Los Gatos 18/? part 1
Pairing: David Villa/David Silva (main), Sernando (???), others
Characters: Iker Casillas, Cesc Fàbregas, Sara Carbonero, Jordi Alba, Andrés Iniesta (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Chapter 18
“Running late. Gonna wait 1 or 2 hrs?”
Iker scowled at the screen. He really shouldn’t. He should leave the thrice damned park and go back home, Sara had already called him that her plane had landed in Barajas an hour ago.
But who would ever guarantee him that it wasn’t his last chance to see Cesc? It was a dangerous game he was playing. With fire, so to speak.
“Sure”, he typed and immediately pressed ‘send’, before he could change his mind.
.....................................................................................
In the end it had taken Cesc more than four hours to arrive.
“Good… Morning, officer”, he quietly slipped onto a bench next to him, smiling wryly, “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”
Iker had been preparing a suitably biting remark just for that but cut it short at the sight of the prostitute’s bruised face.
“What the hell happened?”, he couldn’t stop but lean back to inspect the damage better.
“Occupational hazard”, Cesc shrugged, avoiding Iker’s eyes and staring straight ahead into the blackness of the night, “Was a bit careless with getting information.”
“Who beat you, can I-”
“Do something?”, Cesc scoffed giving Iker a mocking glance, “Get real, officer. I want to take risk, I do. I deal with the consequences.”
Iker pursed his lips, knowing that the guy was essentially right, he couldn’t do anything short of arresting all the people involved in the sex trade. Which was his aim but to make that happened he needed Cesc to endanger himself. He was no philosopher but he could see something thoroughly fucked up with that method.
“What did you learn to warrant yourself such a punishment?”, he wasn’t able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He could do without Cesc pointing out his impotence.
“You’ve got something to write?”, Cesc seemed oddly pleased with his frustration.
Gritting his teeth tightly, Iker threw him his phone.
Then, he retrieved it to type down the password.
“Here”, he handed it back after opening the right application.
Smirking, Cesc typed something down.
“That’ll be it for now, I guess”, the prostitute was already standing up.
“Wait, do you need-”, Iker’s eyes wandered down to the mobile on their own volition.
“No”, Cesc smiled a small, almost sad smile. Well, it wasn’t as if he had reasons to be cheerful, “Go back to your girlfriend.”
Iker was already opening his mouth to bark out that he was only trying to help but he suddenly remembered about his girlfriend waiting for him to take her to the theatre.
For a play that had finished two hours ago.
Oh shit.
.........................................................................
Cesc had proved himself to be a better field operator than all of the Bureau combined. The short note he had typed down consisted of an exact date, place and participants of an up-coming meeting concerning the American cocaine.
He was still wondering about his cleverness and courage, not even fooling himself for a moment that the Catalan’s stone-like persistence was born out of the sense of a civic responsibility. Cesc had a reason for his actions, and a good one.
But it wasn’t Iker’s job to find out. He should just stay content with having such a successful informer. With haunted eyes.
He was jumping two steps at time hurrying to their flat, trying to think of an excuse, well not really excuse because he wasn’t that guilty, neither had he been cheating on Sara in any way. They could just postpone their anniversary celebrations, it was just a date, for fuck’s sake, it was an intention that counted. Once she heard the news she would understand.
He needed to tread very carefully now. He was still officially suspended and nothing indicated that it was going to change soon. According to Andrés, he remained a taboo subject at work. But the assistance of the guys was soon going to be fundamental so that Cesc’s dedication wouldn’t go all to waste. How would he even handle that with a direct contact with anyone?
He opened the door. The flat was eerily silent at first but then he registered the muted sounds of the TV. Sara was apparently watching a talk-show. That didn’t bode well.
He stepped into a sitting room and froze.
There, on his sofa, with his Sara, drinking from his favourite mug was that bastard of a photographer.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”, he demanded as soon as he could make his throat work.
The fucker had the nerve to look at him with a puzzled expression.
“Keeping me company”, Sara’s reply was oddly emotionless, “As my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered too.”
Ignoring a smug stare of a short Catalan, Iker turned to her.
“I’m sorry, I told you-”
“That it’d take an hour tops.”
“I know, it’s just that it didn’t truly depend on me”, he began but was once again interrupted.
“And your mobile's battery died.”
“Not… Exactly”, he admitted. It hit him then that he hadn’t warned Sara of the prolonged delay, “Sorry”, as she didn’t seem to give a crap about his ‘sorry’, he carried on, valiantly trying to forget about their unwanted audience, “It was a job matter, I really couldn’t miss it”, he would have offered more if they had been alone.
“A job matter”, Sara repeated, suddenly glaring straight at him, “I must have missed something, on the other hand, because the last time I heard you were suspended.”
Shit. He had no idea how she had found out but she hadn’t been supposed to. Hell, he had been planning on telling her, but with all that Turkey trip and Cesc business he had decided to wait.
“Or have you just forgotten to mention it’s been revoked?”, her face left no doubts that she wouldn’t believe that it had.
“No”, he didn’t have time to create any plausible lie. Not that tricking Sara was a hobby he cultivated, “But I’ve met this very helpful guy who can really make the case move forwards-”
“Move the case?”, Sara jumped up from the sofa so swiftly that Alba almost fall down after her, “The case? Is it all you’re ever thinking about?”, she advanced on him, her voice somewhere between furious and despaired.
“No, of course not-”, he picked his hands up.
“No? You’re not too convincing here!”, she screwed her eyes shut, “It was meant to be our day, Iker. You know we’ve been planning it for ages, we’ve already covered that. Did you send me to Turkey just so that you could sniff around more freely?”
“What?”, he stared at her dumbly, for a second fully expecting her to negate the last part, “You wanted to go, what else could I have done?”
“I wanted to go?”, Sara’s voice hit a high pitch, “So now it’s my fault. Good to know”, she whirled around, slapping him with her hair.
Iker’s hands shot dangerously high as he tried to put his indignation into words. First, she had complained he hadn’t been treating her job as seriously as his. So it had been more than natural that he had encouraged her to go, he knew how burning ambition could get. Everyone wanted to achieve something professionally. Look where his good intentions had got him.
