Tom Clancy Firing Point
Page 7
“Her name is Noèlia Aleixandri. She’s a member of Brigada Catalan. Or was. She was killed in the blast. But this confirms who was behind the bombing.”
“Too bad she’s dead. She could have given you more information. Strange that she got caught in the blast.”
“New terror groups always go through a learning phase when they become violent. Perhaps she accidentally detonated it.”
“She was on a Bluetooth the whole time she was there. Maybe you can find out who she was talking to.”
“There was no phone on her person.”
“What about the Bluetooth?”
Brossa checked the notes on her phone. “No Bluetooth, either.”
“I know I saw the Bluetooth, and I know she was talking to someone.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, trying to keep his temper in check. He knew what he saw. Was she jerking his chain? Or were these Spanish police just careless idiots who couldn’t run an evidence locker?
Or . . . did someone take them?
“Too bad.” Brossa flashed an indulgent smile. “Without that phone, we can’t know who was on the other end, can we?”
“No, I guess not.” Jack took another sip of coffee, his mind searching for answers. He suddenly remembered the guy with the crooked nose outside in the street, also on a Bluetooth.
A coincidence, probably.
Jack held up the photo. “Is this my copy to keep?”
“Of course. I am cooperating with you, yes?”
Not really. Jack pocketed the photo. “Thanks.”
* * *
—
“Have you thought about tracking her movements over the last few days?” Jack asked. “It might lead you to where she bought the phone, and then you can access her account and find out who she was talking to.”
“Track her how?”
“Surely you guys have access to the city’s traffic cameras.”
“Yes, of course. But I would have to convince my superior that a phone really did exist. Then he would have to convince somebody in the Barcelona traffic department to release the tapes. But then we’d have to get a court warrant to do so since Ms. Aleixandri hasn’t been charged with a crime and such surveillance is considered a violation of personal privacy.”
Jack took a sip of coffee to swallow his frustration. “How long would all of that take?”
Brossa snorted, a kind of laugh. “This is España—and, worse, Barcelona. My department represents the national government. We’re already in a turf war with the local authorities. Imagine if a federal agent from Washington, D.C., asked for cooperation from a deputy sheriff in Alabama on the brink of your civil war.”
Interesting reference, Jack thought. “So, never, I take it?”
Brossa shrugged as she put her cup back down. “No, not never. But at least a week, most likely two.”
“Can’t you convince them that this is urgent?”
She shook her head. “In my country, two weeks is urgent.”
Jack glanced up at the painted tin-paneled ceiling, trying to come up with a different tack. In a couple of weeks, a case like this would turn ice cold. The only chance of catching whoever did this was to grab them by the short hairs now, and preferably yesterday.
“Have you had a chance to go over the CCTV footage from inside the restaurant?”
Brossa’s face narrowed. “How do you know about the CCTV tapes?”
“I have eyes, don’t I? There were three cameras, each in one of the ceiling corners of the dining area. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at them myself. Maybe I’ll recognize somebody.”
“I didn’t know financial analysts were so . . . observant.”
“Don’t blame me. My mother is an eye surgeon.”
Brossa smiled. “Tell me about your family.”
He couldn’t risk being too specific even if it was just a friendly question, which he doubted. “I have one older sister who’s a doctor like my mom, and two younger siblings both still in high school. They’re all brainiacs. I’m pretty sure I was adopted.”
“You have a big family. And your father? Is he still alive?”
By leaving his dad out, he only made him more obvious, Jack realized. Dumb mistake. “Oh, yeah. He and Mom are happily married. He was a history professor.”
“Which is why you love history, yes?”
“Probably.”
“He is retired?”
“No, he went to work for the government. He’s kind of a bureaucrat. How about your family?”
“I am an only child. My mother died in a car wreck ten years ago.” Her eyes reflexively turned toward the smartphone on her desk.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine getting a phone call like that.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I’m a people watcher.”
Brossa’s mouth pursed. She clearly didn’t like that answer. She took a sip of coffee.
“Yes, it was a terrible phone call. The worst. I was very close to my mother. But such is life, yes? We are born to die. The goal is to live well while we can, don’t you agree?”
“I do. And your father?”
“He was a teacher, too, like your father. He taught English for twenty years.”
“That’s why your English is so good. Perfect, actually.”
“Thank you. I try.”
“He is still with you, I hope.”
“Yes, thank God. He was a great teacher and a great father. I am very lucky.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you keep referring to him in the past tense?”
Brossa’s eyes suddenly clouded. She turned in her chair, partly hiding her face as she wiped the corner of her eye with her fingers.
Jack stared at his hands, giving her a moment. She took a deep breath and faced him again, snatching a napkin from the coffee tray.
