The Hidden Assassins (15 page)

‘That was in July 2002,’ said Pablo. ‘When did you start looking for Arturo?’

‘In September of that year,’ said Falcón. ‘Neither of us could believe that Abdullah Diouri would have killed the child. We thought he would have drawn him into his family in some way.’

‘And what was driving you?’ asked Juan. ‘The lost boy…or something else?’

‘I knew very well I was looking for a forty-three-year-old man.’

‘Had something happened to your relationship with Consuelo Jiménez in the meantime?’ asked Pablo.

‘It finished almost as soon as it started, but I’m not going to discuss that with you.’

‘Didn’t Consuelo Jiménez break off the relationship?’ asked Pablo.

‘She broke it off,’ said Falcón, throwing up his hands, realizing that the whole of the Jefatura knew what had happened. ‘She didn’t want to get involved.’

‘And you were unhappy?’

‘I was
very
unhappy about it.’

‘So what was your motive in looking for Arturo?’ asked Juan.

‘Consuelo refused to see me or speak to me. She cut me out of her life.’

‘Not unlike what Raúl had tried to do with Arturo,’ said Juan.

‘If you like.’

Juan took a pickled garlic and bit into it with a light crunch.

‘I realized that the only way I’d be able to see her again under the right circumstances, rather than as a mad stalker, was to do something extraordinary. I knew that if I found Arturo she would have to see me again. It was the way we had connected in the first place and I knew it would stir something in her.’

‘And did it work?’ asked Juan, fascinated by Falcón’s torment.

Seville—Tuesday, 6th June 2006, 20.45 hrs

A warm breeze made a circuit of the patio and stirred up a large, dead and dried-out plant in a far dark corner of the cloister.

‘I think it would be better to approach this chronologically,’ said Pablo. ‘Why don’t you tell us how you found Arturo Jiménez?’

The rustle and rattle of the plant’s dead leaves had drawn Falcón’s gaze to its desiccated corner. He had to get rid of that plant.

‘Because my search for Arturo was motivated by this hope for reconciliation with Consuelo, I imagined it as a sort of quest. It was a little more straightforward than that. I was lucky to have some help,’ said Falcón. ‘I went to Fès with a member of my new Moroccan family. He found a guide who took us to Abdullah Diouri’s house deep in the medina. Apart from a magnificently carved door, the house looked like nothing from the outside. But the door opened into a paradise of patios, pools and miniature gardens, which had been allowed to decay from some greater former glory. There were tiles missing and cracked paving and the latticework
around the gallery was broken in places. The servant who let us in told us that Abdullah Diouri had died some twenty years ago but that his memory lived on, as he had been a great and kind man.

‘We asked to speak to any of the sons, but he told us that only women lived in this house. The sons had dispersed throughout Morocco and the Middle East. So we asked if one of the women would be willing to speak to us about this delicate matter that had occurred some forty years ago. He took our names and left. He returned after quarter of an hour and told my Moroccan relative to stay at the door while he took me on a long trip through the house. We ended up on the first floor, with a view through some repaired latticework on to a garden below. He left me there and after a while I realized that there was somebody else in the room. A woman dressed in black, her face totally veiled, pointed me to a seat and I told her my story.

‘Fortunately I’d talked to my Moroccan family about what I was intending to do, so I knew I had to be very careful about how I related this story. It had to be from the Moroccan perspective.’

‘What did that entail?’ asked Juan.

‘That Raúl Jiménez had to be the villain of the piece and Abdullah Diouri the saviour of the family honour. If I sullied the name of the patriarch in any way, if I made him out to be a criminal, a kidnapper of children, I would get nowhere. It was good advice. The woman listened to me in silence, still as a statue under a black dustsheet. At the end of my story a gloved hand came out of her robe and dropped a card on to a low table between us. Then she got up and left. On the card was printed an address in Rabat with a telephone
number and the name Yacoub Diouri. A few minutes later the servant came back and returned me to the front door.’

‘Well, not quite the Holy Grail,’ said Juan, ‘but worthy of something.’

‘Moroccans love mystery,’ said Falcón. ‘Abdullah Diouri was a very devout Muslim and Yacoub later told me that the Fès household was kept in that state in honour of the great man. None of the sons could stand the place, which was why it was so run down, and it had been given over exclusively to the women of the family.’

‘So you had an address in Rabat…’ said Pablo.

‘I stayed the night in Meknes and called Yacoub from there. He already knew who I was and what I wanted, and we agreed to meet in his house in Rabat the next day. As you probably know, he lives in a huge modern place, built in the Arab style, in the embassy zone on the edge of the city. There must be two hectares of land with an orange grove, gardens, tennis courts, swimming pools—a small palace. He has liveried servants, rose petals in the fountains—that kind of thing. I was taken to a huge room overlooking one of the swimming pools, with cream leather sofas all around. I was given some mint tea and left to stew for half an hour until Yacoub turned up.’

