Only forty minutes had passed by the time Brian maneuvered the crate back into the warehouse. He already had discovered the gift Skyrm left for them, one of the maroon delivery vans. Brian grinned as he wheeled the forklift about and pointed the crate toward its destination. Fifteen minutes later, they were in the van and on the road.
Larissa drove. It was after midnight and the highway was a straight shot to Zaragoza, so they figured the odds of the police stopping them were microscopic. “This is like driving a truck, I think,” Larissa said.
“Have you driven a truck before?”
“No, but we are sitting so high above the road,” she said. “I am a bit nervous.”
“You’re doing fine,” Brian said.
They crossed the Ebro River and entered Zaragoza’s central business district. The spotlighted spires of a cathedral glowed several blocks to their right. Larissa pulled into the first parking lot they saw. They locked up the van, pulled their backpacks over their shoulders, and briskly walked away. Brian didn’t care whether they were illegally parked. In fact, he hoped they were and that the van was impounded. The harder it would be for Eck and his men to find the van, the better.
Although it was 1 a.m., the streets were busy with people hopping from one nightclub to the next. Larissa hailed a taxi outside the Hotel Via Romana. “Train station, por favor,” Brian told the driver. At the station, they learned the next train to Barcelona would not depart for two hours. Eck would reach the warehouse before they boarded the train. Brian frowned.
“What is the matter?” Larissa asked.
“I don’t like waiting here this long. Eck might send someone to check the train station.”
“Why would we take a train when we have their van? That is what they will think.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am right,” she said. She hugged his arm. “But we will remain vigilant.”
Brian reclined and stretched out his feet. “Do you realize this will be my fourth train ride in as many days?” he said. “I should have bought a Eurail pass.”
Larissa smiled—the last one Brian would see until her almost-smile on the Barcelona Metro—and rested her head on his shoulder. “Will we get my father back?”
“I hope so,” Brian said. He wished he could be more positive, but he knew Larissa would not want to hear phony bravado.
The train ride to Barcelona lasted five hours. During that time Brian and Larissa caught up on some (but not enough) sleep, washed as best they could in the lavatories, and changed clothes again. Larissa put on a pair of black jeans and another Ramones T-shirt. It featured the band’s first album cover, the one with them leaning against a brick wall in their leather jackets and exuding an attitude that mixed boredom and contempt and said, “We’re about to change the face of popular music forever, but it will take twenty-five years before anyone realizes it.” Brian changed into a pair of khaki slacks and the FC Barcelona jersey from the shop in Hendaye.
In the Barcelona train station, they bought a guidebook and a laminated map of the city and began their search for the two Metro stations where Brian would make his calls, as well as a fallback rendezvous point in case they needed one later. Brian had a feeling they would.
Now, with the first call made, they were back aboard the Metro and hurtling beneath an unfamiliar city toward the second call. As the subway train pulled into the Sants-Estacio stop, Brian squeezed Larissa’s hand. She opened her eyes. “I wasn’t sleeping,” she said.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
They changed trains, switching to a southbound route and getting off at a stop called Poble Sec. As they jogged up the steps toward the street, Brian checked his watch. He had eight minutes until his deadline, but he made straight for the pay phone as soon as he spotted it. The last thing he needed was someone else grabbing the phone just before he called Eck. He spent the extra time taking in the scenery. Behind them rose the green hill named Montjuïc, a tourist attraction according to the guidebook. Aerial cable cars, just like the ones in amusement parks, flitted between the uppermost tree branches as they lifted passengers to the hilltop. Brian shifted his gaze and saw another, grander, cable car gliding above the harbor. Such a beautiful city, he thought. If only I could be a tourist here.
Brian wiped sweat from his forehead and took another look at his watch. Two minutes to go. He reached into his pocket and made a show of counting out the correct number of coins. Larissa watched him, her eyes pensive and her lips tight. Brian wished he could jump a few hours into the future and tell her this had all ended well.
At 3:05 he inserted the coins into the slot. He looked at Larissa. “Wish me luck,” he said.
