The Boy Who Knew Too Much

by Jeffrey Westhoff

  Eck grabbed Brian’s shoulders and spoke fervidly. “I never intended to harm anyone. This plan was always about sharing a potentially lifesaving technology with the world. I do not want you or Larissa to be hurt. Help me find a way to keep you safe. No one was ever meant to die.”

  “No one?” Brian asked.

  “No one,” Eck replied

  “Then who was on the plane?”

  “What?”

  “When your plane crashed into Long Island Sound, your body was identified. Whose body was it?”

  Eck was silent.

  “If I could hazard a guess,” Silver interjected, “I would say it was a homeless man. They’re easy enough to find in D.C. He could have gone shopping along the Mall, looking for a man about the right age, with the right build, the right hair. Of course, they would have had to smash his mouth to destroy the dental records. And burn his hands to remove the fingerprints. But I’m sure Skyrm handled that.”

  Brian knocked Eck’s hands away and said, “So don’t tell me you intended no harm, not when this scheme began with one man’s death.” His voice shook. “And it was supposed to end with Professor DeJonge’s death, wasn’t it? When they find his car, I’m sure they’ll find a note, too. Because his suicide will convince Eurocorps that Prometheus is a failure. You intended to murder Professor DeJonge from the start, and it didn’t matter a damn to you that you would destroy Larissa’s life.”

  “I can still save her,” Eck said. “And you.”

  Brian stepped back. “I’ll be surprised if you can save yourself,” he said.

  The car pulled alongside the glass-walled station platform and stopped. Eck was startled when the attendant opened the door.

  “Forget to bribe this guy, too?” Silver asked.

  “Don’t let him out,” Eck told Silver, who positioned himself between Brian and the door. The station attendant at first registered confusion to see only three people, then he beckoned them to exit. “I am sorry,” he said, “but we have to close down the Transbordador Aeri because of high winds. You will be given a refund at the ticket booth below.”

  “The three of us are supposed to have a private ride to the Montjuïc station,” Eck protested. “Check with your supervisor.”

  “But, sir, the cable car has been temporarily shut down for safety reasons. I am sorry, but your ride today ends here.”

  The gondola across the station carried a full load of passengers. Brian watched as they filled the platform. Some stood about, waiting for a chance to talk to the attendant. Others moved toward the elevator. Brian positioned himself so the elevator was in the corner of his eye. He judged the distance, rehearsed a move in his mind, and prayed he got the timing right.

  “We will wait until the ride resumes,” Eck said.

  The attendant cleared his throat and spoke with newfound authority. “Regulations instruct that I clear the gondolas during an emergency shutdown. I insist that you exit the gondola, or I will call security and have you removed.”

  Eck pulled out his wallet. The attendant eyed it greedily. A passenger from the second gondola tapped him on the shoulder. The attendant frowned as he turned away from Eck. In the corner of his eye, Brian saw the elevator door open.

  Now! Brian thought.

  He twisted at the waist and threw an elbow into Silver’s stomach. Silver staggered back two steps and fell into Eck. They both went down. This result was better than Brian had anticipated, but he wasn’t going to question his luck. He pushed out of the car and past the attendant. Brian slipped by startled passengers and into the elevator. Some of them regarded him warily as they filed aboard. He ignored their looks and wished the others would just hurry up and get in. The attendant was inside the gondola, bending to help Silver and Eck up. When the last passenger stepped aboard the elevator, Brian hammered the “close door” button.

  Eck’s face, purple with rage, popped up just as the elevator doors slid shut.

  CHAPTER 44--RAMBLAS

  The elevator stopped at a platform one floor above street level. Brian bolted the moment the doors opened and scrambled down the stairs. He oriented himself as he ran. Directly in front of him were a scattering of palm trees and weird, circular metal sculptures—they looked like King Kong’s Hula Hoops—springing from the concrete. Snaking alongside the jetty to his left was a tubular walkway that Brian figured was for the passengers of the cruise ship just beyond.

