II
Doctor Zero bit into a slice of Gruyère. Slowly chewed it. He tended to take a ceremonious and methodical approach to all things, neither hurrying nor lingering over them. Then he drank from his glass of white wine. He studied the ripples on the River Plate. A fresh breeze swept the area.
Failure was a possibility. Distant, tiny, but always present. It would be childish – or, as he preferred to say, amateur – not to be aware of that. Professionals are not permitted to fail, but if they do, they know there are consequences that must be considered, measured, calibrated, so failure doesn’t turn into a path of no return.
The Verónica Rosenthal case was something out of the ordinary. The year before, that woman had managed to pull off something the police had never managed, taking out four men in one strike – three wiped out for good and one sent to hospital. Even so, that could have been the end of it. He wouldn’t have retaliated against Verónica. You had to keep your eyes on the business. And his men must work with a surgeon’s precision. He couldn’t distract himself or waste time on settling scores.
For that reason, when they hired him to liquidate Rosenthal, he felt no personal satisfaction. Only a slight disquiet, the feeling that he would have preferred a different assignment. But he didn’t choose; he simply assessed the risks and challenges, selected the right men and charged a sum commensurate with the effort. Had it been a mistake to put Three on this job? Perhaps. Then again, Three had been successful on missions where another man would have failed. How could he not trust such a man?
Three times he had saved Three, as if his nom de guerre were a kind of premonition. He had got him out of prison, got his bullet wound seen to and now, once again, he had sprung him from prison. None of this had been easy or without cost. He knew how to reward his men, but he needed them to be effective. Neither Three nor Five had been effective. He must think about how to resolve this situation.
The task had been made easier by a fortuitous telephone call. Apparently the person who had hired him wanted to talk. Doctor Zero could already imagine the complaints. They confused contract killing with a delivery service arriving late with the sushi. To his surprise, the call wasn’t to reproach him.
“It’s lucky, Doctor, that the lads haven’t done the job yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s more useful alive now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen, Doctor, I know details don’t interest you. Basically, the journalist is on the wrong track, and that’s useful to me and my people. Let her cluck in someone else’s chicken coop.”
“Should I take it that the operation is suspended, then?”
“No, Doctor, just postponed for a few days until she does what we’re hoping she’ll do. A Rosenthal is always persuasive in legal circles.”
“When, then?”
“Not today, not tomorrow or the day after. In two days’ time I’ll ring you and confirm the date.”
“I’ve got people working on this.”
“And I’ll cover your costs.”
“I’m going to need you to send the money now.”
“Doctor, I’ll send you the first half. You know that I guarantee payment.”
“And if you go to prison, who’s paying?”
“Before I go to prison or die of a heart attack, Rosenthal will be out of the race. And that depends on you.”
After the call, Doctor Zero felt annoyed. He didn’t like working for people who changed their plans on the fly, rich people who didn’t weigh up the actual consequences of liquidating someone. That imbecile had no idea what he was doing. Neither him nor his people – if those people even existed. Just look at what they had done with the women tourists.
On the other hand, this postponement of the job came just at the right time. Rosenthal and her entourage were doubtless braced for an attack in the next few days. As time passed, they would let down their guard. Surprise was the best weapon.
Plus, the extra time meant he could give more thought to what to do with Three. Should he keep him on the job? Should he get him out of there? How would Three take it if he were no longer part of the team that was going to end the life of his personal nemesis? Now Doctor Zero had a few days to come up with answers to those questions.
III
Verónica was driving while Federico slept in the passenger seat. He had asked her to drive to San Miguel de Tucumán. As far as the Cerro San Javier, in fact. They had both agreed that it was better to keep on the move, not to stay in Yacanto del Valle. Federico had suggested they stay at Severo’s house in the city itself, but Verónica dug in her heels. She said she’d rather be shot than spend the evenings with the Witch.
They were playing music from Frida’s MP3 player. The road was quiet, albeit rather slippery after the previous day’s downpour. Verónica kept an eye on the rear-view mirror. At one point, a white Audi appeared behind them and trailed along about a hundred yards behind their vehicle. It was strange that a car should appear so suddenly but not drive up and overtake them. The Audi kept the same distance. Fifteen minutes had gone by now and it was still there, behind their car. Verónica turned off the music, as if that would allow her to concentrate better on the other vehicle. She thought of waking Federico, but it wouldn’t be helpful. Unless he got out his gun and started firing at them, like in the movies. No, better not go there. And certainly not if he was going to make her feel nervous by back-seat driving. She accelerated slightly and the Audi fell behind a little, but not for long. Now, in fact, it came up even closer behind them. Verónica saw that further along there was a YPF service station, one of those big, busy ones. She swerved into the lane for the service station with almost no drop in speed, raising dust and the eyebrows of several onlookers. She drove past the cars queuing for fuel and made for the service area. The Audi had also entered the station, but it didn’t advance beyond the pumps. Verónica woke Federico. At that moment the passenger door of the Audi opened and out stepped a woman in her thirties. The back doors also opened and two people came out, crouching down. No, they weren’t crouching after all. They were children who ran towards the woman and held her outstretched hands.
