Читать книгу The Foreign Girls - Sergio Olguin - Страница 20

Three dreamed of being a champion wrestler. He had started boxing at the Huracán club, but he lacked technique and couldn’t move his waist and arms quickly enough. The boys who had been boxing there for a while used to beat the crap out of him. But one of the trainers thought he might be suited to kick-boxing because he had strength, stamina and the flexibility to kick with a raised leg. He took Three to El Turco Elías’ gym, where kick-boxing champions were made. And he was really good. He won a few contests, until one day he damaged his meniscus and had to take something like three months off and when he went back he just wasn’t the same any more. He was too cautious, fearful even, when delivering kicks. It was around that time he and another kid started stealing car radios, or whatever they could find in parked cars. Once he got caught breaking a van window. He was taken to the police station and his only thought was to ring the gym. El Turco Elías went to get him out. He didn’t say anything to him, didn’t scold him or give him a sermon or anything like that. A month later El Turco got him work as a bouncer in a disco.

Now Three’s nights consisted of ejecting troublemakers, roughing up the odd prick, watching out for the people dealing drugs on the dance floor and making sure nobody bothered them. It was good work because he got laid a lot, took uncut drugs and made good money. After two years working there, El Turco Elías took him to Doctor Zero. He had to change his habits and, even though he had never stopped his daily training at the gym, he had to work on his fitness. Fewer drugs, no messing around with girls, better focus. The first few jobs for Doctor Zero didn’t involve any kind of weapon. Just fists. Then he had to learn to use a gun. It was three months 61before they sent him on a hit job. And that time he was just accompanying the man who was going to do the shooting.

Six months in, Three killed his first man. The instructions that day would be similar to those in subsequent jobs: he would arrive with one other, or with two others, and suddenly, without a word, they would shoot the target. Killing quickly became a routine like any other, like going to the gym or a strip club. It didn’t produce any particular feeling in him, and perhaps for that reason he had always done his job perfectly. He had no weaknesses, and so Doctor Zero began to entrust him with more important jobs. He was one of Doctor Zero’s four favourites. Four professional hitmen who never failed. Until they failed. If there was one thing he didn’t understand about that whole saga, it was that the Doctor wasn’t as angry as Three was. At the end of the day, Doctor Zero had lost three indispensable men. But the Doctor seemed not to believe in vengeance. He had other men to call on. Whereas Three wasn’t going to let his months in hospital and prison be the end of the story.

Since that first job, the procedure had been the same: to go to the designated address and do what they had been asked to do. Without questions, clarifications or any information beyond what was required to beat someone up, or to kill him. The intelligence work preceding the action was taken care of by other people, who were also Doctor Zero’s people but with whom he had no direct dealings. Now that he found himself planning a revenge killing, he had no idea how to approach this groundwork, since he had never had to do it: learning the target’s habits, familiarizing himself with her life, her relationships, everything needed to establish the ideal moment to get close enough to kill her.

In prison Three had got to know El Gallo Miranda, who was serving time for attacking an armoured van and killing a 62security guard in the same operation. El Gallo had links with the police and with gangs who specialized in big heists, and got the kind of treatment in prison that a businessman would expect in a five-star hotel. Three got friendly with El Gallo, who offered to work with him when he got out, but Three turned him down because he already had a job and wasn’t planning to leave it. El Gallo liked that Three was loyal to his old boss and offered to help him whenever he needed it.

“When I get out, I’m going to need someone to get some information for me.”

El Gallo invited him to share a maté. They were in his cell, where he usually had meetings and conducted all kinds of business. Three accepted the maté but turned down the crackers with dulce de leche which an assistant of El Gallo’s had prepared and arranged on a plate.

“Someone to do intelligence? For you?”

“To find out someone’s movements, what they’re doing, where they go, all that stuff.”

“And this is for you.”

“Yes, for me.”

El Gallo chewed thoughtfully on a cracker. Three passed him the maté gourd.

“There are a couple of lads. They do good work. I’ve used them a few times and they never let me down. They’re called Nick and Bono. If you need to get into a bank’s system or to find out who an army general’s fucking, they’re not for you. It’s quite a basic service and for that reason they don’t charge as though they were stealing Obama’s sex tape.”

He wiped his hands on a napkin and scrolled through the contacts on his phone, then wrote down a number on a clean napkin and passed it to Three.

“Phone Nick. Tell him I told you to call. Is it going to be soon?” 63

“I hope so.”

“Best of luck then. Oh, and don’t be put off by the way they look. They know their stuff.”

Now that he’d carried out the job Doctor Zero had assigned him, Three decided to get in touch with this Nick guy. He called him from a phone booth, but nobody answered. Half an hour later he called again and there was still no reply. Nearly an hour later, Nick’s phone was still ringing without anyone picking up. Three went back to the apartment thinking El Gallo must have given him the wrong number, either deliberately or by accident. But he woke up at dawn suddenly certain that his call hadn’t been answered because he had made it from an anonymous number. Using the protection of a public phone might work for him, but not for Nick. The next morning he called from his mobile phone and got through straightaway.

