"What if he doesn't want to go? I told you before, he's been a professional soldier most of his life. He's tough and wary—he's not going to do something he doesn't want to."
"This time he will."
"How do you know?"
"He won't have a choice."
Again the president studied him, was ready to ask what he meant and then decided not to push it. "Then what?"
"You used to work on a farm, didn't you?"
The president nodded.
"Ever try to hold down a reluctant pig or calf while the vet gave it a shot?"
"Yes."
"Were you able to do it?"
"Yes."
"Well, it'll be sort of the same thing here. And it's going to take two of us, the vet and the handler. I'm afraid you're going to have to get your hands a little bit dirty."
"I have no trouble with the manual-labor part, not in this situation." The president cocked his head. "I just don't get what you mean to do. We have no access to drugs or hypodermic syringes. Even if we did there's no time to—"
"The restaurant, Cousin. Everything we will need will either be on the table or on the menu."
78
• 10:37 A.M.
They were twenty minutes out of Barcelona, heading north and west on the A2 autopista. The van was white. Its driver, a large man named Raphael. Painted on its doors in a black scroll were the words of its origin and destination: Monasterio Benedictino de Montserrat.
Reverend Beck and Luciana rode in the seats directly in back of Raphael. Demi was behind them, alone in the third row of seats, her camera gear and equipment bag beside her. She was looking off, trying not to think of Nicholas Marten and the president and what she had done. Or rather of what she'd decided she had no choice but to do.
Ever since Marten's confrontation with Dr. Foxx in Malta it had been clear that both Foxx and Reverend Beck had been upset. In turn she had been afraid it would spoil, even end, her relationship with Beck. And she thought it had when he'd so unexpectedly left the island the next morning, but then the concierge had called with the reverend's apology and his invitation to Barcelona.
Shortly after she had arrived at his suite at the Regente Majestic and been introduced to Luciana. He had surprised her by saying he understood that her interest in him was due not to his religious vocation but to his association with the Aldebaran coven, which he guessed was the real subject of her book, and not the purported photo essay on "clerics who minister to prominent politicians." Moreover, he'd told her he believed the reason she had tagged along on his European trip was because she knew he was coming to the coven's yearly gathering.
But instead of demanding she leave immediately he surprised her once more, telling her he had discussed her with the coven's elders and they had agreed to open up their proceedings, even allowing her to take photographs. In truth, there was nothing at all evil about the coven and at this point in history they felt there was no reason to keep their rituals secret.
Still, they required a quid pro quo: Nicholas Marten.
"As you have suspected," Beck told her, "Dr. Foxx is a member of the coven. He is currently at the monastery at Montserrat preparing for the coven's assembly. His falling out with Marten in Malta over his congressional testimony in Washington is a situation he is still upset about. He would like to clear the air before any more time passes and before any of it finds its way into the press."
If Marten would come to Montserrat, Beck would arrange a private meeting between the two, something he was certain Marten would agree to: "Otherwise he wouldn't have followed you to Barcelona and then taken you to lunch at Els Quatre Gats. Undoubtedly he thinks you might bring him and Dr. Foxx together."
If Demi was startled by Beck's knowledge of her meeting with Marten, she didn't show it. As for his revelation that she knew about the Aldebaran coven and his involvement with it, he seemed content with the idea that her interest was merely professional, a writer and photographer's search for a story. Moreover, all he had asked was what Marten himself had asked, that she tell him where Dr. Foxx would be and when.
What she had not known at the time, nor had she told anyone since, was that a second person would be accompanying Marten to Montserrat: the president of the United States.
79
• BARCELONA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS ROOM. 10:45 A.M.
Hap Daniels had just come in from his twenty-minute catnap. He was pulling on his headset and looking around for Bill Strait, anxious to know if he'd reached Spanish intel in Madrid and arranged the electronic tap on Evan Byrd's phones, when a familiar voice crackled through his earpiece.
"Hap, it's Roley." It was Roland Sandoval, the Secret Service special agent in charge of Vice President Hamilton Rogers's protective detail. Daniels knew Rogers had secretly arrived in Madrid a short while ago and gone directly to the U.S. embassy to join White House Chief of Staff Tom Curran for a scheduled private meeting with the president of Spain to discuss the disappearance of President Harris.
"Yes, Roley."
"We've just cleared the vice president for a wheels down at Barcelona at thirteen-hundred. After that he has an hour tour of the area."
"Tour of the area? Why? Why the hell now?"
"That's direct from the chief of staff. Acting White House wants to show the country's concern for the terrorist situation even while POTUS is 'out of touch.' Afterward he'll come back to Madrid and spend the night at Evan Byrd's home before his meeting with the Spanish prime minister tomorrow."
Daniels bit his tongue in outrage and for the longest moment said nothing. Finally he answered with a simple. "Okay, Roley, we'll coordinate this end. Thanks for the heads-up."
