It wasn’t the largest, or even the busiest in the region, trailing behind Alicante.
But as Sokolov entered the aging international terminal, he saw pandemonium.
It was overcrowded. Thousands of extra passengers had congested the terminal beyond capacity.
Looking at a flight information display, he saw that most of the flights had been rerouted from Barcelona’s El Prat, which was facing schedule disruption. Arriving from all across Europe—and Russia.
In the throng of weary travelers, backpack-laden tourists, and parents with screaming children, Sokolov picked out several well-organized groups of men. As he waited in the excruciatingly long line for immigration control, he studied them.
They numbered two or three hundred men in total, bulked up from countless gym sessions, all wearing street clothes, carrying almost no luggage. They had thuggish faces with deep-set features. One look at their chiseled cheekbones and savage stares was enough to determine where they had come from. They were the same breed as Gosha and his hoods or the scum from the gutter of St. Petersburg.
He had encountered the enemy, his instincts told him. The muscle of a covert war.
Sokolov peered over his shoulder.
There were more of them marching in behind him.
An hour later, Sokolov finally reached the passport desk. The Spanish police officer flipped through his passport, eyeing him suspiciously, then stamped and handed it back.
Hailing a cab outside the terminal, Sokolov witnessed as the mass of thugs broke up into smaller groups and loaded into a row of waiting buses. Coordinated by supervisors, they acted with military discipline.
It was an invasion.
29
The National Intelligence Center (CNI) was located in the suburban area of Cuesta de las Perdices, 8.8 kilometers outside Madrid, on the A-6 motorway. Behind a heavily guarded perimeter, the headquarters complex, known as La Casa, comprised five modern buildings. The Pilar housed most of the agency’s 3,500-strong staff; the training and fitness center was named Carmen; the mess hall was labeled Singular; the Operations Center was situated in the eight-storied circular structure topped by a helipad called Octagon.
At the heart of La Casa was a sprawling Y-shaped edifice four floors high and two subterranean levels deep, dubbed Estrella, for it had the distinct form of a three-pointed star. It accommodated the Director’s Office, the Secretariat, and the top brass of the CNI’s eighteen divisions.
The CNI was in charge of both espionage and counter-espionage activities, the Spanish equivalent of the CIA, FBI, and NSA rolled into one, under the umbrella of Spain’s Ministry of Defense.
David Sánchez Iglesias headed the Counter-intelligence Division. A former four-star general now sporting a three-piece suit and a goatee, he stood in front of his office window, sipping a café cortado, and gazed at the landscaped gardens surrounding La Casa. Directly across the entrance to Estrella, dominating the view, was a contemporary sculpture. A bunch of metal struts welded together into a hideous cuboid object, which vaguely reminded Sánchez of a cage.
“I wonder who’s responsible for this monstrosity,” he mused aloud.
“The situation in Barcelona?” asked Isabel Martínez, his number two.
“No, this mierda that they’re trying to pass for art.”
“Socialists,” she replied.
Sánchez smirked. He knew her reply would remain unchanged in either case.
Despite her background as a civilian lawyer and center-right politician, she had his full confidence. She was a woman, likewise a third of the staff at La Casa, including the current Director, la jefa of the CNI. It was a sign of the changing times. But Sánchez didn’t keep Isabel Martínez in her position simply because of the prevalent feminist agenda. It was because she did her job really damned well as a counter-intelligence expert and he wouldn’t have it any other way, regardless of gender politics. She was his eyes and ears.
If anything, David Sánchez had shown throughout his career that he was capable of adapting to change.
“Our role has evolved constantly,” he said. “First it was safeguarding Spain from military coups and assassination attempts against the King. During the Cold War, we fought the Basque terrorists of ETA. Then, in the post-9/11 world, we joined the global war against Al-Qaeda and ISIS. Again we faced new challenges with the rise of cyber-attacks and we’ve combated them effectively. But Russia’s hybrid warfare? I don’t think I understand the modern art of war, let alone modern art. Perhaps I’m getting too old? Soon, this office will be yours, Isabel.”
