The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

by Robert Wilson

  'The situation has been complicated with each new development in Vega's secret life,' said Falcón. 'My original theory came when those names jumped out at me from his address book. After I'd talked to Montes the first time, and then found a connection between Vega and the Russians, I began to think that Vega had possibly replaced Carvajal as the procurer for the paedophile rings. But the major problem with that theory is that I have no proof of Vega's interest in paedophilia, only his connection to people who were, and the extremely advantageous nature of the deals he was giving the Russians.'

  'What made the Vega suicide look suspicious to you?' asked Guzmán.

  'The method, the cleanliness of the crime scene and, although there was a note, it was not what I would call a suicide note. First of all, it was in English. Secondly, it was only a partial sentence. And later we found that he had traced over the indentations of his own handwriting, as if he was trying to find out what he himself had written.'

  'What were the words?'

  "'… in the thin air you breathe from 9/11 until

  '9/11?' said Guzmán.

  'We're assuming that he'd taken up the American way of writing the date.'

  'When you were talking me through his secret life you mentioned the American connection, which made you think that he was probably of Central or South American origin. Well, you know, most people forget this since the events of last year in New York, but there were two 9/11s. Where do you think I come from, Inspector Jefe?'

  'You've got a Madrid accent.'

  'I've lived in Madrid nearly all my life,' he said, 'so most people forget that I'm actually Chilean. The first 9/11, the one that nobody now will ever remember, was 11th September 1973. That was the day that they bombed the Moneda Palace, killed Salvador Allende and General Augusto Pinochet took power.'

  Falcón held on to the arms of his chair, looked into Guzmán's eyes and knew, as his organs seemed to realign out of their planetary chaos, that he was right.

  'I was fifteen years old,' said Guzmán, whose face for a moment looked like that of a drowning man with his life flashing before him. 'It was also the last day that I saw my parents. I heard later that they were last seen in the football stadium, if you know what that means.'

  Falcón nodded. He'd read about the horrors of the Santiago football stadium.

  'A week later I'd been taken out of Santiago and was living in Madrid with my aunt. I only found out later what happened in the football stadium,' he said. 'So people say 9/11 to me and I never think of the twin towers and New York City, I think of the day a bunch of US-sponsored, CIA-backed terrorists murdered democracy in my own country.'

  'Wait one moment,' said Falcón.

  He went next door. Ramírez was hunched over the keyboard.

  'Has Elvira come back with the FBI contact?'

  'I'm just pasting Vega's photograph into the e-mail,' said Ramírez.

  'You can now add that we believe him to have been a Chilean national.'

  Falcón went back into his office and apologized to Guzmán, who was standing at the window, hands behind his back.

  'I'm getting old, Inspector Jefe,' he said. 'Since I arrived in Seville my brain seems to have changed. I can't seem to remember anything of my day to day life. I see movies which I can't tell you anything about. I read books by writers I can't recall. And yet those days in Santiago before I left are pin-sharp in my mind. And they come at me like a film in the dark. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I'm at the end of my career and all that stuff. You know, it was the whole reason I became the kind of journalist I was.'

  'And you still are,' said Falcón. 'Although I was surprised to see you here. I didn't think you did stories any more. I thought you were the editor.'

  'When the news came through about Montes I could have sent anybody down here,' said Guzmán, 'but then

  I heard that you were going to run the inquiry and for no good reason I decided it was time to meet Javier Falcón.'

  'Well, you've given me a break, so I'm glad.'

  'It's a strange line that – in Vega's note. It seems almost poetic. There's emotion in there. It's like a spirit threatening,' said Guzmán. 'Why do you think I'm so right about it?'

