The Names of the Dead Page 8

  “Yes.”

  “So your ex-wife, she thought you did a bad thing.”

  “She works for the government too, so she knew what we were doing. In fact, I think I was the one who suggested she leave, to protect her own career.”

  Even as he said it he knew that was a lie, one he’d told himself numerous times. It was near the end of that weeklong escape—a week in which he now knew he might well have fathered a child—that he’d told her she needed to distance herself from him, for the sake of her career. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she’d said. “I was thinking a quick divorce would be best, and once you’re out, well, we can see how things are.” He’d been stung and admiring in some way and maybe even relieved—as happy as they’d been in that week, as easy and comfortable with each other, that one sentence told him all he needed to know, that she no longer loved him, and he was pleased because that would make it easier for her, for both of them.

  “She left you because you went to prison, and they let you out of prison because she died.”

  “Yeah . . . Crazy, huh?”

  “Yes. I think it’s a difficult life to be a soldier.” She smiled sadly, and he knew she wasn’t thinking about him now.

  The concierge hadn’t been kidding about being unable to miss the Alfonso XIII. It was a landmark building in a prime location, even in a city full of landmark buildings in prime locations. They walked through the gates, up the short sweep of the driveway, and climbed the steps to the main lobby.

  Wes stopped as soon as they got inside. It was busy, people milling around or waiting to speak to one of the half dozen staff who were already dealing with other guests. Beyond the lobby Wes could see the internal Moorish courtyard, which was equally busy, with most of the tables occupied.

  Mia stopped and turned, smiling at him. “Why did you stop walking? I was talking to you.”

  “Sorry, I just . . . This isn’t the kind of hotel Rachel would’ve stayed in.”

  It was too big, too bustling, a great place in its own way, but just not what Rachel would have booked.

  “But she did stay here.”

  Wes nodded, because that was the mystery. Rachel had booked into a place that wouldn’t have suited her at all, and had stayed for three days. Why, and what had she been doing during that time? And at what point during her stay in this city had she said goodbye to her son, and could she have imagined that she would never see him again?

  Sixteen

  Despite the melee of people coming and going, they managed to attract the attention of one of the concierges within a few minutes and asked to speak to a manager. As soon as Wes mentioned Rachel’s name the concierge became animated, as if they’d been waiting for someone to come and ask about her. He showed Wes and Mia into a small conference room with eight chairs around a dark wooden table and asked them to wait.

  Mia looked around the room and then sat at the head of the table, facing the door. It was the chair Wes would have chosen for himself and he hovered for a moment before choosing one of the others.

  No sooner had he settled than the door opened and a suited man bustled into the room. He was probably under forty, tanned and healthy-looking, but his hair was completely gray.

  He put a hand out and said, “Mr. Richards, I’m Carlos, the deputy manager.”

  “Mr. Wesley. Rachel kept her maiden name after we were married.”

  “I’m sorry, my mistake.”

  They shook hands. Wes had removed the bandages that morning and found the cuts were healing well, and it felt good now to be unencumbered. Carlos turned to Mia, his hand still outstretched.

  “This is Mia. She doesn’t like to be touched.”

  “Of course,” said Carlos, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He withdrew his hand and gave a deferential nod. “Welcome, both, and Mr. Webley . . .”

  “Wesley.”

  “My apologies. Mr. Wesley, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Carlos walked around the table and sat facing Wes, then said, “Might I get you something to eat or drink?”

  “No, thank you, we won’t take up too much of your time. I’m sure you’ve heard that our son is missing.” Carlos nodded gravely, and something in his expression suggested to Wes that he’d spoken about this more than once, maybe to the Spanish police, certainly to the Americans. “I’m just retracing Rachel and Ethan’s movements, so I wanted to check that Ethan was still with her when she was staying with you.”

  “Yes. They stayed with us for three nights. Actually, I spoke with her myself when she arrived, and she asked me about the boats for hire in the Plaza de España—she said the little boy loved boats.”

  “Ethan was with her when she spoke to you?”

  “Of course. A sweet little boy.”

  “Did you see her again at all?”

  Carlos shrugged as though Wes were asking him something impossible. “You know, it’s a large hotel, many guests, and . . .”

  “No, I understand.” It was a large hotel, with many guests, and as he’d already figured, not the kind of place that Rachel would have booked ordinarily. Wes felt the stirrings of a deeper understanding, a lead promising enough that he felt nervous about pursuing it. “Would it be possible to speak to the housekeeper who looked after their room?”

  “Er . . .” The expression suggested Wes had asked another impossible question, but then Carlos appeared to relent and offered a sympathetic smile. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll be back very shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Carlos left and they sat in silence for a while before Mia said, “Why do you want to speak to the housekeeper?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Hunch? What is hunch?”

  “Like an idea. You know when you’re reading a mystery novel and you have an idea who the murderer might be but you’re not sure why? That’s a hunch.”

  She smiled. “Hunch.” She looked on the verge of laughing. “Hunch.”

  “Hunch,” said Wes, smiling too, warmed by the simple joy she was taking from this new word.

