by Tom Abrahams
“Wait,” he told her. “I have a break in a few minutes. We’ll make the exchange over there.” That was a half hour ago.
Obtaining what she needed would have been easier had she been able to leave the airport. Her layover was too short. So she’d messaged ahead to her friend, telling him what she needed and when she needed it.
He’d promised to deliver it to her at the airport. His shift at the bank, doling out cash and exchanging Turkish lira for euros and US dollars was perfectly timed with her flights.
She was concerned that the delay was because he couldn’t obtain what she’d asked for. It was not an easy find. She’d given him only a few hours, emailing him from her laptop on board the flight. He’d always been reliable, which was why she’d asked him to perform the near impossible. If anyone could do it, it was him. He was one of the few men on Earth with whom she’d spent any time in bed and hadn’t killed.
Finally, when she was about to give up, he approached her. His hands were in his pockets, his head down.
“Aydin,” she said, standing to greet him. “You needn’t look guilty.” She looked into his eyes, her stare telling him to relax. She kissed him on both cheeks, lingering a moment longer than customary.
“Mariposa,” he said, addressing her by a name few knew. “Let’s walk,” he said after returning her kisses. “There are some places hidden from cameras.” He took her hand and gently led her along the concourse.
“My gate is in the other direction, Aydin,” she said. “I’m about to miss my flight. You kept me waiting.”
“My coworker was late, and I could not close the exchange. Many apologies. We must walk this way.” He quickened his pace, tugging her along.
“You have what I need?” she asked, adjusting her fingers to his grip.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes forward, darting from side to side as he hurried. “I have it. I found it near Taksim Square. Not difficult.”
“And you altered it to match my specifications?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were very specific, Mariposa.”
Aydin stopped at a magazine stand and pulled the assassin in with him. He took her to the far corner of the shop and turned to face her.
“This is good here,” he said. “No cameras.”
“I’m not sure why we needed the cloak-and-dagger game, Aydin.” She looked over her shoulder at the store clerk, who was preoccupied with a paying customer.
“There are eyes everywhere,” he said. “Everywhere.”
“Fine.” She sighed. “Let me see it.”
Aydin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a manila envelope. He opened the flap and slid the contents into the assassin’s hand. She looked at her hand and smiled.
“Perfect, Aydin.”
“I’m pleased it is okay.” He exhaled. “I am happy to please you.”
“The color is perfect,” she said. “The size and shape look good. Even the imprint is exact. I’m impressed you did this so quickly.”
Aydin smiled. He handed the assassin the envelope and she returned the contents to it.
“You have a plane to catch,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Yes,” she said and took his hand, leading him out of the store. “I cannot miss my flight.”
They walked hurriedly through the concourse until they reached her gate, where the attendant was announcing the final boarding call.
“Teşekkür ederim,” said the assassin. She placed her hand on the back of Aydin’s head and gently tugged on the thick black curls, pulling his face to hers. She kissed him firmly on the lips and then dragged her hand across his cheek. She remembered the taste of him and she licked her lips.
“You are welcome, Mariposa.” he said, dazed by the unexpected affection. “Very welcome.”
“You’ll find your payment in the usual place,” she said and left him to board the plane.
Aydin waited until she handed her ticket and passport to the agent before disappearing into the jet bridge. He slipped his hands into his pockets and walked back to the bank.
CHAPTER 33
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
“I don’t get it either,” said Goodman. He led Matti to the lobby of the Eurostars Grand Marina Hotel. “I wouldn’t worry about it though. She suggested you take a run or go swimming. Whatever it is you want to do. Just be back for the dinner.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugged, following Goodman into the hotel’s large lobby and flashing her White House badge to the security guard manning the door. “I’m not offended. It gives me some time to decompress.”
“Be careful if you head out,” Goodman cautioned, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There was a woman killed in the hotel.”
“I was in that briefing, Brandon.” Matti stopped walking just beyond the entrance. “Why are you reminding me?”
“I got more intelligence right before we landed.” Goodman stepped closer to Matti. “They have a good picture of the guy from the surveillance cameras.”
“And?” Matti’s eyes scanned the lobby as if it would provide any clues.
“He’s a beast.” Goodman’s eyes widened. He held up his phone, revealing a still frame of the surveillance video. “And even if it was a domestic, I wouldn’t want to run into him.”
Matti looked at the phone and then grabbed it from Goodman. She studied the image, not trusting what she saw.
The man on the screen, bald and thick-necked, looked remarkably like the unnamed man in Sir Spencer’s NSA file. If it wasn’t the same man, it was his twin.
“What?” Goodman reached for his phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh…nothing.” Matti cleared her throat and handed Goodman his phone. “He’s…I mean…you’re right. He’s a beast.”
“Like I said,” he repeated, “be careful. You just never know.”
“Thanks, Brandon.” She smiled and grabbed her luggage. “I will. I’m gonna head to my room.”
“I’ll see you at dinner.”
