The sun was finally out and the park looked lovely in yellow light. Retirees were strolling the walkways, mothers were pushing prams, tourists were taking pictures.
He stopped noticing his surroundings.
A text from Lumaga made everything disappear.
The attached photo, Lumaga explained, was of Ferruccio Gressani at the Le Paz Hospital. In it, the young, bearded man wearing a long white lab coat, was standing in a hospital corridor in front of a sign:
Instituto de Genética Médica y Molecular
Marcus began taking long, fast strides toward the car.
*
The hospital complex, north of the city, was hugged by the busy M-30 motorway. The Institute of Genetics and Molecular Medicine was in its own modern building at the heart of the medical area. Marcus found the administration offices and asked to speak with the director. He didn’t think his Spanish was going to cut the mustard, so he asked in English.
“Dr. Gaytan?” the receptionist asked back.
“If Dr. Gaytan is the director, then yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “do you have an appointment today?”
“I don’t actually, but it’s important that I have a brief word with him.”
“This isn’t a patient area, sir. If you go down to the lobby, they can show you how to get to the clinics.”
“I’m not a patient. It’s a personnel matter I need Dr. Gaytan’s help with.”
“Without an appointment, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” She scribbled a number on a card and handed it over the counter. “If you call this number and leave a voice message, Dr. Gaytan can decide whether he can call you back.”
He could tell if he persisted on the same track that she was only a couple of steps away from calling security. In the parking garage, he had prepared for a brick-wall moment by pulling out a relic from his wallet, an old, worn business card.
Central Intelligence Agency
Marcus Handler
George Bush Center for Intelligence
Langley, Virginia 22101
He presented it and repeated that it was urgent that he speak with the director. She looked at it wide-eyed, excused herself, and disappeared through a door. While he waited, he wondered how many laws he had just broken. She quickly returned and asked him to follow her. At a corner office overlooking hilly parkland further to the north, a man Marcus’s age got up from his desk and slipped on a figure-hugging suit jacket that had been draped over his chair.
“Mr. Handler, I am Dr. Gaytan,” he said. “Please come in.”
Gaytan had luxuriously thick, black hair, graying at the temples and a film-star tan. Marcus never paid much attention to another man’s physical attributes, but there was no denying that this was a good-looking fellow. He offered Marcus a coffee and when he accepted, Gaytan picked up his phone.
He returned Marcus’s card, presented one of his own—Dr. Ferrol Luis Gaytan, director of the institute, and said, “How may I assist you, Mr. Handler? It’s not every day that I get a visit from the CIA.”
“I’m looking for information on one of your former employees.”
“This is a very large facility with hundreds of employees, but if I don’t know the individual personally, I can make inquiries within the appropriate group.”
A stylish female administrative assistant materialized with the coffees and when she left, Marcus said, “Ferruccio Gressani. He was a laboratory technician who worked here about six years ago.”
Gaytan frowned and said, “I don’t recognize the name. How old is he?”
“The question should be, how old was he? He was thirty-two.”
“He’s dead?”
“Murdered.”
“May I ask why the CIA is interested in this man?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“Which can only mean some sort of terroristic association. It’s important for you to know about his employment at the institute?”
“It is. And to see if anyone knows where he went when he left here.”
“Then, I will find out. Let me make a call.”
Gaytan called his assistant and asked to be transferred to the human resources office where he inquired after the personnel file of a Ferruccio Gressani who left employment in the time frame Marcus stipulated. Marcus sipped coffee and tried to make out the Spanish of Gaytan’s end of the conversation.
“He was an Italian national? The cytogenetics lab? Who was his supervisor? Me? It couldn’t have been me. Ah, Lopez was the lab manager. Yes, I was the acting head of the lab back then. Wait a minute, I remember the boy. Yes, yes, now I remember. Yes, I refused to write a letter of reference when he left. For obvious reasons. Was there a forwarding address of any kind? I see. Look, you’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”
Gaytan hung up and shook his head.
“I understood some of that,” Marcus said. “I was stationed in Spain for a few years.”
“Good, good, then you heard that my memory was prodded and I realized I knew Gressani. He was a charming boy, a low-level technician who operated some of our analytical instruments. Sometimes he made a joke about the similarities in our first names—Ferruccio and Ferrol. I found it a little forward, but I never paid it much attention. He was dismissed. Fired. The laboratory manager discovered a piece of machinery was missing and it seems Gressani stole it. When confronted with the evidence, he admitted the theft and returned it. It was suspected that he had a drugs problem. We agreed to not report him to the police in return for his immediate resignation. The institute just wanted to be done with the situation. His file doesn’t have any information on where he might have gone. You say he was murdered?”
“In Italy.”
“I see. It seems his life took an unfortunate turn. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, Mr. Handler.”
Marcus sighed. Another dead end. “Do you think you could steer me toward the human resources office. I’ve got another person I’m working on. She could have worked anywhere in the hospital. Her name is Celeste Bobier.”
Gaytan’s face
