by Kathryn Lane
The intermediary ordered a round of espresso and an assortment of breakfast pastries. It did not take long for him to come to the point. He told Taiwo and Hassan that he had arranged a taxi to the airport where a pilot would fly them to Reus Airport outside Tarragona in a private plane. Once they landed, either the imam or a person in his confidence would meet them, take them to a mosque, and convey the next steps for the assignment in Barcelona.
“You will receive documents and equipment you may need,” he said, looking at Taiwo before turning to Hassan. “I understand you already know the imam.”
“I do. In fact, my car is at the mosque.”
Next, the intermediary asked Hassan and the newcomer to let him speak privately with Taiwo.
“I’ve been told your previous work involved killing for a fee,” he said in a quiet voice after the other two men walked away.
“I’ve done that,” Taiwo said, without blinking.
The intermediary pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. He opened it and spread it out on the table in front of the Nigerian.
“Let’s discuss the reason I arranged for you to come to Ibiza. See this.” He ironed out the creases with his index finger.
Taiwo leaned in for a closer look at the pictures printed on it.
“After your visit with the imam in Tarragona this afternoon, you will travel to Barcelona for the main assignment. This is a side job and you must make it appear accidental. Carry it out when you find the appropriate moment.”
The man handed the sheet of paper to Taiwo.
“For me?”
“Yours to keep for now. Memorize the faces and then throw it away. We don’t need any problems. Understand? You are to take care of this assignment only when you won’t be discovered. Once you complete the job, you will be paid for your trouble.”
“How will I notify you when I have carried out your instructions?”
The intermediary placed an envelope on the table. “Here’s your advance.”
Taiwo picked it up.
The man pointed to handwritten numbers on the corner of the envelope. “Report in to keep me updated. Use this number. I will get the message. After you have completed both jobs, you will get information on where to collect the rest of your money. Keep yourself alive. We may need you for future assignments.”
When the Cessna Citation prepared for its final approach to land, Taiwo regretted the briefness of the flight. It had been only forty minutes, hardly giving him time to enjoy the luxury of the jet. One final time before landing, he stretched his legs in the elegant, roomy cabin. He looked out the window. Below them was a beach with small clusters of white buildings, the front row invading the golden sand. The buildings looked like oversized children running toward the Mediterranean Sea, vying to be first to touch a toe in the tepid water. In the distance, a bluish maroon mountain range seemed poised to protect the beaches from marauding invaders, yet the mountains had already failed to keep the hordes of tourists away.
“The Costa Dorada,” Hassan said. “And the city is Tarragona, where we pick up my car. We land in Reus, a short distance away, and come back to Tarragona.”
Taiwo looked out the window again and saw farmland and a few small buildings scattered along two highways below. The plane descended and the tires hit the ground with a punishing thud.
Taiwo and Hassan climbed out of the jet, met by a youth of high school age. The young man led them through an entrance used exclusively for passengers arriving by private planes. Taiwo offered his passport to a lone immigration officer, who held his hand up signaling he did not need to review it. The man nodded at their young escort as they passed.
The young guide drove, speaking to them in broken Spanish, pointing out the few landmarks. After less than half an hour, their guide parked the car in a spot marked as reserved for the imam. All three men stepped out and walked toward the mosque. They removed their shoes and continued inside. Arriving in time for the late afternoon prayer, they joined the congregants already filling the mosque.
After the prayer ended, the crowd, mostly consisting of men, departed. Their guide took them to meet the man dressed in a white robe who had led the prayers. Each one performed the usual greeting.
“I’m a member of the congregation, not the imam,” the man said as he removed a key chain from an inside pocket of his thobe, an ankle-length robe. From another pocket he retrieved a wad of euros, peeled off several bills, and handed the money to the young man. “Go fill the tank of Hassan’s Honda while I speak to our visitors.”
