by Jorge Magano
“So, how did it go?” Rosa’s brother raised his glass and gave her a look of genuine admiration.
“You’ll find out soon enough. I don’t like explaining things twice.”
“Uh-oh. Little sister’s in a bad mood.”
“I’ve been away from the gallery for almost a week.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Your boyfriend will have taken care of everything.”
Rosa’s face turned red.
“Leave Dino out of this. That poor man would run for his life if he had any idea what his fiancée really did when she was supposed to be away on business.”
“Come on, I bet dangerous women like you are a turn-on for him.”
“Me, dangerous? Not dangerous enough for this job. At least I won’t have to quit. Papà won’t just fire me, he’ll disown me. And I’ll be glad of it.”
The man ran the tips of his fingers under the kerchief as he registered her implication of failure. “The policeman . . . ?”
“Amatriaín? He escaped from right under our noses. And so did the other guy, Jaime Azcárate.”
“Two screwups for the price of one, little sister.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Rosa protested. “One of them disappeared and the other managed to put that moron Clark out of action and then kidnap me. I don’t get why Papà still trusts that idiot.”
“I think you’re about to find out.”
Rosa nodded with her characteristic self-assurance. But deep down, she envied her brother. Although Leonardo occasionally undertook fieldwork—the most recent example being the theft of the Medusa from the Verona museum—his primary responsibility was coordinating the organization’s activities. Thus he spent most of the day in a luxurious cabin on the family yacht, flicking through documents while sipping mojitos and caipirinhas. Rosa, meanwhile, was the one out risking her neck, since her father figured a beautiful young woman looked less suspicious than a guy with an earring.
As a criminal mastermind, Leonardo possessed all the skill and cunning of Lex Luthor. Thanks to him and Rosa, both sides of the family organization were ruled with strength. The problem was that for years, Rosa had been trying to reform herself. After several masterstrokes had sealed the family’s fortune, the youngest Carrera had decided to give up crime and devote herself to the legitimate art business. But she was still attached to her father, and he had persuaded her to take on one last mission, perhaps the most important of their criminal careers.
Rosa and Leonardo finished their champagne and crossed the lounge. A massive oak desk stood on a platform in the room and a portrait of an aristocratic-looking man wearing a proud expression hung above it, presiding over all that happened there. The man was bald and in the portrait he was leaning casually against a table, gazing out at the viewer with the indifference of a baroque monarch. Flanking the portrait, looking out of place, were two loudspeakers mounted at the height of the subject’s shoulders.
Aside from this depiction, and not counting the dozen or so marble and wooden faces represented artistically, there was no one else in the room. Leonardo walked somberly toward the portrait, his sister following close behind. Suddenly, a sharp voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “So here you are.”
They stopped in the center of the room.
“And in one piece, from what I hear,” the voice continued. “How’s Clark? If he keeps injuring himself like this his medical treatment will cost me a fortune. Fortunately, very soon money will no longer be a problem.”
“Like it is now.” Rosa looked around the yacht’s impressive lounge.
“Tell me everything.”
“We encountered some difficulties,” she said loudly. It always made her feel uncomfortable to speak to a painting. “How are you today?”
“I’m tired,” the voice said. “But don’t use that as an excuse not to tell me the search was a failure.”
Rosa felt herself grow pale under the fluorescent lights. “How did you know?”
“From the pitch of your voice. It’s an octave higher than usual.”
She clenched her fists to contain the rage she felt at having to speak to a person she couldn’t see. “We looked everywhere. In drawers, notebooks—there wasn’t even a damn USB drive. I spent the entire return trip searching the CDs I took from her room, but I didn’t find anything. There was no sign of it on her computer. I was just starting a more thorough search when Clark saw her coming down the street with that journalist, Jaime Azcárate.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Clark wanted to stay and settle the score, but I convinced him to escape down the stairs. We didn’t have time to take the computer. One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that there was nothing in the documents I took even remotely related to Asclepius’s Chronicle. Isn’t it possible we’ve got the wrong person?”
“My dear Rosa, research is the key to all operations. That and luck. A few years ago, when I published my essay on the work of Filippo Baldinucci, Paloma Blasco came to my office with an absurd theory. I gave it a lot of thought, and the more thought I gave it, the less absurd it seemed. So I decided to conduct my own investigation, and that’s how I came across the university piece attributed to her and Jaime Azcárate, who she was besotted with at the time. Maybe she still is.”
“He’s an interesting guy,” Rosa admitted. Leonardo made a snorting sound. “What are you laughing about, jackass?”
“Nothing. ‘An interesting guy.’ So interesting you let him live?”
“Go fuck yourself, shithead.”
“Quiet, both of you. Rosa’s right: it was Paloma’s feelings for Azcárate that made her want to help him and, ultimately, to conduct the study. By all appearances, he was a crackpot who thought about nothing but travelling the world and searching for treasures. She was the more sensible party. She knew what it truly meant to be an art historian. The piece was hers. She’s the one who went to Rome and Naples, who studied and researched the Medusa, and discovered the truth about it.”
