“Let’s just look at this quickly,” said Osvaldo.
Osvaldo took out a cell phone, moved around the table so that he was beside Roberto, and placed the phone in front of them both. Draping an arm over Roberto’s shoulder, he smiled. Anyone would think they were taking a selfie.
“You said you liked movies,” he whispered. “Here’s one I want to show you ...”
He tapped the screen, and the video began to roll: In the middle of an empty, white-walled room, a man sat naked and tied to a chair, his body covered in welts and bruises, his head inside a burlap sack. Suddenly, his head having been drooping forward, he seemed to be alerted by a sound—Osvaldo had the video on mute—and started manically casting around for the source.
His whole body began to tremble as a shadow passed behind him, and then there was Osvaldo beside him. He wore a white plastic apron and was holding a pair of pliers.
Roberto was almost grateful that the video was on mute for what happened next. Osvaldo, with an icy smile, grabbed one of the man’s hands and proceeded to cut off his fingers, as the man writhed and struggled madly with his bindings.
“This is nothing compared to what your woman and the kid will get—if I don’t get the money in the next twenty-four hours.” Osvaldo pocketed the phone and walked back around to the other side of the table. “Surely you know that happy endings are only in the movies. Now, you’re gonna make your apologies and come with me to—”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, no.”
“I don’t think you understand the situation here, Lobeira.”
“Oh no, I understand perfectly.” He smiled and nodded reassuringly at Carmen Gavín, who, still on the phone, was now looking over, no doubt wondering why he was taking so long with this particular fan. “I think you don’t understand.”
The Colombian blinked very slowly a couple of times. The fluttering of a deadly butterfly. “All it takes is a signal from me,” he said, “and they’re gone.”
“As you’ve already said. But there’s also a movie I want to show you.” Roberto took his own phone out. “You know how much I love movies.”
Osvaldo gave him a severe look, but there was just the smallest hint of worry in his eyes too.
Roberto tapped the screen, and a video started to play. It was in black and white, shot from an elevated position, and there was a time code in the bottom left-hand corner.
“Look familiar? It’s from the security camera at the lighthouse,” he said. “Amazingly clear, right?”
Out in the center of the lighthouse yard stood the two of them, talking, with the members of the Freire and Docampo families looking on.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to—”
“Just a moment . . . Now!”
Antía and Diego entered from the right, carrying the duffel bags. They placed them down in front of Osvaldo, who took out a handful of bills and thumbed it before, looking satisfied, putting it back in the bag and turning away. The video ended there.
“So what?” Osvaldo shrugged. “I know what happened. I was there.”
“Precisely. Now, I suppose you know I was a journalist before I became a writer, right?”
Osvaldo just gave a noncommittal grunt.
“I still have lots of contacts, especially in Mexico.” He looked the Colombian squarely in the eye. “People who know people. People who know things, like who your boss is. And how to reach him by email.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Osvaldo.
“Your boss is not a person known for his patience, or his compassionate nature. Some say he’s even slightly paranoid after so many years of playing cat and mouse with the authorities. I’m sure you can imagine how he might view this video, showing you receiving the money.”
“It changes nothing. I’ll tell him what happened. He trusts me. I’ll just tell him—”
“Hold on, hold on,” said Roberto, cutting in. “Now comes the best part. The money happens to be sitting in an account in the Cayman Islands, and I want you to guess whose name it’s in.”
Osvaldo’s expression went from bewilderment to understanding in a split second. And from that, to one of panic.