‘Did he look like Raúl?’

‘I’d seen shots of Raúl when he was a younger man in Tangier and less battered by life. There were similarities, but Yacoub is a different animal altogether. Raúl’s wealth never managed to get rid of the Andaluz peasant, whereas Yacoub is a very sophisticated individual, well-read in Spanish, French and English. He
speaks German, too. His business demands it. He makes clothes for all the major manufacturers in Europe. He’s got Dior and Adolfo Dominguez on his client list. Yacoub was a cheetah to Raúl’s gnarled old lion.’

‘So how did that first meeting go?’ asked Pablo.

‘We hit it off immediately, which doesn’t happen to me very often,’ said Falcón. ‘These days I seem to find it hard to get on with people of my own class and background, while I seem to have a talent for engaging with misfits.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Juan.

‘I suppose living with my own horrors has given me the ability to understand the complexities of others, or, at least, not to take things at face value,’ said Falcón. ‘Whatever, Yacoub and I became friends in that first meeting, and, although we don’t see very much of each other, we still are. In fact, he called me last night to say he wanted to meet in Madrid at the weekend.’

‘Did Yacoub know
your
story?’

‘He’d read it in the press at the time of the Francisco Falcón scandal. It was big news over there that the famous Falcón nudes were actually painted by the Moroccan artist, Tariq Chefchaouni.’

‘I’m surprised some journalist hadn’t tried to track him down before,’ said Pablo.

‘They had,’ said Falcón. ‘But they didn’t get any further than the outside of Abdullah Diouri’s house in Fès.’

‘You said Yacoub was a misfit,’ said Gregorio. ‘He doesn’t sound like one. Successful businessman, married, two children, devout Muslim. He seems to fit in perfectly.’

‘Well, that’s how it looks from the outside, but from
the moment I first met him I knew he was restless,’ said Falcón. ‘He was happy with where he was and yet he felt he didn’t belong there. He’d been torn away from his own family and yet Abdullah Diouri had made him a part of his and given him the family name. His real father had never come to search for him and yet he was treated no differently to Diouri’s own sons. He told me once that he didn’t just respect his kidnapper, Abdullah Diouri, he loved him as a father. But despite this acceptance from his new family, he never lost that terrible feeling of having been abandoned by his own. That’s what I call a misfit.’

‘You say he’s married,’ said Pablo. ‘How many wives does he have?’

‘Just the one.’

‘Isn’t that unusual for a man such as Yacoub Diouri?’ asked Juan.

‘Why don’t you just ask your question to my face instead of wheedling—’

‘Because we’re interested in the extent of your relationship with Yacoub. If he’s told you intimate details about himself, then that has meaning for us,’ said Juan.

‘Yacoub Diouri is homosexual,’ said Falcón, wearily. ‘His marriage is something that is expected of him by his society. It is part of his duty as a good Muslim to take a wife and have children, but his sexual interest is exclusively with men. And before you let your prurient interest get carried away, I mean men, not boys.’

‘Why do you think that detail should be important to us?’ asked Juan.

‘You’re spies, and I just wanted you to know that his homosexuality is not an area of vulnerability.’

‘Why are we questioning you about Yacoub Diouri?’ asked Juan.

‘First
I’d
like to know how Yacoub came to tell you he was homosexual,’ said Pablo.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Pablo, but he didn’t make a pass at me,’ said Falcón. ‘How did
you
find out about him?’

‘There’s a lot of cooperation between the intelligence services these days,’ said Juan. ‘Prominent, devout and monied Muslims are…observed.’

‘Yacoub and I were talking about marriage once and I told him that mine hadn’t lasted very long, that my wife had left me for a prominent judge,’ said Falcón. ‘I told him about Consuelo. He told me that his own marriage was just for show and that he was gay and that the fashion industry suited him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was full of attractive men who weren’t looking for a permanent relationship which he couldn’t offer.’

Silence. Juan let it be known that it was time to move on.

‘So what happened after you became friends with Yacoub?’ asked Pablo.

‘I saw him quite a lot at the beginning, several times over three or four months. I’d started learning Arabic and went down to see my Moroccan family in Tangier whenever I could. Yacoub would invite me over. We talked, he helped me with my Arabic.’

The CNI men drank their beers in unison.

‘And what happened with Consuelo?’ asked Juan, blowing smoke out into the night air.

‘As I explained, I’d already told Yacoub about
Consuelo and my interest in her. He was quite happy to come to Seville and try to help me out. He liked the idea of being a go-between.’

