Part 20 (1/2)

Yasikov nodded. You can count on that, he said. He was studying the Imray M20 chart, the eastern Mediterranean, which was laid out on the desk. He seemed distracted.

”You may want,” he said after a minute, ”to think hard about who you use to prepare this operation. Yes.”

He said this without taking his eyes off the chart, his voice thoughtful-sounding, and then it took him a second or two to raise his eyes. ”Yes,” he repeated. Teresa got the message. She'd gotten it with his first words. You may want to think hard You may want to think hard was the signal that something wasn't right. was the signal that something wasn't right. Think hard... who you use to prepare this operation Think hard... who you use to prepare this operation.

”Orale,” she said. ”Talk to me.” she said. ”Talk to me.”

A suspicious blip on the radar screen. The old hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, that familiar friend, suddenly got hollower.

”There's a judge,” said Yasikov. ”Martinez Pardo, you know him all too well, I think. He's been on your tail for some time. And on mine. And other people's, too. But he has his preferences. You're one of them-the apple of his eye, you might say. He works with the police, the Guardia Civil, Customs. Yes. And he's beginning to pressure them.”

”Tell me what you came to tell me,” Teresa said impatiently.

Yasikov, hesitant, observed her. Then he turned his eyes toward the window. ”I have people who tell me things,” he went on. ”I pay and they talk. And the other day I was in Madrid and someone talked to me about that last problem of yours. Yes. That s.h.i.+p they seized.”

Yasikov stopped, took a few steps back and forth, tapped his fingers on the chart. He shook his head, as though indicating that what he was about to say had to be taken with a big grain of salt-he didn't know whether it was true or false.

”I feel like it was the Gallegos,” Teresa said, to help him get it out.

”No. Or so people say. People say that the leak didn't come from there.” He paused again, a long time. ”They say it came from Transer Naga.”

Teresa was going to open her mouth to say, ”Impossible, I've checked it out.” But she didn't. Oleg Yasikov would never have come like a kid in a schoolyard, to tell her something he'd heard third- or fourth-hand. So she started putting two and two together, formulating hypotheses, asking herself questions and answering them. Reconstructing chains of events. But the Russian was going for the shortcut.

”Martinez Pardo is pressuring somebody close to you,” he said. ”In exchange for immunity, money, who knows what. It could be true, or only part true. I don't know. But my source is grade A. Yes. He's never steered me wrong. And considering that Patricia-”

”It's Teo,” she suddenly whispered.

Yasikov didn't finish his sentence.

”You knew,” he said, surprised. But Teresa shook her head. She was filled with a strange iciness that had nothing to do with her bare feet. She turned away from Yasikov and looked toward the door, as though Teo himself were about to walk in.

”Tell me how the h.e.l.l,” the Russian, behind her, asked. ”If you didn't know, why do you know now?”

Teresa still did not speak. She hadn't known, she thought, but it was true that now she did. That's the way this f.u.c.king life is, and its f.u.c.king little jokes. Chale. Chale. She concentrated, trying to put her thoughts in some reasonable order of priorities. And it wasn't easy. She concentrated, trying to put her thoughts in some reasonable order of priorities. And it wasn't easy.

”I'm pregnant,” she said.

They went down to the beach for a walk, with Pote Galvez and one of Yasikov's bodyguards following at a distance. Swells were breaking on the pebbles along the sh.o.r.e and wetting Teresa's bare feet. The water was very cold, but she liked the way it felt on her skin. It made her feel good- awake. They walked southwest, along the dirty sand dotted with stretches of rocks and seaweed, toward Sotogrande, Gibraltar, and the Strait. They would talk for a few steps and then fall silent, thinking about what they had said or failed to say.

”What are you going to do?” Yasikov asked when he finished digesting the news. ”Yes. With both of them-the baby and the father.” ”It's not a baby yet,” Teresa replied. ”It's not anything yet.” Yasikov shook his head as though she had confirmed his thoughts. ”But that's not the solution for Teo,” he said. ”Just for half the problem.”

Teresa turned toward him, pulling her hair out of her eyes. ”I didn't say the first part was solved. I just said it wasn't anything yet. I haven't made a decision about what it may be, or not.”

The Russian studied her face, looking for changes, new signs, more surprises, in her expression.

”I'm afraid, Tesa. That I can't. Offer you any help there. Nyet. Nyet. It's not my specialty.” It's not my specialty.”

