Revenge in Barcelona

by Kathryn Lane

  Taiwo walked through the east park, noticing its lush grounds and variety of trees. Stopping to observe the Nativity portico, he watched as visitors waited in a line that crawled up the stairs to the entrance. It reminded him of a snake brumating in cold weather, its energy diminished by its sluggish metabolism.

  Like a lion stalking its prey, he circled round the basilica for the third time. Taiwo searched one last time for security cameras on the exterior walls. He surveyed all side streets and buildings, making mental images of possible escape routes. Continuing his final walk around the area, he noted the number of police and uniformed security personnel, their locations, and their vehicles. Police vans, parked in the ample space provided by street corners where vehicular traffic and parking were prohibited, appeared to be equipped with cameras, antennas, and surveillance instruments. In his final analysis, he compared today’s written notes to his previous notes. He tucked his map and his written information back into his pocket.

  Taiwo cut the corner back to Sardenya, the street where his Pakistani companion manned the table of trinkets. As he approached the small parishioner entrance, he almost bumped into three people. Taiwo could not conceal his surprise. It was Hassan. In the company of two Western women. Taiwo’s surprise was not upon seeing his mission comrade. No, his shock came from seeing Hassan with the woman he’d been instructed in Ibiza to eliminate.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Barcelona—Eixample District

  Wednesday Night of First Week

  “Tonight,” Selena informed Olani as they walked up the metro station steps, “I need to make a few inquiries about the underground movement. A fellow dancer can provide answers. Her name is Rosa. She’s married to a Muslim. An angry radical guy.”

  “And she’s not Muslim?”

  “No, she’s Roma. Like me. We met at the Catholic orphanage as kids.”

  “A Muslim man lets his wife dance publicly?” Olani asked, astonished.

  “He works at a flower shop and doesn’t earn much. Allows his Gypsy wife to dance for the money. Pure hypocrisy. We’ll take her to a café after the show.”

  As she listened to Selena, Olani figured this man must be using Selena’s friend. Lots of radicalized men use women. Unlike her Kenny, who was a good man, this man sounded bad. She could not imagine being married to a radical. Olani slowed the pace, shook her head, and voiced her thought out loud. “Rosa’s husband would be like having Taiwo for a husband.”

  “Don’t even think about that. Enjoy your outing tonight. You’re doing things you’ve never done before.”

  “Never been a widow before, either,” Olani said. “As a widow, I should be at home, taking care of my daughter. But it’s my duty to seek revenge for Kenny’s murder. No one else will bring justice. Though I could not do it without you and Rafa helping me.”

  The two women entered the employee entrance at Tablao Flamenco. In the dressing room, Olani sat in a chair watching the two female performers, Selena and Rosa, use a ballet bar to work through their warm-up routines in preparation for the show. Olani continued watching the women intently as they dressed for their performance.

  Selena slipped into a body-hugging dress with ruffles accenting the sleeves, bodice, and a skirt slit from the hemline to midthigh. She gazed at her fellow dancer. “We’re going to a café after the performance. Rosa, I’d love for you to join us.”

  “That’d be nice,” Rosa said, applying eyeliner to enhance her large eyes. She added blue eyeshadow on the upper eyelids and completed her look with a sparkly, golden bronze color from the crease in the eyelid to her eyebrows.

  “You can stand offstage to watch our performance,” Selena told Olani as the three women left the dressing room. She showed Olani to her place and the women walked on stage.

  The curtain rose and the music started. Dancers, both men and women, clapped their hands and stomped their feet in frenzied rhythm to the guitars and percussion instruments. Olani felt nervous and guilty, overwhelmed by the performance. She had to refrain from running to the dressing room. She wondered what Kenny would think and, strangely, felt his presence. She knew that was impossible, yet feeling him close calmed her, as if he were sending a message of approval.

  Shortly, her psyche assimilated the intensity of the music and the dancing. She remembered the African music and dance she had participated in as a child. Her head began to sway to the beat set by the percussion instruments and her skin tingled with excitement. She tried to remain focused, suddenly afraid that in her fascination for the spectacle, she might step out from her hiding place and accidentally join the performers on stage.