There was distinct click as agent Sandoval signed off. "What the hell?" Daniels swore under his breath. The VPOTUS. Tour of the area. That meant media coverage. Sound bites and photo ops. Then as quickly Rogers would be on his way back to Madrid and to Byrd's residence. Something was going on, but he had no idea what it was.
Again he looked for Bill Strait. If Vice President Rogers was spending the night at Evan Byrd's, they had to get an electronic eavesdrop on his phones.
"Hap," Bill Strait's voice came over his headset.
"Where are you?"
"In the cafeteria. Got time for a cup of good Spanish coffee?"
"Damn right I do," Hap clicked off and was starting to remove his headset when another voice came on.
"Agent Daniels?" The voice was male and had a British accent.
"Yes."
"This is Special Agent Harrison, MI5 in Manchester, England. We've just interviewed a Mr. Ian Graff, Nicholas Marten's employment supervisor in Manchester. He says Marten contacted him via his housekeeper earlier this morning and asked him to call his cell phone with a listing of types of azaleas."
"What do you mean 'via his housekeeper'?"
"He called his home and had the housekeeper call Mr. Graff at work. Though Graff seems to think Marten would have known he was at work all the while and called there directly."
"How in hell did Marten contact him? We would have picked up his cell phone location in seconds. What was it, a pay phone?"
"No, sir, he's getting sloppy. He used the mobile phone of a Barcelona limousine service, Limousines Barcelona. The car is currently out for day hire to two gentlemen. They were picked up at the Hotel Regente Majestic just before seven this morning."
"Do we know where the car is right now?"
"No, sir. But we have its description, license number, and mobile phone number."
"You didn't tell the limo company why you called?"
"No, sir. We were just gathering information. Done via a phone company billing and records check."
"Thank you, MI5. Good work. We appreciate it very much."
"Our pleasure, sir. Anything else, let us know."
Daniels took down the limousine's numbers, then clicked off. This was the break he'd been hoping for. The question was what to do about it. Give it
to anyone else—his own people, the CIA, Spanish intel, or the Barcelona police—and Jake Lowe and Dr. Marshall would know about it in seconds. Give it to no one, and before long somebody at MI5 would be wondering why no action had been taken on their information and start making noise about it. What he had to do was think. Hard to do surrounded by a roomful of police and special agents working computers and dissecting information. He decided the best thing was to join Bill Strait in the cafeteria for a cup of good Spanish coffee.
80
• 10:55 A.M.
Miguel Balius's concentration was on the road in front of him. The small village they were passing through led to familiar hilly countryside beyond. Soon afterward they would begin the long winding climb into the mountains toward Montserrat.
"Miguel," Cousin Harold's voice came over the intercom. "Do you have a map of Barcelona and the surrounding area?"
"Yes, sir. It's in the seat pocket in front of you."
He glanced in the mirror to make sure Cousin Harold found it, then looked back to the road. Excluding accidents or more roadblocks, it should take them no more than forty minutes to reach the monastery, unless they changed their mind and wanted to go somewhere else, and that had been the reason for the map.
"Here, here, here, and here," Marten had the map spread out on the seat between them and was using a pen to draw vertical and then crossing horizontal lines on it, making a grid that went outward from Barcelona itself and into the countryside. It was the kind of framework he was certain the Secret Service and Spanish forces would be using to find them and close them off. By now the immense expansion and regrouping of the units that had concerned them earlier would be fully under way. The number of troops looking for them would be at least double the original force, if not more, and they all would be working the grid, scouring each area foot by foot, then securing it and moving on. This time there could be no backtracking as they had done in the city the night before and was the reason Marten had taken the chance and used the limo's mobile phone to call Ian Graff in Manchester.
Marten looked to the president. "By now the NSA will have traced the call Ian Graff made back to my cell phone and some agency, the police or British intelligence, will have tracked him down in Manchester, listened to his story, then traced the call I made to his home to the mobile phone here in the car. My hope then was that we would already have been at the monastery and Miguel would have been long on his way. When the authorities caught up with him all he'd have had to say was that we asked him to drop us off at some village or other along the way and he had. He could name any of the half-dozen we passed through. No one would ever know he wasn't telling the truth. After all he said 'discreet' was the company policy."
"Well, so far, nothing's happened. So maybe your Mr. Graff was harder to find than you think," the president said. "Maybe luck is finally on our side."
"We're not at the monastery yet, either. If they call Miguel, they'll probably use his cell. We wouldn't know who placed the call—it could be his wife—until we were surrounded and it was too late."
"So far he hasn't picked up his phone," the president said.
"Maybe they don't want to tell him. Just broadcast the license number and description of the car. It might take a little longer but they'd still get us."
"What are you suggesting?"