“Nick?”

“He’s not here. Who’s calling?”

“El Gallo Miranda gave me this number.”

“I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

Before he had a chance to say anything else, the line went dead. Three hadn’t even got as far as giving his name. Less than five minutes later, the phone rang. The voice at the other end was the same, but the tone sounded much more friendly.

“Hello, boss. El Gallo sends his regards.”

“Hello, I need to speak to Nick.”

“Go to the bar on Rivadavia and Misiones at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“I’m Nick and I’m easy to spot: ginger, with a lot of freckles and tortoiseshell-framed glasses. I’m six foot two, although if I’m sitting down perhaps you won’t notice. I’ll be there with my colleague, who has no distinguishing features whatsoever.” 64

El Gallo Miranda had been right to warn him about Nick and Bono’s appearance. When Three arrived, they were sitting at a table away from the windows. The redhead was easy to pick out while Bono, as Nick had said, was almost completely nondescript: dark brown hair, neither tall nor short, not fat or thin. They both looked like university students playing at spies, or teenagers who spend too many hours watching porn on the computer. Nick was wearing a multicoloured shirt that was tight on him. Bono, meanwhile, wore a baggy black T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it. They were drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. Three walked over to them and introduced himself. They looked at him the way you might look at a madman bursting in on a private conversation, eyeing him suspiciously and letting a few seconds elapse before Nick gave him a friendly smile.

“Three. That’s what Doctor Zero calls you,” he said, motioning at him to sit down.

If they wanted to surprise him, they had succeeded.

“Have you been investigating me?”

“It’s routine. And a bad habit picked up from work. If Doctor Zero ever needs our services, we’re at his disposal.”

The waiter arrived and Three ordered a coffee. He noticed that Bono paid him no attention and seemed to be playing on a computer screen or some sort of device. Every now and then he said something to Nick in English or another language. Three would have thought he was a foreigner if not for the fact that, in a moment of frustration, he suddenly exclaimed “Qué boludo!” without taking his eyes off the screen.

“What do you need, Three?” Nick asked him, in the bland tone of a sales assistant.

Three said that he needed to know everything possible about the movements of a journalist called Verónica Rosenthal. He told Nick what he knew already, which wasn’t 65much, the fruit of research he had done while recovering from his injuries. Three had seen the journalist’s name in Nuestro Tiempo magazine. He had discovered that she lived in the apartment where he had been with his colleagues, seconds before they were run over. He didn’t know much more.

“That’s plenty. That’s all we need. Now to the matter of our fee.”

He mentioned a figure that struck Three as high: a quarter of all his savings. But he wasn’t going to haggle over the price, nor did he plan to look for anyone else to do this work that he couldn’t do. Nick made it clear the budget included comprehensive information about the woman but not hacking into emails or social media, or phone-tapping. If he needed any of that, they could arrange it, but it would cost him more and they would need more time. Three said that what they were offering him was enough. He paid them 10 per cent on the spot (which was all the money he had on him) and Nick agreed to ring him very soon with news. Within the next forty-eight hours, in fact.

Around noon the next day Nick called and asked him to come to a pizzeria on Corrientes and Anchoa. They had got to work faster than he was expecting.

“Before anything else, you should know this: Verónica Rosenthal has a powerful father. He runs the law firm Rosenthal and Associates and he’s the kind of lawyer I wouldn’t want to have across the aisle from me at the Tribunales law courts. That said, Verónica Rosenthal isn’t in Buenos Aires. She’s gone on vacation. She won’t be back for two weeks, give or take. On top of the statutory annual leave for journalists, she’s taken five days of compassionate leave. She’s travelling in the interior. We can wait for her to come back and get back into a routine here, in Buenos Aires. Or we can try to track her down in the interior.”66

It occurred to Three that Verónica had more protection in Buenos Aires, and for that reason it would be better to go and find her wherever she was.

“I’d rather know where she is now.”

“We also found out something else important. The building where she lives has no security camera, but there is a doorman who’s there all day watching people come and go. We think we can get into the girl’s apartment in the early hours. We’re going to go there at two o’clock tomorrow morning. Come with us if you like.”

It sounded like a good idea. He would go with them to Verónica Rosenthal’s apartment. He would see how the woman who had tried to kill him lived.

