by Reece Hirsch
Hazlitt stood up and walked around the high-ceilinged living room of the loft. “This could still be a setup, but it certainly doesn’t look good.”
“What do you mean ‘doesn’t look good’? We’ve got him dead to rights.”
Hazlitt frowned, his thoughts racing as he worked through the ramifications. “If he’s capable of this, then what else has he done? He represents BlueCloud and probably dozens of other Fortune 500 companies. He’s the guy that they turn to to protect their most valuable information from hackers. If he’s been working for the other side, there’s no telling how much damage he could inflict.”
Falacci turned his chair around from the computer. “Is it really that surprising that this guy might go off the deep end? Look at what he’s had going on in his life. His wife died. Cancer. His girlfriend just dumped him. And he lives alone in this place, which looks like an upscale version of Ted Kaczynski’s cabin in the woods. This guy’s a classic loner.”
“I just don’t see a motive for Bruen to do this.”
“You know it’s not like we’re putting together a case for a criminal court judge here. This is terrorism—different rules. And who cares why he did it, anyway? They all have their reasons, and none of them make any sense to me.”
“It just doesn’t feel right,” Hazlitt replied. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re going full bore after Bruen. We’ll alert Quantico and they’ll start working with Europol and Spanish authorities.”
“So we’re going to Spain?”
“We’re going to Spain.”
“Outside the US. That’s the CIA’s jurisdiction.”
“I’ll let the bosses work that out. I’ve got a feeling everyone’s going to want a piece of this investigation—FBI, CIA, DHS, NSA.”
“My ex is going to kill me. I was supposed to take the kids to SeaWorld this weekend. You know, we’re not going to make it in time for the 5:00 p.m. meet-up. That’s just a few hours away.”
“That’s okay. Quantico will probably get the CIA in on this. They’ll be able to get someone there.”
“Wish I could be there to see the look on his face when they take him down,” Falacci said. “He struck me as smug.”
Hazlitt knew what Falacci meant. There was something about Bruen that got under his skin, and he was self-aware enough to know what it was. As a young FBI agent working on computer crimes cases with the DOJ, Hazlitt had looked to Bruen as a bit of a role model. Hazlitt was impressed by Bruen’s combination of computer, legal, and investigative skills, which few other agents could match. He also liked the way Bruen didn’t entirely dismiss the hackers that he pursued as criminals or nutjobs. He might not agree with their worldview, but he understood that they had one. Hazlitt had actually been a little bit hurt when Bruen hadn’t immediately recognized him at the law firm’s offices, but it had been quite a few years, and he had been a junior member of the team.
Hazlitt liked to think of himself as first and foremost a public servant protecting unwary citizens from increasingly sophisticated and malicious cybercriminals. He viewed Bruen in his current incarnation as a sellout who served corporations first, and the public only incidentally. But Hazlitt had also felt a bit hypocritical rebuking Bruen when they’d met at his office, because he honestly did not know whether he would take a law firm job if given the chance. After all, equity partners at firms like Reynolds Fincher made a hell of a lot more money than midlevel federal agents, and he was thinking about starting a family and perhaps moving out of his apartment and into a house. Hazlitt liked certainty, and not knowing what he would do if he were offered a law firm job irritated him.
“We shouldn’t underestimate him,” Hazlitt said. “He’s very smart. And he knows our moves because he used to be one of us.”
“Yeah, well, the agencies have learned a few new tricks since he was at DOJ.”
“And so has he,” Hazlitt said.
CHAPTER 18
According to the tourist brochures in the hotel lobby, Tibidabo was one of the world’s oldest amusement parks, built in 1889 atop Tibidabo, a mountain overlooking Barcelona. Chris and Zoey saw that the “plane” where they were to meet was Tibidabo’s centerpiece ride—Barri de l’Avio, an oversized, red biplane replica suspended by a crane that rotated to give passengers panoramic views of the city.
