Revenge in Barcelona

by Kathryn Lane

  Rafael was surprised to find Fernando Massú next to Carmen’s hospital bed, speaking in an aggressive tone. Sensing the tension between them, he paused in the hall just outside the doorway without announcing his presence. He overheard Massú say that Paula was the guilty one.

  Carmen was crying and though she responded, Rafael could not make out her words.

  “Paula converted to Islam, you know,” Massú continued. “And she had radical friends, like the florist. Don’t tell me she was not part of this attack. She associated with the wrong people.”

  Rafael continued listening as Carmen defended her daughter.

  “I saw Jamila standing by herself near the altar,” Carmen said with anguished words. “So, tell me, where were you? Absent for your own son’s wedding? One might think you set off the explosion. Don’t come here accusing my daughter when you well could be the guilty one.”

  A nurse walked past Rafael into the room.

  “You rang for me, Senyora. What can I do for you?”

  Massú greeted the nurse. “We are having a little family discussion.” His tone of voice was considerably warmer.

  “The senyora seems upset.”

  “Of course she is. Her daughter passed away recently,” Massú said.

  Seeing movement in the hallway, Rafael caught sight of Nikki darting around an aide pushing a medicine cart. She weaved between visitors and hospital personnel until she reached Carmen’s room.

  Rafael stopped her, gesturing silence with a finger to his lips.

  “Senyora, you need to remain calm,” the nurse said, studying the monitoring equipment. Turning to look at Massú, she resumed. “Her doctors do not want her agitated. I’ll be back with medication for her, but you should leave right now.”

  Massú left the room, looking surprised to see Rafael and Nikki.

  The detective followed Massú a short distance down the corridor. Nikki remained in the hall outside Carmen’s room.

  “Mr. Massú,” Rafael said, “any information or evidence you have on the bombing, you need to turn it over to the police, not lash out at an injured woman in the hospital. So tell me right now what you know.”

  Massú shook his head. “I don’t know anything. Only trying to find out if Paula had anything to do with the attack.”

  “What makes you suspicious?”

  “That she converted. That she was friendly with the florist. I’ve wondered if she was radicalized by the people she worked with.”

  “What about your son? Could he have radicalized her?”

  “Fadi? No, he was too much a businessman. And too Spanish to become a jihadist. Plus he was a secular Muslim. He did not care if she converted. It was Paula’s decision.”

  “Are you aware that withholding evidence is obstruction of justice?”

  Massú again denied having knowledge of anything. He turned to leave, but Rafael told him he was not through with him.

  “What about your daughter?” Rafael asked.

  “Daughter? I don’t have a daughter.”

  “Sonia Ussam is not your daughter?” the detective asked.

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “Does not matter where. Do not deny it. She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

  Massú moved his head as if to nod but seemed to reconsider. Instead he spoke. “Her mother claimed I was her father. But one never knows for certain until DNA tests are run, right?”

  “The flowers with the imbedded explosives came from her flower shop.” Rafael said.

  Fernando Massú’s jaw tightened. He stared at the detective and nodded curtly.

  “So who planted the C-4 in the vases?” Rafael asked.

  Massú’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know.”

  “The money you gave her. That was a large sum. Why so much?”

  Massú seemed to consider thoughtfully before responding that he had given her cash for her graduation.

  “Was it advance payment for blowing the parishioner church up?”

  “What do you think I am?” Massú’s jaw tightened to the point it caused a spasm in his left eyelid. “Killing my own son? My wife?”

  Rafael knew Massú was a liar. After all, he had claimed El Saraway had driven him home from Sagrada Família. When the investigators checked the CCTV around the basilica, it showed Massú drove himself home. When the detective asked for an explanation, Massú blinked.

  “That was a terrible day for me. I lost my family. I don’t remember what happened. Everything was so confusing. I thought he’d taken me home. Maybe he just showed up at my house to check on me.”

  “But guess who does appear in the CCTV footage?”

  Massú stared blankly at his interrogator.