“Oh please”, he followed her, “You don’t mean it and you sure as hell know I hadn’t meant that. Could you please look at me and let me explain?”
She did turn to him, all pale face and glistening eyes.
“You’ve been doing nothing more but talking for months now”, she whispered, “About your case. About Villa. About the investigation. About how we’re going to be after. After the case, after Villa. Only, what about now? Do you see a place for us with the case and Villa?”, she finished softly, her hand delicately touching his cheek.
“Of course”, he covered her hand with his own, “You’re just as important-”
“Just as important?”, the slim hand withdrew as if had got burnt, “That’s all I need to know.”
“Wait”, he finally realised how it had sounded, “Wait, it wasn’t what I wanted to say…”
“Probably not, but it’s the truth”, her expression became guarded, “It’s how it is for you. Always has been. It’s the case and me, Villa and then me, never the other way around. Never us, me and then your work-”
“I can’t just abandon it as you’d like me to!”, he cried out, “It’s not an office job, you know I have to spend hours investigating, or would you rather prefer me to be one of those cops who see their duty as nothing more than the means to feed their family?”
“I’d like you to think about a family”, she shot back frostily, clearly set on not allowing herself to accept his arguments.
“I don’t want my family to, to live in that reality!", he shouted philosophically, "I don’t want my family to live in a city where a person can be just shot as easily as a dog can be kicked-”
“So it’s still about him?”, she shook her head, “Iker, people die, policemen die, both you and Beckham knew it was a possibility, it’s high time you made peace with than-”
“I’m not going to make peace with that”, he hissed, “I’m not going to become like you, you and everyone out there, calling me obsessed simply because I do my best to put criminals where their place is.”
“Doing you best?”, she blinked, “For fuck’s sake, you haven’t arrested anyone in years! Your work is just a series of failures!”
So this was how she saw it? Him as a nutcase and his efforts as chasing chimeras?
“Iker”, her voice softened again, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to come out that harsh.”
But she did want to make that point.
“Never mind”, he waved her off, something very heavy crushing his back, “I’m sorry for today, it’s not going to happen again”, he carefully moved to embrace her.
“You’re right”, her head was ducked when she escaped his hands, “It’s not going to happen again.”
The crushing feeling intensified.
“What do you mean: not going to happen again?”, his tone sounded urgent to his own ears, “Sara”, he grabbed her arm, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry”, her voice was unnaturally thick and when she finally looked at him he got his confirmation - she was crying, “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t live like that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”, she was repeating over and over again, her lips moving as if in a prayer, “It has to end.”
He almost told her that it would. That he was going to give up the case, stay at home, ask for a transfer…
But he owed David. He owed himself and his conscience.
“I’m sorry”, he stepped away, letting her go.
She was trembling like a leaf.
“Your suitcases are packed in the bedroom”, he heard and unwittingly balled his fist. So she had prepared everything beforehand.
Wordlessly, he went to collect them.
When he came back the photographer was gone (he hadn’t even heard him leave, hell, he had forgotten about him altogether) and Sara was perched on the sofa, legs crossed and hands folded neatly on them.
“Where can I pick up the rest?”, he didn’t even halt in his steps.
“Call me, tomorrow maybe”, he didn’t know if her gaze followed his movements, “We’ll discuss the flat then too.”
It seemed the storm had passed, more quickly than it came.
He wondered, as he descended down the stairs, if maybe the decision had been taken months ago.
..............................................................................................................
“Hey, officer”, he stilled.
Who the hell wanted something from him now?
He turned back and immediately scowled.
Alba.
“Hello, girlfriend-thief”, he spat, “Did you enjoy the food?”, he had noticed the empty plates on their (did it still count as ‘theirs’?) coffee table.
“Shouldn’t cops be more keen when it comes to thieves?”, the Catalan shot back, scoffing.
Iker scowled but didn’t react otherwise. He had to come up with someplace to sleep, or at least store the suitcases.
“Do you need help with those?”, the eyebrow-raise was so obvious in the photographer’s question that Iker just carried on calmly walking away, until he tripped on something and stumbled, losing the hold on one of the suitcases.
It fell on the pavement with a dull thud.
“Here”, the Catalan was quicker than him to pick it up, “Let me help you.”
“Fuck you”, Iker growled and attempted to take the suitcase back, but the guy gracefully avoided his outstretched arms, “Fucker.”
Alba arched his eyebrows knowingly.
“A pot calling a kettle back”, he snickered, “Remember, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Iker simply set off.
“Just so you know”, the photographer effortlessly caught up with him, “I’m not stealing Sara. She’s just a friend. She asked me to accompany her to the theatre when you stood her up”, his voice was so perfectly mocking that he couldn’t have been lying, “Then I had to pack you…”
“So it’s you I have to hunt down if something’s missing?”, Iker asked wryly.
“Rather the mess in your wardrobe”, the Catalan picked up his chin.
Iker let it go, focusing on the possible direction he could take. Right, a hotel? For a night maybe, he couldn’t afford it by a long shot. So a colleague it was. Pity he didn’t have any.
He went to the metro nonetheless, Alba trailing after him, apparently perfectly capable of keeping up with his long strides. The fucker must be fit.
“Thank you”, he said curtly, blocking the train entrance with his arm.
“You’re welcome”, the photographer slipped inside underneath it, “I’m riding in the same direction”, he shrugged at Iker’s pissed-off glare.
“What a coincidence”, he crossed his arms and sagged onto a seat, “Why are all Catalans so fucking short?”
Alba laughed.
“Maybe because all our energy goes into developing our brains, not bodies?”
Iker made a faced at him but in the end, he smiled. The kid was sharp, not that he would ever say it aloud.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I have it printed above my bed”, Alba sat down in front of him, “Optimism is all”, he looked through the window for some time which Iker had always found kind of stupid - after all, the metro tended to be underground, “How’s work? Any better than ours?”
“I doubt it”, Iker sighed, rubbing his temples.
“You’ve been on that case like, for years”, Alba grew both serious and incredulous, “It’s high time you got something”, probably he just thought Iker didn’t want to share anything with him.
