The Spanish Game am-3

by Charles Cumming

  ‘This is dynamite,’ he keeps saying, ‘fantastic stuff,’ and I experience the exquisite high of a colleague’s recognition and praise. ‘Joao’s details were in the address book you lifted from Carmen’s mobile. If it’s the same guy, he’s an old friend of hers from university who works at the Banco de Andalucia. She must have asked him to look into the money trail.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘And she said there was three-quarters of a million euros?’ He lowers his voice slightly here. ‘Did she quote that exact figure?’

  ‘That exact figure. Why?’

  Kitson removes the jacket and places it across his lap. It’s stuffy down on the platform and the air is hot with pollutants. ‘We have a separate confirmation of a slush fund controlled by de Francisco with around 765,000 euros in it, traceable to several Interior Ministry bank accounts.’

  ‘It’s not a great deal of money.’

  ‘No.’ We have both arrived at the same conclusion. A figure that small would suggest that we’re either at the edge of a much bigger problem involving far larger sums of money or, more likely, that we’re only dealing with a dozen or so individuals running a highly secret operation against ETA under the operational and financial control of Felix Maldonado.’

  ‘That’s what your diligence is throwing up?’

  He nods. At the top you have Maldonado and de Francisco directing orders and covert funds, most of it diverted from government coffers, to three key individuals: Luis Buscon, Andy Moura and Sergio Vazquez.’

  ‘Why haven’t you mentioned those names before?’

  Kitson looks at me, those calming, unchallengeable eyes. ‘Don’t take it personally, Alec. Plenty of people were out of the loop on this one. That’s just the way I like to run things. Believe me, after the work you’ve done on this, London are going to be cock-a-hoop. SIS have stepped into the breach and saved the day. The Spaniards have a problem in their own back yard and it took the Brits to solve it.’

  I don’t respond to this and, in fact, my elation is no sharper than it was moments ago.

  ‘Who’s Andy Moura?’

  ‘High-ranking Guardia Civil in Bilbao with a lifelong contempt for all things Basque. On record as saying that ETA could be destroyed within five years if only the police were allowed to do “whatever they want”. Basque pressure groups have been after him for years. Cast-iron thug. Has survived three attempts on his life, two car bombs and a shooting.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yes, that’s probably who he thanks every morning.’ A grin here. ‘Moura’s fingerprints are all over the Otamendi kidnapping and possibly Egileor’s disappearance as well. The Spanish authorities are keeping it quiet while they carry out an “internal enquiry”. In other words, a cover-up.’

  ‘Speaking of which…’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Kitson silences me with a flattened palm. This is not an aggressive gesture, more an expression of his desire to articulate a series of complex thoughts. ‘Now Vazquez has a similar sort of profile.’

  ‘You’ve heard of him before?’

  A train is approaching, the sleek metal hum and vibration of engine on track.

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard of him. He’s CNI, an old right-wing friend of Maldonado who was caught on surveillance cameras beating up two ETA suspects in custody in 1999.’ The train punches into the station, a noise so loud that Kitson is forced to shout. ‘There was an internal stink within what was then called CESID until Maldonado was promoted to interior minister and handed his old friend a pardon.’

  ‘On the quiet?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And now Vazquez is returning the favour by helping to run the dirty war out of the CNI?’

  The doors of the train slide open in a chorus of electronic beeps and we are surrounded by disembarking passengers. Kitson says, ‘Exactly,’ and plays with the material of his jacket. The pocket with the voice recorder in it is facing into his lap. ‘From what Carmen was saying tonight, it certainly looks that way’ A small boy holding a toy gun has been staring at us from the carriage directly ahead. Kitson smiles at him and gets shot for his efforts. Once the doors have closed and the train has moved off, he resumes speaking. ‘As Secretary of State for Security, de Francisco has operational command of both the Guardia Civil and the police. Maldonado’s reach extends even further than that, into the heart of the intelligence community. As luck would have it we had a fairly decent file on Mohammed Chakor before the Orbe incident because he was wanted by Interpol in connection with some ecstasy smuggling. There was an individual within CNI who was making contact with Chakor’s mobile in Marseilles. We just didn’t know who the hell that individual was until tonight.’

