by Tom Abrahams
BARCELONA, SPAIN
The white sunlight of the early evening forced Jon Custos to slip on a pair of shades as he stepped from his hotel on to Bergara Street. He looked both ways and then started northeast, parallel to the coastline, crossing the Plaça de Catayluna, an open plaza in the heart of the central city.
He considered a taxi or a train, but decided to walk the city, one of his favorites. The wide “carrers”, lined with tall birch trees and dotted with tapas bars, were among the most fantastic in Europe. The smells of fresh bread and the bustle of the Catalan people seemed surreal at times. Perhaps he’d have time after his date with the flight attendant to enjoy a sirloin with pepper, some breaded calamari, and a good beer.
A trio of motorcycles buzzed past him, and the men in business suits and helmets accelerated amongst the congestion of buses and smart cars. He found a narrow alleyway, three stories high with balcony-adorned flats, and slipped his hands into his pockets. Custos knew this part of the city as the Gothic Quarter. It was teeming with tourists oblivious to their surroundings. He pressed forward along the cobbled streets, whistling a familiar tune from Edvard Grieg, and ignored a man trying to sell him a two-euro selfie-stick for ten, and waved off another offering bottled water.
He checked his phone for the proper address of his destination against the marble etched street marker on the corner building. He was looking for a high-rise apartment building in Bac de Roda. It was an older building, as were most of those around it, but it was awash in a bright coral and Mediterranean blue that made it inviting. He found it next to a pharmacy and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
Custos walked up the short set of concrete steps to the front glass door and tugged. It was locked. Within seconds, an elderly woman appeared in the lobby and backed her way out of the entrance, escorting a small dog on a leash.
Custos held the door for her. She thanked him and the dog yapped, but neither noticed him slip inside the building.
Inside the un-air-conditioned lobby, Custos removed his sunglasses and pulled a piece of paper from his front pocket. He checked the information on the scrap and then grabbed the stair rail to begin his climb. His heavy steps echoed in the narrow stairwell as he trudged upward.
The echo of children playing beyond the doors of their apartment homes and the smell of what he assumed was chicken or maybe rabbit cooking consumed the space. Sweat dripped from Custos’s bald head when he bent over to catch his breath on the third floor.
Wiping his brow with the back of his long-sleeved khaki linen shirt, Custos looked down the long hallway lined with doors. He took a deep breath of the stale air and stepped along the terrazzo floor, checking the numbers on the doors: 304, 306, 308 on his right. 305, 307, 309 on his left.
At the end of the hall he reached flat 310. He pressed his ear to the wood door, its paint peeling in clusters. Somebody was home. The television was on. Custos put his left index finger over the fish-eye peephole at the door’s center and pressed a button next to the door with his right.
The buzzer rang until he released his finger. He pressed again and again in short bursts.
“Un moment,” a gruff voice called from inside the apartment, telling the visitor to wait. He was on his way. “Espereu si us plau! Estic arribant. Estic arribant.”
Custos set his feet shoulder-width apart. The man’s footsteps were getting louder.
“Qui és?” the man asked. “No puc veure. Qui és?”
Custos said nothing, but pushed the buzzer and held it for several seconds. He clenched his jaw.
“Déu meu,” the man said through the door. He opened it, not releasing the chain, preventing it from opening fully.
When he pulled back on the handle, Custos pulled up his leg and, with all of his force, thrust his foot at the center right edge of the door. The door exploded inward, snapping the security chain and slamming into the old man.
Custos checked the hall in both directions and then stepped into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. The man lay on the floor, dazed and babbling incoherently. Custos locked the door and found a chair to place underneath the handle, bracing it against the only interior entrance to the apartment.
Custos stalked the home, marching through the two bedrooms and single bathroom, making certain they were alone and that all of the windows were closed and locked. He drew the sheer blue curtains closed in the master bedroom and closed the blinds in the spare one. He checked the floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors at the back of the unit. They opened to a patio overlooking Paseo de Taulat. Custos found a broom handle in the kitchen, broke it off at the top of the handle, and used the wooden shard to brace the glass doors. Nobody could get in or out of the apartment without his permission. And that wouldn’t be happening.
The man was slowly gaining his wits, and he tried sitting up on the floor, but Custos pushed him on his back with a boot to the chest. The Romani then squatted, straddling his much-smaller prey as the confused man squirmed in pathetic futility.
“Silencio!” Custos pulled a finger to his lips. “Sierra la boca, por favor. Entiende?”
The man, grimacing, nodded that he understood. Though Custos didn’t speak Catalan, most everyone in Barcelona spoke Spanish too.
The man whimpered his compliance and complained that he couldn’t breathe with a giant sitting on his chest. The man pressed his eyes closed, the wrinkles at his temples and in his forehead deepening as he whispered a prayer.
“Jesús no esta aquí,” Custos mocked, telling the man Jesus wasn’t there to help him. “Y ello no te ayuda.”
The man continued his prayer, ignoring the giant. Custos bound his quarry’s wrists with plastic zip ties he’d carried in his pocket alongside his phone. He warned the man not to move, then grabbed the man’s jaw and forced open his mouth, stuffing it with a cloth napkin he’d found on the kitchen counter.
