The Hidden Assassins, Page 39

  ‘The Americans have sent over the handwriting samples you asked for—the Arabic and English script belonging to Jack Hansen.’

  ‘He looks more like a Tateb Hassani to me than a Jack Hansen,’ said Falcón.

  ‘What do you want us to do with the samples?’

  ‘Ask your handwriting experts to make a comparison between Tateb Hassani’s Arabic script and the notes attached to the drawings found in the fireproof box in the mosque. And compare the English script to the handwritten notes in the copies of the Koran found in the Peugeot Partner and Miguel Botín’s apartment.’

  ‘You think he was one of them?’ asked Pablo. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Let’s make the comparison first and the deductions afterwards,’ said Falcón. ‘And, by the way, the Imam’s mobile phone records—we need to have a look at them. One of those numbers he called on Sunday morning belongs to the electrician.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Juan about that,’ said Pablo. ‘Gregorio’s checked out all the numbers the Imam called on Sunday morning. The only one he couldn’t account for was made to a phone registered in the name of a seventy-four-year-old woman living in Seville Este who has never been an electrician.’

  ‘I’d like access to those records,’ said Falcón.

  ‘That’s something else for you to talk to your old friend Flowers about,’ said Pablo, and hung up.

  Falcón sipped his beer and tried to persuade himself that he was calm, and that the present strategy was the right one. He’d taken Serrano and Baena away from their task of touring the building sites looking for the electricians, and had directed them to help Ferrera locate the hedge whose clippings had been dumped with the body. Ramírez and Pérez had photographs of Tateb Hassani and were walking the streets around the Alfalfa trying to find anybody who recognized him. This meant that no one from the homicide squad was now working on anything directly linked to the Seville bombing. He wasn’t worried about Elvira for the moment. The Comisario had his hands too full of public relations problems to be worried about the gamble Falcón was taking.

  ‘For a man who’s supposed to be running the largest criminal investigation in Seville’s history, you’re looking remarkably relaxed, Javier,’ said Angel, taking a seat, ordering a beer.

  ‘We have to present a calm exterior to a nervous population who need to believe that somebody has everything under control,’ said Falcón.

  ‘Does that mean that it isn’t under control?’ asked Angel.

  ‘Comisario Elvira is doing a good job.’

  ‘He might be, from the policeman’s point of view,’ said Angel. ‘But he doesn’t imbue the general public with confidence in his ability. He’s a public relations disaster, Javier. What was he thinking of, asking that poor bastard…the judge…’

  ‘Sergio del Rey.’

  ‘Yes—him. Putting him on national television when the guy could barely have had time to read the files, let alone comprehend the emotional aspect of the case,’ said Angel. ‘The Comisario must know by now that television is not about the truth. Is he the kind of guy who watches reality TV and thinks that it is reality?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Angel. He’s got a lot of excellent qualities that just don’t happen to suit the televisual age.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, that’s the age we’re in now,’ said Angel. ‘Now, Calderón, he was the man. He gave the TV what it craves: drama, humour, emotion and brilliant surface. He was a huge loss to your effort.’

  ‘You said it: “brilliant surface”. It wasn’t so pretty underneath.’

  ‘And how do you think you look now?’ asked Angel. ‘Remember the London bombings? What was the story that kept rolling out in the days after those attacks? The story that maintained the emotional pitch and focused the emotions? Not the victims. Not the terrorists. Not the bombs and the disruption. That was all part of it, but the big story was the mistaken shooting by plainclothes special policemen of that Brazilian guy, Jean Charles de Menezes.’

  ‘And what’s our big story?’

  ‘That’s your problem. It’s the arrest, under suspicion of his wife’s murder, of the Juez de Instrucción of the whole investigation. Have you seen the stuff coming out of the television about Calderón? Just listen…’

  The tables around them had filled up and a crowd had gathered outside the open doors of the bar. They were all talking about Esteban Calderón. Did he do it? Didn’t he do it?

  ‘Not your investigation. Not the terrorist cells that might be active in Seville at the moment. Not even the little girl who survived the collapse of the building,’ said Angel. ‘It’s all about Esteban Calderón. Tell Comisario Elvira that.’

