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He bought a charger in one of the 24-hour multi-service stores that filled the surroundings of the station and looked for a solitary place to connect it. Instantly, he received a pile of messages that he discarded without even looking at them. He called his friend, who picked up almost before the first tone sounded.
—Really Jonah, you cannot keep doing this— complained his friend—. You tell me they killed your father, that I must go after you and then you hang me ...
—Friend, I swear I will explain everything to you as soon as I arrive, but now I don’t have much time, the battery...
Dude I need to know what this is about— he asked—. I want to help you.
—You already do it -he lowered his voice a little. Listen partner, if you cannot sleep you can help me in something else.
—Sleep? Are you kidding?
The phone was not charging fast enough, so it had to abbreviate.
—Listen, this is very important, take note— he went over the names—. Find everything you can about Otto Skorzeny and something called the Esmeralda.
—The Esmeralda?
—Yes, in Iquique— he concretized—. It could be a town, a city, a village, whatever the hell, but try it, do you want?
—Ajá— he wrote down.
—I'll arrive in Madrid around eight or nine in the morning— he informed—. If you've found something, you'll tell me there, now I'm going to turn off the phone
—Okay— he sentenced—. I'll be waiting for you at the terminal.
—Thanks friend
—At youh commandh my master— he imitated. Doh youh neehd someth moreh?
—Shut up idiot— he answered smiling.
-Ifh youh asks me ...
Jonas hung up and set about looking for somewhere to hide until his bus left.
****
After an over-abundant breakfast of potato omelet, calamari in sauce and a piece of apple pie, Jonah was much better. He had not eaten more than twenty-four hours, and the day promised to be long. His friend and Rachel watched him amused without saying a word.
—What?
You look like you just arrived from Somalia.
—Dodging bullets makes you hungry.
The mention of what had happened the night before left them speechless again, since the young man had not wanted to tell them anything yet. After the copious breakfast they went back to Raquel's house in the urbanization. During the trip Juandi overwhelmed with questions to his friend, but he did not answer until they were inside the beautiful duplex of her boss.
—Dude, you have Raquel and me looking like crazy— Juandi could not take another second—. But this whole subject has a lot of crumb.
—First things first— Jonás interjected—. What did you find out about Iquique and Skorzeny?
—look, this Skorzeny had no mystery; a Nazi who was smarter than the broom and feared throughout Europe. The dude belonged to the SS, and after the war he took refuge in Spain, with our generalissimo. Then he dedicated himself to hide other Nazis who wanted to escape. He was never charged with any crime and died of an attack in 1975.
—Died?
—Yes, what happened, you expected something else?
—No, keep going.
—Well, that on the one hand— he went to the table and picked up a notebook—. And now about the Esmeralda. Jonas, I don’t know what you're looking for, but with the name Esmeralda I get thousands, if not millions of results all over the world, from jewelry, to cities or football teams, but I found one that I think is the one we are looking for, although it is a little... atypical.
—Let it go, Juandi— he became impatient.
—Well, you see, La Esmeralda was a corvette of the Pacific War, part of the Chilean Navy. Here you have the details— he passed to him the information he had taken from the Internet— but the only significant thing is that it has a museum and everything.
—Where?
—Here's the good stuff— he smiled—. In Iquique, a coastal city in Chile.
****
The country house had a certain resemblance to the famous Naples Villa of the drug dealer Pablo Escobar, and Chacón hated it at first sight. That had always seemed the easiest way to fall when you held business in the hands of those who you did not want to know certain details; by means of ostentation. He himself was an important businessman, with more millions in secret accounts than he could ever spend, but except for the exception of one or another caprice, he did not show off the pomp and opulence of other wealthy men.
The Jeep drove them down a narrow unpaved road, from which they could only see the palm leaves that hit the roof and the windows of the vehicle. After several turns, appeared before them a mansion that embraced the entire horizon and from which only highlighted the orange slate roofs, a strange variety imported from Norway. The country house was surrounded by Canaries’ pines, willows, tajinastes and cedars, all of them fireproof due to the volcanic lands. Chacón was not very fond of plants or animals, but that Canary’s variety called his attention because of his capacity for survival. The bark burned on the outside, but it had developed the peculiarity of continuing to live inside.
The property was placed in a wild and isolated area of the island of La Palma, very close to the Caldera de Taburiente National Park. It was a volcanic and abrupt area, wild and little visited despite being one of the most beautiful places in the Canary Islands. The strict protection of the park's species made nature’s lovers stop visiting their permitted areas. For that very reason, the owner had built his mansion in that region since it was practically impregnable if you did not have the necessary permission. Chacón had arrived there by helicopter, and a jeep had picked him up at the heliport to take him to the residence.
The wide wheels of the jeep crunched the gravel of the entrance courtyard, and with the sound the welcome protocol was activated. Before getting off the car, Chacon had two boys in front of him who provided him with an umbrella and a bottle of cold beer. Seconds later the owner of all that private jungle appeared and its consequent paraphernalia.
—Paco, dear friend! — he greeted him with a hug—. How's life treating you?
—For what I see, not much better than you— he answered looking around with a circumstances’ smile.
—What can I say? — he led him inside the mansion—. If I must live in seclusion, at least it must be as I like it.
—Yes, of course Hermenegildo.
—Manuel, do you remember? —he said.
—What are you saying, for me you will always be Herme, just as I am Paco and not Cristóbal!
—Well, you're right— he conceded—. Come in and sit in the living room. Rita will serve you whatever you wish. The others are about to arrive.