Chapter 14
Barcelona, Spain, March 1998
In another part of Europe, Police Sergeant Jose Luis Madruga was a worried man. Being rather fat this had two effects. Firstly, it made him sweat more than normal; he could already smell his own body odour. Secondly he had started to chain smoke the black tobacco cigarettes he favoured, at this moment the air inside of the car could have smoked a kipper in less than ten minutes. His normally cheerful face was mournful, causing his bottom lip to stick out past his thick black moustache. He ran a hand over his bald and sunburned head in a gesture of anxiety, the deep brown bloodhounds eyes brooding and introspective. At forty-five he was too old for this shit.
When he had come on duty this morning at Barcelona Central it had been just another day in a surveillance that had become more or less routine. Now, nearly four hours later, he was on the Auto Pista approaching Javea, and the partner he had been forced to abandon was probably reporting him as missing, whereabouts unknown and he still wasn't even sure that his target was in the black Mercedes 350SE that he was following. It wouldn't go down to well at headquarters if he had blown it. Paco was a good boss, but he was hell on a black horse if you screwed up. He sighed and looked down anxiously at a fuel gauge that had been showing empty for the last thirty kilometres. He sighed again, this time more heavily. He was nearly out of cigarettes and he was bursting for a piss.
Madruga had worked on the Barcelona drug squad for the last two years. At forty-five years of age he had been in the police force for eighteen years and a sergeant for ten. He did not expect or particularly want any further promotion and he knew he had only been seconded to the Drugs Squad because of his surveillance experience and his photography skills, as he was not one of the hard men of the force. The Squad had been running a loose surveillance on Roberto Crucero for several months, as there were strong reasons to suspect that he was not entirely the legitimate businessman he professed to be. Crucero did have enormous legitimate business interests, including construction and plastic packaging companies, but his wealth and success were all too sudden and there was more than a whiff of corruption in the air. He also had some very dodgy friends known to be active in the Barcelona underworld.
Because of this it was believed that Crucero might be close to, or even himself be, the Mr Big of the Barcelona drugs trade. Crucero also made it his business to remain as friendly as possible with all the local politicians, as this is where the real power and ability to do favours rests in Spain. He was particularly close to a political group whose aim was a free Catalunya, totally independent from the rest of Spain and with Barcelona, as its capitol. The Spanish authorities already had all the separatist problems they could handle with ETA and this was another reason for a periodic watch to be kept on Crucero, and Jose Luis Madruga's team had drawn the ticket.
They had been keeping a loose watch on him for some time without looking for anything specific, just watching where he went and who with, when suddenly, two weeks ago, the order had come in for round the clock close surveillance. No explanations just do it. The only stated objective was to obtain clear photographs of everyone Crucero met with or spoke to that they didn’t already know. That's what had caused today's cock up. Madruga sighed and his empty stomach rumbled in reply. The current problem was just bad luck really; although he doubted Paco would see it that way and he couldn't blame him for that. Given the same circumstances he wouldn't have believed it himself. It was his brother-in-law's fault really.
The weekend had been Madruga's first complete weekend off in weeks. His wife, Rosa, had insisted that on Sunday the whole family went off for the day to her sister’s place in the country. He had agreed even though Barcelona were playing at home to those no hopers, Betis, against who they just had to score a hat full. He owed her a good weekend. And she had been doing a lot of muttering about police work and its unsociable demands on a policeman's family recently. As it turned out he and his brother in law, Fransisco, had enjoyed themselves enormously while going through the rituals of preparing, cooking and finally eating, an enormous Paella full of rabbit, green beans and snails. Afterwards and on into the evening, he and Fransisco had settled back to drink a bottle or three of vintage Navarra, the best red wine in the world until at nine o'clock in the evening Rosa had driven them back to Barcelona. When they arrived home Madruga had kissed her thank you and gone tipsily, but happily off to bed, where he was asleep in minutes.
He had come on duty at eight o'clock this morning without being able to face breakfast and with a slight, but persistent, headache. He had not had time to do more than whisk the electric razor over his face and then he could not find his clean suit in the clothes cupboard. To make matters worse he was sharing the shift with Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos was a young man in his early twenties who had just joined the squad and who was very keen to make a name for himself. By contrast to Madruga he was always immaculately turned out and looked more like a successful businessman than a police officer. They had sat in their unmarked diesel Peugeot 309, parked some two hundred metres from Crucero's villa amongst the rest of the parked cars, making desultory conversation, Madruga’s condition not making for sparkling repartee. They watched the day servants arrive and the housekeeper go off to the market and were not expecting any further action until midday, when the object of their attentions usually left his bed and whoever he was sharing with at the time.
