He didn’t want to climb out before the police were gone, but he didn’t want to stay too long, lest an employee come for the cart. He settled on two hours as a sweet spot and it was the longest two hours he’d ever weathered. When he finally got out, he stretched his cramped legs and took the stairs to the basement where he heard a couple of employees inside a service manager’s office. He headed in the opposite direction toward an exit sign. A short run of metal stairs took him up to a deserted alleyway behind the hotel.
He avoided Calle de Alcalá. It was likely still crawling with police investigating the car-bombing. Instead of using the Quintana Metro stop, he took a meandering route to the Cartagena station and rode the Metro to Tres Olivos. It was rush hour and he was grateful to be packed like a sardine in perfect anonymity. It was only a short walk from Tres Olivos to the La Paz Hospital. He already knew his way to Ferrol Gaytan’s office. What he didn’t know was what he was going to do when he saw him. Would he do a dance or go right for the jugular? Would he use words or fists?
Gaytan’s young receptionist immediately recognized him.
“The CIA man,” she said.
“You remember me,” he said. “I need to see Dr. Gaytan.”
She gave him an eye-roll. “I don’t suppose you have an appointment.”
“Actually no, but please tell him it will be brief.”
“It will be extremely brief,” she said, “because he isn’t here today.”
“I see. Do you know where I can find him?”
“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know that.”
“Do you know when he’s expected back?”
“Again, sir, I have no idea.”
“Could you check with someone? I really need to find him.”
She reluctantly excused herself and disappeared in the back. When she returned, she informed him that no one knew his whereabouts and that all his appointments had been canceled for the next several days. She gave him an office number to call and leave a voice message, telling him that the doctor was usually quite diligent in checking his messages. He could see the relief on her face when the phone rang and she could tactfully disengage. However, he was still standing at the desk when she finished her call.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sure you have his home address.” He winked. “You know I’ll be able to find it—I’m with the CIA. But you’ll be saving me a little time if you just give it to me.”
“You don’t have to be in the CIA to find it,” she said. “I know for a fact it’s in the Madrid phone book.”
She called up a page on her computer, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it over with a forced smile.
Twenty minutes later, a taxi was dropping him off on a leafy, residential street in the Chamberí area outside an elegant building with wrought-iron balconies. Gaytan, it appeared, wasn’t hurting for money. Marcus rang for Flat 4, the top floor apparently, and leaned on the buzzer when there was no response. Frustrated, he tried Flat 3 and Flat 2, and finally got an answer at Flat 1. The woman on the intercom only spoke Spanish and he did the best he could.
“I’m a friend of Dr. Gaytan. He asked me to come.”
“He’s not here,” the woman said. “I saw him in the garage last night putting bags in his car.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I don’t know. Goodbye.”
There was a small park a block away, and in the shade of a tree, Marcus smoked a cigarette, and pondered his next move. He switched his phone back on and saw there were five missed calls from Roberto Lumaga.
Lumaga answered at the first ring. “Christ, Marcus! I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I know all about it.”
“How?”
“I got the alert this morning. Europol has issued a European Arrest Warrant for you on behalf of the Spanish authorities. You’re wanted for the car-bomb murder of a woman named Abril Segura, an employee of CIFAS.”
“She was a friend of mine. The bomb was meant for me.”
“Of course, I believe you,” Lumaga said, “but they found some plastic explosives and a detonator under the mattress of your hotel room.”
“That’s horse shit. I’m being framed.”
“There’s more. Because of the warrant, the Carabinieri up in Genoa want to question you for the shooting on the mountain.”
“More horse shit.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
All of a sudden, Marcus realized that this call was a problem. A CIFAS analyst was dead. The intelligence services would already have his mobile number. He was broadcasting his location.
He talked fast. “I need your help, Roberto. I know who’s behind this.”
“Who?”
“His name is Dr. Ferrol Luis Gaytan. He lives in Madrid.”
“But how—”
“There’s no time. Are you at your computer?”
“Yes.”
“See what you have on him. He’s not at his apartment in Madrid.”
“Okay, hold on.”
The phone in his hand felt like a traitor. He looked around nervously at the bench-sitters and the fit young man in a track suit, standing nearby, talking loudly into his phone. Seconds added up, a minute.
“You still there?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, coming,” Lumaga said.
“Hurry.”
“Okay, I’ve got your man. He’s a big scientist, the director of an institute in Madrid.”
“Yeah, I know that part.”
“He’s wealthy, it seems. Old money. Rich family.”
“Police record?”
“I don’t have access to that.”
“You’re not on a law enforcement site?”
“Wikipedia Spain.”
“For fuck’s sake. I could have looked it up myself.”
“But you didn’t. This is interesting. When he was a boy, he lost both his parents in an arson fire at their castle.”
“He’s got a castle? Still?”
“I don’t know. It’s called Castle Gaytan, so maybe, yes.”
“Where is it?”
As Lumaga answered, Marcus heard sirens.
“Near Segovia. A village called Lirio.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Wait—”
Marcus got up and dropped the live phone into a municipal trash can.
Lumaga kept listening. He heard police sirens getting louder and louder as they descended on the
