The Ignorance of Blood (35 page)

‘The money is impossible. It's already been banked,’ said Falcón. ‘We know what's on the disks.’

‘They will be happy with the disks. They contain substantial bargaining power. Extortion is a core business,’ said the voice.

There was an omission there that Falcón did not miss: the disks were a lot more than just an ordinary business tool.

‘As you know,’ said Consuelo, ‘I am a businesswoman. Normally in business I negotiate with someone who has something I want. I might use a broker if they bring specialist knowledge, but in our situation here, you are trying to
become
the broker when I am already in direct contact with the person who has what I want.’

‘I don't think you've listened to me very carefully, Señora
Jiménez. Not only have I explained what sort of a person Yuri Donstov is – a man with no code of honour and no rules, who has turned his back on the very people who made him a
vor-v-zakone
– but also that he is running an operation which will very soon cease to exist. I doubt you are in the habit of doing business with bankrupts,’ said the voice. ‘The other advantage to you, Señora Jiménez, is that you don't have to do anything. We will get your son back for you. You just have to sit and wait.’

‘But I still have to call Yuri Donstov. He has already sent me an email saying that
his
patience is not infinite – as if
mine
is.’

‘You tell him that there are complications. First of all, you cannot get the money because it is in the bank, and secondly, you have been approached by another group who say that they are the ones holding your son. You no longer know who to believe, and he must give you incontrovertible proof of your son's wellbeing before you do anything. I'm sure, with your experience, that you are an expert at playing for time in a negotiation.’

‘But
how
are you going to get my son back? You are
all
men of violence. If you're going to fight this out, killing each other, I do not want my son to be in the middle of a war.’

‘Believe me, Señora Jiménez, this is not a unilateral action. Pressure can be applied in all sorts of ways –’

‘That sounds like a slow process,’ said Consuelo. ‘I don't have that sort of time. My son is in the hands of a monster. I'm not going to wait while you gradually squeeze this … this infected boil out of your organization.’

‘Do not expect me to be explicit, Señora Jiménez,’ said the voice. ‘The Inspector Jefe has a personal interest in all criminal activity, even if it is for the general good.’

‘I don't know
what
to think any more.’

‘We're going to hang up now,’ said Falcón. ‘We need some time to make a decision.’

‘Promise me one thing, Inspector Jefe,’ said the voice,
‘that you will delay, in any way you can, your negotiations with Señor Donstov. If you are unsure of our capabilities in this matter, please come back to us so that we can take the opportunity to convince you.’

‘One last thing,’ said Consuelo. ‘What do you want out of this?’

‘A small reward,’ said the voice, and cut the line.

Falcón leaned back in his chair. Consuelo stared into the desk.

‘You did a brilliant job,’ said Falcón.

‘I don't know what to think any more,’ said Consuelo, repeating herself, trying to force some logic past a gigantic emotional obstacle.

‘Think about the two parties you've spoken to,’ said Falcón. ‘How do you feel about them?’

‘At least these people didn't threaten me or threaten to harm Darío, but then again, they're not holding him. Maybe they'd be more unpleasant if they were,’ said Consuelo.

‘What did you think when they asked you to hold and started talking about getting permission from a higher authority?’

‘They were discussing a change of approach,’ said Consuelo. ‘Initially they were going to play a game with us: pretending they had Darío, but when I asked for the simple proof they realized the hopelessness of their gambit. They are being persuasively reasonable because they are weak. We have access – or rather,
you
have access – to what they want, but they can't give us what
we
want. So they make us believe that we are dealing with a monster and offer to intervene and be strong on our behalf. The only problem for me is –’

‘What they're planning to do.’

‘By the sound of it, they're going to kill Yuri Donstov. He's muscling in on their territory, breaking all their codes of conduct and they will use guns and, I don't know, rocket-propelled grenades to take him out.’

‘I'm beginning to think that Lukyanov was very important
to Donstov's organization,’ said Falcón. ‘The voice told us that Donstov's operation will “soon cease to exist”, which probably means that Donstov's supply lines of heroin will be cut, or already have been.’

‘That is if we believe everything the voice tells us,’ said Consuelo.

‘Lukyanov, with the eight million euros, was bringing cash flow to the game and his expertise in prostitution. And, because we're talking about girls rather than heroin, the supply can come from anywhere.’

‘Then there are the disks that Lukyanov was supposed to deliver,’ said Consuelo. ‘But you don't know what they're planning to muscle in on.’

‘One of the guys on the disks is a civil engineer who heads up the construction arm of Horizonte,’ said Falcón. ‘I also know that one of these Russian groups has their claws dug into the mayor's office and that a crucial meeting will take place in Seville very soon, probably between the I4IT/Horizonte consortium and the mayor and other relevant departments.’

‘Is time becoming an important factor for them?’

‘The meeting is due to take place within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘Businessmen consorting with prostitutes? Is that such a terrible thing these days?’ asked Consuelo, shrugging. ‘Raúl went whoring. Some of the people I do business with, especially in property and construction, take cocaine, go to orgies. We're not mired in Catholicism any more.’

‘But I4IT is an American corporation, owned by two reformed addicts who are born-again Christians. They'll take you in as a sinner, but you have to reform. They would not tolerate the sort of behaviour you're talking about by any executives in any of their companies. Those guys would be out of a job that probably pays more than a million euros a year and puts them in a position to make double that in the black economy.’

‘In that case, the one thing the voice was not quite straight
about,’ said Consuelo, ‘was the disks. They
are
very important to Leonid Revnik.’

