“I guess.”
“So Webb’s gonna be at the Nou Camp, meeting a contact,” Drake went on. “Maybe we can use you there.”
Lauren arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Drake laughed. “I’m not hinting. Just saying ‘you never know’.”
Lauren joined him in laughter as they walked down more endless corridors, bypassing the normal route taken by millions of tourists and locals.
“Don’t matter what happens here,” Smyth put in. “Webb has some way of staying ahead. Bastard always knows where to go next and then vanishes on us. Here, now, is where we put him down for good.”
“That’s the idea,” Drake said a bit caustically. Smyth seemed to have that effect.
Hayden turned her head to talk as she walked. “If the cult hangs out in Dubai, guys, somebody’s going to have to pay them a visit.”
“Shit,” Drake said. “Don’t send the Swede. He has a bad track record with tourist destinations.”
“Piss off, Yorkie.”
“I was thinking a strong team,” Hayden said. “In case we get chance to take them out.”
Drake agreed. “Great idea. Gonna be hard to get it past the local cops though.”
“We do not exactly need the help,” Mai said almost inaudibly.
“Ooh,” Alicia yelped. “Clandestine mission. We haven’t done one of those in… umm, ages.”
“Speak for yourself, bitch.” Kenzie grinned.
Drake turned on her. “You had better not have been getting up to anything during your downtime in DC, Kenzie.”
“Depends what you mean exactly, lover.” The Israeli smirked.
Drake let it go, conscious that Kenzie loved to see the hackles raised and wedges driven between friends. She was a bad fit for the team, but Dahl saw something in her and, despite his misgivings, Drake trusted the Swede’s judgment. He nodded at Hayden.
“We’ll sort Webb first,” he said. “Then Dubai.”
“Agreed.”
“We’re here to liaise with the cops now though, right?” Kinimaka asked.
Hayden appeared to catch a sigh. “Yes, Mano.”
Barcelona flashed past as they were escorted from the airport to a local station, all courtesy of Argento’s planning, the most impressive sight being the incredible Sagrada Familia, the Roman Catholic church which began construction in 1882 and remains unfinished to this very day. Drake remembered once being told about this place with a couple of friends over coffee, but the place itself defied all description.
Dahl put everyone’s thoughts into one succinct sentence. “Half-true stories and deep secrets for a future generation.”
Ahead, the traffic forced them to a crawl and then they were leaving the flow, parking up and being shown where to go. Drake kept an eye out, as did they all, conscious that Webb had retained at least one influential thread of his organization, one that very much included expert surveillance.
Inside, they took up positions and watched over operations. The cops did their jobs well; this was fast becoming the command post for their surveillance operation and the place to watch as hundreds of monitors started coming to life. A tall, white-haired man with jutting teeth orchestrated it all like a conductor, positioning cameras and swiveling mounts, parking up mobile cams and jumping onto local feeds. As much coverage as was possible, and then more.
Hours passed and lunch arrived. Weariness from inaction stole over the team. Streets, roads, alleyways, gates and parking areas were scrutinized with blanket coverage. Bus disembarkation points were subject to a flurry of high-powered lenses. Drake and the others started to turn content gazes upon one another. They would get their man.
Then the crowds started arriving, bodies packed so tightly together they had to walk in rhythm, vehicles gridlocked and buses dropping passengers off in any free space they could find. As the gate time approached, the task for the authorities became harder and harder. Local colors helped blend body with body; and caps, face-paint, even balaclavas and hoodies added to the problem. The facial recognition software ticked away, identifying known criminals, hooligans, gang members and other unsavory types, but nothing stood out in relation to Tyler Webb or terrorist groups.
Drake watched the men work; they knew their jobs well and constantly pointed out familiar faces or zoomed in on new ones. Pickpockets were identified, photographed for file and radioed down to the foot patrols. Troublemakers were blown up on cameras so powerful Drake could count the chin stubble. A hunted thief was spotted, and a man recently escaped from prison. Members of supposedly friendly intelligence agencies, including the CIA. Hayden flushed with embarrassment at that one, but ultimately spread her hands. They had rooted out the worst of the bad seeds there, but some agencies would never tell all.
“We watch them all,” the buck-toothed man said. “We have to. But the resources are stretched every time.”
“I get it,” Drake said. “For every ten ‘friendly’ agents you spend time on, one terrorist could just slip by.”
“Yes, sir.”
“An hour until kick off.” Hayden pointed at the clock. “We should go to our positions.”
“Check comms,” the surveillance team-leader said.
They did.
“Be ready and familiarize yourselves with our grid system. You should know every point, so that when we call out a position you can converge immediately, as one unit.”
“Your men too,” Smyth rasped.
“They will do as they are trained to do,” the leader said a little cryptically.
Hayden signaled and the team moved out, their position only a few minutes’ walk from the famous Camp Nou stadium. For Drake — a one-time soccer fan and now an idle follower — the sight was a little underwhelming at first. The same as many modern, similar stadiums, the curving painted concrete walls and advertising spoke only of the moneymen, the surrounding streets merely the same. A hubbub of noise, laughter and shouting filled the streets, a riot of color bounded before his gaze. Men, women and children sauntered, queued and darted without apparent purpose. Crowds huddled to discuss team sheets and recent performances, upcoming player transfers and new arrivals. Rival fans called out in friendly fashion, at least for now.
Drake threaded through the pack with his team around him, heading for an obscure side door built into the concrete wall. A keypad was spotted and a six-digit PIN entered, and then they were inside the huge arena, treading hallowed halls where no fan or soccer player ever walked. Nevertheless a deep rolling thunder of sound could already be heard, spreading through the very foundations of the stadium and echoing through every wall. The chants of the faithful, the songs of all the dedicated believers. Drake imagined the players gathering now and wondered if they could hear it in their changing rooms — something incredibly uplifting for the home team and entirely intimidating for the visitors.
“How many does this place hold?” he asked.
“Over ninety nine thousand,” Dahl said immediately. “Largest in Europe.”
Drake slowed as they approached a door that led out into the stadium itself. They all took a breath, ready for the onslaught of noise and light, the eruption of passion.
“We ready?” Hayden asked.
“Occasion doesn’t choose dates,” Mai said. “This is an occasion, and we have to make it happen.”
Drake smiled across at her. “We always do, love. Always do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The enormity of their task was immediately clear. Drake hadn’t been to a soccer match in many years and some of the others had never encountered a stadium like this in their lives. It wasn’t only the vast scope of the seating, the infinite curve of the walls, the bobbing, matching colors — it was also the sheer swell of noise that assaulted the senses like a battlement full of Gatling guns. Hayden hesitated under vocal fire and Drake took her by the arm.