isn't here. Maybe I can help; I'm his boss,’ said Revnik. ‘If you want to leave a message, I'll make sure he gets it.’
‘He told me I should call him if I had any trouble.’
‘And what's happened?’ asked Revnik.
‘A homicide cop called Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón came round to my workshop and started asking questions about my sister, Margarita.’
That name, Falcón, again.
‘What did he want with her?’
‘He said he was going to find her.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him she didn't need to be found.’
‘That's good,’ said Revnik. ‘Have you spoken to anybody else about this?’
‘I left a message on Nikita's phone.’
‘Sokolov?’ he asked, barely able to control his rage at having to pronounce another traitor's name.
‘Yes.’
‘You did the right thing,’ said Revnik. ‘We'll handle it. Don't worry.’
5
Calle Bustos Tavera, Seville – Friday, 15th September 2006, 15.50 hrs
There were two people in the world for whom Falcón would drop everything. One was Consuelo Jiménez and the other was Yacoub Diouri. Ever since he'd tracked down Yacoub four years ago he'd become the younger brother Falcón had never had. Because of Yacoub's own complicated past he'd had a special understanding of the complexities of the family horrors that had led to Falcón's complete mental breakdown back in 2001. In gradually revealing themselves to each other, Yacoub had become synonymous with the reassertion of sanity in Falcón's mind. Now, in the wake of the Seville bombing, he was even more than a friend and brother. He had become Falcón's spy. The Spanish intelligence agency, the CNI, in their sudden, desperate need for agents in the Arab countries nearest their borders, had researched the special relationship between Falcón and Yacoub Diouri. Having seen other Western intelligence agencies fail in their bid to recruit Yacoub, they'd used Falcón to bring him into their fold.
It was for this reason that, when Falcón received a text from Yacoub Diouri as he stood in the courtyard outside Marisa's studio, he went immediately in search of a publictelephone. They hadn't spoken since the short break in Essaouira last month. Their only communication had been on ‘business’, via the intelligence service's encrypted website. The CNI had insisted on zero physical contact with Yacoub since he'd successfully penetrated the radical Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, the GICM, in the days after the Seville bombing. It was this group which had been storing a hundred kilos of the high explosive, hexogen, in the basement mosque in a residential quarter of Seville. Yacoub had found out how that hexogen was going to be used, and in doing so the CNI were concerned that his cover had been blown. There had been some tense days in Paris when they thought that their new agent might be assassinated. Their fears had been groundless. Yacoub returned to Rabat, but the CNI were still so nervous that the only contact they'd allowed was on Falcón's August holiday, which had been arranged in April, two months before the recruitment of Yacoub Diouri.
It took him a while to find a public phone. Falcón understood from the text, which they'd arranged between themselves in Essaouira, that this was to be a private conversation and he should not to use his home phone or mobile to make the call.
‘I'm in Madrid,’ said Yacoub, with a quiver in his voice.
‘You sound nervous.’
‘We have to meet.’
‘When?’
‘Now … as soon as possible. I couldn't warn you before because … well, you know why.’
‘I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to get away at such short notice.’
‘I'm not asking you to do this for no reason at all, Javier. It's complicated and important. It's the most important thing that's happened so far.’
‘Is this business?’
‘It's business and it's personal.’
Falcón had something else ‘personal’ going on tonight. He was supposed to be having dinner with Consuelo, just the two of them. Another
‘He told me I should call him if I had any trouble.’
‘And what's happened?’ asked Revnik.
‘A homicide cop called Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón came round to my workshop and started asking questions about my sister, Margarita.’
That name, Falcón, again.
‘What did he want with her?’
‘He said he was going to find her.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him she didn't need to be found.’
‘That's good,’ said Revnik. ‘Have you spoken to anybody else about this?’
‘I left a message on Nikita's phone.’
‘Sokolov?’ he asked, barely able to control his rage at having to pronounce another traitor's name.
‘Yes.’
‘You did the right thing,’ said Revnik. ‘We'll handle it. Don't worry.’
5
Calle Bustos Tavera, Seville – Friday, 15th September 2006, 15.50 hrs
There were two people in the world for whom Falcón would drop everything. One was Consuelo Jiménez and the other was Yacoub Diouri. Ever since he'd tracked down Yacoub four years ago he'd become the younger brother Falcón had never had. Because of Yacoub's own complicated past he'd had a special understanding of the complexities of the family horrors that had led to Falcón's complete mental breakdown back in 2001. In gradually revealing themselves to each other, Yacoub had become synonymous with the reassertion of sanity in Falcón's mind. Now, in the wake of the Seville bombing, he was even more than a friend and brother. He had become Falcón's spy. The Spanish intelligence agency, the CNI, in their sudden, desperate need for agents in the Arab countries nearest their borders, had researched the special relationship between Falcón and Yacoub Diouri. Having seen other Western intelligence agencies fail in their bid to recruit Yacoub, they'd used Falcón to bring him into their fold.
It was for this reason that, when Falcón received a text from Yacoub Diouri as he stood in the courtyard outside Marisa's studio, he went immediately in search of a publictelephone. They hadn't spoken since the short break in Essaouira last month. Their only communication had been on ‘business’, via the intelligence service's encrypted website. The CNI had insisted on zero physical contact with Yacoub since he'd successfully penetrated the radical Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, the GICM, in the days after the Seville bombing. It was this group which had been storing a hundred kilos of the high explosive, hexogen, in the basement mosque in a residential quarter of Seville. Yacoub had found out how that hexogen was going to be used, and in doing so the CNI were concerned that his cover had been blown. There had been some tense days in Paris when they thought that their new agent might be assassinated. Their fears had been groundless. Yacoub returned to Rabat, but the CNI were still so nervous that the only contact they'd allowed was on Falcón's August holiday, which had been arranged in April, two months before the recruitment of Yacoub Diouri.
It took him a while to find a public phone. Falcón understood from the text, which they'd arranged between themselves in Essaouira, that this was to be a private conversation and he should not to use his home phone or mobile to make the call.
‘I'm in Madrid,’ said Yacoub, with a quiver in his voice.
‘You sound nervous.’
‘We have to meet.’
‘When?’
‘Now … as soon as possible. I couldn't warn you before because … well, you know why.’
‘I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to get away at such short notice.’
‘I'm not asking you to do this for no reason at all, Javier. It's complicated and important. It's the most important thing that's happened so far.’
‘Is this business?’
‘It's business and it's personal.’
Falcón had something else ‘personal’ going on tonight. He was supposed to be having dinner with Consuelo, just the two of them. Another
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