Matti got her key from the front desk and hurried to her room. She left her luggage by the door and pulled out her laptop, connecting to the provided Ethernet cable.
She initiated her safety protocols and opened her dummy email account. Before checking the updated, unsent message, she added to it.
I need you to call me ASAP. Secure line. You have the number.
She saved the email and then reopened it to look at the additional information. She’d asked about Dr. Miguel Chapa, previous surveillance on Sir Spencer, and whether or not she was safe. The answers were concise and surprisingly blunt. The language was un-NSA-like.
Chapa, as best we can tell, is the connection between your boss and Sir Spencer. The Jacksons needed to sell the medical practice or face losing millions. Chapa wanted to buy it but didn’t have the cash. Sir Spencer came to the rescue in exchange for access. He got his claws into Jackson. End of story.
Sir Spencer was on our radar for years. He is a political mercenary who has dark intentions. He also has friends who tie our hands. We’ve known about his connection to Jackson, the Russian mob, Iran, the Chinese, but can’t do much. We gather information. Sometimes it gets passed along. Sometimes it gets buried. To that end, you are not safe. Be careful.
Matti read the message three times, trying to grasp it. The president of the United States was beholden to a known terrorist. There was evidence of it and nobody cared. Or better yet, nobody dared challenge it. Matti jumped in her chair when her phone rang.
She encrypted the call and answered it.
“Matti”—it was her former supervisor at the NSA—“I got your message.”
“Something big is happening.”
“It always is.”
“You sent me a file about Sir Spencer and his known associates. One of them was an UNSUB, identified only by a photograph. Rome. A few years ago.”
“I’m pulling it up,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“He’s here in Barcelona.”
&
nbsp; “How do you know that?”
“I just saw a surveillance photo of him,” she explained. “He’s wanted for killing a woman in the hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“Our hotel. The one attached to the World Trade Center.”
“Where the G12 is happening?”
“Yes,” Matti answered. “What if this is somehow connected to the Capitol? What if this guy, Sir Spencer, and the president are in on something together?”
“Matti—” he sighed “—those are dangerous questions. I’ve survived as long as I have in this business because I don’t ask dangerous questions.”
“You told me I’m already in danger,” she countered. “And you’re already helping me.”
“Yes,” he answered, “we think there could be something on the horizon. There’s a threat.”
“And you’re not doing anything?”
“That’s not my call, Matti. It’s never been my call. Do you really believe our intelligence agencies are as inept as the 9/11 Commission had you believe? Do you really think we’d have put you to work in the Capitol conspiracy if we didn’t already know the endgame?”
“So you let it happen?”
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
“Apparently you don’t ever go far enough,” Matti snapped. “What’s at stake here? Tell me what is about to happen. If nobody else is going to stop it, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“What?”
“You got closer than any of us thought you would nine months ago.”
“W-w-wait,” Matti stuttered. “What are you saying?”
“Matti”—his voice softened, employing a hint of sympathy—“how clear do I need to be?”
“Crystal.”
“We knew about Pearl Harbor. We knew about Kennedy. We knew about 9/11. We knew about the Capitol. We know about Barcelona. But nobody is going to stop it.”
Matti’s hand shook as it held the phone to her ear. Things she suspected, worried about, lost sleep over, were all true.
“I’m telling you this because you, more than anyone, deserve to know the truth about power,” he said. “And frankly, it doesn’t matter how much I reveal about that truth, because it’s all publicly dismissed as conspiracy theory. Always has been, always will be.”
“Why are you helping me, then?” Matti asked. “Why tell me any of this if it doesn’t matter?”
“Because I like you. And deep down, I hope you can stop it in time. I really do.”
“Then tell me what’s about to happen,” she said. “Give me a clue about what you know.”
“Look, when I say we, I don’t mean me. Don’t go thinking I’m at the top of the food chain. I’m nowhere near it. I only know what I know because of what my people learn while they’re eavesdropping. So I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen. I just know there’s chatter that something will.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“You’re complicit.”
“Am I?
“You know about these plots, about people’s lives being in danger, and you do nothing.”
“I don’t ‘do nothing’,” he snapped. “I do my job. I oversee the collection of intelligence. I make sure that intelligence is analyzed and passed along. I protect my country’s interests.”
“That’s a cop-out.” Matti flexed her left hand. It was trembling. Her pulse quickened and her breathing was shallow.
“I don’t agree. I take orders just like any soldier. I don’t question them. I’m no different than the drone pilot sitting in some dark office building in Texas who drops hellfire on unsuspecting villages. I’m no different than the special operations team that extracts a high-value target and kills everyone else around him. I do what I’m told.”
“You’re a patriot.”
“Damn right, Harrold. Every bit as much as Washington and Adams. ”
“Every bit as much as Felicia Jackson and Sir Spencer Thomas.”
“Not fair. We do what we do to save lives to protect our way of life. And honestly, since the PATRIOT Act was gutted, we can’t do as much protecting as we used to do.”
