I text Sofia:
Home now. Thinking of you. Can we meet? x
The next half-hour is spent unpacking and stowing the money behind the fridge. There’s no sign of Saul or the girl so I leave a note and head outside. I want to get some background on Arenaza and look into Nicole in more detail. At the post office I retrieve my computer hard drive and the various coded reminders of passwords and contact addresses, then head down to the internet cafe at the foot of Calle de Ventura Rodriguez.
According to articles I find in nexis. com, over the past five years there have been 127 Spanish newspaper stories linked to Mikel Arenaza. I print out those in which his name appears in the first two paragraphs and then run a separate search through Google. Mostly this leads to generic information about Batasuna, although something pops up from Bilbao University concerning a lecture Arenaza gave in 1999, and that is soon spooling out of the printer. Predictably, any combination of Arenaza/Bogota, Batasuna/Colombia or Church/Arenaza produces either garbage or irrelevant material. A Julio Arenaza from Argentina, for example, stayed at an obscure mountain hostel in Chile in 2001, and left a note in the on-line guest book saying how much he had enjoyed visiting the local church. Typing Batasuna/FARC into Nexis produces two interesting articles on the US wires about ETA’s relationship with the Italian mafia (from whom they have purchased Balkan weapons in exchange for drugs) and their links with FARC, the Colombian guerrilla movement. The US embassy in Bogota also provides a detailed website, although a thorough check of email addresses listed on the various pages fails to turn up anyone named Nicole or Nicki or Church. There’s an ‘nrodriguez’ working in the human resources section, but unless Nicole has married someone of Hispanic descent and taken his name, it seems unlikely that this could be her. I take a note of the main switchboard number and begin again.
Arenaza said that Julian and Nicole met in Washington DC several years ago, while Julian was working in a bank. There are more than seventy financial institutions listed on the web for the DC Metropolitan area, although I know that Endiom has only one office on the eastern seaboard, in lower Manhattan. At first I check private banks and British-owned institutions in Washington, later widening the net to American-owned organizations, or those with any kind of Hispanic connection. The list grows and grows and mostly it’s just a question of writing down phone numbers in order to check with the banks directly at a later stage. The Foreign Office website, unlike that of its American counterpart, contains woefully little information about Bogota. The page takes about six minutes to load and contains little more than a few titbits about visa requirements and Jack Straw. Eyes stinging with screen-ache, I head off for lunch and resolve to start again in an hour.
Saul calls just as I am about to tuck into a tortilla.
‘Sasha’s gone,’ he says.
‘So you remembered her name…’
‘Hope you didn’t mind her being here. Maybe I should have asked.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I am too caught up in Arenaza’s revelations to care. Besides, I’d like to have a hold over Saul, so there’s no point in giving him a hard time about the girl.
‘Listen,’ he says, ‘Andy’s back in Cadiz. I thought I might head down there for a few days.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Maybe tomorrow. You want to come?’
It is the last thing I feel like doing.
‘I’d love to, but I have to write up this report for Julian. It’s going to take days.’
He sounds disappointed. There is a long pause. It is as if we have no more to say to one another.
‘How was the trip?’
‘Fine.’
And the rest of the conversation is inconsequential. I ask him if he liked the car chases in Ronin. Is he going to see the girl again? Then I hang up and see that Sofia has left a message.
Not this weekend. Must be with Julian. Lo siento. S x
And suddenly the paranoia returns. Why would she turn me down? Has Arenaza spoken to them? Has their plan unravelled? This will be the aftermath of San Sebastian: not concerns over Saul’s sex life, but other mistrusts and suspicions. I finish the tortilla – almost breaking a tooth on a diamond-hard chunk of jamon – and ring Julian in an effort to establish what’s going on.
‘So! You’re back. How was it?’
He is at his desk, chipper as ever, no suggestion of concern.
‘Terrific, thanks. Just need the weekend to write up the magnum opus. How are things with you?’
