Revenge in Barcelona

by Kathryn Lane

  “If she’s needed, that’s fine,” Floyd said.

  “But let me warn you,” Javier said, “Spanish authorities see incident as terrorist attack on important Barcelona monument, not attack on Nikki, a foreigner. Interpol role only coordinator for information on international terror incident, not decision-maker.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Barcelona—Small Mosque

  Saturday Early Afternoon

  Taiwo, feeling dejected, walked the narrow side street leading to the mosque where he was staying. So much planning and preparation, yet not nearly the damage they had planned. Only the first detonation went off. The idea to detonate multiple explosions to create more confusion and chaos while causing more structural damage had seemed like a good one. More infidels would have died. More infidels would have been injured. Taiwo stopped to remove his shoes. He picked them up as he opened the door to enter the hall maintained for worship. The cleric stepped into the prayer room through a doorway from his adjoining private living quarters.

  “As-salamu alaikum,” the imam said, his right hand over his heart.

  “Wa alaikumu as-salaam,” Taiwo responded, also placing his hand over his heart.

  “Have you heard the news, brother?” the cleric asked. His lips parted into a half smile as he approached Taiwo to cheek-kiss him on both sides.

  “What news?” Taiwo asked, unable to cover the disappointment in his voice.

  “An attack on a Christian target, Sagrada Família. Come into my quarters and listen to the television.”

  Threadbare Persian carpets covered the floor of the musty, dark room that served as the cleric’s living room. The pungent aroma of chaat masala combined with fennel, cumin, chiles, and oregano infused the space. Taiwo’s salivary glands reacted and he swallowed hard. The imam’s wife could be seen through a doorway to the kitchen.

  The cleric led the way to a dark bedroom, its two windows hidden by heavy velvet curtains. A small television placed on a long, low table offered the only source of light. He turned the sound up. Despite the dim room, the television’s flickering illuminated a jubilant smile on the cleric’s face.

  A woman’s somber voice updated listeners on the events still unfolding at Sagrada Família as the camera panned the landmark. Patrol cars, ambulances, and fire trucks lined the pedestrian street. Then it broke away to a makeshift podium set up on the street, near the small gate to the parishioners’ patio.

  Flanked by the mayor on one side of the podium and law enforcement personnel on the other, the chief of the mossos d’esquadra stood erect in his impeccable uniform. As he spoke into the microphone with a measured monotone voice, he appeared as stiff as the medals adorning his jacket.

  “Barcelona has suffered a terrorist attack at Sagrada Família. Fifteen people are confirmed dead, including a police officer run over by an automobile and three suspects killed by gunfire. In addition, fifty-three injured have been taken to area hospitals.”

  The chief’s statement ended with a plea for citizens to come forward with information, no matter how trivial, and videos taken at the scene of the crime that might show suspicious activity or potential suspects. He also added the description of a person of interest to the police—a man of African ancestry, with a full black beard, reported to have been seen at the site. The police want to interrogate him.

  The mayor stepped to the microphone. She urged citizens to remain calm yet vigilant.

  “We have evacuated people in the surrounding shops and restaurants. Report any suspicious activity to the police. Especially if you see a man fitting the description of the person of interest. The citizens of our historic city stand united in the face of this attack. We will not be intimidated or defeated,” she said. Then she moved away from the podium, returning the microphone to the police chief.

  The cleric, looking triumphant, slapped Taiwo on the back. He turned the sound down on the television and they both returned to the hall.

  “With that beard, you could be the person of interest,” the cleric said, laughing, as they reentered the prayer room.

  Taiwo nodded and excused himself, saying he needed to clean up before his prayers.

  In the cramped room with the single bed that served as his sleeping quarters, the Nigerian got on his knees and dragged his duffle bag from under the bed. He withdrew a pair of scissors and a disposable razor and headed for the bathroom down the hall.