‘How long was this after you’d split up with Consuelo?’

‘Nearly a year.’

‘You took your time.’

‘You can’t rush these things.’

‘How did you communicate,’ asked Pablo, ‘if she wouldn’t speak to you?’

‘I wrote her a letter and asked her if she’d like to meet Yacoub,’ said Falcón. ‘She wrote back and said she would very much like to meet him, but it would have to be alone.’

‘You never even got to see Consuelo?’ said Juan, amazed.

‘Yacoub did his best for me. They liked each other. He asked her out to dinner on my behalf. She refused. He offered to play gooseberry. She turned him down. There were no explanations and that was the end of it,’ said Falcón. ‘Why don’t we have another beer and you tell me the purpose of this intrusive and personal examination?’

In the kitchen Falcón caught sight of his transparent reflection in the darkened window. He hadn’t revealed himself to that extent since being in the hands of Alicia Aguado more than four years ago. In fact, he hadn’t been intimate with anyone other than Yacoub since then. It hadn’t exactly been a relief to talk to strangers like that, but it had brought back a powerful resurgence of his feelings for Consuelo. He even saw himself in the reflection of the window unconsciously rubbing the arm that had brushed
against her yesterday. He shook his head and opened another litre of beer.

‘You’re smiling, Javier,’ said Juan, as Falcón came back. ‘After an ordeal like that, I’m impressed.’

‘I’m solitary, but not depressed,’ said Falcón.

‘That’s not bad going for a middle-aged homicide detective,’ said Pablo.

‘Being a homicide detective isn’t such a problem for me. There aren’t that many murders in Seville and I crack most of them, so my work with the homicide squad actually gives me the illusion that problems are being resolved. And, as you know, an illusory state can contribute to sensations of well-being,’ said Falcón. ‘If I were trying to resolve something like global warming, or the oceans’ dwindling fish stocks, then I’d probably be in much worse mental shape.’

‘What about global terrorism?’ asked Pablo. ‘How do you think you’d cope with that?’

‘That’s not
my
job. I investigate the murder of people by terrorists,’ said Falcón. ‘I realize that it can be complicated. But at least we have a chance at resolution and tragedy brings out the best qualities in most people. I wouldn’t want your job, which is to
foresee
and prevent terrorist attacks. If you succeed, you live as unsung heroes. If you fail, you live with the death of innocents, the scourge of the media and the admonishment of comfortable politicians. So, no thanks—if you were thinking of offering me a job.’

‘Not a job exactly,’ said Juan. ‘We want to know if you’d be prepared to provide a connective piece or two for the intelligence jigsaw?’

‘I’ve told you that I’m not really spy material any more.’

‘In the first instance, we’d be asking you to recruit.’

‘You want me to recruit Yacoub Diouri as an intelligence source?’ asked Falcón.

The CNI men nodded, gulped beer, lit up cigarettes.

‘First of all, I can’t think what Yacoub could possibly tell you, and secondly, why me?’ said Falcón. ‘Surely you’ve got experienced recruiters who do this sort of thing all the time.’

‘It’s not what he can tell us now, it’s what he could tell us if he was to make a certain move,’ said Pablo. ‘And you’re right, we do have experienced people, but none of them have the special relationship that you do.’

‘But my “special relationship” is based on friendship, intimacy and trust, and what will happen to that if one day I say: “Yacoub, will you spy for Spain?”’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be just for Spain,’ said Gregorio. ‘It would be for humanity as a whole.’

‘Oh, would it really, Gregorio?’ said Falcón. ‘I’ll remember to tell him that, when I ask him to deceive his family and friends and give information to someone he’s only known for the last four years of his complicated life.’

‘We’re not pretending it’s easy,’ said Juan. ‘And equally, we’re not going to deny the value of such a contact, or that there are moral implications in what we’re asking of you.’

‘Thank you, that’s put my mind at rest, Juan,’ said Falcón. ‘You said “in the first instance”—does that mean there’s a second one as well? If so, you’d better tell me. I might as well try to digest that with the first lump of gristle you’ve just thrown me.’

The CNI men looked at each other and shrugged.

‘We’ve just been told that they’re going to release the antiterrorism unit of the Seville CGI into this investigation,’ said Juan. ‘We think there’s a mole leaking information and we want to know who it is and who he’s leaking it to. You’re going to have to work closely with them. Your insight would be invaluable.’

‘I don’t know what makes you think I can do this work.’

‘You’ve just scored very high points in your interview,’ said Pablo.

‘What was my score on moral certitude?’

The CNI men laughed as one. Not that they found it funny, it was just the relief at having got the ugliness over and done with.

‘Do I get anything in return for all this?’ asked Falcón.

‘More money, if that’s what you want,’ said Juan, puzzled.