‘As ever, but who am I to complain?’
Indeed.
‘Manchester United still winning?’
‘Oh yes, oh yes.’
The question, as I might have anticipated, instigates a five-minute monologue about United’s chances of ‘stealing the title’ from Arsenal. (‘If we can just put a string of results together, I reckon Wenger will really eat his words.’) Then a call comes through on Julian’s other line and he is forced to cut the conversation short.
‘Doing anything this weekend?’ I ask, trying to establish Sofia’s motive before he rings off.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing. Bloody parents coming into town.’
This, at least, reassures me that she was telling the truth.
‘Well, maybe we can have lunch on Wednesday,’ I suggest. ‘Go through my report.’
‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘I’d like that.’ But he hangs up without saying goodbye.
To disguise any pattern, I choose a different internet cafe, on Calle de Amaniel, and work until six tracing language schools in Bogota. If Colombia is anything like Spain, companies offering language tuition will go out of business every few weeks, but most of the old stalwarts, including Berlitz, are listed on the web. I take down a series of numbers and realize that most of next week will be taken up making phone calls to Washington and Colombia. I also find a Basque translation service on the web that quotes me just under €800 for converting several Arenaza articles from Gara and Ahotsa into English. They promise that the results will be ready inside five working days, although it angers me that I’ll have to shell out the equivalent of almost five hundred pounds just to read what, in all likelihood, will be illdisguised nationalist propaganda.
Finally, I access a site for marriage licence information at the Superior Court of the District of Columbia and call the number listed using the Amena SIM card. For at least two minutes I’m trapped in a maze of automated voices, until a spirited receptionist eventually puts me through to ‘Leah’ in ‘our executive office’.
‘Who shall I say is calling, sir?’
‘My name is Simon Eastwood.’
‘Just a moment.’
At the next-door computer terminal, a thick-set teenager wearing headphones is busy shooting up a gang of armed drugs smugglers, pounding on his mouse to reload. His forehead sweats as blood decorates the screen. I have to sit through thirty seconds of synthesized Mozart before Leah picks up. Her voice is clipped and machine-efficient.
‘Mr Eastwood. What can I do for you today?’
I move away from the banks of computers and find a quieter spot at the back of the room.
‘Yes, I wonder if you would be kind enough to assist me with a small problem.’ Outside of New York City and Los Angeles, Americans can still be charmed by Limeys who sound like David Niven. ‘I’m trying to discover whether a person of my acquaintance was married in the District of Columbia at some point between 1991 and the present day.’
‘May I ask the nature of your enquiry, sir?’
‘I’m a genealogist.’
Judging by the surprised tone of her voice, Leah doesn’t get too many of those phoning her up. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘And you just want to know if they were married?’
‘Not exactly. I’m fairly sure about that side of things, but there’s a geographical discrepancy in my records between Maryland and DC. I’m also unsure of the date. It’s a question of trying to verify the location and tracking down the actual licence.�
�
‘For a family tree?’
‘Precisely.’
A tiny pause. She sounds relaxed, so I’m not at all worried.
‘What was the groom’s surname, sir?’
‘His name was Church. A Mr Julian Church.’
‘And the bride?’
Nicole’s surname was always going to be the sticking point. Before making the call I decided to make something up.
‘The bride’s maiden name was Harper, Nicole Harper.’ And there’s a long silence, almost as if Leah has a note beside her telephone instructing her to contact a supervisor immediately if nosey Englishmen start asking questions about Julian Church. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Sure, I’m still here.’ She laughs. ‘I have a Julian Church marrying a Nicole Law in March of 1995.’
‘You do?’
‘Could that be the one?’
For the sake of credibility I persevere with the lie. ‘No. I’m looking for a Nicole Harper. But the coincidence does seem odd. You’re sure there isn’t another listing?’
Leah takes her time. She really wants to help me out on this one.
‘I’m sorry, sir…’
‘Mr Church was British. Perhaps that might help.’
