Midnight in Madrid (20 page)

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, 11:00 A.M.

Y
ou really want me to see all this?” Alex asked.

Alex stood with Peter Chang in the subterranean vault of El Banco de Santander. The branch was one of the largest in the city, as well as the most secure. They stood in a private room where Peter opened a safety deposit box from the vault.

“I don’t mind that you see what’s in the box,” Chang said. “Look, we’re working together. I have to trust you and vice versa. Do you have your passport with you?”

“Of course.”

“I want to add your signature to this account,” he said. “That way, if you need to, you can get in and out of this box without me.”

He lifted an attaché case onto the desktop. He had carried it from the car. Using his thumbs, he clicked the locks and the latches popped up with sharp metallic snaps. Then Chang opened the case. There were papers neatly arranged in a file, a weapon in a special case, a breathtaking load of cash bundled together, and a small gift box with slick white wrapping paper and a red ribbon.

He hefted the money in his hands. “Money,” he said. “I love money.” He was all business.

“In its place,” she answered.

“There’s ten thousand euros here,” he said. He flicked his fingers over the neatly bound stacks of bank notes. “Half in fifties, half in twenties. There are a few tens. If you’re in Spain and get stranded, or I’m not here, or I’ve disappeared or had to go back to China, help yourself to a reasonable amount. I mean, if you need a good lunch or dinner, just come in and grab a hundred euros. That’s about what it costs, doesn’t it, these days?”

“Just about,” she said, going along with it.

She watched in mounting wonder. He moved the money, tied up in fat tactile packs, into the safety deposit box. He then opened the metal case. Within it was a small black handgun, a Chinese-made nine millimeter automatic.

“Nice, yes?” he asked.

“Very,” she said.

He handed it to her for her examination. She used a tissue to hold it so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints on it, a move that amused him. She recognized the gun as a Norinco M-77B, a variant of the Type 77 pistol issued to the Chinese military and police.

“I’m surprised that thing didn’t set off the metal detector at the door,” she said.

He smiled and tapped gently on the case.

“This is the newest thing,” he said, referring to the metal composition of the weapon’s case. “Cool, huh? It’s like a Stealth bomber. It stymies the metal detectors so anything in one of these boxes flies under the radar.”

“Incredible,” she said.

“I’m Chinese, hey. We’re technologically advanced. Haven’t you read all that stuff in the journals these days?
The Economist? The Atlantic
in your country? Nostradamus said the Chinese would rule the world, remember that? Well, you might live to see it. Why are you looking at me strangely?” he asked.

“I can’t decide whether you’re brilliant, just full of yourself, or both,” she said.

“Both,” he answered. “You’re not the first to notice. And anyway, the bank knows who I am, and they look the other way. You know how banks do that when they want to. So bringing the gun wouldn’t have been a problem, anyway.”

“They know who you work for?”

“Who do you think opened the account?” he said.

The gun, packed neatly away, followed the money into the box.

Chang reached for the gift-wrapped box and seemed slightly ill at ease. “This part’s personal,” he said.

“Christmas shopping?” she asked, looking at the gift box. “Do they have Christmas in China?”

“In the cities, among the ruling class,” he said. “I can’t speak for what goes on in the countryside. Like it?” he asked.

He handed the box to her. It weighed less than a pound and it turned over easily in her hand. She examined the box. The wrapping was from one of Zurich’s finest jewelers.

“Well, it’s nicely wrapped,” Alex said. “What’s in it?”

“I picked it up for a lady friend,” he said.

“Special occasion?” she asked.

“You might say so.”

“Mother? Wife? Sister?”

“No, no, and no,” he answered. Suddenly into personal relationships, the steely reserve faded for a moment. He had a gorgeous smile and even laughed.

“But a special lady friend?” Alex pressed.

“Definitely.”

“I didn’t know you had a special lady friend.”

“How would you?” he asked. “You hardly know anything about me, and all you know is what I want you to know, anyway. And the truth is I have several.”

