“We watch them all,” the buck-toothed man said. “We have to. But the resources are stretched every time.”
“I get it,” Drake said. “For every ten ‘friendly’ agents you spend time on, one terrorist could just slip by.”
“Yes, sir.”
“An hour until kick off.” Hayden pointed at the clock. “We should go to our positions.”
“Check comms,” the surveillance team-leader said.
They did.
“Be ready and familiarize yourselves with our grid system. You should know every point, so that when we call out a position you can converge immediately, as one unit.”
“Your men too,” Smyth rasped.
“They will do as they are trained to do,” the leader said a little cryptically.
Hayden signaled and the team moved out, their position only a few minutes’ walk from the famous Camp Nou stadium. For Drake—a one-time soccer fan and now an idle follower—the sight was a little underwhelming at first. The same as many modern, similar stadiums, the curving painted concrete walls and advertising spoke only of the moneymen, the surrounding streets merely the same. A hubbub of noise, laughter and shouting filled the streets, a riot of color bounded before his gaze. Men, women and children sauntered, queued and darted without apparent purpose. Crowds huddled to discuss team sheets and recent performances, upcoming player transfers and new arrivals. Rival fans called out in friendly fashion, at least for now.
Drake threaded through the pack with his team around him, heading for an obscure side door built into the concrete wall. A keypad was spotted and a six-digit PIN entered, and then they were inside the huge arena, treading hallowed halls where no fan or soccer player ever walked. Nevertheless a deep rolling thunder of sound could already be heard, spreading through the very foundations of the stadium and echoing through every wall. The chants of the faithful, the songs of all the dedicated believers. Drake imagined the players gathering now and wondered if they could hear it in their changing rooms—something incredibly uplifting for the home team and entirely intimidating for the visitors.
“How many does this place hold?” he asked.
“Over ninety nine thousand,” Dahl said immediately. “Largest in Europe.”
Drake slowed as they approached a door that led out into the stadium itself. They all took a breath, ready for the onslaught of noise and light, the eruption of passion.
“We ready?” Hayden asked.
“Occasion doesn’t choose dates,” Mai said. “This is an occasion, and we have to make it happen.”
Drake smiled across at her. “We always do, love. Always do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The enormity of their task was immediately clear. Drake hadn’t been to a soccer match in many years and some of the others had never encountered a stadium like this in their lives. It wasn’t only the vast scope of the seating, the infinite curve of the walls, the bobbing, matching colors—it was also the sheer swell of noise that assaulted the senses like a battlement full of Gatling guns. Hayden hesitated under vocal fire and Drake took her by the arm.
“Focus,” he said. “We’re only here for show. The real work’s being done by the surveillance units.”
Endless rows of seating bowed away in two directions, some rows blue and some purple. The walkways in between tiers were what Drake was looking for and he pointed them out to the team.
“Our way of getting around,” he said. “But it’s gonna be hard reaching Webb without being seen.”
They walked the narrow path between levels, scanning faces in the crowd as far back as they could. One thing soon became clear.
“We have to split up,” Dahl said. “We’re no good all stuck together like this.”
The team went in separate directions, climbing the stands and switching back, staying in contact through their comms. Drake watched the swell of the crowd, ignored the chanting and the antics from the stands and tried to focus on faces. Kick-off time was approaching and a sense of rising excitement amplified the already churning atmosphere. The field down and to his right lay bright green and seemingly flawless, soon to be picked out by floodlights. Faces bobbed and grinned in all directions, many of them Spanish, which helped immensely as he sought the American in their midst.
Several times, he spotted potential suspects, but each was discounted after closer study. Both Mai and Alicia transmitted over the comms that they’d marked a candidate but facial rec was quickly carried out and the man omitted. Hayden told them all to recheck their own phones where she’d sent a picture of Webb to help their inundated senses maintain a center of attention.
Many thousands passed inspection. Alicia and Mai were both among the crowd, Smyth approaching those whose backs were turned and spinning them around whilst Yorgi looked on. Dahl shouldered his way through groups and lifted the caps of those who unwittingly hid their faces. Mostly surprise greeted him with the odd angry word.
Eventually Hayden, Smyth and Kenzie ended up back at the CCTV HQ, hating the onslaught of overwhelming noise and thinking they might be able to do better behind a TV screen. Drake remained in the thick of it, not once staying still.
“Bet I clock ’im before you do, Ikea boy.”
“If by that you mean catch sight of the critter then I very much doubt it. I’m taller, younger and overall the better bet.”
“You’re on.”
“Guys,” Hayden drawled. “I think the cameras are better than your eyes.”
“Then you’re on too.”
“Maybe we could form teams,” Alicia put in a little slyly. “Me and Drake, and Dahl and Kenzie.”
The Swede bit hard. “You wear your insinuations well, lady.”
“Maybe.” Mai spoke carefully. “But Drake and I work so much better together.”
Drake winced, sensing a coming battle. Mai was not a woman to give up anything easily, let alone something that spanned decades. He guessed the only reason she held herself back was because she’d left so suddenly and with no guarantee of return. It must have hit her very hard.
