Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

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 able 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.”

“There are a lot of agencies around the world with detailed records of AQ membership. Have you passed this photo around to them?”

“Yes, it’s been sent out, but no luck yet. There is another possibility I’ve been playing around with.”

Brossa leaned in closer. “Perhaps BC isn’t behind this bombing at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been reading about the civil war, and you seem well read on current Spanish politics. There are pro-nationalist and pro-Franco groups that hate the idea of Catalonian independence and would certainly hate a group like BC.”

“And you think one of these groups might have set BC up for the bombing—even though BC claimed credit for it?”

“Anybody can post anything on social media these days.”