  ‘Vazquez?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Towards us, walking very slowly along the broad platform, come two elderly ladies wearing fake fur coats and eating ice creams. Rather than licking them, they are uneasily chipping away at the cones with little plastic spoons. I suggest that we catch the next train and talk on the way south.

  ‘Good idea.’ As if to give himself something to do in the interim, Kitson takes out a packet of Lucky Strike and then appears to remember that it’s illegal to smoke on the Madrid metro.

  It’s all right. You can light up. People do it all the time.’

  ‘Not me,’ he says.

  Ten minutes later we are on a train, passing back through La Latina just after eleven o’clock. I think about Carmen and wonder what she is up to, how she must despise me for leaving in her hour of need. It is strange and probably unprofessional to feel these thoughts, but a small part of me does care for her. It is not possible to spend time like that with a woman, however ill-suited to one’s taste and preference, without forming at least the structure of an attachment.

  ‘Alec?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was saying that if Carmen has linked the Interior Ministry to Arenaza and Egileor, it’s only a matter of time before Maldonado and Francisco are named specifically in press reports. There are going to be leaks, even if they only come from this friend of hers at the bank.’

  I had drifted off. Perhaps the strain of the Carmen seduction is finally taking its toll. We are sitting at the rear of an almost deserted train.

  ‘If the people who tortured you had their suspicions about Francisco and Buscon three weeks ago, it’s a certainty they’ve passed them on to other Basque newspapers who will just be waiting for an opportunity to skewer the PP once they have hard evidence. The attempt on Orbe’s life might have been the straw that breaks the camel’s back.’

  ‘I know that, I know that…’

  ‘So we’ve got to anticipate this. We’ve got to preempt it.’

  Kitson appears to be looking for my advice. ‘And you want my views on that?’

  It feels strange to be asking such a question. Has the relationship turned full circle? In the past, before we spent time together, I tended to place all spies on a pedestal: John Lithiby, Katharine Lanchester, Michael Hawkes, even Fortner and Sinclair. Their work seemed more vivid, more essential to the smooth running of the planet than any vocation I could think of. I was in awe of them. Yet as I have come to know Kitson, the more I have realized that he is just like any other professional doing a difficult job: competent mostly, occasionally brilliant, from time to time merely rude and ineffectual. He is not, in other words, a special breed. He was simply spotted at a young age and taught a trade. That is not to say that I do not respect him. It is simply that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I feel the confidence to say that I could do Richard Kitson’s job with equal efficiency. And after what has happened out here, that is probably what I will end up doing.

  ‘What a lot of people don’t understand about Spain is that it’s still run by twenty or thirty big families,’ I tell him. ‘They control everything, from the newspapers to television, from commerce to banking, industry to agriculture. You find influence with the right families and you will find influence with the media. That’s the
way to organize a cover-up on this scale. The Partido Popular is like the Republican Party in the United States – it’s the natural home of immense wealth. If the people of influence in Spain see that their position is in danger, they will circle the wagons. The money will be protected. The PP already control a lot of news content on domestic radio and television. Within two hours of you telling them that Maldonado and Francisco had their fingers in the till, that scandal will be the story that runs and runs. It will completely short-circuit any rumours about a dirty war.’

  Kitson puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m glad we got you on board,’ he says, rather oddly. ‘Couldn’t have done this without you. I’ll send a FLASH telegram to London tonight and we’ll move on everything first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re going with the financial scandal? That decision has already been made?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ I have the oddest feeling that Kitson is lying to me, as if much of what we are talking about is moot or even irrelevant. ‘The Spanish authorities, in conjunction with SIS, will make it in Mr Maldonado’s interest to flee the country. I suspect that his old friend Javier will join him.’

  It’s like we’re talking about a game of Monopoly. ‘Hang on. What about the variables? What about blowback?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what if they stay? What if they want to fight it out in the courts?’

  ‘Fight what? A financial scandal that doesn’t exist? Run the risk of being vilified for starting another dirty war?’

  I lean forward, turning to face him. ‘A lot of ordinary Spaniards might admire them for what they’ve done. There are guys from the days of the GAL who did time in prison and now get applauded every time they walk into a restaurant.’

