A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  Cámara let his eyes drift to the side, listening, but not concentrating on Pardo’s speech. Anarchists – blame the anarchists. As ever. They had been good scapegoats in the past, for both Left and Right. Of course they would be used again. People had heard the same story hundreds of times before, and accepted it for its familiarity. He did not feel angry about it: it was inevitable. And besides, anarchism, for him at least, was not about being a member of a club. It was a way of seeing the world. But he was glad Hilario was not alive to see this.

  ‘And the attack was only partially successful,’ Pardo continued, ‘thanks to the bravery of Chief Inspector Cámara of the Valencia Jefatura. That’s you again, by the way. You saved that fucking cathedral.’

  ‘Basilica,’ said Cámara. ‘It’s not a cathedral, it’s a basilica.’

  ‘Same fucking difference. The point is—’

  ‘What about his associates?’ Cámara interrupted him. ‘Who was Daniel with when he was in Barcelona?’

  ‘The Mossos have picked up some anarchist leader called Ximo,’ said Pardo. ‘And his daughter Sònia. They’ll make something stick on them – logistical support, harbouring a terrorist. Except, of course, they’re claiming they knew nothing about an attack on the Sagrada Familia.’

  ‘They almost certainly had nothing to do with it.’

  Pardo shrugged.

  ‘It’s out of our hands. The Mossos have got them now.’

  Something in Cámara shuddered: such a simple sentence had too many connotations.

  ‘Have we got news on the final death toll?’ he said.

  ‘Three,’ said Pardo. ‘The GEI man, the priest …’ He paused. ‘And Segarra.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cámara. ‘I heard something.’

  ‘It’s big news. You’d think he was the only one killed from the reports.’

  Cámara’s mind turned for a moment to Célia Capilla. Not only had she lost her son, Fermín, but now her lover as well. And he wondered about Segarra’s supermarket empire. Would it be able to survive now that the man who built it from nothing had been killed? He had overheard a comment about Horta employees wearing black armbands in mourning. But they did not know the truth about the man – that he had secretly been funding Terreros’s secret, murderous network. The governing party in Madrid had also lost a powerful backer and friend. Segarra’s death would leave a big hole at the centre of the political and business worlds.

  ‘All the wounded have mercifully pulled through,’ said Pardo. ‘But the point is, as I was saying, that without you that number would have been much, much higher. Not to mention the playground. And the Sagrada Familia itself would probably be lying in a heap of rubble instead of suffering only superficial damage. We could have been looking at another Atocha, here. Even worse.’

  Cámara’s face twitched as the memory of the Madrid train bombings stirred in him. Almost two hundred people had been killed that day in 2004, and it had felt, in the immediate aftermath, as though the country itself had been dealt a near-fatal blow. Change almost never seemed to come in Spain without violence playing a central role, just like now. Patterns of history repeating themselves with almost clockwork precision.

  Pardo rapped his knuckles on the desk.

  ‘The bombing’s going to set the Sagrada Familia finishing date back by another decade or two,’ he said, ‘but then these places aren’t quick to build in the first place. They’ve only been at it for well over a hundred years already.’

  Cámara picked up the sheet of paper from the ground and placed it on his lap, flicking at the edge with absent-minded aggression.

  ‘There’s going to be a medal for you,’ Pardo said. ‘I can guarantee that now. The interior minister has already given the Police Merit Gold Medal to the Madonna of Montserrat for apparently saving the Sagrada Familia. But then he’s Opus Dei, so that kind of mediaeval bullshit’s to be expected.’

  ‘I’m not interested in medals,’ Cámara said. ‘Or medal ceremonies.’

  He held the paper up to the light streaming through the window, turning it around as though trying to find something of value there – not the words, but the paper itself, or the patterns that the typed letters made.

  ‘It’s not the truth, Pardo,’ he said. ‘You know that. Not the whole truth, at least.’

  He felt too exhausted to get properly angry.

  Pardo leaned in on his desk.

  ‘Cámara, listen to me,’ he said. ‘This is the truth that people can accept and understand. It’s the only kind of truth, in the end, that we can deal in.’

  Cámara let the piece of paper fall back into his lap and looked at his superior with surprise: it was the most intelligent thing he had ever heard him say.

  There was little more to add. He got up to leave, the sheet gripped tight between his fingers.

  ‘Any word on the son?’ Pardo asked. ‘What was his name? Dídac?’

  ‘No,’ Cámara said, shaking his head. ‘Or Terreros.’

  ‘They’ll show up somewhere,’ said Pardo. ‘Eventually.’

  He smiled when he saw the dartboard hanging from the back of the door. His bags were where he had dumped them the night before on his arrival back in Valencia, and he had slept on a secret camp bed that the people in the Científica section kept for emergency kips during night shifts – and assumed that no one else in the building knew about.

  A yawn stretched his face open and wide, and he rubbed his hands over his eyes, willing a degree of wakefulness into his body: he felt bruised and dirty – both physically and morally – and wanted nothing more than to sleep in his own bed again.

  When he opened his eyes, Torres was standing there before him with two cups of coffee in his hands and a paper bag from the bakery.

