“Sweaty men?”
“Well, sweaty you, then.”
They kissed and she remained sitting on top of him as he tried to arrange himself more comfortably against the tree. For more than twenty minutes they sat like this together.
“Fede, do you mind if I ask my dad to fire the receptionist?”
“Camila?”
“Yes, that hussy you used to go out with.”
“Vero, are you out of your mind?”
“It was a joke. As if I would ask my father to do such a thing. Why did you and Camila break up, anyway?”
“I don’t know… She had some strange tastes.”
“Strange tastes?”
“Yes. She was twenty-one and acted as though she were fifteen. I act like a forty-year-old, so there wasn’t much chemistry. She liked dancing, taking ecstasy, taking selfies of herself in the mirror. And I’m too old to have a jealous tiff with my girlfriend because she puts up half-naked photos of herself on Facebook.”
“Did the little hussy actually do that? I never thought she was right for you.”
“Just as well you don’t have Facebook.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
They ate the cashews and then the schnitzel sandwiches. Then they walked along the river, stopping at one point to eat the apples.
“A thermos of coffee would have been nice,” said Verónica, lighting a cigarette when she had finished her apple.
“Vero, tomorrow I’m going back to Buenos Aires.”
“Why?”
“Your dad needs me there. With Peratta off the scene, it doesn’t make sense for me to be your minder. You’re going to stay on, right?”
“I can’t leave.”
They walked back to the town slowly, as though trying to prolong the excursion. Back at the hotel, Verónica called Patricia and offered her the piece on Claudia Rinaldi’s murder at the hands of Captain Aráoz. Her editor accepted immediately, and suggested she also write a piece on new developments in the tourists case, but once again Verónica refused. Whatever happened, she would never feel able to write about the case. Before ending the call, she clarified that the article she was sending Patricia was written together with Juan Robson.
“El Inglés is writing again?”
“After a fashion.”
She wasn’t going to consult Juan Robson on this because she knew what those stubborn old hacks were like: he would refuse. But she wasn’t prepared to take sole credit for the investigation, or to publish the article under her own byline with Reporting by Juan Robson underneath, in smaller print, as the magazine’s editor liked to do. Robson’s email constituted an impeccable piece of journalism. All she’d really had to do was cut and paste. And she was sure Robson would be happy to see his name attached to the piece.
Federico was in the bedroom, so she took her laptop to the hotel bar. She could work there without interruption. At that time of day, there was nobody at any of the tables. On her way there, she saw Mariano in the reception area with one of the tourists who had recently arrived.
Verónica switched on her computer and started rereading the material Robson had sent her. She hadn’t got halfway through the email when her phone rang and she looked to see who was calling. Mechi’s name came up on the screen. She answered immediately.
III
It hadn’t been an easy decision. In fact, it was the first time he’d had to neutralize someone from his own team. But now he knew Three would neither ruin his career nor his business: he was still the only person providing hitmen who worked with the precision of surgeons.
His phone rang. It was the client who had contracted him to assassinate Verónica Rosenthal.
“We’re back in business,” he said.
“Just as well – I don’t like delay. Plus, every day that passes, the job gets more expensive.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Are we going to have to put a new tail on her?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary. If everything goes the way I think it will, I know where she’s going to be tomorrow or the next day. Three days max. We just have to be ready to strike.”
“In Yacanto?”
“My idea is to take her to Club Náutico, which is quite far away from here.”
“I don’t like closed clubs. It’s harder to get out.”
“It’s going to be the ideal place, I assure you.”
“I’m thinking of sending just one man.”
“That’s your call, not mine.”
“Two in a club would be a crowd.”
“Then I’ll get you just one member ID.”
“I’m going to need more funds.”
“I’ll send you twenty per cent. The other thirty when the job’s done.”
“Sounds good. I’ll need a map of the club, with alternative exits marked and the coordinates of where our man should wait.”
“I can send all that and the movements will follow in a couple of hours. All I ask is that this time you don’t fail.”
Doctor Zero was used to dealing with all kinds of clients. Guys who thought they were heroes in a movie, others who had a change of heart five minutes before the job was supposed to take place, some who got an attack of post-mortem guilt and called him in hopes of shifting the guilt onto him. There were also some who understood exactly what his work entailed: they hired him, gave him the coordinates and paid him. But he’d had a funny feeling about this guy right from the start. Doctor Zero sensed – and he was never wrong when it came to reading people – that this guy didn’t really understand what was involved in sending one person to kill another. That he was acting like a capricious child who’d had his toys taken away.
IV
Mechi was crying. She was talking too, but Verónica couldn’t understand her because the sobs prevented her from speaking clearly. She asked Mechi to calm down, to repeat what she was saying. The weeping was silenced then, and replaced by the voice of a man:
“Listen, don’t hang up, don’t shout, don’t call anyone. Speak normally to me.”
Verónica glanced around her as though looking for whoever was speaking to her, or for support from some quarter, although there was nobody else in the dining room.
“Who’s speaking?” she managed to say.
“Did you hear your friend crying?”
“Where’s Mechi?”
“Mechi’s here, with us.”