At forty-something, she must have thought about it, too.
“It would be a huge honor,” she said, “but I believe we must concentrate on the present.”
“All right,” he said returning to his desk. “Let’s hear your update.”
The desk was completely bare and immaculately clean. All files were hidden away and locked in armored cabinets. Every night, each scrap of paper left around the offices of La Casa was collected, shredded, and incinerated in a furnace. Isabel sat across the desk, clutching a manila folder in her hands. She wore short dark hair, a formal suit, and cherry-red lipstick. Only 155 centimeters tall, she was a petite woman but she had tremendous energy.
“They keep pouring in by the thousands,” she said. “Anarchist, Antifa, and various ethnic gangs are arriving from all over the continent and we can’t do anything to stop them. For once, the EU’s open borders are working against us. But also, there’s a strong Russian element. Men who we believe have connections to Russian secret services. They travel on Schengen visas issued by other EU countries and then proceed to destinations inside Spain. Their main assembly points are Valencia or the south of France for a short trip across the Pyrenees directly to Catalonia. Once they reach Barcelona, we are completely helpless to do anything.”
“Most flights from El Prat have been canceled or redirected. Only one in five trains are running. How do they get there?”
“By bus, mostly.”
“What about the Guardia Civil? Haven’t they set up roadblocks to prevent reinforcements for the rioters?”
“They have. But unfortunately, the sentiment among the local police is beginning to sway and some of them are plain corrupt, so the extra support is getting through. There really isn’t much that can be done unless the government declares a state of emergency.”
“Socialists,” Sánchez echoed sarcastically. “As usual, the spineless bureaucrats probably think the crisis will go away by the power of their wishful thinking.”
“They insist that the situation is under control but of course, we know that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Nonetheless, the police have orders not to engage with the rioters, coming from both Barcelona and Madrid. Gerard de Puig sympathizes with the protests, at the very least. And the central authorities of Spain are paralyzed by indecision because they don’t want to cause any more casualties and violence. The standoff can’t be resolved without intervention from the Army.”
“We’re the Army, so let’s keep doing our job. Have you learned anything from the rioters’ communications? Are they in contact with de Puig?” Sánchez asked. “Phone calls, WhatsApp chats?”
The ELINT capability of the CNI to intercept data was second to none. One of Sánchez’s predecessors had been alleged to eavesdrop even on the King of Spain in the interests of national security. Today, the CNI’s sophisticated equipment scanned and analyzed millions of conversations and messages automatically.
Isabel shook her head. “Whatever their plans are, they’re smart and disciplined enough not to disclose them via conventional channels.”
“Do you have any good news, Isabel?”
She opened the folder and produced a photo which she laid on his desk.
A shot from an airport surveillance camera. It showed a tall, athletic, casually dressed man.
“Who is this?” Sánchez inquired.
“A person who I thought you might find intriguing. He’s a Russi
an national who arrived in Valencia earlier today under an assumed name. Our facial-recognition software has identified him. His real name is Eugene Sokolov. Apparently, he’s wanted in Russia for terrorism.”
“Is he in custody?”
“No.”
“Why? Why didn’t he get flagged at the airport?”
“Because the Russians never issued an Interpol Red Notice requesting his arrest.”
Sánchez stroked his gray goatee pensively. “Very strange, considering their wide-known abuse of the Interpol system. I’m intrigued, all right. Maybe he was already presumed dead? Or perhaps they didn’t want to alert us to the arrival of a known terrorist because they’re the ones who sent him.”
“That would make sense,” Isabel said. “That’s what I also thought—at first.”
“But?”
“We tracked his flight. He arrived aboard a private Gulfstream V jet, originating from the United States.”
“What?”
“In fact, this particular plane is well known to us, sir. It was used by the CIA during the extraordinary rendition program and we allowed them to use Spanish airports as they transported terror suspects from the Middle East to Guantanamo Bay.”