  ‘I have to say, Angel, that for a man who loves Seville more than almost anyone I know, you seem…buoyant.’

  ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? I am. I haven’t felt as energized in years. Manuela’s infuriated. I think she preferred me when I was dying of boredom.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Depressed. She thinks she’s got to sell the house in El Puerto de Santa María. In fact she is selling it,’ said Angel. ‘She’s lost her nerve. This whole idea of the Islamic “liberation” of Andalucía has taken hold in her mind. So now she’s selling the gold mine to save the tin and copper mines.’

  ‘There’s no talking to her when she’s like that,’ said Falcón. ‘So, why are you so buoyant, Angel?’

  ‘If you’re not watching the news very much you probably don’t know that my little hobby is doing rather well.’

  ‘You mean Fuerza Andalucía?’ said Falcón. ‘I saw Jesús Alarcón with Fernando Alanis on television a few hours ago.’

  ‘Did you see the whole thing? It was sensational. After that programme Fuerza Andalucía picked up 14 per cent in the polls. Wildly inaccurate, I know. It’s all emotional reaction, but that’s 10 per cent more than we’ve ever polled before, and the Left are floundering.’

  ‘When did you first meet Jesús Alarcón?’ asked Falcón, genuinely curious.

  ‘Years ago,’ said Angel, ‘and I didn’t much care for him. He was a bit of a boring banker type and I was dismayed when he said he wanted to go into politics. I didn’t think anybody would vote for him. He was a stiff in a suit. And as you know, these days it’s not about your policies or your grasp of regional politics, it’s all about how you come across. But I’ve got to know him better since he came down here and, I tell you, this relationship he’s developed with Fernando Alanis…it’s gold dust. As a PR man, you just dream of something like that.’

  ‘Was that the first time you met him—when you were doing PR work?’

  ‘When I left politics I did a PR commission for Banco Omni.’

  ‘That must have been nice work to walk into,’ said Falcón.

  ‘We Catholics stick together,’ said Angel, winking. ‘Actually, the Chief Executive Officer and I are old friends. We went to school, university, did our national service together. When I finished with those wankers in the Partido Popular, he knew that I wouldn’t be able to just “retire”, so he commissioned me and it led to other things. They were the bankers for a group in Barcelona and I did their fortieth anniversary PR for them; then there was an insurance group in Madrid, and a property company on the Costa del Sol. There was a business for me if I could have been bothered with it. But, you know, Javier, corporate PR, it’s so…small. You’re not going to change the world doing that shit.’

  ‘You didn’t change it in politics.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, the PP was no different. It was like working for a huge corporation: play safe, toe the party line, everything happening by millimetres, no striding out to new horizons and changing the way people think and live.’

  ‘Who wants change?’ said Falcón. ‘Most people hate change so much that we have to have wars and revolutions to bring it about.’

  ‘But look at us now, Javier, talking like this in a bar,’ said Angel. ‘Why? Because we’re in crisis. Our way of life is being threatened.’


  ‘You said it yourself, Angel. Most people can’t cope with it, so what do they talk about?’

  ‘You’re right. It’s Esteban Calderón on everybody’s lips,’ said Angel. ‘But at least it’s not the usual trivia. It’s tragedy. It’s hubris bringing down the great man.’

  ‘So what would you tell Comisario Elvira to do now?’ asked Falcón.

  ‘Aha! Is this what it’s all about, Javier?’ said Angel, smirking. ‘You’ve brought me down here to get some free advice for your boss.’

  ‘I want the PR man’s take on the world.’

  ‘You have to focus, and you have to focus on certainty. Because of the nature of the attack it’s been difficult for you, but now you’ve finally got into the mosque it’s time for you to reveal more and be specific. The evacuations of the schools and university buildings, what’s that all about? People need a bone to chew on; uncertainty creates rumour, which does nothing to quell panic. Juez del Rey’s mistake was that he hadn’t taken the pulse of the city, so when he started spreading uncertainty again…’

  ‘It was the interviewer’s question that spread uncertainty,’ said Falcón.