  To his right, rising above treetops, was the Columbus Monument. Brian fixed his eye on it and put on a burst of speed. The statue was now as important to Brian as the North Star was to the explorer. It would guide Brian to Las Ramblas, and Las Ramblas would lead him to Larissa. He looked at his watch. It was 5:28. He would miss the 5:30 rendezvous, but he had to reach Larissa by 5:45 to stop her from going to the French consulate. The statue looked close, perhaps three blocks away. Brian wasn’t sure how far La Boqueria was from there. No time to consult a map. He had to keep running.

  Brian looked back to see that the rising elevator was halfway up the tower. The ride down took less than a minute, which meant that Brian’s head start on Eck and Silver was now less than two minutes. Not enough time to look for a taxi, even if he wanted to risk taking a cab during rush hour. Brian’s feet were his only reliable mode of transportation. Just keep running.

  The jetty ended at a traffic circle that was also an exit for an underground roadway. Brian wondered whether to turn right and stick to the harbor front or to follow the curve of the traffic circle. He saw a break in traffic and dashed across the ring road, deciding to follow it to the next street and approach the Columbus Monument from the side. He crossed to that street, turned right at the corner, then flew toward the monument. He blew past the Museo Maritim, an immense building that resembled a row of aircraft hangars.

  Brian skidded to a stop at the next corner and scrambled backward into the museum’s shadow. Carter and Voss stood at the Columbus Monument’s base. Their eyes, like those of explorer above them, scanned the harbor. If not for that break in traffic, Brian would have followed the waterfront and run straight into them.

  Brian watched. The men were concentrating on the Mediterranean approach and ignoring the side streets. Carter pulled a cell phone from his pocket and spoke into it. He put it away, said a few words to Voss, and left, heading in the direction of the cable car tower. To meet Eck and Silver halfway, Brian guessed. Voss watched Carter go. Brian took this as his cue to move. He followed the circular route around the monument, remaining on the far side of the pavement. Brian walked quickly, but not fast enough to draw attention. He was careful to keep a knot of three or four people between himself and Voss.

  Slowly, Voss turned toward Brian, and Brian ducked his head. Voss continued his rotation unchecked, then returned his gaze to the harbor.

  Brian reached the entrance to Las Ramblas and took in the mass of humanity moving up and down the teeming thoroughfare. Vehicles command almost every major street in the world. Cars and trucks rule the broad center, and people stay on the sidewalks. On Las Ramblas the opposite is true. People young and old, fashionable and unkempt, foreign and native, congregate in the wide central boulevard, while cars are shunted to narrow lanes at the sides.

  Brian checked his watch. 5:38. Seven minutes. He took a deep breath and plunged into the crowds, weaving as he ran. No point in worrying about the time again. Brian wasn’t certain how much distance he had to cover. Either he would reach Larissa in time or he wouldn’t. He just had to run as fast as possible and trust his stamina.

  Brian lengthened his stride and angled behind a magazine kiosk. He aimed for the edge of the boulevard, where the line of plane trees marked a clear path. Vibrant tableaux flashed by. Young men hawked lottery tickets. A woman walked a group of eight toddlers in rows of two on a rope harness like a dogsled team. Street performers were nearly as common as the trees: a violinist, a flutist, another harpist. One tune faded into the next. More abundant than the musicians were the living statues: a man painted silver look
ing like a junkyard Tin Man; a toga-clad woman painted white posing like a chaste Greek goddess; a man painted bright blue reclining on a bed with sheets that matched his skin.

  A teenage girl wearing hippie beads elegantly waved a wand and produced a three-foot-long soap bubble. Brian ran through the bubble, bursting it. The girl yelled in his wake. He felt the sting of soap in his eye. Or was that sweat? He ran his hand across his forehead. It was dripping. What was the temperature? Probably in the eighties.

  Brian jinked toward the middle to avoid a pair of guitar-slinging young women in black lipstick singing what might have been Nirvana. Four college-age men wearing identical powder blue jerseys hooted their approval in German. Beneath Brian’s feet the flagstones alternated between narrow slate-colored rectangles at the boulevard’s edges and a wavy pattern of lighter gray stones in the center.

