The Silent and the Damned (52 page)

On top of the papers in the box was an old Spanish passport and some travel tickets. The passport was issued in 1984 and the photograph was of Rafael Vega, but it was in the name of Oscar Marcos. The tickets were held together by a paper clip and they were in date order. The first trip was from Seville to Madrid on 15th January 1986 and then back to Seville on 19th January. The next trip took place on 15th February 1986 and was by train from Seville to Madrid to Barcelona and finally Paris. On 17th February there was a train ticket from Paris to Frankfurt and on to Hamburg. On 19th February he went from there to Copenhagen and on 24th February he crossed into Sweden and went up to Stockholm. The return trip started on 1st March and was from Oslo to London by air. Three days were spent in London and then he flew to Madrid and took the train to Seville.

'This stuff,' said Ramírez, who was going through the papers underneath, 'must be in code, because they read like a child's letters to his father.'

Falcón called Virgilio Guzmán and asked him if he could come to his house on Calle Bailén immediately. They emptied the safe-deposit box and put the contents into a large evidence bag. Falcón told the manager the box was now empty, gave her a receipt and returned the key. They drove to Calle Bailén and Falcón read the letters while they waited for Virgilio Guzmán. Each letter had its envelope clipped to it. They were all posted from America to the postbox address in the name of Emilio Cruz. The letters made sense individually but not as a whole.

Guzmán arrived. He sat at the desk with the papers. He looked through the passport and then checked through the travel tickets.

'End of February 1986, Stockholm, Sweden,' he said. 'Do you know what happened then?'

'No idea.'

'On 28th February 1986 the Prime Minister, Olaf Palme, was shot as he came out of the cinema with his wife,' said Guzmán. 'The assassin was never found.'

'What about all those letters?' asked Ramírez.

'I've got somebody who can help me with decoding them, but I imagine they were his instructions for one last operation for his old friend Manuel Contreras,' said Guzmán. 'He had the perfect cover. He was fully trained. It was the kind of thing they did in Operation Condor all the time. No possible trail back to the Pinochet regime, and one painful thorn is finally removed from the President's hide. It's perfect.'

'So why would he keep all this stuff?'

'I don't know, except that killing the Prime Minister of a European country is no small thing and perhaps he might have felt the need for a bit of security in case things changed later on.'

'Like now?' said Falcón. 'The Pinochet regime is finished…'

'Manuel Contreras is in jail, having been betrayed by his old friend the General,' said Guzmán.

'And Vega thinks it's time to even the score. Show what the Pinochet regime was capable of?' said Falcón. 'It's the strategy of no return. You might put Pinochet away, but you finish yourself as well.'

'And that's what he did,' said Guzmán. 'He died with that note in his hand. You did what he wanted you to do. By investigating the crime you found his safe-deposit box key and now his secret will be revealed to the world.'

They photocopied all the letters from the safe-deposit box and Guzmán took them off to his code-breaking friend who, he revealed, was an ex-DINA man now living in Madrid.

'Know thine enemy,' said Guzmán, explaining the relationship. 'I'll scan these into the computer, e-mail them up to him and he'll read them like a book. I'll have an answer for you by this afternoon.'

Falcón and Ramírez returned to the Jefatura in time to meet Sra Lopez and Manolo, who was already at work on his video interview and enjoying Cristina Ferrera's company. By one o'clock the boy had finished and Falcón called Alicia Aguado. He played the statement to her over the phone and she agreed to put it to Sebastián Ortega.

Ferrera took a patrol car to the Poligono San Pablo to find Salvador Ortega, while Falcón drove Alicia Aguado to the prison. They showed Sebastián Manolo's video interview and he broke down. He then wrote his own fifteen-page statement detailing five years of abuse at the hands of Ignacio Ortega. Ferrera called to say that Salvador was now at the Jefatura. Falcón faxed Sebastián's statement through for Salvador to read. Salvador asked for a meeting with Sebastián.

Ferrera drove him out to the prison and he and Sebastián talked for over two hours, after which Salvador agreed to write his own statement. He also gave Falcón a list of seven names of other children, now adults, who'd suffered at his father's hands.