  Almost midnight, it was an early night for the flamenco performers owing to a sparse crowd at Tablao Flamenco. Still, the enthusiastic audience applauded, their voices erupting in several rounds of bravos. Olani returned to the dressing room after Selena took her final bows.

  The three women left the Tablao. Rosa, dressed in street clothes, also wore a hijab. She lit a cigarette.

  “Dancing flamenco always leaves me with so much energy,” Selena said. “Let’s have something at the Bosc de les Fades Café. It’s inside the Wax Museum building on Passatge de la Banca. The place brings my adrenaline down. Soothes me.”

  “The dancing looks exhausting,” Olani said.

  “On the contrary, it excites me. I never indulge in drugs to relax as some of my fellow performers do,” Selena said. “I rarely drink alcohol. Except for trifásico. I enjoy one after a night of performance.”

  “What’s trifásico?” Olani asked.

  “Coffee. An espresso with a drop of brandy and a little milk—that does the trick.”

  “Coffee calms you?” Olani sounded surprised.

  “I’ve been drinking espresso since I was a kid. It’s like a security blanket,” Selena said.

  The three women continued down La Rambla. After a block, Rosa put a second cigarette to her lips and used the first one to light it. They stopped again a few steps later as Rosa had a severe coughing episode. Once she recovered, the women resumed their walk toward the café.

  “If you’re not Muslim, why do you wear a hijab?” Olani asked, looking at Rosa with curiosity. Under the bright streetlights, Olani noticed Rosa looked more relaxed after her smoke, despite the coughing attack.

  “Too many idle Muslim men come to the Ramblas at night. They have nothing better to do than hang out. One of them could be a friend of my husband,” Rosa said.

  “But if you’re not Muslim—"

  “My husband is Egyptian. He asked me before we got married to wear a hijab if I ventured out in neighborhoods where his friends might recognize me.”

  “Yet you continue to dance,” Olani said.

  “We need the money. He told me belly dancers in his country are allowed to dance. So I guess he takes it in that spirit. I don’t talk about my work to people we know as a couple,” Rosa said as she lit a third cigarette. “And I only smoke away from the house. It’s my way of relaxing after a strenuous performance.”

  “I liked the show,” Olani said in a rather timid voice as she was experiencing pangs of guilt again. “But what happened to the castanets?”

  “They are only used when we dance zambra or siguiriyas,” Rosa said.

  “Zambra?” Olani asked. “What is that? I thought you danced flamenco.”

  “That’s right, we do,” Selena said. “Zambra and siguiriyas are forms of flamenco which use castanets, but most flamenco does not call for them. Only the palmas, or hand clapping and finger snapping. Confusing, I know.”

  “In any case, it was mesmerizing,” Olani said.

  “Here we are,” Selena announced as they approached the entrance to the café.

  Before entering, Rosa threw half a cigarette into the gutter. She removed the hijab and tucked it into her handbag as soon as they stepped inside.

  Escorted to a table, they passed through a room with deep forest foliage where two young women, scantily clad as forest nymphs, were half hidden in the dense
vegetation. Olani thought the entire setting was artistic and was surprised she did not feel uncomfortable. Soft music played in the background, enhancing further the feel of an enchanted forest. Walking into the next room, dark and jungle-like, they were seated at a round table made from a large tree trunk.

  A cocky yet appealing server in a highly starched white apron over dark shirt and pants took their order. His jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail at his neckline accented his black eyes.

  “Rosa, I need to ask you for a favor,” Selena said after the server left.

  “Anything for you, querida,” Rosa said as she watched the server walk away.

  “A bit of noise is going around about an attack being imminent in Barcelona. Your husband knows people in the radical Muslim community. By any chance have you heard anything?”

  Rosa’s expression changed instantly from relaxed to stressed. She looked at Selena. Then she glanced at Olani. “He does not tell me things like that.”

  “No, but you overhear conversations. You check his cell phone, his email, his computer,” Selena said.