Which was technically true as he was a nosy snooping journalist who wasn’t above publishing most compromising photos just to get a slightly bigger headline than usually. But also, he had to admit, because he had nothing to share.
“No evidence, no effects”, he snorted.
Alba rolled his eyes.
"Policemen, always waiting for others to do their job. With their girlfriends and their suspects."
.......................................................................................................
He hoped it wasn’t too assuming of him to come there but he really couldn’t think of anyone else likely to let him crash for a night or two. Or a week. But he wasn’t telling that up front.
He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure how much each guy at the Bureau earned but he had a suspicion it was enough to afford a place in a slightly more respectable area. Like, not in a rundown building remembering Franco’s best years. Without a lift but with neighbours who must be habitual guests of the holding cells of the barrio’s police station.
And it was just his luck that after dragging the suitcases onto the fourth floor, it turned out Andrés wasn’t home.
..........................................................................................................
He was dozing off when he heard light steps on the stairs. Then, they halted minutely only to continue, more deliberate and softer.
Then, he was looking into a barrel pointing straight at his head.
It took Andrés few agonising seconds to realise who he was aiming at and to lower the gun.
“Do you greet everyone that way?”, he smiled feebly from his crouched position at the technician’s doorstep.
“No, only policemen who come here in the middle of a night without a search warrant”, Andrés awkwardly pocketed the gun, “You don’t have a search warrant, do you?”, he added nervously in an attempt to joke.
“No, I don’t”, Iker assured, “Where the hell have you been? It’s 4.45 in the morning!”
“I’m sorry”, the Manchego automatically apologised as if he was somehow obliged to wait for Iker night and day, “I had to go to my uncle.”
Andrés and his family. It was a never-ending story. The technician had a bottomless pit of nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, cousins and other relatives who never had qualms to demand his help and whom the Manchego didn’t know how to refuse. The whole Bureau had spent weeks teasing him about his night relief trip to his parents’ vineyard, when it had turned out that he had only been needed to help them fill out a tax declaration due in two months.
“What happened this time?”
Andrés’ uncle from Madrid was infamous for his sportsman ambition. Which would be praise-worthy if the man wasn’t over seventy.
“Broke his leg while roller-blading”, the technician sighed long-sufferingly, “Then, his TV broke down. It’s a bother when you can’t move and have nothing but encyclopaedias to occupy your time. Fortunately, the guarantee hadn’t expired so I went to the shop, only to learn they couldn’t do anything because I wasn’t my uncle. In the end, I bought him a portable mini-TV”, he frowned, “Then, I fell asleep after installing it”, he reddened.
“Your uncle rocks.”
“Next time, I’m giving him your number”, Andrés promised a bit maliciously but then furrowed his eyebrows, “Where are you going?”
Iker followed his gaze to his suitcases.
“Actually”, he hoisted himself up, “I kind of hoped that you’d let me crash on your sofa.”
Andrés opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Then, he simply took out his keys and went on to unlocking the door.
“You’re not going to ask?”, Iker had been anticipating an avalanche of questions spiced up with some relationship advice.
“Do I even want to know?”, Andrés sounded wary as if he had spent his life listening to people’s petty problems, “Come on, whether Sara’s kicked you out or you’re hiding from Villa’s hitman, we’ll be better off inside.”
Never one to argue with logic, Iker gratefully stepped inside a tiny flat.
“I’m betting my money on the first version though, because I assume you wouldn’t be on a run with that… Hand luggage”, he snickered softly pointing to the suitcases.
“Well, I may be keeping my survival kit there”, Iker answered with a chuckle of his own, Andrés’ polite indifference like honey to his agitation.
“In that case, don’t put anything that may explode next to the computers.”
Iker looked around at that, taking in the room he was in. It was a mini-corridor, just a metre in width and a bit over a metre in length, leading to a bigger room with a small sofa (he couldn’t refrain from making a crestfallen face at that), an even smaller coffee table and two computers standing proudly on a long desk on the opposite side of the room. Just next to a sloppy heap of dirty mugs.
Andrés invited him inside and he obediently trotted after him, barely avoiding tripping on one of the countless cables on the floor. Really, what were they all for? Or all those pizza boxes? Surly Andrés couldn’t be holding something in them?
“Make yourself at home”, the technician clearly wasn’t used to having guests but, at the same time, he didn’t seem to be displeased with Iker’s presence.
“Thanks.”
As if on cue, his stomach rumbled.
For a moment, they just stared at each other as if waiting for a T-Rex to exit its hiding place behind the sofa. After the second rumble, the Manchego got the implication.
“Oh, you’re hungry”, he wasn’t giving his IQ a justice, “Do you want coffee? Or maybe, something to eat?”, he was already jogging to a small kitchen, “I’m sorry, I don’t eat much and rarely at home, the fridge must be empty… Do you like crisps? Or… Ehm… Apples? I have some milk for coffee, so you could have it with… Hmm…”, there was the sound of rummaging through cupboards, “Biscuits?”
“Biscuits are fine”, Iker called back, slightly petrified with the technician’s supplies. No wonder he was so unhealthily pale.
“Hey, I’ve got some chips to put into an oven. Half of a packing!”
...............................................................................................................................
There was a loud crash outside, followed by a shouting match with curses Iker hadn’t heard in his entire life.
“Neighbours”, Andrés offered apologetically.
“You live in a hovel”, it was out before he could stop himself.
“Why, thank you”, the Manchego snorted, checking something on one of the computers that must have been switched on all that time he’d been gone, “Tastes shouldn’t be discussed. I assure you I do have running water.”
“Sorry”, Iker ran a hand though his hair, “I’m beat.”
“Don’t worry, be glad the guy from the upstairs’ not here”, Andrés didn’t turn to him, scanning some text on the screen, “A retired opera singer, going deaf. A horror. Travelled all the world pleading various gods to heal him. Right now he’s trying his luck with our dear Santiago, after Jerusalem and Mecca had failed him. As far as I know he hasn’t been to a doctor yet.”
“You don’t sound to religious”, Iker teased, remembering Andrés fight with Víctor over the usefulness of crosses.
“I’m sure God let us invent hearing aids to use them”, the technician answered absent-mindedly.
Then, his mobile went off.
