It was a short drive to Calle de la Villa de Marín. Marcus parked outside Celeste’s old apartment block, a red-brick tower with stacked balconies, and called Lumaga to tell him what he had just learned.
“Incredible,” Lumaga said. “Ferruccio and Celeste may have known each other.”
“I’m betting they did,” Marcus said. “They worked in the same institute and left the hospital in the same time frame. The question is—where did they go and who was paying them all that money?”
Lumaga added, “And what were they being paid to do? The usual way that people get rich fast is drugs. It’s interesting that this Dr. Gaytan thought that Ferruccio might have had a habit. There’s also his undeniable ’Ndrangheta connection. The big unanswered question is how the girls fit into this picture.”
“Kidnapping to raise cash would have fit—if there’d been a ransom demand. We also don’t know how the Slovakians fit into the picture. Is there an ’Ndrangheta/Slovakia connection?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but these gangsters get around. They have tentacles. What’s next for you?”
“I’m outside a building where Celeste used to live. I’m going to see if I can find out where she went after La Paz.”
Marcus pushed open the red gate to the courtyard of the apartment building and entered the lobby. The next set of doors was locked. He saw a man with a small dog waiting for the elevator and rapped on the glass to get his attention. The man gave him a sour look and got into the elevator. There was a large array of buzzers on the wall and he pressed 719, Celeste’s old unit, but there was no response. He tried 718 and 720 with the same result, but a man answered at 717.
In his best Spanish, he attempted to say, “Excuse me, I am an old friend of the woman, Miss Bobier, who used to live in apartment 719. I’d like to speak to you about where she went to live after she left the building.”
The man answered, “I’m sorry, what?”
When he tried again, the man said, “I speak English. What do you want?”
The man immediately buzzed him up.
Marcus saw the peephole darkening as the resident of apartment 717 gave him the once-over. Apparently, his appearance wasn’t threatening, because the door opened, revealing an elderly gentleman with a goatee, leaning heavily on a cane. Marcus was invited into a tidy room dominated by books. Aside from the man’s lounger, there weren’t any chairs or sofas without stacks of books and periodicals on them.
“I apologize,” the man said. “I like books more than people.”
As he made a one-handed attempt to clear off a chair, Marcus said, “I can stand. I don’t want to take up your time, I—”
“Nonsense. There. Sit. Let’s be civilized. You seem like a civilized fellow—for an American. I am Javier.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Javier.”
“As it was intended.”
“I’m Marcus.”
“Hello, Marcus. Tea?”
Marcus thought it would be rude to decline, so he lied and said he’d love a cup.
He heard a stove-top kettle whistling from the kitchen and when the old man returned with one hand on his cane and one on a cup, he accepted a tea in a chipped mug. Marcus offered to get Javier’s cup, but the man said no, and made another round trip.
“You have an extensive library,” Marcus said. “A lot of English books.”
“I was a university professor,” he said. “I taught courses in comparative governments. I was a minor expert on the American government.”
“My old employer.”
“Oh, yes? Which branch?”
“I spent my career at the CIA.”
“Really? How fascinating. You retired from there?”
“I guess you could say that. I suppose I could be called a burnt-out case.”
That induced a broad smile. “The title of my favorite Graham Greene novel.”
“Except I didn’t have leprosy,” Marcus said.
“Excellent. You are well read. Is the tea to your liking?”
“Very nice, thanks.”
“Tell me, how can I help you?”
“As I said, Celeste Bobier is an old friend I’ve lost contact with. I know she used to live in number 719. Did you know her?”
“Not well, but I knew her, certainly. We saw each other in passing. A very attractive, young Frenchwoman who was a nurse at the La Paz Hospital, I believe. She asked about my walking because of this silly stick.”
“Do you know where she went when she moved out?”
“I have no idea. We were not that close.”
“I don’t suppose you know why she left her job at the hospital?”
“I would not know that either. But you know, the woman immediately next door to her in number 720, Señora Iglesias, knew her better, I believe. Unlike me, she still works, but I can ask her tonight and give you a call.”
“I have an American mobile number. You’ll need to dial—”
“I’m sure that will be too complicated for me.”
“Then I can give you my hotel number.”
“Much easier,” the man said.
*
Marcus returned to his hotel near the Quintana Metro stop and found a parking spot on the street for the BMW. It was warm, almost hot, and he left his jacket in the car when he set off, looking for a liquor store. When he returned with a bottle of Scotch and a sandwich, he stopped to retrieve his jacket and went inside.
Across the street, a big blond man in jeans and an untucked shirt watched, smoking a cigarette. When Marcus disappeared, so did the man.
Marcus spent the rest of the day at his hotel, holed up with the bottle, watching TV and metering his drinking in case he got a call about Celeste from Dr. Gaytan or the old man with the cane. When nightfall came, he ate the other half of his sandwich and threw caution to the wind, knocking back the whiskey until he was pleasantly inebriated. At some point, he dozed off until the hotel phone rang him awake.
“Is this Marcus?” a man asked.
“Yes, who’s this?” he said groggily.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” the man said. “This is Javier from apartment 717. You know, the one with all the books.”
