Queen of the South - Страница 68

Sergeant Moncada leaned forward in her chair. No lipstick, no makeup. Her small eyes looked tired. The cold. The allergy. Maybe a long night last night-working, of course, Teresa ventured. Days without washing her hair. The gold earrings were incongruous.

"The captain means your area-in fact, you."

Teresa decided to ignore the hostility. She looked at the woman's wrinkled shirt.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She turned to the man again. "My affairs are all in public view."

"Not these affairs," Captain Castro said. "Have you ever heard of Chemical STM?"

"Never."

"Or of Konstantin Garofi, Limited?"

"Yes. I have shares in that company. A minority holding."

"How strange. According to our information, the Konstantin Garofi import-export company, with headquarters in Gibraltar, is owned entirely by you."

Maybe I should have waited for Teo, thought Teresa. But now was not the time to turn back. She raised an eyebrow.

"I imagine that if you claim that, you have proof of it."

Captain Castro stroked his moustache. He slowly, doubtfully shook his head, as though calculating exactly how much proof he had, or didn't have.

"Well, no," he said at last. "Unfortunately we don't, although in this case it doesn't matter much. Because we've received a report. A request for cooperation from the U.S. DEA and the Colombian government, regarding a shipment of fifteen tons of potassium permanganate seized in Cartagena."

"I didn't realize that shipping potassium permanganate was illegal."

She had leaned back and was looking at the officer with a surprise that to all appearances was authentic.

"In Europe it's not," was the reply. "But in Colombia it's a controlled substance. It's used in the processing of cocaine. And in the United States buying and selling more than a certain amount of potassium permanganate is restricted. It's one of the twelve precursors and thirty-three chemical substances on the list of controlled substances. As you may or may not know, potassium permanganate is one of those twelve products essential for making cocaine paste and cocaine hydrochloride. Combined with other chemicals, ten tons would be enough to refine eighty tons of cocaine. Which, if you'll forgive a well-used phrase, is nothing to sneeze at."

When he finished his speech, Captain Castro continued to look at Teresa inexpressively, as though that was all he had to say. She mentally counted to three. Chale. Her head was starting to hurt, but she couldn't allow herself to take out an aspirin in front of these two. She shrugged.

"And?"

"Well, the shipment went by sea from Algeciras. It had been bought by Konstantin Garofi from the Belgian company Chemical STM."

"I think it's odd that a company in Gibraltar would export directly to Colombia."

"We think it's odd, too." If there was sarcasm in his remark, it didn't show. "Actually, what happened is that the stuff was bought in Belgium, brought to Algeciras, and then signed over to another company registered on the island of Jersey, which put it in a container and shipped it first to Puerto Cabello, in Venezuela, and then to Cartagena… And along the way it was repackaged-into barrels labeled magnesium dioxide."

It wasn't the Gallegos-Teresa knew that. This time it hadn't been them that had blown the whistle. The problem was in Colombia. Local problems, with the DEA behind them, probably. Nothing that would even remotely affect her.

"Where?"

"At sea. Because it left Algeciras labeled as what it was."

So that's the end of the line, sweetheart. Everybody off. Look at my hands on the table, taking a legal cigarette out of a legal package and lighting it with all the calm in the world. Hands as white and innocent as snow. So forget it. What's all this to me?

"Then you should ask that company headquartered in Jersey for an explanation," she said.

The sergeant made a gesture of impatience, but said nothing. Captain Castro bowed his head, as though grateful for a good piece of advice.

"It dissolved after the operation," he said. "It was just a name on Saint Helier Street."

"Hijole. And there's proof of all that?"

"Of that, yes indeed."

"Then the people at Konstantin Garofi got taken, eh?"

The sergeant opened her mouth to say something, but this time, too, she evidently thought better of it. She looked at her boss and then removed a notebook from her bag. You take out a pencil, thought Teresa, and you're on your ass on the street. Or maybe whether you take out a pencil or not.

"So," she went on, "if I understand this right, you're talking about the transportation of a legal chemical within the Schengen area. I don't see what's strange about that. I'm sure all the documents were in order, with bills of lading and destination documents and everything. I can't say I know all the details of Konstantin Garofi's operations, but as far as I know they're very careful to obey all the applicable laws… And I'd never have stock in them if they weren't."

