‘To get themselves organized for political disruption.’
‘That's right, but they needed help. They needed money,’ said Yacoub. ‘Nothing much seemed to be happening until 9/11, but even by then important connections had been made to the people who would eventually become known to the world as al-Qaeda. Extremely devout Moroccan Muslims have been going to the Middle East for centuries, ostensibly to receive an education, but since the 1980s they started getting fired up by what was happening in Afghanistan.’
‘So there were already the right people around in Morocco by 2001, who could plug themselves into the al-Qaeda network.’
‘The GICM was like a little start-up company looking for help from a larger corporation. But if you want to make yourself attractive, you have to be able to bring something to the table, which is why they involved themselves in international operations. But it didn't happen just like that,’ said Yacoub, snapping his fingers. ‘It's taken the GICM years to get into this position, with people-smuggling routes in and out of Spain, networks of cells to facilitate surveillance of targets, logistics of material, ID card and passport forgery and bomb-making.’
‘So, in trying to make themselves attractive prospects, they've become formidable players.’
‘Now they wouldn't even have to ask al-Qaeda for money,’ said Yacoub. ‘They're involved in drug-running, bank-card fraud and internet scams, all of which they see, not as criminal, but as legitimate “attacks” on the West. All part of the jihad. So, like anybody who's become a power in their own right, they start to think of themselves differently. Success brings a change of focus. They start thinking globally. Why bother to overturn the monarch of some poor, far-flung kingdom when you could bring about the complete revolution? Return all lands from Pakistan to Morocco, and maybe even Andalucía, to Islamic government and law, as we were over a thousand years ago.’
‘The jihadi's dream,’ said Falcón. ‘But how do you pull it off? So far they've had a limited impact by blowing up the World Trade Center, killing commuters in Madrid and London, but they're a long way from the dream.’
‘And they've realized that,’ said Yacoub. ‘All Osama bin Laden did was put them on the map. He made them understand that they have power. Only then … after 2001, did the real thinking start.’
‘So, go on, how are they going to pull this off?’
‘You see, Javier, that's the fatal error of the West.’
‘What?’
‘You don't believe it's possible. You think it's some ridiculous, far-fetched notion of a bunch of towel-headed fanatics sitting in mud huts, making plans with sticks in the sand.’
‘I don't underestimate the capabilities of these groups,’ said Falcón. ‘But what I do know is that the Arab world has never been able to show a united front.’
‘The leaders of the Arab world,’ said Yacoub. ‘Those people who've become the lapdogs of the West, they can't show a united front with the disenfranchised Palestinians, the split Lebanese, the sinister Syrians, the undecided Turks, the occupied Iraqis, the impossible Iranians. But what about their populations with sixty per cent under the age of twenty-five, who have nothing but belief and a sense of injustice? The people are more ready than ever to show a united front.’
‘All right,’ said Falcón. ‘But there's still a long way to go.’
‘But there is a key,’ said Yacoub. ‘One Arab country holds the key to everything. Not only is it the richest, with fabulous reserves of the most desired commodity in the world, but it also holds the keys to the holiest sites in Islam.’
‘Saudi Arabia,’ said Falcón. ‘Your theory about why the Americans invaded Iraq with such haste was to protect that monarchy, who are the guardians of their most valuable interest.’
‘A very difficult relationship for most Muslims to understand,’ said Yacoub. ‘Why do the guardians of the holiest sites in Islam embrace the most despised infidel on the face of the earth, the one who upholds the rights of Zion in the heart of the land of the Prophet? Very tricky, Javier. Possibly more understandable if the Saudis used their wealth, power and influence to achieve justice for the most abject people of the Arab world, but they don't.’
‘So nobody would cry if the House of Saud came to an ignominious end,’ said Falcón. ‘But how do you achieve it?’
‘First of all, al-Qaeda might not be able to get rid of the Americans from Iraq, but they will keep them so fully occupied over such a long time that, when the moment comes and the Americans have to respond, they will be too weak or overstretched or lacking in will to do so.’
‘And in the meantime…’
‘There are more than six thousand members of the Saudi royal family,’ said Yacoub. ‘Their total wealth is greater than the GDP of many smaller nations. All those people with all that wealth make the royal family a political monster. Every point of view is represented by its members, from the utterly corrupt, drug-running friends of America, to the reclusive, ascetic, profoundly devout Wahabi fundamentalists. Some flaunt their wealth in tasteless displays of extravagance while others quietly channel funds into international terrorism.’
‘So the GICM and other terrorist groups have realized that it could just be a question of tipping the balance in favour of the radical fundamentalists within the royal family.’
‘Combined with the support of a disgruntled population, who will see more opportunities for equality in an Islamic state than they ever would from an old-fashioned monarchy …’
‘And there you have the makings of a new world order,’ said Falcón. ‘But it's not something that will be pulled off easily. How are the GICM going to do it? And how do you fit in?’
‘Persuasion, manoeuvring and, if necessary, assassination,’ said Yacoub. ‘One by one.’
