by Rob Jones
“Come with me,” he said, and gently steered her away from their prying eyes.
They stepped out of the casino and he looked into her eyes once again. She was still flustered and the expression of fear on her face was impossible to misjudge. As he watched her, she kept looking over his shoulder at the busy street as if she were searching the traffic for an imminent threat.
He sighed and searched his pockets for a cigarette, an automatic reaction to the rise in adrenalin. Iraq’s Rumaila oil fields had taught him how cigarettes calmed nerves. “First, are you certain he’s dead?”
Lucia raised her bloody hands to her face and swept her hair from her face. “It’s true – I swear it! You have to believe me.”
Behind Harry, a car horn blared loudly and Lucia jumped back and gasped. “Mierda!” she said, and mumbled a few words in Spanish.
Harry Bane had seen enough people under pressure to know Lucia Serrano was either telling the truth or she was the best damned actor he’d ever seen. He decided to go with the story and give her a chance. “How was he killed?”
“I don’t know – I came home from work early and he was fine. I took a shower and when I came out he was dead on the floor with his throat cut...” she began to sob and break down once again.
“All right, how long ago was this?”
“Just a few moments ago. The apartment is very close to here.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
She nodded her head. “I came straight to you, but one of the neighbor’s said he was going to call the police.”
“Then we have to hurry.”
*
Rafael Ruiz awoke with a start. He sat up in the bed and fumbled at the telephone. He almost knocked it over onto the floor, but caught it just before the ringing woke his wife. Being woken in the middle of the night was never very popular with her, but she tolerated it because she knew that was the fate of a security official’s wife, especially the wife of a senior CNI officer.
He knew the sacrifices she had made, but at least her job as a photographer meant she could lay in. The Centro Nacional de Inteligencia was the Spanish equivalent of MI5 or the FBI. Originally formed in 1935, but curtailed because of the Spanish Civil War, the latest manifestation of the Spanish Secret Service was formed in 2002 and was headquartered in the Moncloa-Aravaca district in the west of Madrid.
As was the case with so many of his colleagues, most of Ruiz’s career had been spent focussed on the traditional hotspots in Spanish foreign policy – North Africa and South America, but this latest assignment was very different.
Ruiz rubbed his eyes and moved the phone to his ear. “What is it?” He kept his voice low.
The voice on the other end was calm but commanding, and he recognised it at once as that of Inspector Jefe Cristina Fernandez, the head of Madrid’s Municipal Police Force. “Good evening, Rafael.”
“Cristina – hello. Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“Someone called a murder in – a bungled apartment robbery – and I was asleep too, if it makes it any easier.”
Ruiz sighed. “An apartment murder? That’s your world, not mine.”
“When they ran the address through our database they realized it was flagged. That’s why they woke me.”
Ruiz straightened up and took a long breath. “Flagged?”
“A little note telling us that anything to do with the place is CNI.”
“The address?”
Cristina Fernandez casually read out the details. “You recognize it?”
“It sounds familiar – the name?”
“Reyes.”
“That’s right – I think he’s on some kind of watchlist. Is he the victim?”
“No, a neighbor was killed by a man who later broke into Reyes’s apartment. According to another neighbor the killer exited the apartment a few minutes later.”
Ruiz was now wide awake and officially hooked. “When was this?”
“A few moments ago.”
“I see. I don’t want the police on the scene until our people are there.”
“I understand... that’s the purpose of the flag.”
Ruiz was suddenly very anxious. He had placed Reyes on a watchlist a few days ago due to the nature of his online research. It was above Ruiz’s paygrade to understand exactly what that research was, only that his superiors had told him it had grave consequences for the future of humanity.
They had also told him that there were other agencies just as interested in the work of Señor Reyes as they were, and Ruiz was tasked with not only monitoring Reyes’s research but also ensuring it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Tonight was starting to look like he might have failed on both counts, something he knew his superiors would not tolerate.
“Seal the road off and put an armed response team together.”
“Of course.”
“And meet me at the address,” he snapped. “I’m on my way. Get some officers outside that building immediately – no one is to go into that apartment until I am on the scene.”
He climbed out of bed and padded across the dark room to his clothes, which he had hung over the back of a chair less than an hour ago. Rafael was a tall, lean man, with short black hair, grey now at the temples, and dark brown eyes, usually covered by contact lenses but in tonight’s rush they were hidden behind a pair of Versace tortoise shell glasses his wife had picked out for him last Christmas in Barceolona. He threaded his tie through his collar, picked up his jacket and kissed his wife.
“These late nights are killing you, Rafa,” whispered his wife. She kept her eyes closed and pushed down further into the bedsheets. “The CNI will put you in an early grave.”
“Go back to sleep, querida,” Ruiz replied, and kissed her again. It’s not the CNI I’m worried about... he thought as he closed the bedroom door gently behind him and made his way downstairs.
