by Mark Pryor
Hugo looked around for an alarm panel but didn’t see one.
“Could be a silent alarm somewhere,” Tom said, reading his mind.
“Yeah, that’s what worries me.” They were in the reception area, and Hugo started toward a small desk that bore a telephone, a calendar book, and a sleek desktop computer. “Since we’ve already committed the Spanish version of a felony, how about we make this quick?”
“Fine by me.” Tom started down a hallway that looked to run to the back of the building, dividing it into two halves.
Hugo fired up the computer, impatient as it slowly came to life. “Of course,” he muttered, when the screen asked for a password. He turned it off and started opening the desk’s drawers.
Tom reappeared. “Any luck?”
“Depends,” said Hugo, sliding the last drawer shut. “You need any pens, paperclips, or staples?”
“Not right now. Let’s try the offices. Two on the left of the hallway, one to the right. A bathroom on the right, too, at the end.”
“And another exit?”
Tom grinned. “You’re a clever boy, Hugo, I always forget that about you.”
“Get started, I want to check their calendar.” He picked up the book and flipped through the pages, but the entries were written in an almost-illegible scrawl. That, and the fact that his Spanish wasn’t great, made it hard to decipher the words. Some looked like people’s names, some could have been businesses. He put it down and started for the hallway, almost tripping on a cardboard box by the wall. He knelt for a closer look, but the box was sealed, looked like it’d been delivered in the mail and not yet opened. He shifted it with his hand, but the weight of it told him nothing of the contents.
He stood and moved to the larger office on the right side of the hallway, hearing Tom rustling through the first one to the left. Inside, and opposite the door, sat a large wooden desk bearing a few stacks of papers and opened pieces of mail, all arranged neatly, as well as a computer and a modern telephone. To his left lay three filing cabinets, a collection of stuffed teddy bears lined up across the top of each one, sitting there quietly, just watching. To his right sat four sleek, brown leather club chairs set up around a coffee table.
Hugo moved to the desk. He reached a hand toward a stack of papers but froze when the phone rang. A second later, Tom’s head popped through the doorway.
“Fuck,” he said. “You better—”
“I know.” Hugo picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, saying nothing. If it was a customer, client, or business partner phoning after hours, they were okay. If not . . . Hugo listened as the man’s voice spoke, catching enough of what he was saying to understand who he was and why he was calling. He gently hung up the phone, wiped his prints from it, and started toward Tom. “Security company. We need to leave.”
“Dammit.”
Hugo took one last look around the room then headed down the hallway. He paused outside the door to the third office, opening it with his hand in his sleeve. He flicked on the light and glanced around. A desk and a computer, a couple of chairs and a filing cabinet. A couple of mass-produced prints on the walls, a sailboat and a landscape. Again, all very neat and tidy, probably just like every other modern, paperless office in Barcelona.
“Hugo, I hear sirens,” Tom said.
Hugo listened and heard them too. “You wiped the first office down?”
“No, they don’t teach us to do that in the CIA. Are fingerprints really a thing?”
“So I’m told.” Hugo brushed past Tom, who followed him to the back door, a solid block of wood that could have been handed down from the Middle Ages. Three large, iron bolts kept it secured. Easy to get out, but impossible to lock behind them. But since the busted window in the front door would give away the break-in, there was no need for subtlety anymore. Hugo slid the bolts and pulled the door open.
Both men recoiled at the stench of garbage that met them in the narrow alleyway.
“Pity the bloodhounds,” Tom muttered. “Which way?”
“No clue.” Hugo started to his left. Darkness cloaked the path ahead, and the high brick walls all around made him feel claustrophobic. He wasn’t in the habit of acting illegally and was annoyed at himself for not reining Tom in, but he was there for a reason, the very best of reasons, and he also knew that breaking a lock or two was a small price to pay to find Amy.
The sirens were louder now, but echoing through the dense, stone passageways, which made it impossible to know which direction they were coming from, or how close they were getting. Hugo swore as they reached an iron gate, heavily chained and padlocked.
“We gotta go back,” he said, as Tom stumbled into him.
“I can pick that lock. Probably.”
“Quicker to go back,” Hugo said, then added, “Probably.”
He followed Tom this time, the sturdy figure of his friend striding back toward the overflowing cans and dumpsters that lined the alley. Hugo held his breath as they got near the unlocked but closed wooden door to the business, but they sailed past without anyone seeing them. Hugo breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the end of the alley, but both men froze as a voice came down at them from above. Hugo instinctively looked up and saw a teenage boy on his balcony, two stories above the street.
The boy called down again, but Hugo couldn’t tell what he was saying, nor even decipher the tone. Angry? Curious?
He jerked as Tom grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “Don’t look up, you idiot,” Tom said. “Now we have to hope he can’t describe those boyish good looks.”
“Shit, sorry.” Hugo knew his friend was right. He should have kept his head down and his feet moving. “Not used to being the bad guy.”
In moments they were out in the open, a small plaza with bistros on opposite corners, metal tables and chairs scattered in front of them. People milled about, picking a table, looking at menus while chatting with the waiters, paying Hugo and Tom no heed whatsoever.