‘I imagine there's quite a considerable security apparatus attached to the House of Saud,’ said Falcón uneasily.
‘Very experienced. Very well trained,’ said Yacoub, nodding, staring at his feet.
‘Did they train you, Yacoub?’
He looked up at the wall above Falcón's head. The light in his pupils seemed to be coming from a long way off, like a traveller at night making slow progress over a moonless desert.
‘This is where you decide, Javier,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't blame you if you went next door, put your clothes on, left the room and we never see each other again.’
‘I don't want that,’ said Falcón.
‘Why not?’ asked Yacoub, lowering his gaze to meet Falcón's eye, his curiosity genuine.
Falcón thought about this for some time, not because he was unsure, but because it suddenly struck him how valuable this relationship had become to him. His friendship with Yacoub had all the complexities of the ties of blood, but without there being any. And he also knew there was no greater bond than that between parent and child. This bizarre situation: sitting naked in Yacoub's hotel bathroom, with a world of trouble seemingly on the brink of fulmination, made him feel a terrible loneliness at the loss of his own parental relationships and the knowledge that he would always be secondary in the lives of others who were important to him.
‘If there's any doubt …’ said Yacoub.
‘There's no doubt,’ said Falcón. ‘You're the only person who understands what I've been through. I'm close to my brother and sister, but they still see me as the old Javier. They've never grasped the extent of the change, or perhaps they don't want to deal with it. You know me in a way that nobody else does, and I'm not going to give that up lightly.’
‘Then why do you look so desolate?’ said Yacoub.
‘Because I think I might be destined for the ultimate loneliness of never being the most important person in anybody's life.’
Yacoub nodded. He had no intention of lying to him.
‘But there are times,’ he said, ‘when only a friend will do.’
Falcón said nothing. Yacoub knew the questions he had to answer and he was either going to do it, or not. He sighed, as if this was going to be an enorm
ous relief.
‘I've been in a relationship with … well, let's leave it as “a member of the Saudi royal family” for the moment,’ said Yacoub. ‘We can call him Faisal without fear of identification.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘We first met in 2002 at the house of a friend in Marbella,’ said Yacoub. ‘We became friends. He does a lot of business in London. Whenever I had meetings or attended fashion shows we would always see each other.’
‘Let's be clear about it, Yacoub,’ said Falcón. ‘Is he your lover?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When it became clear that this was serious and Faisal, being an important member of the family, was suitably paranoid, he had me vetted and then trained, so that I could get to see him without bringing the world to his door. His security detail is British trained. They've also actively helped me in the last few months when, because of my successes, MI5 have been a little more assiduous in tailing me.’
‘So what does he know about you?’ asked Falcón. ‘If his security detail is helping you lose MI5, he must realize that you're not “normal”.’
‘We share a lot of beliefs. We know the world is not black and white. We spend a lot of time talking about the grey. It was Faisal, for instance, who told me why the Americans invaded Iraq, as if it had become a matter of extreme urgency. Quite a few of those six thousand members of the royal family live in a state of total paranoia and terror. The least bit of trouble and they're on their private jets and out of there.’
‘Taking the details of their Swiss bank accounts with them.’
‘Quite,’ said Yacoub. ‘He despises them. He and I both have an interest in what is happening beneath the surface. You'd like him. We talk about you.’
‘Does that mean he's comfortable with your “spying” activities for the CNI?’
‘It's to his advantage and, as you know, he tells me things, too.’
‘Where does he stand on the integral line between “friends of America” and “Wahabi fundamentalist”?’
‘He's both and yet neither.’
‘So he's an important member of the royal family, who is in the balance,’ said Falcón. ‘The ideal target for the GICM. Someone they would like to see converted to their cause.’
‘Not quite,’ said Yacoub. ‘You're forgetting that the radicals in the GICM do see everything in black and white. They don't like grey areas. They can't stomach a man who holds conflicting opinions. However devout Faisal might be – and he is very devout, more devout than I'll ever be – he is still a very loyal family member. However powerful the arguments are that any radical could put to him, he would never betray his king.’
‘How did the GICM find out about your relationship with Faisal, and do they know its full extent?’
‘They do know its full extent and we are unsure how they got that information,’ said Yacoub. ‘I overlapped with another lover. Faisal often travels with a large entourage and other family members. There are indiscretions. There are servants. However hard you try, you can't hermetically seal yourself off from the world. And something like the homosexuality of an important family member has a way of getting out. Salacious gossip can find a crack in any wall.’
‘And this was what the GICM told you when you came back from Paris in June?’
Yacoub had his feet up on the rim of the bidet. His elbows propped against his knees, his forehead in his hands. He nodded.
‘And is this why the GICM have recruited Abdullah?’ asked Falcón. ‘The only tie more powerful than a lover is that between father and son. This is how they keep you “close”. But what exactly do they want?’
‘Faisal can never be entirely and securely converted to the cause,’ said Yacoub. ‘They want him dead.’
11
Nervión Plaza shopping centre, Seville – Saturday, 16th September 2006, 13.15 hrs
‘I'm not going to talk to anybody except Javier,’ said Consuelo, not loudly, but with such an edge to her voice that all the men stood back from her, as if she'd just unsheathed a sword.
