Emilio Page 5

  ‘You’re right. It’s a smart hang-out,’ said Tía Isabel, ‘not a charitable foundation. What business would they have there, if they were innocent?’

  Alda smiled. ‘They could be canvassing for donations.’

  ‘Ha! Maybe they were. The wrong sort,’ said Tío Vicente grimly.

  As the hours dragged on towards late afternoon, Emilio felt the strong hope that had filled him earlier begin to fray. No more news from Castro. Nothing in the webmail. Everyone tried to keep their spirits up but there was just so much you could repeat about the three nuns and the medal and the possibility it might all lead somewhere. After a while he couldn’t bear to sit in the living room any more listening to the adults going over and over the questions. But he didn’t want to be on his own either, so instead of going to his room he went along with Luz to hers. They didn’t chat much at all. Luz lay on her bed and read a book, while Emilio sprawled on her rug with a cushion and his iPod. Instead of enjoying his usual playlist he found himself searching for songs his mother might like – bright mariachi band music, party music, dance music. She was such a sensible person mostly, brisk, organised, efficient, but she had another side to her too, a side that loved to let go. She wasn’t a particularly good dancer, just a very enthusiastic one. Emilio had found it embarrassing at times, but now he’d give anything to have her dancing wherever and however she wanted, as loud, clumsy and embarrassing as she wanted to be, and he’d cheer her on!

  Mistake. The tears were welling up in his eyes again. Hastily, he switched off the iPod. He said, ‘Luz, do you have something I could read? Something totally—’

  He never finished his sentence because at that moment Juanita came in without knocking. Her face was pale. ‘You’d better come. There’s another message.’

  ‘What is it? What does it say?’ Luz cried, struck by her sister’s grim expression. But Emilio could not speak. Fearing the very worst, he pushed past them both and ran into the living room. His aunt and uncle were sitting at the laptop. Tía Isabel was weeping. Tío Vicente was trying to comfort her. Alda was on the phone in the corner of the room, talking softly, urgently.

  His aunt looked up and saw him. ‘Oh, cielito . . . Your mother – she has written a letter – it’s . . . ’

  The relief of it was so big it felt like a punch to the chest. If she was writing letters then she couldn’t be d– But he couldn’t bring himself to finish the word, even in his thoughts. He said, ‘Please. I have to see.’

  They turned the screen towards him, and there was a PDF, a scan of a handwritten letter. It was his mother’s writing, definitely. He read it quickly.

  Please dear sister please dear family do as they say or they will kill me. Use all my money. My accountant will give you all details. Use everything you can. Ask anyone you can. And you must speak to the Americans. Move quickly. Money is nothing. Life is everything. Think of me. Think of my little heart, my own Emilio.

  It was signed Gloria.

  Yes, it was her writing. But the words – they weren’t like her, nor was that pleading tone, that willingness to give in. And those words ‘corazoncito mio’ – ‘my little heart’ – she’d never called him that before. The kidnappers must have dictated the whole thing to her, stood over her to make her write it. Tears burned at the corners of Emilio’s eyes but he refused to shed them, clenching his fists tightly instead.

  Juanita said, ‘It came as an attachment. To their message.’ She clicked into the Drafts box. The message was short and aggressively questioning.

  What is your sister’s life worth to you, Isabel Mendoza Torres? What does her son’s happiness mean? Why haven’t you sought funds from everywhere? And why haven’t you spoken to the Americans already? Do so, then we will contact you again.

  ‘How dare they! Those thieves, those brutes, those sons of . . . ’ exploded his uncle. ‘If I had them here, I would grind their intestines for chorizo, I would mash their faces into pulp, I would—’

  ‘Please,’ said Emilio, breaking into his uncle’s rant, ‘please, Tío Vicente, please Tía Isabel, we must make the Americans see that they must help us, help my mother, we must—’

  ‘Of course we will, Milo, of course we are,’ said his aunt, putting an arm around him. ‘Tonight, if we can. Alda is making some calls to arrange it. And she says – she says . . . ’ Her voice wavered, then steadied. ‘She says that though it’s frightening to read what they say, to read your mother’s . . . what it really means is that they are getting ready to negotiate.’