His feet quickened, his senses hyper-alert. It came as a surprise to see the crowd on their feet and he realized the game had kicked off; he’d been fully in the zone. Floodlights blazed and the players stalked their positions as they tested out the opposition. Drake couldn’t see an empty space, but now all the faces were turned toward him.
Alicia called in a possible spot that proved fruitless. So did Beau. The whole quadrangle that entangled them became a slowly contracting noose. Where would it all end? He stopped, watching an American standing silent and unmoved amidst a gaggle of noisy human geese, hopeful but knowing full well it wasn’t Webb.
Then Dahl broke the radio silence. “I believe I have him.”
Hayden shot a comment back, and then Drake was waiting, no sarcasm now but hopeful that somebody had spotted their prey. A timer was ticking somewhere, for something, they just didn’t know what. Was it to cover Webb’s escape? Or something worse? And where had the cult positioned themselves?
Hayden’s voice slashed across the airwaves. “That’s him! Go get ’im, Torsten!”
Drake moved fast. He knew exactly where Dahl was and wanted to back the big Swede up.
*
Dahl blinked, almost shocked that the affirmative had come back. That really was Tyler Webb then, standing near the back row of a tier, in the middle of the aisle, next to a woman wearing the Barcelona colors. Fans gave voice to their feelings all around the two as they bent their heads together and talked.
“Two marks,” Dahl said, moving carefully and seemingly without aim. “The woman beside him appears to be his contact.”
“Running her now,” Hayden came back. “If she knows Webb well enough to meet like this she can’t be good. Watch out.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Dahl inched ever closer, affected by the knowledge that Webb knew him by sight and just one, tiny uplifting of those eyes would . . .
There.
Webb sp
otted him, locking on and spitting out a curse word. The woman bolted without even a glance; clearly expecting the worse from the get-go. Dahl saw her scarper to the left, pushing fans aside, and Webb started to move to the right. Bodies moved aside or were pushed hard and windmilled their arms as they staggered. Dahl had no option but to chase after Webb, dashing down the closest aisle and dealing out the same treatment to the row of fans gathered there.
He trampled feet, kicked shins and elbowed stomachs, knocking one larger man who saw him coming, over the back of his chair. The man had decided to challenge the Mad Swede. Not the best idea at any time, but even less so when Dahl was chasing one of the world’s most wanted men.
Dahl shouted into his neck mic. “He’s running. Converge!”
Webb reached the aisle first and dashed up the steps that separated tiers. Dahl danced around a pregnant woman, lost ground, then hit the steps himself on one knee, leapt up and ran hard. Webb jumped into another row, causing havoc.
“Someone chase down that woman!” Hayden cried.
“On it,” Alicia answered, and Mai also called an affirmative.
Dahl leapt up another row, now only one away from the fleeing Webb and half a dozen seats behind. He called out for the man to halt, to no avail. It was all a distraction procedure anyway. Webb stumbled, but caught himself on a chair arm and practically jumped into a seated man’s lap. Dahl shouldered past a thick group, and lost sight of the American for one moment.
“Best hurry,” Kinimaka came over the airwaves. “We don’t know this man’s exit strategy.”
“One thing’s for sure, it won’t be discreet,” Smyth said.
Dahl tried to leap over the back of an empty chair, missed and went sprawling, but immediately picked himself up. The scrapes didn’t matter; the bruises routine. “Where are the Spanish cops?” he asked.
“Right with you now. They’re cutting Webb off at the pass.”
Dahl glanced ahead and saw cops racing for the next set of stairs in time to intercept Webb. The Pythian made a desperate leap, landing just three or four steps ahead; Dahl joined the cops in the chase, now turning more heads than the household names that occupied the pitch.
People roared in encouragement.
Dahl bowed slightly as he ran. Best to acknowledge praise when one received it. Webb led the pack, running for the upper stands. Already people were leaning over the barriers up there to get a better view of what was happening. Dahl passed two slow-moving cops and then one more as the man slipped to a tumult of applause.
Pitiless, these soccer fans. Pitiless. And where the hell is Beau? The Frenchman’s usually lightning quick.
The Swede looked for a way to head Webb off, but the stadium was uniformly laid out and offered no short cuts. “Where are you?” He keyed the neck mic.
“Coming in from your right,” Drake shouted and then he was there as Dahl swept around a sharp bend, the Yorkshireman using his shoulder to reduce speed.
“Just behind you,” Smyth said.
“And me,” said Yorgi.
“I am, of course, ahead,” Beau said, the slippery tones extremely smug. “And waiting for Webb.”
And now Dahl saw the Frenchman. Somehow he’d gotten above Webb, probably vaulted from seatback to railing and over vendors, knowing him, and was crouched on top of a barrier waiting for Webb to race into range.
Dahl slowed and readied.
“The last of the Pythians is about to go down,” Drake said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Beau sprang. Webb didn’t see him coming, but certainly felt the impact, letting out a grunt and a half-scream before collapsing to the floor. Beau bounced off the Pythian’s stomach and landed on two feet, as fleet as a cat and more deadly. Drake and Dahl slowed even more, coming up to a struggling Webb. Hayden’s hesitant but hopeful voice filled his ears.