”I'm not asking you for help, or advice, or anything, Oleg. Just that you walk with me, like always.”

”That I can do.” Yasikov smiled, like the big blond Russian bear he was. ”Yes. I can do that.”

A little fis.h.i.+ng skiff was pulled up on the sand, one that Teresa always pa.s.sed on her walks. Painted blue and white, very old and dilapidated and uncared for. There was rainwater in the bottom, and pieces of plastic and an empty soda bottle floated in it. A name, barely legible, was painted on the bow: Esperanza. Esperanza.

”Don't you ever get tired, Oleg?”

”Sometimes,” he replied. ”But it's not easy. No. To say, This is it, this is as far as I go, I want to get off. I have a wife,” he added. ”Beautiful. Miss Saint Petersburg. A four-year-old son. Enough money to live the rest of my life without a care. Yes. But there are partners. Responsibilities. Commitments. And not everyone would understand that I'm really retiring. No. They're mistrustful by nature. If you go, you scare them. You know too much about too many people. And they know too much about you. You're a threat, and you're out there. Yes.”

”What does the word 'vulnerable' make you think of?” Teresa asked.

Yasikov thought a second. ”I'm not very good. At this language,” he said. ”But I know what you mean. A son makes you vulnerable....

”I swear to you, Tesa, that I've never been afraid. Of anything. Not even in Afghanistan. No. Those fanatics, those crazy people and their Allah akbars Allah akbars that would turn your blood to ice. Well, no. I wasn't afraid when I was starting, either. In the business. But since my son was born I know what it feels like. To be afraid. Yes. When something goes wrong, it's not possible anymore. No. To leave everything and just walk away. Run.” that would turn your blood to ice. Well, no. I wasn't afraid when I was starting, either. In the business. But since my son was born I know what it feels like. To be afraid. Yes. When something goes wrong, it's not possible anymore. No. To leave everything and just walk away. Run.”

He had stopped and was gazing out at the ocean, the clouds gliding slowly toward the west. He sighed.

”It's good to run,” he said. ”When you have to. You know that better than anybody. Yes. That's all you've done your whole life. Run. Whether you wanted to or not.”

He went on looking at the clouds. He raised his arms shoulder-high, as though to embrace the Mediterranean, and dropped them, impotently. Then he turned back to Teresa.

”Are you going to have it?”

She looked at him without responding. The sound of the water, the feel of the cold sea-froth on her feet. Yasikov looked at her fixedly, from his height. Teresa felt much smaller next to the huge Slav.

”What was your childhood like, Oleg?”

The Russian rubbed the back of his neck, surprised. Uncomfortable.

”I don't know,” he said. ”Like all childhoods in the Soviet Union. Neither bad nor good. The Pioneers, school. Yes. Karl Marx. The Soyuz. f.u.c.king American imperialism. All that. Too much boiled cabbage, I think. And potatoes. Too many potatoes.”

”I knew what it was to be hungry. All the time,” said Teresa. ”I had one pair of shoes, and my mother wouldn't let me put them on except to go to school, while I still went.”

A wry smile came to her lips. ”My mother,” she repeated absentmindedly. An old, mellow anger rose in her.

”She beat on me a lot when I was little. She was an alcoholic, and she turned into a kind of part-time wh.o.r.e when my father left her. She'd make me go out and get beers for her friends. She'd drag me around by my hair, and she'd kick me and hit me. She'd come in late at night with that nasty flock of crows of hers, laughing obscenely, or somebody would come to the door drunk looking for her.... I stopped being a virgin long before I lost my virginity to a bunch of boys, some of whom were younger than I was.”

She fell silent, and remained quiet a good while, her hair blowing into her face. Slowly she felt the anger in her blood drain away. She took three or four deep breaths, to flush it out completely.

”I suppose Teo is the father,” Yasikov said.

She held his gaze impa.s.sively. Wordlessly.

”That's the second part,” the Russian whispered. ”Of the problem.”

He walked on without looking to see whether Teresa was following him. She stood, watching him move away, and then followed.

”I learned one thing in the army, Tesa,” Yasikov said thoughtfully. ”Enemy territory. Dangerous leaving pockets of the enemy behind you. Resistance. Hostile groups. Consolidating your gains requires that you eliminate points of potential attack. Yes. Points of potential attack. The phrase is used in all the books on warfare. My friend Sergeant Skobeltsin repeated it often. Yes. Every day. Before he got his throat cut in the Pans.h.i.+r Valley.”