“Don’t be stupid. Karif was the only link to what happened in Bern. I’m the last person on the planet to want him dead.”
“So who killed him?” Marchena asked, forced to make a left turn as the wide boulevard dead-ended and then a right turn into a narrow residential street.
“A man with a mustache. Looked Middle Eastern. I got there maybe a minute after he killed Karif. He caught me unawares.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that was possible,” Marchena said cattily.
“I try not to make a habit of it,” Scorpion said. “If I did, I’d be as dead as Karif.”
Marchena glanced over at him.
“This mythical man with a mustache-” he began.
“He’s not mythical. Somebody killed Karif,” Scorpion said.
“All right, I’ll bite. Why didn’t he kill you?”
“To frame me for Karif’s murder. He’s the one who called the mossos d’esquadra. He must’ve figured if they were chasing me, they wouldn’t be chasing him. They got there as I was leaving.”
“Why’d he kill him?”
“Don’t you watch TV? The Americans want to bomb the hell out of somebody for what happened in Bern. Someone’s trying to avoid it being them.”
“What did Karif have to do with it?”
“Karif was a contact. An Iranian named Norouzi called Karif from Zurich. That’s what brought me to Barcelona. Last night Norouzi was also found dead.”
“They’re shutting down the network. Is that it?” Marchena said, making his way around construction and then turning onto Travessera de Dalt, a long straight street lined with apartment houses.
“Where are we going?” Scorpion asked.
“You wanted to talk. I thought maybe Park Guell. We could walk.”
He wants people around, Scorpion thought. Someplace where he feels safe.
“If I decide to terminate you, having people around won’t make any difference,” Scorpion said. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you make the RDV?”
“Spain is a leading supporter of Palestinian rights. We have more than a million Muslims. If America-or Israel-want to make war with Iran, NATO or no NATO, it’s not good for us. We don’t want any Berns-or Zurichs-in Barcelona,” he said, glancing pointedly at Scorpion. “My bosses ordered me not to meet you, and they were right. You’ve been in Spain less than twenty-four hours, Scorpion, and already we’ve got a dead Muslim and five policemen in the hospital. Whatever you’re here for, Senor Cahill,” making sure Scorpion knew he knew his cover ID, “we want no part.”
For several minutes they didn’t talk. There was a tunnel up ahead. Marchena glanced at Scorpion, who nodded. They drove through the dark tunnel and out into the bright sunshine.
“It’s not that simple,” Scorpion said. “You can’t ignore us,” implying he was speaking not just for the CIA, but for the entire U.S. government. Total bullshit, he thought. The reality was, except for Shaefer and maybe Rabinowich, he was on his own.
“Meaning?” Marchena said, turning left into a narrow street going up a hill. He’s heading for the park, Scorpion thought. Human instinct. In danger, people always head up, and if possible, toward other people.
“It’s not that simple,” Scorpion repeated, letting the implied weight of Washington sink in.
“What do you want?” Marchena said finally, pulling the car into a parking space on the street. Ahead, they could see the entrance to Park Guell, the gate flanked by two gingerbread gatehouses designed by the famed architect, Gaudi, after whom the word “gaudy” was coined.
“I want you to get a message to a certain mosso d’esquadra, but it has to be done the right way.”
Marchena shut the ignition and turned to face Scorpion.
“Who is this mosso? A mole-or is he simply a corrupt policia?”
He’s good, Scorpion thought. The Spaniard had figured it out in a second. He would have to keep that in mind when dealing with him.
“Haven’t a clue. He’s probably just a bad cop, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.” Scorpion shrugged.
“What does matter?”
“That he passes information to certain Muslim interests.”
Marchena looked at him sharply.
“Hezbollah? Mind?” he asked, taking out a pack of Fortuna cigarettes. Scorpion nodded, and Marchena pulled one out and lit it. “Or maybe Kta’eb Hezbollah?” exhaling a stream of smoke.
“You’re good. We should have met when we were supposed to. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble-and those cops wouldn’t be in the hospital. What else do you know?” Scorpion said quietly, keeping the Walther still pointed at Marchena.
