Carl had immediately looked across the terrace towards John-Luke, who appeared to have been reading his book.
“No,” I had replied, anticipating his question. “He’s with me and he’s watching our backs.”
“You don’t leave much to chance; do you, ‘Paul’ – any more watchers?”
“Yes,” I had replied. “The big guy – in the corner, behind you.”
“Ah, the Spaniard,” Carl had observed, not even attempting to turn to look over in that direction; he had obviously noted Carlos’s presence, earlier.
“No, he’s Columbian, actually – and he’s watching the boulevard for uninvited guests.”
“And what exactly is it that our American friends want you to do?” Carl had asked, his voice hushed, almost a whisper.
“Talk to you,” I had replied, succinctly.
“Just ‘talk’?” Carl had been sceptical.
I didn’t reply, but had smiled. The smile had conveyed a thousand words to him.
“If it had been anything else other than just a ‘talk’, I’d already be dead – wouldn’t I?” Carl had smiled back.
“I count you as a friend and, in our profession, real friends are hard to come by – and the Americans know that,” I had answered.
For a brief moment, Carl had mulled over what I had said. “Yes, real friends, real true friends, are hard to come by,” he had nodded. “But, what ‘beef’ have the Americans got with me?”
“You’re killing off their recruits – and its pissing them off.”
“And, the Jordanians – what’s their interest in me?”
“To keep you alive,” I had replied. Carl had been mildly surprised in what I had just said, so I had elaborated. “They can no more trust an Arab, who is in the pay of the CIA, than they can trust one who’s a member of a dissident group. They just don’t trust the CIA. So, to all intent and purpose, you are doing them a service – a big favour.”
“Really, I hadn’t thought of it like that.” There had been a hint of cynicism in his voice.
“Yes – really,” I had confirmed, adding, “You have a good friend in their General Intelligence Directorate – Saleh.”
“Ah – Yes, Saleh. Saleh and I still stay in touch with each other,” Carl had revealed. “And Donkor, too.”
“Me, too.”
“But the Americans?”
“Oh – they are really hacked off with you,” I had stated in a matter of fact manner. “To them you are a maverick – a loose cannon, and they want you stopped.”
“And, if I don’t choose to stop?” Carl had a thin smile on his lips.
“Though you would say that, somehow,” I had smiled back. “You are driven by passion, by principle and by conscience. You will still target those who you believe are a threat to Israel – you will still target those who you believe threaten the lives of the innocent, who ever, whatever, where ever they are.”
Carl had nodded again. “So, my friend – what would you suggest that I do?”
I paused for a moment before replying. “Come and join our Family.”
Although I had talked to Carl of the Family before, on our long evenings together at ‘Tranquillity’…my suggestion to join us had taken him by surprise – he hadn’t been expecting that.
“As a member of the Family you would still be free to pursue your passions – pick and choose what you wanted to do.” I had continued. “But you would be aided in your quest. You would have the latest up to date intelligence on your targets. You would have the logistical support and back-up of other Family members. You would even have the tacit support of the country that you wanted to operate in. And you would have a client paying for your valuable services.”
For a short while, Carl had remained silent – he had been trying to absorb what I had been saying. But, it had required more discussion – more explanation. And he had said so. “Need to talk about this further, my friend,” he had said calmly.
“Sure,” I had replied. “So, make your phone call and we’ll go and find a good tapas bar, have lunch – and discuss it further.”
“You know about the call?” Carl had appeared slightly confounded.
“Yes, – your call to the Hamas bomb maker – the guy in the white suit, sitting out in the café, opposite.”
Carl’s target had manufactured bombs for Hamas and other dissident terrorist groups; typically a simple combination of acetone and detergent which, when combined, makes Acetone peroxide, more commonly known as ‘Mother of Satan’.
“You know about that?” Carl had been rattled. “Who told you – the Jordanians?”
“No,” I had replied. “The Spanish.”
“Is there anybody who doesn’t know about this?” From his tone, Carl had been getting a little bit irritate.
“Yes, the guy in the white suit, sitting opposite.”
The smile had come back on to Carl’s lips.
“The young couple, who were sitting next to him, they’ve left the table,” I had pointed out to him – Carl had been waiting for the young couple to leave; he had not wanted them to come to any harm. “So, make your call, and then we can all go for a spot of lunch – my treat.”