At five o'clock Falcón was eating a chorizo bocadillo and drinking a non-alcoholic beer when Virgilio Guzmán called, saying that he'd had the letters decoded and he wanted to e-mail him the translations. They proved to be a series of instructions to Vega. Where and when to go and pick up his passport in Madrid. The route he should take to Stockholm. Intelligence on the movements and non-existent security of Olaf Palme. Where to go in Stockholm to pick up the weapon. Where to dispose of the weapon after the hit, and finally his return route to Seville.

'I'm running with this story in tomorrow's paper,' said Guzmán.

'I didn't expect you to do anything else, Virgilio,' said Falcón. 'It's only going to hurt people who deserve to be hurt.'

By six o'clock in the evening Falcón had a dossier with the revised video statement from Manolo L6pez and the two from Sebastián and Salvador.

'And what happens if they block you on this?' said Ramírez, as he left the office.

'Then you'll be the new Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios, José Luis.'

'Not me,' said Ramírez. 'Tell them they'll have to look to Sub-Inspector Perez, when he gets back from holiday.'

As well as the three statements he took the contents of Vega's safe-deposit box and printed out the decodes of the letters from Guzmán's e-mail. He went up to see Comisario Elvira, who was again in a meeting with Comisario Lobo. They didn't keep him waiting.

Falcón talked them through the contents of the safe- deposit box and read out the pertinent decodes which contained the assassination instructions and the target. The two men sat in stunned silence.

'And who would have known about this, apart from the obvious people in the regime?' asked Lobo. 'I mean, do you think the Americans knew anything about it?'

'They knew something about Vega,' said Falcón. 'Whether they knew any or part of this detail, I have no idea, but I doubt it. I now believe Flowers when he said that they didn't know what they were looking for. They were just hoping that it was nothing that would reflect badly on them or the administration of the time.'

'Do you think the Americans could have been involved in killing Vega, or are you satisfied that he was either murdered by Marty Krugman or committed suicide?'

'Mark Flowers has given me an enormous amount of information. The only problem is that I don't know what's true and what isn't,' said Falcón. 'There's a part of me that believes that they weren't involved in his murder because this is what they wanted to find out – the contents of the safe-deposit box, which they never found. But I also think that Flowers might have decided to stop the uncertainty and been a party to taking Vega out.'

'Case closed?' said Elvira.

Falcón shrugged.

'What else?' said Lobo, eyeing the dossier on Falcón's lap.

He handed it over. As Lobo read each page he handed it to Elvira. Both men glanced up nervously as they worked through the catalogue of abuse. When they finished, Lobo was looking out across the park, as he used to do when he occupied this office. He talked to the glass.

'I can guess,' he said, 'but I'd like you to tell me what you want.'

'My minimum requirement from all the crimes that were committed in the Montes finca was that Ignacio Ortega should go down,' said Falcón. 'That was not possible. I don't agree with it, but I understand why. This is a separate case. Nothing that happened in the Montes finca will surface in this family abuse case. I want a Juez de Instruction to be appointed – not Juez Calderón, of course. I want to arrest Ignacio Ortega and I want him to face these charges and any others we might be able to bring after talking to those on the list of names supplied by Salvador Ortega.'

'We're going to have to discuss this and get back to you,' said Lobo.

'I don't want to put any undue pressure on your discussion, but I do want to remind you what you said to me in your office yesterday.'

'Remind me.'

'You said: "We need men like you and Inspector Ramírez, Javier. Don't be in any doubt about that."'

'I see.'

'Inspector Ramírez and I would like to make the arrest tonight,' said Falcón, and left.

He sat alone in his office, aware of Ramírez and Ferrera waiting for news. The phone rang, he heard them jump. It was Isabel Cano, asking if she could have a response to the letter she'd drafted to send to Manuela about the house on Calle Bailén. He said he hadn't read it, but it didn't matter because he'd decided that if Manuela wanted to live in the house she was going to have to pay the market value, less the agency commission, and there would be no discussion on the matter.

'What's happened to
you?'
she asked.