  ‘Or they wouldn’t be asking those questions,’ put in Alda. ‘They’d just say there’s no bargaining at all. And,’ she went on, turning to Emilio, ‘I know it was hard for you to read your mother’s letter. But think of this. These people – that’s what they thrive on. That’s what they count on. Other people’s misery. They want Isabel to feel guilty about not giving in, they want you all to panic as a family, and they want you, Emilio, to think of your mother as beaten down and cowed. But just because she was compelled to write those words doesn’t mean that in her heart she has given up. Only a fool is outwardly defiant with a gun against the head. And from everything I hear about her, your mother is no fool.’

  Their eyes met. He choked out, ‘No. She’s not.’ With those words Alda had made him feel better in a way that no one in his family could have done. She’d seen and heard these things many times before, and so her words rang with truth. The truth of experience.

  Chapter 11

  Emilio slept badly that night. He kept waking up from horrible nightmares, hideous scenarios spooling out like deranged films, and he found it hard to go back to sleep.

  The meeting with the Americans had been set for the following morning at ten o’clock, right after a meeting with the Lopez Travel accountant, who’d give them written confirmation of available funds. Emilio’s aunt and uncle and Juanita were to meet Señor Sellers and his associate in a coffee shop only a few doors down from Lopez Travel. The location had been deliberately chosen as one the kidnappers were likely to be watching, so they’d know the meeting with the Americans that they’d demanded was going ahead. This would help to protect Emilio’s mother, Alda had explained. Alda herself would not be going to the meeting – to do so would compromise her cover story as a mere distant cousin. She was staying in the Torres flat with Emilio and Luz.

  But what if things went wrong, Emilio kept thinking as he tossed and turned. What if the Americans refused to help, or the kidnappers decided to snatch more members of the family? Alda had assured them that it wouldn’t happen. There would be surveillance – discreet, of course – from Castro’s men. They would be on the lookout for any suspicious activity – anyone who seemed to be taking too much interest or loitering too close to the coffee shop, for instance. But, Emilio thought, the kidnappers had planned their crime carefully, snatched his mother in broad daylight without being seen. They’d hardly be stupid enough to be caught ‘loitering’, would they?

  He woke from a nightmare at half past five and couldn’t go back to sleep, try as he might. So he gave up and tiptoeing past the living room, where Alda was fast asleep on the sofa, he went to the kitchen. He found Luz sitting by herself at the table, drinking a glass of pineapple juice.

  ‘Hey. So you woke early too,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Luz went on, ‘Do you think it’s going to work?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The meeting. Do you think the Americans will agree to pay anything?’

  Emilio shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Have you met that Señor Sellers? What’s he like?’

  ‘I met him just once, when I’d called round to Mamá’s office. He seemed nice and he spoke fluent Spanish. His wife’s Mexican, he told Mamá, she’s from Hermosillo, so he knows our country well, they’re often here. Mamá said he seemed like a good man. They got on well.’

  ‘Then he would want to help her!’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s not just him, is it. That other guy,
his business partner, Señor Taylor, who’s also going to be at the meeting, he’s not going to think the same way. He doesn’t know Mamá personally – he was supposed to meet her at the party.’ He swallowed. The party. He’d not looked forward to it, he’d thought it would be so boring, but now he would have given anything to have it. The party should have been on last night. The Lopez Travel staff had had to call everyone and tell them it was being postponed, citing his mother’s ‘illness’ as a reason. That was before it had been decided that Señors Sellers and Taylor must be brought into the negotiations.

  ‘Americans have plenty of money,’ Luz said. ‘And I’ve heard they can be very generous.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s not really their problem, is it? It’s not happening to their family. They’ll probably feel sorry for us. But—’

  ‘But you two are up far too early,’ said Juanita, appearing at that moment. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Emilio and Luz, almost in unison.

