Cemetery of Swallows (13 page)

“Pardon me, I'll be back in a moment.”

Receiver set down . . . sounds of doors opening and closing, footsteps in the distance . . . paper being torn up, crumpled . . . the receiver picked up again.

“A courier, and for once it's good news. I've just received, this very moment, the repatriation agreement. You can take Manu away. As for the final details, I'll take care of them. Since he's suspected of murder, it's not going to be easy to get him on a regular flight, but I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks very much. And what about Darbier? I'm sorry to insist, but I still haven't had your version. What do you know about this Tobias?”

Delmont didn't hesitate for a second. Either he was being sincere, or he'd prepared his reply:

“One thing. When I took up this post, it was explained to me that he'd been powerful and dangerous, and that it was better to avoid getting close to him. And that's exactly what I've done.”

“But in your position you must have heard things about him?”

This time Delmont paused. When he spoke again, his voice was lower:

“Listen to me, Superintendent. Tomorrow, or in no more than two days, you are going to leave the island, but I . . . stay here.”

And once again, he let a few seconds go by. Mallock had understood.

“I'll wait for your call regarding the details. Goodbye, and thanks again, Mr. Ambassador.”

Have to know how to hang up.

Especially when there's no longer anyone on the other end.

 

The second call of the morning was to Julie, to inform her of the latest developments. He hesitated a little, and then, after telling her the good news concerning the repatriation, ended up telling her about Jiménez's attempt to kill her brother.

“Not a word to Kiko, boss, please,” Julie said. “We'll tell her what happened when he's back here.”

“That was my intention. But I assure you: I've taken steps to prevent it from happening again.”

At that moment, Mallock realized that he felt guilty. His negligence appeared to him to be so flagrant that he experienced it as a message, a form of revelation. He was on foreign territory, not only in the geographical sense of the term, but also in another sense: he was in a strange, different land. The reality of the facts, like people's motivations, was dangerously out of his control. And then, what did he know about Darbier's past, and Manu's? Nothing tangible.

Then he asked Julie to put Bob on the phone.

Daranne was very happy to hear his superintendent's voice. When he learned that Mallock had chosen him for a delicate task, he was exultant. Ever since his suicide attempt, he no longer felt that he was in Mallock's good graces. A difference in age, in culture, and many other little things he was only vaguely aware of. Mallock's three other captains formed a brotherhood from which he was increasingly excluded. That was how it was. Nobody's fault. Daranne didn't hold it against them. He was just sad about it. His relations with his wife hadn't improved, either, and he was beginning to think about his old P38 again.

“What can I do for you, Boss?”

“It's delicate, Bob.”

Mallock was one of the few people who called him “Bob,” as Robert asked. The others couldn't even use his first name. For all of them he was Daranne, a use of the family name that expressed the lack of brotherhood or simply the difference in age. All he had to do was to stop wearing that little red and white mustache, farting all the time, and making faces, Mallock's collaborators would have said to justify themselves.

“Discreetly, without talking about it with the others,” Mallock explained, “I'd like you to look into the state of Julie's brother's finances. A complete rundown, including any foreign bank accounts. Examine that with the tax men. And also check his car. We didn't find his cell phone, it might still be inside the car. If you find it, go through it with a fine-toothed comb.”

“What exactly are you looking for, Boss?”

“I have two paranoid hypotheses I'd like to be able to forget about. One is that of a professional killer. For himself or for a government. Manuel Gemoni doesn't really have the profile, but I've already known some whom you'd never have suspected. The other, and this is a more believable hypothesis, probably even the most likely, is that it may be a matter of vengeance. This old man who, for your information, is a real bastard, may have already crossed paths with the Gemonis. Broaden your investigation. Try to find out if among the victims of revenge or those who disappeared there are any Gemonis, or someone related to them. For that, and for that only, take Ken's assistant into your confidence: you're going to need to have access to the data banks. With the internal security branch, also see if there have been any trips to Israel or contacts with Mossad.”

