That was when, legend had it, King Rodrigo laid lascivious hands on Florinda, daughter of the Count Julian, whom he spotted bathing naked in the Río Tajo. Instead of taking the matter to the courts, the outraged father—idiot that he was—promptly rode to the Arabs for help. Since they were already planning to invade, the Arabs were only too happy to oblige. Thus Toledo changed hands once more and grew into a cosmopolitan and enlightened Moorish center. It finally returned to Spanish control in 1085, when the king of Castile conquered it.
Surrounded on three sides by the river, the city was perched high above it on a craggy outcrop. It was a natural fortress, needing only a pair of walls on its exposed north side to be all but impregnable in those long-ago days. More recent growth was beyond those walls and also south, on the other side of the river—recent being anything built in the last three or four centuries.
Smith continued through the slightly wider northern streets, nearing the northern walls. Watching all around, at last he drove into the old city through the Puerta de Bisagra, a stone entryway built in the ninth century, and plunged his car into the maze of narrow, twisting streets and alleys that haphazardly spiraled toward the city’s great pride, its Gothic Cathedral, and its equally great sorrow, the Alcázar, all but destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, although now rebuilt.
Using the detailed map, he watched carefully for the markers that would lead him to the Basque’s home address. He got lost in the twilight that was spreading across the city, reversed course, and discovered many of the streets were so narrow that iron upright posts blocked vehicles from entering. Most were wide enough for a car, but only just. As he plowed ahead in the Renault, people stepped into recessed doorways to give him room to pass. Buildings, monuments, plazas, churches, synagogues, mosques, stores, elegant restaurants, and houses—many of them medieval—filled every square inch of this rugged promontory. The scenery was breathtaking, but also dangerous. It provided too many opportunities for ambush.
The Basque’s address was an apartment building near the Cuesta de Carlos V, in the shadow of the Alcázar itself, just below Toledo’s summit. The directions that were included with the map warned that the address was on a particularly steep, sloping lane, where not even the smallest car could pass. He parked two blocks away and walked, keeping to the deepening shadows. A multitude of languages filled the air as sightseers moved through the beautiful old city, taking pictures.
As soon as he saw the house ahead, he slowed. It was a typical flat-front, brick structure of four stories with a shallow-pitched, red-tile roof. The windows and door were unadorned square holes in the brick, set deeply in, only two windows to a floor. As he passed, he saw the front door was open. The narrow foyer was lighted, showing an enclosed staircase. The Basque supposedly rented a room on the second floor.
Smith continued on to the end of the block, where there was a small plaza rimmed with shops and bars. Streets spilled into it from four directions. He stopped at an outdoor café where he took a table facing back along the street. The air was scented with spices—cardamom, ginger, and chiles. From here, he could keep the Basque’s apartment building in view. He ordered a beer and tapas, and waited as a band began playing from one of the nearby clubs. It was saucy merengue music from the former Spanish outpost of the Dominican Republic. The vibrant music filled the night, and Smith ate, drank, and watched. No one seemed to show any interest in him.
At last he saw three men enter the open front door of the apartment building, where light spilled out. One of them looked very much like the photo of the Basque that had been in the Sûreté’s file. The same heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and thick chin. Smith paid his bill and returned to the narrow street. Night had fallen, and shadows spilled black and nearly impenetrable down to the cobblestones. As he moved quietly toward the apartment building, he had the sense again that he was being observed. His nerves felt raw, and he paused in the deep shadow of a tree.
The gun seemed to come from nowhere, the cold muzzle pressed into the back of his neck. The voice was a hoarse whisper in Spanish. “We were warned you might show up.”
There were a few pedestrians on the narrow street, but he and the gunman were almost invisible where they stood. Streetlights in the old city were few and far between.
“You expected me?” Smith said in Spanish. “Interesting. The Black Flame is back with a vengeance.”
The muzzle jammed deeper. “We’re going to walk across the street and in through the door you’ve been watching.” He held up a small walkie-talkie that Smith could just make out with his peripheral vision and spoke into it: “Cut the lights. I’m bringing him in.”
At that moment, the terrorist’s attention was divided, thinking about Smith while relaying his information. As the man clicked off the walkie-talkie, Smith figured he had few options. He had to take a chance.
He slammed an elbow back hard into the man’s stomach and ducked. There was a quiet pop as the fellow jerked his weapon’s trigger. It was a silenced pistol, the noise lost in the sound of music and traffic out in the plaza. The bullet shot harmlessly over Smith’s back and pinged into the cobblestones. Before the terrorist could recover, Smith continued his lunge forward and kicked back with his left foot. He connected with the man’s chin. There was a grunt, and the man went down.
Smith checked the man’s vital signs: He was alive but unconscious. He picked up the man’s Walther, a good German pistol, and slung him over his shoulder. Because the terrorists in the apartment building had been alerted, it would not be long before they came out looking. Smith hurried along the street, carrying the dead weight back to his car. The terrorist shuddered and moaned as Smith dumped him into the front passenger seat.
Smith hurried around to the driver’s side and got in, just in time to see a flash of light. It was the man again. He had awakened and was flourishing a knife. But he was weak, and Smith yanked it away and stared into the black eyes in the car’s shadows.
