Midnight In Madrid

government’s displeasure on how the transaction was handled, and the fate of the gentleman who was murdered in Switzerland. But as long as I’m in this, I don’t mind assisting you with your own investigation. Don’t get me wrong-I’m being paid to do this. Paid very well. And I, on behalf of my government, don’t personally like our opponents here either. So now you know pretty much everything that I know. If you’d like me to stay with you on this, I’m here. If not, I’ll walk.”

“I’d be honored if you stayed with me on this,” she said.

“So I’ll cover your back, and, if necessary, you cover mine,” he said.

“It’s a deal.”

She reached across the table. They shook hands. His hand was intense and strong. It almost gave her a shudder. She finished her plate, and the last few sips of wine with it. She was feeling slightly buzzed, a safe but pleasant level.

A busboy arrived and cleared the table. The waiter arrived with a dessert menu. Alex maintained her will power for almost a quarter minute until the waiter talked them into taking some coffee accompanied by a plate to share of bunelos de viento, puffs of choux pastry stuffed with sweet vanilla or chocolate cream.

“Death from gunfire is one thing,” she said with a shrug. “Death from triglycerides and cholesterol is something else. What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”

“I need to do some banking,” he answered. “Accompany me when I do it. There are some things you should see.”

“Can we do it in the morning?” she asked. “First thing?”

“That would be best,” he said. “Did you have a conflict?”

“I was going to go out to the Escorial,” she said, “and perhaps the Valley of the Fallen where the big monument stands to the Civil War dead. It’s about an hour outside the city. Ever been out there?”

“No.”

“Interested?”

“I am,” he said. “I have a car. I can drive.”

She considered it. “Okay,” she said. “On a professional level, right?”

“Completely,” he said.

“It’s a deal.”

THIRTY-NINE

MARSEILLES, SEPTEMBER 10, LATE EVENING

As soon as Lazzari was out of Jean-Claude’s view, the Frenchman was on his feet, moving down the same pathway between the tables. No shot rang out from across the street, no backup leaped forward with a pistol.

Jean-Claude arrived on the sidewalk. Perfect timing. Split second, but perfect. He looked in Lazzari’s direction, about ten meters down the sidewalk.

“Monsieur!” he yelled. “Monsieur Lazzari!” He shouted as if it was an afterthought, as if he had forgotten something.

The Turk turned quickly, one hand clutching the tote bag, the other on his weapon within his outer shirt.

“You forgot something!” Jean-Claude yelled.

What the Turk had forgotten was to keep his guard up until he was out of the country. The distraction was just enough.

From an alley beyond the curb stepped a masked figure-Jean-Claude’s accomplice-with something in his hands. Quickly, professionally, as efficiently as someone flipping a ribbon around a gift-wrapped box, the masked man looped a piano-wire garrote around Lazzari’s neck. And then with the force of two powerful arms yanking at full strength, he pulled the wire in on itself closed. It zipped like a razor through the flesh, veins, and cartilage of the neck until it closed onto the spinal column.

Lazzari, a strong man himself, fought for no more than the final few seconds of his life. The gun flew from his left hand and the tote bag dropped from his right. His neck spurted like a broken water pipe, blood squirting and flowing from the deep sharp incisions left by the wire.

His assassin boldly dropped him, wire still in place, turned, and disappeared into the alley. Closely behind him followed Jean-Claude, who stopped only to retrieve the bag of money. Then he too disappeared into the alleys and darkness of Marseilles along a carefully planned route of escape, as minutes later, horrified residents surrounded the dead body and local police began to converge on the scene.

FORTY

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, LA MADRUGADA, 12:34 A.M.

Alex was back in the Ritz in another hour, in her suite by herself, the door bolted.

She opened her laptop and went to email messages.

On the top of the list, Joseph Collins, her Venezuelan mentor, wrote back to wish her well. He said he had some new developments, but they could wait. She fielded the email, answered it, and went on.

Colonel Pendraza of the National Police had made good on his pledge. He had transferred one hundred thirty- eight files to her by attachment, each of them having to do with some antiterror operation in Spain, large or small, but mostly large.

Alex dug into them for an hour.

Item: Three people in Malaga had been arrested in connection with a plot to plant car bombs around that Spanish city. The conspirators had been trained at a camp in Pakistan linked to the Islamic Jihad Union. Eight others were under investigation and had fled Spain. Spanish authorities said those arrested shared a “profound hatred of Americans.” Item: In early June, eight men of Somali citizenship had been arrested in Portugal while seeking to make connecting flights into Barcelona. Portuguese police maintained that one of the men was a senior al-Qaeda leader. All had been turned over to “covert American operations” for “further inquiry.” Item: Noted in passing: al-Qaeda leaders have frequently threatened to strike again in Europe in audio and video warnings. Antiterror experts within the Policia Nacional said recently that the pace of the warnings has picked up in recent weeks. Associated item: Intercepted al-Qaeda documents have indicated activities of small sleeper cells within Spain, intent on acting independently but with major force. Item: Analysts in Madrid were alarmed over the publication of cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad deemed offensive by many Muslims, as well as a lack of opportunities and sense of marginalization in Muslim communities. These social currents have put Europe squarely in the crosshairs of radicals. Porous borders and years of open immigration policies have added to the problem, they say. Item: Police in northwest Spain had arrested seven people in connection with a terrorist plot to blow up aircraft flying from Spain to the United Kingdom. The plot involved hiding liquid explosives in carry-on luggage, and six to ten flights would have been targeted. A senior Spanish counterterror source said she believed the plotters were to carry a “Spanish version of Gatorade” onto the planes and then mix it with a gel-like substance. The explosives were to be triggered by an iPod or a cell phone, the source said…[NB: Cross/ref: US.doj.gvt. 4543b-0-09] The intelligence that uncovered the plot “makes very strong links to al-Qaeda,” a senior US administration official remarked in telephone message with Policia Nacional. The official said it was believed the plot had been close to being operational.

Lord, what a world, she thought to herself. More examples of man’s inhumanity to man, the violence and moral vacuity of the modern world. And how, on top of her personal feelings, was she ever going to make sense of all these reports, much less spot any link to the disappearance of The Pieta of Malta?