Cries of the Lost (14 page)

The force of his concentration kicked up a notch, then seemed to loosen as he sat back in his chair, nearly grinning.

“You’re with him,” he said.

It was my turn to be puzzled.

“Sorry?” I said.

“The guy hanging around Calle Dulcinea. Kept buzzing my apartment. Or maybe it was you. Shaved the beard?”

“Not me. I hate beards.”

He didn’t look convinced. “So, you’re interested in that other apartment, is that it?”

“I am. It must be quite an added expense for you. I could help you out.”

“I like the extra room.”

“I’ll bet you’ll like the extra income even more. I’ll double whatever they’re paying you.”

As we talked, Jueventino and Anthony continuously searched the buildings around us with their eyes, ignoring the conversation. There was no way to tell if they understood what we said.

“You seem very calm for a person playing such a dangerous game,” said Santillian.

“I’m not playing,” I said.

“Hm,” said Santillian. “Then maybe we should get down to business. At the moment, there are a pair of crosshairs in the middle of your forehead. I assume the same goes for me. What is it called, mutually assured destruction?”

I nodded.

“Your buddies might get away,” I said, “but probably not.”

The two of them looked at me.

“Ever been to London, Mr. Felingham?” Santillian asked.

I gave it some thought, then said, “I used to live there. Years ago.”

“So not recently.”

“That’s right.”

A waiter came over. Pleasantries were exchanged as they asked for coffee, juice and
pasteles.
Just a bunch of sales guys delaying the start of another humdrum day on the job.

“I’m all set,” I said, when the waiter asked for my order. “Already had breakfast.”

“I’m sure you have,” said Santillian, after the waiter left us. “I can tell you what you ate after I watch the video.”

I felt my smartphone vibrate. I looked at the screen.

Natsumi had texted me: “Green car across street to the west. 2 guys not getting out, looking.”

I put the phone back in my pocket.

“Jueventino and Anthony can go join your other
compañeros
in the Nissan over there,” I said, nodding toward the green car. “No point in getting them killed just for keeping you company.”

They looked at Santillian and he told them to go.

“All of you get the hell out of here,” he said, which they did without much hesitation. “Can we start talking now?” he asked when they were gone.

“We can try,” I said. “So how about that apartment?”

He took a sip of his coffee before answering.

“This interest you have, is it official or unofficial?”

“Define official.”

He made a sound that could be interpreted as a light laugh. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he said. “It’s all the same.”

“It’s just that official can mean a lot of different things.”

He bought that. “True. So let me ask you, this interest, is it American?”

In a conversation filled with pauses, the next one was conspicuously long. It had to be as I played out a half dozen if/thens in my head. I finally gave it up and went with my first unexamined impulse.

“No,” I said. “I’m an American, but that’s the only connection.”

He seemed to be processing that when he said, “And I’m not only a concrete salesman. I have a full line of building materials. Whatever you need, I can get it.”

“Too bad I’m not building anything,” I said. “Though what I could really use is a courier service.”

He smiled a bloodless smile. “I have no use for such a service myself.”

“Well, this might be a way to get into the business. All you have to do is find a man named Rodrigo and deliver a brief message.”

Back when I fed my tuition payments by playing blackjack in Atlantic City, there was always a lot of talk among amateurs after a game about the “tell,” the supposed give-away gestures and facial tics that provided a look inside your opponent’s mind. Never happened with the serious players, since they’d learned long ago how to keep those things in check no matter which way the cards were running. Santillian would have made a pretty good card player, though I’d have to coach him on that little flicker across the brow.

“This is Spain,” he said. “We have a lot of Rodrigos.”

“If you’re as good as I think you are, you’ll find the right one. When you do, here’s the message: I’m not a threat. All I want is information. For me and for no one else, officially or unofficially. I seek conflict with no one.”

“That’s all well and good, but maybe this Rodrigo is seeking conflict with you.”

I stood up. “Only if he doesn’t understand, or has no respect for, the concept of self-defense.”

I heard the sound of a car door close down the street behind me. Then the car started and moved in my direction. I kept my eyes on Santillian, who stayed in his seat, though I saw him steal a glance at the approaching car.

“What if I want to communicate with you?” he asked.

“Text,” I said, reaching out to open the rear door of the cab as it pulled up to the curb. I wasted little time climbing in and slamming the door, and after sliding low in the seat, told the driver to take me to the first of several places I went that day before feeling safe enough to return to the hotel.

C
HAPTER
8

W
hile I was zigzagging around Madrid, getting in and out of taxis, walking in the front door of museums, shops and restaurants, then ducking out the back whenever possible, Natsumi was making friends with Spanish academics.

Where I would have detailed every conversation and led her through an exhaustive narrative, beginning with my initial findings, then a step-by-step description of each call and subsequent progress of the search leading to the final outcome, she simply said to me, “Raul Preciado-Cotto. Best in the business.”

“At what?”

“The history of the Guardia Civil. The national police force of Spain. Kind of a CIA, FBI and National Guard balled up in one. Given Spain’s past, not without its controversy.”