  ‘We’ll make it worth their while.’

  At the far end of the carriage, an inevitably South American accordion player has stepped on at Urgel station, four drunk students behind him. He strikes up some bars of a tango and they begin dancing in the space near the doors.

  ‘What about Buscon? What about Dieste? Vazquez? Moura? They’ll all need to be silenced, one way or another. And there are almost certainly others whom we know nothing about.’

  ‘True,’ Kitson admits, ‘true.’ He shuts his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if controlling a wild idea. ‘Well, Vazquez and Moura aren’t going to talk to anyone. They’re not stupid. They’re not going to implicate themselves. And if the money trail finds its way to the CNI or the Guardia Civil in Bilbao, it can be explained away in terms of the war against terror.’

  This seems to me extraordinarily flimsy, but I let it go. ‘Then what about Mohammed Chakor?’

  ‘Mohammed Chakor won’t be talking to anyone. He died three hours ago in hospital. You can send flowers.’

  I shake my head. ‘And Buscon?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, he hired Rosalia. He probably organized other operations. The shootings in France, maybe the kidnapping of Egileor. He certainly pulled the trigger on Mikel. Carmen has linked him directly to Javier de Francisco.’

  ‘14-INT took Buscon into custody earlier this week. He’s going to be tied up for a while. They’re sending him to Guantanamo.’

  ‘ Guantanamo? ’

  Kitson’s face suddenly loses its characteristic equanimity. He has made a serious slip.

  ‘The Yanks have been after Buscon for ages,’ he explains. ‘Weapons smuggling, narcotics, we just handed him over…’

  I jump on this. ‘Oh, come on, Richard. Since when were the CIA involved in your operation? You told me you hadn’t even alerted our embassy in Madrid.’ Then it dawns on me, a shaming feeling. ‘Fuck. SIS can’t organize the cover-up on their own, can they? London doesn’t have enough leverage. They need the bloody CIA to hold their hand.’

  ‘Not so. We had finished our debriefing of Buscon, resolved the Croatian issue, and then alerted the Cousins to the fact that we were holding a wanted man. It’s what allies do for each other.’

  ‘So he just gets dragged off to Guantanamo to share a cell with some Afghan peasant farmer who got mistaken for an international terrorist?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I’m just not a big fan of the Yanks. I told you that it was a pre-condition of my co-operation that the CIA weren’t told of my whereabouts.’

  ‘Nor have they been,’ Kitson replies, this time with more venom. Once again, our little spat is being recorded for the benefit of ears in London, and he wants to be seen to get tough. ‘Try to forget about Luis Buscon. He’s a separate issue.’

  ‘And when you questioned him about his role in the dirty war, in the Arenaza killing, what did he tell you?’

  ‘Alec, I’m afraid I can’t divulge any more. You don’t at this point have clearance. Suffice to say that he proved a less than co-operative prisoner. Categorically denied any links to Dieste or any involvement in the abduction of Mikel Arenaza. Was only prepared to talk about Croatia. Maybe the Yanks can get more out of him. They’re not as sensitive as our lot. Use different methods, if you follow my meaning…’

  I stare ahead at the black tunnel flashing by, at the plastic seats and the floor. It’s sickening.

  ‘So my work is just done? That’s it? You have what you wanted?’

  ‘It looks like it. More or less.’ This comes off as cold and matter-of-fact, so he tries to console me. ‘Look. There’s talk of John Lithiby coming out here next week. To oversee things. You can meet him and discuss your future. He wants to thank you in person. This doesn’t end here, Alec. This is still your triumph.’

  The train is pulling in to Carabanchel. Kitson puts on his jacket and prepares to leave. One final question stops him.

  ‘What about Carmen?’ he says. It’s no more than an afterthought.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Will she talk?’

  A mischievous part of me feels like misleading him, but duty overrides this.

  ‘Carmen is loyal to the PP. She’s having a crisis of conscience, but she’ll keep quiet about it for the greater good. You’ll just need to have a word with her.’