At 4:00 p.m., one hour early, they took a taxi to the boarding spot for the tram that went halfway up the steep hillside to Tibidabo. The second half of the trip up the mountain would be by funicular.
“If something goes wrong, how would we get out of there?” Zoey asked, squinting in the late-afternoon sun at the park’s Ferris wheel high above them.
“I’ve been studying the maps and I don’t see a good way up or down the mountain other than the funicular,” Chris said. “You couldn’t pick a better place for a trap.”
“Should we do this?”
“I don’t see what alternative we have if we’re going to find Sarah. You could stay down here and wait for me.”
“No way,” Zoey said, shaking her head. “The message was addressed to both of us. If they don’t see both of us there, they might think something’s wrong.”
Chris and Zoey paid the fare and boarded the blue tram, or Tramvia Blau, a vintage trolley car that was filled with tourists from Sweden who were all carrying the same guidebook like a hymnal. Halfway up the mountain, they changed over to the blue and gold funicular car.
When they reached the peak, the views of the city, which were the park’s primary attraction, were obscured by clouds. Nevertheless, they could still see Barcelona stretched out before them to the Mediterranean. The main thoroughfares of the city all ran down to the sea at regular intervals, as if the tines of a giant rake had dug even grooves through the houses and buildings.
The amusement park was nearly empty—the result of winter hours and winter weather. Chris and Zoey left the funicular station and walked the redbrick path that circled the park, searching the crowd for the hackers or Sarah. Chris didn’t know what the hackers looked like, but he figured that they should be distinguishable from the tourists. A few of the Swedes stood at the railing, looking out at the city below and eating popcorn. On the crest of the hill just outside the park was The Church of the Sacred Heart, crowned by a towering statute of Jesus with arms outstretched.
After completing the circle of the mountaintop park, Chris said, “I don’t think they’re here yet. Either that or they’ve found a place to hide.”
“What now?” Zoey asked.
“Let’s stake out a place over there,” he said, pointing at some iron tables near a concession stand. “There’s only one way up the mountain and that’s the funicular. If they really aren’t here yet, then we can just watch and check out everyone who arrives. We’re far enough away that they won’t notice us immediately.”
They ordered Cokes and patatas fritas and sat down at one of the tables. The late-afternoon crowds were so sparse that it was easy to examine each visitor as they disembarked.
The first car held a Japanese couple. “What do you think?” Chris asked. “There’s no reason why Enigma and Ripley couldn’t be Japanese, right? Eddie Reiser did say they were marketing Japanese porn.”
“Too normal-looking,” Zoey said.
“Agreed.”
They waited for the next funicular car to arrive.
Zoey dropped a fry into the grease-stained cardboard basket as she watched a couple stroll past, a distinguished-looking older man with a much younger woman, a knockout.
“I don’t think that’s his daughter,” Zoey said. “Reminds me of someone I know.”
“You just can’t let it go, can you?”
“You and Sarah, who’s—what?—about fifteen years younger. I’m not saying it’s wrong, it just must be—”
“Challenging,” Chris said.
“Okay … I’ll bet,” Zoey said. After a pause, she added, “You ever been married?”
“Yes.”
“Divorced?�
�
“No, she died. Breast cancer.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
The awkward silence was broken by the rumbling of another funicular car pulling into the station. Two men emerged who appeared to be American tourists. One was wearing a Mets cap, T-shirt, jeans, and a fanny pack. The other was wearing aviator sunglasses with yellow lenses, an untucked western-style shirt, black jeans, and sneakers. Both had muscular builds and short, neatly groomed hair.
“What do you think?” Zoey asked.
“I don’t know who they are, but I think they’re here for us.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I’d rather not guess wrong on this one. The one in the Mets cap could have a gun in his fanny pack. The other guy could be wearing his shirt out to get at a gun that’s tucked behind his back.”
“What should we do?”