  'Apart from the South American connection,' said Falcón, 'we've also heard about discussions Vega had with his American neighbour, Marty Krugman, and a few things he'd mentioned to Pablo Ortega. Between them they built a picture of a man with very right-wing views, anti-communist, pro-capitalism and largely pro- American in terms of the spirit of enterprise. But he also held some negative views about the way in which US governments interfered with other countries, how they were your friends until you were no longer useful to them… that kind of thing. I also found files in his study on international courts of justice and the work of Baltasar Garzón. Look at all that in the context of his secretive nature, the fact that he seems to have been a trained, connected Hispanic with a knowledge of American society, and this guy begins to look like a politically motivated, disappointed man who died with what he considered to be an important date in his hand.'

  'And why do you think he did that?'

  'Personally, I think it was because he was being murdered, that he wanted to make sure that his death was investigated as murder and that whatever secrets he held would be discovered and told to the world.'

  'So now where is your theory about Carvajal, the Russians and Montes?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You seem to think that Montes was responding to pressure that you were unconsciously applying. The mention of Carvajal and the Russians – Ivanov and Zelenov. Would that have been enough to push him over the edge? Or was he looking at those names in the context of the Vega investigation, and it was that which made him certain that you were on to something?'

  'Let's wait until we get a response from the FBI. If he did have a criminal record, that might be indicative of something that's relevant here.'

  'If he's Chilean he sounds like a disaffected pro- Pinochet man to me,' said Guzmán. 'And there were plenty of them about in the ranks of Patria y Libertad – the extreme right-wing organization who were bent on destabilizing Allende from the moment he won the election. A lot of their members did some very nasty things before, during and after the coup – the kidnappings and assassinations abroad within Operation Condor, the killings and torture at home, the Washington car bomb – and they thought they deserved better. They'd stopped the rampage of communism up to America's back door and they felt they should be properly rewarded for it. But you said he was keeping these files on the justice systems and Garzón. That sounds as if he was heading for the confessional.'

  'I think he was looking for something a bit bigger than the confessional,' said Falcón. 'More like the witness stand in a major court. Something seems to have happened to him at the end of last year. Something personal, which might have changed him. He was suffering from anxiety attacks…'

  'Well, maybe that clouded his judgement. People who were involved always think they're more important than they actually were,' said Guzmán. 'Colonel Manuel Contreras, the ex-chief of DINA – the secret police – is now in jail, beautifully betrayed by Pinochet, and what's happened? Documents were released by the Clinton administration in 1999, and what's happened? More material was released by the CIA themselves in 2000, and what's happened? Have we had any justice? Have the perpetrators been punished? No. Nothing has happened. It's the way of the world.'

  'But what could have happened? Who's left? Who's accountable?'

  'There are some CIA men who should still be sweating in the dark and there's my old friend, the Prince of Darkness – Dr K himself. He was Nixon's National Security Adviser and Secretary of State over that whole period. Nothing happened in Chile without him knowing about it. If anybody should be held to account, he should.'

  'Well, if you could finger him, you'd go down in history,' said Falcón. 'And if Vega was about to do that there must be plenty of people who'd want to kill him?'

  'In my
experience, if the CIA had decided he was dangerous for their public relations profile, they'd want to make it look like suicide – and then make a complete mess of it,' said Guzmán. 'These American neighbours of his, what's their background?'

  'He's an architect working for Vega, she's a photographer. It was her photographs of him that gave us an insight into his personal crisis. That's her speciality.'

  'Well, that's pretty good cover if you wanted information on somebody,' said Guzmán.

  They've both got totally genuine backgrounds,' said Falcón. They were even suspects in a murder inquiry into the death of the woman's lover back in the USA. No charges were brought.'

  They don't smell so sweet, even if they are real enough,' said Guzmán. 'But then that's the nature of perfect cover, I suppose. We all have something ugly hidden away.'

  Falcón got to his feet and started pacing the room. The complications were building by the hour and he had no time, never any time.

  'If this is some sort of intelligence operation,' he said, 'and the Krugmans have been pressurized into service, then there must be collusion between the CIA and the FBI. And we're now asking the FBI for information on Rafael Vega.'