  “All I can say is he’s left town recently. For a night or two each time. That usually means he’s working a job somewhere. I don’t have access to his phone when he’s gone. His email account, I only see when he’s logged in and leaves the room to use the bathroom. He’d be furious with me if he knew I check his email. Besides, a lot is in Arabic, so I can’t read it.”

  “I need to find a Nigerian fellow who owes me something,” Selena said, as she took a photocopied picture from her purse and handed it to her friend. “His name is Taiwo and this is what he looks like.”

  Rosa stared at the photo. She glanced at Selena with startled eyes.

  “Have you seen him?” Selena asked. “He might be using the name Kenny.”

  “You’re asking dangerous questions, my friend. Be careful who you ask. Hassan has not brought him around, but—”

  A clap of thunder invaded the room.

  Rosa stopped in midsentence to let the thunderous sound roll.

  Olani, shocked by the noise, ducked until she realized they were not in danger.

  Both Selena and Rosa seemed accustomed to the sound effects, intended to surprise and delight tourists and make them feel the atmosphere of an enchanted forest. The thunder reverberated through the café, making conversation impossible for a moment.

  “As I was saying, my husband hangs out with people who seem aware of happenings, both good and bad. I overhear him mention a lot of places, but he speaks Arabic in most phone conversations. I’ve overheard ‘Sagrada Família’ when he’s been on the phone, but I don’t want anyone getting killed over your question or the photo,” Rosa said, handing the picture back to Selena.

  Selena put it back in her purse.

  Olani looked away. A shiver of fear ran down her spine. From Rosa’s reaction, her husband had to be a terrorist.

  “You live in fear of him,” Selena said.

  “I know my limits. My little girl comes first. I know what I can do, what I can ask, and what I must stay away from,” Rosa said with a resigned smile.

  “If you ever need to leave him,” Selena said, “I can help.”

  “What did this guy do to you?” Rosa asked.

  “Oh, it’s a score left over from my husband,” Selena answered, looking across the room, studying other patrons. Their server walked up with their drinks.

  He placed a small dish of peanuts on the tree-trunk tabletop before setting down Selena’s trifásico and Olani’s nonalcoholic horchata, a silky sweet drink of rice water, vanilla bean, and sugar with cinnamon dusted on the frothy top. Next he moved around the small table to set down Rosa’s leche de pantera, a mixture of sweet condensed milk, rum, and brandy. Topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon, it looked as innocent as Olani’s horchata yet contained a powerful punch. As Rosa tasted her cocktail, she called the server back, and handed him the glass.

  “I requested double rum and brandy.” She flashed a seductive smile at him. “Please ask your bartender to make me un doble. ¿Vale?” After he left, Rosa turned to Selena and said, “Joder, chica, ese majo merece otra mirada—¿vale? Shit, girl, that handsome guy deserves another look—okay?”

  “You won’t get in trouble with your husband with alcohol on your breath?”

  “He’s not coming home tonight.”

  “You don’t need to pick the waiter up,” Selena warned.

  “I’m only looking. A married girl can still do that, can’t she?”

  “Have you forgotten you are Rom?” Selena asked.

  Olani was not sure what that remark meant.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Barcelona—Eixample District

  Thursday Midmorning

  As Nikki and Eduardo sat at a table, their plates piled high with the Majestic’s breakfast buffet, they reviewed a list of guests for their wedding. Twenty people were flying in on various airlines at differing hours and they had committed themselves to meeting all of them at the airport and driving them to the hotel. Nikki placed her tablet on the table and picked up her cup of cappuccino, her second one.

  She had spent time the day before organizing wedding details. Without the need to mail save the date requests or invitations, attend dress fittings or coordinate bridesmaids’ attire, or myriad other tasks such as selecting a photographer, it had been easy. She’d spent most of her time preparing a schedule for picking up guests at the airport. One of the big items, their wedding bands, they had purchased at a jewelry shop on Passeig de Gràcia the day before, but today she and Eduardo would visit gift shops to select wedding favors. If only she knew the name of the florist shop her cousin had picked for her wedding, they could visit it. But Nikki dismissed the idea as intruding on something that was not her business. It did not take away from the fact Nikki was very curious why Paula had chosen anyone other than her mother to do the flowers.

