Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Mike Maden

“Kill him.”

  * * *

  —

  Bykov was a good operator, not prone to panic. Like all of the others under Guzmán’s authority, he had previously served with a national military organization before selling his combat experience to the private sector.

  Guzmán was different. He’d been forcibly retired from the Guatemalan Army.

  He joined as early as he could to escape the grinding poverty of subsistence farming in the highlands. At first, Guzmán was mistaken for another dull campesino, but his incredible physical and intellectual skills stood out from his first days in uniform.

  A born hunter, he moved swiftly and silently through the bush, his bloodied machete an extension of his wiry arm. More important, his cunning mind seemed perfectly tuned for small-unit tactics.

  But it was his capacity for violence that made him truly stand out, and he was immediately accepted into the Guatemalan elite Special Forces unit, the Kaibiles. He not only raised and killed his companion puppy—a notorious initiation ritual in Kaibiles training—he gladly skinned and roasted it over an open flame, and devoured it in front of his approving officers. He daily proved himself a dedicated warrior in service of the unit, eager and able to carry out the most difficult orders in the government’s war with the cartels.

  Guzmán rose through the ranks, one of the Kaibiles’ most competent and trusted commanders, whose instincts on the battlefield were matched only by his steadfast devotion to the men under his command. These were the reasons why his unit was selected to fight in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. His troops dominated the field, and in true Kaibiles fashion, showed no mercy to their enemies, military or civilian. When charges were raised by international rights groups, the Palacio Verde—Guatemala’s White House—demanded Guzmán punish the enlisted men involved. He refused.

  For his devotion to his men, he was forcibly cashiered from the Army. But it was that devotion that compelled two dozen of his best fighters to follow him into private employment, even out here, to the very depths of the merciless sea. And it was that devotion that bound another seventy-odd operators to him today, including Bykov.

  Guzmán blew out a long breath, thinking. He had a reputation for completing his missions and fulfilling his contracts to the letter, a record he was proud of. A point of honor, in fact. This particular contract they were working on was the most difficult and dangerous of his career.

  It was also the most lucrative.

  He also had the reputation of protecting the lives of his men at whatever the cost in blood or treasure. It was Guzmán’s point of honor to always ensure that both mission and men were protected.

  When the two came into conflict? Normally, he sided with his men. But fulfilling this contract was especially important.

  “Bykov, I want you to step up your surveillance of this Ryan asshole. Take it as far as you need to without touching him and report back to me tomorrow. If necessary, we’ll snatch him and find out what he’s really up to before we let you toss him into the pot. ¿Me entiendes?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” Guzmán ended the call. He zoomed in on Ryan’s photo, studying the young face.

  If Ryan was responsible for van Delden’s death, he needed to suffer badly.

  17

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  Renée Moore had BEEN KILLED ONLY yesterday. Her murderers might have already fled the country. Time was their ally, his enemy. So Jack kept pushing. It was his only hope of getting justice for his friend.

  Jack rubbed his tired eyes. After hours of reviewing the CCTV images Gavin had secured, he still wasn’t sure what he had, if anything. No audio didn’t help, either.

  Part of the problem was that he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The story Brossa and the CNI had settled on was pretty straightforward. A bomb was clearly detonated inside L’avi and a member of the terrorist group known as Brigada Catalan, Noèlia Aleixandri—the Bluetooth Blonde—was inside at the time.

  All of that was verified on the digital file. The explosion itself destroyed the only working camera. Before the explosion, the blonde was standing at the bar not too far from him.

  Brigada Catalan’s motives were well known, thanks to its radical online manifesto. It had claimed credit for the attack in social media just minutes after the explosion. Jack could tell by Brossa’s demeanor that she felt the case was closed. In a way, he couldn’t blame her. Cops and case officers liked closing cases, and the easiest ones to close were the simplest ones. Occam’s razor and all of that.

  But his review of the digital files had raised a few questions he couldn’t quite answer.

  The Bluetooth Blonde arrived at L’avi approximately twenty-five minutes before Jack showed up. She first appeared in the camera as she entered through the only door and proceeded to the back, out of camera range. She returned about eight minutes later. Jack assumed that was a bathroom stop.

  What stood out was the small backpack she wore when she entered the restaurant. He hadn’t noticed it when he saw her yesterday and now he knew why. She came out of the restroom still wearing the backpack but set it at her feet when she stood at the bar.

  He enlarged the video image and replayed it several times. Owing to the poor image quality, he couldn’t tell if the backpack’s dimensions changed between the bathroom and the bar. He made himself a note to ask Brossa if they had determined the location of the bomb explosion. If the blast originated in the rear of the restaurant, especially the restroom, then Aleixandri would most likely be the bomber.

  But there was something about the woman. She didn’t strike Jack as a suicide bomber. Most suicide bombers were visibly nervous just before an attack, fearing either detection or death or both. That was one of the reasons groups like ISIS often used unsuspecting children or mentally impaired people for such missions, their suicide vests detonated remotely by their handlers.