“Bon chance,” she whispered.
Brian dialed the number. The phone picked up midway into the second ring. A man, not the receptionist, answered. “Is this Brian?” The voice was American.
“Yes,” Brian said.
“Hello, Brian. I am glad we finally get to chat. I have heard much about you, as you might imagine. This is Roland Eck, by the way.”
“Yeah, I figured that,” Brian said. He was angry with himself. Eck had caught him off guard by answering the phone and speaking glibly. Brian had lost the initiative before opening his mouth. He needed to take control of the conversation. He said, “If you want to see—”
“I know, I know,” Eck interrupted. “You have something I want. I have something you want. So we need to negotiate. But not over the phone. Too impersonal. We need to talk things over face to face, like men. I’m eager to meet you anyway. And I’m glad to see you’re here in Barcelona, Brian. It makes getting together easier.”
That was supposed to shake Brian up, the veiled threat that Eck had traced the call. Brian had expected it, though, just as he had expected Eck to suggest a meeting. This looked like his chance to take the initiative.
“All right,” Brian said, “let’s meet at the Columbus statue, near the harbor, a half-hour from now.”
“You like these half-hour deadlines, don’t you? But I’m afraid the time doesn’t work for me. Why don’t we make it four o’clock instead? That’s still within the hour. Does four work for you, Brian?”
“Yes,” Brian said, forcing authority into his voice.
“OK, so I will meet you at 4 p.m. at the Columbus Monument—that’s what they call it, by the way, monument, not statue. I look forward to meeting you. Oh, and Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Bring Larissa.” Eck hung up.
CHAPTER 40--FALLBACK
“Not a chance,” Brian replied to the dead phone.
There was never a possibility Larissa would accompany Brian when he met with Roland Eck. Splitting up at this point should guarantee her safety, and possibly Brian’s. If he were walking into a trap, Larissa would be free to tell their story. Even if she couldn’t rally the cavalry to rescue him, Larissa would be free. That mattered most to Brian.
He dropped the receiver into its cradle and related Eck’s words to Larissa as they jogged back to the Poble Sec Metro station.
“So you know what to do now,” he said. “You wait for me at La Boqueria’s entrance at 4:45. And if I’m not there?”
“I walk away, and check back every fifteen minutes for the next hour,” Larissa said, repeating the routine they had worked out that morning.
Brian had followed rudimentary espionage tradecraft to set up a fallback rendezvous. The place had to be public. Brian knew from the Travel Channel that the most public place in Barcelona was Las Ramblas, the broad thoroughfare that sprawled luxuriously from the harbor front into the heart of the city. Las Ramblas curved past hundreds of shops and cultural centers and was the rare attraction that drew as many locals as tourists, according to the guidebook. The book also stated the most public spot along Las Ramblas was an open-air food market grandly named the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria, or La Boqueria for short. During their reconnaissance, Brian and Larissa found La Boqueria packed with people. Without hesi
tation, Brian declared it their fallback spot.
“And if I still haven’t shown by 5:45?” Brian asked, continuing the drill.
“I hail the first taxi I spot,” Larissa said as they descended the steps to the station, “and go to the French consulate.”
Brian figured if he hadn’t made it to La Boqueria by 5:45, he would have been captured and Larissa should seek refuge at the French consulate. The deadline for their final rendezvous ought to give her enough time to reach the consulate before it closed to the public at 6 p.m. There she would tell her story. After her father’s disappearance, Brian was certain the French authorities would protect Larissa and investigate her claims.
They boarded the subway and took facing seats. As the train approached Brian’s stop, Drassanes, Larissa looked into his eyes sternly and said, “While you are talking with this man, if it becomes clear to you that you cannot help my father, I want you to turn away and run.” Her voice caught. “I want you to run like mad to our meeting place, and then we will go to the French consulate together. Will you promise me that?”
“Je te promets,” Brian said.