“Well, this looks like fate,” Tom said, rubbing his hands together. “Bottle of wine? Plate of paella?”
Hugo caught the aromas of the restaurants now, grilled meat and something sweeter he couldn’t identify. All of it good. “Sounds tempting, but not tonight, amigo. We’re here to keep you dry.”
“Weird, I could swear we came here to find Amy.”
“No, that’s why I’m here.”
“Then you can monitor my drinking, make sure I don’t have too much. A bottle each seems reasonable.”
“Again, tempting, but no. After what we just did, I’d feel happier inside the apartment. Let’s head back and do a little research into Estruch Entertainment Enterprises.”
Tom waved his arms toward the lighted windows of the nearest restaurant. “What about, you know, food and drink?”
“I’m not inhumane, Tom, we’ll eat, don’t worry. There’s a little grocery store on the corner of our street where we can grab something. I’ll cook.”
“Awesome. I came all the way to Barcelona for some Texas home cooking.”
“You’re not going to make this babysitting thing easy, are you?” Hugo looked at the map on his phone, then pointed to one of the cobbled streets leading out of the plaza. “This way, I believe.”
“We could compromise,” Tom said, his voice rising in pitch and desperation as Hugo moved away. “Get something to go, something local.”
But Hugo kept walking, knowing that arguing with Tom would only encourage him. A minute later, he could hear his friend’s heavy footsteps and disgruntled muttering a few feet behind. Hugo smiled. He was no closer to finding Amy this evening, but keeping himself out of jail and Tom sober was a decent-enough result for their first night in Barcelona.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, the two men stood in the kitchen, cursing their failure to buy coffee the night before.
“Not that the crap you make would have been drinkable,” Tom mumbled. “But still.”
Hugo said nothing. It was, in truth, h
is most recognizable failure—give him the finest beans in the world and the best equipment on the market, and still his coffee would be bad. Better than nothing, perhaps, but not by much.
“Well, put some pants on and let’s go find some. I’m pretty sure Barcelona has cafés.”
Tom wandered off to his bedroom and reappeared a minute later, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Let’s do it.”
They let themselves out of the apartment and into the cobbled alleyway. Hugo checked his watch as a seagull wheeled overhead, squawking to his colleagues at the nearby harbor.
“Seven o’clock. Kind of early for you.”
“Yep,” Tom said. “My body screws with me when I don’t fill it with booze. Can’t decide if it’s rewarding or punishing me.”
Hugo smiled, and they set off toward the Old Town. They reached the end of their little street and paused, eyeing the networks of streets, trying to gauge which was the best bet for a café.
“This way,” Tom said, pointing straight across the narrow road.
“Based on?”
“Not wanting to stand still any longer.”
Hugo shrugged, not having any better directions to give. But they paused as a police car turned the corner and headed down the street toward them. He and Tom watched the car approach.
“Is that a Citroën?” Tom asked.
“A Citroën Picasso, to be precise.”
“All the power and prestige of a briefcase on wheels. A small briefcase. A wallet.”
“Yeah, but perfect for these little streets. Our cruisers wouldn’t fit.”
“Maybe,” Tom said. “But do they only arrest midgets? You’re not fitting in the back of that thing.” He patted his stomach. “Me neither.”
They waited for the car to pass, but as it got close, the blue light on the roof lit up, and the car stopped. Two officers climbed out and approached them.
The darker of the two spoke in good English. “Would you come with us, please?”
“Why would we do that?” asked Hugo.
The officer smiled, and Hugo couldn’t help but notice the sculpted biceps and flat stomach. “I’m asking nicely, Señor Marston. Please, get in.”
“You know my name?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Interesting. But I always appreciate a friendly police officer,” Hugo said, without moving. “And we’re happy to oblige local law enforcement, but I’d still kind of like to know why.”
“You have no idea?” the cop asked.
“None.” Hugo’s mind flashed to the previous night’s visit to the offices of Estruch Entertainment Enterprises.
“A senior police officer would like to have a brief word with you. He insists, which means you can go voluntarily in the comfort of my car, or we can explore alternatives.”
The calmness in his voice told Hugo everything he needed to know: that this cop was used to getting his way, and those muscles weren’t just for show. Beside him, Tom cleared his throat. “Well, if it’s Señor Marston you need, I’ll be on my way. Haven’t had my coffee yet, I’m sure you understand . . .”
“Both of you,” the officer said. “And we have coffee at the station. It’s really quite good.”
“I doubt that,” Tom muttered.
Hugo wasn’t happy about the surprise interruption to the day, but they could hardly disobey. “So let’s test your theory, shall we?”
“My theory?” Tom frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The officers stiffened, as if Hugo was giving a code for resisting. Or running.
Hugo smiled and gestured to the police car. “Let’s see if one or both of us can fit into the back of this shopping cart.”
The officers held the doors as Hugo and Tom squeezed themselves into the back seat, Hugo folding himself almost in half to make it in, Tom huffing and swearing as he banged his head and got his feet stuck.
“Where exactly are we going?” Hugo asked, raising his voice to make himself heard through the plastic barrier between him and the front of the car.
