Turned to Stone (10 page)

“Is there a problem with Clark?” Leonardo watched a gull soaring overhead.

“He’s a madman.”

“But he’s good at his job. He’s strong and isn’t scared of anything.”

Rosa gave him a piercing stare. “The fact that he’s fearless is a good thing. But his pleasure-seeking, money-grubbing ways are going to get us into trouble one of these days. I think he spends his pay on whores and God knows what else.”

“Every man has his particular methods and vices. But the vices don’t have to interfere with the methods. Our father wouldn’t have given him this mission if he wasn’t sure he was up to the task.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said.

“Of course I am. Papà doesn’t take stupid risks. Now I have to leave you, little sister. I’m working on a new project that requires my full attention.”

“An assignment from Papà? Another sculpture?”

A look of mischief flashed in Leonardo’s dark eyes.

“Oh, come on!” she said. “Not another side operation?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“To be honest, no. But eventually you’ll be caught, and I dread the fact that I’m going to get that news one of these days.”

“It’s possible,” he said. Then he turned on his heel, military-style, and headed back toward the lounge.

13

Madrid

Two days earlier, Oscar Preston never would have guessed that his movements were being watched. But on Sunday, the day after his meeting with Ricardo Bosch, he received an anonymous call during which an unfamiliar voice intimated that it knew of his ambition to become the Prado Museum’s deputy director of research and conservation. Hearing this, he felt his heart leap.

At first he was put out by the intrusion into his personal life; if fact, it angered him so much he threatened to call the police. But when the voice mentioned his rivalry with Paloma Blasco and suggested she might be taken out of the picture, Preston’s curiosity was piqued and he listened to the proposal. The plan seemed quite simple: all he had to do was obtain some information and then someone would remove Señorita Blasco by peaceful means. The voice offered up no other details.

Preston spent the next two days on edge. He’d been off of tranquilizers for months, but that week he relapsed. He wondered: Was he falling into a trap? Who were these people, anyway? What did they want and why were they helping him? He quickly pushed the last part of the question from his mind. The important thing was not why but how. Aware he’d always been a bit paranoid, he resolved to stop worrying so much and give the situation time to unfold.

He was just opening the fridge door to make himself a sandwich when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Preston. Have you thought about it?”

Preston’s head had been elsewhere and the call came as a surprise. “Wait—what was it I had to think about?”

“Our agreement. Now listen: At this very moment there is a gray car at the entrance to your building. Go down to the street and get in it. We’ll go someplace where we can talk.”

Preston gripped the phone so hard he was close to snapping it. He wasn’t accustomed to receiving shady offers; he was usually the one making them. “I was about to have dinner,” he said, taking in the pitiful sight of two bare slices of rye bread on the countertop.

“We can eat together,” the voice said. “If the idea I present doesn’t interest you, I’ll pay. If you
are
interested, you can pay. I think that’s a fair deal.”

Despite his nasal tone the stranger sounded friendly enough. But Preston knew perfectly well that, over the course of his life—both in the United States and in Europe—he’d made dozens of enemies who would have no qualms about dismembering him given the slightest opportunity. The deal he was about to be offered might be a dream come true. Or it might not. Perhaps it was the beginning of a terrible and violent nightmare.

Suddenly it dawned on him. Why did he need a favor? It was clear that Ricardo Bosch preferred him for the position—it was an open secret. He was the best, the boss’s favorite, Number One. “Señor,” he said, “I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I’m not interested in your offer.”

“But you haven’t heard it yet.”

“All the same, I’m not interested. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I can assure you, you
will
be interested. Just give me a few minutes of your time to explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not here. Come down to the car.”

“Why can’t you just tell me over the phone?”

“Just come down, for fuck’s sake!”

“Excuse me? You’re starting to sound rather aggressive.”

“Forgive me. Please come down and we’ll have a proper chat. It turns out that your friend Paloma Blasco may be able to cause a lot of problems for you.”

“Paloma’s no threat to me. I’m a thousand times better than her!”

“I don’t doubt it. But something’s come up that could complicate things.”