The three men sat down on a carpet covering a section of floor in the prayer room. The prayer leader gave specific instructions to each man on the assignment in Barcelona. He spent more time explaining Taiwo’s responsibilities and discussing the electronics he planned to use, specifically the circuitry and programming to make sure the project worked correctly. The man had worked with Hassan before, but not with Taiwo. When he completed his inquiry, he turned to Hassan.
“Fetch us water. Go to the rear of the imam’s living quarters. Step outside to the small courtyard. On the south wall, a stone container mounted on a metal rack contains a clay pot of filtered rainwater. You will find cups hanging on the outside of the rack. Take one for yourself. Drink it. When you finish, bring two for us.”
Left alone with Taiwo, the prayer leader escorted him to a large bathroom. Once inside, the religious man moved next to a cabinet built into the wall. He took out his key chain and unlocked the small door. First pushing aside cleaning supplies and rolls of bath tissue, he reached to the back of the space, withdrawing a shoebox. He placed it on the counter in front of the Nigerian.
“Our man in Ibiza asked me to give you this. Open it.”
The Nigerian lifted the lid.
The box contained a Russian Nagant M1895 seven-shot revolver outfitted with a Bramit device. Taiwo could feel the prayer leader watching him as he examined two packages of sabot .22 bullets designed for use with the silencer.
The leader returned to the cabinet and retrieved a 10-megapixel Canon PowerShot.
“Stand against the wall. Right there. Look up. Now look straight into the camera,” he instructed as the shutter sounded repeatedly.
As they walked back to the prayer room, Taiwo noticed the mihrab, the niche indicating the direction of Mecca, for the first time. He held the shoebox firmly against his torso to prevent its contents from falling out. An old gun, Taiwo thought. The supplier could have arranged for a newer model. Arriving by private plane and walking through a private immigration entrance, I could even have carried the revolver with me from Ibiza.
Both men returned to the same spot of carpet where they had sat before. The prayer leader placed the camera on the floor next to him. Almost immediately, the young guide came in and handed the Honda Beat’s key to the robed man who in turn gave the camera to him and asked him to print the appropriate photos and produce the corresponding documents.
Hassan appeared holding their cups of water. The prayer leader gestured for Hassan to sit with them as he finished speaking with Taiwo. Shortly the young guide returned with a packet for the prayer leader to review. Looking satisfied with what he saw, the leader presented a driver’s license, passport, and national identity card to Taiwo, documents intended to facilitate Taiwo’s mobility within Spain.
Taiwo took the packet and shoved it into the shoebox, closing the lid again.
“May Allah be with you always,” the prayer leader said. Then he added the last words Taiwo heard before he climbed into the Honda Beat. “Be wise before you use the weapon.”
Hassan drove Taiwo the sixty-two miles from Tarragona to Barcelona in his small yellow Honda. The kilometers shown on its odometer had increased exponentially during the time it had been parked at the Tarragona mosque.
“I liked that small city. A good following at the mosque,” Taiwo said, interrupting Hassan’s silence. “Good atmosphere.”
“Many people are committed to establishing sharia in C
atalonia,” Hassan said before focusing exclusively on his driving.
After a drive of an hour and a half, Hassan arrived at a small mosque in Barcelona. He introduced the Nigerian to its cleric, a sympathizer of the Tarragona imam’s cause. After Hassan left, the cleric showed his guest around.
“My friend in Tarragona has a full mosque. Here in Barcelona, I have a small Islamic center, not a mosque with minarets or rich furnishings.”
Taiwo had already taken notice of the bare-bones structure when he had arrived. It lacked a qubba, the dome representing the vault of heaven. It lacked an ablution fountain for cleansing before entering for prayers. The customary sahn, a courtyard where people could meet without disturbing those inside, was also missing. It did house the religious essentials: a mihrab indicating the direction of Mecca and a minbar, the raised platform used by the imam to deliver the sermon at Friday prayer gatherings.
As they strolled slowly through the prayer room, the host pointed out his personal quarters before taking Taiwo to a compact room with adjoining bathroom that the imam’s wife had prepared for the Nigerian’s stay.