The discussion as usual had arrived at football and Juan Carlos had started laughing at Barcelona losing to Betis the night before, he was from Madrid where they have real football teams. Madruga had thought he was having his plonker pulled and had refused point blank to believe it, his chins wobbling in indignation that the younger man should try to make such a joke with him. But Juan Carlos had insisted it was true and had even offered to put money on it. This from him, who rarely paid his turn for a cup of coffee if he could avoid it, was quite convincing. Madruga had glowered at him; still feeling it was taking the piss.
"All right you clever sod. There's a kiosk down the street. Go and get me some cigarettes and the paper and if your telling the truth, I'll buy lunch."
Juan grinned delightedly at him. Free lunch was something that always appealed.
"I hope your going to take me somewhere nice, Madruga,” he said.
He climbed out of the car and vanished around the corner to the kiosk.
Still scowling at the thought that his impetuosity would probably cost the price of lunch, Madruga had watched him disappear and then glanced up the road to the Crucero residence. He'd nearly had a heart attack. Crucero's black Mercedes was just leaving the gates. He thought about pumping his horn to bring Juan Carlos back, but decided not to, it would also draw the attention of whoever was in the Mercedes.
"Sod it." He'd thought. "No choice, I've got to follow him."
He'd started the engine and pulled out into the traffic, looking about frantically, but Juan Carlos was nowhere in sight. Neither he nor Paco were going to be pleased about this. Madruga reached for his radio microphone and thumbed the transmit button and gave his call sign. Better let Paco know what was happening and get the flack out of the way now, but the only answer was the hiss of static. He swore and tried twice more before giving it up to concentrate on keeping the Mercedes in sight through the morning traffic. When it stopped he would be able to find a phone and call in. But after fifteen minutes and with growing concern, he had realised that they were leaving Barcelona. On the slip road to the Auto Pista this was confirmed. He tried the radio one more time and then settled down to drive. "Christ! It was going to be one of those bloody days".
Madruga came out of his brooding as he realised with some relief that half a kilometre up ahead the Mercedes was indicating to pull off into the Javea service station. He prayed they would be there long enough to see to the needs of himself and the car and for him to telephone for some backup. Technically speaking he had no jurisdiction here as he was now in the region of Valencia and anyway outside of the city limits the Guardia C
ivil held jurisdiction, but he was sure Paco could sort that out.
As he drove into the service station he saw the Mercedes parked in front of the cafeteria and he recognised the driver, Alfonso Romero, a big ugly gorilla of a man who acted as chauffeur and bodyguard to Crucero. Romero had served a two-year prison sentence some years earlier for manslaughter, after a man with whom he had fought a fistfight had later died. Crucero justified his employment by stating that as he was a rich man, it was necessary for those who would try to rob him to realise the dangers of such a course of action. It seemed to work as no one ever bothered him.
Madruga looked around for Crucero but there was no sign of him. Then he saw him just inside the building using a pay phone.
He drove past the cafeteria to the petrol pumps and jumped out of the car. Jumping the queue he grabbed the nearest attendant and shoved his identity card under his nose.
"Fill it." He snapped. "Quickly" and ran into the gents toilets.
When he returned his bladder was empty and he was more relaxed. The Mercedes hadn't moved. He paid for his petrol and then moved the car to one side ready to leave again in a hurry and then went back to the pump attendant he had grabbed earlier.
"Is there a phone I can use in the office?" he asked.
The man just nodded. He didn't like policemen, especially fat arrogant ones who skulked about in plain clothes trying to trap people.
"Right", said Madruga. "I'm going to use the phone. If that black Mercedes over there moves, call me." Again the man just nodded.
In the office Madruga showed the girl behind the counter his card. She looked at his sweating and dishevelled person in some disbelief before she would accept he was a cop and he was given the phone. He dialled and was soon talking to the duty officer in his office.
"Hola, Carmen? Its Jose. Listen, have you got a pencil handy? Yes? Right, take this down and give it to Paco at once. Savvy? At once! I am following Roberto Crucero. So far have reached the service station on the Auto Pista at Javea, where he has stopped to telephone. I don't know how long we will be here, but can you arrange backup. Crucero is at this moment still on the phone, but could be leaving at any time. Shit!"
He saw the big black car drive past the window.
"He's off. I've got to go."
He dropped the phone and ran for his car. The pump attendant was leaning on a pump with a sneering grin on his face. Madruga snarled at him as he ran past.
"Clever bastard."
The attendant raised his middle finger at the tubby retreating back
Back on the road Madruga noticed that the big black car was not going so fast. Earlier it had been hitting one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, making it difficult for the diesel powered Peugeot to keep it in sight on some of the steeper sections.
"Must be the phone call." thought Madruga. "Wherever he's going he's now got more time."