“Habla ingles?” he asked. The man nodded and Custos stood, relieving the pressure on the man’s chest.
“I have some questions for you, then.” Custos could have continued speaking in Spanish. He was recording the audio on his phone and wanted to make it easier for those who’d later listen to the forthcoming interrogation.
The man’s eyes, wide with the fear that came only from knowing pain was in the offing, darted around the room from his position on the floor. He couldn’t see much: a chair against the front door, the patio door closed and locked, a giant looking down on him.
“Let’s begin with who you are.” Custos moved out of the man’s line of sight and found a comfortable seat on a worn brown leather sofa. He propped his feet on the wooden coffee table in front of him. “I will ask you questions, and you will nod your head for yes and shake your head for no. I want you to stay flat on your back on the floor. Entiende?”
The man nodded.
“You are Fernando Barçes?”
Fernando Barçes nodded, trying to crane his neck to see the giant.
“You live here in this flat?”
Another nod.
“You work at the hotel on the water, the one next to the trade center, yes?”
Barçes lay still.
“I asked if you work at the hotel by the port. The one next to the trade center. It looks like a big ship.”
This time, Barçes slowly nodded, as if he was afraid revealing that information alone would kill him.
“You are a maintenance man there? You clean and fix.” Custos knew the answers without having to ask them. Still, he enjoyed the game.
Barçes didn’t answer immediately. Custos grunted. He dropped his heavy feet to the floor and marched loudly to the kitchen. He returned with a stainless steel cheese grater. Barçes was flushed and sweating. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Custos squatted next to Barçes. He pressed the grater to the side of the old man’s face. From his training, Custos knew the fear of pain was more effective at eliciting a response than pain itself. He didn’t have time for sleep deprivation, nor the privacy for noise
-induced exhaustion or water-boarding. Pain, if it came to that, could be counterproductive. He was secretly hopeful the threat of a cheese grater was enough.
Barçes gagged against the napkin shoved into his mouth. Tears welled in the outer corners of his eyes. They spilled down the sides of his face. He was shaking.
Custos grazed Barçes’s cheek with the grater. He pushed it up toward the old man’s eyes and lowered his lips to whisper, “Su trabajo por favor.”
Barçes squeezed his eyes closed and nodded.
“Bueno.” Custos pushed himself to his feet, using the grater pressed to Barçes’s face as leverage. “Now I need your keys.”
He looked down at the broken man and admired his quick work. Barçes’s chest heaved with each sob, snot bubbling from his nose, and he choked against the gag. He was shaking his head back and forth.
“The answer is yes, Abuelo.” Custos nodded. “You’ll give the keys.”
CHAPTER 17
STARBUCKS
HOUSTON, TEXAS
The tweet was cryptic but crystal clear.
I got something you want. It’ll cost $5k.
Dillinger Holt rubbed his chin, staring at the direct message on his Twitter account. He didn’t know the account holder. The profile was intentionally vague, with a single tweet. The account had no followers and only followed Holt.
Holt followed back and sent his own message.
I’ll bite. Whatchu got?
He adjusted his laptop on his table at a Starbucks on the corner of Buffalo Speedway and the Southwest Freeway. He needed coffee and he needed to work. His editor wanted a follow-up to his hit-generating piece on the connection between the deaths of Horus and an FBI agent. Barely two hundred words into a five-hundred-word piece, and he was on his third Americano, completely wired. His knee bounced up and down while he awaited a reply. Instead, his phone rang.
“Dillinger Holt.”
“Mr. Holt, I’m with the Houston office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You called?”
“Yes.” Holt opened a new screen on his laptop to take notes. “I am looking for reaction to my article. I’ll guess you’ve read it.”
“I have.”
“Can you comment? What role is your office now playing in the investigation into Horus’s death?”
“I can’t comment,” the pleasant-sounding woman answered. “I’m sure you know anything like that has to go through DC. I can give you the number to the Public Affairs officer there if you need it.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it. Can you tell me if there’s been any discussion at the SAC level? Any talk about it at all? Is he aware of the article?”
“I really can’t comment.” She paused. “I can confirm, on background, the special agent in charge, Rick West, is aware of the report. That’s it. Okay?”
“Got it.”
Holt hung up and then hit the speed dial for the PAO’s office for FBI headquarters.
“FBI Public Affairs.”
“Hi, Freddie. This is Dillinger.”
“Dillinger!” Freddie’s voice jumped an octave. “How’s it going, bud? You haven’t been to the gym in a couple of weeks. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Holt answered, “just busy with work. I’m traveling a lot. How are you?”
“I’m good. Trying to stay in shape and get back to the ripped abs I never had.”
“Funny. Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”
“On the record?”
“That depends on you.”
“Go ahead. Shoot.”
“You know about my article, right?”
“Everybody does.”
“What kind of effort is there to flesh out the connection between the two deaths?”
“I can’t speak to that,” Freddie answered. “I can tell you on the record that the agency is aware of the report and is coordinating a response. If there is, in fact, an evidentiary connection between the deaths of Mr. Singleton and Special Agent Majors, we will pursue it in coordination with the local agencies involved.”