“My father taught English for twenty years, though it was his third language, and worked as a translator for the government for ten years prior to that. But about a year ago, he just stopped speaking it. Whether he understands and pretends not to, I’m not sure. I don’t think so. One time, I had a friend at the office call him in English and tell him that his daughter had been rushed to the hospital and that he needed to come see her. You know, a little test? But my father kept repeating in Català that he didn’t understand what my friend was saying. He said over and over, ‘I don’t speak English.’ My friend believed him. The neurologist told me this is possible for a man in my father’s condition. Demència.”
“That must be hard on a linguist to lose a language like that.”
Brossa sat up, willing herself to stop the theatrics, wiping her proud, upturned nose with the napkin.
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem frustrated when he hears it and doesn’t understand it. And he doesn’t try to speak it at all. It’s almost as if he decided to BleachBit that part of his brain. He is a proud Catalonian man, and Català is his first language, his heart language. It’s who he most authentically is. Perhaps the death of English in his brain is just a function of his changing biochemistry, or perhaps he is merely retreating into what is most familiar and comfortable to him. Or perhaps it is a little of both.”
“Is his situation getting worse?”
She nodded, her eyes clouding again.
“I’m so sorry.” And that’s why you dread your phone calls now.
“Finding someone to care for him during the day while I’m at work is difficult. He’s becoming increasingly stubborn. I’m always afraid the next call will tell me something terrible has happened to him.”
“No family to help out?”
“He has a sister but she lives in Australia with her family, and has no wish to take him in. His brother is deceased.”
“It must be hard.”
“Both equally important.”
“So you understand?” She seemed surprised.
Jack did understand. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to have to choose between serving his father or serving his country. He was lucky that the two were so perfectly aligned in his life.
“My dad says that loyalty is destiny. Who and what we love determines the shape of our lives. But like the Man said, you can’t serve two masters.” He was thinking about that a lot these days.
“You can, but just not well, I’m afraid.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Jack was eager to push on, but she was still clearly decompressing. When she gathered herself together, she stood and refilled their coffee cups, signaling that she was back on track.
“Anything else we need to talk about, Jack?”
Jack flashed his best smile. “Well, since you ask, I was wondering when you were going to let me see the CCTV tapes.”
Brossa nearly spit coffee out of her nose as she giggled.
“I don’t think that is going to be possible.”
“Why not? Maybe I can be of some use. Like you said, I’m observant.”
“I am afraid you cannot see them. It’s official business.”
“But I was there, and I was nearly killed. Don’t I have a right to see them?”
“It is my job to find the bombers, not yours. Unless you think you can do my job for me?”
“Me? No, not at all. I’m sorry if that’s what you think I meant. I just genuinely want to help. Anything I can do to help find Renée’s killers.”
“We found one already, Aleixandri. We will find the rest, I assure you.”
He heard the edge in her voice. He decided to back off and try to find another way in.
Brossa beat him to the punch.
“Ms. Moore was a beautiful girl.”
“Very. And even smarter.”
“And you knew her in college?”
“Yes. We were friends.”
“A girl that smart and beautiful. You were intimate with her?”
He didn’t see that one coming.
“We were . . . close, for a while.”
“And you still have affection for her. Is that why you are so determined to find her killers?”
“Yes. Anything wrong with that?”
“Vale. I can understand that. But you must let me do my job.”
“Understood. Speaking of which, did you find out any information on this Sammler guy?”
“Interesting you should ask. Yes, I can share that with you.”
Brossa pulled out her phone. She opened her e-mail and read from it.
“In the last five days, there have been three Sammlers in España. One is an American woman named Martha Sammler. She arrived in Madrid two days ago on a Rick Steves’ tour and was in Toledo yesterday. She was never in the vicinity.
“Next, John Sammler, a Canadian citizen, was in Barcelona yesterday morning. Today he is in Tunis.” She looked up from her phone. “And he is an eleven-year-old traveling with his maternal grandmother, Maria Busquets.”
“And the third?”
“Vale, that one is interesting. Karl Sammler, a German businessman from Düsseldorf. He was traveling in Spain but we don’t have any records of his travel destinations. We cannot be sure if he was in Barcelona until we speak with him. He is back in Germany now, and my office in Madrid is sending an agent to speak with him this afternoon.”
“You’ll keep me informed?”
“If it is related to the case.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m curious, Jack. You said you came to Spain to study the Spanish Civil War. What did you learn?”
“Do you want the long answer or the short one?”
“How about both?”
12
Jack leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap like a college professor, a gesture he’d accidentally picked up from his dad.
“Okay, the shortest version is this: Most politicians suck.”
Brossa snort-laughed again. “Hard to argue with that.”
