The Spanish Game am-3

by Charles Cumming

  ‘Why did you go with him?’

  ‘I had nothing better to do. He wanted to take me to a different bar.’

  ‘So you would say that by this stage in the evening you were getting on well?’

  ‘Not particularly. I think Mr Arenaza was just being a typically generous Basque host.’

  ‘But why the car park?’

  ‘He wanted to change out of his suit.’

  ‘He was wearing a suit?’

  As I had thought at the time, it was strange for a councillor from Batasuna to be dressed so smartly. ‘We were going to an herrika taverna,’ I explain. ‘I think Mikel had been in meetings all day and wanted to feel more comfortable.’

  Zulaika stares directly into my eyes, as if by referring to Arenaza as ‘Mikel’ I have implied a closer relationship.

  ‘You seem troubled by something.’

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘You’re looking at me as if there’s some sort of problem.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You are. Perhaps it’s just your manner.’

  It is now requiring a great effort of will on my behalf not to snap and react, not to let the interview escalate into a full-scale row.

  ‘My manner?’ he says. ‘I don’t understand this word.’

  ‘Forget it. What was your next question?’

  Zulaika takes his time, holding off the confrontation, shifting backwards in his seat and glancing briefly around the room. If anything, he looks pleased. I move my foot now and let the computer drop to the ground. Don’t be childish, Alec, don’t be dumb. Zulaika leans over, makes a noise through his teeth and places the briefcase on the seat beside him.

  ‘I want to know about the herrika taverna,’ he says. You can hear the lilt of Basque in the term’s correct pronunciation. ‘How long did you stay there?’

  ‘About three-quarters of an hour.’

  ‘And after that?’

  He lifts his cafe con leche and finishes it in a single gulp.

  ‘After that I went home.’

  ‘Back to your hotel?’

  ‘Back to my hotel.’

  ‘And what did you talk about during this time?’

  ‘The same things as before. Politics. Investments.’

  ‘And he said nothing about coming to Madrid, nothing about going away?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  Outside on the street, a driver trapped by a double-parked car sounds his horn and then leans on it incessantly, a noise that fills Cascaras through the open door. The office workers gathered in clutches around the bar seem oblivious to this, continuing with their conversations and snacking on churros. An elderly woman perched on a stool makes a show of blocking her ears, attracting a shrug from Diego.

  ‘And you didn’t speak to him the next day?’ It is difficult to hear Zulaika’s question above the noise of the horn.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He speaks slightly louder. ‘I said, you didn’t speak to him again after your meeting?’

  ‘No. But we spoke on the day he disappeared. He called to confirm a fact for my report.’

  ‘What fact?’

  That was careless of me. Never volunteer information unless it has been specifically requested. I may have told Goena about the call on Thursday, but there was no need to enlighten Zulaika.

  ‘I just wanted to know the likely result of a referendum on Basque independence. If it went to a vote immediately, Arenaza said that Madrid would probably win.’

  ‘He did?’ Zulaika looks doubtful. ‘I disagree. It is Ahotsa’s view that this would not happen. We have conducted our own independent research and, if trends continue, the likelihood of both Basque and Catalan independence within the next five years is considerable.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be sure to put that in my report,’ I reply, grateful for the diversion. The horn finally stops and, by twisting round in my seat, I can see a white van out of the window pulling into the street, freeing the trapped car. Zulaika appears to have run out of questions, because he flips over two sheets of A4, revealing nothing but blank pages underneath. When he closes the notebook, he takes a sip of water and finds a new line of enquiry.

  ‘How would you have characterized Mr Arenaza’s mood on the night of your meeting?’

  ‘Friendly. Affable. Helpful. I liked him. I would have liked to meet him again. What do the police think has happened?’

  The question is ignored.

  ‘Helpful in what way?’

  ‘In the sense that he wanted me to enjoy his city. Helpful in the sense that he answered my questions. He was charismatic. He was sociable. I was expecting somebody more… aggressive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, let’s just leave that in the realm of speculation.’

