face but, you know, the translator. So… I was gentle.'
'He could have been mistaken for civilized, if he hadn't confessed to seven murders,' said Falcon.
'What else do we want from him?' said Ramirez. 'He seems keen to talk.'
'Don't look at me, this is your investigation now, Jose Luis. I have to be out of the building in three minutes,' said Falcon, telling him about his suspension. 'What you should do is go through all those faces on Vasili Lukyanov's disks with Cortes and Diaz and get them to identify all the building inspectors. Then look into the backgrounds of all the other men and see if any of them were trained electricians, possibly even army trained. Interview them and see if they crack. I think that was one of the things Lukyanov was bringing with those disks. The answers to the Seville bombing conspiracy.'
They shook hands, clapped each other on the shoulder. Falcon went to the bottom of the staircase.
'And one other thing, Jose Luis: Ferrera and Perez are on their way to Lukyanov's puti club to pick up Marisa Moreno's sister,' he said. 'From what Sokolov's just said, they're dangerous people out there. They should have full back-up before they go in.'
'You'll be reinstated, Javier,' said Ramirez. 'They're not going to be able to -'
'Not this time, Jose Luis,' said Falcon, and with a quick salute he went up the stairs.
31
Ceuta – Wednesday, 20th September 2006, 15.30 hrs
The Hotel Puerta de Africa was a new four-star hotel in the Gran Via of the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, a short taxi ride from the ferry terminal. Under a later instruction from Pablo, Falcon had left his car in Algeciras on the Spanish mainland, which meant they could take the quickest hydrofoil across the Straits of Gibraltar. On the way over he had told Consuelo almost everything of the contents of Yacoub's letter, but had not let her read it. There were things that weren't for her eyes. He left her in the taxi and went into the gleaming white hotel atrium, which looked as far from Africa as you could get. He asked for Alfonso and was pointed across the marble floor to the concierge's desk. He hit the bell. A man in his forties with a heavy moustache and matching eyebrows came out. Falcon told him he was a great admirer of Pablo Neruda and was taken into his office.
'You didn't bring your car?' said Alfonso, making a call.
'We're in a cab.'
'Good. It's less complicated. I'll get you through the border in a few minutes. There'll be a car waiting for you on the other side. Don't worry. They'll find you. There's another cab outside. Transfer your bags and get going.'
That was it. There was a five-minute drive to the Moroccan border. The cab went straight through to the Moroccan side without stopping. The driver took their passports, got them stamped, came back and told them to go to the Customs guy with their bags. At Customs they were taken to a Peugeot 307 and given the keys. Not a word was spoken. They got in, eased through the crowds and drove along the coast to Tetuan. He called Yousra from there, and asked her to meet him in the Hotel Bab Mansour in Meknes. Abdullah had already flown in from London. He would drive her there.
Through the Rif mountains was a beautiful drive but exhausting, so Falcon took the route via Larache and Sidi- Kacem. It took three and a half hours, but they gained a couple of hours in time difference so it was just 5 p.m. when they parked up in the garage of the Hotel Bab Mansour in Meknes. Yousra, Leila and Abdullah were waiting in the bar area, drinking Coke. The women were dressed in black, Abdullah in charcoal grey. Yousra looked composed until she saw Falcon. He went over, hugged the three of them to him. He introduced Consuelo, told Yousra he needed to speak to Abdullah alone for a while.
In the bland businessman's hotel room Falcon handed over Yacoub's last letter, which Abdullah read sitting on the edge of the bed. Until now Abdullah had been holding it together, playing the man of the family. The letter destroyed him. He went into the reading experience as an eighteen-year-old boy and its initial effect was to reduce him to a child. He lay on his side on the bed and bawled silently, with the face of a starving baby. Then he sat himself up, wiped his tears from his eyes and rebuilt himself into a twenty-five-year-old man there and then. Falcon burnt the letter in the hotel waste bin.
'We won't talk about that letter now,' said Falcon. 'Just let it sink in.'
'When I heard his name on the news in London, I couldn't believe it,' said Abdullah. 'I could not believe he'd done that. So that letter was terrible, but it was a relief, too.'
Abdullah stood up and embraced Falcon.
'You've been a good friend, Javier. My father would not have entrusted these things to you if you had been anything less,' he said. 'If ever you need me, you can count on me – and I mean that. Even in the same way as my father.'
'Don't even think about it, Abdullah.'
'That's not something I need to think about,' he said. 'I know. You can count on me.'
'I do need your help now,' said Falcon. 'Has your mother ever been to the Diouri house in Fes?'
'Of course. She goes there every month. She saw that as one of her duties as my father's wife,' said Abdullah. 'She mustn't know what you are going to do, though. She is very fond of Mustafa. As my father said, Mustafa was like a brother to him, and that was how she treated him.'
'And he was an uncle to you,' said Falcon.
'But an impostor,' said Abdullah, looking Falcon in the eye. 'What my father didn't tell you in the letter is that Mustafa is very charismatic. Apart from anything else, he sells a lot of carpets. The tourists love him even as he despises them. My advice to you is not to engage.'
'I need Yousra to get me into the Diouri house afterwards.'
'That is perfectly possible. It will be quite natural for her, under these circumstances, to go to Fes and mourn with the other women there. They will expect it of her,' said Abdullah. 'The woman with you, Consuelo, is this boy her son?'
Falcon nodded, stunned by the transformation of Abdullah from the slack-limbed teenager he'd known on the family holiday a month ago, to this focused young man he'd become in the last half-hour.
'It's better that neither my mother nor Leila are told about the boy. These women in the Diouri house know each other very well and my mother is not an actress,' said Abdullah. 'She will have an audience with Mustafa's mother as soon as she arrives, and that woman is frightening. She might be mad, but she doesn't miss anything.'
'All right, so how will I get into the house?'
'I will be accompanying her, but I will not be party to their conversation. I will stay downstairs and let you in.'
'Do you know the house?'
'I know everything about that house. When Leila and I were children we were left to play – and you know what children are like. We discovered everything. All the secret passages and back staircases. Don't worry, Javier. Everything will be fine. I think it's best we go our separate ways now. We will arrive in Fes as the grieving family,' said Abdullah, writing down his mobile number. 'Call me when you are ready and I'll make sure everything goes smoothly in the house in Fes.'
They embraced again. Abdullah went to the door, fitted his feet into his barbouches. Falcon could see his mind still working.
'Nothing will change my mind, Javier,' he said.
'But remember, Abdullah: your father sacrificed his life so that you would not suffer what he went through,' said Falcon. 'You've just read his letter. He did not want to be a spy, and he did not want that life for you either.' As they set off for Fes the clouds in the western sky were aflame, with the reddening sun already low on the horizon. Falcon drove in silence.
'I can nearly hear what's going on in your head, but not quite,' said Consuelo, after half an hour.
'The usual problem,' said Falcon. 'Trust. I don't know whether I've just made a big mistake in assuming that Abdullah is as his father believed.'
'A 'friend'?'