“Shall we walk?” Marchena asked, indicating the park.
“Give me the car key-and don’t be stupid,” Scorpion said. They were talking. If Marchena felt more comfortable in the park, he thought, all the better. In the sun visor mirror, Scorpion checked the blond wig he had picked up in a theatrical supply shop in the Raval. Now that he was clean-shaven, the change in his appearance was astonishing, he thought, putting the gun in his pocket.
Marchena handed him the key. They got out of the BMW, walked into the park and up broad stone stairs curving past a fountain with a sculpture shaped like a dragon covered with bits of colored tiles like a mosaic. A crowd of tourists posed for photos on the steps and around the fountain. They went up to an undulating stone pavilion lined with columns and past a long serpentine stone bench covered in colored tiles, all designed by Gaudi. At the top was a terrace with a snack stand. People crowded at tables, eating and enjoying the view.
If Marchena was going to make a move, he would do it here, Scorpion thought, but by now it seemed the Spaniard was as interested in what he had to say as he was in getting the man to help him.
They kept walking, following curving paths through stands of trees. The day was sunny and clear, and for a time they said nothing. They climbed to a stone cross at the top of a hill. From there, they could see over the city to the Mediterranean, the sun sparkling on the sea.
“So what is this information you want this poli malo”-bad cop-“to pass to these Islamic capullos?” Marchena asked.
“Careful. You’re letting your prejudice show,” Scorpion said.
Marchena shook his head.
“You Americans. We’ve been fighting Muslims for a thousand years. You’re Johnny-come-slowlies, believe me.” He stopped walking and looked directly at Scorpion. “I don’t want my city turned into a war zone,” he added before starting to walk again. “What do you want him to know?”
“Just tell him where I am. I’ve been spotted. Very hush-hush. Use my code name, ‘Scorpion.’ ”
“You’re painting a target on your back. . Of course,” the Spaniard smiled, taking a deep drag of the cigarette and exhaling, “you’re setting a trap.”
“The key to all of this is that this policia-his name is Victor Pintero; he’s a sotsinspector in the El Raval district-has to believe he got this information on his own. That it’s top secret. Shouldn’t be hard. Everyone’s hunting me. I’m Karif’s killer. Make it part of the policia manhunt. Except you let him know the CNI knows something the ordinary policia don’t.”
Marchena’s eyes narrowed. He flicked the ash from his cigarette.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Karif was a Kta’eb Hezbollah agent. He was killed by the American agent, Scorpion,” Scorpion said.
“And where will whomever they send find you?” he asked.
Scorpion told him.
“Why there?” Marchena muttered, half to himself.
“To minimize civilian casualties.”
“Jesus Cristo,” Marchena swore, shaking his head. “And I should do this because. .?”
“Right now the trail ends in Barcelona,” Scorpion said. “One way or another, America will have its justice for Bern. Trust me, this city isn’t where you want the war to happen.”
Marchena dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.
/> “I was ordered to stay out of this, so no Spanish will be involved. But I have to tell you, two of the mossos you injured at the comisaria are in critical condition. They may not survive. They had families.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Scorpion said. “For what it’s worth, if I wanted to kill them, they wouldn’t be alive.”
“It would be best if you were to leave Spain soon, Scorpion,” Marchena said. “I’d say the quicker you are out of my country, the better, but the truth is, if these are the same hombres who did Bern and Zurich, I suspect you will not be alive much longer.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Girona,
Costa Brava, Spain
Driving on the E-15 toll road in a rented Citroen on a sunny morning, wearing a white polo shirt, sunglasses, and the blond surfer boy wig, the radio tuned to the BBC World Service, Scorpion could have been any vacationer on the Costa Brava. When the announcer commented on the Bern attack crisis, he turned the volume up. The news was grim.
There were reports from Washington that the President’s National Security Council was meeting in emergency session. Lights were seen in offices in the West Wing of the White House far into the night. In Brussels, NATO ministers were affirming their support for the United States, although the French representative warned that no military action should be taken until it was definitively established who the perpetrators of the Bern attack were.