  ‘I assumed you wouldn’t have had any breakfast yet,’ he said. ‘So I nipped across the road.’

  Cámara relieved him of one of the cups and Torres tossed the bag on to his desk.

  ‘Got you a couple of those croissants,’ said Torres. ‘The ones that shoot chocolate spread all over you the moment you bite into them. Looks like you could use the sugar.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries, chief.’

  Cámara drank half the coffee in one and then started munching on the contents of the paper bag.

  ‘Good to have you back,’ said Torres. ‘I was almost beginning to miss you.’

  Cámara gave him a look.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Torres. ‘Everyone’s glad to have you back. Look, you’ve even got a present from Laura Martín.’

  Cámara looked to where he was pointing, and, with some suspicion, opened the bottom drawer of his desk. In it, tucked at the bottom, was a half-bottle of brandy. He pulled it out and placed it on top of his desk. A card tied to it with red ribbon said simply ‘Congratulations’.

  ‘I think she’s forgiven us for taking over her case,’ Torres said.

  Cámara opened the bottle, leaned over to pour a slug into Torres’s coffee, then added some to his own.

  ‘I should have taken you with me,’ said Cámara.

  Torres frowned.

  ‘This Daniel was a mate of yours, right?’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Torres was about to say something, then thought better of it and went to sit at his desk.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, picking up a slip of paper that he had left there. ‘Almost forgot. There’s a message for you.’

  He got up and handed it to Cámara.

  ‘Some guy called Carlos. Said for you to ring him on this number.’

  Cámara took it and stared, confused. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. It had died at some point over the past few hours: he had forgotten to charge it.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if he was dead,’ he said. ‘He usually calls me on this.’ He waved the phone in his hand.

  Then he screwed up the slip of paper and tossed it into the bin.

  Torres sat back in his chair, but kept h
is eyes on Cámara.

  ‘So who’s this guy, then?’ he said. ‘This Carlos. He’s the one who gave you all those tip-offs, right? About Segarra and the Hacienda investigation. What led us to Terreros.’

  Cámara raised an eyebrow and looked at his colleague. No secrets: it was what made their partnership work so well.

  ‘Carlos,’ he began, ‘is the person we’ve all been working for. You, me, Terreros. Even Daniel.’

  He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers together.

  ‘Except that Daniel didn’t know it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Torres.

  Cámara let out a sigh.

  ‘Carlos is from the CNI,’ he said, ‘and Terreros is one of his agents. He’s a source of information. But he does his own thing, has his own network which he keeps at arm’s length from the CNI. Daniel was one of his men, a sleeper agent, and by the looks of things was passing information on about me, which Terreros then fed on to Carlos.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Perhaps so they could use me, even recruit me. Segundo Pont said something about me being noticed. I thought he was talking as a politician. But actually he was one of Carlos’s agents as well.’

  ‘Segundo Pont was working for the CNI?’ Torres’s surprise was genuine.

  ‘Carlos told me as much himself,’ said Cámara. ‘He was a moderator, Madrid’s secret man at the heart of the radical Catalan government. That’s why they always said they could do business with him. Because he was theirs in the first place.’

  Torres’s eyes widened further.

  ‘I think Segundo Pont was sounding me out. Whatever I said must have been good enough for Carlos to approach me later.’

  ‘To give us the stuff on Segarra,’ said Torres.

  ‘I imagine that all Terreros’s men are ex-Legión,’ said Cámara. ‘Segarra was part of it, as you know, and was bankrolling things until the Hacienda investigation put the wind up him and he pulled out. Which was when Terreros ordered Daniel to …’

  He pulled on his lip with his fingertips before continuing. It felt like a long time since Pardo had first handed the Fermín murder case to them.

  ‘The way I see it,’ he said, ‘Carlos was getting nervous about Terreros, perhaps because of Fermín’s murder. It should have been a simple kidnapping, but Daniel killed the boy instead. A mistake, perhaps, but – and I never saw this in him, he hid it so well – there was a lot of anger there. Perhaps not surprisingly after pretending to be someone else for so many years. That must really screw with you.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Carlos wanted to bring Terreros under some sort of control,’ he continued, ‘so he got you and me involved to haul him in. He was never interested in us finding Fermín’s murderer – it was all about trying to clamp down on Terreros.’

  ‘But then he escaped,’ said Torres.

  ‘Yes, and killed one of ours.’

  ‘I was at Mata’s funeral,’ said Torres. ‘While you were away.’

  Cámara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It was emotional.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cámara. ‘I’m sure it was.’

  They were both silent for a moment.

  ‘So Carlos was using Daniel as well?’ Torres said.

  ‘Carlos is opportunistic,’ said Cámara. ‘Once Terreros escaped, he was no longer under control, but Carlos could still use him. Daniel thought he was working for Terreros, following his orders to blow up the Sagrada Familia in order to scare Catalans into abandoning independence. Which he was. But that quickly became Carlos’s goal as well – at least retrospectively. He thought Terreros would do something, but couldn’t imagine the Sagrada Familia was a target.’

  ‘But you did.’

  Cámara frowned.