“Let’s get up slowly and walk around behind this concession stand. Keep your soda. It’ll make you look normal.”
They watched the two men from around the corner of the concession stand. The pair tried to act nonchalant, but they were clearly surveying the park, and not just to take in the sights.
“Do you think they’re Enigma and Ripley?”
“Maybe, but Ripley seemed to be a woman, so I don’t think so.”
The two men split up, each setting off in a different direction around the park. Sunglasses headed toward Chris and Zoey.
They crouched behind the concession stand and watched him approach. His hand brushed the small of his back as if to confirm that something was in place there.
“Look,” Zoey said. “I think that’s a gun.”
“Probably,” Chris said. “They do look like undercover cops, don’t they?”
Sunglasses stopped at a souvenir booth selling miniature replicas of Barri de l’Avio and showed a couple of photos to the vendor, who shook his head. He moved on to the next booth, the concession stand where they had purchased their sodas and fries. Once again, the man showed the photos. This time, the teenager behind the counter nodded and pointed to where Chris and Zoey had been sitting moments before.
Suddenly, Chris felt like he had just touched an ungrounded wire—queasy, paralyzed, and with a growing sense that something was very wrong. He was certain now that the two men were agents of some sort and they weren’t there looking for Enigma and Ripley—they were looking for him and Zoey.
“Get back,” he said, pressing Zoey further behind the concession stand. Chris took Zoey’s arm and started moving them quietly away from Sunglasses, down the walking path that ran behind the rides and concession stands and alongside the chain-link fence that bounded the perimeter of the park.
“What’s going on?” Zoey asked in an alarmed stage whisper.
“Those two are law enforcement and they’re looking for us,” Chris said. “Somehow, they knew we were going to be here.” They hurried down the path, putting some distance between themselves and Sunglasses.
But then they saw Mets Cap approaching down the main walkway from the opposite direction, completing his circle of the park. He hadn’t spotted them yet.
The park was too small to afford them many places to hide. It would only be a matter of minutes before they were captured. They were standing near the entrance to the Ferris wheel and there was no line, so Chris took Zoey by the hand and led her past the attendant into a bright blue bucket with a covering that looked like a giant bottle cap.
“What are you doing?” Zoey said, pulling away.
“I need a few minutes to sort this out,” Chris said. “We can’t stay where we are.”
Zoey stopped resisting and followed Chris’s lead. The attendant slammed the door of the car shut. Seconds later, the car lurched forward and upward into space, rocking back and forth until it stabilized.
“If they’re agents, how did they know we would be here?” Zoey asked.
“I don’t know, but I think I know how I can find out.” Chris pulled out his smartphone and dialed Michael Hazlitt.
“Bruen,” Hazlitt said, reading the caller ID. He sounded surprised.
“I’d like you to tell me what’s going on,” Chris said. “I’m not going to lie to you. We’re in Barcelona now. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“There are two men here looking for us. What are they, FBI agents?”
“Probably CIA. They might also be Interpol or Homeland Security. But, whoever they are, you should just turn yourselves in. End this thing.”
Chris felt that he and Hazlitt were having two very different conversations. “What thing? End what thing?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line as Hazlitt seemed to be weighing how much to say. “We found the files on your computer.”
“What files?”
Hazlitt snorted. “Play it that way if you like, but the evidence is clear.”
“Evidence of what?”
“This is starting to get a little insulting. We know you’re collaborating with those hackers.”
The Ferris wheel car had reached the apogee of its orbit. A gust of wind hit, and the car tilted back and forth, the entire city of Barcelona lurching and spinning beneath them. Chris had the disorienting sensation that he was hurtling through space.
“I don’t know what’s in those files, but I didn’t put them there,” Chris said. “Someone is framing me.”
“Okay, then why don’t you turn yourself in and you can explain that to us. Don’t make us chase you. This will not end well if you make us chase you.”
“I have to go,” Chris said, hanging up.