“Got it.” Holt was thumping away at the keyboard. “What can you tell me on background? I’m greedy.”
“Nothing.” Freddie laughed. “I think this line is bad. Let me call you back in a minute.”
Holt knew Freddie wouldn’t give him anything valuable on a recorded government line. He’d await a call from him from his cell.
Holt opened his Twitter page and saw a new direct message waiting for him. He clicked on the envelope icon.
Check your email. A little taste. I don’t trust police. Don’t call them.
Holt rubbed his chin and took a sip of his coffee. He opened his email. There were three new messages. One was from his editor. A second was spam. The third, the newest, was from a Gmail account with a series of random letters and numbers. Holt opened it.
Mr. Holt: Attached to this email is a still frame from a cell phone video I shot. I will let you see the whole video if we can agree to financial terms. The video shows the aftermath of the shoot-out in which the president says Spencer Thomas was killed. I was nearby, at the Marine museum, when the shooting happened and was able to get close to the scene.
There are only three body bags. There were three US Marshals killed. Where is the fourth body bag? I saw the bodies put into the bags. They were all marshals. Somebody is hiding something. I am not a conspiracy nut, but I think something weird is going on.
I like your reporting. I think you are fair. I get your reports sent to my inbox. Reply here with an answer. I think 5k is a good price.
Holt thumbed up to the paperclip attachment and clicked it. His screen filled with a blurry image of three body bags next to each other on a road. In the background was what looked like a US Marshals’ transport vehicle. There were at least a dozen federal investigators in the frame: FBI, USMS, ATF. It looked legitimate. Holt drew another sip of coffee, considering what to do with the email, when his phone rang.
“Hi, Freddie.”
“Hey. On background, and not attributable to me or anyone at the agency, I can give you a couple of nuggets. That work?”
“How do you want me to sell it?”
“Just attribute to a law enforcement source with indirect knowledge of the investigation. Say the source is not authorized to speak publicly on the issue. That always sounds good.”
“Got it. What’s the info.”
“They’re freaking out about this. They’re already knee deep in the US Marshal debacle. They’re blindsided.”
“Who is they?”
“The intelligence community. I was in a briefing this morning. It was low-level stuff, but the tone in the room was not good. I’m not privy to what the top brass is saying, but I do know they’re scrambling to put together a team to look into this.”
“What can you tell me about Agent Majors?”
“I wasn’t here then,” Freddie said. “I was in the Army. I was a PAO at Landstuhl. I’ve just heard the anecdotal, rumor stuff.”
“Which is…?”
“I don’t want to go there, man. I mean, I trust you, but I can’t talk about it today. Maybe over a beer in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks doesn’t help me, Freddie.”
“I hear you. I can’t give you any more today. I hope that’s cool.”
“It’s cool. Thanks for everything. I owe you.”
Holt looked at the image on his screen. He opened up Twitter and typed a response.
checking with boss. will reply to email.
Holt clicked on the browser icon on his computer and went to PlausibleDeniability.info. His article’s link was top corner, left and in bold. That was the above-the-fold spot on the site.
Next to his article was a large photograph of President Felicia Jackson at her press conference, with the quote “The attack was brutal” in red underneath the picture. There were three or four articles about the attack. Holt scanned through all of them, better familiarizing himself with the details. Then he called his editor.
&
nbsp; “You got the update for me?” she asked without a greeting. “I need to get it up quickly. Your piece, incredibly, is getting more unique views than the marshal ambush stuff combined. Unreal, right?”
“Yeah,” Holt said, unamused that his sideshow of a story was outperforming the reporting on an issue of national security. “And yes. I’ll have your update in ten minutes. I’ve got sources telling me the FBI is reacting to our report. That’s enough for now, right?”
“Perfect.”
“There’s something else.”
“What? You want off the Horus story? Not gonna happen. I’m probably gonna send someone else to Barcelona. You’re too valuable on this.”
Holt gritted his teeth. “I’m being punished for doing my job?”
“I don’t see it as punishment.”
“Whatever,” he dismissed, working hard to not raise his voice. “My perception is my reality. It’s punishment. Regardless, I’ve got a tip I need to discuss.”
“What about?”
“An anonymous person reached out to me on Twitter and then sent me an email. I forwarded it to you. Read it. Tell me what you think.”
“I see it,” she said. “Hang on a moment.”
Holt started writing his update. He clicked between his notes and his draft, drawing from his notes as he wrote. He’d gotten three sentences finished when the editor interrupted.
“Is this for real?” she asked. “Seriously?”
“It looks legit,” Holt said, adjusting his Bluetooth earpiece. “I can’t really know without seeing the video.”
“Is it going to cost us five grand to take a look?”
“I think so.”
“Do it.”
“So you want me working both stories? Or you want me to switch to the tip? I mean it’s national security. It’s more up my alley, and I—”
“Work both. Or give the tip to someone else. Up to you. Get me the Horus update in ten minutes. I need it up by the top of the hour. If you can, shoot a forty-five-second teaser with your laptop camera. We’ll upload it with the piece. It’ll do huge numbers.”