Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  Located at the foot of the Iberian Peninsula, “the Rock” was one of the world’s anomalies: an outcropping of earth attached to one state that was the sovereign territory of another, in this case, the United Kingdom. Taken from Spain by an Anglo-Dutch force in 1704, it had remained a British territory ever since, even as Spain repeatedly laid claim to the small piece of land.

  Driving south, he’d hit the coast road on the Mediterranean Sea and instantly saw why Gibraltar had the nickname it did. A mountain of white rock topped by clouds, it towered over the Spanish coast as if God had plopped it there when he was shaping the earth, intending to use it elsewhere.

  Johan had driven into the queue for immigration and happily discovered that his earlier fears were unfounded. The gate was manned by British immigration officers, and after a perfunctory check of his passport and some simple questions, they’d waved him through.

  He’d crossed the flight line of the British airbase and international airport on Winston Churchill Avenue—the entry road literally crossing the runway, a peculiar situation necessitated by the fact that it was the only flat piece of terrain large enough to allow landing an aircraft on Gibraltar territory—and had parked at the first garage he could find on his GPS, a shopping mall called the International Commercial Centre.

  As the entire landmass of Gibraltar was little more than two and a half square miles—with most of that taken up by the sheer cliffs of the mountain itself—he’d already decided to walk to his target, using his GPS to locate the address of the suspected business.

  He’d followed the arrow on his GPS to the target, which had required some back-and-forth, with him walking up and down Line Wall Road, passing the door to Mint Tea Maintenance three times before realizing that the GPS was off by about a hundred meters. Eventually, he’d found it.

  Set into the stone of the ancient casement of the King’s Bastion, once the foremost defense of the city, it was a narrow office next to a modern entertainment center grafted onto the same historical defenses. The dilapidated office door existed in stark contrast to the modern-day entrances for the bowling alley and cinema next to it, and Johan wondered how on earth his target had managed to lease it.

  With one small window in the door, Johan could glean little from the outside—but there was no way on earth he was going to enter this early in his mission. He decided to establish a surveillance post and simply watch.

  He’d surveyed the surroundings, seeing few options for long-term observation. Line Wall Road was a narrow strip of asphalt, jammed with parked cars and mopeds, with nothing more than a sidewalk snaking alongside it. He’d retraced his steps and found the park right across the street, hidden behind a concrete wall. After a little bit of jockeying, he’d located a bench that had a view through the portico entrance to the office door.

  He’d taken a seat and waited, ostensibly watching the children play in the park. Three hours into it, with the sun starting to set, the mother of the child with the rubber ball finally started giving him pointed stares. As if she was thinking about reporting him. She took the hand of her child and exited the park, using a different portico, but not before glancing back at him with a mama-bear look.

  Not good.

  But then again, he’d done nothing wrong. Yet.

  25

  Knuckles stood up and crossed the room, putting his hand over the camera lens and glaring at me, his expression telling me I was wrong, even as he knew he was asking me to swallow my pride.

  He said again, “Let Jennifer handle this. Yeah, the Council loves you, but they aren’t Kurt Hale. After the last hit, he’ll wonder if you’re playing him.”

  I heard Kurt say, “Move your damn hand. What the hell is going on there?”

  I started to reply, because I was always right, and Knuckles held my eyes. I pulled my hand away from the microphone and said, “Nothing, sir. Just some team stuff.”

  Knuckles smiled, saying, “Good job.”

  I backed away from the computer, knowing it was just my ego talking, but it still hurt. I said, “Jennifer’s got something to say. Apparently, I’ll just stick a fork in your eye.”

  Kurt laughed and said, “So old dogs can in fact learn new tricks. Putting in the A team now. Jennifer, what’s up?”

  She sat down and said, “Hey, Kurt. You know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it worthy, but we went through the phones and computers inside the house, and they’re tangentially connected to a bunch of tethers inside Morocco. We haven’t found a direct thread to terrorism, but we have a lead with an American citizen in that country. From the email trail, it appears he’s in Granada, just south of here, trying to develop a new market for his marijuana. We have his face, and we have his target location. It’ll take a little work to locate him, but he’s real.”

  Standing over Jennifer’s shoulder, I could see her argument didn’t cut a lot of weight. Kurt said, “So you want to bust up a nascent drug ring in Granada now? I don’t see a lot of payoff here. Only downside.”

  “Except for the bank account. The guy we hit had no established use of that thing until two days ago. Someone gave him the access. And that someone is whom we’re hunting. I can’t tell you that we know the connection right now, but you let us through, and we’ll find it.”

  Kurt said nothing, doing the tap routine with his fingers. Behind him, George said something too faint to hear. I didn’t know if it was good or bad.

  Kurt talked to him for a few seconds, then returned to the screen. “You think this new guy is going to give you a thread? Beyond just another drug bust?”

  Jennifer said, “Yes, I do. And you know where I stand.” She glanced at me and said, “I’m not saying that because I just want some high adventure.”

  Which was a little insulting.

