Midnight in Madrid (33 page)

“Thorough!” he laughed. “Have you seen our budget this year?”

“How much does a search cost compared with the cost of if we miss something?”

“You’re good. I should send you before Congress and you can ask them that. Someday, they’re going to ask me why I do things the way I do, and I’m going to reply by asking them why they use a jet bomber to kill a couple of camels. Dialogue. Socratic method. You like it?”

She seethed. “Can I get some help around the embassy? Please?” she pleaded. They were back at the bench.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “You make a point. So maybe. Next week. How’s that. In the meantime, go to a hardware store, get a pick, a shovel, some gardening gloves, and a pair of bib overalls, and feel free to look around all you want, okay?”

“Why are you playing dumb, Mark?”

He ignored the question.

She scanned the street around them, the people, the traffic. “With all due respect, you’re being a jerk, Mark.”

“Yes, yes. What else is new? Request denied. I have to keep a lid on the budgets. And I’m not convinced enough that you know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No,” he said.

“Why? Because I’m female?” she asked, heating up.

“No, because you see things that other people don’t see, which would be fine, except the things you see sometimes aren’t there. See that lamppost over there?” He waited for an answer.

She glanced. “I see it,” she said.

“Nice lamppost. Distinctive Madrid architecture. Quite charming. Except
you
probably look at it and see a potential gibbet.”

“Not to put too keen an edge on it, but in the Middle Ages, that’s exactly what they used the lampposts for. Hanging people.”

“See. That’s what I mean. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re overeducated?”

“Frequently,” she said. “It’s how I got hired.”

“There you go. But I didn’t hire you. I go for more utilitarian types, like Peter.”

“Four,” she said next.

“Four?”

“Four guns,” she said. “That’s how many people you have watching your back right now. You’ve got the guy at the souvenir stand, and the guy in the maintenance truck. Then there’s your driver who’s been circling the block. I also see,” she said, indicating, “the guy standing outside the leather shop. He’s supposed to look like a customer, but all he’s been doing is watching us, and he’s got American shoes. If you want to have a pavement team, do something about the shoes.”

“You
are
good,” he said. “I wish you also understood when you should just shut up and let our people handle things.”

“You’ve got your own back covered nicely, Mark. Unless the embassy blows from underneath, in which case people are going to ask how it could have happened, and I’m going to tell anyone who asks that it started with a theft of a ‘lamentation’ from the Museum of Old Stuff here in Madrid, and the CIA guy wouldn’t listen to me. So
now
can I please have some backup? Or assign your own people and let me go with them.”

He thought further and sighed.

“I got to admire your nerve. You’re a bureaucratic extortionist. You don’t even work for us. You’re Treasury.”

“But we’re both looking out for American interests, aren’t we?”

“All right, all right,” he said. “Maybe next week. Maybe by Monday. I can pull some people off some cases in Malaga and bring them up here to burrow through the dirt with you. The people they’re working for won’t be happy, but let ’em scream. They’re not as smart as you, they shut up sooner, and they’re not in my face every day. How’s that?”

“Not acceptable. I need something sooner,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Right. So would everyone. That’s all, LaDuca. Have a good evening.” He turned away from her.

A moment passed, and he drew ahead of her. Then, furious, she followed him and stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He stepped around her and moved to the curb. His car, already shadowing him, moved to a sudden jerky halt in a no-stopping zone and waited for him. Behind it, an irate Madrid cab driver blasted a horn. McKinnon’s driver rolled down his window, raised an arm, and responded with a universally understood gesture of ill will.

But she fell into stride right next to him. “Okay, now I’ll remind you of something else,” he said, moving toward the car. “What’s your assignment here, your mission?”

“To find the pietà and discover why it was stolen.”

“What’s Peter’s?”

“I assume it’s to take care of business for the late Lee Yuan,” she said after a moment.

“Don’t lose sight of that,” he said. “Connelly’s laptop had everything in it we needed. Names and addresses. The whole Madrid network that wants to bomb our embassy. A handful of amateurs and one very dangerous central guy. We even have a photo now. The ones we don’t get will be hiding in caves eating beetles with their spiritual leader for another twenty years. So we’re going to roll them up.”