“Several what?”

“Lady friends,” he said.

“Ah. You get around the world. So you have a ‘stable’?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” he insisted.

She looked at the box, hefting it in her hand again.

“Engagement? Wedding?” she asked. “Too heavy to be a ring or a bracelet. Too light for crystal. Wrong size box for a necklace.”

She smiled and reexamined the package. Intrigued, she said, “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to
ask
what it is? To ask what’s in the box?”

“Ask me,” he said.

“What’s in the box?”

“It’s a secret,” he said. “I refuse to tell. But thanks for falling for my offer.”

He grinned and took it back from her.

She stared at the box, then looked at him. “Peter, how stupid do you think I am?” she asked.

He glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the pietà. You recovered it in Switzerland.”

He said nothing.

“I don’t care if we stash it here, but my job is to get it returned to the museum, so if that’s it, I want it.”

“That’s not the pietà,” he said.

“Let me open it,” she said.

“No,” he said. He stepped back and for one horrifying moment, she thought his right hand was going for his weapon. It was like that with Peter. Little movements, little innocent quirks, she was starting to interpret as keys to much larger things.

“Then I’ll draw my own conclusions, Peter,” she said. “And this is going to impact our working together because you’re holding back something important from me.”

He looked angry. “If I walked in here soaking wet and shaking out an umbrella and told you it was raining, you’d still go look out the window.”

“Can you blame me?”

“All right,” he finally said. “Go ahead. Just open it carefully,” he said, “because I need to reseal it, and I don’t want it arriving looking like I found it under a bench in Hong Kong.”

He put the package in her hands. She hefted it again, convinced that he had outfoxed her. She undid the ribbon with care. There was no tape on the wrapping paper. As she unfolded the paper, she saw his hands move slowly. One hand again was near his gun. He was looking her in the eye, hands on his hips.

The paper fell away. She paused. The box was sturdy cardboard, about five inches by five inches, bearing the mark of one of Zurich’s finest jewelers. Under his intense gaze, she opened it.

There was a blue velvet bag within. His hand drifted a little closer to his weapon. She stopped, then persisted. She opened the bag and slid the contents out into her hand.

The bag had contained a sturdy étoile bangle in eighteen-karat gold, sprinkled with modest diamonds. The piece was modern and streamlined, yet timeless. The diamonds were round and set in platinum. There was nothing else in the box. She had guessed one hundred percent wrong. It probably had a price tag of five grand but it wasn’t any lamentation.

“It’s really quite beautiful. Some girl is lucky.”

“Try it on,” he said. “Let me see how it looks on a woman’s wrist.”

“Really?”

“Why not, at this point?”

She slipped it on her wrist. It had a fabulous look, a magnificent feel. She had never owned a piece like this. Her first car had cost less. Her parent’s home where she grew up probably had a lower tag in dollars. Before she got too used to it, she took it off and handed it back.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. And sorry.”

“Aaaaah, in a way I can’t blame you,” he said. “At least we cleared the air.”

“Right,” she said.

Carefully she rewrapped it, taking great effort to get the paper and ribbon back perfectly in place. She handed it back to him and he put it into the box.

“Now let’s get out of here,” he said. “And will you sign the forms that give you permission to access the box? It would be a good idea.”

“I have nothing to lose by doing that,” she said.

They left the bank and went to his car, where they had both stashed their weapons under the front seat. Within a half hour they were at the city limits to the northwest of Madrid, and shortly after that they were driving on a new autoroute leading from the city into wealthy estates and farmlands to the northwest of the capital.

“You wouldn’t mind some American jazz, would you?”

“Not at all. I rather like it.”

“Louis Armstrong. Duke Ellington. Miles Davis. Absolutely the best.”

“If you say so,” she teased.

“You have better candidates?”

“In jazz?”

“Yes.”

“John Coltrane and Dave Brubeck. They were at least equals.”

“Anyone currently you like?” he asked.