  Aleixandri carried herself with confidence. If she had been nervous, she sure hid it well. In the moments before she died, she wasn’t shouting revolutionary slogans or behaving erratically in any way.

  No, the more he thought about it, he was certain Aleixandri wasn’t the bomber because of her behavior.

  All she was doing was watching Jack exit out of the door.

  And talking.

  That Bluetooth headset never left her ear. It looked like she was watching him exit the restaurant and telling someone about it.

  Why? And how was the explosion connected to him leaving?

  And if she wasn’t the bomber, who was?

  * * *

  —

  He could think of a couple of possibilities. It could have been someone else in L’avi. Since Brigada Catalan had taken responsibility, then it would have been another Brigada Catalan member. According to the newspapers, it wasn’t a large group. Wouldn’t all of the Brigada Catalan members know one another?

  Yeah, most likely, unless they were organized into smaller cells. But that was a long shot.

  If the bomber was in the restaurant and Aleixandri knew him, she either never saw him—or her, Jack corrected himself—or didn’t know he had a bomb. Otherwise, she would still be nervous about being detected or her impending death. Or both.

  Jack scoured the digital file several more times, searching for someone who looked like a bomber but nobody in range of the camera seemed to fit that profile.

  Damn.

  Even if the bomber wasn’t in the restaurant, the bomb was. And the bomb had to be detonated.

  How?

  A timer made sense if all you wanted to do was strike during the hours-long lunchtime to produce the maximum casualties.

  The only reason to use a remote detonator was for a targeted assassination.

  So the question really boiled down to this: Was a timer used for a general terror strike? Or a remote detonator to kill a specific target? />
  The latter seemed the least likely. A single bullet in the back of the head in a dark alley was far more efficient than an explosion in a crowded space.

  All Jack knew for certain was that his friend Renée had been killed in the blast and that she was a CIA agent who came to the restaurant to meet with somebody she didn’t know. She arrived at the restaurant, and within minutes of her arrival, the bomb exploded.

  If she was the target, then the attack succeeded. But why would Brigada Catalan want to kill her?

  The CIA hunted down global terrorist organizations like Brigada Catalan. But why would a CIA agent based in California come to Barcelona to investigate a new, small, and regional independence organization that had no history of actual violence until the explosion itself? That just didn’t add up.

  If the CIA wasn’t investigating Brigada Catalan, what other reason would Brigada Catalan have to kill Moore? He’d have to think about that one some more.

  The other thing that bothered him was the timing of the explosion. If Renée was the target, why not explode the bomb the moment she came in? Why wait several minutes?

  Jack replayed the entire tape all over again.

  Aleixandri was clearly talking to someone on the Bluetooth, though infrequently. She could have been talking to her mother about her health or the utility department disputing an electric bill or selling phone-sex services right there at the bar.

  But Jack’s gut told him she was talking to the person who detonated the bomb.

  Jack really needed to figure out who that was.

  He wished he could read lips—that would be a heck of a skill to acquire at some point. Of course, if she was speaking in Català it wouldn’t do him any good.

  Gavin had talked about a program called LipNet. The software was more accurate than human lip-readers who only read and translated one word at a time. LipNet analyzed an entire sentence of spatial-temporal lip movements. It then decoded those spatial-temporal lip movements with a deep learning algorithm. In short, LipNet taught itself the “lip language” of the person it was observing as the person was speaking.

  But the shitty video quality prevented that and the camera shots were all overhead from a static rear angle and didn’t capture enough of her mouth.

  Another dead end.

  Now what?

  18

  Jack yawned. It wasn’t time to throw in the towel just yet.

  His memory was sharper than the crappy CCTV video files. Aleixandri had checked him out on several occasions in the mirror behind the bar. She was interested in him. But interested how? His vanity last night assumed it was sexual. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He also remembered that Aleixandri checked out Renée when she came in. Was that because Renée was so attractive? Or because he and Renée knew each other? Or because she was obviously searching for someone else? Or was it all of the above?

  Or maybe she knew Renée was CIA.

  It was impossible to know the reason. All that mattered was that she was tracking Renée, and if his gut was right, doing it for the guy or gal on the other end of her Bluetooth.

  Jack shook his head, frustrated. If she knew Renée was the target, why wasn’t the bomb exploded right then and there?

  Because maybe Renée wasn’t the target.

  Or maybe Renée wasn’t the only target.

  Jack bolted to his feet.

  Idiot! Why didn’t you see that before?

  * * *

  —

  All Jack could find in the cupboards of his Airbnb apartment was Nescafé instant coffee but that would have to do. He boiled up a pot of bottled water and knocked back a couple of cups to clear his mind before dropping down in front of his laptop.

  He ran the video again from the moment Renée came into view. There was no doubt in his mind that Aleixandri had a reaction to seeing Renée. That confirmed the idea that Renée was a target, but now the challenge was to figure out who the other target could be.

