Cries of the Lost

by Chris Knopf

  Natsumi could be just as restless, so it suited us both. Though after a week of this, we agreed that cabin fever was setting in.

  “I need a glass of wine,” she said early one evening. “In a bar, where there are people doing the same thing. I know this doesn’t mean much to you, since you drink like a little old lady.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d met my Great Aunt Lucille.”

  So we went out and walked for a few hours through the streets of Madrid—the old narrow streets and broad boulevards, under the canopies of giant urban trees, across terrifying traffic circles and miniature parks—and finally making our way to the huge, open air Plaza Mayor, where Natsumi could have her wine and human proximity and I could have a clear view of potential threats.

  We decided to stay and eat, and listen to an amplified guitarist and piano player on the other side of the plaza render what the waiter told us were the greatest hits of Isaac Albéniz.

  “You seem to be enjoying the music,” said Natsumi.

  “I am.”

  “Though you never listen to music. Not meant as a criticism. Just an observation.”

  “I used to listen all day long while working at my desk. Strictly classical, though occasionally the Ramones. Or the Cars. If the work wasn’t that demanding.”

  “But not anymore.”

  “The bullet took out most of my math skills, which are associated with music.”

  “The math is coming back,” she said. “Why not the music?”

  She had a point, though I knew a great deal of my former mind was irretrievable. The loss seemed less in actual intelligence than in the reserves of knowledge derived through experience and memory. There was so much I had to relearn, which I seemed to accomplish with some proficiency; yet I was left with a sense of incompleteness, that my original brain was a greater, more expansive thing.

  I shared that with Natsumi.

  “I like your brain fine as it is,” she said. “Maybe I wouldn’t have liked that other Arthur so much.”

  “He was fat and had a lot more hair.”

  “Then I definitely like you better. I’m way into rangy and bald.”

  As a kid I fit the stereotype inflicted on people like me—hyper-curious, socially awkward, idiosyncratic, completely disengaged from physical fitness unless coerced by sadistic gym teachers. As an adult, I’d led a vigorous life, though not enough to stay ahead of the calorie count. That was something else that changed after the shooting. parts of me, like my left leg, would probably never regain full function. But the rest of me was far more able than ever. In the struggle of recovery, fueled by fury and maniacal impatience, I’d somewhat overshot the mark.

  Whether Natsumi would have liked my original manifestation, mind or body, was an unanswerable question. And as consumed with love as I was for Florencia, would I have even noticed Natsumi?

  She read my mind, as she often did.

  “Who knows if we would have liked each other back then,” she said. “What with Florencia and all.”

  “I was never big on ontological conundrums,” I said.

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Before returning to the hotel, we walked all four sides of the plaza’s promenade, ignoring the shop windows filled with jewelry, shoes, glittering tchotchkes and sugary edibles, concentrating instead on the swarms of well-turned-out Spaniards, bedazzled tourists and nervous-looking immigrants and their families.

  It was a night well spent, almost well enough to fool ourselves into feeling like normal people and not a pair of fugitives from forces known and unknown, for whom the joys and challenges felt by the throng around us were merely abstractions, attainable only in the imagination.

  MY CELL phone rang the next day.

  “Señor Felingham,” said the man on the other end of the line, addressing the persona I’d chosen for the purpose. “This is Nicho Santillian. My neighbor tells me you’ve been trying to reach me,” he said in Spanish.

  “So he probably told you why.”

  “Something about a rich dead uncle wanting to give me money,” he said in English, my Spanish not being the accent-free Castilian I thought it was.

  “That’s it, more or less,” I said.

  “What’s the less part?”

  “I just need to verify I’m speaking to the right Nicho Santillian.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “By asking a few questions. Can we meet?”

  “Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll come see you.”

  “A neutral place would be better,” I said, offering an outdoor café about a block from his apartment.

  “How will I know you?” he asked.

  “I’ll know you,” I said.

  We arranged to meet the next morning for breakfast, early, before the office trade filled up the seats.

  Natsumi and I spent the intervening time going over the plan and discussing fallbacks and possible scenarios. And precautions, a subject that was taking on ever greater complexity.

  Natsumi found this annoying. “You always say no matter how careful we try to be, we can’t operate in the world without risk,” she said.

  “I know, but I’m afraid for you.”

  “My mother once told me fear attracts evil forces.”

  “She learn that from a Zen master?” I asked.

  “Wes Craven.”

  “Okay, so we concentrate on the plan and let the rest take care of itself.”

  The next morning, I switched into a fresh disguise and settled in right after sunrise at the place across from Santillian’s apartment. The morning crew was good enough to let me sit, ostensibly to work on my ipad, while they finished bringing out tables and chairs and preparing for the day. I asked for coffee as soon as it was available.

  Mr. Zhu was the first to leave for work. That was lucky, because it gave me a chance to test raising the ipad, zooming in and snapping a string of photos. Most were soft, but at least one captured his profile and the clothes he wore.