  “You want to speak to the housekeeper because you have a hunch that your ex-wife didn’t stay here.”

  Wes’s smile fell away, and he was curious now. “How did you know?”

  “I had a hunch too.” She laughed a little. “Because you said she wouldn’t stay somewhere like this. And it’s so busy. It would be easy to pretend.”

  “That’s more or less it. And she made a point of being remembered, speaking to Carlos about boats—that isn’t like her either.”

  Wes turned toward the door because he could hear Carlos approaching, talking rapidly in Spanish. Then the door opened and he came in with a young dark-haired woman trailing behind him in a housekeeper’s uniform. Wes stood.

  “We’re in luck,” said Carlos. “This is Inés, Mr. Wesley. She was the housekeeper for your wife and son’s room during their stay.”

  “Hello, Inés.” He shook her hand but she looked uncomfortable, and even more so as he said, “Thanks for coming to speak to us.”

  “Inés doesn’t speak English.” Carlos translated for her and she smiled now and nodded at Wes and at Mia. “What would you like to ask her?”

  They didn’t seem inclined to sit, so Wes remained standing too, and was conscious of Mia sitting at the head of the table as if watching a performance.

  “I know it was a few weeks back now but I wonder if she met my wife, my son, if she remembers anything about their stay.”

  Carlos nodded and then spoke to Inés. An exchange followed between them, a rapid to-and-fro, with certainty from her and growing confusion from him.

  Eventually Carlos turned back to Wes. “I don’t understand. Inés doesn’t think they ever stayed in the room. The suitcase was there, unopened, the beds were never slept in.” Inés was staring at Carlos as he spoke, then interjected and there was another brief exchange before Carlos looked helplessly at Wes. “She said the cellph
one was also left in the room, on charge.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” Carlos spoke once more to Inés, a simple question this time, met with a simple answer that caused him to sigh.

  “What did you just ask?”

  “I asked why she’d never mentioned this before.”

  “And?”

  “She said no one ever asked her before.” Inés shook her head in acknowledgment, suggesting she had a little English. Then Carlos said, “You don’t seem surprised, Mr. Wesley.”

  “Well, I know my wife, I guess. But I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t go into any more detail.”

  Carlos nodded, though it was apparent he didn’t understand at all. Why would someone pay for three nights in a luxury hotel and use it as little more than a left-luggage facility? And where would someone go for three days without their cellphone? Wes didn’t have the answers to those questions, but at least he knew the questions, and he knew also that somewhere behind them lay the key to Ethan’s whereabouts.

  And wherever that was, he could pretty much guarantee it wasn’t Seville. He was equally certain the second hotel would confirm his suspicions, that Rachel had used the three days to take Ethan far away from there, and that he hadn’t been with her when she’d returned.

  There was something else, too. She couldn’t have known she’d get caught up in a terrorist attack, but the lengths she’d gone to in concealing her movements beforehand suggested she’d been involved in something high-risk. He’d long learned that even if life was full of coincidences, those coincidences sometimes needed to be investigated. And maybe this was one of those times.

  At the very least, if Rachel had been involved in something sensitive, other people would be looking for links, too. So he’d have to visit the family of Hassan Berrada after all, to find out which Americans had also visited in the weeks since the attack, and to find out what questions they’d asked.

  Seventeen

  The Corral del Rey wasn’t far from the Alfonso XIII, but Wes felt a growing sense of urgency now and asked one of the bellhops to flag a taxi for them.

  Once they were on their way, Wes said, “Mia, could you look on your phone to see if you can find an address for Hassan Berrada?”

  She looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern, and he was half expecting her to remind him that Berrada had blown himself up in Granada. But before she could reply, the driver cleared his throat and caught Wes’s eye in the rearview.

  “Berrada? The terrorist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can take you there. I take a journalist there last week or the week before.”

  “Okay. I want to go to Corral del Rey first.”

  “Sure, Hotel Corral del Rey, then to the apartment Berrada.”

  “Thanks. Is it . . . an immigrant neighborhood?”

  The driver frowned, and at first Wes thought he hadn’t understood the question but then he said, “No, no. In Seville, no. We have not many Moroccan families and they all, er . . .” He took both hands off the wheel and waved them about.

  “Integrate?”

  “Yes, yes. I take you there, after Corral del Rey.”

  Wes sensed Mia’s gaze on him and when he turned to face her she said, “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I’m convinced my wife wasn’t really on vacation. I think she was working. It’s a long shot, but I want to ask the Berrada family about any American visitors they might have had since the attack. It might help me understand what Rachel was doing, and that might help me understand where she left Ethan.” He heard his own words as an objective observer might, and could feel his heart sinking in response. “I know, it seems unlikely, but the key in our line of work is exploring every angle.”

  “You don’t want them to say sorry?”

  “The family? No. It’s not their fault. Their son died too.”

  The driver had turned into narrower streets as they’d talked, and Mia pointed now and said, “There it is. Corral del Rey.”

