Then it dove, its skids almost grazing the tiled roof of the mansion, hovering over the Green Garden, and touching down on the manicured grass, the water surface of the deep pool rippling from the air current.
What the hell? Chepa stared in confusion at the stunt.
Confusion turned to utter disbelief when two men jumped out of the bird and raced across the lawn toward him.
Masked men.
Frantically, Chepa yelled for help but his cry drowned in the roar of the spinning rotors.
Where’s the security, dammit?
A couple of plainclothes GRU officers ran out from the mansion’s terrace, drawing their guns, stunned looks on their faces.
Chepa hauled himself up from the lounger and started toward his guards but his wet feet slipped on the stone surface.
The masked intruders were onto him.
A punch in the gut knocked the wind out of him. Suddenly, he was being dragged to the chopper. He screamed and thrashed and wrung his right arm free, almost fighting his way out, but then a powerful jolt went through his body as one of the intruders tasered him.
Chepa’s muscles all seemed to cramp from the pain. His vision blurred and the last thing he remembered was being shoved inside the black bird.
34
Isabel delivered the update to her boss.
“If he’s a terrorist, he’s switched sides,” she said. “Sokolov has provided us the details on an imminent terrorist attack in Barcelona. As you can see, the Venezuelans are planning to stage a black flag op to frame the police. It promises to be the deadliest act of terrorism which the city has seen since the Hipercor bombing carried out by ETA in 1987.”
Sánchez needed no reminder about one of the darkest hours in his early career. The casualties of the shopping center car bomb had numbered 21 dead and 45 injured.
The death toll of the unfolding plot could easily top that.
“Do you believe this claim?”
“Yes, and it’s also supported by what this rescued policeman, Javier, has told the officers who interviewed him. Also, our agent who made contact with Sokolov believes that it’s likely, based on his own intel.”
Having just read the printout, Sánchez flipped through the pages of the files they’d received from Sokolov.
“I’m concerned about these documents implicating Gerard de Puig of collusion with Moscow … If this evidence isn’t fake, the magnitude of the conspiracy is staggering.”
“Sokolov says it’s just a small sample.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“So what should we do?” Isabel asked. “We know about the terrorist plot, the targets, the timing, but not their hideout.”
“Where is Sokolov now? How did our agent obtain the documents from him?”
“They used a Dark Web messaging app to transfer the files.”
“But it means we can track his phone, yes?”
“I believe so. The ELINT division is working on it.”
“Tell them I want results,” Sánchez said. “I want them to intercept his every communication. If Sokolov knows about the terrorists’ whereabouts, so will we. Then we must act decisively.”
“Even if we find the Venezuelans, it might already be too late,” Isabel said. “Can we trust the politicians to make the right call, based on unverified intel from a Russian terrorist suspect? How many people will be involved in the decision-making process? Can the Army or the police launch a counter-terrorism op in time? Every extra step will drag down any chance of success. And we’re the ones who are going to be crucified for failure.”
“You’re right. But it’s the nature of our work to operate in the shadows, where there is no distinction between the legal and the illegal. That’s why I have a special team on standby, awaiting my instructions. Ready to strike instantly.”
“What special team, David?”
Sánchez folded his reading glasses and looked at her.
“You mentioned ETA. Do you remember the GAL affair?”
She did, of course. Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberaciòn were paramilitary units created in 1983 to hunt down and eliminate ETA terrorists in their own backyard of the Basque Country, on either side of the Spanish-French border. The death squads were secretly established and financed by a socialist government, ironically, even though most GAL members belonged to the far-right.
Only some of them were mercenaries. Most of the members recruited in the ranks of GAL to fight the dirty war were Spanish policemen.
Once their activities had been exposed by journalists, GAL had been found guilty of kidnappings, torture, and assassinations. Several government officials and high-ranking policemen had been sentenced to prison terms, contributing to the eventual downfall of the socialist cabinet.
There had also been other, less notable paramilitary units before and after GAL, some of them right-wing, some linked to Spanish intelligence, fighting the various Basque separatist movements or the Marxist-Leninist militants from GRAPO.
“Are you telling me that you organized a death squad? And that I, the number two ranked official in the counter-espionage division, knew nothing about it?”
Sánchez brushed aside her complaint. “Nobody knows.”
“What about la jefa?”
“Not even her, the Director of the CNI. And let’s keep it that way, for plausible deniability.”
“Who are these men?”
“I call them the Black Cats. Grupo Antiterrorista Operativo—GATO. A black ops unit, accountable directly to me and no one else. I personally sanctioned the group’s formation from a select few special operators who have grown disillusioned with official methods and soft policies. Their main task is the eradication of Islamic terrorist cells. Extrajudicial assignments. But after the death of Paco Ferrer, the Guardia Civil officer, at the hands of the Antifa scum, they’ve been champing at the bit, waiting at a safe house in Barcelona for a chance to jump into action.”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
“Do you think a force of ten paramilitaries is enough to get the job done?”
