The Foreign Girls. Sergio Olguin
hope so.”
“Best of luck then. Oh, and don’t be put off by the way they look. They know their stuff.”
Now that he’d carried out the job Doctor Zero had assigned him, Three decided to get in touch with this Nick guy. He called him from a phone booth, but nobody answered. Half an hour later he called again and there was still no reply. Nearly an hour later, Nick’s phone was still ringing without anyone picking up. Three went back to the apartment thinking El Gallo must have given him the wrong number, either deliberately or by accident. But he woke up at dawn suddenly certain that his call hadn’t been answered because he had made it from an anonymous number. Using the protection of a public phone might work for him, but not for Nick. The next morning he called from his mobile phone and got through straightaway.
“Nick?”
“He’s not here. Who’s calling?”
“El Gallo Miranda gave me this number.”
“I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
Before he had a chance to say anything else, the line went dead. Three hadn’t even got as far as giving his name. Less than five minutes later, the phone rang. The voice at the other end was the same, but the tone sounded much more friendly.
“Hello, boss. El Gallo sends his regards.”
“Hello, I need to speak to Nick.”
“Go to the bar on Rivadavia and Misiones at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“I’m Nick and I’m easy to spot: ginger, with a lot of freckles and tortoiseshell-framed glasses. I’m six foot two, although if I’m sitting down perhaps you won’t notice. I’ll be there with my colleague, who has no distinguishing features whatsoever.” 64
El Gallo Miranda had been right to warn him about Nick and Bono’s appearance. When Three arrived, they were sitting at a table away from the windows. The redhead was easy to pick out while Bono, as Nick had said, was almost completely nondescript: dark brown hair, neither tall nor short, not fat or thin. They both looked like university students playing at spies, or teenagers who spend too many hours watching porn on the computer. Nick was wearing a multicoloured shirt that was tight on him. Bono, meanwhile, wore a baggy black T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it. They were drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. Three walked over to them and introduced himself. They looked at him the way you might look at a madman bursting in on a private conversation, eyeing him suspiciously and letting a few seconds elapse before Nick gave him a friendly smile.
“Three. That’s what Doctor Zero calls you,” he said, motioning at him to sit down.
If they wanted to surprise him, they had succeeded.
“Have you been investigating me?”
“It’s routine. And a bad habit picked up from work. If Doctor Zero ever needs our services, we’re at his disposal.”
The waiter arrived and Three ordered a coffee. He noticed that Bono paid him no attention and seemed to be playing on a computer screen or some sort of device. Every now and then he said something to Nick in English or another language. Three would have thought he was a foreigner if not for the fact that, in a moment of frustration, he suddenly exclaimed “Qué boludo!” without taking his eyes off the screen.
“What do you need, Three?” Nick asked him, in the bland tone of a sales assistant.
Three said that he needed to know everything possible about the movements of a journalist called Verónica Rosenthal. He told Nick what he knew already, which wasn’t 65much, the fruit of research he had done while recovering from his injuries. Three had seen the journalist’s name in Nuestro Tiempo magazine. He had discovered that she lived in the apartment where he had been with his colleagues, seconds before they were run over. He didn’t know much more.
“That’s plenty. That’s all we need. Now to the matter of our fee.”
He mentioned a figure that struck Three as high: a quarter of all his savings. But he wasn’t going to haggle over the price, nor did he plan to look for anyone else to do this work that he couldn’t do. Nick made it clear the budget included comprehensive information about the woman but not hacking into emails or social media, or phone-tapping. If he needed any of that, they could arrange it, but it would cost him more and they would need more time. Three said that what they were offering him was enough. He paid them 10 per cent on the spot (which was all the money he had on him) and Nick agreed to ring him very soon with news. Within the next forty-eight hours, in fact.
Around noon the next day Nick called and asked him to come to a pizzeria on Corrientes and Anchoa. They had got to work faster than he was expecting.
“Before anything else, you should know this: Verónica Rosenthal has a powerful father. He runs the law firm Rosenthal and Associates and he’s the kind of lawyer I wouldn’t want to have across the aisle from me at the Tribunales law courts. That said, Verónica Rosenthal isn’t in Buenos Aires. She’s gone on vacation. She won’t be back for two weeks, give or take. On top of the statutory annual leave for journalists, she’s taken five days of compassionate leave. She’s travelling in the interior. We can wait for her to come back and get back into a routine here, in Buenos Aires. Or we can try to track her down in the interior.”66
It occurred to Three that Verónica had more protection in Buenos Aires, and for that reason it would be better to go and find her wherever she was.
“I’d rather know where she is now.”
“We also found out something else important. The building where she lives has no security camera, but there is a doorman who’s there all day watching people come and go. We think we can get into the girl’s apartment in the early hours. We’re going to go there at two o’clock tomorrow morning. Come with us if you like.”
It sounded like a good idea. He would go with them to Verónica Rosenthal’s apartment. He would see how the woman who had tried to kill him lived.
They met on Avenida Córdoba, on the corner of Calle Palestina. Nick was driving, Bono dozing with his head against the door. They left the car about a hundred yards away from the building. Nick had told him not to bring a gun or any weapon, but Three had come with his Glock anyway. They walked down the empty street. When they reached the building, Nick and he stood to one side while Bono, wearing gloves, managed to open the door in thirty seconds. They took the elevator up to the second floor. This was the risky part: a neighbour could get into the elevator and ask them what they were doing. If that happened they would have to neutralize the neighbour and his family and then continue their investigation. Plus they would have to take some things away to leave the impression of a break-in, although it was likely the journalist would suspect this was no run-of-the-mill burglary.
Bono opened the apartment door quickly and silently. It wouldn’t be necessary to stage anything here. On the contrary; they would have to leave everything as it was. Nick put on his gloves and offered a pair to Three.67
The apartment was beautifully ordered. The blinds were down, so they turned on the lights without a second thought. Nick threw his jacket down on the ground against the front door so no light would be seen from the corridor. Then he switched on the computer.
“Wouldn’t it be great if she’d left her mailbox open.”
Three looked over the apartment, starting with the immaculate kitchen. Everything was in its place. There wasn’t so much as a used teaspoon or cup left out on the counter. He opened the fridge and found only a block of membrillo quince jelly, a few cans of beer, some soft drinks, a bottle of water, mayonnaise, a tub of mustard, a jar of pickles and another, unopened, of olives. He went back into the living room, where Nick was at work on the computer while Bono looked through the CDs and books.
“Unfortunately she didn’t leave her email open. I see it’s a Gmail account. I’m trying to