“What’s happening? Don’t hurt her. What’s going on?”
“Calm down and listen carefully. Do you want to see your friend alive?”
“You’d better not do anything to her, because —”
“Listen to me. If you want to see Mechi alive, you’re going to do as I say. Or would you rather listen to her die? Do you understand what I’m telling you? Answer me.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Then you’re going to do what I say and you’ll see her alive. Don’t talk to anyone and don’t hang up on me, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you and who are you with?”
“I’m in the dining room at the hotel, on my own.”
“Without hanging up, while you’re still talking to me, you’re going to go to your car and drive on your own to the place I tell you to go.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to the car?”
“I have to find my keys.”
“Where are they?”
“Here in my bag.”
“Get them out and walk to the car.”
Verónica searched in the bag with her free hand, but it was shaking too much for her to find anything. She turned the bag over and tipped its contents onto the table. She saw the key, picked it up and made to leave. She wanted to take her glasses, but they were hidden under her bag and she couldn’t see them.
“Have you got it?”
“Yes.”
“Now walk calmly to the car.”
“OK.”
She left everything scattered ove
r the table, her laptop switched on, her upturned bag emptied of its contents.
“While you walk, tell me, what were you doing?”
“I was writing an article.”
“For the magazine?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the magazine called?”
“Nuestro Tiempo.”
Verónica walked through the reception area. Mariano was still talking to some tourists. She didn’t look at him but opened the door and stepped into the street.
“Is your boyfriend there?”
“I’m alone.”
“Are you outside?”
“Yes.”
“Walk to the car. And don’t hang up. If you do, or if we get cut off, we’ll shoot your friend.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t do anything to her.”
“That depends on you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Have you reached the car now?”
“I’m getting in.”
“Put the phone on hands-free. Have you done that?”
“Yes, it’s on.”
“Now you’re going to drive. You have to take the main road to Los Cercos. Do you know where Los Cercos is?”
“Yes.”
“But you have to keep talking to me, so tell me about everything you see.”
Like an automaton, Verónica described everything she saw as she drove: a white car, trees on either side, a gate. Every so often the voice made some observation or asked for more detail: was the gate open? What model was the white car? Verónica gripped the steering wheel, not leaning back against the seat. It had started to get dark and she couldn’t see all that well without her glasses. She kept talking, telling the man what he wanted to know but not hearing the words herself. If she had been asked to repeat what she had said two sentences ago, she wouldn’t have been able to do it.
As she entered Los Cercos, the voice ordered her to take the first turning on the left, then to park and finally to get out of the car.
“Wait there for a few minutes. He’ll be there soon.”
“Who’ll be there?”
“The person who’s going to bring you here, to where Mechi is.”
A motorbike drew up ten yards from where she was standing. The rider wore a helmet. He didn’t get off the motorbike or remove his helmet, but he looked towards where she was standing.
“Is the motorbike there now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to come with him. I’ll take this moment to say goodbye. I have to go. I’m not going to get to see you. Chau. You can hang up now.”
Verónica tried to ask him where they were taking her, why they hadn’t brought Mechi to her there, what they wanted from her. But the man had already hung up and the motorcyclist was revving his engine. Verónica walked towards him. The man made no gesture. She climbed on the back and the motorbike accelerated away. Verónica gripped the sides of the pillion, but the road had too many bends and potholes for her to keep her balance without holding onto the driver. The thought that she might be touching one of the men who had murdered Petra and Frida filled her with revulsion.
They arrived at a ranch sheltered by a grove of trees. A moped and another motorbike were parked there. The motorcyclist stood up and took off his helmet. Getting off the bike, she recognized him immediately: it was Rulo, the older brother of Sebastián Vázquez. Another man leaned out of the window. Verónica walked towards the front door, which opened at her approach. She was vaguely aware of someone pushing her from behind. Ever since Mechi had called, she had been trying to imagine what state the girl might be in. The image that greeted her was much worse than what she had pictured: Mechi was in the middle of the room, naked and on her knees. Her face was swollen from crying.
Verónica went over to Mechi and put her arms around her, trying to cover the girl with her body. Mechi, crying unceasingly, could not move. She was a statue. Sebastián was holding a gun while Reyes, standing with his hand on his hips, had no weapon. The two were smiling at each other. One of the men said something, but Verónica was focussed on comforting Mechi. “We’ll be leaving soon, don’t cry, we’re leaving,” she told her. Verónica thought she could hear another woman crying in an adjoining room. The younger Vázquez moved to the door that led to the other room, satisfied himself that it was locked and ordered in a loud voice:
“That’s enough, Rosalía, stop whining. If you fuck about, the same thing will happen to you.”
“This is the bitch who was looking for us,” Reyes said.
Verónica didn’t notice him touching her hair as he spoke. When she didn’t react, he pulled her hair to get her attention. “You were a friend of the other two, weren’t you? Small world.”
“That was a good time, right?” said Rulo, as if seeking the approval of his accomplices.
“Take your clothes off, bitch,” Reyes ordered Verónica.
