Contract With God (6 page)

‘Shit, Otero. I was wrong about you. I thought you were just an idiot. Now I realise you’re an idiot
and
a troublemaker. I will personally make sure that no one ever hires a sneaky bitch like you again.’

‘But, Chief . . .’ said Andrea, starting to sound desperate.

‘Save your breath, Otero. You’re fired.’

‘I didn’t think—’

‘You’re so fired that I don’t see you any more. I don’t even hear you.’

The Chief strode away from Andrea’s desk.

Looking around the room, Andrea saw nothing but the backs of her fellow reporters’ heads. Moreno came and stood next to her.

‘Thanks, Andrea.’

‘It’s all right. It would be crazy for both of us to get fired.’

Moreno shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you had to tell him that you broke into the system. Now he’s so mad he’ll make things really difficult for you out there. You know what happens when he gets on one of his crusades . . .’

‘Looks like he’s already started,’ Andrea said, gesturing to the newsroom. ‘Suddenly, I’m a leper. Well, it’s not as if I was anyone’s favourite before this.’

‘You’re not a bad person, Andrea. In fact, you’re quite a gutsy reporter. But you’re a loner and you never worry about the consequences. Anyway, good luck.’

Andrea swore to herself that she wouldn’t cry, that she was a strong and independent woman. She gritted her teeth while Security placed her things in a box, and with a great deal of effort was able to keep her promise.

MADRID, SPAIN

 

 

The thing that Andrea hated the most since Eva had gone for good was the sound of her own keys when she came home and deposited them on the little table next to the door. They made an empty echo in the hallway that, to Andrea, seemed to sum up her life.

When Eva had been there, everything was different. She would run to the door like a little girl, kiss Andrea, and start babbling about the things she’d done or the people she’d met. Andrea, overwhelmed by this whirlwind that prevented her from reaching the sofa, would pray for some peace and quiet.

Her prayers had been answered. Eva had left one morning, three months ago, the same way she had shown up: suddenly. There was no sobbing or tears, no regrets. Andrea had said practically nothing, was even somewhat relieved. She’d have plenty of time for regrets later, when the faint echo of keys broke the silence of her apartment.

She had tried to deal with the emptiness in different ways: leaving the radio on when she left the house, putting the keys back in the pocket of her jeans as soon as she walked in, talking to herself. None of her ruses was able to mask the silence, for it came from within.

Now as she entered the apartment her foot shoved aside her latest attempt at not being lonely: an orange tabby. At the pet shop the cat had seemed cute and loving. It took Andrea almost forty-eight hours to begin hating it. That was fine with her. You could deal with hatred. It was active: you simply hated someone or something. What she couldn’t deal with was frustration. You just had to put up with that.

‘Hi, LB. They’ve fired Mummy. What do you think about that?’

Andrea had given him the name LB, short for Little Bastard, after the monster had got into the bathroom and managed to hunt down and rip apart an expensive tube of shampoo. LB did not appear to be impressed with the news that his mistress had been fired.

‘You don’t care, do you? You should, though,’ Andrea said, pulling a can of Whiskas out of the refrigerator and spooning its contents on to a dish in front of LB. ‘When there’s nothing left for you to eat I’ll sell you to Mr Wong’s Chinese restaurant on the corner. Then I’ll go and order chicken with almonds.’

The idea that he would become part of the menu at a Chinese restaurant didn’t curb LB’s appetite. The cat had no respect for anything or anybody. He lived in his own world, ill-tempered, apathetic, undisciplined and proud. Andrea hated him.

Because he reminds me so much of myself
, she thought.

She looked around, annoyed at what she saw. The bookcases were covered in dust. There were leftovers on the floor, the sink was buried under a mountain of dirty dishes, and the manuscript of a half-finished novel that she had started three years ago was scattered over the bathroom floor.