“So then what’s his involvement? Why was Azcárate in Soria on the very day we were planning to freeze Amatriaín?”
“There’s no such thing as a coincidence. We were following Amatriaín and he was following Azcárate, and that’s why you were all in the same place that night. Don’t forget, my girl: investigation can take you anywhere. And we’re going right to the top.”
“But Paloma doesn’t have a diary; there’s nothing written down. I’m telling you I carried out a thorough search.”
“Not thorough enough,” was the calm but cutting reply. “The diary must be somewhere that only she knows about. I’m certain that if you’d had more time you’d have found it.”
“And what if she doesn’t have it at home? She might have it stored in an e-mail account. Or hidden somewhere else—the museum, for instance. How was I going to sneak into the Prado Museum?”
“That possibility had occurred to me, too. Don’t worry: Clark will take care of everything.”
“What do you think Clark can do?” she asked. Although she was often forced to work with her cousin, she’d never liked the brute. The feeling was mutual, especially since the day Clark took a boot to the groin for trying to get too friendly with her.
“Everything has been planned. I’ve put Clark in touch with a colleague of Paloma’s who can get the truth out of her.”
“Seriously? And who is this genius?”
“His name’s Oscar Preston. Apparently there’s some professional rivalry between him and Paloma. Clark shouldn’t have any trouble persuading him to get his hands on her research.”
“I still don’t understand why this document is so important. We already know what it says.”
“We know the conclusion, but it is of vital importance to our negotiations that we get our hands on the original source material. Dr. Galliano is aware of its existence and insists that our documentation include thi
s proof of the bust’s link to the legend. It’s a quirk common among collectors—what can I say?”
Rosa nodded even though he couldn’t see her, but she didn’t feel convinced.
“You trust Clark?” she asked.
“I know you don’t like him, but he’s my nephew, and he has rarely failed us. He has orders to report to Leonardo as soon as he discovers anything.”
“He couldn’t discover a nail if it was hammered through his foot.”
“Rosa, please don’t talk about your cousin like that. He has always been loyal to us.”
Rosa gave up. Clark had always been loyal to the family. But what about her? She was travelling all over the world, risking her life and neglecting her duties at the art gallery—and with each day, her chances of becoming a respectable businesswoman were growing that much smaller.
“All right,” she finally said.
“Excellent. Now, let me rest awhile.”
There was a crackling sound and then the room was silent. Rosa and Leonardo stood there for a few moments, showing an almost servile respect for the voice that was now gone. Then they went back to the main deck and looked out at the town of Santa Teresa di Gallura on the Sardinian coast.
“Is there a problem with Clark?” Leonardo watched a gull soaring overhead.
“He’s a madman.”
“But he’s good at his job. He’s strong and isn’t scared of anything.”
Rosa gave him a piercing stare. “The fact that he’s fearless is a good thing. But his pleasure-seeking, money-grubbing ways are going to get us into trouble one of these days. I think he spends his pay on whores and God knows what else.”
“Every man has his particular methods and vices. But the vices don’t have to interfere with the methods. Our father wouldn’t have given him this mission if he wasn’t sure he was up to the task.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said.
“Of course I am. Papà doesn’t take stupid risks. Now I have to leave you, little sister. I’m working on a new project that requires my full attention.”
“An assignment from Papà? Another sculpture?”
A look of mischief flashed in Leonardo’s dark eyes.
“Oh, come on!” she said. “Not another side operation?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“To be honest, no. But eventually you’ll be caught, and I dread the fact that I’m going to get that news one of these days.”
“It’s possible,” he said. Then he turned on his heel, military-style, and headed back toward the lounge.
13
Madrid
Two days earlier, Oscar Preston never would have guessed that his movements were being watched. But on Sunday, the day after his meeting with Ricardo Bosch, he received an anonymous call during which an unfamiliar voice intimated that it knew of his ambition to become the Prado Museum’s deputy director of research and conservation. Hearing this, he felt his heart leap.
At first he was put out by the intrusion into his personal life; if fact, it angered him so much he threatened to call the police. But when the voice mentioned his rivalry with Paloma Blasco and suggested she might be taken out of the picture, Preston’s curiosity was piqued and he listened to the proposal. The plan seemed quite simple: all he had to do was obtain some information and then someone would remove Señorita Blasco by peaceful means. The voice offered up no other details.
Preston spent the next two days on edge. He’d been off of tranquilizers for months, but that week he relapsed. He wondered: Was he falling into a trap? Who were these people, anyway? What did they want and why were they helping him? He quickly pushed the last part of the question from his mind. The important thing was not why but how. Aware he’d always been a bit paranoid, he resolved to stop worrying so much and give the situation time to unfold.
He was just opening the fridge door to make himself a sandwich when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“Good evening, Preston. Have you thought about it?”