“Your pronunciation is beautiful,” she said as she leaned in and kissed him. With her hands on his shoulders, she murmured, “You have been very smart so far, cher Brian. You must continue to be smart, especially now.”
The train sighed to a stop, and, reluctantly, Brian left the car. He waved to Larissa through the window, the sensation of her kiss still on his lips. She responded with a sad semi-smile and a raise of her hand. Then the train pitched forward, slid into the tunnel, and she was gone.
Brian turned about and headed to the escalator. Larissa would exit the train at the next stop, Liceu, to be in place for their reunion. Focus on the positive, Brian told himself.
He brushed his lips while riding the escalator and reflected on Larissa’s faith in his intelligence. Was he being smart? Brian did believe the missing Prometheus gun gave him leverage over Eck, and Eck had ordered his men not to harm him. Brian’s plan hinged on that order remaining in effect. Even so, Brian had promised Larissa he would remain in a public area while with Eck. He would avoid dark alleys and wouldn’t get into any cars. Were these precautions smart enough? Brian hoped so. He was tired of running, and as long as he had an advantage over his opponents, however slim, he wanted to press it.
Once Brian reached the street level, he saw the statue of Columbus levitating above nearby rooftops and trees. The famed explorer held a chart in one hand and pointed confidently with the other toward the New World. The statue was the sickly green of aged bronze, although it appeared someone had painted Columbus’ hair white. As Brian drew closer, he realized the white wasn’t paint but pigeon droppings. He also saw the statue was held aloft by a column that looked like a ten-story king’s scepter. From the decorated base to the tip of Columbus’ finger, the whole structure must have been two hundred feet tall. Beyond the monument, the black lines of the cable cars Brian had seen earlier stretched across the harbor. He watched as the two gondolas, little red buckets from this distance, approached each other and converged at a point behind Columbus’ head.
The monument stood in the center of a small traffic circle. The meeting with Eck was still six minutes away, so instead of crossing to the island, Brian leaned against a plane tree at the foot of Las Ramblas and watched the people walking around the monument or sitting on the stairs at its base. He didn’t recognize Eck, although all he had to go on were a few grainy images on Lenore Harte’s computer screen. Brian glanced at his watch: 3:59. He looked behind him. The tree-lined passage of Las Ramblas stretched away, leading in his mind toward Larissa and the end to this nightmare.
Brian straightened himself and crossed the traffic circle. He walked in a counterclockwise spiral as he approached the monument, noting that eight life-size, polished bronze lions guarded the four stairways leading toward the column. He saw no sign of Eck. He looked toward the harbor then toward Las Ramblas, but Eck wasn’t coming from either direction. When Brian turned back to the monument, the bald man with the Vandyke he had first seen on Lenore Harte’s street—the man he had decided was named Voss—stepped from behind one of the lions and walked toward him.
“Where’s Eck?” Brian asked.
“Elsewhere,” the man replied. His accent was guttural Irish. “Where’s the girl?”
“Shopping. You know how women are.”
The bald man regarded him with less emotion, Brian imagined, than Columbus’ statue. He pulled out a cell phone and quickly placed a call. “The girl isn’t with him,” he said into the phone. After a moment he said, “All right.” He killed the call and pocketed the phone. “I’m to take you to him,” he told Brian. “Come with me.”
“One question first. Is your name Voss or Carter?”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Carter, why?”
Brian clicked his tongue. “Got it wrong.” He sighed elaborately. “You know there’s no way I’m getting into a car with you.”
Carter showed him an eerie smile. “No car. We’re walking.” He turned away from Brian. “Now follow me.”
Brian didn’t like the smile. It was the smile of a bully savoring an impending punch that would knock his victim to the ground. Carter set out for the harbor, but Brian hesitated. Eck had just broken their agreement, and it would be smart to walk away now. Brian shoved his apprehension deep down and remembered this was for Larissa’s father.
“No,” Brian told himself, “this is for Larissa.”
He followed Carter.
