The Labyrinth of the Spirits
Page 10
Next to him, sporting a British-style suit that didn’t match his rugged looks, sat an individual with smoothed-down hair and mustache, nursing a glass of brandy. His face looked familiar. One of those usual personalities in the newspapers, a veteran of posed photographs that always included the inevitable eaglet on the flag and some predictable painting of an equestrian scene. Gil de something, she told herself. Secretary General of Fried Bread, or whatever.
Leandro looked up and smiled at her from afar. He motioned her to come closer, the way one calls a child or a puppy. Suppressing her limp at the expense of a shooting pain on her side, she crossed the dining hall slowly. As she did so, she noticed two men from the ministry at the far end, in the shadows. Armed. Stock-still, like waiting reptiles.
“Alicia, I’m so glad you were able to find a gap in your schedule to have a coffee with us. Tell me, have you had breakfast?”
Before she could reply, Leandro raised his eyebrows, and two of the waiters standing by the wall proceeded to set a place for her at the table. While they poured her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, Alicia felt the bigwig’s gaze slowly boring into her. It wasn’t hard to see herself through his eyes. Most men, including professional observers, confused seeing with looking and almost always stopped at obvious details that deterred any reading beyond those irrelevancies. Leandro used to say that to disappear into the eyes of one’s opponent was a skill that could take one a whole lifetime to learn.
Hers was an ageless face, sharp-featured yet malleable, with only a few lines of shadow and color. Alicia changed her appearance every day according to the role she had to play in whatever fable Leandro had selected to stage his maneuvers and intrigues. She could be shade or light, landscape or figure, depending on the libretto. In days of truce she would vanish within herself and retreat into what Leandro called the transparency of her darkness. Her hair was black and her complexion pale, made for midwinter suns and indoor lounges. Her greenish eyes shone in the half-light, and she would fix them sharply on onlookers to distract them from her figure, which was fragile but not easy to avoid. When necessary she would conceal it under loose-fitting clothes so as not to draw furtive glances in the street. But close up her presence came into focus and she exuded a somber mood, which Leandro found vaguely disturbing. Her mentor had instructed her to try to keep it under wraps. “You’re a night creature, Alicia, but here we all hide in daylight.”
“Alicia, allow me to introduce you to the Right Honorable Señor Manuel Gil de Partera, director of the General Police Corps.”
“It’s an honor, Your Excellency,” declared Alicia, offering him her hand. The director didn’t take it, as if he were afraid she might bite him.
Gil de Partera observed her as if he hadn’t yet decided whether she was a schoolgirl with more than a touch of wantonness that was unnerving him, or a species he didn’t even know how to begin to classify. “The director has been good enough to ask for our help in solving a rather delicate matter that requires an extraordinary amount of discretion and diligence.”
“Of course,” said Alicia, in such a meek and angelic voice that it earned her a gentle kick from Leandro under the table. “We’re at your disposal to assist you in all we can.”
Gil de Partera went on observing her with that poisoned mixture of suspicion and desire that her presence usually elicited in gentlemen of a certain age. What Leandro always referred to as the perfume of her presence, or the side effects of her looks, was, in her mentor’s opinion, a double-edged sword she hadn’t yet learned to wield with absolute precision. In this case, and judging by the clear discomfort Gil de Partera seemed to feel in her proximity, Alicia was convinced that the blade would turn against her. Here comes the offensive, she thought.
“Do you know anything about hunting, Señorita Gris?” he asked.
She hesitated for an instant as she searched for her mentor’s eyes.
“Alicia is essentially an urban creature,” Leandro intervened.
“One learns a lot from hunting,” lectured the director. “I’ve had the privilege of sharing a few hunts with the Generalissimo, and it was he who showed me the fundamental rule all hunters must adopt.”
Alicia nodded repeatedly, as if she found it all fascinating. Leandro, meanwhile, had smeared jam over a piece of toast and handed it to her. Alicia accepted it almost without noticing.
The director was still caught up in his lecture. “A hunter has to understand,” he said, “that at a critical moment in the hunt, the role of the prey and that of the hunter become confused. The hunt, the real hunt, is a duel between equals. You don’t know who you really are until you shed blood.”
There was a pause, and after a few seconds of theatrical silence demanding deep reflection on what had just been revealed to her, Alicia put on a respectful expression. “Is that also a maxim of the Generalissimo?”
Leandro gave her a warning stamp on the foot under the table.
“I’ll be frank, young lady,” the director said. “I don’t like you. I don’t like what I’ve heard about you, and neither do I like your tone or the fact that you think you can keep me waiting for half the morning, as if your crappy time were more valuable than mine. I don’t like the way you look at people, and even less the sarcastic tone with which you address your superiors. Because if there’s one thing that pisses me off in this life, it’s people who don’t know their place in the world. And what pisses me off even more is having to remind them.”
Alicia looked down submissively. The temperature in the dining hall seemed to have plunged ten degrees at a stroke.