“The Black Cats are highly skilled professionals, trained to kill. It’s not their first assignment, though they’ve never claimed responsibility for their previous hits. They’re a match for anyone, even the Venezuelans. Believe me, they’re not too scrupulous about their methods. Once we pinpoint the terrorists’ location, we’ll send in the death squad to deliver just that—death. No prisoners, no survivors. They’ll do whatever it takes to wipe out the enemy.”
“And if they manage to find Sokolov in the process,” she said, “they must terminate him as well.”
“Obviously,” Sánchez concurred. “The information he possesses is too dangerous for the Kingdom of Spain. If what he’s given us is only a fraction of what he’s got, I’d hate to think what kind of crisis his scandalous revelations might cause. The whole country would be in turmoil. The threat must be destroyed.”
35
When Roman Chepurin regained consciousness, he found himself strapped to a chair. He felt dizzy but as his vision focused, he realized he was inside a large wooden shed of some sort. Light filtered through the cracks in the timber. His bare feet felt the cracks in the concrete floor where a dozen or so plastic one-gallon water containers were lined up before him.
He was still wearing only his swimming trunks, his beach towel draped over his shoulders.
The two men in balaclavas stood over him.
“Where am I? What’s the meaning of this?” the Ambassador demanded.
The younger of the two, dressed in a black shirt and slacks, drilled him with stormy gray eyes.
“You should know,” he replied in Russian. “This is, to borrow your own rhetoric, a ‘symmetric response.’ An eye for an eye. Or in this case, a kidnapping for a kidnapping.”
Chepurin’s mouth felt dry. A growing sense of dread constricted his throat.
“This is outrageous!” he croaked. “Do you know who I am? I have diplo
matic immunity!”
“Even diplomats aren’t immune from death. And yes, we know exactly who you are, Chepa. Emissary for the Russian Mafia. A coveted position no doubt but not one protected by any international conventions.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Paulina Pavlova. Where is she? What did you do to her?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Untie me immediately! Let me go!”
“I thought you wanted to go for a swim, didn’t you? We can arrange that.”
The cold-eyed kidnapper nodded to his accomplice. The other man was older, thicker, and as far as Chepa could tell, he knew exactly what he was doing.
It didn’t bode well for Chepa.
The senior abductor yanked him violently and Chepa fell over in the chair, crashing backward to the floor. As he groaned from the impact with the hard surface, the beach towel was wrapped around his nose and mouth.
Then the older man fetched a plastic jug of water and began pouring it onto Chepa’s face.
He only felt discomfort at first, but as more water fell, absorbed by the towel, suddenly he struggled to breathe.
He tried to suck in air but with the wet towel clogging the intake, he only succeeded in getting water down his throat.
He was actually drowning.
His panic-stricken brain screamed for oxygen but any cries escaping his mouth were muffled by the damp cloth.
He thrashed in his chair, spending even more oxygen until his muscles became weak and he drifted off into whimpering blackness.
He came to as the chair swung upright, the towel removed. He vomited the water out.
“You bastards!” he shouted, retching. “Waterboarding is a crime! It’s torture!”
“For centuries, it was regarded as normal practice,” the first man said. “Certainly soft by the standards of the Inquisition. Incidentally, the technique was brought to the U.S. from Spain, if you catch my drift.”
“Screw you!”
“See, I’ve already narrowed the answers down for you. Where is she?”
“You’re dead!”
“The only one who’s dead is your pal Gosha. And soon, you’ll be joining him.”
They threw the chair backward again, slamming him to the ground.
“No! No!” he pleaded.
The wet towel went back over his face and the second man methodically splashed another gallon of water onto it.
Chepa was drowning again, an anguished “Nooooo!” gurgling in his throat.
He passed out, only to be hauled back once more, water spewing through his nostrils.
It was worse than death: it was death recurring in a hellish cycle.
“Where is she?”
“You sadists!” Chepa wailed. “Stop it! Stop!”
“Only you can make it stop.”
The interrogator’s older partner reached for the third jug.
After the fifth gallon, an hour into the waterboarding session, he divulged everything they wanted.
“Paulina. Did you give her to the Venezuelans?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“Barcelona.”
“Where in Barcelona?”
“I can’t …” Chepa panted, purple-faced, eyes bulging.
“Where in Barcelona, Chepa?”
He blurted out a single word which came out like a moan.
“Picasso.”
36
Sokolov glanced at the phone screen as soon as it buzzed, receiving the long-awaited message from his brother.
By that time, he’d already planned his next move.
He was back in the boulevard of burning boutiques.
He found Dragos, the Romanian gang leader, surrounded by his men, sitting at tables outside a café they had vandalized. Each of them had pulled on as many items of looted designer clothing as possible. The amount of stolen diamond jewelry dangling on them—chains, bracelets, rings and watches—could put any rapper to shame. They were guzzling red wine from bottles, feasting on bocadillos de jamòn and roaring with laughter.