  After turning the light switch on, Taiwo placed the scissors and razor on a stained and dirty porcelain sink. He cut a flimsy paper towel from the roll set on the basin and lined the sink with it before scissoring his beard as close to his skin as possible. Once he’d finished, he gathered the paper towel around the beard trimmings. He threw the crumpled wad into an already overflowing wastebasket. Soaping up his face, he shaved the remaining whiskers. Reviewing the day’s events in his mind, he felt his rage surge again.

  Taiwo nicked his cheek. Indignant, he threw the razor into the basin with force. Blood trickled down his chin. He tore a piece of paper towel and used it to apply pressure to the gash. When it stopped bleeding, he finished shaving. He ran the tap water over his razor to rid it of the beard residue and to flush down any remaining whiskers in the basin.

  Taiwo looked into the tarnished mirror hanging over the sink. His anger rose again as he thought about that man who had chased him at the church, forcing him to drop his phone. Without it, he’d been unable to detonate the remaining explosives. But when the police responded, it became a matter of choosing his freedom or his phone. He had elected to deal later with the man and woman his client wanted killed. Did his client know they would be in the church when the attack took place? He thought about the man with the falcon that he had seen twice on Ibiza and wondered if that was the man who had hired him. If so, had the falconer set out to make it easier to take care of both jobs at the same time? The client, whether he was the falconer or not, would soon know that Taiwo had failed to execute either job correctly. That angered him.

  Taiwo spat into the basin.

  At least the imam seemed happy with the bombing. He looked again into the mirror.

  He smiled.

  “Without a beard, I cannot be a person of interest,” he said aloud.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hospital de Barcelona

  Sunday Early Morning

  The antiseptic aroma of the hospital barely disguised the less appealing body odors of sick people: vomit, feces, urine, infection. Nikki grew accustomed to the peculiar corrosive scent of the intensive care unit where Carmen was recovering. Nikki held her aunt’s hand. Carmen spoke a few sentences, but did not ask the obvious question. When the nurse informed her that visitation time had concluded, Nikki returned to the gray and white waiting room, where Eduardo and Floyd sat in brown imitation leather chairs. Windows provided a view of rooftops. A large television on the opposite wall offered the only color. Tuned to a music channel running a symphonic program, the low volume had no effect on the melancholic mood.

  Eduardo and Floyd stood as Nikki approached, and Floyd embraced her. “How is Carmen doing?” Floyd asked.

  “Better than expected,” Nikki responded. “Yet she has not inquired about Paula. I think she knows her daughter is gone but is afraid to have it confirmed.”

  “I know this is a terrible time to talk about the implications,” Floyd said. “But we need to consider them. I’ve asked Javier to join us.”

  Nikki knew Floyd wanted to move the investigation forward and intended to use Javier’s influence with the police to probe those suspects who might intend to harm her.

  “Understood,” Nikki said. “I’m ready anytime.”

  The three of them walked down the corridor and entered a small consultation room.

  Javier emerged from behind a metal desk to greet Nikki. He expressed his condolences and indicated for everyone to take a chair. He returned to the opposite side of the desk, facing Nikki, and opened his tablet. “First, I ask Nikki questions,” Javier said i
n his heavily accented English. His facial tics and small physique contributed to the impression he was not assertive. “Then we make strategy.”

  Javier placed the photo of a man on the desk. “Recognize him?”

  “He’s a concierge at the hotel,” Nikki said.

  “Concierge who made train arrangements to Burgos?” Javier asked.

  Nikki nodded as she tried to identify Javier’s accent. It was definitely not Spanish.

  “Is name El Saraway familiar to you?”

  “El Saraway?” Nikki repeated. She shook her head.

  “Eduardo mentioned man wearing takiyah, had beard, and maybe took pictures day you arrived,” Javier said.

  “Takiyah?” Nikki asked.

  “Also called a kufi,” Javier answered. “A round cap for the head.”

  “Ah, a skullcap. A man wearing one did follow us, yes. But as far as his name, I don’t have a clue,” Nikki said.