The Nokia phone, which Carl had picked up from the table in front of him, had looked completely inoffensive. Extending out the phones aerial, Carl had quickly punched in a sequence of numbers, and had then hit the green ‘call’ key. For the briefest of moments, nothing had seemed to happen. Then, from the café on the opposite side of the boulevard, a lone cell phone had rung out. The man in the white suit, interrupted from his ‘people watching’, especially of the young ladies, had taken out his phone, glanced at it briefly and then, pressing a key on its key pad, had placed it to his right ear. As soon as the man in the white suit had placed the phone to his ear, Carl had pressed the red ‘end call’ key, on the Nokia. I had already switched to ‘slow motion’ mode – and it had seemed to me to be an age before anything had happened. But, when it did, it had been a rapid, almost instantaneous chain of events. A light grey plume of wispy smoke had emerged out of the man’s cell phone, wrapping itself gently around his hand. The smoke had then changed into folds of flames that had disappeared in a brilliant white flash of light. This outwardly exploding ball of light and flame had caused the cell phone to disintegrate into shattered pieces, and had completely obliterated the fingers and flesh of his hand. At that very same instant, a viscous jet of bloody, light pink, brain matter, had shot straight out of his left ear. Then, almost surreally, the man’s face had undergone a grotesque transformation. Pushed out by the force of the blast, it had grown and distorted terribly as it had been sheared from facial muscle and tissue…ever expanding outwards – until the skin had reached its limit of elasticity, tearing it in shreds as it had been flayed from the man’s skull. Finally, the concussion of the blast had knocked the man – in the not so now white suit – clean out of his chair.
At first, apart from the slapping wings of pigeons fleeing the boulevard, all had been quiet. But, then, a young woman, covered in specs of brain matter, had started to scream as she had realised what had happed. Her cries had been taken up by other customers of the café, and then by pedestrians who had been passing by on the boulevard.
But, by then, we had already gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
In a tapas bar, in Port Vell, close to the cruise port terminal, the four of us had mingled with tourists and cruise ship passengers, as we had enjoyed a long lunch together.
After lunch, Carl had disposed of his cell phone in the yacht crowded waters of the Marina. Then, in his late aunt’s immaculate ‘64 white Mercedes Benz, SL230 Pagoda Sports Convertible, Carlos had driven us to his villa at Pedralbes, in Zona Alta…Carl and John-Luke having to sit on the rear bulkhead – the rear, red leather seat being far too small to accommodate them both. Like a pair of celebrities, they had sat there with their feet resting on the seat in front of them, waving back to those pedestrians passing-by who had waved at them…su
btle, I think not – but, hey, who cared! That evening, after dinner, in private I had talked at some length to Carl about joining the Family. And, after receiving assurances about being able to maintain his independence, and being able to choose and determine what ‘work’ he undertook, he had happily accepted the offer. It was then that I had mentioned to Carl that the Spanish already had a piece of work for us…well more for him, really – a case of quid pro quo.
The Spanish National Intelligence Centre, the ‘Centro Nacional de Inteligencia’, the CNI, had cleverly covered up the assassination of the Hamas bomb maker – alleging that he was in actual fact a member of the terrorist group ETA, the Basque nationalist and separatist organisation, killed while trying to plant a bomb. The man’s face had been made totally unrecognisable by the blast, which had also removed his right hand. Mysteriously, somewhere between the boulevard and the morgue, he had also lost his left hand, making positive identification virtually impossible. The CNI’s motives had been simple. They had wanted to implicate ETA in starting a fresh bombing campaign, raise the political anger of the Spanish Government and, in turn, raise their own profile and increase their allocation of government funding. Accordingly, they had been sanctioned to strike back at ETA – in any manner that they had seen fit. And they had seen fit to target a known ETA bomb maker, in the very heart of the Basque Country, itself – and they were going to use Carl to do it for them. We had remained at Carlos’s villa, in Pedralbes, for a couple of days, while the Spanish CNI had done some initial groundwork. Once that had been done, and the assassination had been agreed in principle, we had then moved up north, to Carlos’s vineyard and estate set in the rolling rocky terrain of the Ribera del Duero. While there, we had used the time well: reading and digesting all the information and intelligence that had been gathered on our intended Candidate; training hard and working out together; setting up location mock-ups; rehearsing and running through all the moves together; determining who was going to do what – and when. Three days later, we had received CNI sanction to ‘Ejecutar’ – to execute!
