A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  ‘Thank you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Very kind of you to remember.’

  Carlos bowed his head.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Terreros said. Carlos took the other chair. The sergeant remained standing.

  ‘Could I get you some coffee?’ Terreros asked. ‘I’m sure we could ask for some to be made.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Carlos. ‘But we’re on a tight schedule.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terreros, a sharpness entering his tone. ‘So tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘There are a few things that need wrapping up,’ said Carlos. ‘Loose ends.’

  ‘It looks to me,’ said Terreros, ‘that everything has been a great success. All gone according to plan.’

  ‘My superiors are grateful,’ Carlos said with a smile. ‘Hence the new rank. It was dangerous, but it looks as though we’ve got where we wanted to be.’

  ‘Of course it was dangerous!’ Terreros barked at him with a harsh military voice. ‘But it was absolutely necessary. The country was about to fall apart. Spain – our beloved Fatherland – was about to be destroyed by those atheist Catalan dogs. And we stopped it. We stopped them in their tracks.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘And do you know why?’ Terreros continued. ‘Because we have balls. Because we took a risk. But God was on our side. That’s the difference. And God favours the brave, Carlos. That’s why I did what I did. Because no one else was brave enough to. Sometimes great men have to step up to push back the tide of history.’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  ‘And it worked!’ He held up a finger, his eyes flashing bright like headlamps. ‘It worked. Once the Catalans saw that their own government was incapable of keeping them safe, of protecting them and their beloved monuments, they quickly turned and fled back to the bosom of the nation. Striking the Sagrada Familia was a stroke of genius.’

  He smacked his fist into his hand.

  ‘Always strike the enemy at his weakest point, Carlos. Where his emotions are. That way he’s putty in your hands. It’s precisely what we did in Barcelona. And look how the cowards abandoned their pathetic dreams of independence and came running back to us in droves. We’re a family again. Spain united, as one. As God intended it to be.’

  ‘Thank you, General,’ Carlos said, seizing his moment to interrupt. ‘We are all – the whole country – indebted to you. Everything has turned out positively.’

  Terreros nodded majestically.

  ‘Quite, quite,’ he said.

  ‘But there are, as I say,’ continued Carlos, ‘a couple of issues to deal with.’

  ‘The policeman?’ Terreros asked. ‘You’re talking about the idiot who took me to Valencia? He was useful. I could never have got out of Ceuta otherwise. Although I had to improvise when the fools failed to arrest me at the border. Still, he got me in the end and took me to the mainland, where I could coordinate things. As we planned.’

  ‘He’s …’ Carlos paused. ‘Covered,’ he said eventually. ‘I have enough on him. Some political things, and then a drug issue I can use to shut him up if necessary. Besides, I want to keep him in play.’

  ‘You’re better off killing him,’ said Terreros. ‘Easiest way. No surer method of stopping a man from talking.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carlos, shifting his weight. He glanced up at the sergeant, who was now standing directly behind Terreros.

  ‘In certain circumstances I agree,’ he continued. ‘Which brings me to our visit.’

  Terreros jumped in his seat, but it was already too late: the sergeant had pulled out a pistol and pressed the barrel into the nape of his neck.

  Carlos got up and looked down at Terreros’s ashen face. He already looked dead.

  ‘The attack on the Sagrada Familia was unauthorised,’ said Carlos. ‘Your operative was supposed to hit small targets, with minimal loss of life. Bombing the basilica was never the plan. You killed Segarra and you almost killed me. Fortunately, however, thanks to that policeman, we managed to avert a bloodbath, liquidate your agent and turn the thing to our advantage. You served your purpose. We got what we wanted. But you are dangerous, a rogue element. And now surplus to requirements.’

  He gave him a look of resigned sympathy. Terreros was too stunned to speak.

  ‘The ultimate sacrifice,’ he said. ‘For the Patria. I know you’ll understand. You’ll be given full honours. Viva España!’

  Terreros’s eyes were hard and red. He tried to lift a trembling arm in fascist salute, but it got no higher than his waist.

  Carlos nodded to the sergeant.

  ‘Everything’s been arranged,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at the helicopter.’

  FIFTY-SIX

  WORKING IN THE recruitment office was seen by some of his colleagues as a cushy job, but Staff Sergeant Duarte was frankly bored by sitting at a desk all day, sweltering in the absence of any air conditioning and hoping on the off chance that some young man might come in off the street wanting to join the Legión.

  The world was a different place from when he had signed up, however: a military life, glory and honour, held little or no appeal for youngsters any more. And now that they were obliged to take women in as well … Sometimes it was just better to stick to the old ways. What more evidence did they need than the sight of him there in his office, on his own, with nothing to do all day except stare out at the sea, dreaming of the day, soon, when he could finally draw his pension?