  She went back to the screen and said, “It’s convoluted right now, I know, but there’s no way a bank account for a terrorist in the United States is innocently tied into a bank account for a drug dealer in Spain. Let us pick the thread. We won’t do any harm. Unless you let us, that is.”

  I saw a rueful smile leak out of Kurt’s face. He said, “Is Pike still there?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Is Knuckles there?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Whose idea was it to put her on-screen? You or Pike?”

  Knuckles said, “It was nobody’s idea. She just felt strongly about it.”

  Kurt laughed and said, “Bullshit.”

  Jennifer became incensed, saying, “What the hell does that mean? We’re trying to stop a terrorist attack. Why on earth does me on the computer matter—”

  Kurt cut her off. “Calm down, Koko. You win. I know Pike inside and out, and I was prepared for his inevitable request, because I know what’s in his heart. I also know what’s in yours. And I’m giving you the go-ahead. Alpha only. Track the guy in Granada and report back.”

  We all sat in silence for a second, amazed it had been that easy. Kurt said, “You guys still there?”

  Belatedly, I said, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just get me something that doesn’t involve you getting kidnapped. I can only sell that so many times. Show me some finesse.”

  I said, “Sir, I promise this isn’t a fishing trip. Something bad is being planned, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  Kurt glanced at George behind him, then said, “I believe you. Give me some Pike magic.”

  I said, “I will.”

  He said, “But do it with a little Koko restraint, if you don’t mind.”

  Jennifer beamed, then broke open the applecart. “So does that mean Carly gets a shot at selection? Giving a little female restraint to the Taskforce overall?”

  Kurt’s eyes flew open, Knuckles practically did a rain dance, and I just sagged back. Nobody said anything for a couple of seconds, then Veep, the millennial of t
he group, said, “I don’t see why this is such a big deal. I’ve seen Jennifer in action.”

  Knuckles whipped to him and snapped, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Knuckles flicked his eyes back and forth between Jennifer and me, caught between the conventions of the Taskforce and his experience working with her. It was the same place I’d been in when I’d first met Jennifer. But back then, I’d been kicked out of the Taskforce and had no constraints on me, unlike Knuckles.

  He was still on active duty, and I knew the pressure he was under. We still lived in a he-man women-hating club, and he was worried about his reputation, even as he was silently plugging for Carly. He didn’t understand what I had learned: His reputation would stand for itself. Just like mine had. And if Carly was worthy of the attempt—which I wasn’t convinced of just yet—nothing he did would alter that one way or the other.

  From the VPN Kurt said, “Just get to Granada. Carly will take care of herself. If it even matters.”

  He disconnected.

  Knuckles lightly smacked the back of Jennifer’s head, causing her to say, “What did I do?”

  He started to retort, and I cut in, defusing the situation. Becoming the team leader again. “Let’s get packed and check out. I want to be in the air in less than sixty minutes.”

  26

  Thirty minutes after the mother left the park, a police officer entered, searching the area with his eyes, clearly looking for something. Johan had no illusions about what that might be. The woman had reported him as suspicious.

  He stood up and began sauntering toward the portico he’d used to enter the park, studiously avoiding eye contact with the police officer and running through alternatives for continued surveillance of the office. He needn’t have worried.

  He reached the wall and saw his target door open. A wiry man of about thirty-five exited, wearing a Berber jacket that was coarse and homespun, the cloth rough, with small wooden dowels instead of buttons or a zipper, the hood lying flat on his back. To Johan, it looked like a coat worn by someone from Tatooine in Star Wars, which wouldn’t matter, except the hood sat high enough to prevent Johan from getting a good look at the target’s face. The man locked the door as if he were in a production of Scrooge, pulling out a ring and using a key much too large for the modern day.

  Johan glanced behind him and saw the policeman still searching. He exited the park, now forced with a choice: follow the target, or penetrate the office. He watched the man walk away, growing smaller with every step, and decided on the latter, with a little bit of a wait.

  He crossed Line Wall Road and entered the pedestrian area of the main downtown tourist section. Walking down Main Street, he contemplated his next move, but he already knew what that would be. He’d seen the target lock the door. Seen the ridiculously old key. He could defeat the lock on that door in about fifteen seconds using a paper clip and a flathead screwdriver. All he needed was some time.

  Walking three blocks and looking for someplace to park for a spell, he passed yet another liquor store, the sign out front blaring the great deals within. Just like the last one had. What on earth? He was no stranger to drinking in his hardscrabble life, and never one to run from a beer, but this was a little ridiculous. Unlike in Madrid, where one had to search for a place to buy something besides wine, here there seemed to be a liquor store on every corner.

  How could they all stay in business?

  He assumed it was the tourists. Or that everyone here was a drunk. Given the number of pubs in the area, it could be either. Not that he minded. He saw a sign for a pub down a narrow alley and followed it to the source. He took a seat at the outdoor patio, ordered a Guinness, and waited for the sun to go down.

  Two hours later, he paid the bill and retraced his steps, walking back down Line Wall Road. He reached the office of Mint Tea and glanced around, the night giving him shadow. Cars passed, but no pedestrians were on the sidewalk. He went to work on the lock, getting it open in under a minute.