And at this, her voice leaps an octave. ‘But that’s what it says here. Julian Anthony Charles Church, British national, married Nicole Donovan Law, US citizen, March 18th 1995. That’s gotta be him.’
‘Sadly not,’ I reply, stooping to write ‘Donovan Law 1995’ on a scrap of paper. ‘The marriage must have taken place in Maryland. But thank you for your assistance.’
‘Well, you’re welcome, Mr Eastwood. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be more help.’
12. Pillow Talk
Saul leaves at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, travelling on the AVE to Cordoba where he plans to visit the Mezquita and pick up a hire car en route for Cadiz. I suggest he spend three nights in Seville and another two in Ronda, in the hope that it might be at least a fortnight before he returns.
‘You can even go to Morocco by ferry,’ I tell him, his cab pulling away on Princesa. ‘Spend a few days in Fez, man. I’ve heard it’s really nice.’
There is a lot to do. I spend the rest of Sunday and most of Monday morning writing up the Endiom report and sending it via email to Julian. Work feels irrelevant in the current situation, but Julian is a perfectionist and will doubtless want several alterations before committing the document to the printers. Finally, at four in the afternoon – 10 a.m. in Colombia – I call the US embassy in Bogota. I am sitting in the kitchen of my flat, a cup of tea on the table beside a notepad and two ballpoint pens, in case one of them runs out.
‘This is the American embassy of Colombia.’ Another automated system. ‘ Press one for English, dos para Espanol.’
I press ‘1’ and connect to a sleepy-sounding receptionist with a local accent who asks how she can direct my call.
‘I’m trying to track down a friend of mine from the United States. I think she works at the embassy.’
‘What was the name, sir?’
‘Well, it used to be Nicole Law, but I’m fairly sure she got married.’
There is a listless recognition. ‘Oh sure. I know Nicki.’ I feel a skip and thump of excitement. ‘But she no longer works here. I can connect you to somebody who might be able to assist. Would you hold the line please, sir?’
‘Of course.’
Obtaining confidential information by telephone is usually fairly straightforward. There is the great advantage that one cannot be seen by the person at the other end of the line; it is necessary only to lie with the voice. On Friday, speaking to Washington, I attempted to convey the sense of a slightly dotty Brit adrift in unanswered questions. It’s the same on this occasion; I am easygoing and polite, and persistently grateful to the staff for taking the time to help me out.
There’s a ten-second delay before a sound comes on the line, like a metal chain falling on concrete. Then a confident-sounding American male picks up the phone.
‘Hi, this is Dave Creighton. I understand you’re lookin’ for Nicki?’
I’ve already worked out my plan of attack. ‘That’s right.’
‘And it’s a personal call?’
‘Yes. We’re old friends.’
Dave makes a noise at the back of his throat. ‘Well, you’re kind of in the right area.’
‘I am? Oh that’s fantastic.’
‘Nicki actually hasn’t worked here in a while. She’s running a day-care centre out at the Granahorrar for expat families. You want me to dig you out the number?’
‘That would be wonderful. A day-care centre?’
‘Yeah. Lotta kids here. Lotta busy people.’
‘Well, Nicki always loved children.’
Dave agrees wholeheartedly with this sentiment and taps something into a keyboard, keeping the conversation lively as he does so out of sheer American politeness.
‘So you and Nicki are old college buddies?’
‘Not really. I always wanted to go to university in the States, but we actually met in London a few years ago and became friends that way. Now I’ve got the opportunity to come to South America with my wife and son and we wanted to look Nicki up for a spot of lunch. Is she still with her husband?’
‘Felipe? Sure.’ Dave sounds surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘Felipe? I thought she married an English banker?’
‘Oh no. No.’ Laughter now. He’s buying the strategy. ‘You really haven’t seen her in a while, huh? That was a long time ago. It’s Felipe now.’
‘She’s no longer Nicole Church?’
I want to find out if the new surname is Rodriguez, which would tally with the email address on the embassy website.