  Suddenly the waves gave way to a tile mosaic—cheerful yellow, red, and blue shapes on a white background outlined in thick black. He remembered this mosaic from their reconnaissance that morning. Brian looked up. The row of trees had ceased, and this little plaza was bright in the early evening sun.

  On his left was the towering, black iron entry to La Boqueria. The entrance swept up into a peaked archway to resemble a cathedral, the effect completed by the stained-glass windows that framed the structure. The glass glittered with multiple yellow suns against an azure sky. A large medallion bearing La Boqueria’s full name hung beneath the apex, and below that a canopy was suspended to provide extra, perhaps redundant, shelter in the cavernous marketplace.

  Brian pivoted sharply toward the entrance. The sudden change in momentum caused him to stumble. An elderly couple parted for him as he regained his balance and ran toward La Boqueria. “Kid must be hungry,” he heard the man say in a Brooklyn accent. Even in his rush Brian noted, as he did earlier that day, that to enter Barcelona’s grand marketplace you had to pass the familiar pink and orange sign of a Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Beneath its canopy La Boqueria was an explosion of scenery and a madness of scents. Stacks of fresh fruit radiated primary colors. The aromatic fruit clashed with pungent fish at a nearby counter. The marketplace buzzed of voices haggling with vendors or ordering meals at food counters down the sides. The sights and smells and sounds overwhelmed Brian. He steadied himself by placing his hand on the edge of a table piled with red onions. Panting, he looked around for Larissa but didn’t see her. Panic began to take him. He looked at his watch. 5:43. Maybe she wasn’t here yet.

  He turned toward the entrance. There she was, wearing her backpack and carrying his in her right hand. Larissa’s face brightened with relief when she spotted him. She ran to him. Brian bent over with his hands on his thighs for balance. He breathed heavily, worn out as much by anxiety as exertion. Larissa stooped to peer into his face.

  “Brian, are you all right?”

  “They’re looking for us,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

  Larissa touched the thin fabric of his jersey and felt the sweat. “Were you chased here?”

  Brian gasped heavily. “I don’t think so.”

  “What about my father?”

  Brian drew his chin to the right to shake his head, and that simple motion told her the answer. Larissa’s knees sagged and her expression went slack. Brian raised a hand to her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It … it is not a surprise. The longer I waited for you the more I suspected that … I just hoped not to hear it.”

  “I am so sorry,” Brian repeated, wanting to console Larissa but unable to stop panting like an asthmatic Great Dane. He kept finding ways to fail her.

  A tear ran down the side of Larissa’s nose. She brushed it away. “I have no time to cry,” Larissa said. She hardened her features. “You are here. That is what matters. And now we must leave for the consulate.”

  “No,” Brian said, taking another hard breath before he could continue. “They are watching the French consulate. And by now they must be watching the American consulate. That’s why I ran so hard, to stop you from walking into a trap.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brian recounted his conversation with Eck, and how he saw Voss and Carter watching for him at the Columbus Monument. Larissa bought him a bottle of water while he told the story. By the time he finished drinking, he was breathing normally again.

  “Where do we go now?” Larissa asked.

  “Madrid, I think.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Brian, I am so tired of this running.”

  “I’m not thrilled about it either, but we take the first train to Madrid, and as soon as we arrive we take a taxi to the American embassy, tell our story, and we’re done.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “They can’t get to us there. We’ll be safe, finally.”

  “Is there nowhere we can go in Barcelona?”

  Brian remembered the ending to Three Days of the Condor. He said, “Maybe the newspaper. But it could take hours to convince a reporter of our story, and hours longer to convince his—or her—editor.” He pointed to his watch. “And the right editor might not be available until the morning. Frankly, I’d rather go to Madrid. We can sleep on the train.”

  Larissa frowned. “All right, we’ll go. I swear you must love trains.”

  “I’ve only been on Amtrak from Milwaukee to Chicago before. And there’s not much to love about that.” Brian hoisted his backpack over his shoulders. “We should take the Metro to the train station. I think I passed a stop on the way here.”

  Larissa nodded. “Yes, the Liceu station. Follow me.”

  She led the way back down Las Ramblas. As they walked across the brightly colored mosaic, Larissa said, “Joan Miró made that.”

