“Understandably,” said Pendraza.
“So while it was not my decision to launch an execution team,” Alex said, “once that team was launched there was no holding them back. And honestly, I have reservations about what happened, the fate of those who were executed. They were a small band of amateurs playing at being world-changing revolutionaries. The leader, a misguided young man named Jean-Claude, organized his own murderous little cell.
“Hundreds of innocent people might have died at their hands.” She smiled wryly. “What can I say? I tend to be a person of faith who tries to live her faith. God sometimes works in strange ways.” She paused. “Then again, to paraphrase a personal friend, a streetwise philosopher of sorts, ‘The world is better off without such people.’”
“So the terminations took place on Spanish soil?” Pendraza said.
“That is correct,” she said.
“Was it done in conjunction with the American intelligence service?” Pendraza asked. “Or with their approval?”
“To answer that, Colonel,” Alex said, “let me just say that if I decline to answer your question, then, if asked, you won’t know the answer.”
He smiled faintly and nodded.
“I would have to agree with your philosopher friend,” Pendraza said. “Certainly Madrid is better off without a few extra individuals prone to terrorist attacks. I could argue that the world is better off too.”
“I have some homicide reports this morning from the city police,” Sanchez of the Civil Guard said quietly. “Four murders, maybe five. Including a fire. Related. No further victims of the fire fortunately.”
“The further details are known only to the participants and to God,” Alex said. “I suspect that might be the best way to leave things.”
Pendraza glanced around the room. “I suspect it might be,” he said.
“Is there anything else?” Alex asked.
“Maybe, if we inquire, the rival service that solved this problem for us would be able to give us a few more details,” Sanchez suggested.
Alex shook her head. “Don’t even bother asking,” she said. “They won’t. And I’m not planning to divulge what country’s intelligence service helped us. I’m disinclined to discuss it. Even when I’m back in Washington, I suspect my memory will grow hazy.”
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