After glancing at the caller’s ID, he made a pained face.
“Uncle”, he mouthed, “Yes? Yes, yes, I’m home. Yes. Yes. I’ve been living here for years, I wouldn’t have got lost plus, you called me a cab!”, Andrés sounded insulted, “Look, I’m sorry but I can’t talk right now, my boss’ here… No, I haven’t done anything wrong, just, look, maybe you should sleep, huh? Some people have work tomorrow. I’ll check it”, he rolled his eyes, “Bye.”
He looked so miserable when the call ended that Iker burst into laughter.
“Stop it”, Andrés pouted, “Or I’ll decide you’re just the right candidate to check out how a portable TV can receive more channels.”
Iker chuckled some more but then sobered up when the technician began to take off his jacket.
“Why are you alone?”
“Excuse me?”, the Manchego stared at him particularly blankly, “That’s the worst pick-up line I’ve heard and I’ve heard some lame ones.”
“That’s not what I meant”, Iker undid the first button of his shirt, “You’re apparently taking the last ‘letter’ seriously, with that gun and all, so why Xavi’s not with you?”
“You’d need to ask Xavi that, hmm?”, Andrés snatched the jacket from the desk where he had initially thrown it and sauntered with it to the corridor, without meeting Iker’s eyes.
“He’s not watching over you like you were over him?”, he had been kind of imagining the two technicians had been inseparable after he had been suspended. Torres had mentioned they were quite demonstrative with their lack of trust in López.
“Can you see him somewhere here?”, the Manchego snapped, then grew red, “I’m sorry, it’s just…”, he had to lean against a wall as if suddenly exhausted, “He’s still not forgiven me that accusation, not that I blame him. It just, hard, you know?”, he closed his eyes, “We’ve been working together, sure, but… That’s it”, he bit his lip.
“I’m sorry”, and he truly was, especially after Sara. He guessed that losing your chance with your crush was worse than losing them after some time of happiness together.
“Don’t be”, Andrés managed to put himself together, “Talking about working”, uh-huh, their little workaholic was alive and well, “We know that Ibrahimović has been contracted, several times, by Löwe. Even gained popularity, so to speak, amidst his people. And then he gets sent on an execution-mission?”
“Maybe he gained too much popularity”, Iker observed dryly.
“There are better ways to get rid of someone than kill them in front of two policemen”, the Manchego replied flatly, “Though I admit, none that flashy. I don’t think it was about his popularity”, Andrés took a slim laptop from underneath the coffee table and switched it on.
“Do you have some more computers here?”
“Oh please, three’s not that many”, Andrés coloured pink, bussing himself with finding the right file, “We’ve managed to obtain those reports from the guys in Lisbon”, he opened it, “He’s been seen in Portugal several times, once accompanied by someone looking unnervingly like Luis Figo.”
“He’s dead”, Iker stated flatly.
“So is Villa’s hacker”, the technician shot back, “I admit the photo’s an awfully low quality but we’ve decided not to cross that possibility out. If only we knew what happened to Figo after Ronaldo took over.”
Iker had to reluctantly agree that indeed, they had never paid that particular problem much mind. It wasn’t strictly an issue who ruled the cartel, only that it was run.
“What does it have to do with Ibrahimović?”, he would say they may have been conspiring together, only to what fucking end…
“Maybe his loyalties were unstable”, Andrés mused, “Ibrahimović was in South Africa at the time Villa’s got relegated there. We know he was working for the Dutch in his career. We know they wanted the diamonds”, the technician sounded as if it solved everything.
Maybe Iker was stupid. Maybe he was daft but he couldn’t really get the connection. What Figo, Löwe, Ibrahimović and Villa had to do with each other? They hardly operated in the same region.
“Are you sure he was there?”
André huffed but dutifully opened the right file.
“Photos”, he scanned down a sequence of pictures, “An MI6 report…”, Iker almost asked if MI6 knew they had it but then shook himself - they were the police, they had no means of stealing the intelligence reports, “The guy surely was conspicuous.”
“Like Ronaldo”, Iker carefully imitated the Portuguese pronunciation.
“Only Cristiano”, Andrés did the same or much more effortlessly, “Doesn’t get himself caught by a camera.”
“Point taken”, Iker noted with dismay, “Can you print it out for me?”
“Sure”, the Manchego took the laptop to the desk where he had a printer.
As it was bound to take some time, Iker soon wandered there too.
“What are you downloading?”, he gave the nearest computer a customary peek.
“Films”, Andrés looked over his shoulder with a taunt expression.
Iker inspected the files’ names with more care. Huh, Andrés was getting himself quite a library of titles there.
“You realise it’s illegal?”
“You realise I can’t afford to watch them otherwise?”, the technician didn’t seem moved for once, folding his arms, “Don’t worry, give it some time and you’ll have me out of the picture anyway.”
“What do you mean?”, Iker had to check Andrés’ solemn expression for the second time.
“I mean”, the Manchego evaded his scrutiny, starting to segregate the newly printed pages, “That López’ contacted the Interpol to see what they may have on us. He’s looking for the mole.”
“Oh come on, there’s no certainty that they have it.”
“So what, pray tell, happened to it?”, Andrés gave him a look that would rival Villa’s infamous facial expression, “If not the Interpol, then he would simply get it from the Barcelona Organised Crime Dep.”
“Why he would ever ask-”, Iker began exasperated.
“Maybe because he fucking wants to find the traitor, huh?”, Andrés lost his temper, throwing the papers onto the desk in one unorganised heap, “He’s not going to just jump around the matter like you!”
“I wasn’t-”
“We shouldn’t have done it then”, the Manchego lowered his arms in hopelessness, “Do you have any idea how it’s going to look like?”
“I know as well as you do how it would have looked back then”, Iker grabbed his shoulders to interrupt that show of panic, “Now? Now everyone knows what a devoted worker you are, how fucking brilliant you are, how law-abiding-”
“Clearly not so much”, Andrés reminded him grumpily and Iker just pushed him away.
“You were fucking sixteen! No one can blame you-”
“But they will. Once they find out.”
Iker had a feeling that those ‘they’ were called Xavi Hernández.