  Zulaika doesn’t like the inference here, the terrorist prejudice. He lights another cigarette, probably to annoy me. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll blow it away from your face,’ he says, and makes a point of moving the ashtray onto the laptop briefcase. ‘Why are you here in Madrid, Alec?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘It’s just background.’

  ‘I’ve been living here for about five years.’

  ‘And all that time working for Endiom?’

  ‘No. About half.’

  ‘What is the company’s link to Mikel Arenaza?’

  ‘There isn’t one, as far as I’m aware. Julian Church is a personal friend, that’s it. You’d have to ask him that.’

  ‘And you don’t know why Mr Arenaza was coming to Madrid?’

  ‘Like I said, I really don’t know.’

  ‘He calls you two hours before he’s due to get on a plane and doesn’t mention that he’s on his way here?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  Where is Zulaika getting such precise information? From Goena? Does he have a contact at the phone company? I need to find a way of deflecting his questions.

  ‘And you didn’t know where he was planning to stay?’

  ‘Look. You must understand that by asking me these questions again and again, you’re essentially accusing me of lying. And I don’t like being accused of lying, Mr Zulaika. I’ve told you that I met the guy for tapas two weeks ago. It’s just a grim coincidence that he should have telephoned me on the day he disappeared. I didn’t know he was coming to Madrid, so I didn’t know what hotel he was booked into. And I have absolutely no idea where the fuck he is.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So you won’t mind if I go back to work.’

  16. Penagrande

  Over the next few days I experience an odd transformation in temperament, as if – like Zulaika, like the police – I cannot rest until I find out what happened to Mikel. Call it boredom, call it the smell of a conspiracy, but I can’t just sit at home, forever guarding my privacy, while his family and friends go nuts over the disappearance. If Mikel is shacked up with Rosalia, so be it. But something tells me that that is not the case. Something tells me that Arenaza is in deep, possibly unrecoverable trouble. And I am in a unique position to be able to help him.

  Tracing Rosalia proves surprisingly easy. Mikel said that she was attending a conference on renewable energies at the Hotel Amara Plaza in San Sebastian when they met, so I simply call the hotel reception desk, pretend to be an employee of the Institute of Industrial Engineers putting together a newsletter for a website, and ask for a list of all the delegates who attended the conference to be faxed to me in Madrid. I give the number of a Mail Boxes Etc. outlet on Calle de Juan Alvarez Mendizabal and within forty-five minutes a six-page document has been spooled through to the shop. I didn’t even need to speak to the hotel’s PR department; the concierge did the whole thing for me without the slightest hesitation. On the third page of the fax, the name ‘Dieste, Rosalia Cristina’ appears next to her job description (‘Research Scientist’), a list of qualifications (including a five-year licenciatura from the Universidad Politecnica de Madrid) and the name of the company whic
h employs her: Plettix S.L. A quick flick through the telephone directory locates their offices in Penagrande, a godforsaken suburb in north-west Madrid. I call to arrange an appointment just after five o’clock on Thursday.

  ‘Good afternoon, could I speak to Rosalia Dieste, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s left for the afternoon.’ The receptionist sounds chirpy and speaks with a heavy Extremaduran accent. ‘It was actually her last day here. Is there somebody else who might be able to help?’

  I was going to pretend to be the science correspondent from an obscure British quarterly seeking an interview, but this changes the strategy considerably.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Somehow I have to find a way of getting to Rosalia before she leaves the company for good. Thankfully the girl produces a little laugh, acknowledging that I have stumbled on a coincidence, and offers up a possible solution.

  ‘She had to go home early because we’re all meeting for a drink,’ she says. ‘Rosalia wanted to get ready.’

  And I think quickly now.

  ‘Well, that’s actually why I was calling. I’m an old colleague of Rosalia’s from the Universidad Politecnica. I was supposed to be coming to the party but I wasn’t sure if it was today or tomorrow. She’s not answering her mobile. Do you happen to know where the bar is?’

