The Hidden Assassins (36 page)

‘I’m not sure how much is speculation and how much is hard fact. You must understand that these people are not the GICM themselves. They support the actions of the GICM, and some members have been involved in their activities, but mainly on the home front. Don’t think that I’ve walked off the street into a tent full of mujahedeen with AK-47s. At this stage, I can only tell you what has happened rather than what
will
happen, as that is only known by the GICM commanders, who, as far as I know, are not here.

‘My friends tell me that Hammad and Saoudi have worked for a number of groups, not just the GICM. They fund themselves through cash-machine fraud. They were only involved in recce, logistics and
documents. They were not bomb makers. The hexogen came from Iraq. It was extracted from an American ammunitions cache captured at the beginning of 2005. It went via Syria into Turkey, where it was repackaged as cheap washing powder and sent to Germany in containers, for sale to the immigrant Turkish community there. Nobody knows how it got to Spain. The total quantity sent to Germany in the washing powder consignment is believed to be around 300 kilos.’

‘Any speculation about how they intended to use it?’ asked Falcón.

‘No. All they say is that everything in the Spanish press and news is total fabrication: Abdullah Azzam’s text, the MILA, the intention to attack schools and the biology faculty and the idea of bringing Andalucía back into the Islamic fold. They want to bring Andalucía back into Islam, but not yet. Making Morocco an Islamic state with Sharia law is the priority and we talked about that, which is of no interest to you. The current strategy, as far as foreign operations are concerned, is not specific, although they are still very angry with the Danish and think they should be punished. They want to weaken the European Union economically by forcing huge expenditure on antiterrorist measures. They plan to attack financial centres in Northern Europe, namely London, Frankfurt, Paris and Milan, while conducting smaller campaigns in the tourist areas of the Mediterranean.’

‘Ambitious.’

‘There’s a lot of big talk. As to their capability…who knows?’

‘The hexogen in Seville doesn’t seem to fit with their general strategy.’

‘They say the hexogen exploding was nothing to do with them.’

‘And how do they know that?’

‘Because the “hardware” for making the bombs had not arrived,’ wrote Yacoub. ‘Given that Hammad and Saoudi were recce and logistics, I assume there were others who were due to arrive with the “hardware”—the containers, plastique, detonators and timers—from some other source.’

‘How much of this do you believe?’ asked Falcón.

‘There is definitely something going on. There’s a tension and uncertainty in the air. I can’t be more specific than that. This is information that has come to me. I am not enquiring as yet. I haven’t asked about operational cells in Spain, for instance. I can only gather from the way people talk that there are operators in the field doing something.’

Falcón’s mobile vibrated on the desktop. He took the call from Ramírez while Pablo and Gregorio talked over his head.

‘Cristina has found a domestic who saw Tateb Hassani on Saturday evening, before dinner. His name is Mario Gómez. He says that the dinner wasn’t served but laid out as a buffet, but he saw Tateb Hassani, Eduardo Rivero and Angel Zarrías going up to the Fuerza Andalucía offices just before he left, which was around 9.45.’

‘He didn’t see anybody else?’

‘He said no cars had arrived by the time he left.’

‘I think that’s going to be good enough,’ said Falcón and hung up.

‘Ask him if he’s heard any names, anything that will
give us a clue as to a network operating over here,’ said Pablo.

Falcón typed out the question.

‘They don’t use names. Their knowledge of foreign operations is vague. They are more informative about the present state of Morocco than anything abroad.’

‘Any foreigners?’ asked Pablo. ‘Afghans, Pakistanis, Saudis…?’

Falcón tapped it out.

‘One mention of some Afghans who came over earlier this year, nothing else.’

‘Context?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Where does the group meet?’

‘It’s in a private house in the medina in Rabat, but I was brought here and I’m not sure I could find it again.’

‘Look for clues in your surroundings. Documents. Books. Anything that might indicate research.’

‘There’s a library which I’ve been shown, but I haven’t spent any time there.’

‘Get access and tell us what books they have.’

‘I have been told/warned that there will be an initiation rite, which is designed to show my allegiance to the group. Everybody has to go through this, whatever your connections to the senior members may be. They have assured me that it will not require violence.’

‘Do they know about your friendship with me?’ asked Falcón.

‘Of course they do, and that worries me. I know how their minds work. They will make me show allegiance to them by forcing me to betray the confidence of someone close to me.’

The ‘chat’ was over. Falcón sat back from the computer, a little shattered by the last exchange. The CNI men looked at him to see how he’d taken this new level of involvement.

‘In case you’re wondering,’ said Falcón, ‘I didn’t like the sound of that.’

‘We can’t expect just to
receive
information in this game,’ said Gregorio.