They met on Avenida Córdoba, on the corner of Calle Palestina. Nick was driving, Bono dozing with his head against the door. They left the car about a hundred yards away from the building. Nick had told him not to bring a gun or any weapon, but Three had come with his Glock anyway. They walked down the empty street. When they reached the building, Nick and he stood to one side while Bono, wearing gloves, managed to open the door in thirty seconds. They took the elevator up to the second floor. This was the risky part: a neighbour could get into the elevator and ask them what they were doing. If that happened they would have to neutralize the neighbour and his family and then continue their investigation. Plus they would have to take some things away to leave the impression of a break-in, although it was likely the journalist would suspect this was no run-of-the-mill burglary.

Bono opened the apartment door quickly and silently. It wouldn’t be necessary to stage anything here. On the contrary; they would have to leave everything as it was. Nick put on his gloves and offered a pair to Three.67

The apartment was beautifully ordered. The blinds were down, so they turned on the lights without a second thought. Nick threw his jacket down on the ground against the front door so no light would be seen from the corridor. Then he switched on the computer.

“Wouldn’t it be great if she’d left her mailbox open.”

Three looked over the apartment, starting with the immaculate kitchen. Everything was in its place. There wasn’t so much as a used teaspoon or cup left out on the counter. He opened the fridge and found only a block of membrillo quince jelly, a few cans of beer, some soft drinks, a bottle of water, mayonnaise, a tub of mustard, a jar of pickles and another, unopened, of olives. He went back into the living room, where Nick was at work on the computer while Bono looked through the CDs and books.

“Unfortunately she didn’t leave her email open. I see it’s a Gmail account. I’m trying to get in now.”

Three left him to work and went to the bedroom. Bed made, not even a speck of dust on the television set. There were some family photos on the walls. He went over to look at them more closely: Verónica as a girl with the woman who must be her mother, Verónica with two other women her age. There were also photos of children, of an older man. In the months Three had spent in prison he had been able to familiarize himself with Verónica’s face and physique. He had seen her in videos being interviewed about her journalism. He had found photos of her, too.

He knew you must never get distracted by ideas that have nothing to do with work. His task was to find Verónica Rosenthal and kill her. He mustn’t think about anything else. Whether she was pretty or ugly, strong or weak, these things were irrelevant. Even so, Three felt a certain thrill being in this woman’s room. He opened the closet and saw 68her clothes neatly ordered, opened a drawer and found her underwear. He didn’t want to rummage through it or take anything away. He closed the closet doors and went to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet, saw the array of bottles, shampoos, creams, soaps.

Something on the floor beside the bidet caught his attention. Some multicoloured item of clothing. He picked it up off the floor: it was a thong. Three took it in both hands and stretched it out, imagining Verónica with this underwear on. He felt himself getting an erection. He sniffed the thong, trying to imagine the smell of Verónica’s body. Why, considering how tidy she had left the place, had she left her dirty underwear on the bathroom floor? He thought of throwing it back on the floor where he had found it but didn’t. Instead, he tucked the thong into one of his jacket pockets. Verónica wouldn’t miss it. Come to that, she would never return to this apartment anyway if he managed to find her first.

When he came out of the bathroom, Nick was still busy on the computer.

“OK, I can give you a picture of the situation so far. The mail isn’t open, but the last thirty days’ browsing history is here. I’m making a backup of her computer’s cache, but I’ve already run into some interesting things. Before she left she bought a return ticket to Tucumán. We have the PDF with the reservation issued by the website. So we know which flight she’s coming back on in sixteen days. She looked at hotels in different parts of northern Argentina. She didn’t make reservations in any of them, but she did check the availability on different dates. The strange thing is that she didn’t look for a hotel in San Miguel de Tucumán, which might mean she already knew in which hotel or other place she was going to stay. The first place she looked up is Yacanto del Valle. After that she looked at places to stay in Cafayate, Salta, San 69Salvador de Jujuy, Purmamarca, Humahuaca and La Quiaca. She also rented a car in Tucumán, which has to be returned to the airport the day she returns.”

“And can we find out where she is now, or where she’ll be tomorrow?”

“Since she hasn’t booked any hotels, it’s hard to know whether she’s sticking to the itinerary she came up with when she was looking into availability. By the looks of things, she should be in Yacanto del Valle. Or perhaps in Cafayate, if she moved on earlier. I don’t think she’s still in San Miguel de Tucumán.”

“Is she travelling alone, or with someone?”

“The flight and internet searches are all for one person. I’m going to take everything away and I’ll make a summary of dates, hotels, possible routes. Anything that might be useful to you. Found anything over there, Bono?”

“Addresses of bookshops and music shops she goes to regularly. She quite often travels on line B of the Underground, and she uses the tickets as bookmarks. She speaks, or at least reads, English and French. She gets free books from publishers… She smokes and drinks coffee. She’s a bit clumsy.”

“We’re bound to have more information once we’ve analysed the data from her computer. Did you find anything, Three?”

“Just that she’s very tidy.”

“It’s not an inconsequential detail. That kind of woman makes no false steps.”