  “Any chance he could have been man who followed you on train to Burgos?” Javier asked in his heavy accent.

  Nikki started. “I never saw—”

  Eduardo interrupted. “The man on the train was African and had a black beard, but he was slender. Muscular but slender. The man with the skullcap is Middle Eastern and heavyset.”

  “Did Nikki ever see African with beard?” Javier asked, his eyelids twitching and brows rising and falling. He glanced at Eduardo.

  “I don’t think so,” Eduardo said.

  “Not on the train,” Nikki explained. “And I never saw him at Sagrada Família either. I left the church to find Mr. Massú, so I never saw the African. Unless he was the one at Parc Güell. His face was covered with a nylon stocking. That guy could have been African, though I can’t be sure. It all happened so fast.”

  Javier explained that although the police suspected the African in the Sagrada Família explosion, the detectives had no reason to tie the Middle Easterner to the terrorist attack. At least, not yet.

  An image suddenly flashed in Nikki’s mind. It flashed through as quickly as the actual incident had happened. At the Paleolithic cave exhibit, she had seen an African with a beard peering at them from the elevator. “Wait,” Nikki said. “In Burgos, I did see a guy in the elevator in the museum, but he never got off. He wore a cap and had a beard. I think he had a beard.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Eduardo asked.

  “He was just a guy at a museum. I didn’t think anything of it, but now I wonder if that’s the bomber and he was stalking us. We must find out what’s going on,” Nikki said. “Or I will never be safe.”

  “Could the African and El Saraway be separate players?” Floyd asked. “Maybe we should only worry about the African.”

  “Unlikely. I know from talking to concierge, El Saraway asked questions from concierge to get information on you both,” Javier said. “He knew Nikki and Eduardo names.”

  “You can do an actual investigation?” Nikki asked. “Even though you are Interpol?”

  “Before Interpol, I was in police force. Have friends there. If I determine connection between El Saraway and African, I hand information to agent with GEO, National Police Corps. I have good friendship with him,” Javier said.

  “Can’t we speak in Spanish?” Nikki asked.

  “Floyd’s Spanish not very good,” Javier said. “My English better.”

  Nikki looked at Eduardo and rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t think the concierge will inform El Saraway that you’re making inquiries about their connection?” Eduardo asked.

  “Perhaps, but he thinks I’m police officer. He know he go to jail for obstruction,” Javier said. “I ask police to check out El Saraway suite. They say no.”

  “Why?” Nikki asked.

  “No reason for judge to issue warrant.”

  Nikki considered an idea before presenting it to the group. She knew El Saraway was staying at the Majestic. If she and Eduardo could break into his suite, they might find evidence linking him to the African. Or to Arenas. She had to find out who was after her. Living in mortal danger when she wasn’t even on assignment was no way to live.

  Nikki sighed and glanced at Eduardo. “You can say no if my idea is too farfetched.”

  “Go on,” Floyd said.

  “El Saraway is at our hotel,” she said. “Maybe we can enter his room and find something.”

  Eduardo looked confused. “Why us? Why not agents from the Spanish secret police? Or regular detectives from the national police force?”

  “Nikki make good point,” Javier said. “Our detectives need search warrants. No evidence tying El Saraway to wrongdoing. No wrongdoing, no judge issue warrant. No evidence of El Saraway anywhere. Like guy does not exist.”

  “I see a pattern,” Nikki said. “You already know El Saraway has asked the concierge about us. If the concierge has given out information about our train tickets to the African, then El Saraway and the African must know each other.”

  “I need surveillance cameras from hotel. If African visit hotel, I ask Eduardo to identify,” Javier said.

  Nikki knew the African would not appear on the hotel videos. The subjects would have met elsewhere. Unless they were stupid.

  “We know El Saraway pay cash for invoices at hotel. He never use credit cards. Even deposit on suite, he give cash. Worse yet, hotel has no address for him. Hotel not know country of origin.”

