In his ten years working as a policeman Mario Conde had internalized a few basic lessons to guarantee his survivaclass="underline" first of all came the concept of loyalty. Only by preserving the group spirit, by protecting the other members of the police tribe to which he himself belonged, could he guarantee that the others would provide him with similar protection and that their unity was really genuine. Even when he never felt like a real policeman, and preferred to operate without a pistol or uniform and even hated the idea of employing violence, when he dreamed he would soon jettison all that to embark on a normal life – now what the fuck was normality? he would also wonder, imagining a log cabin with a tiled roof facing the sea, where he would live and write – the Count always practised that code, perhaps to excess, as Major Rangel also did, only to end up betrayed by those bastards he’d stubbornly defended, even to the point of putting his own neck on the block when sentences were meted out. Consequently at that moment Mario Conde’s police and street ethics walked a dramatic tightrope: either he kept to his decision to leave Headquarters because they’d removed Major Rangel, or he took on that rancid-smelling case he’d already started to like the sound of and would thus earn the freedom awaiting him when it was solved and demonstrate into the bargain why the Boss had singled him out from all his detectives. As he listened to the alternatives offered by his new sweet-smelling, smartly uniformed chief, the Count lit another cigar and looked at the white folder on his lap, which contained the known facts about the life of defector Miguel Forcade Mier and the part of his death that had been revealed. He looked out of the big office window and noted that the sky was still blue and quiet, oblivious to the existence of Felix, and decided to negotiate a way out: “Colonel, as we are forging a deal between gentlemen, before I respond I want to ask you a question or two, and make one demand.”
The well-shaven and better-dressed man who was now his boss, smiled.
“You are mistaken, Lieutenant, it’s no gentleman’s deal, because I’m now your boss. But I’ll go along with you… What’s your first question?”
“Why had a man like Miguel Forcade been let back in the country? From what you tell me he was a pretty high ranker and defected when he was coming back from an official mission? As far as I know, it’s not usual for someone like that to attempt a comeback and even less to get permission to return to Cuba. I know of people who’ve been refused entry for much less… When this man left, did he take with him documents, money, something to incriminate 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.