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The Beechcraft King Air went through a small area of turbulence but stabilized without problems. Chacón had barely had time to relieve himself and enjoy a good coffee while the plane refueled in Algeciras and headed for Tenerife.
It had been a relief for him that the Argentine intelligence service decided to take charge of the "matter" of Anabel, because he needed to solve many issues and in a very short space of time. A succinct call, and the threat of revealing that one of his most famous ex-agents was mixed in murky topics, had sufficed for the rapid intervention of the efficient Chilotes who worked for intelligence in Iquique. They had even taken care of transporting him to the hangar in which the Beechcraft was waiting, and they had been very solicitous in leaving the country as soon as possible; besides providing him with the medical assistance that he needed.
The call of Hermenegildo had precipitated things, and now that his friend was admitted in the hospital, it was his turn to move the appropriate threads so that everything would succeed. For the moment one of the points was resisting to him. One very important was that the ill-born Millán had shown to have more resources than what Chacón expected. Even so, the plan went through the channels conceived so long ago, and it would end as it should have done despite the efforts to survive of that child. He touched his chin and twisted his face in a grimace of pain. This was the second time he had hit him in the face —and he was going to make him pay— but at that moment he decided to forget about that and focus on what he needed.
The pilot informed him that there were fifteen minutes left to land, and he went over what he had been rehearsing for so many years.
****
The first sensation he had when he awoke was that he had nibbled a rotten dry fruit. The intense bitter taste that rose up to his throat and concentrated in his nostrils almost made him vomit again, but he remade himself as best he could. He squinted to clear his eyes, and found Rachel occupying his entire field of vision. The woman was watching him, obviously worried.
—Are you okay? —she said, kissing his face— Oh God, I was so worried!
—He, how... Tony? —he stammered.
—Don't worry about him, just tell me how you are.
That answer gave Juandi more acrimony than the bile that still danced in his throat. He realized he was sitting and tried to stand up, but a new nausea rose in his throat —though it disappeared as quickly as it had come—. Immediately after, he noticed the body in front of him, his inert head leaning to the side in an unnatural way, his face completely bathed in dried blood that almost completely hid the man's features. He was sitting and gagged with rope and American tape on an identical chair from which he had just stood up, and the strength of his ligatures prevented the body from collapsing on the floor.
—He is...
—I do not know— she answered—. He hasn’t moved even when it has slipped from my hands and hit his head on the ground.
The giant was overcome by a huge desire to cry and scream, but he restrained himself with the firm idea that this guy wanted to kill them.
—But why? —he asked to the room—. Why does a guy like this come here to kill us?
—He asked for the memory stick, I think it's clear what he was looking for.
Juandi approached a nearby dresser and took out a hiking backpack. He opened one of the side pockets and took out the pen drive he had hidden there.
—But I do not understand it! What the hell have these pencils that interest so much to kill people?
—Well, it seems that some sense must have.
The giant threw the backpack to the ground with evident frustration.
—Pick it up, we're going— she sentenced.
—But, what do we do with him?
Juandi watched the body lanky and gagged.
—Let it rot! — he spat—. Now what I want is to get out of here as soon as possible, and when we are far away I want to see what this bloody pen drive contains
An hour later they were crossing the gravel roads at full speed with Fumo’s, thinking that despite the thorough cleaning they had done, some trace had been left that could relate them to the Italian’s corpse
****
Despite Juandi's objections, Raquel had used her card to pay for gasoline for the Mercedes, a huge amount of pastries, trinkets, and a universal car charger for the cell phone. The giant grunted reluctantly, claiming they could track them through the card, but Raquel gave him a loving blow and recommended that he leave his male chauvinism axioms for another time.
By the time they left the service station, half the goodies’ bag was gone, and Rachel decided to charge her cell phone. After a few kilometers, he disconnected it from the cable and began to check her messages. When Juandi did the same, the device began to vibrate with fury, warning that he had numerous notifications. He stepped aside in a siding on the road and checked the messages. Most were from a landline number. He called, and a lady picked up at the other side.
—Hey? —he said—. Who is it?
—Who are you? —the old woman answered.
—But where am I calling?
—You will know, you are the one who has called.
The man tried to calm down.
—Let’s see, I have several lost calls from this number —he explained—. And I don’t know...