“Are we there?” asked Federico, stretching.
“I stopped to get fuel. Want a coffee?”
In the bar they crossed paths with the woman and her two children, who were pestering her to buy chewing gum and Coca-Cola.
“I hate the nuclear family,” said Verónica and Federico pretended not to hear her. He was used to her antisocial outbursts, particularly at Hanukkah and New Year’s Eve parties when she got together with her sisters.
The rest of the journey was uneventful. Once more they settled into the house at San Javier, where Verónica noticed a few changes. She rang her cousin who, as well as confirming that a cleaner had been in, insisted she stay as long as she needed. Later, Verónica discovered Severo had also restocked the alcohol. There were two new bottles of Johnnie Walker. For a very brief moment she felt rather ashamed.
Each returned to the room they had occupied on the previous visit; in her case, the same one she had used the first time she came. Federico checked that the alarm was working.
As the hours passed, a kind of calmness began to overtake her. The chance of their being attacked seemed negligible. Somehow, Federico had managed to make her feel safe in his company. She spent much of the day ensconced in her room writing her article. In the afternoon the sun came out, but it was cool. She could see Federico walking in the garden and talking on the phone. She was surprised to find herself gazing at him.
Federico called her when he had made coffee, and took the cups out to the veranda together with a little tin of Austrian biscuits he had found somewhere. He asked her how the piece was going, then brought her up to speed with the latest developments.
“There’s a match between the semen traces and the DNA samples from Vázquez and Reyes that the judge took from their clothes. So they are responsible for the girls’ deaths.
”
“Pieces of shit. The mother cobbled together that monstrosity to cover for them.”
“The mother hasn’t said a word. They charged her with obstruction of justice, but she’s been released. It’s possible the brothers will try to make contact with her.”
“Those bastards must be out of the country by now.”
“I don’t think so. As I said, the three men are responsible for the rapes and murder, but DNA from another person was found under Petra’s fingernails.”
“So there were three rapists, but at least four murderers.”
“Exactly.”
“Nicolás Menéndez Berti,” Verónica declared.
“That’s what the judge thinks. I’m not so sure.”
“It was at the guy’s house. The others are his employees. Oddly, the security cameras didn’t record the girls leaving. Did they leave by some other exit with no cameras?”
“The judge is going to take his statement. And if he consents, they’ll take a DNA sample.”
Verónica took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes and sat with her hands over her face. Looking up, she said:
“He’ll have an alibi. He’s bound to.”
“The DNA test is important.”
“It must not be his.”
“Wait, Verónica, don’t go so fast. It’s possible he didn’t do it.”
“These people always get away with it.”
Verónica went back to her room to finish her article. She was annoyed with Federico for defending Nicolás. She called Patricia and told her the latest news on the case. Her editor asked her to write it up as an article.
“No, Pato. It’s hard to explain, but I’d rather not write this one. If you like, speak to Christian or whoever you think best and I’ll pass the details on to them. But I will send the piece I promised you in ten minutes.”
Patricia passed the telephone to Christian, who had been following the case through the media. Verónica told him the names of the three fugitive suspects and asked him to emphasize the fact that they were employees of Nicolás Menéndez Berti. And to put that court sources thought he might soon be tried as an accomplice to the double crime.
“Are you sure about that?” asked Christian, who was nobody’s fool.
“Totally. Put it in. My sources assure me that this is the guy who set everything up.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t have the motive. Because he’s a pervert? A guy who uses women to the point of actually killing them? There’s a piece by me in this edition in which I talk precisely about this, about the impunity surrounding these crimes. Ask Pato to show you it.”
Verónica ended the call, finished checking her piece, sent it to Patricia and lay staring at the ceiling. She needed to be on her own.
IV
Someone was banging on her bedroom door. It was Federico calling her to dinner. The room was dark. She had fallen asleep and now it was evening. Verónica washed her face to wake herself up and looked in the mirror: the woman looking back had bags under her eyes, messed-up hair and an angry expression. A depressing image, enough to alarm anyone. If she left her room looking like that, Federico would run a mile. She brushed her hair, put on deodorant and tried to exchange her baleful expression for a light and steady smile.
Verónica went to the kitchen, where Federico was wielding a frying pan and watching a pot full of boiling water.
“What a vision.”
“Risotto all’uso, Federico-style. Nothing fancy. The provolone on the table is for grating on top, but if you cut it into little pieces it could be an antipasto. I’ve just opened a bottle of wine. Get me a couple of glasses, por favor.”
They sat down to eat there, at the kitchen table. She asked him if she looked a fright.
“You’re not at your best.”
“No, I know. But I look forty or fifty.”
“Cut it out, narcissist. You want me to say that you look fantastic and that anyone would take you for twenty.”
“No, idiot, seriously. I’ve just looked in the mirror and I seem to have aged ten years in ten days.”
“Let’s just say that a week ago you’d aged twenty years. So now you look better.”
Federico served himself more rice, but Verónica didn’t want seconds. They stayed in the kitchen until they had finished the bottle of wine.
“Your cousin has quite the DVD collection.”
