by Mike Maden
Besides the blue-and-white Mossos d’Esquadra cars cruising the neighborhood, a storefront police station was just around the corner with a couple of official Vespas parked out front.
Bykov slipped a white paper mask over his face and pulled on a black Nike ball cap as he charged up the narrow, twisting marble staircase, two steps at a time. This was a working-class neighborhood so nobody should be home. If there were other Airbnbs in the building he might bump into a curious tourist and he didn’t want to reveal his face or he’d have to kill them and dispose of the body.
A real pain the ass.
It was easier to wear a mask.
More important, if Ryan was some kind of an agent or operator, he might have a camera planted in his place for security. It would be a disaster if Ryan uncovered his identity—the opposite result of what Bykov was attempting today.
Standing in the postage-stamp-size hallway next to the shoulder-wide miniature elevator, Bykov got to work. The heavy door lock chunked open with a twist of the big brass skeleton key and Bykov slipped in, pushing open the thick wooden door with his big hands gloved in latex.
Inside, he glanced around the small kitchen and living area on the bottom floor of the two-story unit. His practiced eyes searched for any small portable video cameras that might have planted but he saw nothing.
Bykov checked his watch. His hired lookout had eyes on Ryan, who was with the CNI agent at a restaurant in the Jewish Quarter. He was instructed to call Bykov as soon as Ryan left. Even if Ryan grabbed a taxi it would take him at least twenty minutes to get back here, and closer to thirty if he walked. That was more than enough time to get the job done. He set the alarm on his watch for twenty minutes and got to work.
The kitchen counter was within arm’s reach of the front door. Ryan kept a clean place. A few dishes, glasses, and cups were washed and neatly stacked on the counter. Too bad. Those would have been a good source for the DNA samples and fingerprints he was looking for.
However, it was doubtful Ryan did a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, and the stainless-steel faucet would still be covered in fingerprints. He removed a latent-fingerprint-lifting sheet from his coat pocket, peeled off the protective paper, and pressed it against the knobs, but the decorative plastic surfaces were too uneven to pick anything up. He crumpled up that film sheet and stuck it into his back pocket, then pulled out a fresh one and pressed it against the smooth stainless steel of the long spout. He pulled it off and examined it. There were fragments of prints, at best. Nothing usable. Damn it.
He saw a closed laptop on the small kitchen table. Unless Ryan was OCD, he wouldn’t have cleaned the keyboard. That was the jackpot he was looking for.
If Ryan was an operator, there was every chance his laptop was designed to engage the onboard camera and record whoever was using it. The only problem with that kind of security system was that it depended on a total idiot to open the laptop all the way—and Bykov was no idiot.
The Russian mercenary lifted the laptop lid just enough to be able to access the keyboard, but not enough to take the laptop out of sleep mode and activate the camera. He was also careful not to move the device at all, or anything else in the apartment, for that matter, since Ryan might have used some kind of security app like Photo Trap, which overlaid “before” photos with a live photo of any object to determine if it had been moved. Bykov used Photo Trap himself when he traveled.
He gently swabbed the keyboard with three different swabs, then placed them in a plastic ziplock bag for storage. He then removed a latent-fingerprint-lifting sheet from his coat pocket, peeled off the protective paper, and carefully placed the film on the laptop surface on either side of the touch pad, then removed it. He grinned beneath his mask when he saw several partial whorls, most likely from the palms.
He stored that one away and placed two more lifting sheets across the bottom row of keys—the space bar, control, option, command, and arrow keys—then pressed the laptop lid down to put pressure on the lifting sheet. After carefully raising the lid a minimal distance again, he gently peeled away the lifting sheets and inspected them as well. He even captured a few partials on the lid itself.
Success.
Bykov headed upstairs toward the bathroom. There were plenty of places to check for more fingerprints, including the toilet’s flush handle and the fixtures on the bathroom sink and in the shower. But it was Ryan’s DNA he was looking for now.
Despite his personal distaste, he also gathered up the spent tissues in the wastebasket, pubic hairs in the shower, and bits of hair from Ryan’s electric razor—also a fingerprint source—hoping for any DNA samples he could find. Most security agencies kept DNA files of POIs. Maybe this Ryan character’s snot was on record somewhere his people could access. If nothing else, his people had access to several commercial ancestry DNA sites. It was hard for him to believe that people actually paid to give up their DNA and other important personal information to complete strangers, many of whom sold that information to interested parties.
The last thing Bykov did was plant a couple of voice-activated listening devices. Each was the size of a one-euro coin and had a twenty-hour battery life. He could record anything he heard with his receiver while listening live. Chances are they would yield nothing and it would require him to break into the apartment again to retrieve them. All that meant was spending another hundred euros of Guzmán’s money and thirty minutes of pleasure with the Guatemalan woman.
He was willing to make that sacrifice.
Bykov’s watch alarm signaled at exactly twenty minutes. He did another quick survey of the place to make sure he hadn’t disturbed anything and then checked the small hallway through the door peephole to make sure no one was outside. Satisfied, he exited the apartment, pocketing his gloves and mask before he hit the street in case a policeman happened to be driving past.