—What are you saying to me young man —she cut short—. I'm just waiting for my grandson.
Predicting a trip of the cell phone through the window up to the street, Raquel snatched the phone from Juandi.
—Good morning, lady, what my friend wanted to ask you is what phone we have called.
—Well, this is a cabin— she said. From the Madrid airport, but I don’t know why you ask such nonsense, if it was you who called.
Raquel hung up and stared hard at Juandi.
—Jonas! —the two shouted in unison.
****
He barely had money left for the taxi, much less for a hotel night. He did not want to go to his apartment, because he supposed there would be someone there waiting for him, and he did not have the keys to Juandi's house either. He needed to get in touch with his friend, but telephone booths were no longer available in the streets of Madrid and buying a disposable phone now was not an option.
When he realized that the taximeter was beginning to approach dangerously close to his budget, he told the driver to leave him there. He had a couple of kilometers to reach his destination but, he decided that a walk would be good to refresh his ideas. He paid for the race and began to walk slowly down the sidewalk full of pedestrians, immersed in their own realities. His stomach hurt, but Mr. Harrison's cocktail of sedatives, anti-inflammatories and opiates was beginning to take effect.
In a corner between Manuel Calvo and Calle Sotillos he found one of those cabins that seemed to be in another time line, as if in that square meter time had not advanced. He called his friend again, without much hope and with the last coins he had left, but at the second tone Juandi's voice filled the receiver.
—Jonás! —he bawled over the speaker—. Where damn do you...
—Juandi, I'm in Madrid— he answered tired—. I need you to come for me.
****
Certainly, this was a meeting in which Hermenegildo should have been, for although Chacón enjoyed a repertoire of endless affinities within the world of politics and high lineages, he lacked the wordiness and condescension to endure those undesirable perfumed people of wide ass and profuse double chin.
They had made him wait in a room the size of a football field for more than half an hour, but he had not taken that as the offense they hoped to engender. Chacon knew all about these tactics, and he was not going to bite like a vulgar novice. He had the upper hand, and although he still did not have the key piece, they did not know it, so they could make him wait as much as they wish.
When the third cup of coffee was being served by himself from a small table where pastas and cookies were plentiful in every conceivable way, a young man appeared, dressed in an impeccable tailored suit and straighter than a candle. He told him to be kind enough to follow him, but Chacón finished his cup and helped himself to another delicious one of those cookies. The young man observed him annoyed, and when the old man took his time to choose another of the pastries, an audible snort of reproach ran through the room. Chacón turned around with a face expressing that he did not understand, and almost burst out laughing when he saw the angry face of the young man. He must not be used to that people make him wait for them.
—Sir, now you can follow me— he said one more time, with what was barely a grunt—. Please.
—Yeah, of course! Forgive me, my ear is not what it used to be.
They crossed a corridor that could have hosted a race in the Olympics and that ended in another room just as opulent as the others. This, except for the others for which they had promenaded Chacón, was not decorated with tapestries or portraits; nor were the walls covered with gold leaf, but it was completely wood-veneered. Three of the four walls were covered by enormous shelves, from which hung a ladder — it was necessary to access to the last shelf—, which allowed to reach the last volumes of the monstrous structure. Chacon had not seen such a quantity of volumes in his entire life. With a single glance at the nearest bookshelf he could see treatises, manuals, entire collections of leather-bound books, and what he thought could be thousands of pages of ancient appearance that protruded from large folders of tanned leather.
An aristocratic-looking man watched in silence the stupor with which Chacon was admiring the extensive library.
—Wonderful, isn’t it? —the man exclaimed. His piping voice disgusted Chacon almost instantly—. My family has been gathering them for years.
—Remarkable, the truth— admitted the old man.
—They don’t tell me the slightest thing— he went over to a small table and poured himself a glass of amber liquid. He did not offer another—. For me books are just artifacts that all what they do is accumulate dust. My grandfather came to pay a small fortune for a copy of "The Canterbury Tales", and when it was just touched it almost evaporated in his hands.
—Everyone pays for its vices.
—What I say is that people like my grandfather, who was able to take his industrial empire hard, almost lost his mind running from auction to auction to try to get a copy of the Leicester Code, for which he came out of Europe for the first time and only one in his life to offer almost twenty million dollars to a dealer, who over ridiculed him in front of a few American magnates.
