The Hidden Assassins. Robert Thomas Wilson

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       10

       Seville—Tuesday, 6th June 2006, 13.45 hrs

      The meeting broke up with the news that another body had been found in the rubble. Calderón left immediately. The three CNI men spoke intently amongst themselves, while Falcón and Elvira discussed resources. Inspector Jefe Barros of the CGI stared into the floor, his jaw muscles working over some new humiliation. After ten minutes the CNI conferred with Elvira. Falcón and Barros were asked to leave the room. Barros paced the corridor, avoiding Falcón. Some moments later Elvira called Falcón back in and the CNI men moved towards the door, saying that they would conduct a detailed search of Imam Abdelkrim Benaboura’s apartment.

      ‘Is that information going to be shared?’ asked Falcón.

      ‘Of course,’ said Juan, ‘unless it compromises national security.’

      ‘I’d like one of my officers to be present.’

      ‘In the light of what’s just been said, we have to do it now and you’re all too busy.’

      They left. Falcón turned to Elvira, hands open, questioning this state of affairs.

      ‘They’re determined not to make a mistake this time round,’ said Elvira, ‘and they want all the credit for it, too. Futures are at stake here.’

      ‘And to what extent do you have control over what they do?’

      ‘Those words “national security” are the problem,’ said Elvira. ‘For instance, they want to talk to you on a matter of “national security”, which means I’m told nothing other than it has to be private and at length.’

      ‘That’s not going to be easy today.’

      ‘They’ll make time for you—at night, whenever.’

      ‘And “national security” is the only clue they’ve given?’

      ‘They’re interested in your Moroccan connections,’ said Elvira, ‘and have asked to interview you.’

      ‘Interview me?’ said Falcón. ‘That sounds like it’s for a job and I’ve already got one of those with plenty of work in it.’

      ‘Where are you going now?’

      ‘I’m tempted to be present at the search of the Imam’s apartment,’ said Falcón. ‘But I think I’m going to follow up the Informáticalidad lead. That’s a very strange way to use an apartment for three months.’

      ‘So you’re keeping an open mind on this, unlike our CNI friends,’ said Elvira, nodding at the door.

      ‘I thought Juan was very eloquent on the subject.’

      ‘That’s how they want everybody else to think, so that they’ve got all their bases covered,’ said Elvira, ‘but there’s no doubt in my mind that they believe they’ve hit on the beginning of a major Islamic terrorist campaign.’

      ‘To bring Andalucía back into the Islamic fold?’

      ‘Why else would they want to talk to you about your “Moroccan connections”?’

      ‘We don’t know what they know.’

      ‘I know that they’re seeking redress and greater glory,’ said Elvira, ‘and that worries me.’

      ‘And what was going on with Inspector Jefe Barros?’ asked Falcón. ‘He was present but nothing more, as if he’d been told he was allowed to attend but not to say a word.’

      ‘There’s a problem, which they will explain to you directly. All I have been told by the head of the CGI in Madrid is that, for the moment, the Seville antiterrorism unit cannot contribute to this investigation.’

      Consuelo sat in her office in the restaurant in La Macarena. She had kicked off her shoes and was curled up foetally on her new expensive leather office chair, which rocked her gently backwards and forwards. She had a ball of tissue in her hands, which was crammed into her mouth. She bit against it when the physical pain became too much. Her throat tried to articulate the emotion, but it had no reference points. Her body felt like ruptured earth, spewing up sharp chunks of magma.

      The television was on. She had not been able to bear the silence of the restaurant. The chefs weren’t due to start preparing the lunch service until 11 a.m. She had tried to walk her extreme agitation out of herself, but her tour of the spotless kitchen, with its gleaming stainless steel surfaces, its knives and cleavers winking encouragement at her, had terrified rather than calmed. She’d walked the dining rooms and the patio, but none of the smells, the textures, not even the obsessive order of the table settings could fill this aching emptiness pressing against her ribs.

      She had retreated to her office, locked herself in. The volume of the television was turned low so that she couldn’t make out the words, but she took comfort from the human murmur. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the images of destruction playing on the screen. There was the sharp smell of vomit in the room as she’d just thrown up at the sight of the tiny bodies under their pinafores outside the pre-school. Tears tracked mascara down her cheeks. The mouth side of the ball of tissue was slimy with sharp saliva. Something had been levered open; the lid was no longer on whatever it was she had inside her, and she, who had always prided herself on her courage to face up to things, could not bear to take a look. She squeezed her eyes shut at a new rising of pain. The chair empathized with the shudder of her body. Her throat squealed as if there was something sharp lodged across it.

      The destroyed apartment block flickered on the screen in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t bear to switch off the TV and live with the only other occupant of the silence, even though the building’s collapse was an appalling replication of her own mental state. Only a few hours ago she had been more or less whole. She had always imagined the gap between sanity and madness as a yawning chasm, but now found it was like a border in the desert: you didn’t know whether you’d crossed it or not.

      The TV pictures changed from the piles of rubble to a body bag being lifted into a cradle stretcher, to the wounded, staggering down pavements, to the jagged edges of shattered windows, to the trees stripped of all their leaves, to cars upside down in gardens, to a road sign speared into the earth. These TV news editors must be professionals in horror, every image was like a slap to the face, knocking a complacent public into the new reality.

      Then calm returned. A presenter stood in front of the church of San Hermenegildo. He had a friendly face. Consuelo turned up the sound in the hope of good news. The camera zoomed in on the plaque and dropped back down to the presenter, who was now walking and giving a brief history of the church. The camera remained tight on the presenter’s face. There was an inexplicable tension in the scene. Something was coming. The suspense transfixed Consuelo. The presenter’s voice told them that this was the site of an old mosque and the camera cut to the apex of a classic Arabic arch. Its focus pulled wide to reveal the new horror. Written in red over the doors were the words: AHORA ES NUESTRA. Now it is ours.

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