  “Sonia. Sonia Ussam is standing at the edge of the park,” Rafael said. “She was there before the bombs went off. Then she left. Explain that to me.”

  Massú stared at the floor.

  Rafael demanded an answer.

  “I can’t say. I don’t know why she would be there. Ask her.”

  “You were not at your son’s wedding, but Sonia was outside. Rafael reminded Massú one more time that willful interference in the process of justice is a criminal offense that he could be arrested for.

  “Yes, yes, I am aware of this. I assure you, I don’t know anything regarding the bombing. Or why Sonia was there. But if I learn something, I’ll call you,” Massú said. “I’m traumatized. That’s all. Traumatized.”

  Rafael noticed Massú was visibly upset and his hands were trembling. He tried to assess whether Massú was deliberately stalling, hiding incriminating evidence, or shell-shocked and unable to act rationally.

  “I will give you twenty-four hours to come clean,” the detective said. “On what you know or what you think you know.”

  “I cannot confess to crimes I did not commit,” Massú said.

  “Then stay away from Senyora Azar,” Rafael warned.

  By the time Rafael returned to Carmen’s room, Nikki was at her aunt’s bedside holding Carmen’s hand. He figured she had eavesdropped, but that did not matter to the detective.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Barcelona—El Raval District

  Tuesday Noon to Midafternoon

  Taiwo had gone for breakfast at one of the halal restaurants in the neighborhood. He returned to the mosque to perform the noon salah. If he were out on the street, he would have dismissed the prayer. Instead he walked to the prayer room and took a rug out and spread it in front of the mihrab.

  Taiwo felt good. He completed the second prostration and adjusted his left leg to sit on it. Facing the mihrab, he positioned his legs and feet. A gentle rustle from behind him forced him to turn slightly. It was the imam entering from his living quarters. The cleric waited quietly as Taiwo completed his prayers. When he finished, Taiwo rolled up the prayer mat and turned to look at the imam.

  “I see you nicked yourself again as you shaved this morning,” the imam said, laughing. “Without a beard, no one can identify you as the man of interest. Though the Prophet would not approve of your hairless face, it might keep you from getting arrested.”

  The religious man laughed with a zeal that amused Taiwo. Nodding and laughing along with him released a bit of the stress Taiwo himself was feeling.

  “The beard is part of the fitrah, the natural order,” the imam said as he stroked his own beard. “Allah would want you to grow it back. You should honor the Prophet. Will you grow your beard back when the police catch the bearded one?”

  The imam’s wife rushed into the room. “You must come see this. The news just showed a picture of a man wearing a baseball cap. Fuzzy picture. But it looked like you. Maybe you should not wear your cap out on the street.”

  The woman’s comment burned through Taiwo’s gut like a red-hot iron rod. Even though he realized it was a warning, it also confirmed that the imam and his wife knew Taiwo was involved in the bombing. The Nigerian had learned never to trust anyone. He felt the same burning gut when he thoug
ht about his mother and his twin brother. If he hadn’t been able to rely on them, why should he confide in people he hardly knew? Even a religious man and his wife.

  Taiwo did not want to stay to watch television. Instead, he would check his phone for the latest news. He waved his hand in a carefree gesture at the invitation to watch the newscast. “Caucasians think all Africans look alike,” he remarked, showing no emotion.

  Needing a place to stay until he completed the job, which would bring in a respectable amount of money, he politely took leave of the cleric and his wife and returned to his small room, closing the door. Lifting the bedcovers, he reached under the mattress to retrieve the Nagant revolver he had hidden there the night he had arrived. First, he checked the barrel and chamber. He snapped the suppressor into position. Next, he held it as if to shoot and placed his finger on the trigger. He opened the box of bullets and inserted four. Satisfied with its working condition, he tucked the gun into his pants at the waistline on his back. He retrieved his duffle bag from under the bed and took out a windbreaker. Before putting it on, he pulled his shirt out of his pants to provide another layer covering the gun.

