Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Interesting .

“Well, I suppose Talbot’s people might have got their wires crossed. Sorry to bother you, Buck.”

“Never a bother, Mr. President. By the way, I’m really looking forward to the Andrews fundraiser on the eleventh, if you can still make it.”

Ryan didn’t remember any fundraiser on the eleventh, let alone one at Joint Base Andrews.

“I’m sure it’s on the calendar. I’ll have Betty confirm later.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Take care of yourself, Buck.”

“You, too, sir.”

Logan rang off.

Ryan double-checked the calendar on his phone. He was right. There was no fundraiser at Andrews or on the eleventh.

That meant Buck Logan was in trouble.

11

BARCELONA, SPAIN

Jack grabbed a cab to the Guardia Civil annex just west of the old city, a ten-minute walk from the famous Las Ramblas boulevard, frequented by tourists and pickpockets from around the world.

He passed by a small café with a single entrance, its steel door rolled up to let diners and sunshine into the half-dozen tables inside, all occupied, and crowded with people devouring churros and hot chocolate for breakfast. The restaurant was part of the same building that housed the Guardia Civil.

Jack entered through a double-wide vehicle entrance gate and showed the security guard his passport before heading up to the second-story suite of offices subleased to CNI. They had established a temporary presence in the city when the protests first began.

“Jack, thanks so much for coming by,” Brossa said, ushering him into her office. Her smile was pleasant enough but she also looked exhausted, even fragile. Her shoulder holster and pistol hung on a coatrack behind her secondhand steel desk.

“Coffee?” She pointed at the American-style coffee maker, quite unusual for Spain.

“Sure.”

She poured him a cup from a freshly brewed pot she had on a stand near her desk. Though spartan like almost every other government office he’d ever been in, the room—one of dozens inside the renovated nineteenth-century neoclassical building—had an old-world charm, with its high ceilings, bronze-and-glass light fixtures, and tall, heavy oaken doors.

Jack was glad for the meeting and the hospitality but he wanted to get down to business. The interrogation by Dellinger had already put him in a foul mood. If Dellinger was running the student exchange program, Jack would eat his Georgetown Hoyas sweatshirt. Dellinger was CIA, no doubt, and maybe even chief of station, judging by his age and demeanor.

Now his bad mood was getting worse. It felt like the investigation was already behind schedule and the longer it took to get things rolling, the less likely it was that Brossa or anybody would ever find the dirtbags that killed Renée.

Brossa took a sip of her coffee. “So, tell me, Jack, what exactly does a financial analyst do?”

“Nothing as interesting as what you do. A lot of reading, mostly corporate balance sheets, quarterly earnings reports. And crunching numbers. Pretty dull stuff.”

“You must be good at your job.”

“There’s always room to improve.”

“Your boss is a very important man, yes?”

“Gerry Hendley is a brilliant investor and a former United States senator. He’s been a great mentor to me.” Gerry’s name was better than an Amex black card when it came to impressing the right people.

“Ah, that explains why I was told to cooperate with you as much as possible in this investigation.” Her voice dripped with resentment.

“Let me guess. Gerry is friends with your boss—or more likely, your boss’s boss.” Jack hadn’t spoken to Gerry but his boss’s existing relationships and reputation were enough to open doors even here in Spain.

“I was informed that Mr. Hendley has known the director of my agency for many years.”

“I just want to lend a hand, Ms. Brossa. Anything I can do to help solve Renée’s case.”

“You do realize I can’t divulge anything to you that would harm the Spanish national interest.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Good.” She pulled out a photograph from a file folder and handed it to Jack.

It was the Bluetooth blonde.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I do. She was standing on the far side of the bar yesterday.”

“Her name is Noèlia Aleixandri. She’s a member of Brigada Catalan. Or was. She was killed in the blast. But this confirms who was behind the bombing.”

“Too bad she’s dead. She could have given you more information. Strange that she got caught in the blast.”

“New terror groups always go through a learning phase when they become violent. Perhaps she accidentally detonated it.”

“She was on a Bluetooth the whole time she was there. Maybe you can find out who she was talking to.”

“There was no phone on her person.”

“What about the Bluetooth?”

Brossa checked the notes on her phone. “No Bluetooth, either.”

“I know I saw the Bluetooth, and I know she was talking to someone.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, trying to keep his temper in check. He knew what he saw. Was she jerking his chain? Or were these Spanish police just careless idiots who couldn’t run an evidence locker?

Or . . . did someone take them?

“Too bad.” Brossa flashed an indulgent smile. “Without that phone, we can’t know who was on the other end, can we?”

“No, I guess not.” Jack took another sip of coffee, his mind searching for answers. He suddenly remembered the guy with the crooked nose outside in the street, also on a Bluetooth.

A coincidence, probably.

Jack held up the photo. “Is this my copy to keep?”

“Of course. I am cooperating with you, yes?”

Not really . Jack pocketed the photo. “Thanks.”

—

“Have you thought about tracking her movements over the last few days?” Jack asked. “It might lead you to where she bought the phone, and then you can access her account and find out who she was talking to.”

“Track her how?”

“Surely you guys have access to the city’s traffic cameras.”

“Yes, of course. But I would have to convince my superior that a phone really did exist. Then he would have to convince somebody in the Barcelona traffic department to release the tapes. But then we’d have to get a court warrant to do so since Ms. Aleixandri hasn’t been charged with a crime and such surveillance is considered a violation of personal privacy.”

Jack took a sip of coffee to swallow his frustration. “How long would all of that take?”

Brossa snorted, a kind of laugh. “This is España—and, worse, Barcelona. My department represents the national government. We’re already in a turf war with the local authorities. Imagine if a federal agent from Washington, D.C., asked for cooperation from a deputy sheriff in Alabama on the brink of your civil war.”

Interesting reference, Jack thought. “So, never, I take it?”

Brossa shrugged as she put her cup back down. “No, not never . But at least a week, most likely two.”

“Can’t you convince them that this is urgent?”

She shook her head. “In my country, two weeks is urgent.”

Jack glanced up at the painted tin-paneled ceiling, trying to come up with a different tack. In a couple of weeks, a case like this would turn ice cold. The only chance of catching whoever did this was to grab them by the short hairs now, and preferably yesterday.

“Have you had a chance to go over the CCTV footage from inside the restaurant?”

Brossa’s face narrowed. “How do you know about the CCTV tapes?”

“I have eyes, don’t I? There were three cameras, each in one of the ceiling corners of the dining area. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at them myself. Maybe I’ll recognize somebody.”