  Kitson nods. ‘And you’re going to keep seeing her?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  And with that he is gone. The doors of the train slam shut and a lone British spy vanishes into the white light of a suburban metro station. A moment of intense and sudden regret comes over me and I wonder if any of it was worthwhile. Sleeping with Carmen when Kitson knew so much already. Demeaning myself to save Blair and Bush and Aznar. What was I thinking?

  An hour later, returning home, I see that an envelope has been pushed under the door of my apartment. Inside there is a letter, handwritten in Spanish. It is from Sofia.

  My darling Alec

  Julian came home tonight and said that he had seen you today. More than this, he said that you had spoken for a long time and that he had seen a side of you that he had never noticed before. He said that for the first time you had revealed yourself. And I found that I was jealous of this. He spoke very highly of you, said that he regarded you as a true friend. He said that he was glad to have another Englishman with him here in Madrid. I began to wonder if you had arranged to meet him so that you could laugh about me. I began to think that I was your little private joke.

  We have moved away from each other, my love. You never used to care about the things you seem to care about now About money, about ambition. You never used to care about the future. I loved that about you. You were so settled, you were so much lighter. Then I do not know what happened to Alec Milius. I think something in his past found him and darkness fell across his face. There is no place for me under this darkness. I have been crying for days and Julian does not know that my tears are for you.

  We are not lovers any more. It seems that we are not even friends. You have not chosen me. In the end, you did not even fight.

  When I have read th
e letter I have to sit down on a stool in the kitchen and breathe slowly and deeply for a long time, as if to carry on would release sobs of despair. Where is this coming from? It is like the farm again, a near-breakdown, all the shame and the regret suddenly catching up with me. I did nothing for Sofia. I used her solely for my own pleasure. I took no responsibility for my actions and ignored her in her hour of need. And now she is gone. I have thrown her away, just as I threw away the others.

  41. Sleeper

  And so the cover-up moves into place, and for five days the terrible, invisible, inevitable power of the secret state envelops Spain. How many of the players in this Establishment fix know the truth about the dirty war? Aznar? The proprietors of El Pais and TVE? A few house-trained executives and editors? It is impossible to know. I acknowledge the brilliance of SIS – with, quite probably, an American input – yet find that I am dejected by the speed with which the press have been duped and cajoled. Sofia’s letter has much to do with my sombre mood: a sense of intense regret overcomes me as I realize that the aftermath of my sick little game was just another fix and sham. I question time and again whether it was the right thing to do. Saul’s words haunt me: What are you doing to make amends, Alec?’

  As Kitson predicted, both Felix Maldonado and Javier de Francisco flee to Colombia – on the same aeroplane – where they both go to ground, despite the best efforts of the republic’s finest journalists to track them down. Three days later their wives and children follow unmolested. Carmen and three other women from the secretarial pool, as well as numerous individuals from the Interior Ministry, were taken into custody at the weekend for questioning. I have heard nothing from her, despite attempting to make contact on four separate occasions.

  In Gara, the ETA-sympathetic newspaper printed in San Sebastian, Eugenio Larzabal runs a story on 12 May in which he attempts to link the kidnap and murder of Mikel Arenaza and the disappearance of Juan Egileor to de Francisco’s sudden flight to Colombia ‘in the teeth of the Interior Ministry finance scandal’. Ahotsa is more reserved – and Zulaika’s by-line nowhere to be seen – yet the paper claims to have traced the car seen at the shootings in southern France to ‘an associate of Andy Moura’. Extensive research has also been conducted into Mohammed Chakor’s background, and an editorial urges the Madrid government to investigate why a known drugs smuggler was photographed in February of this year talking to Sergio Vazquez, the disgraced CNI officer pardoned by Felix Maldonado. In El Mundo there is a similarly tantalizing but ultimately inconclusive op-ed about a possible third GAL. When I read these stories, I fear that the entire edifice of the cover-up will crumble in a matter of hours, but on Tuesday there is not a single article or letter or news story dedicated to the suggestion of a third dirty war in any outlet of the mainstream Spanish media. Again I marvel at the extent of the cover-up, yet lament its efficacy. Why, at the very least, have there not been demonstrations on the streets of Bilbao? Has the government done a deal with Batasuna, promising prisoner releases or leverage in votes against the PNV? It has all come down to tradeoffs. It has all come down to politics.