"Not to worry," said Captain Castro amiably.

"Do I seem worried?"

He looked at her without immediately answering.

"As far as you and Konstantin Garofi are concerned," he said at last, "everything seems legal."

"Unfortunately," added the sergeant. She licked her thumb to turn a page in the notebook.

Bullshit, thought Teresa. You want to make me think you've got the number of kilos of my last run written down in there?

"Would there be anything else?" she asked.

"There'll always be something else," replied the captain.

So let's move to second base, cabron, thought Teresa as she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She did it with calculated violence, with a hard thumb. Just enough irritation, plus an ounce or two for good measure, despite the fact that her headache was making her feel increasingly uncomfortable. In Sinaloa, these two would already be bought off or dead. She had contempt for the way they showed up there, taking her for something she wasn't. So primitive. But she also knew that contempt led to arrogance, and that's where the mistakes started. Overconfidence kills more people than bullets.

"Let's make things clear," she said. "If you have something concrete that involves me, we can continue this conversation with my lawyers. If not, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop wasting my time."

Sergeant Moncada forgot about her notebook. She tapped the table, as though testing the quality of the wood. She seemed cranky. "We could continue this conversation down at headquarters…"

There you go, thought Teresa. Straight where I was figuring we'd be going.

"Well, I don't think so, Sergeant," Teresa replied very serenely. "Because unless you had something concrete, which you don't, I'd be in your headquarters there just long enough for my attorneys to shove it up your ass… With compensatory and punitive damages thrown in for good measure."

"There's no reason to be that way," said Captain Castro calmly. "No one's accusing you of anything."

"I'm sure of that. That nobody's accusing me of anything."

"Certainly not Sergeant Velasco."

This is a trap, Teresa thought. And she put on her Aztec mask. "Sorry?… Sergeant who?"

The officer looked at her with cold curiosity. You're damn fine, Teresa thought, bien padre. With those good manners and that gray hair and that nice official, gentlemanly moustache. The bitch, however, ought to wash her hair more often.

"Ivan Velasco," the captain said slowly. "Guardia Civil. Deceased." Sergeant Moncada leaned forward again. Brusquely.

"A pig. You know anything about pigs, senora?" She said this with ill-repressed rage.

Maybe she's just in a shitty mood, thought Teresa. Or maybe it has something to do with being a redhead. Or maybe she's just overworked, or unhappy with her husband-who the hell knows. Maybe she just needs a good screw. And it can't be easy being a woman in her line of work. Or maybe they take turns: good cop, bad cop. With a cabrona like they think I am, they decide the girl's going to be the bad cop. Logical. Like I give a fuck.

"Does this Velasco have something to do with the potassium permanganate?" asked Teresa.

"Be nice, now." The tone of voice did not sound friendly; the sergeant was digging something out from between her teeth with a fingernail. "Don't go pulling our leg."

"Velasco kept bad company," Captain Castro explained, clearly, as he always did. "And he was killed some time ago, just about when you got out of prison. Remember?… Santiago Fisterra, Gibraltar, and all that? When you didn't even dream of being what you've become today."

Teresa's expression gave away nothing of what she might or might not remember. You've got squat, she thought. You just came to pull my chain.

"Well, you know, I don't think I do," she said. "I don't think I can place this Velasco."

"Can't place him," remarked the sergeant. She almost spat it out. She turned to her boss as if to say, What do you think, Captain? But Castro was looking out the window, as though thinking about something else.

"Actually, we can't connect you," Sergeant Moncada went on. "Besides, it's water under the bridge, right?" She licked her thumb again and consulted her notebook, although it was clear she wasn't reading anything there. "And that other guy, Canabota, that got killed-that name's not familiar, either, I suppose?… The name Oleg Yasikov ring any bells?… And you never heard of hashish or cocaine or Colombians or Galicians?" She stopped herself, glumly, to let Teresa say something, but Teresa didn't open her mouth. "… Of course. You deal in real estate, the stock market, Jerez wineries, local politics, financial paradises, charity, and dinners with the governor of Malaga."