CHAPTER 41--HARBOR
Carter led him across a wide, busy street lined with palm trees, and they were at the waterfront. Brian now had an unobstructed view of the cable cars. They traveled from a tower far to his left, passed through a spindly center tower on a broad jetty directly before him, and vanished into what looked like a bunker halfway up Montjuïc.
Brian lowered his eyes to the Mediterranean and wondered why his itinerary had drawn him back to this sea. Hundreds of boats crowded the harbor. Two cruise ships were in port, dwarfing a quartet of single-masted sailboats that scudded past them. The water was choppy, even within the sea wall, and white-capped waves buffeted a small passenger ferry that had blue awnings above each of its two decks. Brian saw several such boats motoring about the harbor. A gust of wind, warm with the smell of salt, hit Brian and plastered the FCB jersey to his chest.
He had slowed to take in the scene, allowing Carter to get several paces ahead. Carter turned and barked, “Keep up!” as two in-line skaters whizzed between them.
Brian followed Carter past an ornate, cream-colored building that looked like it had time traveled from nineteenth century France. The words Port de Barcelona arced above its entrance. Carter rounded the building and headed toward the water. The naked masts of dozens of small sailboats bobbed alongside the jetties in the small, enclosed marina on the left. Carter led Brian across a footbridge decorated with curving blue iron waves supported by 20-foot-tall white pillars.
Brian considered the man leading him. If Carter was here, where were the others? He wondered whether Eck had a team looking for Larissa. For a split second, Brian worried that La Boqueria was too obvious a meeting place, but he dismissed the thought. Barcelona was a major city with many meeting places equally as obvious. It would be like assuming Times Square was the only place two people would arrange to meet in Manhattan.
The bridge led to a small, man-made peninsula that curled into the harbor like the tail of a comma. A sign by the bridge identified the spot as Port Vell. They walked toward a wide, flat building with a glass façade. A slate-gray wedge rising from the roof bore the building’s name, Maremagnum. An outdoor tapas bar spilled from the building, and Brian at first assumed Maremagnum was a hotel. Then he saw people stepping through its doors carrying bags marked Lacoste and H&M and Claire’s. This was a shopping mall. Was he to meet Roland Eck in the food court? How anticlimactic. But Carter walked past the mall.
Beyond Maremagnum w
as an aquarium, also glass-fronted, but highlighted by a gleaming stainless-steel roof. Beyond the aquarium was an IMAX theater. As they approached the aquarium, Brian wondered. Foster Blake met one of his contacts in the Miami aquarium in To the Point of Insanity, but that led to gunfire and exploding shark tanks. Carter continued past the aquarium entrance without breaking stride.
“No exploding shark tanks today,” Brian murmured.
Carter slowed his pace as they neared the IMAX theater. Brian frowned. Why meet in a movie theater? The aquarium, even the shopping center, made more sense. A mammoth poster, rippling in the wind, advertised a 3-D travelogue of Egypt. Maybe Eck had a thing for pyramids. Carter stopped, then folded his arms and stood impassively.
“Is this where we’re going?” Brian asked.
“It is where I am going,” Carter replied. “But not you.” He looked toward the theater entrance and said, “Ah.”
Brian followed his gaze and saw the tall man with the vulture shoulders—the man Brian now knew was named Voss—emerge from a throng of people in front of the IMAX building.
“You will go with him now,” Carter said. He turned and fell behind a group of teenagers heading toward the Maremagnum. Carter did not look back as his disappeared into the crowd.
“Come,” Voss said. Feeling like a baton in a relay race, Brian followed.
They were in the crook of the small peninsula, and after rounding the curve they headed back toward the city. The path angled through small gardens. Just off the path, a skinny young man with orange hair stood with a battered Fender Stratocaster plugged into an equally battered Marshall amp. Despite the heat, he wore a black leather jacket covered with buttons, skin-tight black jeans, and black Doc Marten boots. As Voss and Brian neared, the guitarist broke into a torrid Spanish version of “I Wanna Be Sedated.” Brian filed away this scene to share with Larissa. It would make her smile.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much Page 20