  Jack played the video again. Aleixandri watched him the whole time. A few steps after he exited, the room erupted and the camera died.

  Was Gavin right? Was he the other target of the bombing?

  He played it again. No doubt about it. She was watching Jack exit the doorway, and moments later, the bomb went off.

  But that made no sense. If he and Renée were both targets, why wasn’t the bomb set off when they were both inside the restaurant? Why set it off as he was leaving?

  Was Aleixandri supposed to leave before the bomb went off? But Aleixandri made no move to leave at any point, not even when Jack was exiting through the door.

  No, it was clear. The Bluetooth Blonde had no idea that bomb was going to explode.

  Jack backed the tape up to the moments just before the explosion.

  His eyes fell on Renée. She was talking to the bartender, probably ordering a drink just as the bomb exploded. He backed it up. Froze the image one frame before the explosion. The last moment of her short life. He enlarged the image. His heart broke all over again.

  He started to touch her face on the screen but stopped short. Now was not the time to grieve.

  He shook it off.

  What am I missing?

  Aleixandri watched Jack leave. Why? Was she waiting for him to leave? Why would she do that?

  Damn it!

  No reason. No reason at all—if the bombing wasn’t about him.

  Then why was she watching him leave?

  Jack ran the tape again. Funny how the thriller movies never tell you how boring this work really is.

  He watched himself head out the door. She’s watching him leave . . . and . . . she’s still watching him leave—even after he’s gone.

  Wait. One more time.

  Yeah. He leaves. She seems to still be watching the door. Why? To make sure he’s really gone?

  Holy shit.

  * * *

  —

  That guy.

  The one that bumped into him. Short, tortoiseshell glasses, long hair. An American. Or at least an English speaker. “Sorry, man,” he said when they bumped into each other.

  Aleixandri was watching him. Sorry Man.

  Jack toggled the arrow keys, advancing the video by individual frames, back and forth, back and forth.

  Instead of watching himself leave, he focused on Sorry Man.

  Sorry Man takes a couple of steps into the restaurant.

  Renée orders a drink at the bar.

  Aleixandri is speaking.

  The room erupts in an explosion.

  The camera dies.

  Jack grabbed the best image of Sorry Man’s face he could and uploaded it onto The Campus cloud drive.

  From the same drive, Jack opened up The Campus facial-recognition program.

  Besides having access to the U.S. government’s vast database of over seven hundred and fifty million faces, Gavin’s program hacked several other foreign government facial-recog databases. This expanded Gavin’s program’s reach by orders of magnitude. China alone had recorded each of its 1.4 billion people and probably every tourist, business executive, exchange student, or any other wàiguó rén that had entered the country, legally or otherwise.

  Jack initiated The Campus facial-recog program and sat back. It could take several hours to do its thing using the 2-D image he uploaded. In the near future, more and better cameras producing true 3-D and thermal images, along with gait, skin, and even hair analysis, could make facial recognition both ubiquitous and nearly infallible.

  The program suddenly alerted.

  The alert snapped Jack back to reality. A reality that, at times, sucked. Especially now.

  According to the nearly infallible software, Sorry Man didn’t exist.

  19

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  Jack killed the software alert telling
him that Sorry Man didn’t exist in any database that The Campus had access to.

  He could choose to believe the software or his own lying eyes. Of course Sorry Man existed. But he existed in the same kind of space that Jack did. A man who wasn’t supposed to be found.

  That fact alone told him Sorry Man was an important part of the puzzle. Maybe the most important part. Certainly the missing part.

  A FaceTime window from Gavin opened up on his screen.

  “Dude, you look thrashed.”

  Jack grinned. “Let me guess. They were running Fast Times at Ridgemont High at the Bijou Theater again.”

  “Better still, laser disc. It’s a classic.”

  “What do you have?”

  Gavin grinned ear to ear. “I found your perp’s cell-phone store. Even have the date and time stamp.”

  An encrypted zip file popped up on Jack’s screen. He opened it. He watched a high-angle view of Aleixandri walking into an Orange telecom store on Ronda de Sant Pere, a tree-lined street located just steps from the Urquinaona metro stop. Convenient.

  “Can you get a shot of her inside making the purchase?”

  “You’re killin’ me, Smalls. I can’t work miracles.” Gavin took a long swig from a Big Gulp cup just slightly smaller than a kitchen trash can.

  “You’re selling yourself short, Gav.”

  “I was lucky to find this traffic camera shot. By the way, here’s another one.”

  Another file popped up on Jack’s screen. The time stamp showed it was taken thirteen minutes later. Aleixandri exited the store with an Orange branded plastic bag, presumably with a prepaid phone inside since it only took her a few minutes to get it.

  “Okay, that’s good enough for me. Great job. Seriously.”

  “No big deal.” Gavin shrugged, slurping on his straw. “Anything else? I’ve got time to kill before the next Battle Royale tournament.”

  “Well, since you’re offering. There’s this.” Jack sent over a file of Sorry Man. “Can’t find this guy on our face-recog software.”