  Wes nodded. It was much smaller than the hotel they’d just been in, less conspicuous, and he could see already it was much more Rachel’s style.

  They paid the driver and Wes said, “Five minutes, okay?”

  The driver looked at his watch but glanced around too. “The street is very narrow. If another car comes . . .”

  “If another car comes, sound the horn and we’ll come back.”

  He nodded and Wes and Mia headed into the calm interior. A woman with long mousy hair was walking across the small foyer but she turned and smiled at them as they walked in and greeted them in Spanish.

  “Hello. My wife stayed here a few weeks back—Rachel Richards.”

  The woman’s smile broke down and she put a hand over her heart. “I’m very sorry for what happened. Would you like—”

  “No, I’m sorry, we have a car waiting.” Even as he spoke, his eyes were being drawn to the interior of the hotel, and he wanted to stay and get the feel of it and ask about Rachel’s time here, to imagine her in this space. “I just need to ask one thing. Was her son with her?”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was meant to come, but she told us he was staying with friends instead. We told this to the person from the American embassy.”

  “Did the person from the embassy leave a card or a contact number?”

  “I don’t think so. I could ask, but I don’t think so.”

  “No, it’s fine. Thanks for your time.”

  “You’re welcome. If there’s anything else we can do . . .” Her words dried up, acknowledging the obvious truth, that there was nothing any of them could do, or almost nothing.

  They walked back out. The driver hadn’t sounded his horn, and he looked relaxed sitting there, despite the fact that a small truck and another taxi were now waiting behind him, both drivers looking oddly resigned.

  They got into the car and he waved to the vehicles behind and said, “So, Berrada apartment.”

  They started to crawl along the narrow street, squeezing past pedestrians, and Mia said, “Three days is a long time.”

  Wes looked at her and smiled. Three days was a long time, and Rachel couldn’t have flown but she still could have reached anywhere in Spain or Portugal or even most of France in a day and a half. It didn’t help solve the mystery of her actions, but it pretty much confirmed once and for all that Ethan most likely wasn’t in Seville, and that meant they didn’t need to be here either.

  Eighteen

  It was a fifteen-minute drive to the neighborhood where the Berradas lived, a mainly residential area of neat modern apartment buildings on tree-lined streets. The driver pulled up outside one of the buildings and pointed.

  “Apartment Four. You want I wait?”

  “No, we’ll make our own way back.” Wes paid him and they got out of the car.

  The street was almost eerily quiet, the peacefulness made more striking by traffic passing through the next intersection, which the departing taxi was already approaching. The street door to the building was ajar so they pushed through it and took the stairs.

  There was no noise within the building either, and when Wes rang the bell there was no sound from inside the Berrada apartment. He was just about to state the obvious, that they might have gone away, when the door opened and a young man stood facing them.

  He was slim, dark-haired. He also had a black eye. He said something wearily in Spanish.

  Wes said, “I don’t understand, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re American? Journalists or . . .”

  He didn’t finish, but Wes guessed he meant “government,” and that offered a little more hope that there had already been representatives from the government here.

  “Neither. My name’s James Wesley. My wife was one of the people killed. Rachel Richards.”

  The young man stared at him, the look of someone who wished he could disappear and not be part of the situation he found himself in.

  Wes added quickly, “I haven’t come h
ere to cause trouble . . .”

  “Then why have you come?”

  “I was hoping . . . I just, I had a couple questions, but . . .” He looked at the kid in front of him who was struggling so hard to keep his composure, and as much as Wes wanted those answers, he knew he shouldn’t have come here. “I’m sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

  “But you did.” There seemed a hint of a challenge in the young man’s voice and in his expression, but it lasted only a moment before he stepped back, opening the door wider by way of invitation. “Please, come in.” Wes hesitated, surprised by the apparent change of tone and unsure what had brought it about. “I am Hamdi Berrada. Hassan was my brother.”

  “Okay, thanks. This is my friend Mia.”

  They nodded to each other as Wes and Mia stepped into the apartment and Hamdi closed the door behind them.

  “Please, this way.” He led them into a large living room decorated in the Moroccan style, with low couches lining the walls. He was speaking softly in Arabic even as he entered the room and Wes took in the people sitting there—his parents; a girl of about fourteen; a boy a little younger still; a very elderly woman; another woman who might have been Hamdi’s older sister, a sleeping baby in her arms.

  The parents in particular looked broken and old beyond their years, but everyone in the room looked bereft, a mixture of loss and confusion on their faces. As Hamdi spoke, something in his words caused the woman with the baby to gasp, and Wes guessed he’d just reached the point of telling his family who these visitors were.

  Wes looked at the parents and said, “Thank you for allowing me to come into your home. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Hamdi translated and Mr. Berrada looked in danger of breaking down in response. Instead, he stood and gestured for the two of them to sit. As they took their places, the younger woman handed the baby to the elderly lady, then left the room, together with the girl.

  Mrs. Berrada barely seemed present, but Mr. Berrada spoke a few words. His son looked impatient, even angry, in response, but then his father nodded with finality and Hamdi sighed before translating.