At the beginning, he had assumed the cash was the payment for a drug shipment that some cartel had smuggled into the estuary. But if that was the case, it would all be in either euros or dollars. Not a combination of the two, and certainly not with Swiss francs thrown into the mix like spare picture cards.
No, this was something else—the combined payment for multiple illegal operations. And that was much worse, because a cartel might be able to afford losing the payment for a single operation. That was a calculated risk, one that occurred from time to time—part of the business. But a fortune like this—in a number of currencies, in used, nonconsecutive bills? That was something else. Getting this much money together in this way would have taken time, and would be difficult to do without arousing suspicions in the banking sector. Somebody had gone to great lengths to prepare this particular consignment; it was the dream of some criminal who moved in the black market and wanted to launder their ill-gotten gains.
And if they’d gone to such lengths, Roberto very much doubted that they’d swallow the money’s disappearance so easily.
He needed to make the islanders understand, whatever it took. Right now, though, drunk with euphoria, they wouldn’t pay him any attention. Only Antía remained silent, lost in thought. Roberto went over to her.
“This is madness. We have to put a stop to it.”
The woman remained silent for a while, so long that Roberto thought she hadn’t heard him, but finally she gave him a deep, sorrowful look.
“I know,” she replied, “but right now it’d be easier to drag this island to the mainland than to get them to listen to us.”
“Maybe if you talked to your mother ...”
“There’s no point.” She shook her head. “Look at her—when she gets something into her head, she’s unstoppable. And anyway, we’d still have to convince the Docampos. They’ve just discovered they’re sitting on a gold mine, and there’s no way they’re going to change their minds.”
“So what should we do?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t have a clue.”
“Okay, that’s enough!” Ramón Docampo clapped loudly to get everyone’s attention, then threw his cigarette butt to the floor and ground it out with his heel before speaking. “How are we going to divvy it up?”
“Half and half, obviously,” replied Rosalía Freire immediately. “Equal parts between the Freires and the Docampos.”
“What about him?” Ramón jutted his chin in Roberto’s direction. “How much does he get? The same as us?”
“There’s only one of him,” Luis protested, “and there’s lots of us. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“But he’s the one who found the money.” Ramón Docampo observed him carefully. “I wonder what he has to say about it.”
The celebrations gradually died down as all eyes turned on Roberto.
He looked steadily back. He was aware that the disposition of the pieces on the island’s chessboard had changed completely in the blink of an eye, and that everyone else had realized too. He was no longer an eccentric visitor who had come to spend a few weeks on the island out of season. Suddenly, he was someone who could claim a considerable piece of the pie. Or pose an even greater threat by involving the authorities.
In other words, he had become a problem.
And, it occurred to him, there was nothing to stop them from eliminating that problem without further delay. They were miles from the mainland and the nearest authorities. There were no other witnesses.He could already imagine the headlines:Tragic death of Roberto Lobeira in island accident. Literary world mourns his loss.
His head was buzzing. They wouldn’t dare to. That would bemurder, for Christ’s sake. That line was surely one they wouldn’t cross.
But something on Ramón Docampo’s face told Roberto that the old man was making the very same calculation. And he didn’t look like the hesitant kind.
These were island people, tough people. Merciless if they needed to be.
“Hang on.” He raised his hands placatingly. His mouth felt dry. “I’ve already said a thousand times that I don’t want a single cent of that money. But even so, I still think you ought to—”
“Someone’s coming,” interrupted Diego in his singsong voice. “Down the path.”
11
Consequences
Everyone turned their heads in unison, in a gesture that would have been comical in any other circumstances. A man was striding down the path toward them.
“It’s the poacher,” grunted Luis Docampo. “What’s that lunatic doing here?”
“It’s Víctor Pampín,” whispered Antía, unaware that Roberto had already met him the previous day. “A hermit who lives at the other end of the island. He’s a bit strange, but he’s harmless. He doesn’t interfere with anybody, and he just gets on with his life, fishing for shellfish on the rocks.”