Preston’s head had been elsewhere and the call came as a surprise. “Wait—what was it I had to think about?”
“Our agreement. Now listen: At this very moment there is a gray car at the entrance to your building. Go down to the street and get in it. We’ll go someplace where we can talk.”
Preston gripped the phone so hard he was close to snapping it. He wasn’t accustomed to receiving shady offers; he was usually the one making them. “I was about to have dinner,” he said, taking in the pitiful sight of two bare slices of rye bread on the countertop.
“We can eat together,” the voice said. “If the idea I present doesn’t interest you, I’ll pay. If you are interested, you can pay. I think that’s a fair deal.”
Despite his nasal tone the stranger sounded friendly enough. But Preston knew perfectly well that, over the course of his life—both in the United States and in Europe—he’d made dozens of enemies who would have no qualms about dismembering him given the slightest opportunity. The deal he was about to be offered might be a dream come true. Or it might not. Perhaps it was the beginning of a terrible and violent nightmare.
Suddenly it dawned on him. Why did he need a favor? It was clear that Ricardo Bosch preferred him for the position—it was an open secret. He was the best, the boss’s favorite, Number One. “Señor,” he said, “I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I’m not interested in your offer.”
“But you haven’t heard it yet.”
“All the same, I’m not interested. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I can assure you, you will be interested. Just give me a few minutes of your time to explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not here. Come down to the car.”
“Why can’t you just tell me over the phone?”
“Just come down, for fuck’s sake!”
“Excuse me? You’re starting to sound rather aggressive.”
“Forgive me. Please come down and we’ll have a proper chat. It turns out that your friend Paloma Blasco may be able to cause a lot of problems for you.”
“Paloma’s no threat to me. I’m a thousand times better than her!”
“I don’t doubt it. But something’s come up that could complicate things.”
“Oh?”
“If you want to know, then come down and we’ll talk.”
The line went dead. Oscar stared at his cell phone, as if it could reveal the identity of the mysterious caller. He leaned out of the window, but his apartment was on the opposite side of the building from the entrance, and no gray car was visible. He ran to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of anxiolytics, and swallowed two at once.
Getting into the gray car might be the death of him, but there was another prospect that seemed even more unthinkable: not knowing. If he didn’t go now, doubt would seep under his sheets every night and spread its poison through his body. That was the last thought Preston had before grabbing his keys and leaving the apartment. In the elevator he pressed the ground-floor button; he was filled with anxiety, his heart in his throat.
The man sitting at the wheel of the gray Fiat 500 watched his target come out of the front door. He seemed strange, with the faltering gait of an insecure man. When he got closer to the car, the driver could see him more clearly. His ears and nose looked two sizes too big for his face and he’d drowned his blond curls in hair gel. He wore black-rimmed glasses. This was definitely the guy from the photo his cousin Leonardo had sent. “Were you the one who called me?” the man asked through the open window, his voice trembling.
“No, it was my daddy, you idiot! Come on, get in.”
Preston obeyed. He climbed in next to the driver and examined him closely. He was a dark-skinned man with a strong physique. The raincoat he wore over a black T-shirt and military pants looked out of place, and on his h
ead he sported a black Kangol-style beret. His nose was in a plaster cast, and his unruly mustache was beginning to turn white. On his chin grew four ridiculous hairs, none of which pointed in the same direction. His light eyes bulged slightly in their sockets, and contained an amicable glint that matched his stupid smile. Preston glanced at the bulge in the driver’s raincoat. “Look, if this is a trap—”
“It is!” The driver pulled out his pistol and aimed it between Preston’s eyes. “You’re dead, Preston!”
Preston screamed.
“Ha! Not really, wimp. Just kidding. Your face! You should’ve seen yourself.”
“What is this? That’s not funny! I’m getting out of here.”
Ignoring him, the driver tucked his gun away and hit the gas, and within a few minutes they had joined the nighttime traffic on the M30.
“Where’re you taking me?”
“To get something to eat. You should never talk business on an empty stomach.”
“I’m not hungry. And what is this about Paloma Blasco being a problem?”
“All in good time, my friend. And how can you not be hungry? You said earlier that you were about to have dinner. Fasten your seatbelt. As you can see, I don’t waste time. And your safety is very important to us.”
Preston did as he was told and from then on kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. There was really no other option. The driver dodged between the other cars with terrifying skill, ignoring red lights, crosswalks, and stop signs. He even laughed like a madman when he narrowly missed a young woman on crutches at one crossing. He should have had the entire police force on his tail from the moment he started his car.
Ten minutes later, the kamikaze driver parked the car in an underground lot and led the way to a place with tinted windows and a sign that read “Bar Agustín.” Inside, the air was thick with a greasy-smelling smoke that spread out from the kitchen, and nothing could be heard over the day’s news booming from the television and music blaring from a slot machine. The driver pointed at a table, but Preston wanted to go to the restroom first. “Whatever. Just don’t try anything, because I’ll come after you. I know where you live.”
