FORTY
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, LA MADRUGADA, 12:34 A.M.
Alex was back in the Ritz in another hour, in her suite by herself, the door bolted.
She opened her laptop and went to email messages.
On the top of the list, Joseph Collins, her Venezuelan mentor, wrote back to wish her well. He said he had some new developments, but they could wait. She fielded the email, answered it, and went on.
Colonel Pendraza of the National Police had made good on his pledge. He had transferred one hundred thirty-eight files to her by attachment, each of them having to do with some antiterror operation in Spain, large or small, but mostly large.
Alex dug into them for an hour.
Item: Three people in Malaga had been arrested in connection with a plot to plant car bombs around that Spanish city. The conspirators had been trained at a camp in Pakistan linked to the Islamic Jihad Union. Eight others were under investigation and had fled Spain. Spanish authorities said those arrested shared a “profound hatred of Americans.” Item: In early June, eight men of Somali citizenship had been arrested in Portugal while seeking to make connecting flights into Barcelona. Portuguese police maintained that one of the men was a senior al-Qaeda leader. All had been turned over to “covert American operations” for “further inquiry.” Item: Noted in passing: al-Qaeda leaders have frequently threatened to strike again in Europe in audio and video warnings. Antiterror experts within the Policia Nacional said recently that the pace of the warnings has picked up in recent weeks. Associated item: Intercepted al-Qaeda documents have indicated activities of small sleeper cells within Spain, intent on acting independently but with major force. Item: Analysts in Madrid were alarmed over the publication of cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad deemed offensive by many Muslims, as well as a lack of opportunities and sense of marginalization in Muslim communities. These social currents have put Europe squarely in the crosshairs of radicals. Porous borders and years of open immigration policies have added to the problem, they say. Item: Police in northwest Spain had arrested seven people in connection with a terrorist plot to blow up aircraft flying from Spain to the United Kingdom. The plot involved hiding liquid explosives in carry-on luggage, and six to ten flights would have been targeted. A senior Spanish counterterror source said she believed the plotters were to carry a “Spanish version of Gatorade” onto the planes and then mix it with a gel-like substance. The explosives were to be triggered by an iPod or a cell phone, the source said…[NB: Cross/ref: US.doj.gvt. 4543b-0-09] The intelligence that uncovered the plot “makes very strong links to al-Qaeda,” a senior US administration official remarked in telephone message with Policia Nacional. The official said it was believed the plot had been close to being operational.
Lord, what a world, she thought to herself. More examples of man’s inhumanity to man, the violence and moral vacuity of the modern world. And how, on top of her personal feelings, was she ever going to make sense of all these reports, much less spot any link to the disappearance of The Pietà of Malta?
Good question. She didn’t have an answer. Not tonight, anyway.
Her eyelids flagged. She was confused, afraid, paranoid, and tired. She scanned the list of messages.
Anything of interest?
No. Nothing.
She shut down the laptop and crashed into bed.
She worked Peter Chang over in her mind. She wondered if he was somehow playing both sides of the street, having sold his credibility to the CIA in Rome. Was he now serving up peanuts in return for a chubby annual stipend on the tab of the American taxpayers? Had he successfully hustled Mark McKinnon, who was looking increasingly burned out and unprofessional?
And was Peter now hustling her? For business reasons? Personal reasons? Something about him set off alarms.
After a few unsettled minutes, Alex drifted off to sleep. She slept surprisingly soundly, more out of fatigue than peace of mind.
FORTY-ONE
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, 7:45 A.M.
Alex rose the next morning at 7:00 a.m.
There was a health club nearby affiliated with the hotel. She pulled on a sweatshirt, shorts, and sneakers and was out of her room by 7:15, walking quickly though the streets of the waking Spanish capital. She was in the pool by 7:35. Without stopping, she did thirty laps before returning to the Ritz.
She felt good.
She ordered breakfast from room service and opened her computer. She threw off her gym clothes and donned a hotel robe. When breakfast arrived, she took both her breakfast and her laptop on the balcony. She loved the view of the city in the morning, even with its dull smoggy haze filtering sunlight onto the old buildings, modern apartment houses, trees, and busy streets.
She opened her laptop and set to work.
Email. Messages. A bunch from home. One from Ben that made her laugh. His first term at law school was about to begin. He was anxious to get started.
She thought of phoning him but remembered it was the middle of the night. He might not have minded, but she didn’t anyway.
Another email from Joseph Collins. He said one of his employees would be in Spain during the week of September 18. Could the employee come by for a conversation, he asked. Things in Venezuela were heating up.
Alex wrote back and said that was fine, but she didn’t know when the current assignment would end. She would most likely be at the Ritz in Madrid, and Collin’s rep should look for her there.
Then business. She switched into her secure email account, the one she used for work. There was some stuff from Treasury pertaining to her current assignment. Synopses of other ongoing investigations in the United States that might have links to her own. She scanned them and found nothing that fixed her attention. There was one from her boss, Mike Gamburian, in DC asking for a few sentences of an update on the case. A small progress report.
Well, she could give him a small progress report because the progress was small. How’s that, Mike? She sent him an update, but made it politer than she might have wished.
Then there were a few emails from the others who had been at the meeting at the embassy, the one in which she had been introduced to The Pietà of Malta. The black bird, as everyone now had taken to calling it.
LeMaitre, the Frenchman, had sent her a few links having to do with terror cases in France. Then there was something from Essen at Interpol, which she read. His stuff seemed to be consistently closest to the mark, but still there was nothing that she pegged as important.
Then she sighed.
There was another email from Floyd Connelly at US Customs.
Mr. Empty message, she now thought of him as. How the heck did the man keep his job in this day of mandatory computer literacy? She wondered what political hack had given him his job and was still protecting him.
She opened the message and looked at it.
Subject: Pietà of Malta
Date: Fri, 10 September 2009 12:47:01-0400
From: “Connelly_F” ‹Floyd_Connelly@USACustoms.org› Add Mobile Alert
To: “A_LaDuca” ‹A_Laduca@usdt.prv.org›
Once again, the text was jaybird naked. What was he trying to communicate?
Anything?
This was the third blank she had drawn from him. She sighed again. She clicked on Reply and wrote as diplomatically as possible.