  And the receptionist, thank God, is the gullible, uninquisitive sort. ‘Sure. It’s just across the street. The Sierra y Mar, in the basement of the Edificio Santiago de Compostela. Do you know our offices?’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ The thrill of the lie is like an old friend. ‘I can find it no problem.’

  But there’s not much time. As soon as I have hung up, I grab a book, my coat and keys and head straight to the garage under Plaza de Espana. The Audi is low on petrol, but there’s enough fuel to get me twenty minutes north to Penagrande, where I park beside the entrance to the metro station on a street devoid of people. The barrio is just like any other post-nuclear suburb in twenty-first-century Spain: a dusty wasteland of towering concrete apartment blocks, down-at-heel corner shops and tatty bars. Roads come at you from all directions. Across an abandoned lot strewn with litter and dead plants, the incongruously smart offices of Plettix S.L. rise up in a gleam of steel and glass. I walk down a wide, featureless avenue and cross a bridge spanning the M30 motorway. The Edificio Santiago de Compostela is one hundred metres downhill to the left, situated immediately alongside the Plettix headquarters and set back from the road by about thirty feet. The Sierra y Mar looks smart and clean and obviously serves as a meeting point for employees working in both buildings; a place to eat lunch, a place to drink coffee. I walk in and settle at the bar, just a few paces from the door, ordering a cana which comes with two gherkins and a pickled onion skewered onto a cocktail stick. There are four other customers on the premises: a construction worker sitting on a tall stool beside me; a courting couple unabashedly kissing at a table near the door; and an old man drinking coffee on the other side of the bar, which breaks at a 90-degree angle to my right. This is where the book comes in handy; with any luck, Rosalia’s colleagues will start pitching up for the party within about half an hour, and I will need something to occupy myself in the intervening period.

  At a quarter to seven, two men wearing suits and chunky watches walk in and it’s obvious they’re the first guests to arrive. The owner has sectioned off about eight tables in the corner of the restaurant, decking them out with bowls of olives and crisps and several bottles of cava. This is my first problem: the tables are behind me and it will therefore be difficult to keep an eye on Rosalia from my position at the bar. The men shake the owner’s hand, order two beers and carry them over to the nearest of the tables. It’s possible to watch them in the reflection provided by a mirror hanging above the coffee machine, although the field of vision is small. Three minutes later, a half-dozen pack of Plettix employees comes surging through the door, laughter encircling them like smoke. Two of them are women, though neither strikes me as Arenaza’s type: he described Rosalia as ‘young’ and ‘Very beautiful’, but the two giggling mujeres bringing up the rear are puffy and pre-menopausal. She’ll doubtless be along in a minute.

  Sure enough, at five past seven Rosalia Dieste walks in with a group of five colleagues. A small roar goes up, followed by clapping and even a whoop. The two men who had settled in the corner stand up and walk back towards the bar, and both of them kiss Rosalia on the cheek. She is standing right beside me now, about five feet five, seven or eight stone, a light tan and blonde hair – both out of a bottle – with clear skin, large breasts and wide, tired eyes. I was half-expecting Arenaza to walk in with her, but one of the women says, Where’s Gael?’ and I assume that’s the name of her regular boyfriend. Her voice is quiet and intelligent and she seems genuinely affectionate towards colleagues who have clearly grown fond of her. Is she leaving to start a new life with Mikel? Has she any idea what mysteries she has left in her wake? On instinct, I would say that she looks troubled, but it is always best – particularly where attractive women are concerned – to take nothing on gut reaction. Glass in hand, she accompanies the group to the back of the room and calls out ‘ Joder!’ when she sees the bottles of cava on the table. After that, it’s hard to hear what anybody is saying. The tables are at least fifteen feet away and obscured by a large pillar with a fire extinguisher bolted to it. Rosalia is rarely visible in the mirror and all conversation is lost in the general din of the party. To make matters worse, a diarrhoea of Spanish pop music is continually pouring out of the speakers, song after song about ‘ amor’ and ‘ mi corazon’, the soundtrack of Benidorm and Marbella. Now and again I will turn round and check my watch, as if frustrated and waiting to meet someone, but my surveillance becomes increasingly pointless. If I am going to follow Rosalia this weekend she cannot become aware of me, nor suspicious of the fact that I am sitting alone at the bar. So, having settled the bill, I walk back to the Audi and drive it to a parking space immediately in front of the building. Through the rear-view mirror I have clear sight of the entrance to the restaurant and, with any luck, will be able to follow Rosalia as soon as she leaves to go home.

