Thanks to the information Milena had given him about Vila-Rojas’s operations, Luis had many leads to follow up on. Maybe the lawyer himself wasn’t even aware of all the Croatian had managed to figure out since she crossed his path. Clients tended to be gossipy and presumptuous in their postcoital conversations, and Marbella’s businessmen and politicians were no exception, especially when they thought they had a personal relationship with a prostitute. Milena had gone to many parties where men in power had chatted with one another as if they were alone. The women of the night were objects that passed unnoticed while the men talked businesses or bragged about their accomplishments. The satisfaction they expressed at a major deal, a successful meeting, or the start of a new project were loose facts she started weaving together when she saw a relationship between them and one of the Flamingos.
In a few hours, Luis accumulated a great deal of data. Much of it turned out to be useless, but it was plain to see that the biggest transactions, the most delicate tasks, sooner or later led back to Russia or Ukraine. Vila-Rojas appeared to be involved at two ends: when the dirty money made its way in and when it came back out clean. Both tended to lead back to citizens of the former Soviet Republics.
Luis hoped that some influential members of Anonymous would be interested in the matter, even if there was so much crime on the web that the organization barely pierced the surface of the Darknet. He had more hope for the email he’d sent to Bad Girl from Madrid, who was legendary among European hackers. He had met her in person ten months before, during his long stay in Barcelona. Bad Girl was her professional alias, though everyone knew her as The Mass. She did honor to both her nicknames.
A year before, a common friend had put the two of them in touch when Bad Girl was looking for a trustworthy Mexican hacker to avenge herself on a hotel chain in Riviera Maya that had ripped her off during her vacation. Luis helped her access the property registry in Quintana Roo and the digital archives of the local office of urban development. Thanks to him, she could publish on social media their violations of environmental regulations and the damages the Spanish businessmen had caused during the hotel’s construction. For two weeks, the authorities had to shut down the bungalows they had built over a mangrove swamp.
Now Luis needed a favor in return. She and her friends could sift through Vila-Rojas’s money-laundering networks faster than he could. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the information once he got it. To his surprise, Milena forbade his investigations from negatively affecting Vila-Rojas or his businesses. Luis didn’t know if her attitude came from fear or some perverse sense of indebtedness to her mentor, but it was clearer and clearer that Milena’s freedom would ultimately have to pass through the lawyer from Granada.
The calls for help he’d sent to Anonymous and Bad Girl allowed him to set aside the Spanish part and concentrate on Bonso and his allies. Here, he had a very clear idea of what he was doing. He posted warnings meant to poison Bonso’s relationships with rival gangs: rumors of an HIV epidemic among the high-class girls from the main supplier of table dancers and accusations of embezzlement and fraud against Gardel, a major player from Argentina who brought Latin American girls into the Mexican market. He posted them on fake IP addresses tied to Bonso’s computers and then lightly erased the trail. He figured any decent hacker would be able to follow his steps until they led back to the Romanian himself. And he knew the gangsters made use of them.
Last of all, he spent a few hours on the most reckless matter yet. He used the same IPs to enter a part of the Darknet where anonymous hit men offered their services, and promised a tempting quantity of bitcoins in exchange for Gardel’s head. The system was simple and impeccable: the broker kept the bitcoins and would free them to whoever offered substantive proof of having carried out the mission. This way, it was impossible to detect where the order came from, who passed it along, and who accepted it. He trusted Gardel would find out about the threat and attribute it to Bonso thanks to the messages he had already posted elsewhere on the Net.
Luis looked up from his computer, with a sudden awareness of his surroundings. Two women were talking at the neighboring table about when and where you should wear a hat; he had crossed eyes with one of them a few times. Two yards away was a young man who hadn’t taken his eyes off his tablet for half an hour, and the café employee, faithful to his job description, was ignoring everyone there. But he couldn’t shake the impression that the atmosphere in the room had changed, and that those around him must somehow have detected what he was up to. He hesitated before hitting “Send,” thinking of Jaime and how surprised he’d be when he found out his strategy for getting rid of Bonso. But he didn’t want to be a killer. His cursor moved from “Send” to “Delete.”
49
Tomás and Claudia
Monday, November 17, 3:00 p.m.
They found the president in a very good mood: the day before, the OECD and the Bank of Mexico had projected 2.4 percent growth in GDP for the year now coming to a close. Modest, but twice as good as the year before. The experts knew the largest part of the improvement had been the result of a favorable international climate, but that didn’t prevent the government from trumpeting its virtues and attributing it to the reforms it had passed. The claims might not be true, but in a way it was fair to make them: when the nation’s economy was plummeting because of an international crisis, as president he had borne the brunt of the blame. “You win some, you lose some,” Tomás thought.
“Claudia, I appreciate the opportunity your visit has given me to reiterate my deepest condolences. An immense loss for the country,” Alfonso Prida said as he walked toward them with open arms.
He squeezed Franco’s daughter as if she were a beloved family member. The president was a handsome man with a juvenile aspect despite recently turning fifty, the kind of man who finds it easier to court women than make deals with other men.
