“I’m sorry to say that she’s dead too.”
“My God! What happened?”
“Also murdered. Again, I can’t discuss any of the details.”
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Gaytan said, shaking his head. “Has the world gone mad?”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Well, she was French—from the south of France, if I can recall. She was very competent, energetic, a good sense of humor. And as I implied, she was also something of a beauty. She turned heads.”
“Did you know her socially as well as professionally?”
“Heavens, no! Did I give you that impression? Just professionally, I assure you.”
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t recall exactly. Four years ago? Five?”
“Why’d she leave?”
“My recollection is that she needed to return to France. A sick mother, perhaps?”
“You had no further contact with her?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Would you have given her a reference?”
“It’s quite possible. She was an excellent nurse. I can check my files.”
“Do you know if she and Gressani knew each other when they worked here?”
“I have no idea about that. You’re sure you can’t tell me what happened to Celeste? This is deeply shocking news.”
“I wish I could. Listen, could I trouble you for one last thing? Could you also check with your human resources people and see if she left a forwarding address?”
Gaytan stood and pointed to his thin, gold watch. “I have a meeting now, but I’ll be happy to look into this further. I didn’t see a contact number on your business card. How can I reach you?”
Marcus asked for a piece of paper and wrote down his mobile number.
“You’re staying in Madrid?”
He said he was and mentioned his hotel.
“I think I’ve heard of it,” Gaytan said with a bemused smile. “I think maybe the CIA doesn’t give you a big expense account.”
27
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