The first thing she thought was: They’re going to kill me. She didn’t comply because she was waiting to be shot. Along with Mechi. Only when Rulo roughly pulled off the top buttons of her shirt did she take in what they were saying. Rulo’s violent gesture had disoriented her.
“Come on, bitch, we don’t have all day.”
Verónica could hear Mechi wailing, and the sound of a stifled sob reached her from the other room. She finished unbuttoning her shirt and took it off together with her bra; she took off her shoes, her trousers and her underwear. She didn’t realize she was naked because it wasn’t her standing there without clothes at that moment. Not Mechi either. At that moment Petra and Frida were the ones taking off their clothes, the ones trembling, the ones begging not to be hurt. Poor girls, poor girls, Verónica repeated to herself quietly.
“On your knees, bitch,” one of them (Sebastián, Reyes, Rulo?) yelled at her.
She felt the earth floor scraping her knees. Someone grabbed her breasts from behind and squeezed them hard. The other two laughed. She thought of Frida, of Petra, their fragile bodies, so easy to hurt, to abuse.
“These girls are dying to suck cock.”
“A little respect for the journalist. She went straight for the boss and left us with the two sluts.”
“We’re gonna make these ones scream, too, the little whores.”
“Look at the ass on it.”
“She’s gonna love getting it pounded. Look, how d’you like my dick? Makes your mouth water, right, bitch?”
At no point had Verónica cried. The grief she felt for her murdered friends was yielding to an ever greater fury. She didn’t care if they raped her or if afterwards they killed her, as they had Petra and Frida. Before that she was going to do everything possible to defend herself. She thought of headbutting Sebastián, who had the weapon, in the balls. He might shoot her in the process, but she would still hit him hard. She didn’t care what happened afterwards. She tensed her body ready to hurl herself on him, then heard an explosion. Like gunfire.
If it had come from the front door, the noise might have made more sense. But the sound came from the room where the other girl was locked up. Somebody had shot off the lock and was opening the door, to the astonishment of everyone. It wasn’t Rosalía who appeared, however, but Federico, with a rifle aimed right at Sebastián’s face.
“Drop the gun!” he shouted.
“I’ll shoot her, I’m gonna shoot!” Sebastián shouted back, pointing his gun at Verónica.
Behind Federico were Mariano and Luca. Both had kitchen knives in their hands. Rulo had moved out of range towards a chair. Verónica realized he planned to throw it at Federico to knock the gun out of his hand. She had to risk getting shot by Sebastián and lunge at his balls. Federico and Sebastián were shouting at each other. Verónica had begun to move towards Sebastián when Reyes’ voice, raised above the others, cut through the commotion:
“Fuck’s sake, the cops are here. Outside. The cops.”
Verónica made a headlong dive for Sebastián a second before Rulo threw the chair at Federico, whose shot went
towards the ceiling. Sebastián let out a howl of pain and fired in the direction of the girls, missing them both. Verónica was lying splayed on the floor. Sebastián wasn’t going to miss a second time, but then Luca slashed his arm with the knife, making him drop the gun. At that moment the police came in, a lot of them. Mariano had helped Mechi up and Federico pushed Verónica to one side as the officers threw the three men to the ground. Luca picked up the girls’ clothing and passed it to them. Mechi, who was still crying, started screaming when she saw them make her friend lie face down along with the others. Rosalía screamed too. Chief Superintendent Suárez ordered them into the kitchen. Verónica put her arms around Mechi and walked her into the other room. She helped her dress, wiped her face and said several times, “It’s over, Mechi, it’s all over. We’re all right.”
“Rosalía,” said Mechi.
“I’ll go and see. You stay here.”
She finished dressing as best she could and walked out of the kitchen. The three men were still on the floor. So too was, Rosalía, sobbing endlessly. Verónica walked towards the chief superintendent, who was at the other end of the room standing beside Federico, but as she passed one of the three men she couldn’t contain herself and kicked him in the ribs.
“Fucking bastard,” she shouted at him and kicked him again.
Federico made to move towards her, but the chief superintendent placed a restraining hand on his arm.
Verónica walked to one of the other men and repeated the gesture.
“You evil son of a bitch.”
She kicked him several times.
Her legs hurt and she didn’t have the strength to kick any more.
“Fucking monster.”
With the little energy she still had she placed her foot on the third man’s face and pressed down with all her weight. The man screamed. Verónica wished she was wearing heels. Stiletto heels, to sink into the eyes of those three evil bastards.
16 Truth or Dare
I
Luca liked to say that Mariano was a serial conversationalist. That he could chat to anyone, no matter who. Spending hours on the reception desk of a hotel every day, he got his fix. So it wasn’t unusual for him to have struck up a conversation with those two tourists who were looking for somewhere to spend the next few days. While he was still describing the merits of the different rooms and the complimentary breakfast, and before he had offered to show them a room, he saw Verónica pass by like a streak. She was talking on the phone and her face was contorted, like someone hearing bad news. He looked over to where she had been sitting in the bar and noticed that she had left everything lying there, including her handbag and laptop. Mariano abandoned the tourists mid-sentence and called Federico’s room.
The Foreign Girls Page 31