  The imam and his wife had been helpful, so he engaged in small talk before he left the mosque to hit the streets again. He had changed his appearance, so he could buy a bit of time. The police were not yet closing in on him, but he knew he was on borrowed time in Spain. He could return to Nigeria, but not before completing one more job in Barcelona. Once he returned to his own country, he would be safe. Extradition requests made to Nigeria from other countries were often ignored or took years to process. Afraid to use Kenny’s passport for fear Olani may have reported it, he would use the forged passport.

  As Taiwo approached the corner where the alley leading from the mosque dead-ended into Carrer de San Gil, he noticed a Gypsy woman strumming a guitar. And she was singing. A mournful piece. Taiwo tuned in the noise of the traffic to drown out her raspy voice. He crossed the street and headed for the Sant Antoni metro station. On this route, he had noticed a convenience store and now walked toward it. A second Gypsy woman, her head and face covered by a shawl, stood near the shop. Even her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She was vigorously fanning herself. He paid no attention when the woman turned and slipped away in the opposite direction.

  This street is full of gypsies today, Taiwo thought as he entered the shop. Spain is full of gypsies.

  An assortment of hats and caps were displayed on several shelves against the far wall. He went straight over, noticing most were touristy. He tried on a couple of straw hats with narrow brims, cocking his head from one side to the other to catch his reflection in the glass doors of the commercial refrigerator. Deciding they made him stand out too much, he returned them to the shelf.

  Instead he selected a black aero-bill golf cap. It contrasted with the light tan one he had worn the day of the attack, now being broadcast in the news media. The attendant, who was watching a movie or video on his smart phone, barely looked up, took Taiwo’s money, and handed him a plastic bag containing his purchase. Taiwo went to the bathroom, removed the sales tag, and put the cap on. Dropping his old one in the bag, he knotted it closed.

  Once outside, he turned right and walked toward the metro, dropping the bag with his old cap in a trash can. When he entered the station, he thought how easy his task would be if only the targets would use the metro. He could push them into the path of an oncoming train. He had sought that opportunity when he was traveling on the same train to Burgos, but it never presented itself. And his attempts by the museum and the cliff overlooking Burgos had also failed. But today would be different.

  Taking a seat on the train, he brought up the internet on his phone to search for the latest news on the basilica bombing.

  The cleric’s wife is right. It’s not a very clear photo, he thought with a flicker of relief. Today I must finish my work in this city. He pursed his lips, suppressing a smile at the thought of the money this job would bring him.

  The train slowed as it approached the Avinguda Diagonal station. Taiwo scrambled onto the platform with a feeling of exhilaration. Today was his day. His heart palpitated in anticipation of the challenge he faced. He trotted up the steps to street level, his rapid footsteps echoing his pulse. A rush of adrenaline brought on the feeling a transcendent moment was about to happen. He passed other pedestrians in the stairwell, almost knocking two old ladies over, too excited to notice.

  At the street level, he continued to walk for two blocks on Passeig de Gràcia. When he arrived at the cross street of Carrer de València, he found a bench on the median where he could look straight across the median to the hotel on the corner.

  Today must be the day, he thought. If only they come out, I will find an opportunity.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Barcelona—Eixample District

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Olani and Selena covered their heads with shawls and followed Taiwo onto the train, boarding the car behind his, Selena’s guitar strapped across her back. They watched each stop through the window. When Taiwo got off at Avinguda Diagonal station, they mirrored his steps, keeping a safe distance.

  Three days after the attack on Sagrada Família, people were out in swarms on Passeig de Gràcia. The streets had been devoid of pedestrians the first two days following the bombing, but the city was proving life goes on. Even after atrocities. Men in suits and women in business attire scurried toward meetings or returned to their offices after lunch. Mothers with toddlers meandered on the sidewalks admiring displays in the shop windows or followed as their children chased birds, oblivious to the tragedy. One mother showed her kids how to feed the pigeons.

