Turned to Stone (18 page)

PART III

UNDER FIRE

26

Madrid

The Lufthansa flight from Athens landed on the runway an hour late due to a storm over the departure city, and the cold and damp of the morning made the passengers pull collars and scarves tighter around their necks.

His eyes underscored by dark circles, Jaime Azcárate plodded through the cabin without acknowledging the smiling flight attendant performing the polite parting ritual, or even noticing the other passengers he was following out of the plane. He ignored everyone, advancing like a zombie to the airport exit. With the little clothing he’d taken to Athens tucked in his carry-on, he had no need to wait at baggage collection to see whether a suitcase had been lost, and he beelined toward the automatic doors, which opened to reveal a familiar figure in the crowd.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, but he soon saw she was real. Her green eyes radiated concern. Jaime lifted his arm and waved like a schoolboy arriving home from a long field trip. Laura Rodríguez returned the greeting, a serious expression on her pale face.

Jaime dodged the other passengers reuniting with loved ones and walked toward his boss, who made no attempt to hide her joy at seeing him.

“How are you?” She hugged him carefully.

“I won’t lie, Presidenta. I’d have rather been sent to write a story on Iberian bronzes.”

“Come on. I’ve got the car.”

Jaime felt touched by the attention. Laura didn’t normally get involved in her contributors’ lives, not even his. They’d initially reunited seven years before, a twist of fate that had led to Jaime getting hired at
Arcadia
. Since then, the aloofness he’d seen glimpses of back in their university days had become the most salient characteristic of his no-nonsense boss, who dined, danced, and romanced only her work. But she wasn’t a monster, and Jaime had come out of his recent adventure badly. Picking him up from the airport was the least she could do.

Laura parked her black Ford Fiesta in her space at the CHR, and they made their way up to the
Arcadia
editorial office. Shifting from the concerned attitude she’d shown at the airport, La Presidenta now reverted to her usual professionalism.

“Are you fit to write a report?”

Jaime frowned.

“ ‘A report’? What is this, the CIA? You mean a story.”

“For now, let’s call it a report. Then we’ll decide whether this is something we can publish. A couple of hours ago I spoke to Herbert Monfort, the EHU commissioner. He told me what Amatriaín and the Greek police have found out, but I want to hear your version.”

“My version? My version’s that a bunch of asshole pirates boarded the ship, stole the artifacts, and sank it with everyone still on board. End of report.”

“I seriously doubt you believe it’s that simple.”

“And you’re not wrong. Pirates board freighters in the open sea, out of reach of the security forces, not when they’re moored and under supposed guard. What did this Monfort tell you?”

“A team of police divers was able to recover the bodies of our team members, two pirates, and Inspector Kraniotis. They still have to search most of the starboard side, but because of the way the ship’s positioned they haven’t been able to access it yet.”

Jaime slumped into an office chair, rolling it across the floor until it stopped against a wall. “So many dead. Why?”

Laura looked at him with compassion, wishing now that she’d taken him straight home. “You should rest for a few days. I’ll call you a taxi.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’ll grab some coffee and go work at my desk.”

“Forget it, Jaime. The report can wait. Anyway, we don’t have much information to work with yet.”

Though he was gaunt and his eyes were swollen, Jaime managed a brave smile. “That’s where you’re wrong, Presidenta. I know things other people don’t.”

“Is this another one of your fairy tales?”

“This Monfort: Did he tell you who the pirates were?”

“He just said that they were Caucasian, possibly from Southern Europe.”

“ ‘Caucasians from Southern Europe.’ So, anyone from Anthony Quinn to Penélope Cruz?”

“Anthony Quinn was Mexican.”

“And Penélope’s from right here in Spain. Didn’t he tell you anything else?”

“What else should he have told me?”

“One of the pirates, the leader, mentioned two important things. First, that he was going to finish the job his sister left unfinished.”

“His sister?”

“It seems obvious to me: he was referring to the knockout brunette who tried to turn me into a journalist Popsicle in El Burgo de Osma.”

“ ‘Journalist’? I don’t know if I’d go that far. Maybe an ‘art historian Popsicle.’ A knockout, huh?”

“Forget it.” Jaime refused to take the bait. “I can’t think of any other woman who would want to kill both Amatriaín and me. I’m sure the guy was her brother. The weird thing is, he seemed surprised to see us. That makes me think he didn’t know we’d be there, or maybe we weren’t his main target. He probably meant for us to die in the explosion with the others, but when he saw us on deck he decided to kill us personally. Fortunately, Amatriaín was one step ahead of him and cut his throat.”

“That’s horrific. I guess you don’t dislike Amatriaín quite so much now.”

“You guess wrong. There’s something crooked about him, but I’m not sure yet what it is. I imagine the accident left a mark on him.”

“What accident?”

“Something involving acid, on one of his missions. Not the kind that gets you high, the type that burns your skin.”

“That explains the gloves and the scars. I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Why? You like him?”

“They do give him a manly look.”

“You
are
a strange one, Presidenta.” Jaime said. “And now for the second important thing. I’ve been chewing it over in my mind ever since the guy said it. Just before the pirate leader died, he said something like ‘porco albino.’ ”

“Filthy albino . . . Who was he referring to?”

“No idea. There weren’t any albinos on the ship that I know of.”

“Could he have been talking about Amatriaín?”

“Amatriaín is a lot of things, but albino isn’t one of them. His teeth might be fake, but that tan’s natural. Anyway, whoever this albino is, the guy didn’t think very highly of him.” Jaime stood. “Still, you’re right. That’s not much more to go on.”

“So . . . ?”

