speedboats. He seems to be on standby at the moment, but everything indicates his power in the organisation has grown. Leda’s role, at this point, is to keep an eye on the customs patrol boats. She’s phoning a beauty salon. The other voice is that of Guadalupe, Mr Lima’s wife. Lima, sir, is Tomás Brancana. To everyone in Noitía, Mariscal. The Old Man. The Boss. The Dean.’

‘And Domingo? Who is Domingo?’

‘Domingo is the name used to refer to the customs patrol boats.’

‘Is that as far as we’ve got?’

Mara Doval stands up to consult something on one of the charts. She removes a photo. Places it on top of the table. But first replies to Alisal’s question, ‘One other thing, sir. They don’t need a spy any more. They’ve hired a customs chief directly.’

‘I imagine these are all hypotheses,’ suggests Alisal.

‘Listen,’ says Fins. ‘They’re very careful, cover their tracks, but occasionally they let in a ray of light. Listen.’

He presses ‘play’. Leda is taking her leave of Guadalupe in a less formal tone than usual, and says that this will be their last conversation.

‘Why is that?’ asks Guadalupe in surprise.

Leda is obviously feeling very happy. ‘We’re going to move. It’s about time!’

‘And what about Domingo?’

There is a short pause. Leda finally lets out a laugh. ‘He won the lottery!’

‘But Mr Lima never told me anything.’

There is another pause. Leda, more distant, ‘You know you don’t just say those things.’ Then, ‘Ciao. Farewell!’ And she hangs up the phone.

‘That’s a beauty!’ remarks Alisal. ‘A real indiscretion.’

‘A rarity, sir,’ confirms Fins. ‘They have very good connections at the phone company. They always know when they’re going to be tapped. Here we were lucky. And very patient.’

‘Lots of patience with that pedicure, right, Mara?’ remarks the superintendent.

She nods.

‘How do we know Lima is Mariscal?’ asks the lieutenant colonel suddenly.

Fins Malpica stands up, unlocks a drawer in the filing cabinet and pulls out a folder. Inside, in transparent plastic sleeves, are several handwritten sheets of paper, some creased, torn and put back together.

‘The boss’s handwriting,’ says Fins with satisfaction. ‘He never places a call. Never shows himself where he doesn’t have to. Measures every single step he takes. Lives like a hermit. But here is his hand giving orders. In this scribble is the Old Man’s twisted mind. A treasure for graphology. At last!’

Lieutenant Colonel Alisal has come to check a report of corruption in the barracks of the Civil Guard. Superintendent Freire was right. But with these new revelations, the expression on his face is now that of a shocked, confused man.

‘What quantity of cocaine are we talking about? Our statistics say we’ve been keeping them under control…’

‘Statistics, as someone said, are the first lie.’

Fins feels he is able to be precise only through irony. ‘I believe some of them may even have been doctored by the hand of the organisation’s foremost lawyer, Óscar Mendoza.’

Alisal is downcast. Their gazes follow Mara Doval when, having opened a second drawer, she returns with another surprise. This time it’s a chess set. She places it on the table. The pieces are large, expertly made, and imitate medieval figures. The colours are striking. Red and white.

‘Would you look at that?’ exclaims Alisal. ‘Just like the Lewis chessmen.’

‘A fantastic imitation,’ agrees Doval. ‘For those in the know. Of course they’re not made of walrus ivory. Do you play chess, sir?’