“You’ve contacted Raul?”

“By email. He’s a professor at the
Universidad Complutense de Madrid,
though forty years before that he was a journalist. A European stringer, funnily enough, for
The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Did that for thirty years.”

“Thirty plus forty?”

“In the years before the
Inquirer
gig, he graduated from the Sorbonne, then kicked around a bunch of odd jobs and did a stint in Franco’s Guardia Civil, which at the time was busy choking off the last of the resistance from the civil war.”

“He’s gotta be a million years old,” I said.

“Ninety-eight. He has perspective.”

“And we can talk to him?”

“Tomorrow at eight
P
.
M
. He said to bring Calvados. The quality of his commentary is apparently pegged to the vintage of the brandy, so you might think about selling some assets.”

“What’s our cover?” I asked.

“You’re writing a book. Seemed to work okay last time.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a sabbatical from my psychotherapy business. Why mess with a winning formula.”

B
EFORE GOING
to bed, I checked the video feed from Spottsworthy Mews. At first I thought there was a glitch in the software, or an error in the log, since no activity had been registered for a few days. I called up the menu of thumbnails, listed chronologically, and started clicking through.

Not surprisingly, no one went in or out of the safe house. Our randy neighbors, on the other hand, knocked on our door every afternoon around cocktail hour, at least on one occasion with bottles in hand. I felt vaguely bad for them. It must be bloody difficult to drum up like-minded corespondents so conveniently close to home.

Other people moved in and out of security camera range, doors opened and closed—sometimes in great haste, goods and packages were signed for, hugs were followed by invitations, long conversations were held in the courtyard, a crew of blokes in white jumpsuits did maintenance work on the common area lighting, the guy boinking the housewife at number six made a nearly daily appearance (I committed myself once and for all to getting this information over to the McPhersons) and that was about it.

Until the facade of the safe house blew out into the courtyard.

Once the dust settled, the image showed people pouring out of their homes, a few stopping to stare at the flames raging out into the night air. Then the Fire Brigade appeared, pulling hoses through the courtyard, and blasting water into the ruined townhouse. Blue lights flickered from the smaller cop cars that could squeeze their way into the mews; bobbies, looking straight-backed and confident in caps and helmets and chartreuse slickers, hustled people back from the steamy, flame-lit chaos.

This all lasted until the feed suddenly winked out, likely because of the proximity of the junction box and router to the blistering heat of the fire.

It didn’t matter. I got the point.

P
ROFESSOR
P
RECIADO
-C
OTTO
lived in the Salamanca district a block off Serrano Street in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Madrid. His place was on the top floor of his apartment building, affording a generous view of the surrounding area, which included the American embassy.

As requested, we arrived at eight in the evening with a $300 bottle of Calvados. One of the security people at the front desk called up to him, and then the other escorted us to the apartment. He waited until Preciado-Cotto opened the door and we exchanged introductions. Then he left us and we were allowed in.

The furniture was massive and ornate, in a variety of natural wood tones. The rugs were Persian and several floor vases—big enough to bathe in—were focal points. A grand piano dominated part of the sitting area, the remaining space occupied by overstuffed couches and chairs. Bookcases made of a woven reed-like material took up what wall space wasn’t covered by art. At least two of the works were Picassos. I also identified a Chagall and a Kandinsky, which exhausted my knowledge of twentieth-century art. Large windows let in the bright lights of the city.

Preciado-Cotto himself was a bit less than five feet tall, with a straight back, bald head and fleshy face that seemed to make up a quarter of his body mass. He wore an embroidered smoking jacket over a silky white shirt, sharply pressed slacks and slip-on shoes, also embroidered with blue and gold medallions. His handshake was bone dry, but firm.

He took the Calvados and nodded appreciatively as he read the label. “You knew I was joking,” he said, in lightly accented English. “But maybe I’m glad if you didn’t.”

“It’s our pleasure,” said Natsumi, as we followed him out to the sitting area. He stopped at a dry bar and retrieved three brandy glasses, into which he poured without hesitation generous helpings of the golden brown liquid. We sat, or rather were absorbed into the fluffy couch.

“We appreciate your willingness to speak with us,
profesor
,” said Natsumi.

“Emeritus at this point,” he said. “Though they still drag me into the classroom now and again to guest lecture. I don’t mind. You can’t just write all day.”

“If my research is correct, you’ve written nearly a hundred books,” said Natsumi.

“Eighty-one. And over a thousand academic papers, newspaper and magazine articles and monographs.”

“Hard to imagine,” she said. “This is my first book.”

“For some, writing is a disease. My father never understood.” Seventy-eight years of professional accomplishment and a parent’s disapproval is still the first thing that comes to mind. “Mostly I blame Hemingway,” he added.

“You’re not the first to find him an inspiration,” I said.

Preciado-Cotto sniffed. “Not that. My father let him stay at our country house for a week just before Ebro, the battle that broke the back of
Los Republicanos.
I’m sorry, I know he is a famous American writer, but what a horse’s ass.”