‘I’m a senior policeman,’ said Falcón. ‘I can’t compromise my position by giving out confidential information.’

‘We don’t know what he’s going to be asked to do yet,’ said Pablo.

‘I didn’t like the look of that word “betray”,’ said Falcón. ‘That doesn’t sound like they’re going to be satisfied with my favourite colour, does it?’

Pablo shook his head at Gregorio.

‘Anything else?’ said Pablo.

‘If they know about me, what’s to say they don’t know about the next step we’ve taken?’ said Falcón. ‘That I came over to make Yacoub one of our spies. He employs ten or fifteen people around his house. How do you know that he’s “safe”, that he’s not going to be turned, and that they still think that I’m just a friend?’

‘We have our own people on the inside,’ said Pablo.

‘Working for Yacoub?’

‘We didn’t just think this operation up last week,’ said Gregorio. ‘We have people working in his home, at his factory, and we’ve watched him on business trips. So have the British. He’s been vetted down to his toenails. The only thing we didn’t have, which nobody had, was access. And that’s where you came in.’

‘Don’t think about it too much, Javier,’ said Pablo.
‘It’s new territory and we’ll take it one step at a time. If you feel there’s something you can’t do…then you can’t do it. Nobody’s going to force you.’

‘I’m less worried about force than I am by coercion.’

Seville—Thursday, 8th June 2006, 23.55 hrs

That’s what Flowers had said: ‘You don’t understand the pressure on these people.’ Alone, now, Falcón gripped the arms of his chair in front of the dead computer screen. He’d only had a glimpse of it, but now he understood what Flowers had meant. He sat in his comfortable house, in the heart of one of the least violent cities in Europe and, yes, he had a demanding job, but not one where he had to pretend every day or cope with ‘an initiation rite’ that might demand ‘betrayal’. He didn’t have to cohabit with the minds of clear-sighted fanatics who saw God’s purpose in the murder of innocents, who, in fact, didn’t see them as innocents but as ‘culpable by democracy’, or the product of ‘decadence and godlessness’, and therefore fair game. He might have to face a moral choice, but not a life-or-death situation which could result in harm done to Yacoub, his wife and children.

Yacoub knew ‘how their minds worked’, that they would demand betrayal, because that would sever the relationship. They weren’t interested in the low-quality information of a Sevillano detective. They wanted to
cut Yacoub off from a relationship that connected him to the outside world. Yacoub had been with the group for twenty-four hours and already they were setting about the imprisonment of his mind.

The mobile vibrating on the desktop made him start.

‘Just to let you know,’ said Ramírez, ‘Arenas, Benito and Cárdenas have just left. Rivero, Zarrías and Alarcón are still there. Do we know what we’re doing yet?’

‘I have to call Elvira before we make a move,’ said Falcón. ‘What
I
want is for the two of us to go in there as soon as Rivero is alone and break him down so that he reveals
everybody
in the whole conspiracy, not just the bit players.’

‘Do you know Eduardo Rivero?’ asked Ramírez.

‘I met him once at a party,’ said Falcón. ‘He’s fantastically vain. Angel Zarrías has been trying to lever him out of the leadership of Fuerza Andalucía for years, but Rivero loved the status it conferred on him.’

‘So how did Zarrías get him out?’

‘No idea,’ said Falcón. ‘But Rivero is not a man to hand in his ego lightly.’

‘It happened on the day of the bomb, didn’t it?’

‘That’s when they announced it.’

‘But it must have been coming for a while,’ said Ramírez. ‘Zarrías never mentioned anything to you about it?’

‘Are you speaking with some inside knowledge, José Luis?’

‘Some press guys I know were telling me there was talk of a sex scandal around Rivero,’ said Ramírez. ‘Under-age girls. They’ve lost interest since the bomb, but they were very suspicious of the handover to Jesús Alarcón.’

‘So what’s your proposed strategy, José Luis?’ said Falcón. ‘You sound as if you want to make yourself unpopular again?’

‘I think I do. I’ve done a bit of work on Eduardo Rivero and I think that might be the way to make him feel uneasy,’ said Ramírez. ‘Lull him into a false sense of relief when we move away from the hint of scandal and then give him both barrels in the face with Tateb Hassani.’

‘That
is
your style, José Luis.’

‘He’s the type who’ll look down his nose at me,’ said Ramírez. ‘But because he knows you, and knows your sister is Zarrías’s partner, he’ll expect you to bring some dignity to the proceedings. He’ll turn to you for help. I think he’ll be devastated when you show him the shot of Tateb Hassani.’

‘We hope.’

‘Vain men are weak.’

