Not bad. Not bad at all. But it made for quite a challenge.
As far as perimeter security went, an electric fence was pretty good. Not as ugly as coils of razor wire, and more effective. Of course, any security measure could be defeated, given enough lead time and intelligence and preparation. And Soler’s system wasn’t perfect. A utility pole, for instance, was less than six feet from the southwest corner wall. Theoretically you could climb the pole and vault over the fence, but as long as the electric fence was powered up, you risked hitting the wires on the way down and turning into a churro. Even if you did make it over the wall intact, all of the house’s doors and windows were wired into an alarm system, with video cameras trained on every entrance.
Then there were the armed guards inside the residence. Benito’s police sources had told him that fifteen firearms licenses had been issued for the household security staff, but that didn’t tell us how many guards would be on-site at any one time. My observations told me that while he was in residence, Soler normally had four. I also took note of when the guards’ shift changed. I saw Soler leave the property several times in his armored Maybach limousine, accompanied by a duo of bodyguards.
“Imagine you live in a house like this one?” Benito said.
I was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”
“Oh, right,” he said, embarrassed. “You did, yes? When you were a kid?”
“It can be like living in a prison.”
“I wouldn’t mind living in a prison like this one.”
“A security system this elaborate is sometimes just as much about keeping people inside as keeping them out.”
“Huh.”
“How solid is your intel on Soler?”
Benito turned to look at me. His eyes blazed: indignation, but also a little defensiveness. “Come on, Nick. I myself saw him get into his Maybach and leave here at four o’clock this afternoon. I followed him to El Prat. His private helicopter filed a flight plan with a five o’clock departure. His chopper left right on time. My guy in Madrid observed him arriving at his flat on Calle de Alcalá at six twenty this evening in one of his other Maybachs. He’s not here.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “Nice work.”
He drummed on the steering wheel some more. “We don’t know how many guards he keeps here when he’s out of town. That’s what I don’t like.”
“Agreed. But if we do this right, it won’t make any difference if he has an entire battalion.”
“If,” Benito said.
“I like to think positive.”
“A guy like this, he always takes measures.”
“Sure.”
“He’s a billionaire. He makes a lot of enemies. He spares nothing for his protection. He gives his guards every weapon he can buy.”
“He’s also not here. Which means his guards aren’t going to be on high alert.”
“I am not so sure,” Benito said. Anxiety had begun to seep into his voice, and I didn’t like that. Anxiety often leads to mistakes. “Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he doesn’t have something to protect.”
We both knew what he meant: his valuables. His possessions, as he saw it. Which included a fifteen-year-old girl named Svetlana, his latest acquisition, who was being held prisoner inside.
The night she disappeared, her father told me, he got a brief, panicked call from her cell phone. The call was cut short after a few seconds, and she never called back. Nor did she answer his repeated calls and texts.
The next day, Kuzma had hired an attorney in Madrid to put pressure on the Spanish legal authorities. They’d made perfunctory inquiries, Vadim said. Soler not only denied she was there, he denied ever having met the girl. But when I checked with Svetlana’s wireless provider, I was able to confirm that her mobile phone was indeed inside Soler’s house.
So there was really only one way to get her back. Sometimes the best way to deal with criminals is by committing a crime. That’s the only language they understand.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go test his security.”
Benito started up the ambulance and let out the emergency brake, and we drove a few blocks downhill in tense silence. I could tell he was starting to regret getting involved. It had begun to sink in how dangerous this job was. Up until now it had been routine, low-risk stuff: Dig up some background on Spain’s richest man, help me figure out a plan. Borrow an ambulance.
Now he was thinking about the guards with their submachine guns and his eight-year-old son being left without a father.
I said, “I can handle this myself, you know. You don’t have to go with me.”
I really didn’t want to work with someone who was going to go all wobbly on me.
He just stared.
“You don’t need to go through with this,” I said.
He scowled, looked insulted, didn’t reply. He switched on the light bar and the flashers and the red strobe light. He flicked a switch on the dashboard and the siren began to whoop. We looped around a couple of blocks, taking the long way, so it looked as though we’d come up from downtown. By the time we reached the entrance to Soler’s estate on Carrer de la Font del Lleó, we were speeding like an ambulance is supposed to.
Benito shut down the siren and lowered the window, and a voice crackled over the intercom. Benito replied in rapid-fire Spanish. I could make out only “emergencia” and “Soler” and “Consulado Americano.” A video camera hummed and swiveled and looked right at his face.
There was a pause. I assumed the guards were consulting with one another. Soler was not in residence, and they had to make an executive decision.
We were idling in front of a pair of tall, wrought-iron, motor-driven double-swing gates, controlled by an electronic keypad and video intercom and topped with spikes. But the spikes were as ornamental as the ironwork scrolls. Between the anticlimb sensors and the CCTV and the ground-loop vehicle detector embedded in the pavement surface, no one was going to climb over the gate, or the fence, without being noticed.
A minute later the guard’s voice came over the intercom again. Benito said something and the guard replied.
Benito muttered, “This idiot says no one called for an ambulance.”
“Translate for me,” I said. I leaned across him and said out the window, “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t really care, but the American ambassador himself just got me out of bed because José María Soler demanded an American doctor for some foreign guest he’s got staying in his house. He said it was an emergency.”
I waited for Benito to translate. Then I went on, “Believe me, I’m perfectly happy to turn right around. I don’t mind at all. Fortunately, your boss has video evidence that you denied us entry.” I pointed to the swiveling CCTV. “So whatever happens to this girl, it’s on your head. Not mine. Or the ambassador’s.” I paused a beat for Benito to translate, then I said loudly to him, “Vamos.”
A flurry of Spanish exploded from the intercom. I don’t know much Spanish, but it sounded like the guard had changed his mind. Now he was pleading with us to enter. With a buzz and a mechanical hum, the gates began to swing open.
A tiny smile played on Benito’s lips.
I could see his mental tumblers click into place. Now he understood why I timed this for exactly two in the morning, just after the shift change. When Soler was out of town.
The master of the house was gone, and no one was in charge. A fresh set of guards had taken charge. No one had told them that an English-speaking doctor had been called in. No one had told them that Soler’s American “guest” was ill. No one had told them anything.