“Did the CIA share information with us about this flight?”
“No. They gave us no warning about one of their planes coming to Spain.”
“Unbelievable,” said a stunned Sánchez. Collaboration was a key function for Western spy agencies. Running a secret operation in the backyard of a NATO ally was both scandalous and bewildering. “What the hell is going on? We must figure out who this guy is and what he’s about to do here. Did you track his movements?”
“Yes. He took a taxi from Manises to the train station and bought a ticket at the RENFE stand. To Barcelona.”
Sánchez drew a long breath. “How many agents do we have inside the city? I want you to follow his every step.”
“Okay, David.”
Sánchez studied the photo again. Sokolov’s azure-blue eyes showed determination. He was a man on a mission.
“Hijo de puta,” Sánchez muttered.
Then he slapped the photo angrily onto the desk and left it there, to have it shredded and burned to ash later that night.
30
The rough Iberian terrain and hot climate had prevented Spain from overcoming its economic backwardness for much of the twentieth century. The railways had been slow and poorly maintained. After dramatic modernization in the 1990s, Constantine had told him, Spain’s high-speed rail network had become one of the best in Europe. Sokolov found it to be true. The coach was silent, the seats soft and comfortable. The journey from Valencia to Barcelona still couldn’t take less than three hours because it traced the winding Mediterranean coastline, cutting through a semi-arid desert environment not dissimilar to Arizona’s, with low-rolling, scrub-covered hills. It wasn’t until the train crossed into Catalan territory that the terrain outside became more alive with greenery.
The train was packed with passengers who all fit a certain type. Men and women with unkempt hair, Che Guevara tee-shirts and Catalan flags aplenty, drunk and boisterous. No ordinary commuters in sight and only one or two empty seats. The train must have been booked for this lot almost entirely, well in advance. They seemed to have crawled out of every leftist hellhole this side of the Atlantic. A group of Italians was bleating the famous communist war song ‘Bella ciao’ to a guitar tune somewhere at the far end of the coach.
The idiots probably thought it would be all fun and games where they were going.
If only you knew what you’re getting into.
The details of Operation X sprang into Sokolov’s mind.
When the train finally arrived at the Barcelona-Sants station, Sokolov discovered that the terminal was also crowded with people but mainly those passengers who were departing, fleeing the chaos. There were police officers armed with semiautomatics, patrolling in twos and threes, but their eyes betrayed uncertainty. If any real trouble broke out, they would be swept away.
Sokolov followed the crowd to the exit and found himself in a large square outside the terminal. Something crunched under his feet—the ground was littered with sunflower shells.
He looked around. There was a large car park, a taxi line, and cheap hotels nearby. The hot, dry air carried a smell of burnt rubber. Black smoke billowed somewhere in the distance. The rowdy crowd of communists that he’d traveled with passed him by and dispersed. Some of them boarded a waiting bus, others proceeded on foot toward the city center. The station was located right next to the heart of it, just three kilometers away from the Eixample.
As Sokolov began to wonder what to do next, a man approached him. Tan-skinned, squat, wearing an FC Barcelona shirt and holding a bunch of yellow-and-red striped bandannas. He offered one to Sokolov.
“Dos euros, señor! Solo dos euros!”
Sokolov gave him five euros instead of the two-euro asking price.
“Gracias, señor!” the man thanked him. “Ruso?”
“It must be obvious,” Sokolov said sarcastically. “And who are you? Messi?”
“No, no. My name is Marcelo. I’m Moroccan and I speak English.”
Sokolov peeled a hundred-euro bill from his wallet.
“Listen, Marcelo. You seen any other Russians arriving?”
“Of course. A lot of Russians are coming here.”
“Can you tell me the place where I can meet them?”
Marcelo shook his head. “Is dangerous. Very bad trouble.”
“Don’t worry, that’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
“I can take you there. I have a car. Come with me, señor.”