There wasn’t one. It was a clean op.
Or so he thought.
28
Jack met Brossa at a small family restaurant on the Carrer dels Banys Nous, a narrow pedestrian street in the old Jewish Quarter. They sat in a corner in the far back, away from the others. Jack sat with his spine against the rough-hewn stone walls, and he kept an eye on the far front entrance beneath the ancient timbers that lined the low ceiling.
“This part of the building was a cattle barn three hundred years ago,” Brossa explained as she dipped a fried churro into the cup of hot chocolate. “The restaurant itself is only one hundred and forty years old.”
Jack had the same thing in front of him—another Spanish delicacy he’d come to love. The chocolate was thick, almost like a liquid pudding, and made with only water—no milk. It wasn’t as sweet as American hot chocolate, and the churros were only lightly dusted with sugar, but it was plenty sweet. He’d just devoured a Spanish tortilla, another surprise he’d discovered. Essentially a slice of potato, egg, and onion casserole cooked in olive oil. It was a staple of Spanish cuisine—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“I’m going to be running a lot of miles when I get home after this trip,” Jack said as he plopped the last piece of churro into his mouth. He’d already run the beach that morning in Barceloneta to burn off yesterday’s calories. He thought he’d lost his appetite forever after jogging past the ancient nude sunbathers on the southern end of the beach near the Hotel W. They were all old men, mostly fat and leathery. A few of them were engaged in too-revealing Warrior poses or dick-flapping calisthenics. He was mad at Brossa, too, for not calling him back. He let go of his temper and recovered his appetite when she called an hour ago and invited him to breakfast.
“The voicemail you left on my phone last night said you knew how to find the bomber,” Brossa finally said, wiping her small mouth with a napkin.
Jack was surprised she’d taken this long to ask him. Back home, an agent in her position would have led with that question—and skipped the meal altogether. Another re
ason Spain was really growing on him.
“Yeah, I think I do. The clue we’re looking for is the phone Aleixandri was speaking on.”
“The one you said you saw—or, more accurately, the Bluetooth you saw. The one we couldn’t find.”
The edge in her voice was unmistakable. Did she doubt him? Or was it the obvious exhaustion that was wearing on her?
“I think you mean the phone that was taken from the crime scene,” Jack countered.
“Who would do that?”
“The guy on the other end of the call? Maybe he snuck back in during the chaos and grabbed it.” Or maybe someone in your organization, Jack wanted to say.
Brossa wiggled her head. It was cute. Her way of weighing something in her mind, he supposed.
“Unlikely. But I can ask some of the officers if anyone suspicious or unidentified came into L’avi that night.”
Jack handed her a piece of notebook paper.
“What’s this?”
“The address of the phone store where Aleixandri bought her burner phone.”
“And you know this . . . how?” Brossa’s dark-rimmed eyes narrowed.
Jack had thought about showing her the pictures and video Gavin had snagged from the traffic camera but then he’d have a lot of explaining to do, including Gavin’s criminal act of hacking the city’s computer network. He’d hoped the address and the approximate date and time of purchase would be enough to pique her curiosity.
Apparently, it had just pissed her off.
“My financial firm has certain technical resources . . .”
Brossa darkened. “Stop bullshitting me, Jack. We both know you’re CIA or some other alphabet agency.”
“No, I’m not. Scout’s honor. Hendley Associates does a lot of international business with high-net-worth clients. Some of those clients are victimized by criminal elements and we want to protect them. But in some cases we become suspicious about the origins of their high net worth, and that’s when we want to protect ourselves. For those reasons, we have developed a very competent security team—sort of like an in-house private-detective agency.”
Brossa crossed her arms, her face set in stone, obviously doubting every word.
“The location of the phone store with a time of purchase for Aleixandri is very difficult information to collect. I don’t believe a private company like yours could manage this.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you still haven’t told me the truth about yourself.”
“What haven’t I told you?”
Her face scrunched up in a half-frown, half-grin. “How am I supposed to know that? Don’t they teach logic in American schools?”
The Catholic ones I went to sure did, Jack thought.
“I haven’t lied to you, I promise.”
“I believe that. But I didn’t accuse you of lying to me. I said you haven’t told me the truth—the whole truth. That’s what they say on American TV dramas, yes? ‘I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’”
“You’re obviously driving at something. Spit it out.”
She looked him up and down. “I’m around Special Ops guys all the time. You look just like them. The way you walk, the way you carry yourself. Your eyes constantly scanning for area threats—including the front door of this restaurant. You’re a spy, Jack, or some kind of operator.”
“Look, Laia. I’m telling you the absolute truth, the whole truth, when I tell you that I do not work for the CIA or any American government agency. I’m a private citizen, that’s all.”
Jack’s eyes burrowed into hers, faking his sincerity as hard as he could.
In fact, he was telling her the whole truth, depending on what the definition of whole was. Or truth. He wasn’t on the government payroll. The Campus was a private outfit working for a private firm. That was all completely true, wasn’t it? The fact that they did it all on behalf of the American government was a mere technicality.