“Yes, the first time I was here I watched a different movie every night.”
“Do you want to watch something now?”
“Go on then.”
They moved into the living area and Federico began looking through the DVDs.
“What would you like to watch?” he asked her.
“What sort of thing do you like?”
“Movies that don’t have a ten-minute shot focussing on a pot plant.”
“I don’t mind what we watch.”
“Woody Allen or Almodóvar?”
“Almodóvar.”
“Talk to Her or Broken Embraces?”
“I’ve seen Talk to Her. Wait while I go and get some whisky. Do you want something?”
Federico wanted a whisky too, so Verónica brought one of the new bottles of Johnnie Walker and they made themselves comfortable on the sofa. It was the first time they had watched a movie together. In fact, before staying in this house the first time, they had never shared daily life together. Federico might seem part of the Rosenthal family furniture, but he had never been on vacation with them or stayed the night at her father’s place or either of her sisters’ homes. The few times they’d had sex, they hadn’t shared much more than their bodies. To eat together, watch a movie, nestle on a sofa without the tension of trying to seduce one another, was something new to them both. Federico seemed to be enjoying the experience. Verónica would have liked to rest her head on his shoulder, but that would be going too far. One shouldn’t tempt fate. She watched the whole movie without venturing over the imaginary border in the middle of the sofa.
The next day they had the television on while eating breakfast. On every channel the news was that the killers of the foreign tourists had been identified and were on the run. Photos of the three men were shown. Verónica looked steadily at them. For the first time she was seeing the faces of those animals. Trying to identify some trace of their cruelty, she found nothing. They were very average, the kind of men you’d pass in the street or see in a bar anywhere.
She saw her friend María reporting on the case from Yacanto, and other reporters too, but nobody was linking the three murders with Nicolás. Verónica sent a text message to María saying: The three men worked for Nicolás Menéndez Berti, owner of the house where the party was held. The judge is going to take a DNA sample from him. Half an hour later, María called her.
“Are you sure? Because I heard something about that from the courts, but the DA here refuted it.”
“I don’t know what Decaux’s game is, but I assure you that the judge has Menéndez Berti in his sights. And if you put two and two together you get four.”
“Can I use this?”
“Obviously.”
Shortly afterwards, María was live to camera again and this time added to her previous dispatch the details Verónica had given her. The other channels were still not saying anything, but in a few minutes they were sure to be reporting the same. Federico had gone outside to make a call and Verónica phoned Roxana to confirm their meeting again. Roxana was waiting at her house in Banda del Río Salí, a few miles from the provincial capital. Verónica set off to meet her, Federico going too. The shadow of Peratta forced them to take all possible precautions.
*
La Banda was a town of low houses and wide avenues. Away from the avenues, the residential streets were reminiscent of a humble district on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.
Roxana’s house had a paved area in front and a carport. Toys were lying around on the patio. Verónica rang the bell and a pregnant woman about her age came to the do
or. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was quite short, and with the pregnancy her already ample bust looked fit to burst out of her clothes. She showed Verónica into a living room full of photographs, many of them of a little boy.
“How many children do you have?” Verónica asked.
“I’m expecting my second. The eldest is four and he’s playing out the back at the moment. Do you have children?”
“No, I’m single. But my sisters have three children between them, and I see how much they put into being mothers. Children are a lot of work.”
Roxana offered her a coffee and Verónica accepted. Soon she came back with cups, sugar, sweetener and some little cookies.
“You were a close friend of Bibi’s.”
“We were like sisters. Since primary school. We were always together.”
“I’m a journalist, I don’t work in the judiciary and I’m not a lawyer. But I want to get the case reopened and for there to be an investigation into who killed Bibi.”
“I can’t see that happening.”
“You gave evidence in court at one point.”
“Yes, but neither Bibi’s family’s lawyer nor the district attorney nor the judge wanted to hear what I had to say. When I started talking about that man, they told me it wasn’t a good idea to bring him into it. That I could end up going to prison for giving false evidence.”
“And who was ‘that man’?”
“El Gringo Aráoz. Guillermo Aráoz.”
“So what did you do?”
“The first time, I named him. I did it once more, but not again after that. One day some guys shouted at me from a car that what happened to Bibi would happen to me too if I didn’t shut my mouth. I was scared.”
“And what is it that you knew?”
“That Bibi had had a thing with El Gringo. The guy had a girlfriend, but he also went out with other girls, just like all the other rich boys round there. Bibi was in love with El Gringo, but the guy just wanted her for his own amusement. Bibi got tired of the situation and left him. And that’s when El Gringo got heavy, always looking for her, following her and making scenes if he saw her with another guy. And Bibi liked that. It made her feel that El Gringo was in love with her, just not ready to leave his girlfriend. I told her to forget the guy, that nothing good was going to come of it. But she wouldn’t listen. The Saturday before she was killed, I persuaded her not to go to a party El Gringo was having in his house, because his girlfriend was away in Buenos Aires. I didn’t want to go because there was a guy who had treated me badly, who had been with me then pretended not to see me in the street, as if I were a whore. I persuaded Bibi not to go. We don’t have to be anybody’s plaything.”
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