—They are things that happen.
—What I want to say, Mr. Chacón, is that for me, art is just one more coin to play with— he downed the glass in one gulp and poured another—. A very powerful currency, if you deal with people like my grandfather, who is willing to blow the fruit of a life to pursue an obsession.
Chacon approached to the furniture and poured himself a generous portion of that bright liquid without being invited.
—Mr. Chacón, I want that collection— he said in a hard tone, fixing his eyes on the old man's—. And in return I will make you an incredibly rich man.
—It's not the money I'm looking for—. Chacon tried the liquor and tasted like blessed glory—. The terms of our offer are very clear.
—You get me that collection and I will accomplish your requirements point by point.
He took a few steps away and opened a strongbox embedded in the wall. After taking something out of it, he went up to Chacon and threw a bulging envelope of waxed paper as if offering a bone to a stray dog.
—The first payment— he concluded with disdain—. I want that collection before the end of the week and then you’ll have the rest.
—I've told you it's not because of the money that I came for— Chacon almost lost patience. He disliked that guy up to the root of the marrow—. And I will not leave until I get it.
The guy turned and looked at him with renewed interest. He went back to the box and took something out of it. He stopped to refill his glass, and then handed him a small disk, very like to a compact one.
—Here you have. In that disc are the names, until the last one of them— he dedicated a priggish smile to him, loaded with arrogance —. As you see, what I’ve told you Chacon, the obsessions end up losing the right men.
When the old man left the library preceded by the suited up young man, he heard:
—Before the week ends Mr. Chacón.
He needed to gather all the patience he could to not to turn around and put a bullet in that cocky head, so he bit his lip until he felt the blood on his tongue.
****
They did not make the slightest gesture until the Mercedes was lost in the unfathomable alleyways of the Cobo Calleja polygon, near Fuenlabrada. Rachel was driving while Juandi was sitting behind as if he was a great businessman. They parked on the sidewalk, near Jonás, and his friend put the window down to call him with a whistle. When Jonás sat down next to him, the giant had to restrain himself from turning around and hugging him.
Raquel parked the car near a block full of Chinese bazaar naves, and then Juandi rushed towards Jonás, who jumped when his friend’s body crushed him in the seat.
—What's wrong with you? —he asked, alarmed—. Are you injured?
—It's a long story that I'll tell you later. Do you have the pen drive?
—Yes, but you don’t see what it cost us to keep it! —he exclaimed excitedly—. A guy appeared...!
—Juandi— Raquel cut short, she had noticed that something was happening to Jonás. We'll catch up later—. Jonás, we must hide, and soon.
—I agree.
The Percocet he had taken a few hours ago was losing its effect, and the pain was beginning to be an annoying twinge in his stomach. He tried to hide it, but when he looked up, Rachel did not turn her scrutinizing eyes away from where he had been shot.
—I'm going to call a friend; he can be trusted, he will bring us money and some other things that we will need.
Less than ten minutes later, in which only Juandi had spoken, a Volkswagen beetle appeared that seemed to have lived many experiences. The canary yellow color that one day must have shone with the sun's rays was now faded and mixed with rust, which had mutated it to a kind of cream color. Between coughs of the escape and metallic noises a boy got out who could well have been acting as an extra in a futuristic film or in the new Mad Max. A pink crest was one of its most distinctive features, but not the only one. The tight leather pants shimmered and creaked as he climbed into the front of the car.
—Well, a Mercedes CLK 500! —he said in a mellifluous voice—. I see that you are prospering.
—I see that you are not.
They both laughed and embraced.
—What happened Raki? you don’t usually call to see us secretly, and if you do is that you're fucked to the balls.
—That's Proxy— she confirmed—, then I'll explain you everything. Now let's leave this car in...
—But what are you saying crazy woman! This is a C-L-K— he spelled remarking with an open mouth —. We leave the beetle here.
He got out and parked the old vehicle on one side of a gigantic factory, and then got behind the wheel of the Mercedes with a click of satisfaction. He put the first one and left like a bullet among the narrow streets of the polygon.