Despite his flawless internal logic, his fake sincerity wasn’t quite hitting the mark. Jack doubled down.
“Sure, I work out a lot, and I do MMA stuff for fun, so, yeah, I probably can handle myself in a fight. And I took Tony Blauer’s Be Your Own Bodyguard one-day training course because my job requires me to travel around in some pretty shady places.
“And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m pretty good with a gun because I grew up with guns. After all, I’m an American, aren’t I?” He smiled to sell the joke.
No sale.
He pressed on. “I enjoy shooting guns at my local gun range and besides that, my grandfather was a Baltimore police detective, so guns are part of my family history.
“But that’s about as exciting as my life gets. My day job is really boring. All day long I read 12b’s and ferret out investment opportunities for my firm and my clients. I buy and sell a few stocks every now and then. I’m just a regular guy who’s really pissed off that an innocent woman was massacred and nobody is being held responsible for it.”
Jack was good at reading people. It was a skill his dad had taught him to cultivate, and that Clark had honed to a razor’s edge. Clandestine work was even more about people than it was about weapons and tactics. He hated the fact he’d become such a gifted and practiced liar. He justified his deceptions as simply a means to accomplish a mission or to save a friend or protect an innocent or, in this case, find Renée’s killers and get her justice. He never lied for his personal benefit. Lying was just another valuable tool in his tool belt. But still, something always died a little inside of him, no matter how small or well intended the lie. Such was the gift—and curse—of a Jesuit education.
Brossa’s hard face softened, her shoulders lowered. She sighed through her nose, and even smiled a little.
“I believe you, Jack.”
“Thank you.” So why do I feel like a dirtbag?
She glanced at the paper again.
“If you promise me you have done nothing illegal, perhaps I can use this information to get a warrant and obtain the store records of her purchase. That would allow us to identify the phone and her account, then acquire the metadata.”
“Which would allow you to begin to figure out who she was talking to, and where that person was. That’s the asshole you’re after.” He hoped she didn’t notice he didn’t make the promise.
Brossa shook her head. She picked up a churro and pointed it at him. “No, Jack. That’s the asshole you’re after, and you’re using me to do it.” She dipped her churro in the chocolate before taking a crunchy bite.
“I’m only trying to help. So is my company. We have a lot of resources.”
Brossa chewed, her eyes searching Jack’s for an answer to a question she hadn’t asked him.
She finally found it. She swallowed and reached into her purse, sliding a photograph across the table.
Jack picked it up. He hid his surprise, poker-facing as hard as he could. He didn’t want her to know he’d seen this face before.
It was a grainy photo of Sorry Man. Same tortoiseshell glasses, same shoulder-length hair. A screen grab from the same angle as the one Jack had, only tighter—no doubt grabbed from the same camera footage Gavin had found.
“Who is this?” Jack asked. Gavin hadn’t found the man yet, either. He was glad he didn’t have to lie to her about that at least.
“That’s what we want to know as well. Any ideas?”
Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You never saw him?”
“I did. We bumped into each other as I was heading out. I think he said, ‘Sorry, man.’”
“In English?”
“Sounded American, or maybe Canadian.”
Brossa pushed her half-empty cup of chocolate away and leaned back in her chair. “That’s more information than we’ve been ab
le to come up with.”
“What about his personal identification?”
Brossa sighed. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but then again, I was instructed to keep you informed as the case advanced, wasn’t I?”
“You seem annoyed by that fact.”
“I have enough to do without babysitting a rich American finance guy.”
“I’m a lot of things, but rich ain’t one of them. I’m sorry that hanging out with me is such a pain. I get it, I really do. You have a job to do and I’m just one more complication. But please believe me, I’m only here to help.”
Brossa bit her lip. He watched her guard fall as she brushed her curly hair away from her face.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I’m being very rude. I have a lot of things going on in my life besides this crazy job of mine.”
“It’s okay, I understand. Anything I can do to help—I mean, besides the case?”
“That is kind of you to offer, but no.” She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed by her moment of weakness.
She sat upright and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “So, as I was saying about this man’s personal identification . . . well, he had none. No wallet, no credit cards, no passport, no—how do you say it, ‘pocket litter’?—no cell phone, no Fitbit, nothing. Absolutely nothing to help us identify him.”
“You must have taken his fingerprints?”
“We did, and ran them through our databases, including Interpol. Nothing.”
“If he’s from the EU, he has a chipped passport and probably uses facial recognition at the automated ePassport gates. Did you check there?”
“We did. No luck.”
“Airport cameras? Trains?”
“Nothing.”
No wonder Gavin hadn’t called him yet.
“You must have some ideas,” Jack said.
“Perhaps he was connected to the bombing.”
“You think he’s Brigada Catalan?”
“We think we have a complete list of their membership—names, addresses, and pictures. His face wasn’t on that list. But we know BC is rumored to be connected to al-Qaeda, the Macedonian UÇK, and a few other terror gangs. Our suspicion is that he was with one of those other organizations.”