“Then tell me why it’s happening. Why the Capitol? Why here?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, Matti Harrold. You’re a puzzle solver. Figure it out.”
Matti hung up more confused than ever. She’d learned the world was made of gray. There were no blacks and whites, no absolutes. Nobody was entirely benevolent, nobody wholly evil.
This was another level of haze and indistinction. The man she’d come to trust in the aftermath of the Capitol’s destruction admitted he was a tiny cog in the vast machine that had brought down the nation’s iconic symbol.
He knew something was coming, had always known something was coming, but was too much of a company man to see the immorality of what he was enabling. How many were there like him roaming the halls of government, doing their duty in the name of honor and sacrifice?
Matti was sweating. She walked to the thermostat and turned down the temperature. The fan kicked on and a cool breeze blew from a ceiling vent above her head. She couldn’t stand still. She paced back and forth, flexing her hands. Finally, she reached into her bag and pulled out a blue pill. She walked the few steps to the bathroom and stuck her head under the faucet to down the medicine.
Without the pill, she wouldn’t be able to focus. She needed to focus. And, she knew, she had to find the thick-necked bald man. He had something to do with what was coming. She was certain of it.
*
Fernando Barçes felt the pain before he fully awoke. When he opened his eyes, he had trouble focusing. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of what he saw hovering above him.
“És això un somni?”
“It’s not a dream, viejo,” said the haloed shadow of a head above him.
“Estic morta?” His lips were tacky, sticking together from lack of moisture.
“You’re not dead.”
“Ets el diable?” Barçes could feel the evil surrounding him, burning inside his stomach.
“Ha!” The thick-necked man laughed, moving such that his angular profile was silhouetted against the bright light above him. “Perhaps I am the devil. But remember, viejo, the devil was once an angel, no?”
Barçes didn’t like being called an old man, but he didn’t have the strength to protest. His back ached, his throat was swollen, and his stomach was on fire.
“Qui és vostè?” he asked, his eyes still batting back the intense overhead light. He tried moving his arms and realized he couldn’t. His legs were immobile too. He struggled against the restraints for an exhaustive moment before giving up. “Per què ets aquí?”
“I am Jon Custos,” said the shadow, still speaking Spanish. “And I am here to deliver you.”
There was an accent in the man’s voice Barçes couldn’t place. He knew the man wasn’t a Spaniard.
“You are an important man, viejo,” Custos said. “I have chosen you. It is a great honor.”
Barçes knew the words had different meaning to the broad-shouldered giant than they did to him: Important. Chosen. Great honor.
“This world is fractured,” counseled Custos. “There are those who are wealthy and those who are impoverished. Essentially none stand in the wide chasm between the two. You, Fernando Barçes, have worked hard your whole life, yes?”
The old man managed a faint nod, if only to appease the intruder. His eyes were adjusting to the light, and he kept them open.
“Here you are”—Custos spread his arms wide—“living in a clean but tiny flat. Your prized possession is a television. The walls here are thin. The rooms are small.”
Barçes could see the man more clearly now. He was olive-skinned. His head was smooth and reflected the light above it. His lips were full. They were a sharp contrast to the tight, angular shape of his brow, cheeks, and jaw. Everything about the man exuded strength.
&
nbsp; “You are poor,” Custos observed. “While blocks away there are men and women of untold wealth. They don’t work as hard as you. They don’t sacrifice as you have.”
“I am a happy man,” explained Barçes. “I have no complaints.”
“Of course.” Custos laughed. “Why would you complain? What good what it do? None. It would do no good to complain. So you pretend you’re happy with your tiny television and your rabbit paella.”
Barçes tried to watch the man as he moved, but he couldn’t turn his head far enough. The man’s footsteps across the floor gave him a general idea of his position in the room. Barçes knew he was in his bedroom. He wasn’t on the bed, he was on the floor. As the realization crystalized, his memory flashed what he’d thought was a dream. The pain in his gut confirmed otherwise.
“In the new world, there won’t be poor,” the man preached from the corner of the bedroom. “There won’t be rich. There won’t be nations or borders or war. The new world will provide order from the chaos that exists now. One world. One people. It’s a marvelous thought, isn’t it? And to think, it will begin with you, viejo.”
Barçes assumed from the direction of the man’s voice he was standing by the window. Then the voice grew louder, and Barçes heard the footsteps as the man moved toward him again.
“Do you want to know?” asked Custos, kneeling beside Barçes, his full lips close to the old man’s ears. “Would you like me to tell you how you’ll be the spark that lights the fire?” he whispered in Spanish.
Barçes winced against a wave of pain searing through his stomach and lower back. His muscles tensed involuntarily as the wave crashed. His shoulders spasmed.
“I’ll give you something for the pain.” Custos placed his hand on Barçes’s forehead. “You’re sweating. That’s not good. I need you virile and strong.”
Barçes would have laughed at the suggestion if he could. He knew he’d never be virile or strong again. Even for a man his age, whatever this beast did to him, he was weakened beyond repair.