“You must be overwhelmed with your new responsibilities, but you still look good,” their host added as they walked to a room with views of his extensive gardens.
“Thanks. The truth is Tomás has taken on a great deal of the responsibility.”
“Well, indeed, it is an enormous responsibility. El Mundo is a key institution in the nation’s life,” the leader agreed.
Tomás didn’t know if the comment was ironic. He imagined his appointment hadn’t been well received at Los Pinos. The PRI people would have liked a more accessible director, a journalist closer to the circles of power.
After a tequila and a bit of frivolous chitchat, they moved to a table set for three. Prida begged pardon for the first lady’s absence, saying she was traveling, and it struck Tomás that, for the meeting’s success, once Claudia noticed the president’s flirting, the conversation turned into a push and pull closer to a barroom seduction than a confrontation between the First and Fourth Estates.
“Shoot straight with me, Mr. President: Do you really like to drink tequila, or is it just a patriotic gesture?” she said.
“The truth is,” he said, “I prefer mezcal, but I thought you two would be too fancy for that!”
“When it’s hangover time, it hurts just the same,” she said. “I guess I’m lacking in the constitutional resources.”
“It’s an inherited trait,” he said. “My liver was born wrapped in the presidential sash.”
Mid-meal, Prida noted that El Mundo was the only daily that hadn’t given front-page exposure to the economic windfall. Tomás held back from saying that 2.4 percent growth was far from a windfall, and tried to explain that under normal circumstances he would have given it more prominence, but not on the day they were paying the president a visit.
Prida confided that his office of communications had been enraged by the newspaper’s apparent disdain, and even took it as a radical switch in the editorial approach, though he accepted the reasoning Tomás put forward.
“See why it’s important we have these meetings regularly? Besides the pleasure of dinin
g with the most beautiful publisher on the continent, it helps clear up misunderstandings.”
“Not just that, but it lets us put some of the issues that are bothering us on the table,” Tomás said. He described the aggressions journalists had suffered and the financial crisis at the newspapers.
Prida took notes in his pocket journal and promised that someone would call him to work out a strategy on both issues in the coming days.
As they took their coffee, Claudia brought up her worries about human trafficking, particularly in relation to women brought in from overseas, thanks to the complicity or negligence of the national immigration services.
“Inefficiency in that area is an old story,” Prida said, “and it’s gotten worse with the rise of international traffickers. But now we have the chance to clean house. Marcelo Galván resigned today. He represented the old guard there… He’s going to Houston because of a sudden emergency, something with his health, apparently he’s been in some kind of an accident.”
Tomás and Claudia avoided each other’s eyes. Claudia praised the flatware from Puebla and the décor in the cozy dining room, and no one brought the subject up again.
In the car on the way back to their offices, Tomás and Claudia congratulated each other for the meeting’s success. Both noticed the effect of the tequilas they’d drunk and had to admit that the president’s liver really was heroic.
“One thing I have to give the guy,” Tomás said, putting his hand on her thigh. “The son of a bitch has good taste. You look especially good today.”
Claudia turned her face to him, her nose almost grazing his, and asked in a scarcely audible murmur: “You really think so, babe?”
Tomás brought his lips near hers. They didn’t touch. Claudia’s driver interrupted them.
“A message from your secretary. They say it’s urgent, Don Tomás,” the driver said, looking at the cell phone.
Both realized they had left their cell phones off throughout the meal. Tomás turned his on.
Emiliano was killed five minutes ago. Two shots to the head.
50
Milena
February 2013
Unlike the first, the second killing she took part in had nothing subtle about it. Javi Rosado was different from her first victim, the Catalan, in every way. He was very image of his profession: a tidy, discreet, and meticulous accountant, short, prematurely bald, always dressed with a tie regardless of the merciless coastal heat. Moreover, he was the only honest member of the Flamingos, even if his job was laundering money: Rosado didn’t run side businesses with his clients’ money, skim additional commissions, or gouge them for operating costs. His life was officious and discreet, even austere. He was a confirmed bachelor, but with a single suffocating passion, literally: he liked to be choked when he came.
His discretion and honesty made him the only member of the Flamingos Vila-Rojas would do business with. They never shared an office, but they called each other constantly, knowing that they made a good pair: Vila-Rojas specialized in international finance and its legal aspects, and Rosado in the day-to-day accounting. The accountant’s image, like a medieval scribe, inspired confidence among the mafiosos.
But the threats coming from the authorities turned Javi Rosado into a treacherous loose thread for Vila-Rojas. He knew if his friend disappeared, that would bring even more risks, because he was the only one of his colleagues he had known business ties with. A violent death would draw investigators looking into his dealings and his character. Then there was the fact that many clients wouldn’t appreciate the elimination of a worker as useful and efficient as Rosado.