  ‘That wasn’t the way the viewers saw it.’

  ‘Del Rey only found out afterwards that someone had leaked the Arabic script.’

  ‘Del Rey should never have presented the truth of the situation: that there is still considerable confusion about what went on in that mosque. He should have pressed home the certainties. If, in the end, the truth happens to be something else, you just change your story. Your investigation lost a lot of its credibility when your spokesman was arrested for murder. The only chance of regaining that credibility lies in confirming the public’s suspicions. The interviewer knew that the public would be in no mood to be told that there might be a homegrown element to this terrorist plot.’

  ‘Elvira has trouble deciding when to use what kind of truth so that his investigation can get on with the business of finding out what actually happened,’ said Falcón.

  ‘Politics is great preparation for that,’ said Angel.

  ‘So you think Jesús Alarcón has got what it takes?’

  ‘He’s made a good start, but it’s too early to say. It’s what’s going to happen six or seven months from now that’s important,’ said Angel. ‘He’s riding a big wave of public emotion now, but even the biggest waves end up as ripples on the beach.’

  ‘He could always go back to the Banco Omni if it didn’t work out.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have him,’ said Angel. ‘You don’t leave the Banco Omni. Once they’ve given you a job, they take you into their confidence. If you leave them and become an outsider, that’s where you remain.’

  ‘So, Jesús is taking some risks.’

  ‘Not really. He had a good introduction from my friend, who thinks very highly of him. He’ll find him something else to do if it all comes to nothing.’

  ‘Have I met this mysterious friend of yours?’

  ‘Lucrecio Arenas? I don’t know. Manuela’s met him. He’s not so mysterious now that he’s retired.’

  ‘You mean he was mysterious before?’

  ‘Banco Omni is a private bank. It runs a hefty percentage of the Catholic Church’s finances. It’s a secretive organization. You won’t even see any photographs of Banco Omni executives. I did a specific PR job for them, but I only got that job because of Lucrecio. I found out nothing about the organization, other than what I needed to know in order to perform my task,’ said Angel. ‘Why are we talking about Banco Omni?’

  ‘Because Jesús Alarcón is the man of the moment,’ said Falcón. ‘After Esteban Calderón.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You still haven’t told me what you want to see me about,’ said Angel.

  ‘I’m sounding you out, Angel,’ said Falcón, shrugging. ‘I told Elvira about our conversation earlier today when you offered to help us, but he’s wary. I want to be able to go back to him and make him feel better about employing your talents. He just needs to be pushed, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m prepared to help in a crisis,’ said Angel. ‘But I’m not looking for permanent work.’

  ‘Elvira’s problem is that he sees you as a journalist, and therefore the enemy,’ said Falcón. ‘If I can talk to him about your PR activity and the sort of clients you’ve represented, that will give him a different perspective.’

  ‘I’ll give advice but I won’t be employed,’ said Angel. ‘Some might think there was a conflict of interest.’

  ‘Just give me some other company names that you’ve worked for,’ said Falcón. ‘Who was it you represented for their fortieth anniversary?’

  ‘Horizonte. The property company was called Mejorvista and the insurance group was Vigilancia,’ said Angel. ‘Don’t promote me too much, Javier. I’ve got my work cut out steering Fuerza Andalucía through the media maze.’

  ‘The only thing is that PR is a difficult concept to sell. Other people’s press cuttings are meaningless. If I could show Elvira the quality of the people you’ve worked for, that might help. Have you got shots of the people at Horizonte, or Banco Omni, or something from the Horizonte fortieth anniversary celebrations? You know, pictures of Angel Zarrías with senior executives. Elvira likes tangible things.’

  ‘Of course, Javier, anything for you. Just don’t oversell me.’

  ‘We’re in crisis,’ said Falcón. ‘Both our instructing judges have been discredited. We have to rebuild our image before it’s too late. Elvira is a good policeman, and I don’t want to see him fail just because he doesn’t know how to play the media game.’