  'For a start, you can't do anything else,' said Guzmán. 'And anyway, these are not perfect organizations. I imagine very few people will know about this. They've got their hands full with the War on Terror. This is a side game, a small issue. Possibly private.'

  Falcón went to the phone and started dialling.

  'I'm going to talk to Marty Krugman again,' he said. 'I'll come at him from a different angle.'

  'But you don't know anything yet.'

  'I realize that, but I have no time. I have to start now.'

  Falcón was saved by the fact that Krugman was not in his office or at home and his mobile was turned off. He slammed the phone down.

  'Krugman has a weakness,' said Falcón. 'His wife is a beautiful woman who is much younger than him.'

  'And he's a jealous man?'

  'It's his weak point,' said Falcón, 'a way to lever him open.'

  'All this will go up in smoke if you don't get a positive ID from the FBI,' said Guzmán. 'So don't do anything until then. In the meantime, if you think it will help, I'll put that line he was holding in his hand out into the Chilean expatriate communities here and in England, see what they make of it. And if you do get a positive ID and he was Chilean and military, or DINA, I am in contact with people who could help build a profile.

  'I'll also write an article about Montes and the first suicide of a senior officer at the Jefatura. It will be a kind of obituary with the big moments of his career, including the Carvajal scandal, pointed up. I'll emphasize your in-depth investigation into Montes's career.'

  'And what will we get out of that?'

  'You'll see. It'll smoke people out. There'll be plenty of anxiety around, especially from the ones who turned a blind eye to Carvajal's "accident",' said Guzmán. 'It'll be interesting to see the pressure that comes down on you from upstairs. If Comisario Lobo doesn't call you into his office first thing in the morning after the Diario de Sevilla has hit the streets, I'll buy you lunch.'

  'Only the facts,' said Falcón, a wave of anxiety ripping through him.

  'That's the beauty of it. Everything I'll write about Montes will already be in the public domain. There won't be any need for conjecture. It's just the way in which I put it all together that will frighten people to death.'

  Chapter 23

  Monday, 29th July 2002

  It was past three o'clock. Falcón was hungry. Ramírez left for lunch, telling him that Ferrera was in interrogation room number 4 with Salvador Ortega, and that Elvira had called to say that he'd cleared Alicia Aguado with the prison director to give Sebastián Ortega a full psychological assessment.

  'I called Juez Calderón, too,' he said. 'I thought we should remind him about the search warrant for the safe-deposit box. He's gone, nowhere to be seen, not expected back and he's done fuck all about the warrant. Buen provecho.'

  On the way down to the interrogation rooms he called the prison director to arrange a liaison person and a time. His secretary told him they could begin straight away and that the best time was between 18.00 and 21.00 p.m… He called Alicia Aguado, while looking through the door's glass panel at Salvador Ortega's shattered face. They agreed on 18.30 and he called the prison to confirm a 19.00 appointment. This was going to be a long day. Cristina Ferrera came out and told him that while the narcotics agent had been looking for Salvador she'd done some questioning around Nadia's apartment building. Nobody had seen a thing. Even the people who had seen her taken away now couldn't remember anything about it. He went to get three coffees from the machine.

  Salvador Ortega smoked while looking at the backs of his yellow fingers. He made darting eye contact with Cristina Ferrera, who was sitting next to him and partially succeeding in engaging him. His hair was explosive and he had a wispy beard and moustache which disguised his good looks. His T-shirt was so faded that only the vaguest colours and the word 'Megadeth' were discernible. He wore long shorts and his lower legs were scabbed with sores. He smoked intensely while they sipped their coffees.

  'When was the last time you spoke to your father?' asked Falcón.

  'I don't speak to my father,' he said. 'He doesn't speak to me.'

  'Have you seen a newspaper recently?'

  'News has no importance for me in my circumstances.'

  'Did you have any relationship with your Uncle Pablo?'

  'He was always very entertaining when I was a child,' said Salvador. 'Which was a relief.'