  Brian nodded absently. The name didn’t mean much to him, except that it triggered an association with the Milwaukee Art Museum.

  The Liceu Metro stop was only a block from La Boqueria. As Brian and Larissa approached it, Mathias Skyrm emerged from its stairwell.

  Impossible! Brian thought as Skyrm lunged at them.

  CHAPTER 45--BIRDS

  As if they had practiced the maneuver, Brian and Larissa simultaneously spun on the balls of their feet, joined hands, and scrambled away from Skyrm.

  “How did he find us?” Larissa asked loudly.

  “I don’t know,” Brian said. Had Eck or Silver planted a tracking device on him? Brian doubted it. Had Voss spotted him at the Columbus Monument? Perhaps, but Skyrm should have found them sooner.

  Brian looked back as they passed over the Miró mosaic. Skyrm was gaining. He didn’t break stride as he shoved aside a dark-skinned man who stepped into his path.

  Brian and Larissa ran past La Boqueria and continued down Las Ramblas. He had to release her hand as they dodged through a cluster of people watching a juggler in Marcel Marceau makeup. Brian felt his backpack bump into three people as they wove through the group.

  “Lose the backpacks!” he called to Larissa. “They’re slowing us down.”

  Brian shrugged the strap off his left shoulder as he turned to look for Skyrm. It was a mistake. Skyrm was only inches behind. He grabbed the strap that had just come free of Brian’s left arm and yanked it so hard that the other strap jerked Brian’s right shoulder and sent him spinning.

  Brian’s momentum carried him forward. He plowed into the juggler, and as Brian whirled away he heard rather than saw the man’s three wooden clubs hit the concrete with solid thunks. He made two more drunken revolutions toward a table and a bearded man standing behind it. Brian smashed into the table and dropped to the ground, cracking his head on the table’s edge as he went down. Immediately he heard the twittering of birds.

  Wow, Brian thought, just like in cartoons!

  Then he shook his head and blinked his eyes and saw he was in some sort of outdoor pet shop. A wall of fish tanks rose from the sidewalk about ten feet opposite him, and all around were booths selling small animals. Some featured mice and gerbils and lizards, but mos
t of the merchants sold birds—birds of many colors and sizes in a variety of cages. The noise of the birds, their chirps and squeals and squawks, intensified into an alarm to warn Brian of Skyrm’s attack.

  Brian rolled to the side, dodging the first kick. Skyrm’s foot lashed forward again—the second half of a double kick—and missed as Brian twisted into a crouch. Brian delivered a swift knife-hand strike to the soft underside of Skyrm’s offered knee. The blow connected but had no effect. Brian jumped backward from his crouch and landed upright. He automatically went into the Guard Stance, left leg back, knees slightly bent, and dukes up in relaxed fists between chin and shoulder level, just as Grand Master Kim had drilled into his head several hundred times.

  The stance was sheer bravado. Brian had survived their fight in the Cannes because Skyrm didn’t expect his young opponent to have martial arts training. That element of surprise was gone. Long gone. Brian with his red belt in tae kwon do was facing a man who probably had a black belt in everything else. Brian gulped.

  A small crowd gathered around them as if they were two more street performers. Skyrm adopted no martial arts stance. He stood with his feet together and his arms loose at his sides. His face, though, was tense. His teeth clenched in a taunting grin, and his eyes locked on to Brian’s. Caught once more in Skyrm’s cobra stare, Brian’s awareness of the onlookers vanished. The red rings around Skyrm’s irises flared with fury, signaling that he was no longer following anyone’s orders.

  Skyrm’s lips peeled back from his teeth. He said, “At least you choose to die like a man.”

  The opening strike came like a missile, a left-handed thrust aimed at Brian’s throat. Brian’s right hand whipped up to deflect the blow, and his forearm erupted in pain as it took the impact. Before Skyrm could strike again, Larissa appeared behind him and swung her backpack at his head. It clipped Skyrm behind the right ear and knocked him off balance. With this opening, Brian scored a straight punch to the stomach but felt his fist bounce off solid abdominal muscles.