  They went up to the apartment. Manuela wasn’t there. It was a huge, four-bedroomed place, with two of the bedrooms used as offices. Angel walked to the wall of his study and pointed at a shot in the middle.

  ‘That’s the one you want,’ he said, tapping a framed photograph in the centre of the wall. ‘That’s a rare shot of all the executives of Horizonte and Banco Omni in the same place. It was taken for the fortieth anniversary event. I’ve got a copy of it somewhere.’

  Angel sat at his desk, opened a drawer and went through a stack of photographs. Falcón searched the shot for a likeness of the police artist’s drawing of the man seen with Ricardo Gamero.

  ‘Which one is Lucrecio Arenas?’ asked Falcón. ‘I don’t see anybody I recognize here. If I’d met him, where would that have been?’

  ‘He has a house in Seville, although he doesn’t live in it for half the year. His wife can’t stand the heat so they go and live in some palatial villa, built for them by Mejorvista, down in Marbella,’ said Angel. ‘You remember that big dinner I had in the Restaurante La Juderia last October? He was there.’

  ‘I was away teaching a course at the police academy.’

  Angel gave him the shot and pointed out Lucrecio Arenas, who was in the centre, while Angel was on the very edge of the two rows of men. Arenas had similarities to the police artist’s drawing in that he was the right age, but there was no revelatory moment.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ said Falcón.

  ‘Don’t lose it,’ said Angel, who put it in an envelope for him.

  ‘What about this shot of you and King Juan Carlos,’ said Falcón. ‘Have you got a copy of that?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘The King doesn’t need me to do his PR for him,’ said Angel. ‘He’s a natural.’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere, José Luis?’ asked Falcón.

  ‘I can’t believe it, but we’ve drawn a total blank,’ said Ramírez. ‘If Tateb Hassani was staying with someone in this area, he didn’t go for a coffee, he didn’t eat a tapa, drink a beer, buy bread, go to the supermarket, get a newspaper—nothing. Nobody has seen this guy before, and he’s got a face you don’t forget.’

  ‘Any news from Cristina and Emilio?’

  ‘They’ve seen most of the big houses in the area and there are no box hedges. They’ve all got internal patios rather than gardens. There’s the Convento de San Leandro and the Casa Pila
tos, but that doesn’t help us much.’

  ‘I want you to find and check out another house. I don’t have the address, but it belongs to someone called Lucrecio Arenas,’ said Falcón. ‘And I spoke to the CNI about the Imam’s phone records. They’ve checked out the electrician’s number already. It was a dead end.’

  ‘Can we have a look at those records ourselves?’

  ‘They’ve become classified documents,’ said Falcón, and hung up.

  He was on his way to see the security guard who’d finished his shift at the Archaeological Museum and gone home. It was a long drive out to his apartment in the northeast of the city. He took a call from Pablo.

  ‘You’re going to be pleased about this,’ the CNI man said. ‘Our handwriting expert has matched the Arabic script to the notes attached to the architect’s drawings of the schools and the biology faculty. He’s also matched Tateb Hassani’s English script to the annotations in both copies of the Koran. What does this mean, Javier?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure of its greater significance, but I’m confident you can tell your code breakers to stop looking for a key to crack the non-existent cipher in those copies of the Koran,’ said Falcón. ‘I think they were planted in the Peugeot Partner and Miguel Botín’s apartment, specifically to confuse us.’

  ‘And that’s all you can say for the moment?’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you later at my house,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m hoping it will all be clearer by then.’

  The lift to the security guard’s apartment on the sixth floor was not working. Falcón was sweating as he rang the doorbell. The wife and kids were despatched to bedrooms and Falcón laid the photograph down on the dining-room table. His heart was beating tight and fast, willing the guard to find Lucrecio Arenas.

  ‘Do you see the older man in this photograph?’

  There were two rows of men, about thirty in all. The security guard had done this before. He took two pieces of paper and isolated each face from the rest of the shot and took a good look at it. He started on the left and worked his way across. He studied them carefully. Falcón couldn’t bear the tension and looked out of the window. It took the guard some time. He knew it must be important for an Inspector Jefe to come all the way out to his apartment to show him this shot.