“Exactly,” McKinnon answered. “Bright fellow, you are. And you’re the same age as Alex, I’d guess.”
“I’m forty-one,” Chang said.
“That proves my point,” McKinnon said. “Anyway, in the 1930s, during the Civil War, Suner represented Spain in talks with Hitler. Hitler wanted Spain to get into the big war in Europe. Suner suggested the creation of a national ‘movement’ out of the Falange and the Carlists to match the fascists in Italy and Nazis in Germany. Then they’d all go to war together and keep the Americans and Brits busy on the western front while Hitler could go at it with the Ruskies in the east. Well, Franco wasn’t buying into that one. He was determined to keep Spain
“Then why mention it?” Alex asked.
“What?” It was obvious he wasn’t quite in the bag, but well on his way.
“Why mention it?”
“Well, it was a curious feeling,” McKinnon said. “To speak with a man who had personally conversed with Hitler.”
A moment passed. McKinnon rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. “God!” he said. “We’ve been here since 10:00 a.m. Let me hit the boy’s room, then we’ll talk more, okay?”
“Okay,” Alex said.
Chang gave her a shrug. McKinnon rose with effort and wandered off to the washroom, leaving Alex and Peter Chang to stare at each other.
“Thanks,” Alex finally said, “for saving my life.”
“No big deal,” Chang said.
“Actually, to me it was.”
THIRTY-FIVE
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, EARLY AFTERNOON
For Maria Elena Gomez, the new week was not going well.
Jose Luis, her new partner this week in Pedro’s absence, was an even bigger pain to work with than she had imagined. On their first day together, he had been as aggravating as any man she had ever had to work with. He was slow and inattentive to detail. His attention would wander, he would want to sneak off for cigarettes, and he had a
She had had more than enough of him as they inspected the electrical junctions at the Sevilla station in the old city. While Maria was busy noting a frayed cable that could short circuit if any rain swept down into the station, she looked up to find him not taking the notes as she suggested, but rather watching a gaggle of American girls in shorts and minis, as they waited for a train.
“Are you here to look or are you here to work?” she asked him.
“I’m here to look,” he said.
“Then why don’t you find another partner?” she snapped.
“Because you’re prettier than most of the cows who work for the Metro.”
“I should report you for a remark like that,” she said. “Maybe I will.”
“I’ll deny I ever said it,” he smirked. “You know how women imagine things. If you come on to them, they complain. If you don’t, they’re insulted.”
She handed him a clipboard, almost throwing it at him. The American girls turned and watched the argument and grinned. One of them whipped out a disposable camera and snapped a flash picture. Maria felt humiliated.
“Just shut up and work,” she said tersely as a train rumbled into the station. “Or I will report you. I swear.”
He growled but finally got the message, taking the proper notes as she gave them to him, filling out the proper maintenance request that would be turned in at the end of the day.
They track-walked to the next station, Banco de Espana, in near silence, moving slowly. They twice stepped to the side en route when the red warning lines cautioned them about an advancing train. They found nothing worthy of note in the tunnel. Then when they emerged at the Banco de Espana station, Jose Luis was at it again. When they came up into the station, they were confronted by a huge Real Madrid billboard featuring the goalkeeper, Iker Casillas making a brilliant diving one-handed save.
Jose Luis took the occasion to sing the praises of Real Madrid.
“I support Atletico,” she said sharply.
He laughed. “Sabes, no comprendo que una bonita mujer sensata como tu seas hincha de ese equipo de perdedores.” I don’t understand how a pretty girl like you could be a fan of a bunch of losers like that.
“
Jose Luis smirked in response. She knew that lurking beneath the surface, he was one of those men who didn’t feel women should even have these jobs walking the tracks. She was in a genuinely foul mood by now. The attack on Atletico she even felt as a shot at her late father. She felt sadness mixing with her anger and wished the week was already over.
But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
THIRTY-SIX
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, MID-AFTERNOON
McKinnon lurched back into the living room of the suite. He sat down hard, a crash landing of sorts, into the big chair.
Alex turned to him.
“Let’s talk about The Pieta of Malta,” Alex finally said. “And maybe you can also bring me up to speed on why we’re here and why two people have already been shot dead right in front of me.”
“Of course,” McKinnon said. “But everyone in this room needs to get to know everyone else in this room. Peter, you’ve been here in Spain before, also, haven’t you?”
“Several times,” he said. “This is one of my favorite places in Europe.”
Turning to him, Alex asked, “And you speak Spanish, I assume?”
“
“Peter works for the Chinese government,” McKinnon said.
“Which branch? You don’t exactly look like a trade delegate, looking to dump a lot of cheap toasters on the Marcado Comun.”
“The Guojia Anquan Bu,” he said without a smile.
“The Ministry of State Security?” she asked. “Peking’s version of the CIA.”
“Exactly,” McKinnon said. “Our counterparts, and, as is often the case with counterparts, sometimes our interests coincide. As in this case. Let me backtrack. Mr. Chang has worked with the Agency in Europe before.”
“So the Chinese government has an interest in The Pieta of Malta also?” Alex asked.
“Very much so,” McKinnon said. “The Pieta of Malta. It’s like a ‘black bird’-a Maltese Falcon-for our new century.”
Alex waited for a moment. McKinnon’s eyes jumped to Peter’s then back again. “When you were at the