“Did you get the bastard?”
Drake paused, cautious. Webb was already upright, glaring at Beau as if he might have the power to melt the man with eye lasers. Luckily for him, he was unscathed.
“You betrayed me, Beauregard Alain. Protected my back long enough to thrust a knife into it. You were never a believer.”
“In chaos and death and the accumulation of supreme power? No, I will never believe in that. These days, I believe only in myself.”
“Then you are weak. Just like the rest of them.”
“Hey, pal,” Drake called out. “You’re the one who’s about to go weak. At the knees when I break your bloody nose.”
“Get in line,” Kinimaka growled.
Webb turned to stare at them, the whole scene now peculiarly still. The crowd still roared and the fans cheered or jeered depending on who had the ball and the state of play or the referee’s decision. But a small sphere enveloped them—the sphere of absolute focus.
“Do you think I would do all this with no backup plan? Ladies and gentlemen—” the madman spread his hands “—I have, and they’re limitless.”
There it was then. Drake held his breath, conscious that this monster could cook up the most terrible of brews. Yorgi suddenly had eyes everywhere.
“She’s run off,” Dahl said. “Your woman friend. Gone.”
“You will never stop me. Never kill me,” Webb said with a smile. “Do you know why?”
Drake stood prepared. “Because death’s too good for you,” he said with a surety.
“Because I am the next ascendant. I will find the elixir. And I will not only join the Master—I will assume his position!”
The cops moved in slowly. Dahl chuckled. “I know one position you’re going to be assuming, old boy. Just as soon as we get you into general population.”
But Webb flung his hands into the air, a black device in one hand, and pressed a red button.
“Let them fly!” he screamed. “Let them fly now!”
*
Drake froze, ready for anything, the first image he had of the new threat was a sparkling rush from above. Flashing edges of light caught his eyes, which were drawn to the skies.
People in the crowd were letting loose small drones, not many but enough to scare the security and some of the crowd. Drake took immediate shelter behind the concrete wall at his side, but the drones just hovered there, menacing.
Panic swept the area.
Drake knew how this went. Everyone who’d seen the cops chasing a man now saw the drones and assumed the worst could be happening. These drones were tiny, though, too small to hold any real threat, but nobody really knew that. How had Webb pulled this off?
No matter. They’d come to that eventually. Right now . . . He cast around for Webb.
“Where . . . ?” Dahl surveyed the area.
Now they saw Beau, presumably in pursuit of Webb, leaping from railing to railing, but the crowd were starting to get in his way. Some were already clogging the aisles, others sheltering there. In another moment the drones all dived and spun in the air and then made their way back to their owners, eight in total.
No danger. Just threat. This was what Webb had been reduced to, but the madman still made good use of implied terror.
Somewhere above, at the Nou Camp’s top level, Webb raced up the stairs, heading for an exit. Hayden jumped on the comms, filling Drake’s ears with American expletives. Drake cut across her.
“Do you have eyes on him?”
“Yeah, but go. Just go!”
Drake took off fast, jumping two or three steps at a time, trying to pick his way through a confused, milling crowd. His urgency seemed to upset them even more and some followed in his wake, making it harder for Smyth and Dahl behind. Beau slipped up ahead, distracted by an anxious couple tugging at his arm, and trying to calm them.
“Slow down, people.” The voice drowned out Hayden and surprised Drake.
“Argento? What—”
“You’re inside a full capacity Nou Camp stadium. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if panic fills that place. Now slow down and act as if all is well.”
&nb
sp; “Armand!” Hayden cried.
“I understand your frustration, but Webb is one man. And this is his get-out plan. One hundred thousand souls are packed into that stadium. Think smarter. Use the CCTV, Hayden, and catch him outside.”
Despite everything, Drake agreed with the Italian. With a conscious effort and fighting every instinct in his body, he slackened the pace and smiled around into concerned faces.
“All okay, folks,” Dahl called out. “Just a pickpocket.”
Drake shook his head. “You’re worse than a daily rag for finessing the bloody facts. As if they’re gonna believe you.”
Dahl shrugged. “They want to, that’s what counts, mate.”
Drake saw it in their faces. None of them wanted to miss the match, this highlight of their week or, for some, their year; none of them wanted to walk away from the global atmosphere. Their own optimism bred new belief that someone had played a malicious prank.
“You’ll be okay,” Drake said to a dithering couple. “Take your seats.”
He believed it. Webb had shown his new and apparently only recourse—contacts who couldn’t or wouldn’t cause mayhem on a large scale. At least for now. Maybe it was Webb’s way of staying below the radar. Or maybe he had so few collaborators left this was all they could whip together.
Still, they seemed effective.
Drake reached the top of the steps, thankful that the crowd appeared to be settling. Thank God that the cult had held off. Perhaps they were waiting for Webb outside. Drake passed his thoughts along.
They pushed through a door and then switched right along an open area, looking for some stairs. Eateries stood to their right, causing Kinimaka to give vent to a groan of longing.
Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain Page 8