“Roll them up, how?” she asked.

McKinnon arrived at his car and opened the rear door. “In the only way that it will stay rolled up,” he said.
“So stay out of it!”

McKinnon arrived at his vehicle and attempted to step into it. Alex drew her weapon and held the door with her other hand. She pointed her pistol at the car’s rear tire.

McKinnon looked at her in openmouthed bewilderment. His driver started to make a move to get out. McKinnon waved him off.

“Tell your ape to stay behind the steering wheel,” she said softly. “And if he hits the gas, I pull the trigger.” McKinnon gestured again, and his driver eased back into the car.

“You’re crazy!” McKinnon said. “You fire a shot here and—”

“And the Madrid police will be all over us. But I’ve got permission to carry a weapon here, Mark. Do you? Are you carrying a piece? Does the Spanish government know you have an operation going here? They know
I
do. In fact, I’m here with their permission. Can you say the same for yourself?”

The eyes of McKinnon’s driver were burning a reflected gaze at Alex through the rearview mirror. She glanced his way and back quickly.

McKinnon threw a long line of expletives at Alex. She gave him a similar one in return, nice and fast, his own attitude zapping back at him like a verbal yo-yo. She held her pistol steadily on the right-side rear tire.

“Give me something more, Mark,” she said to him. “I want to recover that piece of art, and I want to know where else this case is going.”

A second elapsed as he considered his many alternatives.

Then, “May I reach into my jacket pocket without you blasting my rear tire?” he asked. “That’s a new Pirelli back there. I’d hate for something to happen to it.”

“Try it slowly, Mark. You’ll find out quickly.”

He reached to his left side pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He punched in some numbers. Then he handed the phone to her. The small screen came alive, and on it was a clear image of a man who appeared to be in the custody, temporarily at least, of the Madrid police.

“That’s our pigeon,” he said. “Jean-Claude al-Masri. French citizen, Moroccan born. Resident here in Madrid. We’ve got the whole book on him, from smuggling explosives to recruiting his own terror network here in Spain. The dumb local cops had him, then let him go. What do you expect? We’re not going to let that happen twice. His file is attached to the photo.”

“It is, is it?” she said.

“It is.”

She looked at the photo. Then, with a quick one-handed procedure, she worked his phone keyboard with her thumb as he spoke.

“If you don’t believe me,” McKinnon continued, “then talk to your buddy Colonel Pendraza because two hours ago he gave us a thumbs-up to whacking Jean-Claude just as long as Pendraza doesn’t officially know about it. Oh, and your other new best friend Peter is on the case right now.”

She was still making thumb entries on his keyboard as he watched her.

“LaDuca, what are you doing?” he suddenly asked.

“I just sent myself the photo and the file,” she said. “I want both. Now I have them. Thanks.”

She started to politely hand the phone back to McKinnon, but he snatched it away from her. She put away her weapon and stepped back from the car.

“You know enough now. So stay away,” he said.

McKinnon slammed the door and barked an order to his driver. The vehicle screeched out into traffic and was gone in an instant, flagrantly running a red light in the process.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 18, EVENING

O
n a side street café in the Rastro, business was finally slacking off in the early evening. Samy had been nervous that day, waiting for some kind of shoe to drop and wondering why there had been no massive explosion under the United States Embassy. But Samy had also stayed true to Jean-Claude’s command to go to work as usual, act as usual, have a normal day as much as possible, and pretend that nothing strange was going on at all. Anything else might attract suspicion.

After all, no one knew who the conspirators were, Jean-Claude had sworn, other than each other? They just needed to wait.

Nonetheless, Samy had been on pins and needles all day, waiting to hear something, waiting for a special report to break into the news on Spanish television, watching everyone with paranoia, particularly anyone who looked like a cop or who looked in any way suspicious.

Gradually the little café called Klafouti had emptied out. Now it was almost midnight. There were two couples there at separate tables and a single man in a suit, an Asian, sitting by himself, reading. One of the couples got up and left. Then the other couple, by virtue of the blackberry wine they had been drinking liberally, started cuddling and smooching. Soon they got up and left too, weaving merrily toward the door.