‘No. Never was. Kept her name as Law, far as I know. Now it’s definitely Palacios. Senor y Senora. Let me see if I can find her. Where you calling from, sir?’
‘Barcelona.’
‘Wow. OK. How’s the weather there?’
‘Really nice. Sunny.’
‘Great.’ He has found the number and I write it down, splashing black tea on the surface of the table when the mug rocks. ‘That about all I can do for you?’
‘That’s about it. Thank you, Dave, you’ve been very helpful.’ The conversation has gone so smoothly that I risk one more question. ‘So what happened to the English husband?’
‘Well, I’d better let you ask Nicki that. Complicated situation, right? You take care now. Have a nice evening.’
I hang up, trying to work out how I feel. If Nicole is just a glorified nanny, then there’s nothing to worry about. Her job at the embassy can only have involved clerical or commercial work: a former colleague would never speak so candidly about someone who had been in the Agency. But why was he reluctant to discuss Julian? Purely to protect a colleague’s privacy, or because the relationship ended in scandal? Now my mind really starts to turn over. Who was I talking to? Did the receptionist follow protocol and connect me to a CIA officer who used the day-care centre as routine cover? And why did he ask where I was calling from? They could be running checks on the SIM card right now, warning Nicole and Julian, doing anything to protect the plan. Yet he gave up the number without hesitation and never even asked my name. The conversation was surely just as it appeared. Either way, there’s no sense in dialling the centre. If Nicole is there, I will have to talk to her and pretend to be a parent enquiring about fees and facilities. If she isn’t, the possibilities are endless: that she never works there; that she took the day off; that she has been instructed to avoid my call. I need some air.
Out on Princesa I consider throwing the Amena card in a bin, but decide against it and go for a coffee in Plaza de Comendadoras. I walk up Calle del Conde Duque and turn right into Guardias de Corps, following more or less the same route that Saul and I took on the way to Cafe Comercial. There are young children playing on swings in the small, fenced-off area at the western end of the square, watched by listless parents and a
tramp lying flat out on a bench. Beyond them, on the far side of the square, three older boys wearing torn T-shirts are kicking a burst football against the wall of the old convent. The slap of the punctured leather is oddly relaxing. I come to a decision: in order to obtain conclusive answers about Julian’s true identity, it will be necessary to question Sofia. This will be a considerably more difficult task than phoning bored officials in Bogota and Washington, but they always say that the best information is pillow talk. To that end, at around five o’clock I call her at work and encourage her to come round. Sofia sounds excited and says that she can be at my apartment by 6.30. This gives me time to sink a cafe solo in a bar at the far end of the square, to head home for a shower and to buy her an expensive box of chocolates at VIPS. Then it’s just a question of waiting.
She is three-quarters of an hour late and arrives wearing a fur-trimmed coat, high-heeled leather boots, a knee-length tweed skirt and the white Donna Karan shirt I bought her in Marbella after my last trip in November. Adultery clothes. In the hall I slip the coat to the floor and we guide one another wordlessly into the bedroom, underwear leaving a cinematic trail all the way to the headboard. We say virtually nothing to one another for the next hour, rediscovering the passion of our very first weeks together. It is almost as if the threat of Sofia’s betrayal has brought us closer together. Only towards eight o’clock, showered and padding around the flat, does she unwind and begin to talk.
‘You looked exhausted when I came in,’ she says. ‘The trip north tired you?’
‘A little,’ I reply. ‘But it was more having Saul to stay. We went out drinking until six on Saturday’
‘Six!’ There is nothing unusual about this in Madrid, but Sofia sounds surprised. ‘He stayed a long time, your friend.’
‘Too long,’ I reply, and now we speak in Spanish. ‘I don’t particularly like myself when he’s around. I can’t explain it. And his wife has just left him, so he was tetchy. He needs a break. He went to Cordoba on Sunday, might come back next week.’
The Spanish Game am-3 Page 9