Fortunately, Vila-Rojas knew his secret and decided to take advantage of it. Once, two years back, in the middle of one of the group’s parties, a hooker started screaming for help from one of the bedrooms. It was four in the morning, and Vila-Rojas was alone in the shadows, drinking his last whiskey before heading home. When he went to the room, he saw Rosado collapsed on the bed, faceup, with a scarf around his neck and one end of it tied to the bedstead. His face was red, and the veins in his scalp and forehead were ready to burst. Vila-Rojas loosened the knot compressing his throat, dumped the water from an ice bucket on his face and chest, and watched Rosado come back from the dead, retching. He pulled a thousand euros from his own wallet, passed it to the girl, and told her if she blabbed, she would pay with her life. Vila-Rojas closed the door and waited for his friend to recover. Twenty minutes later, Rosado swore he’d never do it again, and Vila-Rojas promised no one would find out about his deadly fetish. But that was before Rosado became a threat. At the beginning of 2013, the lawyer decided the moment had come to reward his colleague with one of those dangerous orgasms.
Two weeks before the Flamingos’ next party, he invited him to lunch, saying he needed to consult with him on some technical details. For caution’s sake, they’d stopped doing business together, but they still sought one another out for their respective expertise. Once his digestif was ordered, Vila-Rojas told him a secret: after he’d heard about his friend’s weakness, curiosity had led him to try it out, though naturally taking the necessary precautions. That had led him to a professional who was an expert in a safe technique for choking a client and bringing him to orgasm without putting him at risk. He assured him he’d done it a half-dozen times, and the results were incredible. Her name was Milena, and he would bring her to their next party as a gift to him.
At first, Vila-Rojas had thought he’d make a deal with his pupil in exchange for her freedom: convince the Croatian to take the rap for involuntary manslaughter, which would carry a sentence of five to six years, only three of which she’d actually serve, and after that, she’d get a premature retirement with a nice sum of cash under her belt. He had already found the hooker Rosado had his little incident with two years before. If she got called to trial, she could confirm the accountant’s dangerous predilection.
But that would mean losing Milena for the last and most dangerous assignment. He decided that the deal he’d come up with for his accomplice might also be attractive for another woman from the same house, so Milena spent the next few days observing her colleagues and chose Velvet, a despondent Hungarian who had shown suicidal tendencies. Milena thought that deep down, the offer was a way of saving her life. Velvet accepted on the condition that she not have to participate personally in the execution.
Milena spent the next two weeks practicing in the scant hours she had alone. Vila-Rojas gave her a belt with a buckle similar to those on airplane seatbelts, though thinner. Two rings on the ends made it possible to tie on additional ropes that could be attached to some fixed point: pull on them, and the belt would close in inexorably on its prey.
The Catalan’s death four months before hadn’t left any special mark on Milena, nothing that would keep her from getting to sleep at night, or in the morning, as was usually her case. Besides being a criminal, he was known to abuse the prostitutes, and all she’d had to do was put a suppository up his ass. At least that’s what she told herself to ease her spirit. From the first, it was clear to her that Rosado was going to be different. This time, she’d be killing him the same way her grandmother killed the chickens or her father the sheep, slitting their throats, which she’d never been able to watch without horror. During her last session with Vila-Rojas, he noticed her nervousness and stressed to her that Rosado was a criminal, too, that he didn’t have a wife or kids, that his life was lonely and miserable. The same thing could be said of him, Milena thought.
On the night of the execution, things went as Vila-Rojas had planned, at least at first. The house that served as the setting, a holiday villa on the outskirts of the city belonging to the businessman Jesús Nadal, offered impeccable conditions. Vila-Rojas knew the place, because they’d thrown other parties there in the past. The main rooms on the second floor had a back door that led to a shared balcony, allowing movement from one room to the other unbeknownst to the other guests. He told Milena which room to choose and assure
d her he would take the one next door.
Until eleven, there were no hitches. But the arrival of various security guards alarmed the attendees. They inspected the place briefly and then stepped back to make way for Yasha Boyko, the Ukrainian head of the Russian mob in Marbella. He nodded to Vila-Rojas and gestured for the others to be calm. A bodyguard stayed beside the main door. The party atmosphere froze.
“Keep celebrating, my friends. I’m just passing through to say hello and have a drink with you. Don’t you know I’m your host? I bought this property two months ago, but no worries, my house is your house.”
Some of the partygoers turned their eyes to Jesús Vidal, the one who had thrown the party, and he lowered his eyes, embarrassed. More than one of the Flamingos wanted to leave, because no one wanted to be associated publicly with Yasha, even if in private they all wanted his business. But they couldn’t insult the formidable capo, either. Getting on his bad side was more dangerous than attracting unwanted attention from officials from the ministry of finance. Everyone decided to stay at the event, but nobody approached the Ukrainian.
Yasha seemed surprised by the vacuum around him. He’d known about the Flamingos’ reunions and the group’s influence, and he had wanted to look like a big fish, popping in at one of their private meetings and showing this was his territory as well.
Yasha stopped a waiter, grabbed a glass of whiskey, and eyed up the guests. He noticed Milena standing by the enormous window, slightly separated from the group, and walked toward her.
“You’re the only one who’s not dressed like a tramp. The prettiest, too,” he said.
Milena, or the Most Beautiful Femur in the World Page 24