Then Bob understood why Mallock had come to him, and he was hurt by that.

He objected, just on principle:

“Are you sure that's useful? I don't much like doing things that have to be kept secret from the group, Boss. So far as Julie is concerned, I think that . . . ”

“I agree, but believe me, it's better for her. I'm almost certain that you won't find anything and that will be that. But I absolutely have to have the confirmation. It's pointless to upset her for nothing, right?”

Daranne reflected for two seconds before yielding. Whether it was a matter of profound conviction or the habit of obeying, no one could have said.

“Fine, you're the boss, and I'll get started this morning.”

Just as he was about to hang up, Mallock had a last idea:

“Listen, there's one other thing to look into. This Tobias Darbier seems to have a past that is much more complicated than it first appears to be. Just to see, put in a request for a DNA search.”

“How? Your guy's corpse isn't here!”

“Go through Dublin. Get him to request the authorities to take a sample from the old man's body and have him send it directly to Mordome.
Capice
?”

“Okay, Boss,” an obliging Daranne said.

“Thanks, Bob, I appreciate it. Ah! By the way, I'm returning on Saturday, but I won't be in the office until Monday.”

“Do as you like, Boss,” Daranne said, and hung up.

Mallock also hung up, with a feeling of guilt. He'd taken advantage of a slight dissension within his team to manipulate one of its members. The goal being above all to help Manu get out of this mess. But even if the intention was praiseworthy, the way he'd done it left much to be desired. Especially since Daranne was a loyal man.

He resolved to put matters straight at the first opportunity.

Outside, it had been raining steadily since the day before. Tons of lukewarm water were striking the island, its houses, trees, earth, and inhabitants. There was nothing to do that day except wait for Delmont's call. Still forty-eight hours to spend on this island, and there was only one question in Mallock's head. How could he learn more about the ogre of the Dominican Republic?

Mallock thought again about Mister Blue's proposal. What did he have to lose by going to see the old woman he'd talked about? He had no serious lead, no step to be taken, and not even the unlikely temptation of spending a day lying in the shade of the palm trees.

An old witch, even if she had no gift whatever, would at least make for memories.

He looked at his watch: 9
A.M.
Would Jean-Daniel still be there?
Mallock put on a shirt and linen trousers. He went out into the rain, running.

By a stroke of luck, or of destiny, Mister Blue had waited for him. Ten minutes later, they were crossing Ingenios and its cane plantations.

The valley of Cibao.

The air was fragrant with the perfume of brown sugar. Cinnamon-colored streams of mud were running along the road and torrents of rain were falling on their vehicle's windshield. They continued to meet fast-moving cars, despite the fact that most of them were almost blind. Miracle upon miracle, they managed to avoid each other. Mallock began to wonder if, in the end, he had been right to leave the refuge of his hotel to risk his life by setting out in search of an old woman.

“I really need more information about this Tobias Darbier, in order to make connections. Do you think we'll be able to see this famous woman of yours?”

“I really don't know. First we'll have to go by a cigar factory where a man works who can let her know and take us to her. He'll be the one who decides, not me.”

It took them a good half hour to reach the cigar factory and to find the mysterious intermediary. When they arrived the old man got up from his sat. His body resembled a Panatela cigar. Dry, slender, and wrinkled. His skin, in perfect harmony, had all the nuances of a tobacco leaf. Zagiõ was his name, and his job was to keep the humidifier going in the holy of holies, the wrappers room. Each time he turned on the ancient machinery, the whole room and its occupants were invaded by an opaque watery fog. Mister Blue went up to the man and began to speak to him in a confidential way. Zagiõ listened to him, interrupting only to slip new questions into the hollow of his ear.