  “El Saraway is an Egyptian name,” Floyd said.

  “Doesn’t the hotel require a passport for check in?” Nikki asked.

  “Yes, yes. Supposed to,” Javier said, his eyebrows rising and plunging like a gymnast on a pommel horse. “But if El Saraway pay cash, and give money to right people, he get a room. No questions asked.”

  Eduardo was still thinking about Nikki’s suggestion. “Getting back to Nikki’s idea. If caught, we could end up in jail.”

  “True,” Floyd said. “But if you find information on El Saraway, we might know more about the African. Or even Arenas.”

  “Basically, you want us to find out who the hell this man is,” Eduardo said.

  “Yes, yes,” Javier said, his eyebrows jumping with excitement. “I like idea. But Interpol cannot get involved. I help you at hotel. I protect you in danger. I call police.”

  “We need this man’s schedule,” Nikki said. Her mind raced through several scenarios. Was he a terrorist? If so, what was his interest in her? Where did he get his money? Why was there no information on him? Why did the hotel admit a guest who did not provide basic identification?

  “Does he have security detail?” Eduardo asked.

  “None detected,” Javier said. “First need to follow him to find out El Saraway’s schedule. So you get in his suite, no problem.”

  “You’re asking us to follow him?” Eduardo asked. “No thank you.” He looked around the room. Then he made a gesture for Nikki to join him in the hall. “We need to talk this over. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Eduardo and Nikki left the room.

  Javier’s brows moved up in surprise. He glanced at Floyd. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Barcelona—Sant Andreu District

  Sunday Midafternoon

  Rafael knocked softly at the door to Selena’s apartment, not wanting to alert the neighbors. He hardly recognized the woman who opened the door for him.

  “Olani! You look so different,” Rafael said. “Your hair. Your face. You look just like Lola.”

  Olani touched her smooth hair. “Selena calls it a makeover.” She moved toward Rafael and gave him the usual cheek kisses.

  Rafael followed Olani into the small kitchen and leaned against the sink. He placed an envelope on the countertop. Olani moved a few feet away and glanced out a window. She swallowed, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “I did not come here to make you cry,” Rafael said.

  Selena, who had been rehearsing on her flamenco guitar in the next room, joined them. She carried the small acoustic instrument
with her as she gave Rafael a peck on each cheek and asked about Lola and the twins. Rafael took the guitar from her and strummed a few chords.

  “Lovely bright sound,” Rafael said.

  “So it can be heard over the sound of the dancers’ shoes.”

  “Coffee?” Selena asked. Not waiting for an answer, she moved toward a cabinet and pulled the ingredients to prepare espresso.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Rafael said as he gazed straight into Olani’s eyes, now dry. She’d regained control of her emotions. He placed the guitar on the kitchen table. “If you call me again, remember not to give details over the phone. You don’t know who might be listening. Understood?”

  Olani cast her eyes down. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s for your own protection.” His tone softened. “Tell me about seeing Taiwo at the basilica.”

  “Selena and I arrived right after the explosion. We walked up the stairs from the metro station. That’s when we saw the chaos. Police everywhere. Hundreds of people. They were running. Evacuating from Sagrada Família.”

  “Where was Taiwo?” he asked.

  “Standing by himself. Near the edge of the park. Yellow tape cordoned off that part of the grounds. I went up to a policeman to report him. I want qiṣāṣ, my right to revenge,” she said.

  “How far away?” he asked.

  “Fifteen, maybe seventeen meters. When I turned to point him out, he was gone.”

  “Any chance he saw you?” Rafael asked.

  Olani shook her head, remembering that she’d turned her back to Taiwo when she spoke to the policeman.

  “I hate to tell you, Olani,” Rafael said, “but he probably saw you.”

  “He’d never recognize this beautiful woman,” Selena said, interjecting to defend her friend. “Just look! A little makeup, no hijab, her hair straightened out, she looks like Beyoncé. No way would he know her.”