“I beg you to forgive me, sir, if I—”
“Don’t interrupt me. If I’m here talking to you, it’s because of the trust I have in your superior, who for some reason that escapes me thinks you’re the right person for the job I need to entrust him with. But don’t make any mistakes with me: from this very moment you’re answerable to me. And I don’t have the patience or the generous disposition of Señor Montalvo here.”
Gil de Partera fixed his eyes on her. They were black, and the spider’s web of small red capillaries covering his cornea seemed about to burst. Alicia imagined him all dressed up with a feathered hat and marshal’s boots, kissing the royal buttocks of the head of state during one of those hunts, when the elders of the nation would burst open the prey placed within firing range by a squadron of servants—after which they’d smear their genitals with them, the aroma of gunpowder and chicken blood making them feel like virile conquerors, for the glory of God and the Fatherland.
“I’m sure Alicia didn’t mean to offend you, dear friend,” said Leandro, who was probably relishing the scene.
Alicia corroborated her superior’s words with a serious and contrite nod of her head.
“Needless to say, the content of what I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential, and for all intents and purposes this conversation has never taken place. Any doubt on this point or any other, Gris?”
“Absolutely none, sir.”
“Good. Then for God’s sake, eat your piece of toast, so we can get down to business.”
5
“What do you know about Don Mauricio Valls?”
“The minister?” asked Alicia.
The young woman stopped for a moment to consider the avalanche of images of the long and widely publicized career of Don Mauricio Valls that came to her mind. A spruce, arrogant profile, always standing in the most prominent position in every photograph and among the finest company, receiving honors and dispensing undisputed wisdom to the applause and admiration of the court clique. Canonized in his lifetime, raised to the altar by his own efforts, with the help of the country’s self-proclaimed intelligentsia, Mauricio Valls was the embodiment among mortals of the quintessential Spanish Man of Letters, Gentleman of Arts and Thought. Awarded endless prizes and homage. Described, without irony, as the emblematic figure of the country’s cultural and political elite. Minister Valls was always preceded by his press clippings
and all the regime pomp. His lectures in major Madrid venues always drew the cream of society. His lauded articles on current affairs became articles of faith. The pack of reporters who ate from the palm of his hand bent over backward to flatter him. His occasional recitals of poetry and monologues taken from his celebrated plays—which he performed as a two-hander with leading figures of the stage—were always sold out. His literary works were considered the epitome of achievement, and his name was already inscribed in the roll call of the great masters. Mauricio Valls, radiance and intellect of Iberia, lighting up the world.
“We know what we see in the press,” Leandro interjected. “Which, to be honest, for some time now, has been pretty thin compared to what it used to be.”
“Nonexistent, in fact,” Gil de Partera confirmed. “I’m sure, young woman, you haven’t failed to notice that since November 1956, over three years ago, Mauricio Valls, Minister for National Education (or for Culture, as he himself likes to say) and, if I may say so, the apple of the eye of the Spanish press, has practically disappeared from view and has hardly been seen at any official function.”
“Now that you mention it, sir . . . ,” Alicia agreed.
Leandro turned toward her and, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Gil de Partera, put her in the picture. “The fact is, Alicia, that it’s not by chance or out of personal choice that the minister has been unable to offer us his fine intellect and flawless talents.”
“I see you’ve had occasion to deal with him, Leandro,” Gil de Partera cut in.
“I had that pleasure long ago, just briefly, during my years in Barcelona. A great man, and someone who has best exemplified the values and deep significance of our intellectual class.”
“I’m sure the minister would agree with you wholeheartedly.”
Leandro smiled politely, fixing his gaze on Alicia again before he began to speak.
“Sadly, the business that brings us here today is not the indisputable merits of our dear minister, or the enviable health of his self-esteem. If Your Honor, Señor Gil de Partera, will allow, I don’t think I would be speaking out of turn if I say that the prolonged absence of Don Mauricio Valls from public life in the last few years has been due to the suspicion that there is, and has been for years, a plot to carry out an attempt on his life.”
Alicia raised her eyebrows and swapped glances with Leandro.
“In order to support the investigation opened by the General Police Corps, and following a request from our friends in the Ministry of the Interior, our unit assigned an agent to assist with the investigation, although we weren’t officially involved in it and in fact, were not aware of its details,” Leandro explained.
Alicia bit her lip. Her superior’s eyes made it clear that question time had not started yet.
“For reasons we haven’t yet been able to clarify,” Leandro continued, “that agent has broken off contact, and we’ve been unable to track him down for a couple of weeks. This puts into context the mission for which His Excellency has kindly asked for our collaboration.”
Leandro looked at the veteran policeman and gestured to him to take over. Gil de Partera cleared his throat and adopted a somber expression. “What I am going to tell you is strictly confidential and cannot leave this table.”
Alicia and Leandro both nodded.
