She glanced around.
“Now,” she said, “unless anyone has something else, I’d like to excuse myself. I believe this investigation is finished. Muchas gracias, Señores.”
Alex rose. The small group in the room rose with her. One by one, the men around the table offered congratulatory handshakes, which she accepted as she moved toward the door. Sanchez gave her an embrace. The last man to stand before her was Colonel Pendraza of the National Police.
His eyes were gray and almost sad. He gave her a slight nod. “I have many questions, but I’m going to pose none of them,” he said. “But I wish to thank you. You and whatever other service you worked with. You spared us enormous problems.”
“De nada,” she said.
“No, no. It was more than nada,” he said. “It was everything.”
Then he too gave Alex a hug, replaced his cap, seemed to stand an inch taller on the spot, and was on his way.
She walked back to the hotel.
It was evening now and a warm evening gripped Madrid.
In a way, she felt suddenly very alone, that strange kind of loneliness that one can only feel in a large city when one is surrounded by millions of people, but all of them are strangers, and everyone else seems to be in the company of someone else.
Back at the hotel a short time later, she wandered into the bar on the first floor. She ordered herself a cognac and sat at a quiet table in the corner. From her table, she could watch the street and the nearby gardens.
She settled back and relaxed.
She pondered. Peter’s flight would have departed by now. So he was well on his way back to Shanghai. Federov was back in Zurich, Rizzo in Rome. What a weird world it was. Violent, beautiful, and unpredictable, a world in which an ancient carving of a slain man of peace and charity could set off a bloody chain of events.
She had already decided what she would do. She would check out the next day and go somewhere. Maybe Paris. Maybe London. Not Washington just yet. Maybe back to Barcelona.
That was it, she decided after another sip of cognac. Back to Barcelona. No one would know her there; this time no one would find her. She fingered the pendant at her neck, then released it.
She could use the relaxation and a week at the beach. If she worked it right, it would seem as if she had never left. She looked forward to finishing her vacation.
Then her eyes glanced to the left, from the gardens and skylight of a great city to the entrance to the bar. Her eyes focused on a man who had just entered, and the shock of recognition was immediately upon her.
He was ruddy faced and wore glasses. He wore a light blue suite, white shirt, and tie. He had one of those straw hats that she always associated with men in their sixties or musicians of the Buena Vista Social Club.
“Oh, Lord,” she muttered to herself.
The man, Sam Deal, spotted her at the same time and smiled. Then she realized. It was the week of September 18, and as promised, Mr. Collins had sent an emissary.
And of all people, he had sent Sam. His South American hatchet man.
Sam grinned broadly, walked to her, and sat down.
“Hello, Alex,” he said.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Funny coincidence. Fancy meeting you here, Alex LaDuca,” he said.
“It’s not fancy, and it’s not a coincidence, either,” she said. “But as long as you’re here, you might as well order a drink.”
Sam signaled to a waiter who was already on the way over. Sam ordered something cold and powerful.
Then he turned back to Alex.
“Venezuela?” she asked.
“Order yourself another drink,” Sam said, “and I’ll explain.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to having visited Spain, the author is grateful to many sources for background and research on Madrid and the Spanish Civil War. Among them, the New York Times, the Washington Post, the United States Department of Justice, Wikipedia, The Columbia Encyclopedia, and The Encyclopedia Britannica. Also, The Spanish Civil War by Hugh Thomas, originally published in 1961 and revised in 2001, remains a definitive account of that tragic stretch of history. The wonderful book for children Farolitos for Abuelo by Rudolfo Anaya was also an excellent introduction to the traditional use of luminarias in North America. And as usual, I’m grateful to my good friend Thomas Ochiltree for his endless insights on international politics and diplomacy. At Zondervan, at various times, Andy Meisenheimer, Bob Hudson, and Alison Roth saved me from the thicket of my own verbal excesses. Thanks, guys. Equally, I’m ever grateful to my wife, Patricia, for her help, advice, and support in more ways than I can ever calculate.
The author welcomes comments and correspondence from readers either through the Zondervan website or at NH1212f@yahoo.com.
Noel Hynd
