“Explain.” Fisher did so, and Grim said, “So Hoffman gets a thirdhand call that trickled down from the top, which means the original call had to come from someone with horsepower.”
“I got the impression it came from outside the BND. One of those ‘step aside and let nature take its course’ orders.”
“Kovac?”
“That was my first thought. What better way to undermine you than to arrange my capture? He makes some calls to ally agencies, cashes in a few favors, gets lucky… ”
“No proof, though,” Grim replied. “No one in the Bundesnachrichtendienst or the German government would cross Kovac.”
“Agreed.” Fisher moved on. “What do Hansen and his team think?”
“About your stunt? They’re skeptical, but the rescue workers haven’t even found the car yet, let alone a body. Truth is, I think they’re all in shock. They all think you did it on purpose; most of them think you thought you’d survive and were wrong.”
Fisher nodded. This was one of the outcomes for which he’d hoped. The other involved the Neuwied police. He asked Grim about it.
“The second Mercedes — with Valentina, Ames, and Noboru — managed to take off before the cops arrived on the bridge. Hansen and Gillespie talked their way out of it. They told the police they saw a dangerous driver and were trying to keep it in sight until the police arrived. Apparently, aside from your BMW, the Hammerstein cops couldn’t identify any of the cars involved in the chase.” Grim asked, “How’d you do it?”
Fisher recounted the incident, from his car’s impact with the water to his arrival in Madrid.
“Why the limousine?”
“The opposite of anonymity is—”
“Ostentatiousness,” Grim finished. “Hiding in plain sight.”
“Something like that. Were they even covering the airports?”
“No, they drove straight back to Cologne Bonn Airport. I pulled them back to Luxembourg and put them in a holding pattern. I assume you’re in Madrid to visit the local ear collector?”
“You assume correctly,” Fisher replied.
Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, lived in Chinchon, twenty-five miles to the south. Ostensibly, Ames, using Noboru’s contacts in the mercenary world, had produced the lead that had led the team to Vianden. Fisher wanted to know if, in fact, van der Putten was the source of the information. As Grim had said during their previous teleconference, the scenario was plausible, but something about it wasn’t sitting right in Fisher’s belly. What he couldn’t quite figure out was whether the suspicion was born of instinct or of his dislike for Ames.
“How long is van der Putten going to take?” Grim asked.
“If he’s home, I’ll have my answer before morning.”
“Good, because your next stop is right next door — Portugal.”
Third Echelon’s mainframe was still chewing on the bulk of the data Fisher stole from Ernsdorff’s server, but, Grimsdottir told him, an interesting lead had bubbled to the surface: the name Charles Zahm — a person also known as Chucky Zee. Fisher had plodded through one of Zahm’s novels,
According to Ernsdorff’s private investigating team — most of the members of which were culled from Britain’s Security Service, also known as MI5—Zahm hadn’t restricted his postretirement exploits to paper but had also gone into crime. Along with five of his former SAS mates, Zahm was the leader of what London’s tabloids had dubbed the Little Red Robbers, based on the Mao Tse-tung masks they’d worn during their robberies of two armored cars, four jewelry stores, and four banks. Whether Zahm had ever read or even heard of Chairman Mao’s famous Communist treatise, known in the West as
“I don’t buy it,” Grimsdottir told Fisher.
“I disagree,” Fisher replied. “The SAS doesn’t induct idiots. Maybe Zahm
“While pulling off some of the biggest heists in Britain’s history,” Grim finished.
“He’s got the training. With his money and contacts, it wouldn’t have taken much to learn the ropes. There are plenty of retired thieves who’d gladly pass on their knowledge for a price. How solid does Ernsdorff’s info look?”
“Very. Names, dates, accounts, sexual predilections… In fact, it looks like a blackmail file. But for what purpose?”
“Can’t be money,” Fisher replied. “Ernsdorff has more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. My guess: He’s leveraging Zahm — using his Little Red Robbers for a job or jobs.”
“That seems out of character given what we know about Ernsdorff. He’s been exclusively a background player”
“We know he plays middleman for bad guys and their money. And we know he’s playing bank for this auction. From that, it’s not that big a leap to other kinds of services.”
18
One of the benefits of hunting people who live on the fringes of society is that they also tend to gravitate toward the fringes of communities. When you kill and steal and blackmail for a living, and have even a modicum of karmic awareness, you tend to worry about your deeds someday coming back to haunt you. Aside from the very rich, who could afford to live apart from the world and surrounded by security, or the very careful, who left no footprints that would lead enemies to their door, the bad guys who survive the longest are the ones who ignore that reclusive impulse and choose, instead, to dwell in plain sight, disguised as average citizens.
Luckily for Fisher, Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, was neither wealthy nor karmically self-aware. Upon retiring from active mercenary life and setting himself up as an information clearinghouse, van der Putten moved to Chinchon, a town of five thousand whose two claims to fame were its central square, which served as a temporary bullring, and the church of Nuestra Senora de la Ascuncion, where Francisco Goya’s
After signing off with Grimsdottir and picking up a rental car, Fisher made two stops: one to replenish his basic traveling supplies, including an economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen for his bruised ribs, and the second to pick up the DHL box containing his weapons and gear. He was heading south out of the city by three and arrived in Chinchon an hour later, in the middle of siesta, the traditional Spanish period of late-afternoon rest and rejuvenation. He wore Bermuda shorts, sandals, and an “I ¦ Madrid” T shirt.
Chinchon was perched on the eastern slopes of Spain’s Sistema Iberico mountain range, so the narrow cobble and brick streets rose and fell and branched at unexpected angles. The architecture was what one would expect from a village born during the Middle Ages: buildings of heavy, dark chiseled beams stacked closely together, faded stucco walls of yellow ocher and pale mocha, half-hidden courtyards, balconies fronted by ornate black iron railings, and a sea of undulating roofs covered in U-shaped terra-cotta tiles.
Fisher found a parking spot behind a tavern a few blocks from the Plaza Mayor and got out to stretch his legs. The streets were eerily quiet and deserted, save for the handful of people Fisher could see sitting on front porches and swinging in hammocks. A lone dog — a mix between a beagle and a husky, Fisher guessed — padded across the street and into a shaded alley. He stopped to give Fisher a glance over his shoulder, then trotted off into the