Moments later he was locking his front door behind him and climbing into the 1955 duck-egg blue Giuletta Spider in his garage. It was a convertible, and the roof was still down from last night, and seconds later he was racing through the streets of La Moraleja and crossing the city on his way to Pablo Reyes’s address on the other side of town.
His salary alone could never have elevated him to La Moraleja, but there were others who paid him a high price in return for absolute loyalty. As he raced the Spider past the pool houses and palm-tree lined tennis courts he took none of this for granted. Rafael Ruiz was one of four boys raised by a single mother in Carabanchel in the city’s south-west. It had a well-earned reputation as one of the poorest and most deprived areas of the city.
There were certain ways out of poverty, but tonight was no time for reminiscence and nostalgia. Tonight his mind raced with the dozens of possible scenarios that could have played out in Reyes’s apartment. Perhaps the old man had been killed too – or even worse, kidnapped. The thought of what might happen if the professor’s work fell into the wrong hands filled Ruiz with a sense of deep dread, and he put the thought from his mind by flooring the accelerator and speeding into the night.
*
At the same time Ruiz was racing the Spider toward the scene of the crime, Cristina Fernandez was hurriedly getting dressed and running a brush through her long brown hair. An emergency was an emergency but she was still a professional, after all. She lived alone, except for Alberto, her ginger Kurilian Bobtail cat, left to her by an old aunt two years ago. Alberto watched her with his usual detached indifference as she unlocked her front door and slipped out into the street where she parked her car – an alpine white BMW 3 Series F30.
Seconds later she was roaring down the street and pointing the BMW’s nose south. She lived in Alcobendas, a small city to the north of Madrid and not far from Ruiz’s La Moraleja. Years ago, Alcobendas was a blue collar town with high levels of deprivation and low real estate prices, which Cristina bought into when she was new to the CNI. Recently the area had undergone the same magical transformation seen in so many
suburbs across Spain, and she had benefited accordingly as the price of her small apartment had gone into the troposphere.
Now in her early forties and keeping a fixed eye on promotion, she was ready to move on. She had sacrificed everything for her career – a string of casual boyfriends over the years had left her single, childless and middle-aged, but all that mattered to her was the job. She loved her life, and never dwelt on the things she couldn’t conquer.
She raced the compact BMW through the emptying night streets of northern Madrid. She had to get to Reyes’s apartment as fast as possible. She pushed her foot down on the throttle and accelerated to seventy miles per hour.
FIVE
Harry and Lucia climbed the steps at the base of the Casino de Salamanca and walked out into the busy Spanish night. It was colder now and the wind was rising. The last time he had been in Madrid was back in August when what the French called the Sirocco, but the Spanish called the Lebeche, had blown into town. It was a strong southerly that blew in from the deserts of North Africa, pushed on top of Madrid in advance of a low pressure zone moving in from the Sahara desert, and describing it as hot was an understatement. But tonight was different, tonight there was even a little snow in the air.
He saw the traffic trundling along the Paseo de la Castellana, even at this late hour. They walked south on the Paseo for a few minutes and headed towards Pablo’s apartment in the nearby district of Chamberí. The Paseo de la Castellano, or the Castilian’s Mall, was one of the grandest avenues in the city, over six kilometres long and much of it lined with expensive retail outlets and cherry trees lit up with fairy lights, but neither of them saw any of this tonight.
They walked fast along the Paseo for another block, and then crossed over the Plaza Doctor Marañon and continued up the Calle Miguel Ángel. To his left, Harry could see the chrome, steel and glass of the Caixa bank building, partially obscured behind a line of horse chestnut trees. Pablo’s apartment was almost in sight.
They reached the residential block, and Harry led the way up the steps until they reached the third floor where the apartment was located, and then he saw it – Pablo Reyes’s front door, now shut from Lucia’s recent exit and still smeared with his blood. Sprawled out in front of it was the dead body of the professor’s neighbor, Mariana Vidal.
They heard a voice behind and swung around to see a scared-looking man standing in a white t-shirt and his underwear. He was holding a phone in his hand. “I told you I called the police, you murderer!” the neighbor shouted.
Lucia took a step back, but Harry walked over to him and grabbed him by the top of his t-shirt. “Why don’t you wait for them in there?” he said, and pushed him back inside his apartment. He slammed the door on him and moved back over to Lucia.
“I told you he called them!” she said.
Harry frowned and checked his watch. “You told me that seven or eight minutes ago back at the restaurant – only they’re not here, are they?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know – but that’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Should we call them?” she asked.
“No, not yet. They’ll only complicate things for the time being. I want to know what’s going on and fast. Involving the police is the best way to ensure we get cut out of the loop. Have you got the key?”
“No, sorry. I slammed it behind me without thinking.”