A velvet purple Audi R8 convertible was parked at the curb, undoubtedly carjacked.
“Nice outfits, very trendy,” Sokolov commented, facing them. Then he pointed at the sports car. “I see you’ve made the step up from stealing women’s handbags.”
The laughter ceased abruptly.
Dragos looked up at Sokolov from under a Dsquared hat, a scowl crossing his pockmarked face. A hoodlum to Dragos’ right stopped chewing his ham baguette and reached for a gun tucked into his Guccis but Dragos cut him off with a dismissive gesture.
“You’re Russian?” he asked Sokolov. “One of Artyom’s men?”
“No,” Sokolov replied. “I’m Artyom’s boss. I don’t do kids’ stuff like you. But I can offer you something big. You want it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the real deal. And it’s right under your noses.”
“Speak up straight, man.”
“Gold bullion. It’s there for the taking—if you can take it. It’s guarded by the Spanish police. They’re hiding it at a secret location. There isn’t much security to avoid attention. They’re waiting to shift the crates to Madrid by armored car.”
The dark Gypsy eyes lit up. “Where?”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Do you think me and my men are cowards?” Dragos fumed. “And still you come to us.”
“I need some serious firepower for the job. And if I told my own men about it, it would go to their heads quickly and they’d lose discipline. They still have an operation to run, no need for them to get distracted. Besides, I need people with experience in such matters.”
Dragos smirked. “You’re smart for a Russian. I worked at a construction site in Moscow. I wouldn’t trust any of you to run a whorehouse, let alone an operation.”
A few of Dragos’ men, apparently also Moldovans who understood Russian, snickered.
“I want a fifty-fifty split,” Sokolov said.
“Agreed,” Dragos responded impatiently. He probably had no intention of honoring his word and sharing the spoils, anyway. “How many people do you need?”
“As many as possible.”
“I can have a crew ready in no time. Now tell me where the gold is.”
Sokolov gave him the address.
Dragos bared his yellow, crooked teeth. “If you’re lying, I’ll cut your head off.”
37
David Sánchez received the call on the secure line from Isabel. She sounded excited as she reported the breakthrough to him from the ELINT section of the Octagon building.
“We’ve got it,” she said. “We’ve hacked Sokolov’s phone and intercepted an incoming message. Now we know where the Venezuelans have set up their base.”
“And where might that be?” the CNI counterspy chief inquired.
“The Picasso Museum,” she told him.
“Very good. What about Sokolov?”
“We’ll continue monitoring his position.”
“Keep me updated, Isabel.”
Sánchez ended the call.
Then he dialed another number to send the GATO death squad on its way.
He trusted the killers to do their job.
38
Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter was the most ancient part of town, an interlacing of even narrower, labyrinthine streets. One of them, Carrer Montcada, ran off a cramped square of the same name from the rear side of the Basilica de Santa Maria del Mar and accommodated the Picasso Museum.
The museum took up five medieval townhouses annexed to each other, built at the turn of the fourteenth century as palaces for several noble families.
The dark stone façades of the five buildings were covered in scaffolding and a multilingual sign offered apologies for any inconvenience caused by the restoration work.
There was, of course, no work going on because of the demonstrations, union strikes, and protests that wreake
d havoc in the city. The street, like the rest of the Gothic Quarter normally teeming with tourists, appeared deserted, save for two armed sentries in police uniforms guarding the entrance to the main house, the Palau Aguilar. It was as many as the claustrophobic passageway would allow without drawing attention.
The houses on the opposite side of the street only showed limp esteladas hanging over rusted balconies and closed shops spray-painted by Picasso wannabes. The only light came from a few antique streetlamps jutting out of the stone walls.
The armed guards were no policemen, Sokolov could wager as he observed them from the far end of the street. They had no reason to be there, toting H&K MP5s.
Before they could spot him, he retreated to the square behind the stretching Gothic basilica.
He waited, sitting on the church steps.
As Madrid fell in 1939, Constantine had told him, the Nationalists waited outside while various Republican and communist factions fought each other in the beleaguered city.
Sokolov was no General Franco but he hoped his gamble would pay off.
Dragos had to take the bait. As a bus pulled up suddenly on the cobblestones of Placeta de Montcada, Sokolov knew that he had. Whether he’d bought Sokolov’s bluff about the gold or decided to plunder some paintings, his gang was there.
It was an open-top double-decker, colored in a teal-pink gradient with the words Barcelona Bus Turistic stenciled on its side in bold lettering.
Instead of tourists, however, it was filled to full capacity with looters.
No sooner had the bus braked to a halt than the Romanian robbers poured out, armed with an assortment of knives, pistols, baseball bats, and AK rifles.
Yelling like a pack of wild animals, they charged into the tight Montcada passage toward the Picasso museum buildings.
Sokolov took off his armband and tied the bandanna over his face as a mask.
Then he checked his gun and followed the mob.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 14