“Be there in ten minutes,” came the reply. All other attempts at conversation were ignored, so Hugo sat back as best he could and watched the city roll past. It took closer to twenty minutes, the morning traffic apparently not bothering their two escorts, but Tom got twitchier and twitchier the longer the drive took.
Hugo tried to calm him down with a joke. “I’m assuming you have unpaid parking tickets or something.”
“Hey, it was your name they used, not mine. Plus, you know I don’t drive.” Tom shifted in his seat and lowered his voice. “You could pull the diplomatic-immunity card, you know.”
“They know who we are, Tom. They know we have diplomatic immunity.” Hugo grinned. “Well, that I do. God knows what you have. We’re going where we’re going no matter what card I play. And if this is their version of comfort, I suggest we don’t irritate them and find out what the alternative means to them.”
“Good point.”
A street dotted with police cars told Hugo they were there, and the driver pulled into an empty space. He led them into a building, toward a metal detector.
“Uh, Hugo,” Tom said quietly.
Hugo shot him a look. “What?”
“I may have brought a small toy with me. You know, in case the croissants tried to attack us at breakfast.”
“This is Spain; they don’t have croissants. And seriously, you brought your gun?”
Tom shrugged, sheepish. “Habit.”
Hugo took off his boots and belt, passing through the detector without setting it off before turning to watch Tom go down in flames.
“Hey guys,” Tom said as he pulled off his belt. “You never patted us down when you picked us up.”
“I know,” the dark-skinned officer said. “You’re not under arrest. And you’re not allowed to carry a weapon, so why would I?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Tom said. “Hugo, you wanna help me out here?”
“Relax. They know who we are and they’re having fun with you. Just set the metal detector off, let them taser you, and we can get on with this.”
“Fuck you,” Tom said. “Okay guys, I happen to have found a gun in the back seat of your car. I picked it up and put it in my empty holster so that you’d be safe.” He opened his jacket. “You wanna take it now? I’m not a big fan of pulling guns in police stations.”
The second cop said something to his colleague and stepped forward, snatching the gun from Tom’s armpit. Neither man seemed particularly amused, thought Hugo. Nor particularly concerned. They absolutely know who we are.
The officers directed them to a stairway, and their footsteps echoed as they traipsed up two flights.
“Aquí,” the pale cop said, holding the door open for them. It led into a long corridor lined with doors, an administrative floor, Hugo guessed. He and Tom followed their escorts to an open door halfway down the corridor. An attractive young woman sat behind a desk, and she stood as they entered, gesturing for them to go into the office behind her. Hugo and Tom followed directions to a pair of wooden chairs opposite a large desk.
“Who lives in here, then?” Hugo asked. He looked around but didn’t see a nameplate or any photos that might explain who had summoned them here. When the door closed quietly behind them, Hugo turned. “Alone again,” he said.
“Any clue what the fuck’s going on?” Tom asked.
“Nope. Have you had any dealing in the past that might have, um, rubbed the locals the wrong way?”
“Nope. And like I said, it’s your name they used.”
“They let you carry your gun, Tom, they know who you are.”
“Well, if they did that, they know we’re friendly. Which means they’ll be friendly.”
“And maybe bring coffee,” Hugo said.
Behind them, the door opened and both men swung around in their seats to see who’d come in. He was clearly the man in charge, his demeanor told Hugo that, but there was also something familiar abou
t him, tall and slender, with soft gray hair and a tidy mustache. The eyes which held his . . . Hugo took a full second to process the eyes, that face that he’d seen in photographs and once in the flesh on one of the saddest days of his life. Of both their lives.
“Well, well, Señor Marston,” the policeman said. “I must say, I am very surprised to see you here and under these circumstances.”
Hugo stood and put out his hand. “No matter the circumstances, I am pleased to see you,” he said. “And just as surprised, I can assure you.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tom rose and looked back and forth between the two men. “Feel like I’m out of the loop here. You guys know each other?”
The tall policeman turned to Tom and extended a hand. “You are Tom Green, Hugo’s CIA friend. We didn’t get a chance to meet before.”
“Before what?” Tom asked.
“This is Bartoli Garcia,” Hugo said quietly. “Raul’s brother.”
“Well, for f . . .” Tom cut himself off and instead reached for Garcia’s hand. “It’s an honor. Your brother was . . .” Words failed him and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, really. Awesome guy and a good friend.”
“Muchas gracias,” Garcia said. “We weren’t as close as we would have liked. I regret that now, very deeply.”
An image of Ellie flashed into Hugo’s mind, smiling at him, telling him to come home early and spend more time with her. She knew it wasn’t always his fault, and she knew he got away whenever he could. It was just her way of letting him know she missed him, looked forward to seeing him. Yes, like most people who’d lost a loved one, Hugo thought, he had his regrets, too.
“At least we got the fucker who shot him,” Tom said. “Well, Hugo did.”
“And for that I’m very grateful.” Garcia gestured for them to sit and then walked behind his desk. He leaned over and pressed a button on his phone. A female voice filtered through. “Micaela, can you bring us some coffee? We may be here a while.”