His stomach rumbled again reminding him of the foolishness of those who drink too much red wine and then miss their breakfast.
As they approached turn off sixty-five, the Benidorm exit, the big car dropped to a mere seventy kilometres an hour and indicated to exit from the Auto Pista. This was the difficult bit. It was one thing to follow someone in heavy traffic in town, or on the Auto Pista where you could stay up to a kilometre or so behind and still keep them in view, but it was a different glass of beer leaving it. He watched a red Ford Escort coming up fast behind him. He let it pass and then tucked in behind it as it went towards the tollbooths. The black Mercedes was already at the end booth as Madruga pulled in behind the Escort, praying the driver would be in enough of a hurry to have his money ready. To his intense disappointment there was no police presence at the pay booths.
"Come on! Come on!"
He banged his fist on the steering wheel in his impatience. The Mercedes was already pulling away as Madruga pulled up to the barrier.
"Buenos Dias" said the girl in the pay booth.
Madruga, having nothing like enough money on him to pay the toll since he had spent all he had already having the car filled up, showed her his police card.
"Lift the barrier, quickly." He said.
The girl just stared at him in surprise. Madruga raised his voice and spelled the words out with a calm he did not feel.
"Lift the fucking barrier for God's sake." He waved his card at her. "I'm a policeman and if you keep me here any longer I will drive straight through the bloody thing."
The girl looked around for help. She wasn't supposed to let anyone through without paying. Madruga's voice rose to a scream.
"Lift it, you stupid woman."
The girl cracked and the barrier rose. With a screech of rubber Madruga shot through, but the Mercedes was gone. Trying hard not to lose his grip, he forced himself to drive slowly and look all around.
As anyone who has left the Auto Pista at Benidorm will know, there are several different options open to you as you leave the pay booth. Many a Tourist heading for the attraction of the old mountain fortress of Guardalest has passed the correct turn without realising it, as you have only some eighty metres on leaving the toll to read the signs and then choose your direction while Spaniards all around are doing racing starts from the toll booths. Concentrating on finding the Mercedes, Madruga didn't even notice this turn off, which takes you down to another road running beneath the main road into Benidorm that he was on. But as he drove over the flyover that crosses this lower road, he happened to look down and saw the Mercedes just joining it. He didn't hesitate. Making a sudden, screaming U-turn, he headed back against the traffic pouring away from the tollbooth, forcing other drivers to take desperate avoiding action and pulled the car left into the missed slip road amidst the screeching of tyres and the mad blaring of angry car horns. Back in her booth the girl watched all this with her mouth open and then reached out for the telephone.
Now back on the right road Madruga was beginning to feel quite pleased with himself. He'd actually quite enjoyed the last bit and permitted himself a grin at the memory of the avoiding action he had caused his fellow road users to take. Carlos Sainz couldn't have done that bit any better. Driving one handed he studied the map he had taken from the door pocket of the car only glancing up to correct his direction when he felt his wheels touch the edge of the tarmac. He estimated that the Mercedes had to be heading for either Callosa de Ensama or Guardalest. Apart from these two places there was nothing else until you reached Alcoy, and if that were the destination, from Barcelona you wouldn't go via Benidorm just to use a pay phone.
His money was on Guardalest because he was also sure that Crucero was heading for a meeting, and from the trouble he was taking it had to be an important meeting. You don't drive over four hundred kilometres just to visit an old fortress, not even if your name is Robert Crucero. Besides, what better meeting place than a tourist attraction, heaving with foreign and Spanish visitors at this time of year? Even better was the fact he knew Guardalest. His wife had dragged him up there once on a coach trip, during a holiday spent in Benidorm when the kids were small. After Callosa had come and gone he was positive that was their destination, and tucked in behind a tourist coach where the occupants of the Mercedes could not see him easily, he relaxed for the first time that morning.
Guardalest is an ancient fortress that was built by the Moors over five hundred years ago. It is a little village in its own right, perched right up on a rocky outcrop some twenty or so kilometres by a steep and twisty road inland from Benidorm. It has its own church and even a cemetery up there right on top of the mountain. As he pulled into the car park beneath the fortress he spotted the Mercedes parked under the only shaded area, Alfonso Romero still in his driving seat reading a paper. Although he knew his own car would be like an oven in less than ten minutes Madruga parked in the sun some one hundred metres away where he would not draw attention. He took the camera with its telephoto lens out of the glove compartment and approached the car park attendant.
"How much?" he asked the atten
dant.
"Fifty cents."
He paid and then asked the question.
"How long has that Mercedes been there?"
The man looked down at his rumpled and sweats stained jacket and rolls of fat with some suspicion.
"Who wants to know?"
Madruga realised it was going to be that sort of day.