  It’s a long wait. Towards nine o’clock the first of the guests begin to leave, but they’re mostly senior management, grey-haired men with mink-comforted wives not young enough to stay on and party. Sitting becomes increasingly uncomfortable and my back starts to ache in the lower part of the spine. It’s another hour and a half before people begin to come out in droves, and I have to concentrate hard on the entrance to make sure that Rosalia, who is comparatively small, doesn’t slip away in the crowd. Then a car pulls up behind the Audi and the driver makes a phone call. Hazard lights come on, and it’s clear that he will block me if Rosalia leaves. I am on the point of opening the door and asking him to move when she comes out of the restaurant and walks directly towards him. This must be Gael, come to pick her up. Sure enough he leans across, unlocks the passenger door, and she slides in beside him. They kiss briefly on the lips, but she is too busy waving goodbye to a weeping colleague to engage him properly in conversation. Nevertheless, on instinct I would say that the two of them look comfortable together and I feel a lurch of dread for Mikel; Rosalia seems unaffected by his disappearance. I start the engine, reverse out behind them and follow the car down the hill. Gael is driving a dark blue Citroen Xsara, number plate M 6002 GK, and I scribble this down on the inside back page of the book as soon as we reach the first set of traffic lights. He heads directly for the M30 orbital, looping north-east onto the Autovia de Colmenar Viejo and from there directly onto the Castellana, the eight-lane spine of Madrid which runs as far south as Gran Via. We pass beneath the leaning Kia towers at Plaza de Castilla, sticking to the Castellana until the roundabout at Santiago Bernabeu. The great stadium looms like an Ark in the darkness as Gael makes a left along its southern face, accelerating up the hill towards the Hospital de San Rafael. Just beyond the summit of Concha Espina he turns left into a quiet residential roa
d and I slow down in order to make the pursuit less obvious.

  I have only just made the turn myself when I see them ahead making a second left into a narrow, car-crowded street. Without knowing the neighbourhood, I would guess that this is where they live. If Gael is taking a short cut, the chances are that I will lose them. Pausing a car’s length from the turn, I switch off both engine and headlights and try to spot where they have gone. About fifty metres on the right, a car is reversing into a space beside a line of silver birches. Another tree is partially blocking my view, but it has been recently pruned and I can clearly see Rosalia’s head as she steps out of the car. Gael appears now – dark hair, around five feet ten, a good-looking man of about thirty-five – and bends to lock the door. Then he follows her across the street. They are going into the first building on the corner, the one immediately to my left.

  Now I move quickly. Leaving the Audi double parked, I walk to a point where I have an unobstructed view of the front of their building, which is a comparatively small apartment block covered in creeping ivy, with six floors of flats on either side of a central staircase. There are lights on in seven of the two-dozen visible windows and, with any luck, I should be able to tell where Rosalia lives once they get inside. I pull out a mobile phone and press it to my ear, pretending to hold a conversation while staring at the building ahead.

  Bingo. Sixth-floor window, right-hand side. A light has been switched on. Gael appears briefly, tugs at the curtains, and then draws them shut.

  So now I have her address. Calle de Jiloca 16/6 Izq.

  17. The Lost Weekend