He emerged from the stall as Akbar set off in the direction of the Monument a Colon at the end of La Rambla.
‘He’s edgy and careful … don’t want him spooked.’
‘Tell me,’ Barney said.
‘OK — Jo and Jed stay on Suleiman … Terry, Marcus to the bottom of La Rambla … You stay put, Barney, he’s headed in your direction. Wayne, Harry to make to your location, too … I need to check if he’s alone … he could have back-up.’
‘You got it.’ Barney asked if everyone understood.
And meantime Akbar walked down La Rambla, past the junction with Calle Ferran, the street Suleiman had walked up.
Behind him, Donaldson became acutely aware of two things … the Sig 9 mm pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants at his spine and the flick knife strapped to his right ankle. Both items seemed to burn holes into his bones.
Using his tradecraft, Donaldson kept both his quarry in sight and himself out of sight, constantly scanning to be certain that Akbar was alone, not being supported by a team, or being tailed by another intelligence service. He knew that Mossad were also after him.
He was pretty certain Akbar was alone. He was about to relay this information when, without warning, Akbar burst into a sprint and plunged headlong into Calle Escudellers in the Barri Gotic, Barcelona’s superbly preserved medieval quarter.
‘He’s running, he must have made me,’ Donaldson said, discarding all pretence of subtlety and racing after him.
The change in atmosphere and temperature was dramatic in the tight, shadowy streets of the gothic quarter, sending an instant chill through Donaldson.
As his big feet pounded into the ground, he was amazed that it always came down to this; despite all the technology in the world, the hunt for a fugitive always came down to a confrontation, whether it be in the mountains of Afghanistan or the backstreets of Boston; ultimately it was always a one-on-one.
Akbar skidded out of sight twenty metres ahead as he spun into Passatge Escudellers. Donaldson flung himself after him, feeling for his pistol as he ran, his fingers curling round the stock, but as he entered the passage, Akbar, wily as a fox, was already out of sight.
‘Shit,’ he uttered, but kept running hard, having to believe that he would catch and destroy him. There was nowhere the man could have disappeared to, must have gone down the next tight alleyway which connected to the street which ran parallel. ‘Lost eyeball,’ he panted down the radio.
Exclamations in several forms came back as replies.
‘Still with you,’ Barney said, meaning the deployment of the team was still down to Donaldson.
‘Everyone keep going as instructed,’ Donaldson said as he emerged on to a wide street which he powered across and into the continuation of the alley opposite, hoping he was still going in the right direction. But, running on from street to street, down likely looking alleys and losing his sense of direction, there was no sign of Akbar.
He had disappeared into the city.
Finally, Donaldson jarred to a halt and walked a few metres down another narrow alley and came into a deserted, brightly sun-lit square, not much bigger than a courtyard, which somehow seemed to have no shadow in it. His face was a contorted mask of anger and annoyance at himself. Akbar had been that far from him. Arm’s length. He had nearly had him.
The disappointment was like a raging animal inside him. He stopped to catch his breath in the square, not exactly sure where he was. He squinted up at the high medieval stone walls surrounding him, narrow windows in them.
‘Totally lost him,’ Donaldson admitted into his radio, still gasping for air and now sweating heavily. ‘He’s gone, shit!’ He punched the air in frustration.
‘So where are you?’ Barney asked into his ear.
‘Where am I? Not a clue,’ he said disgustedly.
‘Agent Donaldson,’ came a voice from behind him.
Suddenly all of the American’s vital functions seemed to freeze up. He rotated slowly to see a man who had materialized from nowhere standing not ten feet away.
‘Akbar,’ Donaldson hissed.
He nodded, smiled.
‘How the hell do you know me?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Know thine enemies — and their motivations,’ he said. ‘Though I wouldn’t have known it was you except for a small mistake you made.’
‘Which was?’ Donaldson was judging how quickly he could cover the gap and draw his weapon.
‘Who in this city pays for their drinks before they need to? A knowledge of culture is a vital tool in our armoury, wouldn’t you say? Keeps us alive.’
Donaldson swallowed.
‘Then I recognized you properly at the magazine stall.’
‘In that case, if you know so much, you’ll also know there’s a team on your ass and they’re all closing in now.’
‘Following your directions?’ Akbar smiled again, his perfect white teeth a testament to the dentistry of the western world. ‘I think not. Either way, I know time is of the essence for both of us.’ He raised his right hand in which was a small calibre pistol pointed easily at Donaldson’s body mass. ‘I’m afraid I’m a man who does not like to be pursued by fanatics and I will take every opportunity to dispose of them. You see, I know your motivation and it’s best if you are dead.’
Just at that moment, from the eaves high above them, there was a loud cry and the mass beat of wings as a huge flock of pigeons took off.
Akbar’s eyes glanced up for a split second.
Donaldson knew he could not make the distance between him and his prey, so he pitched himself to the side, rolling across the uneven paving, drawing the Sig from the small of his back — a manoeuvre he’d practised hundreds of times in training — and as he came up, the gun swung round and he fired twice — at exactly the instant Akbar fired at him.
The bullet from Akbar’s small gun seared into Donaldson’s abdomen with a sickening jolt. A terrible pain splayed through him.
Gasping, tasting something horrendous in his mouth, he managed to clamber to his knees, woozily steeling himself to look at the wound just below the rib cage on his left side. He yanked up his blood-soaked shirt to inspect himself, but saw nothing positive. It looked bad — was bad, he knew.
Though his vision became suddenly blurred and he felt nauseous, he looked to where Akbar had been standing. Was he still there? Had Donaldson missed? Had he escaped again?
Crawling on hands and knees, leaving a trail of thick blood in his wake, Donaldson found Akbar, who had managed to stagger several feet away before falling in a crumpled heap.
Donaldson groaned in agony, coughed and spat out some blood as he tried to concentrate on looking at Akbar’s body. He didn’t appear to be moving, though his eyes were open and staring. His clothing was blood soaked. Donaldson had shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the neck.
But Donaldson wanted to be sure before he himself died.
Using the last ounces of his determination, fighting through the tsunami of weakness that was pervading his mind and body, he dragged himself to lie next to Akbar, placed the muzzle of the Sig, which weighed a ton, against the terrorist’s temple, and pulled the trigger.
‘Critical threat neutralized,’ he said, before falling backwards and looking at the pigeons circling high above in the clear blue sky.