Ali, the heavy man with the moustache who was Samy’s boss, spoke to Samy in Arabic. “I’m going to put the
Cerrado
sign on the door,” Ali said, indicating he was ready to close. “And I’m turning the window light off. Let’s go home.”

Samy thought that was an excellent idea.

Ali went next door to use the bathroom at the grocery store that was run by his cousin. In the rear of his store, Samy started cleaning the counter behind the pastry display case. The single man who had been reading a newspaper, the lone customer remaining, got up, yawned, stretched, and gave Samy a nod.

“
Buenas noches
,” Samy called back.

The man nodded in return, then took some steps toward the door.

Samy turned his back and busied himself with neatening up. Then Samy heard the door close and he heard steps. He figured Ali was back and said something to him. But there was no answer. A second later Samy felt something indefinably amiss and knew something was wrong.

He turned abruptly. The single man, the Asian, was standing on the other side of the pastry case, staring at him. Samy froze. He knew this was trouble.

D
avid Wong looked at Samy carefully.

“¿
Qué quiere usted, Señor
?” Samy asked. What do you want?

“Do you speak English?” Wong asked in English.

Samy understood but quickly shook his head. The Asian’s eyes were fixed on him like lasers.

Wong reached into a pocket and pulled out a picture of Lee Yuan, his mentor, just as Yuan had been Peter’s mentor and the mentor of his partner Charles Ming.

“Do you know anything about this man?” the Asian asked softly.

Samy shook his head again. He looked to the door, the escape route. The man in front of him had closed it, locked it apparently, and pulled the shade down.

Samy fumbled in English. “I don’t know any Chinaman,” he said.

“Now you do,” Wong answered.

For a moment Samy was paralyzed. Then there was a knocking on the front door. He heard Ali’s voice calling. “Samy? Samy, you in there?”

“
Ayúdame! Ayúdame
!” Samy screamed in Spanish. Help me! Help me!

Samy suddenly backpedaled. He tried to edge around the display case to where there was a narrow passage on the far side from where he could sprint to the door.

Wong lowered his left hand, and the picture of Lee Yuan was gone. Then the right hand came up, and it held a small gun, one of those Italian jobs that are just perfect for killing in small areas like stores, washrooms, and public transportation.

Samy yelled in terror when he saw the outline of the weapon. At the front door, Ali knocked sharply now, frantically next, then started to pound at the wooden frame. When all that failed, he hit the door with his shoulder.

Samy scrambled but Wong fired. The first bullet caught the waiter in the shoulder but hurled him sideways against the wall. Then the well-dressed Asian was on him like a big cat. Samy began to sputter and plead, half prayers, half curses, a desperate plea for his life.

Wong wasn’t listening any more than a cat would consider pleas from a mouse.

Wong pounced on his fallen prey, pushed the nose of the pistol to Samy’s head. Samy tried to cover it with his hands, but Wong pushed the gun between the Arab’s frenzied trembling palms and fired point blank.

One shot. Two shots.

The bullets blew out Samy’s eye socket, half of his brain, and the back part of his skull, all of which splattered and coated the floor beneath him.

Wong quickly stuffed his gun back under his suit jacket and went to the door. He threw the door open. Ali now stood in front of him in shock and surprise.

“
Buenas noches
,” Wong said.

“What’s going on?” Ali asked in Spanish.

Wong smiled. “
Nada
,” he said.

As Ali spoke to Wong, his gaze traveled past Wong and settled on Samy’s sprawled body on the floor. Wong caught the moment of realization in Ali’s eyes and jumped on it.

Wong brought up a knee that impacted like an express train into Ali’s groin.

When the café owner doubled over in absolute agony, Wong uppercut a vicious fist into the man’s face, crushing his nose with a tremendous crunch, splintering it to pieces within its skin. A downward smash of the elbow to the back of Ali’s head, sent him to the floor. There Wong left him, sobbing in a huddled mass at the doorway to his café, but in all ways better off than Samy had been for the encounter.

Wong straightened the lapels of his jacket and departed at a normal pace.