  And worst of all, he could not even smoke. Except, he told himself, that getting up from his chair every twenty minutes or so to head outside to light up was at least some form of exercise, and helped to break up the tedium.

  The radio blared in the background – more news about the Catalan situation. He was getting bored of it now: always the same old thing, history repeating itself, only changing the details. He barely listened as the newsreader mentioned something about the President of the United States, pressure from Washington, questions over the legality of the Madrid takeover of Catalonia in the wake of the Sagrada Familia attack.

  Some terrorist fuck, Duarte thought to himself. The guy – some crazed anarchist radical – had apparently killed himself shortly afterwards when the police got to him. Coward.

  He pulled out his packet of cigarettes and got up to walk to the door. Perhaps for the fifteenth time that day. He felt hot, and picked up a plastic cup of water as he strode over, barely hearing the journalist’s report about the growing international backlash against the developments in Spain. Some were calling the Madrid move a disguised coup. And if anything, it would inevitably strengthen the Catalan desire for independence. The toing and froing between Madrid and Barcelona – for so long an issue in national politics – looked set to continue, as it had for centuries, and perhaps would for centuries to come.

  ‘History repeating itself,’ Duarte mumbled under his breath. ‘It always does.’

  He stepped out of his office and pulled the lighter up to his cigarette, drawing heavily and watching a trail of smoke get caught in a brief, calming breeze.

  From the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. He turned and saw a figure walking towards him: a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. His hair was short and he carried a dirty rucksack on his back. His trousers were scuffed and dirty: he looked as though he had been sleeping for days in what he was wearing.

  That’s what I’m talking about, Duarte thought to himself, playing out a conversation with some invisible acquaintance about the problems of the young. No self-respect, no goal, no ambition. What are we supposed to do if that’s our raw material?

  The young man was wearing military-style boots, but dragging his feet as he walked on the other side of the road. Glancing up, he caught sight of Duarte’s uniform and crossed the street to speak to him.

  ‘Is this the Legión?’ he asked. His face was drawn, tired. And his eyes had an expression that Duarte had not seen for some time: haunted, looking for shelter, a place to escape.


  Duarte drew on his cigarette.

  ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘I’m looking for the recruitment office,’ said the man.

  Duarte stared at him, then threw the cigarette on to the ground and turned on his heel.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  They walked into the office. Duarte sat down behind his desk. The young man let his bag drop to the floor and stood in front of him.

  ‘You want to join the Legión?’ asked Duarte.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I mean, yes, sir. Sorry.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later,’ said Duarte with a sigh. This one would not last five minutes. But who was he to turn people away? The commander would be delighted to hear they had someone new.

  Duarte pulled out a pile of forms from a drawer and placed them down in front of him to start writing.

  ‘You’re Spanish?’

  Yes,’ said the young man. And he pulled out his ID card from a back pocket.

  Duarte took it and read the details.

  ‘What kind of name’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Catalan,’ said the man. ‘Dídac. It’s the Catalan for Diego.’

  ‘All right,’ Duarte grunted.

  ‘But I want to be called Diego from now on,’ he said. ‘If that’s possible.’

  Duarte grinned at him.

  ‘Yes, that sounds better,’ he said. ‘You’re doing the right thing, son. You’re doing the right thing.’

  He gave him a salute, which was immediately returned in kind.

  ‘Welcome to the Legión.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  HE WONDERED ABOUT calling, but his feet had a volition of their own, walking directly and with certainty to his flat. He glanced up at the windows, as if searching for a sign of life – perhaps her face at the window, waiting for him to return. But there was nothing.

  He climbed the steps to the first floor, his feet heavy on the stone steps as he ascended. Go now, a part of him was saying, go now before it’s too late.

  But he carried on.

  At the door, he thought he could hear someone inside. The sound of footsteps? Was she there? Was she alone?

  His key slipped easily into the lock; he turned it and let himself in.

  Alicia was in the kitchen, frying some chicken, rabbit, beans, tomato and paprika. Paella. The unmistakable smell reached him where he stood in the doorway.

  It took a few moments for her to notice him. She stopped, put the spoon down, and glanced up: sunlight was shining in from the open door behind him. He looked like a ghost. Or an angel.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Esther, Sebas and Rafa for keeping me informed about Spanish police matters; Jenny Uglow, Mary Chamberlain and everyone at Random House involved in the Max Cámara series; Peter Robinson for always smiling; Mike for his hospitality; Rob for being a sounding board; Father Richard Meyer, Heather McCaughey, Pep Noguér and Marga Ripoll for details about the Catholic Church; and Salud, Arturo and Gabi for so much else.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted inwriting by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781473512368

  Version 1.0

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Chatto & Windus, an imprint of Vintage Publishing,

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  Chatto & Windus is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  Copyright © Jason Webster 2015

  Jason Webster has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published by Chatto & Windus in 2015

  www.vintage-books.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780701189396