  When Olani and Selena saw Taiwo take a seat at a bench in the median, they ducked behind a building on the corner. From the edge of the building, Olani peered out to make sure Taiwo still sat on the bench in the median of Passeig de Gràcia.

  “We should call the police,” Olani whispered to Selena despite the distance between the two women and the object of their surveillance. “They are still seeking an African with a beard, but he shaved it off. We need to tell them.”

  “Here, take this, Morocco.” Selena handed the guitar to Olani. “Let’s follow him a bit longer. That way we can see what he’s planning next.”

  Olani looked surprised. “Sorry, I can’t play,” she said, holding the instrument away from her body.

  “Just hold it for me. I want to take advantage of all these people to get a few euros. Be prepared to follow me, or if he comes this way, I’ll signal for you to walk away.” Selena reached into a deep pocket in her skirt and removed a tarot deck and a small bowl. “And stay out of sight.” She kept the bowl in her hand but returned the cards to one of the many pockets of her skirt.

  As Olani leaned against the wall of the building, she felt the warmth the stone wall had collected from the early afternoon sun. The comfort of the pleasant weather as she observed mothers playing with their children lulled her into daydreaming about her own daughter. She imagined holding Dayo, caressing her chubby face.

  Selena approached a group of mothers. The women monitored their children, mindful of activity on the street, as the toddlers scrambled around the birds, tossing breadcrumbs and seeds. Pigeons and sparrows took flight as the children jockeyed for position. Turning their attention to the beggar, a couple of mothers scrutinized the immediate surroundings. All but one pulled money from their purses, handing the change or one-euro bills to their preschoolers, who lined up to drop the money in Selena’s begging bowl. One boy about five tried to keep the money for himself and started crying when his mother made him cast it into the bowl. For another half an hour, Selena collected money.

  When Olani witnessed a mosso d’esquadra park his motorcycle half a block away, she saw her friend immediately put the bowl, money and all, into a large pocket in her long skirt. Holding her breath to see if the officer was going to accost Selena for panhandling, Olani exhaled when the man entered a café. Sh
e knew Selena could handle the mosso, but it might cost part of her earnings.

  Shortly after the mosso entered the coffee shop, Olani saw Taiwo stand up. A chill ran down her spine until she reasoned Taiwo had been oblivious to the police officer and his attention had focused on a different matter. She picked up the guitar she had leaned against the wall and waited to see what he would do. Selena moved closer to Olani.

  Taiwo crossed the avenue. Olani observed all the strangers on that side of the street to determine if the Nigerian was about to approach one of them. He did not. She noticed two men who had exited a tall building across the street shortly before Taiwo had moved. They took a few steps toward the intersection and stopped at the corner. As the men paused, Taiwo dawdled. A cab drove into a narrow area between the street and the sidewalk meant for taxis either dropping off or picking up passengers.

  “He may be following those two guys.”

  “Which ones?” Selena asked.

  “At the street corner. One is opening a taxi door. Where a woman is getting out. They obviously know her. See them? The second one is looking around but has not spotted Taiwo.”

  As the three people stood near the intersection, one of the men pointed in the direction of the old port down Passeig de Gràcia.

  “Why would Taiwo be interested in them?” Almost as soon as Selena said it, the three crossed the street and started strolling along the wide avenue. Taiwo followed them.

  “You said he was up to no good,” Olani said. “I’m not sure we should follow him. It could be dangerous. Maybe I should call Rafa?”

  “And say what?”

  “That we’ve located the man who set off the bomb.”

  “Rafa will be angry with us for ignoring his advice. Let’s make it worth our while. Keep an eye on our exact location in case we need to call him,” Selena said.

  Olani and Selena followed Taiwo until the foreigners stopped to read a menu at the door of a restaurant. After a few seconds, the three proceeded to enter the eating establishment. Taiwo walked to the median and placed an order at a food kiosk. After being handed a can of Coca Cola and food wrapped in foil, he sat on a bench under a tree. He kept an eye on the restaurant.