They were in the office of the director of the Nervión Plaza shopping centre, which looked out through thin slatted blinds on to the broad avenue of Calle Luis de Morales. It was cold in the room. The sun was blinding and fierce outside. White bars of intense light, spectrum edged, laddered the far wall, on which hung a copy of a Joan Miró painting. Consuelo knew that this painting was called Dog Barking at the Moon and, indeed, it consisted of a small, colourful dog, a scimitar of white moon and an unforgiving black background, broken only by what looked like a railway track going to oblivion. It turned her stomach to look at Miró's intention; to show tiny forms in vast empty spaces. Where was Darío now? Normally he was a large presence in a small space, but now she could only think of his defenceless tininess in the larger outside world.
The thought of him came in waves; one moment she was tough and assertive, commanding respect from all the men in the room, and the next she had her face in her trembling hands, hiding that vulnerability, pressing the tears back into her eyes.
‘This is not Javier's kind of work,’ said Ramírez, the only one who knew her well enough to raise any sort of objection.
‘I know it's not, José Luis,’ said Consuelo, looking up from the sofa. ‘Thank God for that. But I can't… I don't want to talk to anyone else. He knows me. He can get everything he needs out of me. We don't have to start from scratch.’
‘You should talk to the officers from the Crimes Against Children squad,’ said Ramírez. ‘The GRUME have enormous experience with missing children. And it's important that we establish the possibilities and probabilities of what may have happened here immediately. Is this a case of a child having wandered off or has he been abducted and, if so, what could be the motives of…?’
‘Abducted?’ said Consuelo, her neck lengthening by ten centimetres.
‘Don't alarm yourself, Consuelo,’ said Ramírez.
‘I'm not alarming myself, José Luis. You're alarming me.’
‘This is what the GRUME do. They look at the background. They judge probabilities. Have you made enemies in business?’
‘Who hasn't?’
‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around your home?’
She didn't answer. That made her think. What about that guy last June? The gypsy-looking guy who'd muttered obscenities at her in the street, then she'd seen him again in the Plaza del Pumarejo, not far from her restaurant. She'd thought he was going to rape her down a back street. He'd known her name. He'd known all sorts of things. That her husband was dead. And, yes, her sister, later, had referred to him as the ‘new pool guy’ when she'd been looking after the kids and had seen him hanging around the house.
‘You're thinking, Consuelo.’
‘I am.’
‘Will you talk to the GRUME officers now?’
‘All right, I'll talk to them. But as soon as Javier is available …’
‘We're trying to get a message to him now,’ said Ramírez, patting her on the shoulder with one of his huge, steadying mahogany hands. He felt for her. He had his own kids. The abyss had opened up in him before now and changed him.
They were angry with Falcón. Douglas Hamilton, who was on the brink of losing his usual calm, was jabbing him with irony. Rodney had already called him a cunt. Falcón knew from his English lessons that this was the worst thing you could say to someone in England, but to him, a Spaniard, the world's greatest insulters, it was water off a duck's back.
They were mildly irritated by the fact that the listening device they'd planted on him hadn't worked, but what was really incensing them was that Falcón wouldn't tell them anything juicy from his meeting with Yacoub.
‘You can't tell us where he's been on the five occasions he's lost us. You can't tell us who trained him. You can't tell us why his son is with him in London…’
‘That I don't know,’ said Falcón, cutting in on the litany. ‘He wouldn't tell me that.’
‘Maybe we should just shoo
t the fucker anyway,’ said Rodney.
‘Who?’ said Falcón.
Rodney shrugged as if it didn't matter.
‘It won't come to that,’ said Hamilton smoothly.
‘He's in a very difficult position,’ said Falcón.
‘Oh, fuck right off,’ said Rodney.
‘Aren't we all?’ said Hamilton. ‘You're talking to people with two thousand suspected terrorists under constant watch. Can't you at least throw us a bone, Javier?’
‘I can tell you about the Turkish businessman from Denizli.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Rodney.
‘We're listening,’ said Hamilton.
‘They've signed a contract for the supply of denim to his factory in Salé,’ said Falcón. ‘The first shipment was received …’
‘Bugger off,’ said Rodney. ‘You know what he's doing and you're not fucking telling us. We don't give a shit about the Turkish tosser.’
‘Maybe you knew that Yacoub and the Turk had a genuine business relationship,’ said Falcón, ‘and you were just using their mildly suspicious backgrounds to make them appear more threatening.’
‘We know about the Turk,’ said Hamilton, holding up a calming hand. ‘What else can you tell us?’
‘Yacoub knows of no active GICM cell currently operating in the UK,’ said Falcón. ‘This doesn't mean there isn't one, it just means he has never been asked to make contact with it, and he's never heard any reference to one in any of his discussions with the military wing of the GICM.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Rodney.
‘Let's at least get something straight,’ said Hamilton. ‘Do you know what he's been up to when he's lost the MI5 tails?’