  She handed Eduardo a printout of the airline schedules and suggested renting a second car in case delayed flights made them scramble to accommodate everyone. Floyd and his wife could keep the extra car.

  “More amazing is the way it’s come together—caterer, venue, and flowers. Even the jazz band. So easy. No real effort.” Nikki used a spoon to scrape the last bit of coffee-tinted foam from the bottom of her cappuccino cup.

  “When you pay big bucks, it’s a breeze to organize a party,” Eduardo said with a laugh. Then turning serious, he added, “I’m so glad Floyd can walk you down the aisle.”

  “It’s more like down the steps and past the stormtroopers to where you and the judge will be standing.”

  “That reminds me,” he said. “We need to thank Carmen for getting the judge and the legal aspects approved in two days.”

  “And Fadi for arranging the rooftop. Without them, we would have waited months.” Sipping her coffee, Nikki looked across the room and noticed skullcap also eating breakfast. Sitting by himself, he read a newspaper. She nudged Eduardo.

  “He’s obviously a guest here,” he said. “Getting back to our planning, I’m glad we don’t need to order flowers. Carmen will turn the place into the castle I promised you.”

  Nikki smiled. Then with a more somber expression, she added, “It’s sad that Paula won’t let her mother do her wedding flowers. It must hurt Carmen’s feelings. The shop doing her arrangements is Muslim-owned. Must be one of Fadi’s connections,” Nikki said. “When I met Paula at the church yesterday to decide on the placement of the flowerpots, she brought the florist with her. Hassan. Quiet man. Strangely quiet.”

  “Are Floyd and Milena vacationing after our wedding?” Eduardo asked.

  “He mentioned catching up with an old friend at Interpol. He relishes his direct cooperation with that agency. Since he’s coming for our wedding, he’s taking advantage to find out more about Cristóbal Arenas and the possibility he may have a vendetta against me. Plus Floyd cannot pass up an opportunity to network and make inquiries beyond what can be done from sitting in our Miami
office. And Carmen invited them so they’re staying for Paula’s wedding.”

  Stepping to the music of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” two days later, Nikki’s heart swelled as she turned the corner past the stormtroopers. Overcome with emotion upon seeing Eduardo waiting for her under a trellis covered in red carnations, she could hardly place one foot in front of the other. She leaned on Floyd’s arm to steady her.

  The guests broke into applause as Floyd delivered Nikki to Eduardo under the trellis. Her dress was ivory lace with flamenco-style sleeves, snug to the elbow where elegant ruffles fell midway to her forearm. The tight bodice, with an organza underlining, accentuated her slim figure. Scarcely above the knees, the dress cascaded into more flamenco ruffles with the fabric trailing to the floor in an undulating fashion to form the bridal train. Instead of a traditional veil, she wore an off-white hat adorned with three red carnations and crystal earrings borrowed from Carmen that sparkled as they dangled from her ears. Her bouquet, also red carnations, was accented with white baby’s breath.

  When the wedding march stopped, the judge proceeded with the ceremony. Repeating after the judge, they pronounced their vows, which they had each written.

  “I pledge myself, my love and devotion, to you, Nikki, to live each day as beautifully and fully as God intends for us.” Eduardo turned to Fadi, who was bearing the rings, and placed the ring on Nikki’s finger, saying: “Take this ring as a symbol of our love and a reminder of the blessings of finding each other again.”

  Nikki’s vows were similar, adding “as we join our lives, we will live together in honor, love, and commitment” as she slipped his ring on.

  The judge declared them husband and wife. Nikki inched closer for Eduardo to kiss her. The guests broke into applause again and they cheered in various ways and languages. A man Nikki did not recognize walked toward the trellis and faced them. Before she had time to determine if he should be there, he broke into “Ave María,” an old favorite of Nikki’s, especially when sung by such a beautiful tenor voice. Tears brought on by happiness filled her eyes. She mouthed a thank you to Eduardo for surprising her with this traditional wedding solo.