“Oh?”

“If you want to know, then come down and we’ll talk.”

The line went dead. Oscar stared at his cell phone, as if it could reveal the identity of the mysterious caller. He leaned out of the window, but his apartment was on the opposite side of the building from the entrance, and no gray car was visible. He ran to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of anxiolytics, and swallowed two at once.

Getting into the gray car might be the death of him, but there was another prospect that seemed even more unthinkable: not knowing. If he didn’t go now, doubt would seep under his sheets every night and spread its poison through his body. That was the last thought Preston had before grabbing his keys and leaving the apartment. In the elevator he pressed the ground-floor button; he was filled with anxiety, his heart in his throat.

The man sitting at the wheel of the gray Fiat 500 watched his target come out of the front door. He seemed strange, with the faltering gait of an insecure man. When he got closer to the car, the driver could see him more clearly. His ears and nose looked two sizes too big for his face and he’d drowned his blond curls in hair gel. He wore black-rimmed glasses. This was definitely the guy from the photo his cousin Leonardo had sent. “Were you the one who called me?” the man asked through the open window, his voice trembling.

“No, it was my daddy, you idiot! Come on, get in.”

Preston obeyed. He climbed in next to the driver and examined him closely. He was a dark-skinned man with a strong physique. The raincoat he wore over a black T-shirt and military pants looked out of place, and on his head he sported a black Kangol-style beret. His nose was in a plaster cast, and his unruly mustache was beginning to turn white. On his chin grew four ridiculous hairs, none of which pointed in the same direction. His light eyes bulged slightly in their sockets, and contained an amicable glint that matched his stupid smile. Preston glanced at the bulge in the driver’s raincoat. “Look, if this is a trap—”

“It is!” The driver pulled out his pistol and aimed it between Preston’s eyes. “You’re dead, Preston!”

Preston screamed.

“Ha! Not really, wimp. Just kidding. Your face! You should’ve seen yourself.”

“What is this? That’s not funny! I’m getting out of here.”

Ignoring him, the driver tucked his gun away and hit the gas, and within a few minutes they had joined the nighttime traffic on the M30.

“Where’re you taking me?”

“To get something to eat. You should never talk business on an empty stomach.”

“I’m not hungry. And what is this about Paloma Blasco being a problem?”

“All in good time, my friend. And how can you not be hungry? You said earlier that you were about to have dinner. Fasten your seatbelt. As you can see, I don’t waste time. And your safety is very important to us.”

Preston did as he was told and from then on kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. There was really no other option. The driver dodged between the other cars with terrifying skill, ignoring red lights, crosswalks, and stop signs. He even laughed like a madman when he narrowly missed a young woman on crutches at one crossing. He should have had the entire police force on his tail from the moment he started his car.

Ten minutes later, the kamikaze driver parked the car in an underground lot and led the way to a place with tinted windows and a sign that read “Bar Agustín.” Inside, the air was thick with a greasy-smelling smoke that spread out from the kitchen, and nothing could be heard over the day’s news booming from the television and music blaring from a slot machine. The driver pointed at a table, but Preston wanted to go to the restroom first. “Whatever. Just don’t try anything, because I’ll come after you. I know where you live.”

Preston walked down the stairs that led to the toilets and locked himself inside. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he asked it whether it was sure about this thing he was about to do. There was no answer. His reflection appeared no clearer about the whole thing than he was. He took several deep breaths, splashed water on his face, and practiced looking confident in the mirror before tucking his shirt into his pants and heading back out into the restaurant.

Back at their table he found a dish piled high with the most disgusting matter he had ever seen. The plate gave off a strong smoky stench that caused his nose to wrinkle involuntarily. “What
is
that?”

“Chopitos.”
His companion grinned.

“Cho . . . pitos?”

“Chopitos. They’re like baby squid. A bitch to catch, but so good.”

Preston looked on in disgust as the man licked his lips under his comical mustache. The maniacal driving had been an early clue, and here was more evidence he was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. With some apprehension, he turned his gaze to the mountain of tiny creatures heaped on the plate. It looked like a mound of fried spiders. His eyes and his mouth worked in tandem, expressing his revulsion.