“I like a jazz singer named Sarah Montes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “Am I allowed to name a woman? You only named men.”

“Sure. I don’t know Sarah Montes.”

“Then you should buy a CD next chance you get. Picture a sexy blond woman in a sexy slinky red gown standing in front of a black grand piano wailing her heart out for you.”

“Very good answer. Do you know sports too?”

“Pretty well.”

“I used to go see the Yankees when I lived in New York,” he said. “I liked the Yankees. Still follow them when I can. I like Wang, their pitcher from Taiwan.”

“The Los Angeles Angels are my baseball club,” she said, “and I’ve always liked the Giants in football.”

“English football?” he quizzed. “I follow that. Manchester United.”

“Arsenal rules,” she said. “I loved Thierry Henri. And that Pirès. He’s hot.”

He laughed heartily this time. “What
don’t
you know about?” he asked.

“Chinese,” she said. “Of the six languages I speak, that’s not one of them.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks,” he said. “You just reminded me. I need to make a call.”

He pulled out his cell phone, snapped it open with a deft flick of the wrist, and made a call. He spoke in Mandarin, or at least she assumed it was Mandarin. And for a moment a strange feeling came over her.

He could have been talking about her, plotting her death, saying anything, and she wouldn’t have known. She tried to read his expression but couldn’t. The dark side to him wouldn’t go away.

He clicked the phone shut and returned it to his inside jacket pocket. She gazed at the Spanish highway that unfurled ahead. They rode for the next several dozen kilometers in silence, except for the cool jazz.

She took the occasion to glance through his collection. Ellington, Coltrane, Davis, Johnny Hartman. Everyone in his collection was dead. It set just the wrong tone.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, 12:15 P.M.

D
igging, digging, digging.

Over the last few days, Jean-Claude and his associates had made enormous progress. From the basement of the old building on the Calle de Maldonado, they had tunneled and edged their way southward a full city block. Working during the day, when street noise would cover the sounds of their activities, they had taken down small sections of old walls that had been under the city for centuries.

Mahoud and Samy had done the heavy work. Samy’s wife, Tamar, had brought drinks, sandwiches, and pastries during the day. Basheer had watched the entranceway on the Calle Maldonado and had also done some digging.

When they removed rocks and passed through the new passages, they were careful to then reassemble the walls as they continued on their path. No point to arouse the suspicion of anyone else who might be prowling. They could assemble or re-assemble from either direction as they went in and out.

They traveled in pairs, each with a small shovel, a few hammers, and picks. Each carried a small handgun in case of an extreme emergency. Tamar kept a kitchen knife on her, just in case. The cell of self-styled
jihadistas
was small and tight. Jean-Claude, the leader and organizer, was the only one who would travel by himself. All five were Moroccans by birth except for Jean-Claude, who was French by birth and Moroccan by origin.

They were like rats. They scurried along, perilously close to contact with the overall workaday population of the city, yet they were subterranean and unobserved.

After months of planning, their underground passageway had pressed alongside and underneath the Calle Claudio Coello. Then it crossed underneath the intersection with the Calle Juan Bravo. JeanClaude himself was with the group and doing some excavation himself the day they got that far.

Jean-Claude had everything he needed up until this point. Electricity, a ventilation system, and small pumps to remove groundwater. In some areas he had wood roofing to bolster the makeshift walls and ceilings. In most areas they had clearances nearly six feet high and about five feet wide. Yet there were those spots along the path where they were forced to crawl through low, cramped, wet spaces that hardly allowed any air.

They followed a series of old cellars. They came mostly to crumbling walls where weak spots could be found and exploited. In these spots they pushed their way through to the next chamber and continued.

A few meters south of the Calle Juan Bravo, they hit a hard impasse. A construction gang from many years in the past had used one of the sub-basements as a repository for every bit of discarded construction refuse known to man: rotting old planks to hard chunks of concrete the size of boulders, to bags of garbage and wine and beer bottles from lunches consumed decades ago.