“Without sufficient proof, it will be impossible to justify any diplomatic or military action,” he declared, reading from a prepared text. Meanwhile, the AP reported that satellite cameras had spotted an additional U.S. aircraft carrier group in the Indian Ocean, apparently heading to the Persian Gulf. In Tehran, in a speech to the Iranian parliament, the majles, Foreign Minister Gayeghrani, stated that if it appeared an attack was imminent, Iran would not hesitate to act first and mine the Straits of Hormuz, cutting off the flow of oil from the Middle East for the entire world. The actions in the Gulf were having an impact on global oil prices.
The BBC announcer stated: “As a result of the escalating crisis, the benchmark price of Brent crude oil has risen to $165.33 a barrel at today’s closing. Economists at the World Bank have forecast a severe impact on the global economy if the crisis cannot be resolved quickly. The Dow Jones Industrials dropped 342.67 points in the final hours of trading on the news. In London, the FTSE was off 101.67, and analysts are warning further possible declines as the crisis continues.”
Scorpion’s latest prepaid cell phone, bought under the name of a Spaniard who had died twenty-one years ago, vibrated three times and stopped. He turned off the radio. It meant the six-man SAD/SOG, Special Activities Division/Special Operations Group squad arranged by Shaefer was in position at the villa. He would RDV with the team’s leader, Webb, in Girona.
Within the CIA it was widely understood that SAD was the most dangerous assignment in the Agency. Such were the nature of the Top Secret missions they were sent out on that their casualty rate was higher than for any other group of its kind in the world, even though every member of SAD was an experienced, tough-as-nails U.S. Army Delta or Navy SEAL veteran, who underwent further extensive training than even those formidable groups. Once an SAD Special Operations Group team, or SOG, was activated, they were dedicated to complete their mission or die-and more of them had than all the rest of the CIA’s other operatives combined. Scorpion’s initial assignment when he first joined the CIA had been in SAD.
He had personally gone over the 201 files of every member of the team, code-named “Sangria,” before accepting them for the mission, and he had little doubt that before it was over, he might well lose some of them. Driving on the E-15, traffic easy during the Costa Brava’s off-season, well-tended houses and villages on the hillsides hidden by dense thickets of trees along the highway, it seemed insane that he was heading into a battle, but there it was.
This time, if it went off the rails, he couldn’t avoid knowing it was his fault. The whole thing was his plan-and it all hung on the word of an Albanian gangster and the avarice of a bent policeman.
They met in the tiny hotel room that Webb, leader of the Sangria team, had booked in the Hotel Europa. The small hotel was near the train station in Girona, a town on the way to Begur, a coastal village where the villa Shaefer had rented was located. Webb was a big man with buzz-cut hair who looked like he spent plenty of time at the gym and a blade of a nose that he thrust at you like the bow of a ship. He had no-nonsense Delta Force written all over him.
Scorpion started to scan the room with an electronic surveillance detector and Webb waved it away.
“It’s clean. I fine-tooth-combed it,” Webb growled. He jerked his head at the door to indicate the hotel’s owners. “They probably think we’re pansies.”
“Costa Brava,” Scorpion said. “This is the place for it.” The two men sat on the twin beds, facing each other. “You came in through Moron?” the U.S. Air Force base near Seville in southern Spain.
“Yeah. Drove all night to get here. Shaefer said you like Glocks,” he said, tossing two Glock pistols and an H amp;K MP7A1 compact submachine gun on the bed.
Scorpion picked up the weapons and checked them.
“What did Shaefer tell you?” he asked, putting one Glock in the holster at the small of the back and the other in an ankle holster, pulling his shirt down over the back holster. The MP7A1 he put back in its carrying case.
Webb watched him, his arms folded across his chest. Defensive posture.
“He said this was your show. You’d be running it. We’re here for if and when the nasty brown stuff hits the fan.”
Scorpion nodded. “You don’t like it?” he said.
