boot pop open and, a few seconds later, close. The man came out of the garage, closed the doors. The second man moved over to Consuelo, crouched down behind her. She should have worn trousers. He started at her ankles, pen torch in his mouth.
'You can see I'm not hiding anything down there,' she said.
No response. The hands went up her skirt. She gritted her teeth as fingers and thumbs reached up to her crotch, over her buttocks, came back down again. Small of the back, stomach, cupped her breasts, a little grunt at her shoulder. He slipped a sleeping mask over her eyes, too.
'Come with me,' he said, and took Consuelo's arm.
The other man took care of Falcon. They headed for the low farmhouse. Their heads were pushed down as they entered the low doorway.
'Sit.'
They were pressed down into chairs. The one doing the talking was the Cuban they'd spoken to on the phone. Falcon had the small box of disks on his lap now. He did not like the sleeping mask, had not been prepared for it.
'I don't know how I'm going to be able to see my son with this thing on,' said Consuelo, 'so I'm taking it off.'
'Wait!' said the Cuban.
'Careful, Consuelo,' said Falcon.
'I'm not doing this blindfolded,' she said and ripped off the mask.
Falcon removed his as well, just so that the men in the room had too much to do at once, made them indecisive. Two of the Russians already had kerchiefs over their faces, the other two pulled down balaclavas with eye and mouth holes. One of these men stepped forward with a handgun, which he put to Consuelo's forehead. His hand trembled slightly, but with rage rather than fear. He had his finger on the trigger and the safety was off. Consuelo's eyeballs shivered, her neck tensed and ducked into her shoulder as she felt the barrel touch her skin. The Cuban spoke in Russian. There was a brutal exchange and the man stepped back.
'If you want to stay alive to see your son then you have to do as you're told,' said the Cuban. 'These men do not care one way or the other whether you survive this or not. To them, killing you would be no more trouble than lighting a cigarette.'
The Cuban came round to stand in front of them. He was the only one of the men in the room who was not physically intimidating. He had spectacles above his kerchief.
'Do not do anything of your own accord. If I ask you to do something, move slowly. Most important: keep calm.'
The four Russians ranged behind him were all heavily built and Falcon knew, just by looking at them, that his fist, even if delivered with maximum force, would make no impression. They had the solidity of labourers. There was nothing gym-built about their physiques, even though two of them were wearing track suits with no vests underneath so that chest hair sprouted out over the zips. Their muscle looked as if it had been generated over decades of not just giving, but also taking, punishment. They all wore heavy gold watches on thick wrists and had messily tattooed hands that looked hardened by the breaking of facial bones.
'Are we going to meet Senor Donstov?' asked Falcon.
'He will arrive in due course,' said the Cuban. 'First, we must take a look at the disks.'
'Before you do anything, I want to see my son.'
'You will see your son as soon as we have established that these disks are genuine,' said the Cuban. 'You can understand that.'
The Cuban pulled out one of the four raffia-seated chairs, sat at the table and opened a laptop. Falcon handed over the disks. There was a room behind where the Cuban was sitting, door closed, and another room behind the four Russians, who were all now smoking. There was no electricity. The room was lit by an assortment of gas and kerosene lamps, which gave off a harsh white and oily yellow light under the wooden roof. The floor was of unglazed clay tiles, some light and smooth, others dark and roughened from saltpetre coming through. The walls were thick and had not seen whitewash for a few years so that they were flaking and the tiles below were powdered white.
The Cuban worked his way through the twenty-five disks, making notes on a pad as he went. He had the volume turned down so there were no accompanying grunts and groans as he played through the footage, fast- forwarding, playing, fast-forwarding again.
'What's going to happen here?' asked Falcon, who'd taken in every detail of the Russians, including the fact that they kept themselves completely separate from their captives. He couldn't put his finger on the meaning of this distance, but he knew it made him feel uneasy.
'Patience, Inspector Jefe,' said the Cuban. 'All will be revealed in due course.'
'My son isn't here, is he?' said Consuelo, hysteria rising in her voice. 'There's something that's telling me he's not in this place. Where is he? What have you done with him?'
'Your maternal instinct is wrong. He is here,' said the Cuban, looking at the room beyond where the Russians were standing. 'He's under sedation. We had to give him a small injection. You can't keep a boy like that still or quiet.'
'Let me see him then. You've got what you want. You're going through all those disks but you know you've got it all.'
'I'm just doing what I've been told to do,' said the Cuban. 'If I deviate from my orders things will go wrong.'
'I'm going to see him,' said Consuelo, and she was up and off her chair and across the room.
The Russians threw down their cigarettes. The one closest to the door drew his gun from behind his back. Two closed in on her. She battered at them with her fists, kicked with her feet. They were impervious, didn't even close their eyes to her swatting or so much as wince with annoyance. The Cuban spoke in Russian. They picked her up off the floor. Her legs flailed. They brought her back across the room, thumped her in the chair. One raised his terrible hand to her. The Cuban spoke again in Russian.
'I'm asking them to be gentle with you,' he said, in Spanish now. 'If he slapped you, I doubt you'd wake up before next week, or he might just accidentally break your neck. They don't know their own strength, these people.'
'I don't like this,' she said, fear in her eyes for the first time and not for her own skin. 'I don't like this at all.'
'The only reason you're upset is that you are trying to fight against it,' said the Cuban. 'I know it's difficult, but just relax.'
'Then tell us what's going to happen,' said Falcon. 'She'll calm down if you tell her how you're going to proceed.'
'I will check the disks. I'm more than halfway through them now,' said the Cuban. 'When I am satisfied, I will make a call and Senor Donstov will arrive to pick them up. At that moment you will be able to see your son before he is taken away by Senor Donstov. Your son will then remain with him until you comply with the rest of the agreement. Is that all right?'
Falcon and Consuelo exchanged a look. Her head, without the slightest shake, told him that it was not all right. That this was all very, very wrong. The Cuban glanced up from the screen. He knew what he had on his hands. He'd been in this situation before. He knew there was nothing a human being intuited better than the approach of their own demise. He knew how all the killing had been done in the world's civil wars; people from the same village killing each other, people who'd known each other and their families since birth killing each other. What they did was herd them together, stick them in pens and thereby diminish their humanity, so that they became nothing more than sheep to be slaughtered. The Cuban saw the same realization dawning on Falcon, who'd been looking at the Russians, trying to understand them, what they were doing over there. Now Falcon understood their separateness; the distance was so that the slaughtermen didn't smell the sweetness of their humanity and the animal caught no presentiment of the blade.
'Why are you doing this?' asked Falcon.
'What?'
'Don't make me say it.'
'Be calm, Inspector Jefe. All will be well,' said the Cuban, lazily, as if speaking from a hammock.