It was a roadblock. But Jean-Claude had anticipated something like this.

When his workers reported the impasse, he went with them. He carried with him a remote-controlled detonator, a PVC pipe, potassium nitrate, kitty litter, corn syrup, and a safety fuse.

This was risky. Jean-Claude needed to set off a small explosion via a modest pipe bomb about twenty feet under the middle of Madrid. He ordered his underlings to remain behind. Then, working with his own hands, he cleared as much rubble from the chamber of blockage as he could. His explosives were not the powerful sophisticated ones that had come all the way from Iraq. Rather it was routine stuff, about the amount that loggers might use to break apart a tree stump.

Of course, there was always the chance that the charge was too big and by setting off a modest underground blast, he might inadvertently create a sinkhole that would bring down everything from the street above: cars, buses, people, parts of buildings.

There was also the chance that the blast would ignite a fire. A fire like that would prohibit him and his cell from carrying out the rest of their plans. But he didn’t have much choice. He had to get past this underground chamber of rubble, and there was no room to excavate it. Best to turn part of it to dust.

The area was stinking and wet where he planted his bomb. Nothing should burn very easily. And in terms of lives and property, none of the potential losses came back on him. Those who suffered would all be Spaniards and foreigners who were tied up in the pro-Judeo-Christian Western economic system that exploited Islam.

So why should he care?

He used an old Casio watch as the timer and set the moment of ignition for one hour hence. He planted the small pipe bomb where he hoped it would blow a hole in each direction, creating a further passageway to his destination at an address under a building on the Calle Serrano. His detonator today was simple, an old-style low-tech blasting cap. He double-checked everything as the seconds began to tick away. A full minute was gone when he finally turned and hurried away.

The rest of his team had already dispersed for the day, though they left a few bricks and stones out of the established route so that Jean-Claude could travel faster. Within a quarter hour, his small knapsack over his back, his pistol tucked into a roomy pants pocket, he was all the way back to the building on the Calle Maldonado. Moments after that, he was back up to the street, anxious but breathing easier.

He walked out of the building and joined the crowds for a pleasant summer mid-afternoon in Madrid. He looked at his watch and pondered his next move.

He walked to a café that he reckoned was about a hundred feet from where the flash point of the blast would take place. He took a seat at a table, ordered a drink, and waited, checking out the Western women in the café as he did so.

He counted the minutes. And the seconds.

In his mind, he went through a secret countdown. The time eventually drew very near. His agitation increased.

He looked in the geographic direction of the impending blast.

A voice from nearby made him jump.
“¿Señor?”

He whirled around and his heart nearly stopped. Two uniformed police officers from the city of Madrid peered down at him, eyes behind reflective sunglasses, weapons hanging crisply at their sides.

Jean-Claude was speechless.

“¡
Señor! Su documento nacional de identidad, por favor
!” repeated the ranking cop, asking for his identity card.

“Why?” Jean-Claude asked.

“Don’t ask us why, sir,” the ranking cop pressed. “Do you have your card or not?”

Jean-Claude went to his rear pocket where there was a small billfold. He thought of the gun in his other pocket and processed quickly the scenario of shooting his way out of this. The only ID he had was his real one, the French one. But to not produce an ID would be to invite further questions, further searches.

He produced the ID and handed it to the lead cop.

Without asking, the second cop picked up Jean-Claude’s backpack and looked into it. Luckily, it was empty, other than tools. But the cop wasn’t satisfied. He picked up a chisel and turned it over and over, examining it with growing suspicion.

The lead cop continued to eye the small ID card issued by the French government. He raised his glasses for a good look. His gaze jumped back and forth between Jean-Claude and the card.

“¿Frances?”
the lead cop asked.

“Si. Oui.”
Jean-Claude answered. He knew if he were asked to stand up, things would get worse.

“What are you doing with these things?” the second cop asked of the tools. “Breaking into cars? Homes?”

“I’m a workman. A carpenter,” Jean-Claude said. Then he added, with a smile, “Like Jesus.”