  ‘Can’t say I did too well myself,’ said Juanita, rattling around with coffee pot and cups.

  ‘What do you think, Juanita?’ asked Luz.

  ‘About what? Oh, the Americans.’ She glanced at Emilio. ‘I think we have to wait to find out. But you must not focus too much on it. I hope that soon we will have more news about the van and the so-called nuns. Raúl Castro might be well on the way to catching these people.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ said Emilio eagerly.

  ‘I think it is very possible,’ she said.

  Very possible wasn’t the same as sure or definite. All the same, it was something.

  They still hadn’t heard from Castro by the time Juanita and the others had to leave. Emilio and Luz watched them go from the window. He was trying not to feel nervous, trying to persuade himself that everything would be okay. Nobody would attack them. The Americans would say yes. All that he and Luz had to do was sit around and wait. But waiting was hard. So hard.

  Juanita texted Alda soon after ten to say they’d just met up with Señors Sellers and Taylor. She’d let Luz and Emilio know when the meeting was over. But one hour, two hours, nearly three hours ticked by, and still there was no word. Emilio and Luz spent most of that time watching TV, while Alda sat with them, reading a book. And then, just after the text came from Juanita to say the meeting had finished, a call came in to Alda from Castro. The van’s numberplate had been traced and its owner identified. Unfortunately, that didn’t help in the search for the kidnappers.

  ‘It was stolen the morning of the kidnapping,’ he said on speakerphone. ‘The owner didn’t even know it had been taken till the late afternoon. We’ve issued an alert but it’s likely they’ll have ditched it by now.’ Emilio’s heart sank. ‘But don’t be too disappointed,’ the policeman went on. ‘This is an important development. Even if they destroy the vehicle, I’m fairly confident now it was the one used in the kidnap. We also know where the van was stolen, and neighbours are being questioned. It’s possible someone might remember something.’

  ‘And the driver, sir?’ asked Alda. ‘You said there was some progress made on that too.’

  ‘A little. Enhancement did not reveal his face – unfortunately that remains obscured – but we came up with a detail on his forearm. Where the sleeve fell back as he paid the attendant, you can see part of what we believe may be a gang tattoo.’

  ‘Which, sir?’ breathed Emilio.

  ‘We’re not sure yet. The image needs further enhancing, so it’s been sent out to a specialist laboratory. You will be informed as soon as we know more.’ He rang off.

  Emilio said, ‘Is it really true, what he said? I mean about it being an important development? He wasn’t just saying that to make us feel better?’

  Alda smiled. ‘I can’t say he didn’t want to do that. But it’s true nevertheless.’

  ‘This tattoo – will it prove what gang’s involved?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But it may prove helpful.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘They’re back. Good. I was beginning to be a little concerned.’

  Tío Vicente said that the meeting with the Americans had gone as well as could be expected, but had not yielded any firm promises yet.

  ‘Señor Sellers – he said he understood completely and really wanted to do something,’ said Tía Isabel. ‘He feels responsible in a way, because of the article, though I told him it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘But his friend is less keen,’ broke in Tío Vicente, ‘and said they’d have to see how it could be done without attracting the wrong sort of attention. No idea what he meant because we’ve already got the wrong sort of attention, but you know what Americans are like, they like to talk for nothing sometimes.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Papá,’ said Juanita, ‘you know it’s a difficult situation for them too.’

  ‘Not half as hard as it is for us,’ said her unrepentant father. ‘I didn’t much appreciate Taylor asking us about Gloria’s kidnap insurance – as if he doesn’t know insurance companies will never help with a ransom! You have to claim afterwards, once you’ve lost all your money. And—’

  ‘We’re going to have to wait anyway,’ said Tía Isabel, cutting him off, ‘until our American friends tell us what they can do. They said they’d let us know as soon as possible. But we have to tell the kidnappers something now,’ she added anxiously, turning to Alda.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Alda, ‘but we’ll make sure it’s said in a way that doesn’t pin it down too specifically. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with that.’