“I’m military. This is my team. We’ve trained together, been together,” Webb said. He didn’t say “turf issue.” He didn’t have to.
“So was I,” Scorpion said, meaning military. “We’ll go over the disposition together. When the shooting starts, you run your team however you see fit.”
Webb took a breath and put his meaty hands on his thighs, clearly relieved.
“Better,” he said. “Shaefer said these guys might be the ones who hit Bern.”
“There’s a good probability,” Scorpion said. “So yeah, there’s payback. But don’t underestimate them-or me,” his eyes narrowing. “These guys took out a highly trained U.S. Marine detachment in Bern and four good CIA agents in Zurich. They don’t come in shooting and hoping for the best. They think.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t care what kind of superstars you guys think you are. This is no slam dunk. Got it?”
Webb nodded. He took out an iPad and displayed a satellite aerial video of the villa and grounds, showing Scorpion where he planned to place men and devices. From the image, Scorpion could see the grounds were encircled by a stone wall and ended on a cliff overlooking a rocky cove opening to the sea.
“What are your people packing?”
“MP7A1s with sound suppressors, chambered for DM11 4.6-x-30mm cartridges in thirty-round and forty-round box magazines. Penetrate any CRISAT,” Webb said, meaning the bullets would drill through a target made up of twenty layers of Kevlar with 1.6mm titanium backing at two hundred meters; they were the ultimate small arms body-armor-piercing rounds. “Glocks, M67 grenades; C-4 with remote-controlled detonators for IEDs, one M25 sniper rifle, and two XM25 grenade launchers. Those two are the real game-changers. Should be plenty.”
“I’m not so sure,” Scorpion said, studying the iPad image. “I need eyes. We could use a drone.”
“What the hell are you expecting? World War Three?” Webb said.
Scorpion sat up straight. “I need you to be more worried than you are,” he said. “How much C-4 have you got?”
“Plenty. Why?”
“I’ll need about five kilos and two detonators.”
“Jesus! What the hell are you planning to blow up?” Webb exclaimed. In a way, Scorpion understood. A half kilo of C-4 would completely demolish a large milit
ary truck. Five kilos would vaporize it and a whole lot more.
“My car,” Scorpion said. “Put a cork in the bottle. Block the road. Once they’re in the villa grounds, they stay in.”
Webb nodded grimly.
“You are taking them seriously,” he said. “How are you going to get them to the villa?”
“No problem. They’ll just be following the moving dot.”
“What’s the moving dot?” Webb asked.
“Me,” Scorpion said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
El Raval,
Barcelona, Spain
Scale was at an Internet cafe on the Calle Barra de Ferro near the Picasso museum. There was no help for it, he thought. The information was too critical. He would have to contact the Gardener himself. A website for the Iranian Dried Fruit Exporters Association was the gateway. He could sign in with a password and an RSA token that provided a two-way authentication and send a text to the Gardener’s contact alias.
For five euros he bought a mug of tea and an hour on an older PC in the corner. The cafe was about half full, mostly young people, travelers, and students. At the PC next to his, a male student was playing a video game. Secure enough, he decided. Before he logged in, he went over the information in his mind. The Gardener did not tolerate long texts. It would have to be direct and just circumspect enough to resist easy interpretation in case of electronic eavesdropping, beginning with the code word that would let the Gardener know it was him and that it was urgent: kerm-e shab tab. Firefly.
Scale had met the policia in a brothel on a narrow trash-strewn street in the El Raval slum. When he knocked on the door to the room and went in, the policia was seated on the edge of a disheveled bed. There were two half-naked women in the room: a dark-haired woman whose head bobbed up and down as she gave the policia oral sex, and a bored-looking young African woman sitting in the corner, smoking a cigarette.
The policia was a stumpy middle-aged man in uniform with a pencil-thin mustache under a pointed nose that gave him a ratlike look and a belly that sagged over his belt. He made Scale wait while the woman finished him, biting his lip and wheezing “Basta ya!” then pushing her aside as he rearranged and zipped up his fly and adjusted his pistol belt.
Scorpion Deception s-4 Page 15