“So we should leave the matter of the
Artemis
in the hands of the authorities and focus on the Medusa. That’s the key to this whole thing, and it’s what falls in our territory as art historians.”

“So you’re not calling yourself a journalist anymore?” Laura said.

“You worry too much about titles. Anyway, I’ve delegated a task to a certain crazy, fat geek we both know.”

“Yeah. I think Roberto has something for you.”

Jaime glared at her. “You know something I don’t?”

“Could be, but I’m heading into an important meeting. Talk to fatso and keep me posted. And don’t forget the report.”

“I won’t,” Jaime promised.

Jaime’s cockiness vanished as soon as he walked out of the building and climbed into the taxi Laura had called for him after all. He felt dreadful, as if a part of him had died along with his innocent companions. Common sense told him he should go home, take a few days off, and put this business behind him before resuming his routine of writing about exhibitions, old statues, crumbling ruins, and ancient myths.

Common sense also tried to convince him that this whole thing was above his pay grade. That playing at being a swashbuckling journalist was one thing, but going up against someone capable of cold-blooded murder quite another.

Common sense kept up its efforts for a while, and then, fed up with being ignored, finally turned away and left.

Jaime Azcárate’s drowsy mind had room only for Sonia Durán, Professor San Román, Lucas Andrade, Inspector Kraniotis, and the three Greek historians whose names he’d never been able to remember. As a journalist, it was his job to tell the story of what had happened. He was somehow ashamed he had survived, and he felt a responsibility to discover what had cost so many lives. He believed he owed it to the victims to uncover the truth, and he planned to do so with a fire in his belly.

First he left a message for Roberto. Then he skimmed the daily news, which barely mentioned the incident in Piraeus. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at the little desk in his attic apartment, listening to music while roughing out his report. He recounted everything, from the team’s arrival in Athens to his and Amatriaín’s treatment at the hospital. Once he’d finished, he printed it and left the copy on his printer. He had no desire to reread it. He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He could see it was time for a deep clean. He noticed the mass of papers overflowing from his desk drawer. How long had it been since he’d tidied up, anyway? He clicked the mouse cursor on the CD icon and a jazz band began to play Chet Baker’s “You Go to My Head.”

Still exhausted after his ordeal, Jaime very nearly fell asleep at his keyboard. But the series of events that had been tormenting his subconscious for days forced its way into the foreground of his rational thoughts: the man with the red handkerchief shooting at him, then blowing off Amatriaín’s shoulder, and finally joining the list of casualties himself. And those mysterious words: porco albino.

He did an online search for the phrase and the results surprised him: pictures and videos of white pigs, a superhero fan’s blog, and several inconsequential sites, almost all of them in Portuguese.

Albino. White skinned.

Like the Medusa.

Then he thought of Paloma.

Though the memory had been parked at the back of his mind, Jaime hadn’t forgotten the strange way she’d behaved when he mentioned their university piece. She had looked like a seer on the verge of making contact with Lucifer himself.

He suppressed an urge to call her. It seemed ridiculous in light of all the dangers he’d confronted in the last few days, but the one thing he could not face up to was the hurt he’d caused Paloma. He would take her help only as a last resort—assuming she even was willing to give it, which was by no means certain. He hoped that whatever information Roberto had dug up, it would provide some new pieces for the puzzle. Jaime headed for the bathtub, praying that the water would come out hot, even if it was only for a few minutes.

Roberto Barrero finished shaving his head with his electric razor just as the intercom buzzed to indicate he had a visitor. It was his habit to remove the little hair he had left whenever he felt the need for a clearer head, as if the strands somehow interfered with his brain activity, and he’d never needed clarity more than he did now.

When he went down to the building’s entrance, he saw someone who looked a lot like Jaime Azcárate, if a bit more singed and haggard than Jaime usually appeared. “You look like shit,” Roberto said.

“You always say the nicest things to me.”

“Sorry, but it’s true. What did I tell you? You’re not cut out for this. You’re a hack, a pen-pushing shithead, not a trained investigator. Tell me at least that you didn’t have to shoot.”

“I fired a couple of shots at a lock.”

“Moving?”

“No, stationary.”

“Good.”

They set off for a modest
cervecería
on Calle Hilarión Eslava, near the Moncloa bus interchange. The table they chose was near the back, by a long mirror that mercilessly reflected back to Jaime the sorry state he was in. His eyes were swollen and part of his hair had been burned away by the fire. If he wanted to listen to his mother and find a girlfriend, he’d have a hard time doing it looking like this.

After the waiter had brought their food and beer, Jaime stretched his feet under the table and looked at Roberto. “Come on. I’ve waited long enough. What did you found out?”

Roberto stroked his goatee dramatically. “So the detective wants information. Well, it’s going to cost you.”

“It’s already costing me. I’m buying you dinner!”

“You call this dinner? Where are the oysters? Look at this: a plate of sausages, an egg, a few fries, three lettuce leaves, and a slice of
salchichón . . .
the information I’ve got is worth a lot more than this.”

“Fine. I’ll pay for dinner
and
drinks once you’ve told me what you know.”

“That’s more like it.” Roberto pulled a small tablet from his jacket pocket.

“Did you check out the gallery?”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t easy. I called and wrote about twenty times. It turns out that they were closed for remodeling. I talked to them last night.”

“Wow, your Italian must’ve improved a lot since that time at the restaurant when you couldn’t even pronounce
gnocchi
.”

“Very funny, you bastard. This time I had help.”

Jaime thought back to his conversation that morning at
Arcadia
. “Laura.”

“She’s stiffer than salt cod, but she can be pretty cool when she wants to be. One of these days you’ll have to tell me what it was that happened between you two.”