Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“So, Mr. Ryan—”

“Please, call me Jack.”

“ Vale, Jack. Can you tell me what you last saw or heard before the explosion? Any protesters outside? Anyone suspicious?”

“The place was packed for lunch. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. I’d say half locals, half tourists, maybe? I heard German, French, Norwegian, but mostly Català.”

“You are very observant.”

“Just a curious tourist.”

“L’avi is very popular. One of the best in the city. I eat there often myself. No shouts of Visca Cataluña! before the blast? Or anything else that would indicate a motive for the attack?”

“No, nothing like that. People were just eating and drinking and having a good time when I left, then suddenly—well, you know the rest.”

“And your friend? What does she do? Why was she in Barcelona?” She pronounced the word Barcelona like an American—the c sounding like an s, unlike the Castilian Spanish of Madrid, which turned the c into a lispy th sound—Bar- thuh -lona.

“I really don’t know. Business, maybe. I’m pretty sure she was there to meet somebody.” Jack reached into his shirt pocket and handed her Moore’s business card.

“Who was she meeting there?”

“I don’t know.”

Renée didn’t, either, judging by the way she reacted when she first saw me, Jack thought. Like maybe she thought he was the contact, but then she knew it wasn’t him. That meant she didn’t know what he looked like—and it was probably a guy.

“The last thing she said to me before she died was a name. ‘Sammler.’ Maybe that’s the guy she was meeting.”

Or, the man who killed her.

“First name?”

“She didn’t say.”

Brossa read Moore’s business card. “CrowdScope? What is that?”

“A Silicon Valley fintech startup.”

“Excuse me? ‘Fintech’?”

“Companies that apply new technologies to financial transactions, like using data analytics to acquire new customers, or robo-investing. That kind of thing. Renée was a financial wizard.”

“May I keep this?”

“Of course.”

“Do you happen to have your passport with you?”

“Yes.” Jack pulled it out of a front zippered pocket of his cargo pants, stowed away against pickpockets, which were rife in the city.

Brossa examined it, flipping pages for visa stamps. She snapped a picture of the page with Jack’s information and passport number before handing it back to him.

“And you, Jack? What do you do?”

“I’m in finance, too. But not fintech.” He pulled out his wallet, fished out a business card, and handed it to her. “I’m a financial analyst with Hendley Associates, out of Alexandria, Virginia.”

“Interesting work, I imagine.”

“Numbers always tell a story, if you know how to read them.” Something Paul Brown taught me years ago.

Brossa’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, Jack.” She turned away and spoke into her phone. A short exchange. Jack watched her in his peripheral vision. She ended the call and sighed.

“Jack, I’m sorry, I have to go. Is it possible you are staying in Barcelona for the next few days? I have more questions for you, and you are one of the few surviving eyewitnesses.”

Jack didn’t know if he could extend his stay at his Airbnb, or if Gerry would give him the extra time off, but there was no way in hell he was going back home until he found out who killed Moore, and until he was certain her killer would be brought to justice. Helping this CNI agent would be the easiest way to ensure both.

“Of course. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“If I can.”

“I need you to look into this Sammler guy for me. I think that name is going to be important for solving this case.”

Brossa gave him another searching look. Finally, her first, small smile.

“I’ll be in touch.”

6

It was a twenty-minute walk from the placeta where he’d been treated for his injuries back to his Airbnb apartment in Barceloneta, the old workers’ neighborhood down by the beach that had recently been revitalized.

The explosion at the restaurant had put authorities on edge. Blue lights from police cars and motorcycles flashed at every intersection and helicopters hovered protectively around the Ciutat Vella.

Despite predictions to the contrary, no massive rallies for Catalonian independence spontaneously materialized. Jack didn’t know if the peaceful protesters were afraid of suffering violence or being blamed for more of it if another bombing attack occurred tonight.

In this part of town, tourists seemed completely unaware of what had occurred just a kilometer away, only an hour before as they flocked past the restaurants, hotels, and gelateria s on Passeig de Joan de Borbó approaching the sea. Despite his attempts to clean up back at the church, some of the more observant did notice his bloodstained clothing.

His head still pounding, Jack ducked into a tiny Carrefour Express for some aspirin and bottled water. He popped a couple and washed them down with a long gulp as he crossed back into the alley toward his place, willing himself up the fifty-seven narrow, winding marble stairs to his door on the third floor.

Still feeling like he’d been dragged behind a car on a rocky dirt road, he stripped off his clothes and hit the small but generous shower, letting the steam and hot water work their magic. He couldn’t stop thinking about Moore and the light fading from her dimming eyes. Such a waste. A brilliant and beautiful woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He toweled off, trying to solve a couple of mysteries about her. A fintech kinda made sense—finance was her thing. But a Silicon Valley startup? He remembered distinctly her dream of running, if not outright owning, a white-shoe Wall Street investment firm. Both of her parents were corporate executives and had groomed her for the same life. She never struck him as the entrepreneurial type. On the risk-reward continuum, she was heavily slanted toward the latter.

Maybe something went sideways in her career? Had to start over? And what would a Silicon Valley tech executive be doing in Barcelona? Possibly on vacation, like him, but not likely. She didn’t have the wide-eyed look of a tourist. She was all business in her demeanor, and clearly on a mission to find whoever it was she was supposed to meet—someone she had obviously never met before, which is a strange way to do business.

His headache finally ebbing from the aspirin and shower, Jack reached into the fridge and grabbed a can of Mahou Radler, a clara —a Spanish beer mixed with lemon soda—which he’d come to crave these last few days. He plopped down at the little kitchen dinette that served as his office space and opened up his laptop, encrypted for security by Hendley Associates’ IT director, Gavin Biery.

It was just five o’clock in the afternoon, local. He pulled up the contact information for the U.S. Consulate in Barcelona in order to call them and tell them about Renée, in case the Spanish authorities hadn’t yet done so. He discovered that the consulate had closed to the public at one p.m. He could call a 24-hour hotline but he wanted to do it in person. He decided to pay them a visit first thing in the morning.

He then Googled Moore’s company, CrowdScope, and found the corporate website. It was about what he expected: “Optimizing capital investments and business solutions through big data analytics,” blah, blah, blah. Standard corporate speak, stock photos, and bullet points. Nothing interactive. He clicked on the “Who We Are” tab and found Moore’s contact information. She was listed as “Vice President of Marketing,” just as she was on her business card.