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A/N No Davids, no Sernando, no Fábio but I hope it still counts ;)
Characters: Iker Casillas, Cesc Fàbregas, Sara Carbonero, Jordi Alba, Andrés Iniesta (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Chapter 18
“Running late. Gonna wait 1 or 2 hrs?”
Iker scowled at the screen. He really shouldn’t. He should leave the thrice damned park and go back home, Sara had already called him that her plane had landed in Barajas an hour ago.
But who would ever guarantee him that it wasn’t his last chance to see Cesc? It was a dangerous game he was playing. With fire, so to speak.
“Sure”, he typed and immediately pressed ‘send’, before he could change his mind.
.....................................................................................
In the end it had taken Cesc more than four hours to arrive.
“Good… Morning, officer”, he quietly slipped onto a bench next to him, smiling wryly, “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”
Iker had been preparing a suitably biting remark just for that but cut it short at the sight of the prostitute’s bruised face.
“What the hell happened?”, he couldn’t stop but lean back to inspect the damage better.
“Occupational hazard”, Cesc shrugged, avoiding Iker’s eyes and staring straight ahead into the blackness of the night, “Was a bit careless with getting information.”
“Who beat you, can I-”
“Do something?”, Cesc scoffed giving Iker a mocking glance, “Get real, officer. I want to take risk, I do. I deal with the consequences.”
Iker pursed his lips, knowing that the guy was essentially right, he couldn’t do anything short of arresting all the people involved in the sex trade. Which was his aim but to make that happened he needed Cesc to endanger himself. He was no philosopher but he could see something thoroughly fucked up with that method.
“What did you learn to warrant yourself such a punishment?”, he wasn’t able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He could do without Cesc pointing out his impotence.
“You’ve got something to write?”, Cesc seemed oddly pleased with his frustration.
Gritting his teeth tightly, Iker threw him his phone.
Then, he retrieved it to type down the password.
“Here”, he handed it back after opening the right application.
Smirking, Cesc typed something down.
“That’ll be it for now, I guess”, the prostitute was already standing up.
“Wait, do you need-”, Iker’s eyes wandered down to the mobile on their own volition.
“No”, Cesc smiled a small, almost sad smile. Well, it wasn’t as if he had reasons to be cheerful, “Go back to your girlfriend.”
Iker was already opening his mouth to bark out that he was only trying to help but he suddenly remembered about his girlfriend waiting for him to take her to the theatre.
For a play that had finished two hours ago.
Oh shit.
.........................................................................
Cesc had proved himself to be a better field operator than all of the Bureau combined. The short note he had typed down consisted of an exact date, place and participants of an up-coming meeting concerning the American cocaine.
He was still wondering about his cleverness and courage, not even fooling himself for a moment that the Catalan’s stone-like persistence was born out of the sense of a civic responsibility. Cesc had a reason for his actions, and a good one.
But it wasn’t Iker’s job to find out. He should just stay content with having such a successful informer. With haunted eyes.
He was jumping two steps at time hurrying to their flat, trying to think of an excuse, well not really excuse because he wasn’t that guilty, neither had he been cheating on Sara in any way. They could just postpone their anniversary celebrations, it was just a date, for fuck’s sake, it was an intention that counted. Once she heard the news she would understand.
He needed to tread very carefully now. He was still officially suspended and nothing indicated that it was going to change soon. According to Andrés, he remained a taboo subject at work. But the assistance of the guys was soon going to be fundamental so that Cesc’s dedication wouldn’t go all to waste. How would he even handle that with a direct contact with anyone?
He opened the door. The flat was eerily silent at first but then he registered the muted sounds of the TV. Sara was apparently watching a talk-show. That didn’t bode well.
He stepped into a sitting room and froze.
There, on his sofa, with his Sara, drinking from his favourite mug was that bastard of a photographer.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”, he demanded as soon as he could make his throat work.
The fucker had the nerve to look at him with a puzzled expression.
“Keeping me company”, Sara’s reply was oddly emotionless, “As my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered too.”
Ignoring a smug stare of a short Catalan, Iker turned to her.
“I’m sorry, I told you-”
“That it’d take an hour tops.”
“I know, it’s just that it didn’t truly depend on me”, he began but was once again interrupted.
“And your mobile's battery died.”
“Not… Exactly”, he admitted. It hit him then that he hadn’t warned Sara of the prolonged delay, “Sorry”, as she didn’t seem to give a crap about his ‘sorry’, he carried on, valiantly trying to forget about their unwanted audience, “It was a job matter, I really couldn’t miss it”, he would have offered more if they had been alone.
“A job matter”, Sara repeated, suddenly glaring straight at him, “I must have missed something, on the other hand, because the last time I heard you were suspended.”
Shit. He had no idea how she had found out but she hadn’t been supposed to. Hell, he had been planning on telling her, but with all that Turkey trip and Cesc business he had decided to wait.
“Or have you just forgotten to mention it’s been revoked?”, her face left no doubts that she wouldn’t believe that it had.
“No”, he didn’t have time to create any plausible lie. Not that tricking Sara was a hobby he cultivated, “But I’ve met this very helpful guy who can really make the case move forwards-”
“Move the case?”, Sara jumped up from the sofa so swiftly that Alba almost fall down after her, “The case? Is it all you’re ever thinking about?”, she advanced on him, her voice somewhere between furious and despaired.
“No, of course not-”, he picked his hands up.
“No? You’re not too convincing here!”, she screwed her eyes shut, “It was meant to be our day, Iker. You know we’ve been planning it for ages, we’ve already covered that. Did you send me to Turkey just so that you could sniff around more freely?”
“What?”, he stared at her dumbly, for a second fully expecting her to negate the last part, “You wanted to go, what else could I have done?”
“I wanted to go?”, Sara’s voice hit a high pitch, “So now it’s my fault. Good to know”, she whirled around, slapping him with her hair.
Iker’s hands shot dangerously high as he tried to put his indignation into words. First, she had complained he hadn’t been treating her job as seriously as his. So it had been more than natural that he had encouraged her to go, he knew how burning ambition could get. Everyone wanted to achieve something professionally. Look where his good intentions had got him.