'I've hardened inside, Isabel. The blood now rifles down my cold, steel veins,' said Falcón. 'Did you ever hear about the Sebastián Ortega case?'

'He's Pablo Ortega's son, isn't he? The one who kidnapped the boy?'

'That's right,' said Falcón. 'How would you like to handle his appeal?'

'Any strong new evidence?'

'Yes,' said Falcón, 'but I should warn you that it might not make Esteban Calderón look very good.'

'It's about time he learnt a bit of humility,' she said. 'I'll take a look.'

Falcón hung up and sank back into the silence.

'You're confident,' said Ramírez, from the outer office.

'We are men of value, José Luis.'

The phone went in the outer office this time. Ramírez snatched it to his ear. Silence.

'Thank you,' said Ramírez.

He hung up. Falcón waited.

'José Luis?' he said.

There was no sound. He went to the door.

Ramírez looked up, his face was wet with tears, his mouth drawn back, tight across his teeth as he fought the emotion. He waved his hand at Falcón, he couldn't speak.

'His daughter,' said Ferrera.

The Sevillano nodded, thumbed the huge tears out of his eyes.

'She's all right,' he said, under his breath. 'They've done every test in the book and they can't find anything wrong with her. They think it's some kind of virus.'

He slumped in his chair, still squeezing fat tears out of his eyes.

'You know what?' said Falcón. 'I think it's time to go and have a beer.'

The three of them drove down to the bar La Jota and stood in the cavernous cool and drank beers and ate strips of salt cod. Other police officers came along and tried to strike up conversation but didn't get very far. They were too tense. The time clipped round to 8.30 p.m. and Falcón's mobile started vibrating against his thigh. He put it to his ear.

'You're all clear to arrest Ignacio Ortega on those charges,' said Elvira. 'Juan Romero has been appointed the Juez de Instruction. Good luck.'

They went back to the Jefatura because Falcón wanted to make the arrest in a patrol car with flashing lights, to let Ortega's neighbourhood know. Ferrera drove and they parked outside a large house in El Porvenir which, as Sebastián had described, had gate posts topped with concrete lions.

Ferrera stayed in the car. Ramírez rang the bell, which had the same electronic cathedral chime as Vega's. Ortega came to the door. They showed him their police IDs. He looked over their shoulders at the parked patrol car, lights flashing.

'We'd like to come in for a moment,' said Ramírez. 'Unless you'd rather do this in the street?'

They stepped into the house, which did not have the usual headache chill of fierce air conditioning but was completely comfortable.

'This air conditioning…' started Ramírez.

'This isn't air conditioning, Inspector,' said Ortega. 'You are now in a state-of-the-art climate-control system.'

'Then it should be raining in your study, Sr Ortega.'

'Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?' asked Ortega, mystified.

'I don't think so,' said Ramírez, 'we won't be staying long.'

'You, Inspector Jefe? A single malt? I even have Laphroaig.'

Falcón blinked at that. It was a whisky that Francisco Falcón had favoured. There was still a lot of it in his house, undrunk. His own tastes were not so eclectic. He shook his head.

'Do you mind if I drink alone?' asked Ortega.

'It's your house,' said Ramírez. 'You don't have to be polite for our sakes.'

Ortega poured himself a cheap whisky over ice. He raised his glass to the policemen. It was good to see him nervous. He picked up a fat remote with which he controlled his climate and started to explain the intricacies of the system to Ramírez, who butted in.

'We're bad losers, Sr Ortega,' he said.

'I'm sorry?' said Ortega.

'We're very bad losers,' said Ramírez. 'We don't like it when we see all our good work go to waste.'

'I can understand that,' said Ortega, covering his nervousness at Ramírez's looming, aggressive presence.

'What do you understand, Sr Ortega?' asked Falcón.

'Your work must be very frustrating at times.'

'Why would
you
think that?' asked Falcón.

Now that he'd caught their tone and found it unpleasant, Ortega turned ugly himself. He looked at them as if they were pathetic specimens of humanity – people to be pitied.

'The justice system is not in
my
hands,' he said. 'It's not up to
me
to decide which cases go to court and which don't.'