The two cops didn’t think that was funny. Not at all and particularly not coming from a French Arab. They only glared. Jean-Claude knew he had miscalculated with that remark.

“
Se levanta, por favor
,” the lead cop said. Stand up!

Jean-Claude’s insides nearly exploded. He would have bolted, but the second cop had blocked his exit, not by coincidence. The second cop’s meaty hand was on his sidearm also. Not by coincidence either.

The first cop pulled out a handheld tracking computer and ran Jean-Claude’s ID through it like a credit card. He waited. Cop number two engaged the suspect in small talk.

“Where is your job? As a ‘carpenter,’” the policeman asked with obvious cynicism. “What
exactly
do you do?”

Jean-Claude talked his way through a pack of lies and half truths. The cop did not take notes.

“Why are you in Spain? Where do you live?” the cop asked next. Cop number one was eyeing his computer. The gun in Jean-Claude’s pocket felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

There was silence. Everyone else in the café was now staring. Even the proprietor had moved into a position to watch but knew better than to interfere with the police.

Jean-Claude told more lies but told the truth about his home address, which he now knew might not be safe to go back to. He was registered with the local authorities, as required by law. A lie here would have raised even more suspicion. The sweat continued to roll off him. Then the first cop stepped back a pace and did something that Jean-Claude liked even less. He pulled out a small digital camera and took Jean-Claude’s picture, so fast that Jean-Claude couldn’t object, not that it would have mattered.

The cop checked the image he had taken, then put the camera away.

Jean-Claude glanced at his watch. There was a quiet moment.

“Late for something?” the second cop asked.

“Just wondering about the time,” Jean-Claude explained.

“Why would it matter?” the cop asked.

“It doesn’t,” said Jean-Claude.

“Then why did you look?”

“I just looked. That’s all.”

“Maldito moro,”
muttered the cop. Damned Arab. “Why do you people come here?”

Jean-Claude held his tongue. Then he felt the detonation. He was certain! He had felt a small shock wave, a small rumble, from the point of impact about a hundred feet away. It was much like the feeling of a truck rumbling by on a city street, or the sensation New Yorkers feel when a subway train rumbles under a building. Then it was gone, the rumbling, vanishing as abruptly as it had arrived.

He had heard it. Or thought he had. He glanced around in every direction, the second cop still fixing him in his gaze. Much as Jean-Claude was thrilled by the explosion, he felt as if he had guilt written all over him. He half expected to see some kind of commotion on the street, people asking questions, people wondering. Like New York after September 11, like London after the horrible attacks on the transportation system in September of 2005, Madrid had remained a city on edge, a city jittery at the sound of any strange, loud noise.

But there was absolutely no notice being taken here on the streets.

None. The pipe bomb had contained itself, at least for now.

Then the lead cop put the computer away. “
Esta bien
,” he said.

He returned the ID card. The second cop tossed the knapsack back to the ground, still open, the tools rattling, the cop still glaring.

The first cop looked him up and down. “You don’t belong here. People here wash. This isn’t a bar for workmen or riffraff.”

“
Árabes
,” the second cop muttered.

Jean-Claude held them in his gaze and suppressed everything he might have wanted to say. “I can drink here like anyone else,” he said.

“Then drink,” said the cop.

It was only then that Jean-Claude realized he had never touched his coffee.

“I will,” he said softly. And he did, as the cops departed and the café settled down again.

Jean-Claude drew a long breath and exhaled. Not far away, just up the block, loomed the United States Embassy and all the security that surrounded it. Jean-Claude glared at all the Americans around him, glanced away, then fully understood why he had been questioned and why he would have to be much more careful in the coming days.

And that photo! Where was
that
going to show up?

He knew the whole equation for him in Spain had now changed. He knew the explosion he had set off that day would have kicked up massive amounts of dust and smoke. And there still could be a collapse on the streets or a fire. But there could be no question of moving forward, as rapidly as possible.

That photograph. Time was limited!