  ‘Daniel said something to me weeks back about the need to act first to prevent things happening. He was talking about something else, but once I began to see … What would be the point of a bomb attack after a Catalan declaration of independence? It had to come before if that’s what they were trying to stop. So once I suspected an independence move would be made at Fortter’s ceremony, it seemed logical to think that the attack would come where and when it did.’

  ‘Not like you to be logical.’

  ‘I have my moments,’ said Cámara with a grin.

  ‘But now Carlos has jumped on the whole thing,’ said Torres.

  ‘Carlos, the government, the system – whatever you want to call it. A known anarchist attacking a famous Catalan landmark? It’s a godsend. And it’s worked, by the looks of things. It makes it easier for Madrid to trample over Catalan powers in the role of saviour and peacemaker. No more talk of independence. At least not for now.’

  ‘But Daniel wasn’t an anarchist,’ said Torres.

  ‘No, he was Terreros’s agent. Just pretending. But who knows that? Only you and me. It’s so much easier to blame a terrorist act on mad radicals than on former members of the armed forces who are actually – if not consciously – working for the State.’

  Torres gave a low whistle.

  ‘You’re serious?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cámara. ‘That’s how it is.’

  ‘We could leak it.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘To the press,’ he said. ‘Perhaps. We could …’ His thoughts turned suddenly to Alicia. ‘We might need to think about it.’

  ‘OK.’ There was a shine in Torres’s eyes, as though he wanted to get on the phone to a journalist there and then, but he saw the expression on Cámara’s face and desisted.

  ‘If Carlos wanted Terreros stirring things up in Catalonia,’ he said, ‘why did he bother sending you up after him?’

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘To keep up pretences.’

  Torres snorted.

  ‘It’s how he works,’ said Cámara. ‘The appearance of things, not the reality. That’s what’s important to people like Carlos.’

  ‘I wonder where Terreros is now,’ said Torres.

  ‘I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Carlos has an idea.’

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THEY COULD HAVE him holed up here, on the tiny, fortified island – nothing more than a rock within swimming distance of the Moroccan coast – but Terreros felt freer and happier than he could remember. Seagulls swept in overhead across the waves and he would watch as they flew in any direction that they wanted: towards the land or further out into the Mediterranean in search of food. But he felt no envy, no hunger to get away from what was effectively a prison. His life, his work, his soul – everything glowed with the satisfaction of achievement, of having overcome mountainous obstacles to bring about the final success, the dream of maintaining national unity that had driven him since he had first stepped from boyhood to becoming a man.

  He had performed well for his country, and his name would be remembered by patriots for ever. At first only a select few, it was true. But in time, perhaps long after he was dead, the miracle that he had managed to perform, while others simply sat on their hands like a group of schoolgirls, would become known. He would be a national hero, his name taught to generations to come.

  The members of his organisation had been released from their duties. The group no longer needed to exist: it had served its purpose, achieved what it had set out to do. Not without loss, but the sacrifice had been worth it. He had lost his best man – Daniel, El Dos – but it was the honour of a legionario to pay the highest price for the Fatherland. And after living a lie for so long, death would come as a relief. He had been right to pick him out all those years before, when he was still a young soldier. There was a steeliness about him, a thoroughness and violence, but determination and patience as well – attributes that had served him well for the greatest task of his life. There would be a place in heaven for Daniel.

  Terreros was provided with enough comforts on this little Spanish possession – a room for his own use, decent food, even a small chapel, conversation with the commander
every so often. Controlled exclusively by the military, the Peñón de Alhucemas was mostly forgotten on the mainland, but he knew that they could not keep him there indefinitely. It was a good place to lie low for a while, allow the political situation – now still volatile – to stabilise a little. Then he would return to Ceuta. He enjoyed it there. And life would be that much sweeter in the new Spain he had done so much to forge.

  He stood at the window of his room, looking out over the sea, his mind drifting towards future visits to Sandrita, when he heard the distant sound of a helicopter. He pulled out a pair of binoculars that he kept on the table and focused them: it was Spanish, flying over from Melilla. And almost certainly coming to the Peñón.

  He turned to the mirror and straightened his already immaculate hair. If there were going to be visitors, he wanted to look his best.

  A terrace area next to his room served as a kind of salon. He sat down there in a canvas chair, his eyes staring out at the horizon, and waited. A few minutes after the helicopter engines had stopped, he heard two sets of footsteps behind him.

  ‘Good morning, General,’ said a familiar voice.

  Terreros got up and turned to see. He saluted and held out his hand to shake.

  ‘Good morning, Carlos,’ he said, silently recognising the promotion he had been expecting. ‘A very good morning, I believe it to be.’

  ‘Quite right, General,’ said Carlos. ‘Quite right.’

  Carlos did not introduce the other man with him, but Terreros saw from his uniform that he was a sergeant in the Regulares – an infantry unit based in Ceuta made up largely of Moroccan volunteers, and traditional rivals of the Legión. Terreros greeted him, and the man – cleanly shaven, dark-skinned and still in his early twenties – returned the salute.

  ‘I believe this is yours,’ said Carlos, holding out a swordstick. Terreros took it from him and stroked the eagle form of the silver handle lovingly.