The only place in the apartment that was neat and orderly was the huge -
thank god
- wardrobe in her bedroom. Andrea was very careful with her clothes. The rest of the apartment looked like a war zone. She believed her messiness had been one of the main reasons for the breakup with Eva. They had been together for two years. The young engineer was a cleaning machine and Andrea had affectionately dubbed her The Romantic Vacuum Cleaner because she loved tidying the apartment to the accompaniment of Barry White.

At this point, as she surveyed the disaster that was her apartment, Andrea had a revelation. She’d clean up the pigsty, sell her clothes on eBay, find a well-paid job, pay off her debts, and make up with Eva. She now had a goal, a mission. Everything would turn out perfectly.

She felt a rush of energy through her body. This lasted precisely four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the exact time it took her to open a rubbish bag, fling in a quarter of the leftovers on the table along with a few dirty dishes that were beyond salvaging, move haphazardly from one spot to another, then knock over the book she’d been reading the night before so that the photo inside fell to the floor.

The two of them together. The last one they’d taken.

She dropped onto the sofa, sobbing, as the rubbish bag disgorged part of its contents onto the living-room rug. LB came over and nibbled on a slice of pizza. The cheese had started to turn green.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it, LB? I can’t escape the person I am, at least not with a mop and broom.’

The cat didn’t pay the least attention but ran over to the apartment entrance and began rubbing itself against the door frame. Andrea stood up mechanically, realising that somebody was about to ring the bell.

She threw the door open, surprising her visitor before he could ring.

‘Hey there, beautiful.’

‘I guess news travels fast.’

‘Bad news does. If you start crying, I’m out of here.’

Andrea stepped aside without rubbing the expression of disgust from her face, but secretly she was relieved. She should have guessed. Enrique Pascual had been her best friend and shoulder to cry on for many years. He worked for one of the big radio stations in Madrid, and every time Andrea stumbled Enrique showed up at her door with a bottle of whisky and a smile. This time he must have thought that she was especially needy because the whisky was twelve years old and to the right of his smile was a bouquet of flowers.

‘You had to do it, didn’t you? The super-reporter had to fuck with one of the paper’s major advertisers,’ Enrique said, going down the hall and into the living room without tripping over LB. ‘Is there a clean vase in this dump?’

‘Let them die and give me the bottle. Who cares! Nothing lasts for ever.’

‘Now you’ve lost me,’ Enrique said, ignoring the problem of the flowers for the moment. ‘Are we talking about Eva or getting fired?’

‘I don’t think I know,’ Andrea muttered, appearing from the kitchen with a glass in each hand.

‘If you’d hooked up with me, maybe things would have been clearer.’

Andrea tried not to laugh. Enrique Pascual was tall, attractive, and ideal for any woman for the first ten days of the relationship, then a nightmare for the next three months.

‘If I liked men you’d be in my top twenty. Probably.’

It was now Enrique’s turn to laugh. He poured two fingers of whisky neat. He had hardly taken a sip before Andrea had emptied her glass and was reaching for the bottle.

‘Take it easy, Andrea. It’s not a good idea to end up in Casualty. Again.’

‘I think it would be a fucking great idea. At least I’d have somebody to look after me.’

‘Thank you for not appreciating my efforts. And don’t be so dramatic.’

‘You think it’s not dramatic losing your lover and your job in the space of two months? My life is shit.’

‘I’m not going to argue with you there. At least you’re surrounded by what’s left of her,’ Enrique said, waving disgustedly at the mess in the room.

‘Maybe you could become my cleaning lady. I’m sure it would be more useful than that bullshit sports programme you pretend to work on.’

Enrique’s expression didn’t change. He knew what was coming next and so did Andrea. She buried her head in a cushion and screamed with all her might. After a few seconds her scream turned into sobs.

‘I should’ve brought two bottles.’

Just then a mobile phone rang.

‘I think it’s yours,’ Enrique said.

‘Tell whoever it is to go fuck themselves,’ Andrea said, her face still buried in the cushion.

Enrique snapped open the phone with an elegant gesture.

