Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“I didn’t know financial analysts were so . . . observant.”

“Don’t blame me. My mother is an eye surgeon.”

Brossa smiled. “Tell me about your family.”

He couldn’t risk being too specific even if it was just a friendly question, which he doubted. “I have one older sister who’s a doctor like my mom, and two younger siblings both still in high school. They’re all brainiacs. I’m pretty sure I was adopted.”

“You have a big family. And your father? Is he still alive?”

By leaving his dad out, he only made him more obvious, Jack realized. Dumb mistake. “Oh, yeah. He and Mom are happily married. He was a history professor.”

“Which is why you love history, yes?”

“Probably.”

“He is retired?”

“No, he went to work for the government. He’s kind of a bureaucrat. How about your family?”

“I am an only child. My mother died in a car wreck ten years ago.” Her eyes reflexively turned toward the smartphone on her desk.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine getting a phone call like that.”

Her eyes searched his face. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“I’m a people watcher.”

Brossa’s mouth pursed. She clearly didn’t like that answer. She took a sip of coffee.

“Yes, it was a terrible phone call. The worst. I was very close to my mother. But such is life, yes? We are born to die. The goal is to live well while we can, don’t you agree?”

“I do. And your father?”

“He was a teacher, too, like your father. He taught English for twenty years.”

“That’s why your English is so good. Perfect, actually.”

“Thank you. I try.”

“He is still with you, I hope.”

“Yes, thank God. He was a great teacher and a great father. I am very lucky.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you keep referring to him in the past tense?”

Brossa’s eyes suddenly clouded. She turned in her chair, partly hiding her face as she wiped the corner of her eye with her fingers.

Jack stared at his hands, giving her a moment. She took a deep breath and faced him again, snatching a napkin from the coffee tray.

“My father taught English for twenty years, though it was his third language, and worked as a translator for the government for ten years prior to that. But about a year ago, he just stopped speaking it. Whether he understands and pretends not to, I’m not sure. I don’t think so. One time, I had a friend at the office call him in English and tell him that his daughter had been rushed to the hospital and that he needed to come see her. You know, a little test? But my father kept repeating in Català that he didn’t understand what my friend was saying. He said over and over, ‘I don’t speak English.’ My friend believed him. The neurologist told me this is possible for a man in my father’s condition. Demència .”

“That must be hard on a linguist to lose a language like that.”

Brossa sat up, willing herself to stop the theatrics, wiping her proud, upturned nose with the napkin.

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem frustrated when he hears it and doesn’t understand it. And he doesn’t try to speak it at all. It’s almost as if he decided to BleachBit that part of his brain. He is a proud Catalonian man, and Català is his first language, his heart language. It’s who he most authentically is. Perhaps the death of English in his brain is just a function of his changing biochemistry, or perhaps he is merely retreating into what is most familiar and comfortable to him. Or perhaps it is a little of both.”

“Is his situation getting worse?”

She nodded, her eyes clouding again.

“I’m so sorry.” And that’s why you dread your phone calls now.

“Finding someone to care for him during the day while I’m at work is difficult. He’s becoming increasingly stubborn. I’m always afraid the next call will tell me something terrible has happened to him.”

“No family to help out?”

“He has a sister but she lives in Australia with her family, and has no wish to take him in. His brother is deceased.”

“It must be hard.”

She shrugged but shook her head. “It’s not hard to love him or to care for him. It’s just our new normal. But I have a job to do. I am a daughter, but I am also a patriot. Two loyalties, yes?”

“Both equally important.”

“So you understand?” She seemed surprised.

Jack did understand. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to have to choose between serving his father or serving his country. He was lucky that the two were so perfectly aligned in his life.

“My dad says that loyalty is destiny. Who and what we love determines the shape of our lives. But like the Man said, you can’t serve two masters.” He was thinking about that a lot these days.

“You can, but just not well, I’m afraid.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Jack was eager to push on, but she was still clearly decompressing. When she gathered herself together, she stood and refilled their coffee cups, signaling that she was back on track.

“Anything else we need to talk about, Jack?”

Jack flashed his best smile. “Well, since you ask, I was wondering when you were going to let me see the CCTV tapes.”

Brossa nearly spit coffee out of her nose as she giggled.

“I don’t think that is going to be possible.”

“Why not? Maybe I can be of some use. Like you said, I’m observant.”

“I am afraid you cannot see them. It’s official business.”

“But I was there, and I was nearly killed. Don’t I have a right to see them?”

“It is my job to find the bombers, not yours. Unless you think you can do my job for me?”

“Me? No, not at all. I’m sorry if that’s what you think I meant. I just genuinely want to help. Anything I can do to help find Renée’s killers.”

“We found one already, Aleixandri. We will find the rest, I assure you.”

He heard the edge in her voice. He decided to back off and try to find another way in.

Brossa beat him to the punch.

“Ms. Moore was a beautiful girl.”

“Very. And even smarter.”

“And you knew her in college?”

“Yes. We were friends.”

“A girl that smart and beautiful. You were intimate with her?”

He didn’t see that one coming.

“We were . . . close, for a while.”

“And you still have affection for her. Is that why you are so determined to find her killers?”

“Yes. Anything wrong with that?”

“ Vale . I can understand that. But you must let me do my job.”

“Understood. Speaking of which, did you find out any information on this Sammler guy?”

“Interesting you should ask. Yes, I can share that with you.”

Brossa pulled out her phone. She opened her e-mail and read from it.

“In the last five days, there have been three Sammlers in España. One is an American woman named Martha Sammler. She arrived in Madrid two days ago on a Rick Steves’ tour and was in Toledo yesterday. She was never in the vicinity.

“Next, John Sammler, a Canadian citizen, was in Barcelona yesterday morning. Today he is in Tunis.” She looked up from her phone. “And he is an eleven-year-old traveling with his maternal grandmother, Maria Busquets.”

“And the third?”

“ Vale, that one is interesting. Karl Sammler, a German businessman from Düsseldorf. He was traveling in Spain but we don’t have any records of his travel destinations. We cannot be sure if he was in Barcelona until we speak with him. He is back in Germany now, and my office in Madrid is sending an agent to speak with him this afternoon.”

“You’ll keep me informed?”

“If it is related to the case.”