Zoey had been listening intently to the conversation. “We’re in real trouble, aren’t we?”
Chris nodded. “Give me your cell phone,” he said.
She handed him her phone. Chris opened up the back and removed the SIM card. Then he wound up and hurled the phone over the park’s fence and onto the hillside of Tibidabo.
“Hey, what the hell?”
“They’re going to try to track us using the GPS in our phones,” Chris said as he followed the same procedure with his own cell phone.
The Ferris wheel was on its way down now. This was the most dangerous part of the ride. When the cars were in the air, it was impossible to see who was inside but as they descended, the agents would be able to spot them if they were looking.
Luckily, the agents were not waiting for them when the ground came into view. The attendant opened the door to the car and they bolted out. Chris looked for a way out of the amusement park that wouldn’t be watched by the agents. There was a chain-link fence that marked the park’s border. It was only about eight feet tall, with no barbed wire or other impediments on top. Several metal trash cans were lined against the fence.
“Climb up on the cans and go over the fence,” Chris said.
Zoey didn’t need any encouragement. She hopped on top of an aluminum garbage can. With the can to boost her up, it was an easy climb. Her shirtsleeve caught on the top of fence, and she struggled to pull herself over.
Chris jumped up and shoved Zoey’s leg over, sending her toppling to the ground.
Now it was Chris’s turn. He climbed onto one of the trash cans, but the lid buckled under his weight, putting him out of reach of the top of the fence. Chris looked back and saw Sunglasses about a hundred yards away, standing in the middle of the main walkway. He didn’t seem to have spotted them yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.
Chris struggled out of the garbage can, banging his knee hard on the rim. The next trash can did not buckle, and he was quickly over the fence, throwing himself to the other side and landing on his hands and knees. When he looked back through the fence, he saw that the two men were now running toward them, but they were still about fifty yards back. Chris started to reach for the gun in his computer bag but then thought better of it.
Zoey also saw them coming. She helped Chris to his feet and they ran through tall grass and into a forest of ash
trees. By the time the two men reached the fence, Chris and Zoey were already far down the slope. The agents now had two choices. They could climb the fence and pursue them down the mountainside on foot, or they could take the funicular halfway down the mountain and try to intercept them. When the agents walked away from the fence, Chris knew they had chosen the latter approach.
Zoey stopped and bent over with her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths.
“We have to keep going,” Chris said, gasping himself. They staggered down the hillside as the rocky soil crumbled beneath their feet.
CHAPTER 19
Zoey tripped and scraped her knee. Blood seeped through the rip in her jeans. She was quickly up on her feet again, and she stumbled awkwardly down the steep slope. There was no point in asking her if she needed to stop. There was no stopping.
“Over here,” Chris said. “Let’s move away from the tracks.”
They left the rocky terrain and entered a copse of pale, barren trees. Branches whipped at them. Sweat burned in the cuts and scratches on Chris’s face. The setting sun, which had fallen below the clouds, was the color of a blood orange. Zoey was soon pulling ahead of him, and Chris found it difficult to keep up. At first he thought that it was just because she was younger. Then he remembered that he was still weakened from the cancer therapy.
They heard the funicular rumbling behind them. It arrived at the station, which was roughly parallel to them, and about three hundred yards distant. Then it all became a sort of dangerous geometry problem. The two agents climbed over the fence at the funicular station and spotted them in the distance.
One of the agents yelled to them, his American voice coming faintly but clearly across the hillside. “CIA! Stop right there!”
Chris and Zoey hunched lower but kept moving. There wasn’t much cover on the rocky ground now. Sunglasses and Mets Cap moved in an awkward gait on the treacherous footing, angling to complete the third side of the isosceles triangle and intercept them before they reached the city streets. The agents would probably prefer to take them alive. But because they were believed to be terrorists planning an attack on a major city, they might also be prepared to shoot to kill if it came to that.