  Chapter 12

  We have Gloria’s financial information, as well as what we can raise ourselves from other family. It is attached here. And we met the Americans. They request an interview with Gloria, on the phone, in our presence, before they will agree to anything. We beg you to allow this to happen as soon as possible.

  The message had been put in the Draft box, and now there was only waiting. The Americans had not actually asked to speak to Emilio’s mother on the phone, but had promptly agreed once the idea – suggested by Alda – was put to them. It was all a gamble. A gamble to get some small advantage. For according to Alda, if the kidnappers agreed to let Emilio’s mother speak, then it was possible some information might be gleaned from the call. Not a location – the kidnappers were certain to use an untraceable ‘burner’ phone like the one they’d used to lure Gloria to the carpark – but something else, however small. A sound. A slip-up of some sort. Some kind of clue.

  And if they didn’t agree? Alda said that was unlikely. ‘They want the money,’ she said. ‘And besides, you’ve begged them, reinforcing the feeling that they have all the power. They may take some time to agree, but I think they will in the end. Because if they do so, they know you will be grateful. And that makes them feel even more powerful.’

  It was utterly disgusting, thought Emilio. It made him feel sick and ashamed. Because they had to beg. Because they had to go by these vicious people’s rules. Because neither the family nor the police could do anything for his mother except try to placate and second-guess ruthless criminals. There was nothing they could do to protect her.

  That morning they all went to Mass, and afterwards lit candles for the safe return of Emilio’s mother. The priest, Padre Alfonso Benitez, came over to talk to them while they were there – he knew the Torres family well – and he was so kind that it made tears come to Emilio’s eyes. ‘If I can be of any help,’ he said, ‘don’t hesitate to call on me. Any time, day or night.’

  They’d only just got back to the flat when a call came from Castro. He had two pieces of news to give them: the van had been found, but as expected, burned out on a back road out of the city. And the tattoo had been identified as an image of the so-called ‘narco-saint’, San Jesús Malverde. This information did little to lift Emilio’s bleak mood. The fire that had destroyed the van had also destroyed any possible fingerprints or DNA evidence; and as to the tattoo, it was hardly an unusual one among criminals. Abo
ut the only concrete thing it indicated was that the man could be from the north, specifically from Sinaloa Province where the cult of Malverde had originally been based.

  Emilio knew that Malverde was an armed robber who was supposed to have committed crimes to help the poor against oppressive landowners in the early 1900s. After his hanging in 1909 some people started saying he was a saint, and though the Church tried to stamp out the idea, it grew and grew among the poor, but also among criminals. Now ‘San Malverde’ had become famous throughout the country as a patron saint of drug dealers. There were shops where you could buy busts and medals of ‘the narco-saint’, complete with smart white shirt and big black moustache, as well as souvenir Malverde T-shirts, soaps, glasses, mugs, a whole host of things: it was quite an industry, for there were hundreds of thousands of his devotees. Just about everyone who venerated him had some link to crime.

  It was hardly the vital clue they’d been looking for, but Castro had said that it would still be followed up. ‘We’ll visit the places where Malverde devotees hang out in the city,’ he said. ‘Whether or not anyone can or wants to give any useful answers is another matter. If they’re not involved, they’ll be scared of those who are.’

  ‘Don’t be too discouraged,’ added Alda, seeing Emilio’s crestfallen expression. ‘Someone might let something slip, without even knowing it. It is a break.’

  ‘We’ve certainly got more information now,’ agreed Castro. ‘Information the kidnappers don’t know we have. And that’s useful. The investigation is certainly moving.’

  But at snail’s pace, thought Emilio. How long could his mother last? How long before the kidnappers lost patience with stalling tactics?

  The grown-ups decided it wasn’t safe for Emilio to go to school.

  ‘Once the weekend is over,’ said Tía Isabel, ‘we must tell your teachers what is going on and why you can’t go to classes for the next while. It’s time you told your friends too.’