He sat up. “Of course. No, you’re not disturbing me.”
“I just spoke to my neighbor, Señora Iglesias. She tells me that she spoke to your friend shortly before she left the building. She will gladly speak to you if you wish to see her this evening.”
“That’s fantastic. Please tell her I’ll be there shortly,” Marcus said.
It was nine-fifteen. Rising to his feet, Marcus realized he wasn’t fit to drive. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth and his hair, and grabbed his phone. He groaned when he saw the battery was almost run down; the charger plug had been off. On the street, he hailed a passing taxi and tried using willpower to sober up.
*
At ten o’clock, Abril Segura, on the way home from the airport, called Marcus and got put straight into voice mail. She tried a second time a few minutes later, then asked her driver to take her to his hotel.
Arriving, she said to the driver, “Wait for me,” then changed her mind and said, “No, just drop me off. I see my car.”
*
Mrs. Iglesias was a nice woman who seemed delighted to have an American pay a visit. She too was a passable English-speaker. She took the opportunity to invite her neighbor, Javier over and offered up slices of cake. When she asked if Marcus wanted coffee, he jumped on the opportunity to clear his head further. Once ensconced in her frilly sitting room, there was no fast escape. She was determined to give Marcus the details of both her trips to the United States before turning to the subject of her old neighbor.
Finally, he was able to interject, “I understand that you knew Celeste fairly well.”
“What a beauty she was,” the woman gushed. “But you know that.”
“You don’t see all that many redheads these days,” Javier said, cake crumbs falling from his mouth onto his jumper. “It used to be more popular.”
“Did she tell you why she was leaving her job?” Marcus asked.
“I believe I asked,” Iglesias said, “but she was vague. It’s time to move on—yes, that’s what she said. I remember that because I have never moved on from anything. I have always done what I did before. I work for the municipality, you know, ever since I left school.”
“Did she tell you where she was moving?”
“I remember that too. You know, her Spanish was excellent and she spoke with a charming French accent. She told me, ‘I going to the live where I can see the mountains.’ She said, ‘I love mountains.’ She said, ‘I grew up near the Alps.’”
“Which mountains?” Marcus asked.
“Well, I don’t really know, but I’m quite sure it was in Spain. Yes, Spain. I don’t recall why I know, but for some reason I feel certain of that. Javier asked me if I had a forwarding address, but I do not. Would you like more cake?”
Marcus declined and wondered why he couldn’t have been told this less than illuminating information over the phone. This spurred him to check his mobile. It was completely dead.
*
At the hotel reception desk, Segura was told that Marcus Handler’s key wasn’t in its slot, so it appeared he had gone out. She had the clerk ring the room to make sure and when there was no response, she tried his cell phone one last time. She asked the clerk for an envelope, then took a paper from her briefcase and wrote in the margin: Sorry I missed you. Here’s the information you requested. I spotted my car outside—I need it for a meeting tomorrow away from the office. Luckily, I have my spare keys. Let’s grab dinner tomorrow night. OK?
She sealed the envelope, left it at the desk, then rolled her travel bag along the sidewalk to the car.
*
Marcus was seven kilometers away and inside Señora Iglesias’s apartment, when they heard a low, rumbling blast. They had a brief discussion about what might have happened, before he thanked his host and managed to slip away.
His taxi driver complained that he couldn’t get close to the hotel because of fire trucks and emergency vehicles blocking the road. He got out on a street several blocks behind the hotel and walked the rest of the way. When he got closer, he saw emergency services crews and police were everywhere. The smell of gasoline was in the air and small pieces of glass and metal were afoot. Whatever happened was near to where he left the BMW. He’d be mad as hell if Abril’s car was damaged on his watch.
“What’s going on?” Marcus asked the clerk when he got inside.
“There was a huge explosion, very close to us,” the clerk said. “No one is telling us anything. If it was a gas explosion, you would think they would tell us.” He shook his head and remembered something. “A woman left a letter for you.”
Marcus tore open the envelope, saw the handwritten note, and rushed outside in a panic. He ran toward the fire trucks and got close enough for a policeman to stop him going further.
There was a tangled, smoking hulk of metal where he’d parked the BMW.
He tried to push through and the policeman and another manhandled him back.
“My friend was in that car!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, let me through!”
*
The crowds grew and the sidewalk in front of the hotel was clogged with pedestrians trying to get close to the bomb site. The hotel clerk was seized by morbid fascination and for every minute he spent at reception, he spent ten outside, trying to see if he could find out what was going on.
He was away from his post when a large man with blond hair entered the deserted lobby, checked the guest list on the logged-in computer, and headed upstairs to Marcus Handler’s room.
*
It was hours later when Marcus got to his hotel room. He went straight for the Scotch, sat on the edge of the bed, and swigged from the bottle, wishing he was the one who’d been killed. When he felt his brain numbing, he reached into his pocket for Abril’s letter. He read her note again, then looked at the substance of it. It was a printout of a single, five-year-old wire transfer for two hundred thousand euros sent from a bank in Segovia, Spain to Celeste Bobier’s Panamanian account.
Marcus blinked at the sender’s name.
Dr. Ferrol Luis Gaytan.