****
Jonás felt a little dizzy, but although he noticed a terrible nausea running down his throat with every swerve, he could not describe the joy he felt as he saw his friend and Raquel again. A young man with pink hair compacted by sweat was at the wheel, and he drove like he was in a police movie, making sudden turns and sudden changes of direction. Next to him, in the passenger seat, was Juandi, who had turned around and was watching him very worried. Jonás almost laughed when he saw that the giant comically turned around with his back stuck to the roof of the vehicle. Next to him was Rachel, who stroked his hair with a clear maternal gesture.
—How are you feeling stubborn? —she asked his friend once more—. It seems you are going to puke.
—Well, I really want, yes— he answered—. But I think I'll put up with a bit if that pink-haired Fitipaldi lowers the piston a little.
Juandi shouted something to the young man, but he did not pay any attention to him and continued his career at the Fast and Furious style.
In the end, the Mercedes took one of the detours and left the M30 to go to a neighborhood of crowded orange buildings —neo-Mudejar style—, in which most had already lost almost all their color and had been replaced by chunks of the size of industrial freezers. Proxy parked with a single turn on the edge of a garden in which a plate nicked in one of the corners prayed: "Parque del Manzanares".
—Welcome to Arganzuela— the young man presented as if he was a show’s animator. There you can see the Vicente Calderón, further to the right The Planetarium...
—Stop that bullshit! —implored Juandi.
The young man looked at him with a scowl, but he went to a building that looked like a giant hive, only made of bricks and cement. The young man explained that this was called rationalist.
—Despite the appearance, it’s a good neighborhood, but I trust that they’ll not bother us here.
—How are you so sure? —Juandi seemed worried.
—There we have our southern neighbors, Usera— he pointed—. Beyond there are the neighborhoods of the Puente de Vallecas and there, to the west, Latina and Carabanchel. Here in Arganzuela, if you know how to get away from who you owe, it is a great neighborhood, but the police don’t come much and it’s more "entertained" with our neighbors. What is certain is that whoever is of those who you are fleeing from, they will not want to come here and if they come we will know it.
The building was more ramshackle inside than it appeared on the outside. In the landings there was plaster dust, where the roofs had begun to peel, and on the banister, there was missing an iron rod for every two. Proxy led them cheerfully to the third flight of stairs and stopped at a door that appeared to have been painted at least three times in the recent years. He inserted a key into a chipped lock, and there was a clicking sound that lasted for a few seconds. Once inside, the three of them threw exclamations at the same time, and Proxy closed behind them.
—Welcome to my humble abode— he exclaimed with open arms—. Sit down
The floor could not be further from the image that the building augured. The walls were painted in soft, harmonious colors and, the floor, upholstered with wooden parquet. Two large white sofas surrounded a low glass table, and on the wall, suspended by an articulated arm, rested an imposing fifty-two-inch plasma television. In one of the corners, a desk buzzed because of three computers connected in to the network, in which the three monitors showed an identical screensaver.
—Proxy, how...? —articulated open-mouthed Raquel.
—You must keep up the appearances— explained the young man with a radiant smile—. If my neighbors knew what I keep here, this would turn into a supermarket in one day of offers.
Proxy prepared coffee while Raquel and Juandi caught up with Jonás. At first, he had been reluctant to tell the story in front of the young man, but Raquel assured him that he had known Proxy for many years and that he was completely confident. The boy was a young delinquent, son of a childhood friend, that Raquel prevented him from going to the reformatory when she declared herself his legal guardian. Since that day, the young man had helped him on countless occasions.
Jonás told what he had discovered in Iquique and the confrontation with Chacón and Anabel. Both Raquel and his friend insisted that he must have visited a real doctor upon his arrival in Madrid, but he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. Juandi did the same by updating his friend with the subject of Fumo and what they had learned from the documents that Jonás had found in the printing press.
—How did that old assassin know that you were in Chile? —Juandi asked.
—The truth, I don’t know, I suppose that he would have me under surveillance —he said—. The fact is that those pen drives must be very important for him to risk in leaving the country.
When they had finished catching up, Proxy came over with a jug full of steaming coffee and asked for the pencils. They were handed over him and the young man went straight to the desk, where the computers buzzed like an angry swarm.
—Now I'm going to gut these pen drives, but then I want to know what's going on here— he stared at the group—. Is it clear?
The three nodded meekly.