  The sun was still struggling to illuminate the narrow Calle Dulcinea when a Middle Eastern guy came out, presumably either Mr. Saliba or Mr. El-Ghazzawy. I shot off a few more photos, my performance improving slightly. By then I’d had two cups of coffee and a plateful of powdery churros, and the café staff graciously allowed me to continue sitting undisturbed.

  At the expected time, a tall, middle-aged European man with dark grey hair, wearing a light jacket with the collar pulled up, emerged from the building. I shot off a half dozen photos, one of which showed nearly a full face along with the jacket and white shirt underneath.

  I dropped the iPad to the table and sent a copy of the photo to Natsumi’s smartphone. Then I left double the cost of the coffee and followed my quarry at a comfortable distance.

  At the end of the block, he stopped, and was met by two other men. They shook hands, took out cigarettes and talked the way people do when they know each other well. The one I presumed to be Santillian cocked his head a few times in the general direction of our designated rendezvous point. The others nodded and one of them placed a call on his cell. After giving Santillian a friendly cuff on the shoulder, they moved off in separate directions.

  When Santillian arrived at the café, he looked around for a few minutes, then sat at a table with a good view of the sidewalk. Natsumi walked past and dropped a cell phone on his table. Without pausing, she continued on down the sidewalk, moving rapidly, so all he could make out was a bulky jacket, blue jeans and a big, soft-fabric hat under which she’d stuffed her long, jet black hair.

  I dialed the cell phone, and from a vantage point partway down the street, watched him answer.

  “Hola.”

  “Good morning, Señor Santillian. How are you doing today?”

  “I’m well, if a little confused. Why all the James Bond?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll hold while you give your fri
ends a call to come join us. I don’t mind the extra company, I just want everyone out where I can see them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I saw you meet up at the corner.”

  He paused and looked up and down the street. Then he said, “This isn’t about a rich uncle, is it?”

  “No, but it could be just as profitable.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “What makes you think I know anything?” he said. “I’m just a guy. I sell concrete. You from the competition?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  I could see him looking around the street, as if trying to catch someone’s eye.

  “Sorry, Americano. I don’t sell out my employers, even a putz like Andreas.”

  “So you’ve spent time in New York. Pretty good for a concrete salesman in a country that’s more or less given up buying concrete.”

  He stopped looking around and frowned at the phone. When he put it back to his head, he said, “Okay, you’ve got me curious. I’ll invite my friends. I assume you’ll know when they get here.”

  “I will.”

  He hung up and pulled out a smartphone of his own. I watched him dial, converse, hang up and repeat the process. Then he put the phone down on the table and went back to surveying his surroundings.

  I called Natsumi, who after a quick change of clothes, had established a new position at the café across the street. I described to her what was supposed to happen next.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the other two guys called in reinforcements,” I said. “Keep an eye on whoever sits down at your café. Snap a shot of anything suspicious and text it to me.” “Okay.”

  “And take a few shots of our table when we’re all assembled. Make sure I’m in the picture.”

  “Documentation?”

  “Evidence.”

  The other two men showed up soon after and sat down at the table. They looked a little unsettled as they addressed Santillian. He just shrugged. I gave it another minute, then approached, offering my hand to Santillian. He took it without getting out of his chair.

  “Ed Felingham,” I said.

  “You know who I am,” he said, and gestured toward his companions. “This is Jueventino and Anthony.”

  “Not Antonio?”

  “My mother liked that guy in the psycho movie,” he said in Spanish, obviously not for the first time.

  “Are you guys in concrete, too?” I asked them in Spanish.

  They looked at Santillian, who kept a blank face, then nodded.

  “Sure,” said Anthony, “we do a lot of concrete.”

  “I thought you sold it.”

  “Yeah. We sell it, too,” said Anthony, after a pause.

  “So, Señor,” said Santillian, “you said you want information.”

  He was studying me with some intensity. Seeing him up close, I guessed his age as early to mid-fifties. With even, finely crafted features, he was handsome at this age and probably movie-star stunning as a young man. In fact, I had the odd sense that I’d seen him on the big screen. Something black and white, a romantic comedy with subtitles.

  Not something one equates with a concrete salesman.

  “I’m interested in real estate,” I said.

  “I know nothing about real estate.”

  “You know about your apartment building.”

  “I do, of course,” he said, “but I just live there.”

  “You sure do. According to the building owner, you rent out two apartments. Though apparently, you only live in one.”

  The force of his concentration kicked up a notch, then seemed to loosen as he sat back in his chair, nearly grinning.

  “You’re with him,” he said.

  It was my turn to be puzzled.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “The guy hanging around Calle Dulcinea. Kept buzzing my apartment. Or maybe it was you. Shaved the beard?”

  “Not me. I hate beards.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “So, you’re interested in that other apartment, is that it?”