“Bastardo!” the man groaned.
“Now we talk,” Smith told him in Spanish.
“I don’t think so.” His face was unshaved, and there was a wild look in his gaze. He blinked rapidly, as if fighting to think.
Smith studied him. He was a little over six feet and muscled, almost hulking. His hair was thick, black, and curly, an inky mass in the shadowy car. He was young. The beard and large size hid his true age. Smith guessed he might be twenty. A young man in middle-class America, but in the world of terrorists, fully grown.
The eyes widened, then narrowed. He reached up unsteadily and rubbed his chin. “Are you going to murder me, too?”
Smith ignored the question. “What’s your name?”
The youth thought about it, seemed to decide he could reveal that. “Bixente. My name’s Bixente.”
No last name, but Smith would tolerate that. While he held his pistol in one hand, he moved the knife up with the other until the blade touched Bixente’s chin. He flinched and jerked his head back.
“A name’s a good start,” Smith told him. “Tell me about the Black Flame.”
Silence. Bixente trembled, looking younger.
Smith pressed the flat of the blade along Bixente’s cheek. He rolled it back and forth once, and Bixente recoiled.
Smith assured him, “I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s just have a friendly conversation.”
Bixente’s face twisted, and it seemed to Smith that he was fighting some internal battle. Smith took the blade away from the young man’s skin. It was another gamble, but sometimes psychology was more potent than force. He held the knife up where Bixente could see it and said, “Look, I just want some information. You’re too young to be involved in all this anyway. Tell me about yourself. How did you get mixed up with the Black Flame?” He lowered the knife.
Bixente’s gaze followed it down. Then he looked up, his expression puzzled. He had not expected that. He admitted, “They killed my…my brother.”
“Who killed your brother?”
“The Civil Guard…in prison.”
“Your brother was a leader of the Black Flame?”
Bixente nodded.
“So you want to be like your brother. For a Basque homeland.”
“He was a soldier, my brother.” Pride in his face and voice.
“And you want to be one, too.” Jon understood. “What are you—nineteen? Eighteen?”
“Seventeen.”
Smith repressed a sigh. He was even younger than he had thought. An overgrown kid. “Someday you’ll be old enough to make stupid decisions about important matters, but not yet. They’re using you, Bixente. I’ll bet you’re not from Toledo, are you?”
Bixente named a remote village in the north of Spain, a Basque stronghold, known for its sheep, dogs, and high pastureland.
“Are you a shepherd?”
“I was raised for it, yes.” He paused, and there was a moment of longing in his voice. “I liked it.”
Smith studied him. He was strong and physical, but inexperienced. An attractive candidate for extremists. “All I want to do is talk to the men with you, nothing more. As soon as we’re finished, you can head for home and be safe by tomorrow.”
Bixente’s trembling slackened, although he said nothing.
“When did the Black Flame start up again?” According to the file, they had fallen off the authorities’ watch list after their leadership had been killed or imprisoned.
Bixente’s gaze dropped, his face guilty. “When Elizondo got out of prison. He’s the only one of the old leaders who wasn’t killed or still in jail. He got everyone who’d been a member back together and collected a few new ones.”
“Why did Elizondo think the bombing of the Pasteur Institute was going to help the cause of Basque independence?”
Bixente still did not look up. “They never told me much, especially not Elizondo. But I heard them talking about working for someone who would give them a lot of money to fight again.”
“Someone paid them to bomb the Pasteur and kidnap Thérèse Chambord?”
“I think so. At least that’s what I figured from what I heard.” The youth heaved a sigh. “A lot didn’t want to do it. If they were going to go into action again, they wanted it to be for Euskadi. But Elizondo said it took a lot of money to fight a war, and that’s why we lost the first time. If we wanted to fight for Euskadi again, we had to have money. Besides, it’d be good for us to bomb a building in Paris, because many of our people live in France now. That would tell our brothers and sisters across the mountains that we wanted them with us, and we could win.”
“Who hired Elizondo to bomb the Pasteur? Why?”
“I don’t know. Elizondo said it didn’t matter why the bomb was to be planted. It was better that way. It was all for money anyway, for Euskadi, and the less we understood of it, the better. It wasn’t our problem. I don’t know exactly who he’s been doing business with, but I heard a name…the Crescent Shield or something like that. I don’t know what it means.”
“Did you hear anything about why they kidnapped the woman? Where they’ve taken her?”
“No, but I think she’s somewhere around here. I’m not sure.”
“Did any of them say anything about me?” Smith asked.
“I heard Zumaia say you’d killed Jorge in Paris, and they figured you might come to Spain because Jorge had made a mistake. Then Elizondo got word from somebody you might come to Toledo itself. We should be prepared.”
“Jorge’s gun had the hand-tooled grip?”
“Yes. If you hadn’t killed him, Elizondo might’ve. He wasn’t supposed to put our symbol on anything, especially a gun grip. Elizondo wouldn’t have known, except that Zumaia told him afterward.”
Which meant they had not been worried about him, or maybe even known about him, until he appeared at the scene of Thérèse Chambord’s kidnapping. He frowned at Bixente, who still had not raised his gaze. His shoulders were slumped.