Bilbao is up in the north of the country, close to the Bay of Biscay. It is the capital city of the Province of Biscay. A city right in the heart of ‘Bandit’ Country – Basque Country!
Since the early sixties, ETA had killed over eight hundred individuals, and had injured as many more. As well as kidnapping and shootings, the other weapon of choice for ETA had been the bomb. Their bombing campaigns were claimed by them to be against specific strategic targets: politicians, civil guard, police, military and the like. But of course, invariably, there had always been collateral damage involved…the slaughter and maiming of the innocent – hundreds of them, including children! And it had been an ETA bomb maker that the Spanish had wanted us to assassinate – or rather, Carl to assassinate, that is.
The ETA bomb maker, in question, had been a middle aged primary school teacher – of all things. Also, unusually, unlike most bomb makers, who would leave it up to others to place their devices, relishing in the power of being able to cause death and mayhem by distant proxy – our man preferred to place his creations himself. And it had been of great concern to the CNI when they had discovered that he had booked and pre-purchased a return rail ticket to Barcelona, for the Sunday – only two days away. With a journey time of about six and a half hours, each way, from the times that he had booked his train tickets, it would leave him less than two hours in Barcelona – not enough time to do tourist things, but more than enough time to plant a bomb!
We had initially rationalised that we had three options open to us: kill him in Bilbao, kill him on the train, or kill him in Barcelona. However, the CNI had taken another view on that. If we failed to kill the school teacher on the Saturday then, to avoid any risk to the public, they would arrest him on the Sunday as he tried to board the early morning train to Barcelona – no pressure, then! By road, from Carlos’s estate, up on the plateau, it had only been about a two and a half hour drive to Bilbao. Normally, establishing plausible cover stories for the four of us, at such short notice, could have presented a bit of a problem – especially in a city like Bilbao. After all, this had been the capital of the Basque nationalist and separatist organisation, and the nominal headquarters of ETA. None of us had looked exactly like your conventional tourist; and any one of us could have easily aroused suspicion of the paranoiac ETA members and their supporters. They had been constantly vigilant for undercover members of the police, civil guard and obviously agents of the CNI…meaning that strangers could come under the closet of scrutiny – even the risk of abduction and interrogation. With time, and the appropriate cover stories, we could have integrated and merged ourselves into the populace of Bilbao. But we did not have the time – we only had twenty four hours! However, it had been late August and, each year, in the last two weeks of August, the Corridas Generales bullfighting festival and fiesta had been held at the Plaza de Toros de Vista Alegre bullring, in Bilbao – presenting us with the ideal cover story.
Early the next morning, Saturday, we had parked nearby to the Parque Europa, in Bilbao. Separately, we had boarded local ‘Bilobuses’ to the bullring, the Plaza de Toros de Vista Alegre, on Martín Agüero, to the west of the downtown area. The CNI had already procured us tickets for the festival, with seats in different parts of the stadium, so there had been no need for us to queue. Individually, we had each made our way into the stadium. For Carlos, with his intense abhorrence and loathing of bullfighting and bullrings, he had walked straight in and straight out again. The rest of us had followed after the parade; the ‘paseíllo’ had taken place, through an exit gate that the CNI had arranged to have unlocked. While Carl and John-Luke had returned back to the car, to retrieve tools and explosive devices hidden in the trunk, I had met up with Carlos, who had been waiting close by, in the park.
The Atxuri Kalea, and the first floor apartment of the school teacher, had been a just a brisk twenty minute walk from the park. Along a predetermined route, Carlos had set off first, on ‘point’ – while Carl and John-Luke had followed him two minutes later, with me bringing up the rear, two minutes after them. The two minute intervals had been ideal – far enough away so as not to be associated or connected with one another, but close enough to keep each other in line of sight. On turning left on to Atxuri Kalea, Carl and John-Luke had hung back, pretending to check a map, while Carlos had done a ‘walk by’ past the school teacher’s apartment block. Satisfied that all had been clear; Carlos had crossed over the road and gone into a café, situated opposite the entrance door to the apartments. This had been a signal to Carl and John-Luke – and they moved in. The locks on the outer front door had posed no problem to Carl’s dexterous use of his tension wrench and the appropriate pick, from his pick set. The door to the first floor apartment, itself, had also been quickly opened. With no alarm system fitted in the apartment, after checking for ‘tags’; slips of paper or lengths of thread attached to the door and the door frame – their breakage or displacement indicating that an entry had been made – Carl and John-Luke had walked straight in to the small one bedded apartment. CNI intelligence had suggested that the school teacher would be at the bullfight all day but, if he had of been at home, or returned home early, then Carl and John-Luke would have killed him on the spot.