“Oh please”, he followed her, “You don’t mean it and you sure as hell know I hadn’t meant that. Could you please look at me and let me explain?”
She did turn to him, all pale face and glistening eyes.
“You’ve been doing nothing more but talking for months now”, she whispered, “About your case. About Villa. About the investigation. About how we’re going to be after. After the case, after Villa. Only, what about now? Do you see a place for us with the case and Villa?”, she finished softly, her hand delicately touching his cheek.
“Of course”, he covered her hand with his own, “You’re just as important-”
“Just as important?”, the slim hand withdrew as if had got burnt, “That’s all I need to know.”
“Wait”, he finally realised how it had sounded, “Wait, it wasn’t what I wanted to say…”
“Probably not, but it’s the truth”, her expression became guarded, “It’s how it is for you. Always has been. It’s the case and me, Villa and then me, never the other way around. Never us, me and then your work-”
“I can’t just abandon it as you’d like me to!”, he cried out, “It’s not an office job, you know I have to spend hours investigating, or would you rather prefer me to be one of those cops who see their duty as nothing more than the means to feed their family?”
“I’d like you to think about a family”, she shot back frostily, clearly set on not allowing herself to accept his arguments.
“I don’t want my family to, to live in that reality!", he shouted philosophically, "I don’t want my family to live in a city where a person can be just shot as easily as a dog can be kicked-”
“So it’s still about him?”, she shook her head, “Iker, people die, policemen die, both you and Beckham knew it was a possibility, it’s high time you made peace with than-”
“I’m not going to make peace with that”, he hissed, “I’m not going to become like you, you and everyone out there, calling me obsessed simply because I do my best to put criminals where their place is.”
“Doing you best?”, she blinked, “For fuck’s sake, you haven’t arrested anyone in years! Your work is just a series of failures!”
So this was how she saw it? Him as a nutcase and his efforts as chasing chimeras?
“Iker”, her voice softened again, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to come out that harsh.”
But she did want to make that point.
“Never mind”, he waved her off, something very heavy crushing his back, “I’m sorry for today, it’s not going to happen again”, he carefully moved to embrace her.
“You’re right”, her head was ducked when she escaped his hands, “It’s not going to happen again.”
The crushing feeling intensified.
“What do you mean: not going to happen again?”, his tone sounded urgent to his own ears, “Sara”, he grabbed her arm, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry”, her voice was unnaturally thick and when she finally looked at him he got his confirmation - she was crying, “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t live like that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”, she was repeating over and over again, her lips moving as if in a prayer, “It has to end.”
He almost told her that it would. That he was going to give up the case, stay at home, ask for a transfer…
But he owed David. He owed himself and his conscience.
“I’m sorry”, he stepped away, letting her go.
She was trembling like a leaf.
“Your suitcases are packed in the bedroom”, he heard and unwittingly balled his fist. So she had prepared everything beforehand.
Wordlessly, he went to collect them.
When he came back the photographer was gone (he hadn’t even heard him leave, hell, he had forgotten about him altogether) and Sara was perched on the sofa, legs crossed and hands folded neatly on them.
“Where can I pick up the rest?”, he didn’t even halt in his steps.
“Call me, tomorrow maybe”, he didn’t know if her gaze followed his movements, “We’ll discuss the flat then too.”
It seemed the storm had passed, more quickly than it came.
He wondered, as he descended down the stairs, if maybe the decision had been taken months ago.
..............................................................................................................
“Hey, officer”, he stilled.
Who the hell wanted something from him now?
He turned back and immediately scowled.
Alba.
“Hello, girlfriend-thief”, he spat, “Did you enjoy the food?”, he had noticed the empty plates on their (did it still count as ‘theirs’?) coffee table.
“Shouldn’t cops be more keen when it comes to thieves?”, the Catalan shot back, scoffing.
Iker scowled but didn’t react otherwise. He had to come up with someplace to sleep, or at least store the suitcases.
“Do you need help with those?”, the eyebrow-raise was so obvious in the photographer’s question that Iker just carried on calmly walking away, until he tripped on something and stumbled, losing the hold on one of the suitcases.
It fell on the pavement with a dull thud.
“Here”, the Catalan was quicker than him to pick it up, “Let me help you.”
“Fuck you”, Iker growled and attempted to take the suitcase back, but the guy gracefully avoided his outstretched arms, “Fucker.”
Alba arched his eyebrows knowingly.
“A pot calling a kettle back”, he snickered, “Remember, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Iker simply set off.
“Just so you know”, the photographer effortlessly caught up with him, “I’m not stealing Sara. She’s just a friend. She asked me to accompany her to the theatre when you stood her up”, his voice was so perfectly mocking that he couldn’t have been lying, “Then I had to pack you…”
“So it’s you I have to hunt down if something’s missing?”, Iker asked wryly.
“Rather the mess in your wardrobe”, the Catalan picked up his chin.
Iker let it go, focusing on the possible direction he could take. Right, a hotel? For a night maybe, he couldn’t afford it by a long shot. So a colleague it was. Pity he didn’t have any.
He went to the metro nonetheless, Alba trailing after him, apparently perfectly capable of keeping up with his long strides. The fucker must be fit.
“Thank you”, he said curtly, blocking the train entrance with his arm.
“You’re welcome”, the photographer slipped inside underneath it, “I’m riding in the same direction”, he shrugged at Iker’s pissed-off glare.
“What a coincidence”, he crossed his arms and sagged onto a seat, “Why are all Catalans so fucking short?”
Alba laughed.
“Maybe because all our energy goes into developing our brains, not bodies?”
Iker made a faced at him but in the end, he smiled. The kid was sharp, not that he would ever say it aloud.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I have it printed above my bed”, Alba sat down in front of him, “Optimism is all”, he looked through the window for some time which Iker had always found kind of stupid - after all, the metro tended to be underground, “How’s work? Any better than ours?”
“I doubt it”, Iker sighed, rubbing his temples.
“You’ve been on that case like, for years”, Alba grew both serious and incredulous, “It’s high time you got something”, probably he just thought Iker didn’t want to share anything with him.
Which was technically true as he was a nosy snooping journalist who wasn’t above publishing most compromising photos just to get a slightly bigger headline than usually. But also, he had to admit, because he had nothing to share.