“How did you recognize me?” Smith asked.
“They sent your photo. I heard them talking. One of our people in Paris saw you or heard about you or followed you. I’m not sure. He’s the one who sent the photo.” His expression was stricken. “They’re planning to kill you. You’re too much trouble. I don’t know anything more than that. You say you’ll release me. Can I go now?”
“Soon. Do you have money?”
Bixente looked up, surprised. “No.”
Smith took his wallet from his jacket and handed him one hundred American dollars. “This will get you back to your family.”
Bixente took the money and shoved it into his pocket. More of his fear was gone, but his shoulders were still slumped, and guilt filled his face. That was a danger Smith did not want. He might decide to warn his friends.
Smith made his voice hard. “Remember, the bombing and kidnapping were for money only, not for a Basque homeland. And because you didn’t take me into that house, you’ve got a lot more to fear from them than you do from me. If you try to go back to them, they’ll suspect you. If they suspect you enough, they’ll kill you. You’ve got to hide for a while.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ll go into the mountains above my village.”
“Good.” Smith took nylon rope and electrician’s tape from his suitcase. “I’m going to tie you up, but I’ll leave the knife behind so you can cut yourself free. This is just to give you some time to think. To see that my advice is good.” And to give Smith time to get away, in case Bixente changed his mind and tried to return to the terrorists.
The youth was unhappy with the solution but nodded. Smith tied him up, taped his mouth, and buried the knife under the backseat. He figured it would take the teenager at least a half hour to work himself over the seat, dig out the knife, and cut himself free. Smith locked the car, stowed his suitcase, laptop, and trench coat in the trunk, pocketed the keys, and moved quickly off. If Thérèse Chambord was somewhere nearby, the DNA prototype might be, too.
Chapter Twelve
Night had turned the beautiful little city into an atmospheric scene from history, with black shadows and yellow lamplight and Spanish music floating on the summery air. Smith entered the small plaza where he had stopped before to watch the house, planning to swing around a side street that would give him a different approach. Now that the hour was later, and the crowds had dwindled, Toledo had become a different city. Quiet and serene, it resembled one of El Greco’s moonlit paintings, strategic pieces of its rich architecture glowing in floodlights.
But as he left the plaza, he saw four men emerge from the chaos of streets and alleys. He recognized one, thick and pockmarked, from the night Thérèse Chambord was kidnapped. There was also the man who resembled the photo of the Basque who had been taken into custody in Paris. The Black Flame. They were looking for him.
As the four Basque killers circled Smith, he raised his voice just enough so that he knew they could hear. He said in Spanish, “Which of you is Elizondo? All I want is to talk. I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s talk, Elizondo!”
None responded. Their expressions deliberate, they continued to close in, guns low at their sides, ready to raise and fire in the blink of their dark eyes. Around them, the historic buildings loomed like evil spirits from another world.
“Stop where you are,” Smith warned, and flashed his silenced 9mm.
But the gun was not enough to stop them. They tensed but never broke stride, their circle tightening like a garrote. They did, however, glance for orders to a wiry older man who wore the red Basque beret.
Smith studied the four a second longer, figuring the odds. As the merengue music pulsed in the shadowy night, he spun around and took off. As he ran, a fifth man, older, suddenly stepped out of another alley some ten yards ahead to block his path. Behind him, the terrorists’ feet hammered closer over the cobblestones. Heart pounding, Smith skidded around the corner of the first alley he came to and raced headlong down it, away from his pursuers.
A tall, elderly Anglican priest was
hiding in the recessed doorway of a closed estanco, a tobacco shop, from which the faint, sweet odors of its wares seeped. In the night, he was all but invisible in his black clerical suit, only the faint reflection of light from his white, turned collar hinting at his presence.
He had tailed the men from the house of the Basque who had been arrested in Paris. When they had ducked into hiding, any passersby near enough to hear would have been astonished, perhaps offended, by a most unclerical mutter: “Shit! What the hell are they up to now?”
The faux cleric had hoped to observe a meeting that would give him what he had come to Toledo to learn. But what he saw now was no meeting. The Basque militant he had recognized in Paris, Elizondo Ibargüengoitia, had led him first to San Sebastian and then here to Toledo, but there was no sign of the kidnapped woman. Nor of any corroboration of the suspicions of the cleric’s bosses.
He was growing irritated by so much nonsense. Dangerous nonsense, at that. Which was why he held an even more unclerical item—a silenced 9mm Glock.
This time his wait was brief. A rangy, athletic man appeared from the plaza.
“Bloody damn!” the faux cleric grumbled, surprised.
Shortly afterward, the five Basques also emerged onto the street, one by one. Each carried a pistol, held discreetly down at their sides, convenient for use but only barely visible to anyone else. The cleric left the shelter of the corner.
Halfway down the alley, Smith flattened back against the building, Sig Sauer steady in both hands. He focused on the mouth of the alley where he had just entered. A trio of tourists—a well-dressed man and two young women—danced past on the street, in rhythm with the throbbing music. They were having a good time, oblivious to the tense drama around them.
The Paris Option Page 13