him legally?”
It was now Colonel Molina who lit up one of his cigarettes, before responding. “No, he was incredibly clean. But the fact is they let him back in to keep an eye on him and see what he wanted to do. He sorted his re-entry through the International Red Cross, as his father is sick. And it was decided it was best to let him come back in.”
“I more or less expected an answer like that, so I will now ask my second question. Did he throw off his minder?”
“Yes, regrettably from our point of view and his, he slipped the tail that had been put on him. Are you equally happy with that answer?”
The Count nodded, and raised his hand like a suspicious pupil.
“But now I want to ask a third question: did anyone ever find out or suspect why Forcade stayed in Madrid? Because this kind of man isn’t the type to defect for the usual reasons, I assume?”
“There were several suspicions, as there always are in such cases. For example, at the end of ’78 they discovered a case of fraud in Planning and the Economy, but they could never prove he was involved. People also thought he might have taken something when he worked in Expropriated Property, but he was never known to sell anything valuable. There was also a suspicion he had information to give, though nothing was ever proved and Forcade never made any public declarations… I told you already: he seemed clean and that’s why he dared to return. Now I want to hear your request and I’ll tell you if I can agree to it.”
The Count looked the Colonel in the eye and placed the folder on his desk, before answering: “I don’t think it’s anything too difficult to grant me: I just want to speak to Major Rangel before I give you my reply. And if I accept, I want him to help me if need be…”
Colonel Molina put his cigar out gently, extinguishing the embers against the walls of the metal ashtray, and scrutinized Mario Conde.
“You’re an admirable man, Lieutenant… The fact is I thought such loyalties were a thing of the past. Of course, speak to your friend the Major, consult him to your heart’s content and tell him from me that I regret what has happened and apologize for not going to tell him so personally, but that might be awkward, particularly for me. As things stand now… Well, I’ll expect you back in two hours, Lieutenant,” and he stood to attention, giving a precise, fluid military salute.
Surprised by his martial gesture, the Count stood up and moved his hand across his forehead, in an attempted salute that was more like a farewell or, perhaps, merely a flick to see off the buzzing fly of doubt.
Ana Luisa looked surprised when she opened the door and found herself face to face with Lieutenant Mario Conde.
“Now what are you doing here, my boy?”
The Count looked at her, pleased by the initial effect provoked by his visit, then he tried a familiar gambit: “I came to see if one of your daughters will marry me. Either would do nicely and I quite like the father-in-law who comes in tow.”
The woman finally smiled, as she let him in and patted him on the shoulder.
“With that face, I don’t think either will fall for you.”
“I must look terrible: you’re the third person to say that today,” said the Count resignedly. “Where’s your husband then?”
“Go through. He’s in the library. I’ll bring your tea in a moment.”
“Hey, Ana Luisa, has anyone been to see him?”
The woman glanced at him and he saw affecting pools of sadness in her eyes.
“No, Conde, not one of those who were his friends has dropped by. Well, you know what it’s like: if you fall by the wayside… Just as well you…” she stammered before rushing into the kitchen.
The Count walked across the dining room, stopped in front of the sliding door to the library and rapped twice with his knuckle.
“Push it, Mario, come in,” spoke a voice from beyond the closed doors.
He pushed one of the doors and found Major Rangel behind his desk: the situation was like a slightly altered replay of their encounters at Headquarters, but on this occasion the Count wondered how the Boss could have known it was him: the doors were wooden and not opaque glass like at the office and his dialogue with Ana Luisa had been too distant to reach the Major’s almost sixty-year-old ears.
“Just tell me one thing, Boss. How do you know when it’s me? Do I smell or something…? You know I’m not a man to use cologne.”
“Forget the bloody cologne: I saw you arrive from this window,” and he pointed to the shutters that looked over the garden. “Did Ana Luisa say she’d bring a coffee?”
“No, she mentioned tea.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” shouted the Major as if he were in pain. “Do you know what that woman has decided, Mario? That she must keep telling me to lead a healthier life, that I smoke a lot, drink a lot of coffee… And now she makes tea: and makes it from all sorts, orange leaves, lemongrass, crushed aniseed, whatever, because she reckons real tea constipates and stresses… As if I was ever stressed.”
“And what about your cigars?”
Rangel smiled expansively: a twitch of the upper lip, which didn’t even reveal the glint of a tooth.
“Of course, of course. Help yourself,” and he opened the small mahogany humidor on his desktop. “You know what these are? They’re a truly wonderful set of Cohibas Lanceros. I can tell you they’re the best cigars in the whole world. Go on, choose one. Take a good look, what sheen, what colour, what works of art… Beautiful, aren’t they?”
The Count studied the cigars, arrayed in strict formation in the humidor, shiny and straight-backed like healthy animals, their necks ringed, and thought how the Major’s premature retirement must be driving him mad: he never reckoned he would see the day when he’d give away a cigar of such distinction. When it came to cigars, the Boss was an eccentric connoisseur and incredibly tight-fisted.
“If you say so.” He nodded and took one of the Lanceros, the first in the set, while the Major eyed the rest and opted for one in the middle, after weighing up two or three other possibilities.
“Now be careful how you prime it,” Rangel warned when he saw him bite the end of the cigar. “That decides everything: if you don’t prime it properly, you will certainly ruin the cigar… Tell me, how do you prefer to do it? With scissors or the guillotine?”
“I don’t know, I always use my teeth, you know.”
“Fine, but wet it first so you don’t break the outer layer. Look, like this,” and he continued his lesson, moistening the cigar and twisting it between his lips, finally tweaking it like a nipple, with the delicacy of an experienced lover. “You see?”
Ana Luisa brought in a sweet infusion of unknown provenance, and after drinking it, the two men lit their havanas, the blue clouds from which perfumed the atmosphere in the library. Only then did the Count decide to speak up: “How you feeling, Boss?”
“Can’t you see? Fucked, and on boiled water, as if I had diarrhoea. But don’t worry… I won’t die from what happened. These are the risks that go with the job.”
“What damned risks? It’s a load of crap,” blurted the Count, almost choking on the smoke from his cigar. “You’re the best head of criminal investigation the country has…”
“You think so, Mario? And how do you explain the fact that several of my detectives were criminals and used their positions to further their own ends?”
“There was no reason why you should have known…”
“Yes, I ought, Mario, that much is obvious… But I never thought so many could do so much. And don’t start telling me about human nature or skeletons in the… The fact is I burned my fingers on their behalf and look,” he held out his arms, “I got singed.”
“And why did you trust someone like me?” the Count queried, hoping to hear Major Rangel bestow rare praise.
“Because I must be mad,” replied the Boss, smiling once more: he now shifted only his upper lip from the edge of the cigar. “Hey, Mario, in all these years you never once damned well told me why you joined the police. Will you tell me now?”
The Count nodded, relieved to find the Rangel he’d always known and not the defeated, crestfallen man he had