Falcón called Comisario Elvira and gave him the update. He could almost smell the man’s sweat trickling down the phone.

‘Are you confident, Javier?’ he asked, as if begging Falcón to give him some resolve.

‘He’s the weakest of the three, the most vulnerable,’ said Falcón. ‘If we can’t break him, we’ll struggle to break the others. We can make the evidence against him sound overwhelming.’

‘Comisario Lobo thinks it’s the best way.’

Falcón pocketed his mobile and a photograph of Tateb Hassani. He used his reflection in the glass doors to the patio to knot his tie. He shrugged into his jacket. He was conscious of his shoes on the marble flagstones of the patio as he made his way to his car. He drove
through the night. The silent, lamp-lit streets under the dark trees were almost empty. Ramírez called to tell him that Alarcón had left. Falcón told him to send everybody home except Serrano and Baena, who would follow Zarrías once he’d left.

It was a short drive to Rivero’s house and there was parking in the square. He joined Ramírez on the street corner. Serrano and Baena were in an unmarked car opposite Rivero’s house.

A taxi came up the street and turned round by Rivero’s oak doors. The driver got out and rang the doorbell. Within a minute Angel Zarrías came out and got into the back of the cab, which pulled away. Serrano and Baena waited until it was nearly out of sight and then took off in pursuit.

Cristina Ferrera had taken a cab back to her apartment. She was so exhausted she forgot to ask the driver for a receipt. She got her keys out and headed for the entrance to her block. A man sitting on the steps up to the door made her wary. He held up his hands to show her he meant no harm.

‘It’s me, Fernando,’ he said. ‘I lost your number, but remembered the address. I came to take you up on your offer of a bed for the night. My daughter, Lourdes, came out of intensive care this evening. She’s in a room now with my parents-in-law looking after her. I needed to get out.’

‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘Since the bomb I don’t look at the time,’ he said. ‘So I don’t know.’

They went up to her apartment on the fourth floor.

‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have
come, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. I mean, nowhere that I’d feel comfortable.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s just another long day in a series of long days. I’m used to it.’

‘Have you caught them yet?’

‘We’re close,’ she said.

She put her bag on the table in the living room, took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. She had a holster with a gun clipped to a belt around her waist.

‘Are your kids asleep?’ he asked, in a whisper.

‘They sleep with my neighbour when I have to work late,’ she said.

‘I just wanted to see them sleeping, you know…’ he said, and fluttered his hand, as if that explained his need for normality.

‘They’re not quite old enough to be left on their own all night,’ she said, and went into the bedroom, unhooked the holster from her belt and put it in the top drawer of the chest. She pulled her blouse out of her waistband.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘I’m putting a pizza in the microwave.’

Cristina opened some beers and laid the table. She remade the bed with clean sheets in one of the kids’ rooms.

‘Do your neighbours gossip?’

‘Well, you’re famous now, so they’re bound to talk about you,’ said Ferrera. ‘They know I used to be a nun so they’re not too concerned about my virtue.’

‘You used to be a nun?’

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘So what’s it like?’

‘What?’

‘To be famous.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Fernando. ‘One moment I’m a labourer on a building site and the next I’m the voice of the people and it’s nothing to do with
me,
but because
Lourdes
survived. Does that make any sense to you?’

‘You’ve become a focus for what happened,’ she said, taking the pizza out of the microwave. ‘People don’t want to listen to politicians, they want to listen to someone who’s suffered. Tragedy gives you credibility.’

‘There’s no logic to it,’ he said. ‘I say the same things that I’ve always said in the bar where I go for coffee in the morning, and nobody listened to me then. Now I’ve got the whole of Spain hanging on my every word.’

‘Well, that might change tomorrow,’ said Ferrera.

‘What might change?’

‘Sorry, it’s nothing. I can’t talk about it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I even mentioned it. I’m too tired for this.’

Fernando’s eyes narrowed over the slice of pizza halfway to his mouth.

‘You’re close,’ said Fernando. ‘That’s what you said. Does that mean you know who they are, or you’ve actually caught them?’

‘It means we’re close,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. It’s police business. It slipped out because I was tired. I wasn’t thinking properly.’

‘Just tell me the name of the group,’ said Fernando. ‘They all have these crazy initials like MIEDO—Mártires Islámicos Enfrentados a la Dominación del Occidente.’

Islamic Martyrs facing up to Western Domination.

‘You didn’t listen.’

He frowned and replayed the dialogue.

‘You mean they weren’t terrorists?’

‘They
were
terrorists, but not Islamic ones.’

Fernando shook his head in disbelief.

‘I don’t know how you can say that.’

Ferrera shrugged.