‘A Torrent of Tears. Hello . . .? Hold on a moment . . .’

He handed Andrea the telephone.

‘I think you’d better handle this. I don’t speak foreign languages.’

Andrea took the telephone, wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and tried to sound normal.

‘Do you know what time it is, you idiot?’ Andrea said through gritted teeth.

‘I’m sorry. Andrea Otero, please?’ said a voice in English.

‘Who is it?’ she answered in the same language.

‘My name is Jacob Russell, Ms Otero. I’m calling from New York on behalf of my boss, Raymond Kayn.’

‘Raymond Kayn? Of Kayn Industries?’

‘Yes, that’s right. And you’re the same Andrea Otero who pulled off that controversial interview with President Bush last year?’

Of course, the interview. That interview had had a big impact in Spain and even in the rest of Europe. She had been the first Spanish reporter to get inside the Oval Office. Some of her more direct questions - the few that had not been agreed beforehand and she had managed to sneak in - had made the Texan more than a little nervous. That exclusive interview had relaunched her career at
El Globo
. At least briefly. And it seemed to have rattled some cages on the other side of the Atlantic.

‘One and the same, sir,’ Andrea replied. ‘So tell me, why does Raymond Kayn need an excellent reporter?’ she added, sniffing quietly, pleased that the person on the phone couldn’t see the state she was in.

Russell cleared his throat. ‘Can I count on you not to tell anyone at your paper about this, Ms Otero?’

‘Absolutely,’ Andrea said, amused at the irony.

‘Mr Kayn would like to give you the greatest exclusive of your life.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Andrea said, making a writing motion to Enrique.

Her friend extracted a notebook and pen from his pocket and handed them to her with a questioning look. Andrea ignored him.

‘Let’s just say he likes your style,’ Russell said.

‘Mr Russell, at this point in my life it’s hard for me to credit that someone I’ve never met is calling me up with such a vague and probably unbelievable offer.’

‘Well, let me convince you.’

Russell spoke for quarter of an hour, during which the astonished Andrea continuously scribbled down notes. Enrique tried reading over her shoulder, but with Andrea’s spidery writing it was no use.

‘. . . that’s why we’re counting on you to be at the site of the excavation, Ms Otero.’

‘Will there be an exclusive interview with Mr Kayn?’

‘As a general rule, Mr Kayn doesn’t give interviews. Never.’

‘Maybe Mr Kayn should find a reporter for whom rules matter.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Andrea crossed her fingers, praying that her shot in the dark would hit its target.

‘I suppose there could always be a first time. Do we have a deal?’

Andrea thought about it for a few seconds. If what Russell was promising was really true, she’d be able to get a contract with any media company in the world. And she would send that son of a bitch editor at
El Globo
a copy of the cheque.

She didn’t give it another thought.

‘You can make a reservation for me on the next flight to Djibouti. First class.’

Andrea hung up.

‘I didn’t understand a single word except “first class”,’ Enrique said. ‘Can you tell me where you’re going?’ He was surprised by the obvious change in Andrea’s mood.

‘If I said the Bahamas, you wouldn’t believe me, right?’

‘Very nice,’ Enrique, said, half annoyed and half jealous. ‘I bring you flowers, whisky, I scrape you off the floor and this is how you treat me . . .’

Pretending she wasn’t listening, Andrea went into the bedroom to pack.

VATICAN CITY

 

The knock at the door startled Brother Cesáreo. Nobody came down to the crypt, not only because access was restricted to a very few people, but also because it was damp and unhealthy, despite the four dehumidifiers that hummed constantly in each corner of the enormous space. Pleased to have company, the old Dominican friar smiled as he opened the security door, standing on tiptoe to embrace his visitor.

‘Anthony!’

The priest smiled and embraced the smaller man.

‘I was in the neighbourhood . . .’

‘I swear by God, Anthony, how did you manage to get this far? This place has been monitored by cameras and security alarms for some time now.’