Contract With God by Juan Gómez-Jurado Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    Even if Russell’s not telling the truth, there’s nothing to lose.
    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