Deftly, the Moroccan snatched the hundred euros from his fingers. Sokolov had no choice but to follow his guide to the open car park.
The Moroccan’s vehicle was a white Seat Ibiza. A pair of yellow ribbons adorned the side mirrors. Marcelo got in the car and Sokolov joined him in the passenger’s seat, sliding it all the way back to accommodate his height. As the compact-sized Seat pulled out and merged into traffic, Sokolov fashioned an armband from the estelada.
“You’re not a journalist,” Marcelo said, glancing at him. “You have no bags. No cameras.”
“I’ve got everything I need in my phone,” Sokolov said. “And I’ll have my hands full when I find what I’m looking for.”
“We can find some stuff for you. Nice stuff. Gucci, Louis Vuitton, you know? You’ll leave with lots of bags!”
“Thanks, but I’m not interested in cheap knockoffs.”
“No, no, señor. Original. Free. You’ll see.”
He pulled the car into a side alley and parked at the curb, maneuvering the Seat expertly into a scant opening between other vehicles.
“No can go by car anymore. We must walk.”
Sokolov stepped out and moved along a narrow street with low, grime-coated buildings, their wrought-iron balconies draped with esteladas. It was empty and eerily quiet. The residents, if any remained, had holed up in their little flats. The business owners had rolled down the graffiti-blemished shutters of their shops.
The strong smell of burning rubber intensified. Sokolov spotted a police roadblock closing off a wide avenue up ahead, and beyond it, a barricade of car tires piled together and set on fire.
“Quick, over here.”
They circumvented an octagonal building and a couple of blocks later emerged in the Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona’s answer to Fifth Avenue.
The vast, tree-lined shopping street which normally teemed with tourists was now filled with a different sort of crowd. The protesters milled around, yelling drunken slogans, waving red-and-black flags and the ever-present esteladas.
Several groups among them displayed far more aggression, chanting, jumping around, lighting up flares. Sokolov watched as several men swarmed an abandoned Porsche 911 like ants, rocking it back and forth until they flipped it upside down on its roof as others cheered. Their comrades moved on to a Lamborghini, smas
hing it with baseball bats, glass disintegrating, mirrors breaking off, the perfect lines of metal denting and corrugating. A nearby Ferrari was turned into a pyre.
“Bad trouble, indeed,” Sokolov said. “Are they Russians?”
“No. Antifa and anarquistas,” Marcelo replied. “Over here.”
The luxury stores were at their mercy. Further down Passeig de Gràcia, Sokolov witnessed a mob looting the designer boutiques. Chanel. Chopard. Bulgari. And yeah, Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
The storefronts had been violently smashed up and the looters snatched any items they could get their hands on. Hustling each other, they grabbed random items of clothing, slung handbags over their necks by the dozen, clutched fistfuls of jewelry. Sokolov couldn’t help but notice that the majority of the bandits shared an olive complexion with Marcelo.
Those boutiques that they failed to break into, they committed to the flames.
A façade was doused with fuel and the fire whooshed, spreading from one building to another, charring the misshapen modernist masterpiece of architecture which housed Chanel. The style might not be to Sokolov’s taste but he hated to see it destroyed by vandals.
Ecstatic cries echoed among the savages.
It was madness.
“If you wanted something from this, we’re late to the party,” Marcelo lamented.
“I’m fine,” Sokolov said. “These are your compatriots?”
Marcelo shook his head. “Romanians. Dragos and his gang. He’s from that ex-Soviet country, you know?”
“Moldavia?”
“Maybe. They’re Gypsies.”
“And you’re Russian?” a voice sounded behind them.
Sokolov spun around to face a man dressed in a Lacoste polo, bermudas, and sneakers, in addition to the balaclava hiding his face.
“Who’s asking?”
“This is Comrade Artyom,” Marcelo said.
Artyom eyed Sokolov through the slits of the balaclava.
“Who’s your new friend, Marcelo?”
“A volunteer,” Sokolov replied in Russian.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 12