  “I am. It must be quite an added expense for you. I could help you out.”

  “I like the extra room.”

  “I’ll bet you’ll like the extra income even more. I’ll double whatever they’re paying you.”

  As we talked, Jueventino and Anthony continuously searched the buildings around us with their eyes, ignoring the conversation. There was no way to tell if they understood what we said.

  “You seem very calm for a person playing such a dangerous game,” said Santillian.

  “I’m not playing,” I said.

  “Hm,” said Santillian. “Then maybe we should get down to business. At the moment, there are a pair of crosshairs in the middle of your forehead. I assume the same goes for me. What is it called, mutually assured destruction?”

  I nodded.

  “Your buddies might get away,” I said, “but probably not.”

  The two of them looked at me.

  “Ever been to London, Mr. Felingham?” Santillian asked.

  I gave it some thought, then said, “I used to live there. Years ago.”

  “So not recently.”

  “That’s right.”

  A waiter came over. Pleasantries were exchanged as they asked for coffee, juice and pasteles. Just a bunch of sales guys delaying the start of another humdrum day on the job.

  “I’m all set,” I said, when the waiter asked for my order. “Already had breakfast.”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Santillian, after the waiter left us. “I can tell you what you ate after I watch the video.”

  I felt my smartphone vibrate. I looked at the screen.

  Natsumi had texted me: “Green car across street to the west. 2 guys not getting out, looking.”

  I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Jueventino and Anthony can go join your other compañeros in the Nissan over there,” I said, nodding toward the green car. “No point in getting them killed just for keeping you company.”

  They looked at Santillian and he told them to go.

  “All of you get the hell out of here,” he said, which they did without much hesitation. “Can we start talking now?” he asked when they were gone.

  “We can try,” I said. “So how about that apartment?”

  He took a sip of his coffee before answering.

  “This interest you have, is it official or unofficial?”

  “Define official.”

  He made a sound that could be interpreted as a light laugh. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he said. “It’s all the same.”

  “It’s just that official can mean a lot of different things.”

  He bought that. “True. So let me ask you, this interest, is it American?”

  In a conversation filled with pauses, the next one was conspicuously long. It had to be as I played out a half dozen if/thens in my head. I finally gave it up and went with my first unexamined impulse.

  “No,” I said. “I’m an American, but that’s the only connection.”

  He seemed to be processing that when he said, “And I’m not only a concrete salesman. I have a full line of building materials. Whatever you need, I can get it.”

  “Too bad I’m not building anything,” I said. “Though what I could really use is a courier service.”

  He smiled a bloodless smile. “I have no use for such a service myself.”

  “Well, this might be a way to get into the business. All you have to do is find a man named Rodrigo and deliver a brief message.”

  Back when I fed my tuition payments by playing blackjack in Atlantic City, there was always a lot of talk among amateurs after a game about the “tell,” the supposed give-away gestures and facial tics that provided a look inside your opponent’s mind. Never happened with the serious players, since they’d learned long ago how to keep those things in check no matter which way the cards were running.
Santillian would have made a pretty good card player, though I’d have to coach him on that little flicker across the brow.

  “This is Spain,” he said. “We have a lot of Rodrigos.”

  “If you’re as good as I think you are, you’ll find the right one. When you do, here’s the message: I’m not a threat. All I want is information. For me and for no one else, officially or unofficially. I seek conflict with no one.”

  “That’s all well and good, but maybe this Rodrigo is seeking conflict with you.”

  I stood up. “Only if he doesn’t understand, or has no respect for, the concept of self-defense.”

  I heard the sound of a car door close down the street behind me. Then the car started and moved in my direction. I kept my eyes on Santillian, who stayed in his seat, though I saw him steal a glance at the approaching car.

  “What if I want to communicate with you?” he asked.

  “Text,” I said, reaching out to open the rear door of the cab as it pulled up to the curb. I wasted little time climbing in and slamming the door, and after sliding low in the seat, told the driver to take me to the first of several places I went that day before feeling safe enough to return to the hotel.

  CHAPTER 8

  While I was zigzagging around Madrid, getting in and out of taxis, walking in the front door of museums, shops and restaurants, then ducking out the back whenever possible, Natsumi was making friends with Spanish academics.

  Where I would have detailed every conversation and led her through an exhaustive narrative, beginning with my initial findings, then a step-by-step description of each call and subsequent progress of the search leading to the final outcome, she simply said to me, “Raul Preciado-Cotto. Best in the business.”

  “At what?”

  “The history of the Guardia Civil. The national police force of Spain. Kind of a CIA, FBI and National Guard balled up in one. Given Spain’s past, not without its controversy.”

  “You’ve contacted Raul?”

  “By email. He’s a professor at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid, though forty years before that he was a journalist. A European stringer, funnily enough, for The Philadelphia Inquirer. Did that for thirty years.”