Seeing that they had successfully gained entry, I had joined Carlos in the café, opposite. My Spanish is good, better than just conversational – but on that day, I had carried a Canadian passport and my Spanish had been straight out of a phrase book. Between the phase book and my contrived poor tourist Spanish, I had tried to order a toasted bagel, which did not seem translate to the sweating fat man standing behind the heavily stained counter top. Getting up from his seat, at a window table, Carlos had played the part of the Good Samaritan, and had come to my aid. Bagels had not been on the menu of this particular café. Instead, with Carlos’s linguistic help, I had ordered a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, pre-made, straight out of a plastic packet and just dropped into
a food encrusted sandwich toaster. With the toasted sandwich balanced on a small white cardboard plate, a bottle of chilled Coke in the other, at his invite, I had joined my new found ‘friend’ at his table in the window. There, ostensibly, we had made polite chat in English about touristy things: bull fights, flamencos, fiestas and such, while keeping the street outside and the school teacher’s apartment under the closest of observation.
Inside the apartment, the initial priority had been to find any explosive devices that might have been there, before Carl had planted his own. They had found under the kitchen sink ammonium nitrate fertiliser, in a large packet of washing powder, with a few flakes of detergent scattered liberally over the top of the white chemical in an attempt to disguise it. Further along the cabinet had been a one kilo bag of assorted nails and screws. In the centre of the kitchen table had been a large rectangular biscuit tin. At first glance, the tin still appeared to have had its cellophane wrapping on but, on closer scrutiny, the wrapping had been carefully slit inside the lip of the lid, allowing it to be opened without tearing the thin plastic covering. On opening it, the tin had been empty…ready for other contents – this had been the intended container for the explosive device. In the small bath room, behind the toilet, they had found a cylindrical tin of preparatory cleaner – inside which had been a large amount of white aluminium powder. In the right quantities, when mixed with the ammonium nitrate, the aluminium powder would provide the power enhancement to the nitrates oxidisation; in other words – an explosion! They had also found the electrical detonator and a 9V battery in the bathroom, hidden in a length of false water pipe. Between them, Carl and John-Luke had found the materials needed to make an explosive device: the ammonium nitrate and white aluminium powder, to give the explosive blast; the nails and screws, to provide the shrapnel; the electrical detonator to ignite it; and the biscuit tin to contain it all. There had only been one thing missing – the timer! The pair of them had methodically searched the neat one bed-roomed apartment – but no timer. Carl had decided to use the explosive device that he had brought with him in his small haversack. His intention had been to place it in the entrance hallway of the apartment, immediately on the blind side of the front door – so that when the door opened, the device would be concealed behind it. The five hundred grams of Semtex would be triggered by a detonator attached to a trip wire, fixed to the door. Within five seconds of the door opening, and the trip wire activating the detonator, the Semtex would have exploded. Five hundred grams of the powerful explosive had been more than sufficient to totally annihilate anything in the small confines of the hallway, but leave any other residents of the apartment block unharmed – hopefully! Carl’s only regret had been the splendid antique grandmother clock, standing in the hallway. Several decades of exquisite French craftsmanship would be shattered into thousands of fragments and splinters in one blinding flash. Carl had an avid interest in old clocks, timepieces and automatons – anything with clockwork mechanisms. He loved their simplicity, their mechanical integrity. And it had only been when he had bent down to admire the ornately machined pendulums, through the bevelled edged glass door, that he had notice the very small faint scuff marks on the polished tiled floor – the clock had been moved! With gentle reverence, Carl had eased the grandmother clock out slightly from the wall, sufficient for him to look behind it. And, lo and behold, there had been the timer for the bomb, hanging from a hook on the rear panelling of the clock.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 31