“The less-short version reminds me of a line in Antony Beevor’s book The Battle for Spain.”
“Yes, I know it. It was a huge bestseller here.”
“He said the Spanish Civil War was the only war in which the losers got to write the history, and he’s right. In the West, we saw that war as purely good versus evil—freedom-loving Republicans fighting a hopeless war against Franco’s unbeatable Fascists. A real David versus Goliath story. If Americans know anything about that war it’s based on the book or the movie For Whom the Bell Tolls. Do you know it?”
“Hemingway. Sens dubte”—Without a doubt. “I love it. It is both terribly romantic and tragic, which is very Spanish.”
“It wasn’t an accident Gary Cooper got cast for that film. He’s an actor who played a lot of American cowboys. The whole movie plays like a western. We Americans love underdogs. The Republicans play the role of the helpless peasants fighting shoulder to shoulder with the International Brigades for democracy. They’re up against Franco’s Fascist war machine backed by Hitler’s Condor Legion and Mussolini’s Blackshirts.”
“Which was true.”
“Which was true, but not the whole truth. The Republicans fought the Fascists, yes, but they were also murdering each other. The Spanish Stalinists were the worst. Their goal was to advance the interests of the Soviet Union, not Spain, and they imprisoned and killed the Spanish communists and anarchists who actually wanted a real socialist revolution here.”
“Crimes were committed by both sides, though far worse by the Fascists.”
“Agreed. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. It’s the contradictions of that war that tell me the most about it.”
“Which contradictions?”
“Franco claimed to be fighting for Catholicism but his crack troops were Riffian Muslims. He also claimed to be fighting for Spanish nationalism but his military campaign relied heavily on German and Italian troops and arms to win.
“At the same time, the Republican loyalists claimed to be fighting for freedom and democracy against Fascism while they were murdering priests and nuns, burning churches, and slaughtering their political opponents. Worse, all of their material support came from Stalin, the most murderous tyrant in modern European history.”
“I’m impressed. You know a lot about our history. It was a very difficult and confusing time for us. In my own family, one side fought for the Republic, and the other side fought for Franco. I even had a grandfather who fought with the División Azul in Leningrad for Hitler—but he was no Nazi and no Fascist. He was just a poor man who couldn’t find any other way to feed his empty stomach. He used to joke how expensive the terrible German rations were.”
“The Germans made him pay for his rations?”
“No, the Russians did. He lost his left eye to shrapnel, and three fingers of his right hand to frostbite.” She laughed. “That never stopped him from sleeping with many beautiful women.”
“The bottom line for me is that it seems like a lot of what’s going on in Barcelona right now is still connected to the civil war.”
Brossa nodded. “Yes, it is. The independence issue was important for us before la guerra and it was never fully resolved, and really, neither was the war itself. Do you know that there are still two hundred thousand Spaniards lying in unmarked graves from the civil war? Can you imagine such a thing in civilized Europe?”
“Yeah, I can.”
Jack’s mind drifted back again to the slaughter of the Yugoslavian civil wars—and every other holocaust that had s
wept the continent since the Thirty Years’ War. “Civilized Europe has been a slaughterhouse since before they invented the word Europe. The reason Europeans have dominated the globe for the last five centuries is because they have a particular genius for organized violence.”
“You sound like a history professor. I imagine just like your father.”
Jack wasn’t sure what to do with that comment, so he ignored it.
“The Spanish Civil War reminded me that history repeats itself.”
“In what way?”
“When the people believe the justice system is no longer just, that the politicians are above the laws they make, that the government serves the interests of the ruling class instead of the middle and working classes; and when the history and culture and language of the people are denigrated and denied—these are the conditions that make a society ripe for civil war.”
“You have just described the feelings of millions of Catalonians,” Brossa said as she took her last sip of coffee.
“Not just here. It’s a movement sweeping all over the world. And I suspect it might even change the world, sooner rather than later.”
“For better or for worse?”
“The jury’s still out on that one.”
Brossa’s phone vibrated. A voicemail. She checked it, frowning.
Worried, Jack was certain. Something personal.
“Please, take it,” he said.
“Excuse me.”
She listened to the message. Whatever she was hearing—a woman’s anxious voice was all Jack could make out—darkened Brossa’s face. She deleted the message.
“Everything okay?”
“I hate cell phones.” She tossed it on the table like it was a dirty diaper. She began rubbing her forehead, stressed, gathering her thoughts.
“Maybe I should go.” Jack stood.
“Yes, thank you.” Brossa stood, too. “I will call you when I learn of anything. When are you leaving for home?”
“Not until I’m satisfied Renée got her justice.”
Brossa reached for her shoulder holster and slipped it on. She gave him a pitying look.
“This is España, Jack. You might be here for a long while.”