“Come on, Preston. For fuck’s sake, it’s time you learned to eat like a Spaniard.”

“That’s what the Spanish eat? I’ve been here over ten years and I’ve never seen anyone eat it.”

“That’s because you don’t mix with the right people. You spend all day by yourself, dreaming about the ridiculous customs of North Dakota or South Carolina, your hotdogs and your hamburgers with burnt bacon.” He took a swig of his beer and speared one of the little creatures on the plate using a toothpick. Oscar watched in astonishment as he put it in his mouth and chewed with passion.

“Mmm . . . delicious. You gonna eat? It’ll go cold!”

Feeling intimidated, Preston picked up his own toothpick and skewered one of the critters, which somehow heightened its resemblance to a scaled-down version of the monster from
Alien
. After inspecting it, smelling it, and brushing it against his lips, he finally put it in his mouth and ground it between his teeth, careful not to let it touch his tongue.

“Good shit, eh?”

“Mmmff!”

“Excellent, now let’s get down to business.” Preston’s companion paused to allow the waiter to serve a plate of grilled pig’s ear. “We know you hope to become a director at the Prado Museum.”

“Deputy director of research and conservation,” Preston corrected him, looking curiously at the new dish. As with the previous item, these cartilaginous lumps looked unfamiliar to him, but—though equal in repugnance to the chopitos—it took some time to register that they came from an animal.

“Whatever. Director, deputy director . . . It makes no difference. It would be an incredible job, wouldn’t it? We understand that Señorita Blasco is your biggest rival for the post.”

“You already said that on the phone.” Preston could feel his anxiety rising, partly because of the mysterious situation and partly because of the miniature octopuses staring back with blind eyes from the plate. “Incidentally, you haven’t told me who you work for.”

“Believe me, you’re better off not knowing. I’ll be your only contact. You can call me Clark.”

“ ‘Clark’? You’re name’s Clark and you’re telling me to learn to eat like the Spanish?”

“It’s a fake name. I was born in Spain, but my family’s from—Hold on, why the fuck should I tell you my life story?” Clark glanced from side to side but no one was paying them any attention. The fact that his hand had moved to the bulge in his raincoat did not escape Preston’s notice. “Here’s the deal: we’re offering to get Paloma Blasco out of the way for you, without violence and forever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“ ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand.’ Of course you don’t understand. That’s why I’m explaining it to you.”

Clark dug around between his teeth with a toothpick for a minute and then smoothed out his mustache with one finger. “The thing is, Paloma has secretly been conducting a study that could bring her fame and glory within a matter of days.”

Preston’s eyes lit up. He felt half-curious, half-alarmed. “A study? What on?”

“That’s where you come in. We want you to find out.”

“Wait a minute. If you don’t know what it is and you say it’s a secret, how do you even know she’s doing this research?”

“Señorita Blasco doesn’t live underground, Preston. My boss has been watching her. We know everything about her: what she does in and out of the museum; what she eats, what she drinks; who she fucks . . .” Clark allowed himself a wink at Preston over this. “We also know that she’s in possession of a document that could help convince an important client that our merchandise is genuine. We want you to get this document for us.”

“Me? Impossible. Paloma won’t let me get anywhere near her; she hates my guts. She even accused me of sneaking into her apartment the other day.”

“We’ve already thought of that. Please don’t underestimate us, Preston.” Clark looked and sounded agitated, but he quickly lowered his voice. “We have a plan that can get you access to Señorita Blasco’s research without you having to come into contact with Señorita Blasco herself.”

“How?”

“We thought we might blackmail her. We’ve been keeping an eye on her for several months and haven’t dug up a single shady affair. She doesn’t put out, if you know what I mean.” Another wink and a smile. “Earlier I told you we know everything about her. And it’s true. She drinks, she eats . . . but as for the other thing—nothing. Zero. She’s like a fucking cloistered nun. But she does have a friend—”

“Amanda Escámez.” Preston nodded. “She works in the Technical Research Office.”