“No evidence, no effects”, he snorted.
Alba rolled his eyes.
"Policemen, always waiting for others to do their job. With their girlfriends and their suspects."
.......................................................................................................
He hoped it wasn’t too assuming of him to come there but he really couldn’t think of anyone else likely to let him crash for a night or two. Or a week. But he wasn’t telling that up front.
He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure how much each guy at the Bureau earned but he had a suspicion it was enough to afford a place in a slightly more respectable area. Like, not in a rundown building remembering Franco’s best years. Without a lift but with neighbours who must be habitual guests of the holding cells of the barrio’s police station.
And it was just his luck that after dragging the suitcases onto the fourth floor, it turned out Andrés wasn’t home.
..........................................................................................................
He was dozing off when he heard light steps on the stairs. Then, they halted minutely only to continue, more deliberate and softer.
Then, he was looking into a barrel pointing straight at his head.
It took Andrés few agonising seconds to realise who he was aiming at and to lower the gun.
“Do you greet everyone that way?”, he smiled feebly from his crouched position at the technician’s doorstep.
“No, only policemen who come here in the middle of a night without a search warrant”, Andrés awkwardly pocketed the gun, “You don’t have a search warrant, do you?”, he added nervously in an attempt to joke.
“No, I don’t”, Iker assured, “Where the hell have you been? It’s 4.45 in the morning!”
“I’m sorry”, the Manchego automatically apologised as if he was somehow obliged to wait for Iker night and day, “I had to go to my uncle.”
Andrés and his family. It was a never-ending story. The technician had a bottomless pit of nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, cousins and other relatives who never had qualms to demand his help and whom the Manchego didn’t know how to refuse. The whole Bureau had spent weeks teasing him about his night relief trip to his parents’ vineyard, when it had turned out that he had only been needed to help them fill out a tax declaration due in two months.
“What happened this time?”
Andrés’ uncle from Madrid was infamous for his sportsman ambition. Which would be praise-worthy if the man wasn’t over seventy.
“Broke his leg while roller-blading”, the technician sighed long-sufferingly, “Then, his TV broke down. It’s a bother when you can’t move and have nothing but encyclopaedias to occupy your time. Fortunately, the guarantee hadn’t expired so I went to the shop, only to learn they couldn’t do anything because I wasn’t my uncle. In the end, I bought him a portable mini-TV”, he frowned, “Then, I fell asleep after installing it”, he reddened.
“Your uncle rocks.”
“Next time, I’m giving him your number”, Andrés promised a bit maliciously but then furrowed his eyebrows, “Where are you going?”
Iker followed his gaze to his suitcases.
“Actually”, he hoisted himself up, “I kind of hoped that you’d let me crash on your sofa.”
Andrés opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Then, he simply took out his keys and went on to unlocking the door.
“You’re not going to ask?”, Iker had been anticipating an avalanche of questions spiced up with some relationship advice.
“Do I even want to know?”, Andrés sounded wary as if he had spent his life listening to people’s petty problems, “Come on, whether Sara’s kicked you out or you’re hiding from Villa’s hitman, we’ll be better off inside.”
Never one to argue with logic, Iker gratefully stepped inside a tiny flat.
“I’m betting my money on the first version though, because I assume you wouldn’t be on a run with that… Hand luggage”, he snickered softly pointing to the suitcases.
“Well, I may be keeping my survival kit there”, Iker answered with a chuckle of his own, Andrés’ polite indifference like honey to his agitation.
“In that case, don’t put anything that may explode next to the computers.”
Iker looked around at that, taking in the room he was in. It was a mini-corridor, just a metre in width and a bit over a metre in length, leading to a bigger room with a small sofa (he couldn’t refrain from making a crestfallen face at that), an even smaller coffee table and two computers standing proudly on a long desk on the opposite side of the room. Just next to a sloppy heap of dirty mugs.
Andrés invited him inside and he obediently trotted after him, barely avoiding tripping on one of the countless cables on the floor. Really, what were they all for? Or all those pizza boxes? Surly Andrés couldn’t be holding something in them?
“Make yourself at home”, the technician clearly wasn’t used to having guests but, at the same time, he didn’t seem to be displeased with Iker’s presence.
“Thanks.”
As if on cue, his stomach rumbled.
For a moment, they just stared at each other as if waiting for a T-Rex to exit its hiding place behind the sofa. After the second rumble, the Manchego got the implication.
“Oh, you’re hungry”, he wasn’t giving his IQ a justice, “Do you want coffee? Or maybe, something to eat?”, he was already jogging to a small kitchen, “I’m sorry, I don’t eat much and rarely at home, the fridge must be empty… Do you like crisps? Or… Ehm… Apples? I have some milk for coffee, so you could have it with… Hmm…”, there was the sound of rummaging through cupboards, “Biscuits?”
“Biscuits are fine”, Iker called back, slightly petrified with the technician’s supplies. No wonder he was so unhealthily pale.
“Hey, I’ve got some chips to put into an oven. Half of a packing!”
...............................................................................................................................
There was a loud crash outside, followed by a shouting match with curses Iker hadn’t heard in his entire life.
“Neighbours”, Andrés offered apologetically.
“You live in a hovel”, it was out before he could stop himself.
“Why, thank you”, the Manchego snorted, checking something on one of the computers that must have been switched on all that time he’d been gone, “Tastes shouldn’t be discussed. I assure you I do have running water.”
“Sorry”, Iker ran a hand though his hair, “I’m beat.”
“Don’t worry, be glad the guy from the upstairs’ not here”, Andrés didn’t turn to him, scanning some text on the screen, “A retired opera singer, going deaf. A horror. Travelled all the world pleading various gods to heal him. Right now he’s trying his luck with our dear Santiago, after Jerusalem and Mecca had failed him. As far as I know he hasn’t been to a doctor yet.”
“You don’t sound to religious”, Iker teased, remembering Andrés fight with Víctor over the usefulness of crosses.
“I’m sure God let us invent hearing aids to use them”, the technician answered absent-mindedly.
Then, his mobile went off.
After glancing at the caller’s ID, he made a pained face.