Fascinated by the factory, Mallock had forgotten his mission. The perfume of the damp wrappers, the powerful odor of the harvests compressed into hundreds of cubes made of canvas, their monochrome colors, ranging from green to dark brown, the variety in the form of the cigars . . . Mallock the cigar-lover was in heaven. He caressed, smelled, and then, in the packaging department, lit a few of different calibers. He declined the initial offer of a
domingo turisto
with a sweet, disgusting perfume, and had them open the special reserve for him. He dug around, asked for a stool in order to reach the higher shelves, where the oldest types were stored, came back down, and tested them again, until he had six different cigars slowly burning between his fingers. He finally selected three very large types with noble insides and perfect wrappers:
maduros
. He had two hundred of them packed up for him. And the same quantity of
robustos
, but with a still darker wrapper, almost
obscuro
. Finally, he asked that some of them be subjected to a special treatment that involved putting a bit of fabric imbued with cane sugar and rum on the end that goes into the mouth.

During all this time, Zagiõ had followed Mallock as he moved around. They looked at each other one last time. Zagiõ's dark eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate the superintendent's soul by way of his absinthe-colored irises. Apparently satisfied with what he'd seen there, he slipped his papery hand into the pocket of his tattered pants. He took out an object that Mallock would never have expected to be there: a state-of-the-art cell phone. He opened it and dialed a number. A few sentences later, he closed it and put it back in his pocket.

Mister Blue thanked him, patting him several times on the shoulder. Zagiõ finally replied with a big smile, revealing the presence of white teeth in a mouth with black gums.

“Zagiõ has sent the message,” Jean-Daniel said. “He has announced our arrival, but there will be no reply. We have to take the risk; she may not be there. In any case, during the time it will take to inform her, we can go eat lunch.”

“Is there any decent place to eat around here?”

Otherwise, Mallock preferred to go without.

“There's an exceptional place. I'm going to take you to Camp David, on Trujillo's summer estate. His old supporters have turned it into a museum glorifying their dictator, and above all, there's a superb restaurant. It's not open to everyone, but I know the chef. Jean Jeansac, known as Jeanjean, is French, a native of Ribérac, the land of foie gras, but he was already here when I arrived. I'm sure he knows more about Trujillo and your Darbier than most people do. We can try to question him as well, we'll see. Okay?”

 

A quarter of an hour later, the mauve pickup drove through an old gate decorated with a series of surveillance cameras. The residence was usually protected by guards armed with riot guns posted all along the drive that led to the main building, but the rain had made them take refuge inside. Mallock and Mister Blue were checked only once, when they got to the top of the hill, in the reception hall of the restaurant. The residence was vast, flat, and white, a sort of gigantic cheese plate with red roofs over it. The first surprise was to find the place empty. Except for the guards and the employees, who were all standing, no visitor was seated at any of the twenty-one large tables, or on the glass-roofed terrace.

The second surprise was that a large part of the main reception room, which had been transformed into a restaurant, was occupied by cars, the tyrant's old Chevrolets, with their personalized license plates: “BENEFACTOR OF THE FATHERLAND,” dusty little flags on the sides, and a big revolving red light affixed to the front fender. The chromed radiator grilles looked like the maws of voracious beasts. With their enormous silvery teeth, they expressed their owner's desire to hold power and to devour. Only one of the dictator's favorite automobiles was missing, the one in which Trujillo had been riding when it was pierced by the bullets.

In front of El Generalísimo's bar, a big guy with cheeks streaked by broken veins was waiting for them. Jeanjean's eyes did not contain the bonhomie that his body expressed. The smile was there, but frozen, blurred by an eternal sorrow. They were welcomed effusively. The Frenchman must be dying of boredom, alone on his hill after so many years.

Without having agreed to do so, Mister Blue and Mallock made the same decision: eat lunch first, then question. The man had doubtless been reduced to silence because of the privileged position he occupied. And maybe also by a sense of fraternity and complicity that all the years had finally caused to grow in him, perhaps in spite of himself. So the superintendent, like a good cop, told himself that a little patience and a few well-placed compliments about his cooking might calm Jeanjean's fears and lead to two or three bits of confidential information at the end of the meal. After all, Darbier wasn't Trujillo, and there was every likelihood that Jansac was not involved in the secrecy and veneration surrounding the former dictator.