Taiwo explained he would stay two or three weeks before returning to his native Nigeria. After a few minutes of small talk, the imam returned to his quarters. Taiwo closed the door to his room and unpacked his belongings from the duffle bag. Since it was dark when he arrived, Taiwo had not seen the layout of the neighborhood. A bit of research on his phone made him realize the small mosque was located at the rear of a building fronting on Carrer de San Gil. It had its own private entrance off a small alley. He found the building also housed offices for a realtor, a dentist, two doctors, an attorney partnership, and an interior design boutique. He closed the map app on his phone knowing he would spend time tomorrow learning how to get around the city.
Removing the shoebox from his bag, he placed it on the bed and sat down to examine the revolver and silencer again.
Be wise before you use the weapon, words Taiwo kept hearing in his mind, even after crawling into bed.
Chapter Fourteen
Barcelona—Eixample District
Monday Evening
Nikki tingled with excitement, standing with Eduardo in a queue at Casa Milà. Bright streetlights provided good illumination for people lined up outside the nine-story curvilinear building waiting to ascend to the rooftop for the jazz concert.
The ticket collector, a young woman, asked if they had visited Casa Milà before.
“As children, we met here,” Nikki chirped excitedly.
“Do you want to walk up or take the elevator?” the woman questioned in a robotic sounding voice.
“The stairs,” Nikki responded.
The ticket taker used her head to signal the direction toward the stairwell.
“The most interesting way,” the young woman said, showing a bit of enthusiasm for the first time. “Gaudí turned them into pleasing spaces.”
At the fifth-floor landing, Nikki stopped to catch her breath after running up four flights. She lingered, looking down the stairwell, waiting for Eduardo to catch up with her.
Eduardo joined her on the landing.
Nikki laughed. “You’re breathing pretty hard, old man.”
“Who else is out of breath?” Eduardo glanced at Nikki before observing the stairwell. He shook his head in amazement at the walls. “What a genius.”
True to the concept used throughout the entire building, the stairwell’s walls were curvilinear. The doorways connecting to each floor echoed the sinuous design. Two high-gloss colors covered the unique space. Frog green painted in an undulating pattern covered the upper part of the wall and the ceiling while a toad brown blanketed the lower portion of the wall along the well-worn stairs.
“Lead on, my loved one,” Eduardo said.
Nikki ran up the stairs of the remaining floors and pushed open a heavy door where the stairwell ended. As she stepped outside onto the flat, well-illuminated terrace, cool evening air enveloped her in a silky embrace. She gasped at the sight before her.
She felt Eduardo behind her snuggling up close, placing his hands on her shoulders, and giving her a loving squeeze. She turned toward him slightly. They looked at each other, then stared in awe at the artistic terrace, site of their childhood memories. Joy overtook them both as they marveled at the legacy Gaudí left on this unique rooftop overlooking Barcelona.
“They’ve come to life,” Nikki whispered as she observed the structures in the tenuous light.
“Our private chimney,” Eduardo said, pointing to the white-tiled stack. “They’ve made the pyramid space under the Greek cross into a room. The opening where we crawled in has been expanded to a full doorway.”
“With its own private door, our romantic hideaway is transformed into our petite castle,” she said.
“Am I dreaming?” Eduardo brought Nikki closer to him. She leaned her body against his.
“We both are,” she said. Her eyes glistened as if the dew in the air had drifted into them, reflecting back like diamond dust.
Eduardo hugged her as he kissed her ear. Then he took a step away from Nikki and turned toward the chattering concertgoers emerging from the elevator twenty feet behind them.
Nikki laughed. “Romantic hideaway, indeed. If not for all the people standing around waiting for the concert.”
“When Fadi gave us the concert tickets, I thought we might be disappointed,” Eduardo said, contemplating the fairytale scene where he and Nikki had met. “But it’s even more wondrous than I remember.”