“Uncle”, he mouthed, “Yes? Yes, yes, I’m home. Yes. Yes. I’ve been living here for years, I wouldn’t have got lost plus, you called me a cab!”, Andrés sounded insulted, “Look, I’m sorry but I can’t talk right now, my boss’ here… No, I haven’t done anything wrong, just, look, maybe you should sleep, huh? Some people have work tomorrow. I’ll check it”, he rolled his eyes, “Bye.”
He looked so miserable when the call ended that Iker burst into laughter.
“Stop it”, Andrés pouted, “Or I’ll decide you’re just the right candidate to check out how a portable TV can receive more channels.”
Iker chuckled some more but then sobered up when the technician began to take off his jacket.
“Why are you alone?”
“Excuse me?”, the Manchego stared at him particularly blankly, “That’s the worst pick-up line I’ve heard and I’ve heard some lame ones.”
“That’s not what I meant”, Iker undid the first button of his shirt, “You’re apparently taking the last ‘letter’ seriously, with that gun and all, so why Xavi’s not with you?”
“You’d need to ask Xavi that, hmm?”, Andrés snatched the jacket from the desk where he had initially thrown it and sauntered with it to the corridor, without meeting Iker’s eyes.
“He’s not watching over you like you were over him?”, he had been kind of imagining the two technicians had been inseparable after he had been suspended. Torres had mentioned they were quite demonstrative with their lack of trust in López.
“Can you see him somewhere here?”, the Manchego snapped, then grew red, “I’m sorry, it’s just…”, he had to lean against a wall as if suddenly exhausted, “He’s still not forgiven me that accusation, not that I blame him. It just, hard, you know?”, he closed his eyes, “We’ve been working together, sure, but… That’s it”, he bit his lip.
“I’m sorry”, and he truly was, especially after Sara. He guessed that losing your chance with your crush was worse than losing them after some time of happiness together.
“Don’t be”, Andrés managed to put himself together, “Talking about working”, uh-huh, their little workaholic was alive and well, “We know that Ibrahimović has been contracted, several times, by Löwe. Even gained popularity, so to speak, amidst his people. And then he gets sent on an execution-mission?”
“Maybe he gained too much popularity”, Iker observed dryly.
“There are better ways to get rid of someone than kill them in front of two policemen”, the Manchego replied flatly, “Though I admit, none that flashy. I don’t think it was about his popularity”, Andrés took a slim laptop from underneath the coffee table and switched it on.
“Do you have some more computers here?”
“Oh please, three’s not that many”, Andrés coloured pink, bussing himself with finding the right file, “We’ve managed to obtain those reports from the guys in Lisbon”, he opened it, “He’s been seen in Portugal several times, once accompanied by someone looking unnervingly like Luis Figo.”
“He’s dead”, Iker stated flatly.
“So is Villa’s hacker”, the technician shot back, “I admit the photo’s an awfully low quality but we’ve decided not to cross that possibility out. If only we knew what happened to Figo after Ronaldo took over.”
Iker had to reluctantly agree that indeed, they had never paid that particular problem much mind. It wasn’t strictly an issue who ruled the cartel, only that it was run.
“What does it have to do with Ibrahimović?”, he would say they may have been conspiring together, only to what fucking end…
“Maybe his loyalties were unstable”, Andrés mused, “Ibrahimović was in South Africa at the time Villa’s got relegated there. We know he was working for the Dutch in his career. We know they wanted the diamonds”, the technician sounded as if it solved everything.
Maybe Iker was stupid. Maybe he was daft but he couldn’t really get the connection. What Figo, Löwe, Ibrahimović and Villa had to do with each other? They hardly operated in the same region.
“Are you sure he was there?”
André huffed but dutifully opened the right file.
“Photos”, he scanned down a sequence of pictures, “An MI6 report…”, Iker almost asked if MI6 knew they had it but then shook himself - they were the police, they had no means of stealing the intelligence reports, “The guy surely was conspicuous.”
“Like Ronaldo”, Iker carefully imitated the Portuguese pronunciation.
“Only Cristiano”, Andrés did the same or much more effortlessly, “Doesn’t get himself caught by a camera.”
“Point taken”, Iker noted with dismay, “Can you print it out for me?”
“Sure”, the Manchego took the laptop to the desk where he had a printer.
As it was bound to take some time, Iker soon wandered there too.
“What are you downloading?”, he gave the nearest computer a customary peek.
“Films”, Andrés looked over his shoulder with a taunt expression.
Iker inspected the files’ names with more care. Huh, Andrés was getting himself quite a library of titles there.
“You realise it’s illegal?”
“You realise I can’t afford to watch them otherwise?”, the technician didn’t seem moved for once, folding his arms, “Don’t worry, give it some time and you’ll have me out of the picture anyway.”
“What do you mean?”, Iker had to check Andrés’ solemn expression for the second time.
“I mean”, the Manchego evaded his scrutiny, starting to segregate the newly printed pages, “That López’ contacted the Interpol to see what they may have on us. He’s looking for the mole.”
“Oh come on, there’s no certainty that they have it.”
“So what, pray tell, happened to it?”, Andrés gave him a look that would rival Villa’s infamous facial expression, “If not the Interpol, then he would simply get it from the Barcelona Organised Crime Dep.”
“Why he would ever ask-”, Iker began exasperated.
“Maybe because he fucking wants to find the traitor, huh?”, Andrés lost his temper, throwing the papers onto the desk in one unorganised heap, “He’s not going to just jump around the matter like you!”
“I wasn’t-”
“We shouldn’t have done it then”, the Manchego lowered his arms in hopelessness, “Do you have any idea how it’s going to look like?”
“I know as well as you do how it would have looked back then”, Iker grabbed his shoulders to interrupt that show of panic, “Now? Now everyone knows what a devoted worker you are, how fucking brilliant you are, how law-abiding-”
“Clearly not so much”, Andrés reminded him grumpily and Iker just pushed him away.
“You were fucking sixteen! No one can blame you-”
“But they will. Once they find out.”
Iker had a feeling that those ‘they’ were called Xavi Hernández.
...........................................................................................................
A/N No Davids, no Sernando, no Fábio but I hope it still counts ;)