Harry pulled Mrs Vidal out the way and took a closer look at the door. He recognised the lock – a reasonable brand but the cylinder was a cheap affair and was no challenge at all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key-ring, selecting a bump key. This was a key cut with the deepest possible grooves to allow the user to manipulate the springs and drivers inside the lock.
He slid the key into the cylinder housing and then pulled it out one notch before turning it very slightly to the right. He then gave the back of it a solid tap with the heel of his hand and pushed it back in.
Nothing happened.
“What’s going on?” Lucia asked, confused.
Harry flicked his eyes at her. “Takes a moment, just make sure your friendly neighbor’s minding his own business.”
He tapped the back of the key once again and this time it moved. This created a gap in the shear-line and raised the spring-loaded top pins inside the cylinder plug for a fraction of a second, giving him just enough time to turn the key and open the lock.
“How did you do that?” Lucia said with amazement.
“It’s called bumping a lock and it’s very naughty.”
“You’re a thief these days?”
Harry shrugged and gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not sure it’s called that when you’re paid by the government to do it, but whatever you want to call it I don’t do it any more. Come on – we need to get inside.”
The Englishman gently nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe and took a cautious step back as he did so. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on here but if Lucia’s boyfriend really was dead he was certain he didn’t want to share his fate.
Inside the apartment, he turned to Lucia. “Where is he?”
She pointed to the end of the corridor. “He’s in there, the lounge.”
He nodded his head and swallowed hard. “All right, then you stay here while I take a look.”
He turned away from her and after making a quick search of the apartment to ensure they were alone, he walked the length of the apartment’s central corridor to the end door. Easing it back and peering his head around the open door, he knew in a heartbeat that the girl had been right and Pablo Reyes was dead.
The corpse was getting cold now, and the pulse long gone. Even worse was the puddle of blood congealing around the terrific wound on the man’s neck. It looked like it had been done with some sort of wire. Harry winced at the thought of how much pain the old man must have suffered in his final few moments but any rage he might have felt was quickly extinguished by his usual tidal wave of world-weariness and cynicism. This was what happens in the world, he told himself, but it didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a price to pay.
A heavy price.
He pulled a throw from the couch and gently covered the professor’s face with it as Lucia entered the room once again.
“He’s dead, right?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
Her voice was breaking, and he recognized the symptoms of shock as she perched herself on the arm of one of the chairs. “So what now?”
Harry wished he knew. He was supposed to meeting Lucia and Pablo just that night for dinner, and now this. “Has anything been stolen?”
“I don’t think so – but it’s so hard to tell with so much damage everywhere.”
Harry stood and surveyed the destruction the killer had caused in the apartment – books were wrenched from shelves, cushions heaved out of sofas and the TV had been tipped over onto its screen. “In your email to me you said he was a security guard.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Was that for a bank?”
“No, for a museum – the Prado.”
He sighed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m just trying to work out why anyone would do this.”
“But before that he was a physicist.”
“He was a physicist?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t find that odd at all?”
“What?”
“That a physicist would walk away from a well-paid career to be a security guard?”
“Not at all. He told me he was tired of university politics and wanted to change career. He was studying to be an art restorer if you must know, but I know he was still researching in his old field.”
“And what was that?”
“Pablo was conducting research into nanoparticles, specifically brain-machine interface technology and how smart dust interacts with the human cortex.”
Harry sighed again. “I used
to be a secret agent and now I’m a dropout gambler, Lucia. You’ll need to say that again in English.”
“He was studying how nanotechnology could affect the human brain.”
Harry furrowed his brow. “I wish I hadn’t asked.”
She dried her eyes again. “You think this is why someone killed him?”
“It sounds like a better lead than someone killing him because he was doing an art restoration degree, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think... but what can we do?”
“It’s obvious,” Harry said. “We have to find out why he was killed, and fast. Whoever was here must have killed him for a reason. They must have taken something from him – information perhaps, or something more tangible that he was keeping here in the flat. We don’t know what they have or how far they’ve got or even who they are. All we can do is try and work out what Pablo was researching – what he discovered – and try to get there first.”
“But how?”
“We have to be logical, and work on a few safe assumptions. First, he would have kept his research here in his apartment, so he could work on it and keep it safe. Second, he would not have left it lying around just anywhere in case something like this happened, and third we must assume he would never have given up any information.”
“I”m not so sure...”
“Listen, that idiot in the flat opposite has already called the police, and you’re going to be the prime suspect when they turn up. Trust me when I say they’re not going to let us hang around in here and get to the bottom of this, so this is our only chance, right now.”
“But they’re still not here.”
Harry checked his watch and frowned again. “Which is strange. He called them nearly fifteen minutes ago now and reported a murder, and yet they’re still not here. I’m not liking that at all.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It can mean only one of two things. First, the Madrid Police are all asleep tonight, or second, that he was under surveillance by the big boys and when the call came in it was diverted up the food chain.”