Nikki tugged Eduardo’s arm. “Those Darth Vader stacks are my favorites. I wonder if George Lucas got the idea for Anakin Skywalker’s Darth Vader mask here. Of course, Darth Vader is dressed in black instead of beige like these sculptured stacks.”
“Probably a coincidence,” Eduardo said. “They still look like stormtroopers to me.”
Nikki led Eduardo across the expanse of tile-covered concrete steps and walkways toward the Greek cross. She stopped and turned back to gaze at the stacks, deciding they did look more like stormtroopers. Taking her smart phone, she snapped a selfie of the two of them with the stormtroopers in the background.
Eduardo was looking toward their romantic hideaway. When she looked over, she saw what had caught his attention—a unisex restroom sign.
“Nikki, look what they’ve done to our romantic hideaway,” he said, his voice full of disappointment.
“Shatters any amorous ideas we were harboring.” She stepped toward their meeting spot at the base of the chimney stack. Leaning against the tiled wall next to the door that had not existed when they were children, she took off her shoes and propped them against the wall.
“Taking off our shoes, like when we were kids? That’s when I fell in love with you,” Eduardo said, reaching out to touch Nikki’s face gently with the back of his hand.
“This is paradise. You know Eduardo, this is where you promised me a castle.”
“I meant the chimney was our castle,” Eduardo said. “If only Gaudí had left written instructions to prohibit building bathrooms in the cavity of our palace.”
“From castle to bathroom. That’s pretty crappy,” she said. Eduardo groaned at her pun. He glanced toward the makeshift stage where the musicians were beginning to gather. “We could find a place to sit for the concert.”
“I’d rather listen from here. It’s a better view—I can see all the sculptured elements. Isn’t that why we came?”
As Eduardo walked away, she thought he had gone on a chair-finding expedition until she noticed him standing by the makeshift stage.
People streamed in, most arriving by elevator, a few drifting out of the stairwell. The crowd ranged from teenagers flaunting body piercing, tattoos, and orange or purple hair to gray-haired men and women wearing drab, outdated clothes. A group of three fashion-conscious women dressed in outfits too elegant for the occasion seemed a bit out of place as they emerged from the elevator. A man rushed to meet them and escorted them rather ceremonious
ly to reserved seats.
One lone man, his white beard accenting his bohemian-style clothes, fidgeted with his handlebar mustache as he contemplated his surroundings. Moving as if he had recognized someone, he headed toward Nikki, his path taking him right past her. He turned slightly and wished her a good evening as he opened the restroom door. The old man’s unusual attire captured her imagination and she wondered if he was an artist she should recognize. Yet as soon as he was out of sight, she turned her awareness back to the roofscape.
Nikki scanned the crowd. She had lost Eduardo in the multitude. The cool night air refreshed her as she refocused and searched for him. Locating him as he stepped up on the stage, she noticed he started talking to a lanky man setting up musical instruments. She watched her fiancé reach into his pocket, retrieve his wallet, open it and hand something to the man.
Eduardo turned and elbowed his way back to her.
“What were you doing?” she asked. Glancing at the crowd again, she noticed the number of people gathering for the concert continued to increase. All seats seemed occupied and standing room space near the stage was crowded to the point that a few spectators were edging into the area around the stormtrooper cluster closest to the stage.
“Asking the musicians how much they charged for a private event up here. They said they’d get back to me.”
“I’m not sure jazz is my choice for our reception,” Nikki said. “Where would you set a band up?”
“How about the area by the second group of stormtroopers? It allows a smoother floor for dancing.” Eduardo escorted Nikki around the only open space left on the terrace. Using both arms like ground crew directing a plane to a terminal gate, he pointed out where he would place every component of the event from wedding party to dance floor to guest tables. “This way, people can dance,” he said.
Nikki glanced at the concrete floor and noticed it was smooth, without embedded tile.
As he spoke of the plans, Eduardo’s voice became ever more animated. “The bridal table should face the band with a few tables for guests completing the circle at the outer edge of the dance floor.”