‘A further admission of weakness would not have looked good,’ said Falcón. ‘They'd be saying we don't have the boy
and
we're desperate for what you've got.’

‘Would
you give them the disks, Javier?’ asked Consuelo, that question burning inside her, too hot for her not to let it out.

‘Darío is my responsibility …’

‘Have you noticed that?’ said Consuelo, cutting in, suddenly unable to bear hearing his response. ‘Neither of the Russian groups has mentioned the original reason for abducting Darío, which was to get you to stop your investigations into the Seville bombing.’

‘They've effectively done that by killing my best witness, Marisa Moreno,’ said Falcón. ‘And the voice
did
offer me the men who planted the bomb. He certainly knows what I want.’

They lapsed into silence, looking at each other. Too much going on in their heads. Falcón checked the time. Ten minutes past midnight. Nearly two hours since the email was sent from Donstov.

‘You have to talk to the other side,’ he said. ‘Play for time.’

Consuelo looked suddenly exhausted. The years piled into her face. The muscles in her jaw tensed. She reached for the phone, this call more difficult now that she knew for certain they were holding Darío. She gritted her teeth and dialled the number.

‘You know, Javier, don't you, that if anything happened to Darío, I wouldn't be able to live with it. Even after all Alicia's work, he still means too much to me. He's not just Darío, my baby, he's the two I lost as well. I think it might be the end of me … This is Consuelo Jiménez,’ she said into the phone, ‘and I'd like to speak to my son.’

‘You've taken your time.’

‘There've been complications.’

‘All right, tell me your complications, Señora Jiménez, but don't let them be from the Inspector Jefe. He is the whole reason behind this. If he hadn't stuck his nose into our business, none of this would have happened.’

‘The first is the money,’ said Consuelo, hunched over the desk, her whole body tensed against the simmering violence coming down the line. ‘The money has already been transferred from the Jefatura to the Banco de Bilbao. The Inspector Jefe has no authority over it. Only his commanding officer can get that money out.’

‘That is very simple … not complicated at all,’ said the voice, and Consuelo's shoulders relaxed a notch. ‘You will raise the money yourself, Señora Jiménez.’

Silence.

‘Do you seriously think I can lay my hands on eight million euros in the space of…?’

‘Eight million two hundred thousand euros, Señora Jiménez,’ said the voice. ‘That shouldn't be a problem. I know two of your restaurants here in Seville are leased, but the other two you own outright. There's been a property boom. Those two buildings are easily worth three million euros now, so there's only a further five million to raise. Be creative. We know you're good at that.’

‘I can't –’

‘You can, Señora Jiménez. Eight million two hundred thousand for your child's safe return. I really don't think that's too much to ask.’

Consuelo blinked. This was not going according to plan. Her left hand started to tremble.

‘It will take time,’ she said.

‘We're in no hurry. We can afford to keep your son alive for a week,’ said the voice. ‘Your friend, though, the Inspector Jefe, he will have to bring us the disks today. Yes, today. It is today already. He will bring us the original disks by midday today as a demonstration of good will.’

‘The original disks? Why do you need the originals? Why not copies?’

‘Because we want the originals,’ said the voice. ‘All understood. No more complications.’

‘There is one more complication,’ said Consuelo, dredging for all reserves of strength. ‘I need proof that you are holding my son.’

‘Proof!’

‘I need you to ask him about his mark.’

‘His mark!’ roared the voice.

‘Ask him about his mark. He will tell you everything you need to know to prove to me –’

‘You want proof –’ said the voice, total threat.

‘We have been approached by another group who claim that they are the ones holding my son. I therefore need you to prove to me…’

‘I'll prove to you, Señora Jiménez. Listen –’

A child's voice. Distant, but in the same room as the phone.

‘Mamá, Mamá, Mamá.’

‘Darío!’ screamed Consuelo.

A blurt of foreign language.

‘Listen, Señora Jiménez.’

‘Mamá, Mamá. No, no, no –’

The voice was muffled. A hand placed over the mouth. There was an audible clipping noise like shears going through the bones of a roast chicken, and then screaming, piercing horror screams of a child not just in pain, but in terrible shock at what had just been done.

‘That was the small toe, Señora Jiménez. We won't bother to send that to you. Only later … the bigger parts. If you decide to make that necessary.’

21

Consuelo Jiménez's restaurant, La Macarena, Seville – Tuesday, 19th September 2006, 00.15 hrs

Consuelo fell off her chair, slid under the desk as if she'd been dragged there by some unseen riptide. She hid in the footwell, held on to her face, squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her body. She strained against the pain until a creaking sound developed in her throat, but however hard she tried she could not get those horror screams out of her head. They were in there now for eternity and they'd torn something in her. That connective tissue, which holds us together and binds us to others, had just been slashed at with a hooligan's mindlessness.

Falcón crawled towards her.

‘Don't touch me!’ she screamed, kicking at him with her heels. She didn't want loving. She didn't want tenderness or pity. What she wanted was someone to string her up by her ankles, slit her throat and bleed her into oblivion. She wanted to take the violence meted out to her child on to herself.

An immense silence settled in the room. It was so quiet that for the first time they heard diners off in the restaurant beyond the soundproofed door. Like faint choral singing.
They sat on the floor. The chair fallen on its side. Consuelo's hands clutched to her chest, knees up to her face. Falcón on the outside looking in. No tears from her. This was beyond tears. She stared into the wood grain for an age.