  He glanced around again, seeing no threat, and cracked the door. He hesitated a moment, listening. He heard nothing from inside.

  He entered swiftly, closing the door behind him. He ran his hand along the wall, looking for a switch, and found it, the light blazing into his eyes. He saw a narrow space, less than eight feet across, a shelf running down the wall. On it was a computer and a printer, then a collection of schematic drawings. In the back was a wider room, without a door.

  He advanced slowly, not sure if there was a hallway connected to it or some other entrance to the narrow office space. He reached the small alcove and waited a beat, hearing nothing. He felt along the wall again and found the lights. Inside was nothing but trash. Iron rods, bits of wooden dowels, cans of paint, and drop cloths, all haphazardly scattered about. Nothing of interest. He went back to the office, finding a filing cabinet underneath the shelf, with a sheaf of papers on top of it.

  He picked up the paperwork, seeing a work order made out to Mint Tea from a company called Gibdock, apparently for work on an oil tanker named Dar Salwa. The first page held a laundry list of various maintenance procedures that had to be accomplished. Underneath it were the schematics for the double-hulled crude carrier, with certain sections highlighted in red. From the date in the top left corner, it looked like the order had been completed two days ago. It meant nothing to Johan. He turned to the computer and swiveled the mouse, causing the screen to illuminate.

  He saw a password block and then heard a knocking on the entrance door, freezing him in place. Holding his breath, he waited. It happened again, this time turning into pounding, the door reverberating with the blows. He heard, “Karim? You still in there?”

  Johan said nothing, breathing through an open mouth to lessen his presence. The voice said, “You got the light on, so I know you’re in there. Quit hiding from me. You owe me. Open the door.”

  Johan slid to the back area, walking ever so softly, leaving no trace of his crossing. He checked for an exit but found none. He was cornered. Hiding behind the small entrance wall of the alcove, he turned out the light and withdrew a pocket blade, flicking it open. Waiting.

  He heard nothing more. He remained still for another twenty minutes, then advanced to the front of the office. He slid to the right of the door and peeked out of the small window, seeing the street empty.

  He glanced at the computer, wanting to return to it but knowing he shouldn’t. Not tonight, anyway. Too much risk. He turned out the lights and exited, locking the door behind him. Tomorrow was another day.

  27

  Knuckles wasn’t too concerned about the company to his left and right, but he did mind the smell. And the filth. He watched the clique of human waste around him lay about and wondered just what it was that led someone to this. At what stage of life did you decide to congregate on a street corner and do nothing but stare at one another? They looked for all the world like a pack of dogs trying to escape the heat. Some passed a joint back and forth; others simply leaned against a wall, coveting the shade. Most were barefoot, with a crust of filth coating the soles of their feet.

  The majority were under twenty-five and would probably escape the pack once they’d experienced whatever lesson they were searching for. Others would remain forever. One fifty-something began juggling balls in the air like he’d found the reason for his existence, making Knuckles feel like he was in a zoo experiment. Into his earpiece, he said, “Pike, you are going to pay for this.”

  He heard, “Pay for what? You’re the only one who looks like a hippie. You blend right in.”

  Knuckles glanced at Veep, sitting cross-legged two feet away, seeing a smile. Off the radio, he said, “You’ve got a bill coming due as well for thinking of this idea.”

  “Not if it pays off. Which it will.”

  The team had few threads to begin the search, but they weren’t starting from scratch. While they had no name, address, or ele
ctronic tether, they did have a dark selfie of the target and a batch of emails detailing a couple of locations where he intended to generate more drug revenues, all signed with the letter F. They’d flown to Granada right after getting the sanction from Kurt Hale, and then spent a day and a half conducting reconnaissance, eventually locating this congregation of Woodstock wannabes.

  The email threads indicated that the target intended to use groups like this to make inroads into the marijuana market, so while the rest of the team conducted reconnaissance of other locations, Knuckles and Veep were stuck playing vagabond hipster.

  On the surface, Granada looked like any other cosmopolitan city in Spain, but it was unique in two respects: One, it had the largest university in the country, spread out over five campuses in the city; and two, it had been the capital for the Muslim Moorish kingdom called the Emirate of Granada—the name Granada actually coming from the Arab rulers rather than the Spaniards—and a last vestige of that kingdom still existed.

  At the base of the Sierra Nevada, on the banks of the Darro River, stood the castle of Alhambra, a giant walled citadel that had once been the royal palace of the Moorish sultans, and then the emperors of Spain after the Moors were pushed off the Iberian Peninsula in the fifteenth century.

  Those two unique anomalies—the university and the citadel—led to Granada being a logical choice for expansion of the marijuana trade, as the city was bustling with a transitory population of students and tourists. While Knuckles was positive none in his little pack of loafers was a tourist, some of them might be students.

  Just across the Darro River, in the shadow of the Alhambra, Knuckles watched the juggler continue with his tennis balls, a small hat in front of him for passersby to toss him coins. Knuckles wondered if he was truly delusional.

  Veep finally leaned over and said, “I don’t think they sit here all night. Take a look at what most of them have with them. Bongos, guitars, and other props.”