‘I’ve read all the reports,’ said Fernando. ‘You found explosives in the back of their van, with the Koran and the Islamic sash and the black hood. They took the explosive into the mosque. The mosque exploded and…’

‘That’s all true.’

‘Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That’s why you’ve got to forget about it until it comes out in the news tomorrow.’

‘Then why can’t you tell me now?’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Because suspects still have to be interrogated.’

‘What suspects?’

‘The people who are suspected of planning the bombing of the mosque.’

‘You’re just trying to confuse me now.’

‘I’ll tell you this if you promise me that that will be the end of it,’ said Ferrera. ‘I know it’s important to you, but this is a police investigation and it’s totally confidential information.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Promise me first.’

‘I promise,’ he said, waving it away with his hand.

‘That sounds like a politician’s promise.’

‘That’s what happens when you spend time with them. You learn too much, too quickly,’ said Fernando.

‘I promise you, Cristina.’

‘There was another bomb that was planted in the mosque which, when it exploded, set off the very large quantity of hexogen which the Islamic terrorists were storing there. That’s what destroyed your apartment building.’

‘And you know who planted the bomb?’

‘You promised me that that would be the end of it.’

‘I know, but I just need to…I
have
to know.’

‘That’s what we’re working on tonight.’

‘You have to tell me who they are.’

‘I can’t. There’s no discussion. It’s not possible. If it came out, I’d lose my job.’

‘They killed my wife and son.’

‘And if they are responsible, they will face trial.’

Fernando opened up a pack of cigarettes.

‘You’ll have to go out on the balcony if you want to smoke.’

‘Come and sit with me?’

‘No more questions?’

‘I promise. You’re right. I can’t do this to you.’

Falcón and Ramírez were ringing the bell as Zarrías’s taxi turned out of Calle Castelar. Eduardo Rivero opened the door, expecting it to be Angel coming back for the notebook he’d forgotten. He was surprised to find two stone-faced policemen in the frame, presenting their ID cards. His face momentarily lost all definition, as if the muscles had been deprived of their neural drive. Geniality revived them.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked, his white moustache doubling the size and warmth of his smile.

‘We’d like to talk to you,’ said Falcón.

‘It’s very late,’ said Rivero, looking at his watch.

‘It can’t wait,’ said Ramírez.

Rivero looked away from him with faint disgust.

‘Have we met?’ he asked Falcón. ‘You seem familiar.’

‘I came to a party here once, some years ago,’ said Falcón. ‘My sister is Angel Zarrías’s partner.’

‘Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes…Javier Falcón. Of course,’ said Rivero. ‘Can I ask what you’d like to talk to me about at this time of the morning?’

‘We’re homicide detectives,’ said Ramírez. ‘We only ever talk to people at this hour of the morning about murder.’

‘And you are?’ said Rivero, his distaste even more undisguised.

‘Inspector Ramírez,’ he said. ‘We’ve never met before, Sr Rivero. You’d have remembered it.’

‘I can’t think how I can help you.’

‘We just want to ask some questions,’ said Falcón.

‘It shouldn’t take too long.’ That eased the tension in the doorway. Rivero could see himself in bed within the hour. He let the door fall back and the two policemen stepped in.

‘We’ll go up to my office,’ said Rivero, trying to reel in Ramírez, who’d gone straight through the arch to the internal courtyard and was brushing his large intrusive fingers over the rough head of the low hedge.

‘What’s this called?’ he asked.

‘Box hedge,’ said Rivero. ‘From the family Buxaceae. They use it in England to make mazes. Shall we go upstairs?’

‘It looks as if it’s just been clipped,’ said Ramírez. ‘When did that happen?’

‘Probably last weekend, Inspector Ramírez,’ said
Rivero, holding out his arm to herd him back into the fold. ‘Let’s go upstairs now, shall we?’

Ramírez snapped off a twig and twiddled it between thumb and forefinger. They went up to Rivero’s office where he showed them chairs, before sinking into his own on the far side of the desk. He was irritated to find Ramírez examining the photographs on the wall: shots of Rivero, in politics and at play with the hierarchy of the Partido Popular, various members of the aristocracy, some bull breeders and a few local
toreros
.

‘Are you looking for something, Inspector?’ asked Rivero.

‘You used to be the leader of Fuerza Andalucía until a few days ago,’ said Ramírez. ‘In fact, didn’t you hand over the leadership on the morning of the explosion?’

‘Well, it wasn’t a sudden decision. It was something I’d been thinking about for a long time, but when something like that happens it opens up a new chapter in Seville politics, and it seemed to me that a new chapter needed new strength. Jesús Alarcón is the man to take the party forward. I think my decision has proved to be a very good one. We’re polling more now than in the party’s history.’