"I do."
He showed him his identity card. The man stared at him while making up his mind, then.
"Five minutes I suppose, friend of yours is he?"
He looked at the rumpled figure in front of him in a deliberately disbelieving manner.
"Where did he go?" asked Madruga, ignoring the look. The attendant looked up at the fortress.
Up there" he said. "At least he went off in that direction. Its what people come here for you know."
"Gracias." said Madruga and ignoring the sarcasm he hefted the camera checked it still had film. Satisfied, he slung it over his shoulder and crossing the road and started off up the hill. The car park attendant watched him for a few moments and then shrugged and went about his business.
Guardalest has one feature that made him bless it. It only has one way in and out. True there were shops and cafes in which you could lose people, but once you are inside the fortress if you want to leave again there is only one way to go and that is the way you came in. At this time of the year the place was crowded with tourists, which was both a blessing and a distraction. But Madruga now knew that Crucero was dressed in his cream slacks and shirt, having seen him at the service station. Most of the people here were tourists and more brightly and casually dressed.
He thought he could rule out the shops and cafes, as they were too crowded and noisy for any meaningful meeting. You would have to shout to make yourself heard and you don't drive four hundred kilometres for a secret meeting just to broadcast your business to all and sundry. On his way up though, he did check quickly in the church and in both the museums, which were quieter places. He discarded the old dungeon as a likely place because of the amount of people going in and out and paid fifty Pesetas to visit the cemetery stuck right up on the top of the eyrie.
Walking past the twelve Stations of the Cross on his way up to the top of the fortress he began to worry again. Had he missed him? He came to an area where he could look right down to the car park. The Mercedes was still there, but now it looked empty. The distance made it hard to be certain, but he thought it was. Romero was probably in one of the numerous cafes having a coffee. He went on up towards the cemetery. His breath was coming now in short gasps and he began to suffer from a combination of his Michelin man build, the heat and the fifty black tobacco cigarettes he smoked every day.
The place was suddenly much quieter. This puzzled him until he looked at his watch and saw that it was almost half past two. Of course, it was lunchtime. Absolutely sacred in Spain and visitors were usually forced to conform whether they wanted to or not. As he walked on he remembered that the cemetery had two entrances, a higher one and a lower one. He decided to take the higher one as it was through a stone built vestibule that would give him a little more cover and he could still see the path he had just climbed, which was the only way out. He entered and looked cautiously around the corner and then ducked back so fast he almost dislocated his neck. Jackpot!
Roberto Crucero and another man were deep in conversation at the lower end of the cemetery. They were in the small-railed area by the burial plot that looks down on the entrance to the fortress, which is through a tunnel in the rock. He studied the stranger carefully. In his sixties and about five feet nine. Solidly built, but not quite fat. Well dressed in light grey cotton drill trousers and a matching short sleeved cotton shirt. He was unable to see his hair as he wore a straw hat of the kind favoured by the older generation British when holidaying in St Tropez. He lifted and focused the camera on the two of them. Henri Parsouel obligingly turned and gave him his profile. He pressed the shutter and then wound on all in one fluid movement. They turned to face him. He hit the shutter twice more and then ducked back around the corner breathing hard. Done it. Nearly six bloody hours and probably a stomach ulcer, but he'd done it.
Madruga walked out of the vestibule and into another small railed area that overlooked the back of the village, and the path that led back down to the cluster of shops and cafes. He watched them leave the cemetery from the corner of his eye and then lit the last of his black cigarettes while he waited for them to disappear below. He thought that he ought to get a shot of them as they left as that would link both men to time and place, but he did not want to push his luck, so he just stayed where he was and admired the view while he congratulated himself on a good mornings work. He would go and get some lunch in a few moments and call into the office. Just let them get clear first.
Jose Luis Madruga never knew he'd been murdered. He only felt the blinding agony of the knife as it was pushed between his ribs and into his heart, followed by a roaring blackness and then oblivion. His killer held him fast as he first stiffened in agony and then relaxed into death, before lowering him down, without difficulty despite his bulk, onto the stone seat under the mosaic sign on the wall, the one inviting the traveller to rest awhile. The killer lifted the camera from his neck by the strap and turned and left him sitting in eternal rest in the sun.
As Alfonso Romero approached the black Mercedes, Roberto Crucero lowered the window. He said just one word.
"Well?"
Romero lifted the camera. Crucero nodded and raised the window to preserve the air conditioning. The bodyguard went around to the boot and opened it. Putting the camera in he closed it again before walking around to the driver’s door and getting into the car. The engine was already running, working the air conditioner for the long drive back to Barcelona. He put the car into gear and drove off. Up on top of the fortress, Jose Luis Madruga slid gently from his seat to the floor.
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