“As your superior has already explained, on the second of November 1956, during an event organized in his honor in Madrid’s Círculo de Bellas Artes, Minister Valls was the object of a failed attempt on his life, apparently not for the first time. The news was kept under wraps, a decision agreed upon as the best option by both the cabinet and the minister himself, who didn’t wish to alarm his family or his collaborators. An investigation was opened and is still ongoing, but despite all the efforts of the General Police Corps and a special unit of the Civil Guard, we still haven’t been able to establish the circumstances surrounding this crime and other similar ones that may have taken place before the police were alerted. Naturally, from that very moment, the minister’s police escort and all security measures were reinforced, and his public appearances were canceled until further notice.”
“What has the investigation yielded so far?” Alicia cut in.
“The investigation concentrated on a series of anonymous letters that Don Mauricio had been receiving for some years and to which he hadn’t attached much importance. Shortly after the failed attack, the minister informed the police of the existence of these threatening letters. The initial investigation revealed that in all likelihood they’d been sent by someone called Sebastián Salgado, a thief and murderer who was serving a sentence in the prison of Montjuïc Castle, in Barcelona, until about two years ago. As you are probably aware, Don Mauricio Valls had been the governor of that prison at the start of his career in the service of the regime, to be precise between 1939 and 1944.”
“Why didn’t he warn the police about the anonymous letters sooner?” asked Alicia.
“As I said, he explained that at first he hadn’t attached much importance to them, although he admitted that perhaps he should have done so. At the time he told us that the tone of the messages was so cryptic that he couldn’t work out their meaning.”
“And what is the tone of these supposed threats?”
“Mostly vague. In the letters the author says that ‘the truth’ cannot be concealed, that ‘the time of justice’ has come for ‘the children of death’ and that ‘he,’ presumably the author, awaits him ‘at the entrance to the labyrinth.’”
“Labyrinth?”
“As I said, the messages are cryptic. They may refer to something that only Valls and whoever wrote them knew about. Although apparently the minister wasn’t able to interpret them either. Maybe they’re the work of a lunatic. We can’t eliminate that possibility.”
“Was Sebastián Salgado already a prisoner in the castle when Valls was appointed governor?”
“Yes. We’ve checked Salgado’s records. In fact, he was sent to the prison in 1939, right after Mauricio Valls was the governor. The minister explained that he remembered him vaguely as being a quarrelsome individual, and this gave credibility to our theory that he was very likely the person who sent the letters.”
“When exactly was he released?”
“Just under two years ago, in fact. Clearly, the dates don’t coincide with the murder attempt in the Círculo de Bellas Artes, or with the earlier ones. Either Salgado worked with someone outside the prison, or he was only being used as a decoy to confuse the trail. This last possibility is becoming more feasible as the investigation advances. As you’ll see in the dossier I’m going to leave with you, the letters were all sent from the post office in Pueblo Seco, Barcelona, where the mail from the inmates of Montjuïc Castle is taken.”
“How do you know which letters stamped in that post office come from the prison and which don’t?”
“All the ones originating from the castle have an identifying stamp affixed to them by the prison office before going into the mail sack.”
“Aren’t the prisoners’ letters checked?”
“Yes, in theory. In practice, as has been confirmed by the very people responsible, only on certain occasions. In any case, nobody was aware that threatening messages to the minister had been detected. It’s also possible that because of the obscure nature of the language used, the prison censors didn’t notice anything relevant.”
“If Salgado had an accomplice or various accomplices outside the prison, could they have handed him the letters so that they were sent from the prison?”
“Yes, possibly,” said Gil de Partera. “Salgado had the right to one personal visit per month. In any case, it wouldn’t make any sense if it had happened that way. It would have been much easier to send the letters by regular post and not be exposed to detection by the prison censors.”
“Unless they specifically wanted to prove that the letter had been sent from the prison,” Alicia pointed out.
Gil de Partera nodded.
“You don’t understand it, nor does anyone else. Indeed, Sebastián Salgado was supposed to serve at least another ten years when he was unexpectedly granted a special pardon by the head of state. And there’s more. The pardon was processed at the request of the minister Don Mauricio Valls, and under his good auspices.”
Alicia let out a laugh of astonishment. Gil de Partera threw her a severe look.
“Why would Valls do something like that?” asked Leandro, quickly coming to her rescue.
“Against our advice, and alleging that the investigation was not producing the expected results, the minister deemed that the release of Salgado might help uncover the identity and location of the party, or parties, involved in sending him those threats and the alleged attempts on his life.”
“Sir,” said Alicia, “you refer to these facts as ‘alleged’—”
“Nothing is clear in this matter,” Gil de Partera interrupted. “That doesn’t mean that I doubt, or that we should doubt, the word of the minister in question.”
“Of course. Going back to Salgado’s release. Did it produce the results the minister was expecting?”
“No. We had him watched twenty-four hours a day from the moment he left the prison. The first thing he did was rent a room in a cheap hotel in the red-light district, where he paid for a month in advance. Apart from that, all he did was go to the Estación del Norte every day and spend hours gazing at the checked-luggage lockers in the station’s entrance hall, or perhaps keeping them under surveillance. Occasionally, he also visited an old secondhand bookshop on Calle Santa Ana.”