'And the eight million?' asked Elvira, still not satisfied.
'That's a sort of entry fee. It forces Lukyanov to burn his bridges,' said Cortes. 'Once he's stolen that sort of money he's never going to be able to go back to Revnik.'
'The disks in the briefcase I mentioned in my initial report,' said Falcon. 'Hidden-camera stuff, older men with young girls…'
'It's how the Russians get things done. They corrupt whoever they come into contact with,' said Cortes. 'We might be about to find out how our town planners, councillors, mayors and even senior policemen spent their summer holidays.'
Comisario Elvira ran his hand over his perfectly combed hair.
3
Seville Prison, Alcala de Guadaira – Friday, 15th September 2006, 13.05 hrs
Through the reinforced glass pane of the door, Falcon watched Calderon, who was hunched over the table, smoking, staring into the tin-foil ashtray, waiting for him. The judge, who'd been young for his position, looked older. He had lost his gilded, moisturized sheen. His skin was dull and he'd lost weight where there was none to lose, making him look haggard. His hair had never been luxuriant, but was now definitely thinning to baldness. His ears seemed to have got longer, the lobes fleshier, as if from some unconscious tugging while musing on the entanglements of his mind. It settled Falcon to see the judge so reduced; it would have been intolerable had the wife-beater been his usual arrogant self. Falcon opened the door for the guard, who held a tray of coffee, and followed him in. Calderon instantly reanimated himself into an approximation of the supremely confident man he had once been.
'To what, or to whom, do I owe this pleasure?' asked Calderon, standing up, sweeping his arm across the sparsely furnished room. 'Privacy, coffee, an old friend… these unimaginable luxuries.'