The Devil's bounty

Forty-four

They met in a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. The first there was the chief of police, Gabriel Zapatero. He slid into a chair and immediately ordered a whisky, which evaporated almost as soon as it was placed in front of him. He ordered another, then a third.

Manuel Managua arrived five minutes later, greeting the hostess with a kiss on both cheeks and shaking their hands with the vigour of a career politician, then settling in to stare at the menu over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Zapatero often imagined him shaking his family’s hands at breakfast, pledging cookies for all if he could count upon their support. It had made his continued presence at these festivities all the more surprising. Even a whisper of his involvement could end his career.

Zapatero had often wondered about Managua until Federico, Zapatero’s childhood friend, had pointed out that many politicians seemed to seek out, or at least flirt with, the seeds of their own destruction. Managua’s flirting was overt, but that, Federico said, was merely a reflection of where they lived and at what point in history. In comparison to the Roman Empire under Caligula, or the Holy Church under the Borgias, things were not so extreme. The rich had always craved decadent pleasures. It was entirely natural.

As the politician fussed over the menu Federico, the boss of bosses, arrived with his two bodyguards. Of course, they all carried security, but Federico’s was of a different magnitude. The joke was that if he woke in the middle of the night and rolled over, he would find a bodyguard beside him, rather than his wife or mistress. He took his seat at the head of the table and dismissed the guards — one headed for the door that led back into the restaurant and the other took up a position just outside in the courtyard. He accepted a menu and a waiter took their orders while another poured the wine. Then they were left alone.

Managua took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. Zapatero checked emails on his BlackBerry, until a look from Federico prompted him to power it down. The rule was that all cell phones had to be turned off. Finally, Federico spoke.

‘I see from the newspapers that a young American woman is missing,’ he said, his gaze bypassing all of them and settling on the far wall of whitewashed stone.

Zapatero cleared his throat, his eyes shuttling back and forth to his powered-down BlackBerry. ‘I have assigned one of my best people to find her. A woman. The family and the American government have been reassured,’ Zapatero said.

‘Really, I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ Federico said, with a sigh.

Managua put his glasses back on. ‘We wouldn’t have a picture of her, would we?’

Zapatero glanced towards his BlackBerry. ‘With your permission, Federico?’

Federico couldn’t contain his smile as he nodded. They all knew what Managua was like when it came to women. A regular Bill Clinton.

The police chief turned his BlackBerry on, opened an email attachment, full-screening a picture of the girl, and handed it to Managua, who studied it. ‘She’s pretty,’ he said. ‘I hope she’s still alive.’

‘Still alive?’ Zapatero mused. ‘Of course I hope she is, but nothing has been confirmed one way or the other.’ He turned his gaze to Federico, who was staring fixedly at the silverware laid out on the table in front of him.

Managua put down the BlackBerry. Zapatero could see the girl’s face staring up at him but he, too, turned to see what Federico would do. Would he pick up his knife or his fork? Pick up one, and the girl would be allowed to live, at least for the time being — and, no doubt, to satisfy Managua. Pick up the other, and she would be disposed of.

Federico drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, his thumb nearest the fork, his pinkie nearest the knife. He took a sip of red wine, enjoying the attention and his role as final arbiter between life and death. That was what it was all about, thought Zapatero. For Managua it was an appetite. But Federico was the one who had sanctioned it. He had brought along the first girl, and had let things get out of hand when she had tried to escape from the bedroom. He could have called a halt to it at any time. But he hadn’t. He enjoyed the power too much.

‘I think it is mostly likely,’ Federico began, his hand shifting slightly, ‘that she will be returned to her family.’

‘Alive or dead?’ Zapatero asked, unable to endure any more tension. After all, he would have to call Hector and alert him to the decision.