  'A relief from what?'

  Salvador smoked hard and exhaled to the ceiling.

  'Uncle Pablo was fun,' he said. 'I only spent any time with him as a child.'

  'You were still at home when he brought Sebastián round to stay while he went on theatre tours and film shoots. How old were you at the time?'

  Salvador's mouth operated but no words came out. He seemed to be biting off air in small chunks. Ferrera patted him on the shoulder.

  'This is not a test, Salvador,' she said. 'I told you on the way here that there will be no repercussions. You are not a suspect. We just want to talk to you to see if we can help your cousin.'

  'I was sixteen,' he said. 'And nobody can help my cousin.'

  'Did you follow what happened to Sebastián?'

  Salvador's cigarette hand trembled. He nodded and breathed down whatever was rising in him.

  'You're a heroin user?' said Falcón, to move on to more certain ground.

  'Yes, I am.'

  'For how long?'

  'Since I was fifteen.'

  'And before that?'

  'I smoked hashish from about the age of ten until… it didn't work any more. Then I moved on to the stuff that does work.'

  'How does it work?'

  'It takes me away from myself… to a place where my mind and body feel at home.'

  'And where's that?'

  He blinked and flashed a look at Falcón, unprepared for these sorts of questions.

  'Where I feel free,' he said, 'which is nowhere.'

  'You were already using heroin when Sebastián first came to stay with you?'

  'Yes, I remember it was… all right.'

  'What do you remember of Sebastián?'

  'He was a sweet kid.' 'Is that all?' said Falcón. 'Didn't you talk to him or play with him? I mean, his mother had left him and his father had gone away. He must have thought of you as an elder brother.'

  'It takes time to get the money together if you're a sixteen-year-old heroin user,' said Salvador. 'I was too busy stealing handbags from tourists and running from the police.'

  'Why did you start smoking hashish so young?'

  'Everybody smoked it. You could buy it in the bars with a Coca Cola in those days.'

  'Ten years old is still very young.'

  'I was probably unhappy,' he said, smiling with no conviction.

  'Was that becau
se of problems at home?'

  'My father was very strict,' said Salvador. 'He beat us.'

  'Who do you mean by "us"? You and your sister?'

  'Not my sister… He wasn't interested in her.'

  'He wasn't interested in her?' said Falcón.

  Salvador crushed out the cigarette and jammed his hands between his thighs.

  'Look,' he said, 'I don't like… to be hassled.'

  'I just want to be clear about what you're saying, that's all,' said Falcón.

  'She could do what she liked, is what I meant.'

  'So who is "us", when you say he beat us?'

  'My friends,' said Salvador, shrugging with a jerk. 'That's how it was in those days.'

  'What did your friends' parents say about their children being beaten by your father?'

  'He always said he wouldn't tell how naughty they'd been, so they didn't talk to their parents.'

  Falcón glanced at Ferrera, who shrugged her eyebrows and looked at Salvador. Sweat stood out on his forehead, even in the high air conditioning.

  'When did you have your last fix?' asked Falcón.

  'I'm OK,' he said.

  'I have some distressing news for you,' said Falcón.

  'I'm already distressed,' said Salvador. 'You can't distress me any further.'

  'Your Uncle Pablo died on Saturday morning. He took his own life.'

  Cristina Ferrera lit a cigarette and offered it to him. Salvador hunched over and rested his forehead on the edge of the table. His back shook. After a minute he sat back. Tears streamed silently down his face. He wiped them away. Ferrera gave him the cigarette. He puffed on it, took the smoke down.

  'I'm going to ask you again: did you have a good relationship with your Uncle Pablo?'

  This time Salvador nodded.

  'How often did you see him?'

  'A few times a month. We had a deal. He would give me money for heroin if I controlled my habit. He didn't want me to steal and end up in jail again.'

  'How long had that being going on?'

  'The last three years since I got out and before they put me away.'