"We either have him drop us off and soon, then try to get to Montserrat on our own or—"
"Or what?"
"Tell Miguel some of what's happening and ask for his help. Both are dangerous. The only thing we have going for us is Miguel himself and the company policy. It's the old joke; our chances of getting out of this are between slim and none and slim just left town."
President Harris glanced out at the rugged countryside, then pressed the intercom. "Miguel," he said evenly.
"Yes, sir."
"How much longer before we get to the monastery?"
"Without roadblocks or other problems, a half hour or so."
"How far by miles?"
"The route we're going twenty or so, sir. Mostly uphill."
"Thank you."
The president clicked off the intercom and took a breath, then looked to Marten. He was as drawn and grave and intense as Marten had ever seen him. "Miguel seems decent and honest. He knows the land, the roads, and the people. He knows intricacies of the language I do not. Under the circumstances he seems far more an asset than a liability."
81
• BARCELONA, 11:05 A.M.
Armed with the MI5 information about Marten's limousine number and a fake business card he kept for a variety of "necessary circumstances," Hap Daniels stepped from a taxi, paid the driver and waited until the cab pulled away. Then he turned and started toward the garagelike structure that housed Limousines Barcelona.
Minutes earlier he'd been in the cafeteria at Barcelona Police Headquarters where Bill Strait had confirmed he'd talked to Emilio Vasquez at Spanish intel in Madrid and asked him in Hap's name to very quietly put electronic surveillance on all of Evan Byrd's telephone communications.
"It has to do with the effort at hand," Vasquez had said without emotion, a statement more than a question.
"Yes."
"Considering the situation, if Tigre Uno asks, then it will be done."
"N-O," Strait said.
"N-O, of course." N-O. Not Officially. There would be no official tapping of Evan Byrd's phones. It was to be done covertly with anyone involved fully aware and prepared to deny it had ever been done.
Immediately afterward Hap finished his coffee and left, telling Strait he needed a walk to think things over. If they needed him they had his BlackBerry, his emergency pager, everything. He walked for three deliberate blocks before turning a corner and hailing a taxi. Asking the driver to take him to a cross street address that was within short walking distance of Limousines Barcelona, he suddenly began to understand what POTUS, or "Crop Duster," must be feeling and had felt when he'd crawled through the air ducts at the Hotel Ritz; that he had no idea who he could trust. And for Hap that meant Bill Strait, even the entire Secret Service detail. Maybe they were wholly innocent but there was no way for him to be absolutely certain.
What he did know was that he didn't trust Chief of Staff Tom Curran; didn't trust Crop Duster's chief political adviser Jake Lowe; didn't trust National Security Adviser Dr. James Marshall; and he didn't like the overtly opportunistic feel of the vice president suddenly flying into Barcelona for a twenty-minute photo and sound bite op and then retreating to Madrid and Evan Byrd's home. It immediately put VPOTUS alongside the others on his "do not trust" list.
Now, thinking about it, he remembered who else was at the late-night meeting at Byrd's residence: Secretary of State David Chaplin, Secretary of Defense Terrence Langdon, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, United States Air Force General Chester Keaton.
"Christ," he said under his breath. What if they were all in this together?
But in what? And what had they asked or demanded of the president that had put him so into a corner that he had no other choice but to run?
• 11:10 A.M.
Romeo J. Brown
Private Investigator
Long Island City, NY
Limousines Barcelona's day manager, smartly dressed, forty-year-old Beto Nahmans, turned the business card over in his hand then looked to Hap Daniels sitting in one of two stylish chrome and black leather chairs across from his desk.
"I understand you have the mobile number and license plate number of one of our cars," Nahmans said in crisp English.
Daniels nodded. "I've been retained by a security firm investigating insurance fraud. We believe one of the people we are following is a passenger in that limousine. It's my job to find him and give him the chance to voluntarily return to the U.S. for prosecution before we ask that he be taken into custody."
"And what might this person's name be?"
"Marten. Nicholas Marten. Marten with an e."
Nahmans swiveled in
his chair, punched a series of numbers into a keyboard, and then looked at the computer screen in front of him.
"I'm sorry, sir. We have no record of a Nicholas Marten as a passenger in the vehicle you are referring to. Or any other for that matter."
"No?"
"No, sir."
Daniels's manner hardened. "That's not an answer I like."
"It's what we have," Nahmans smiled faintly. "I'm afraid it's all I can tell you."
Hap Daniels sighed and looked at the floor, then tugged at an ear and looked back. "What if I were to have Spanish intelligence ask for that information?"
"The answer would be the same. I apologize."
"Suppose they presented an official document requiring you to submit a list of each and all of your clients for the past two years. Their names. Where they were picked up, who was with them, how long they were gone, and what address they were returned to."
"I don't think that would be legal." Uncertainty flashed through Beto Nahmans's eyes and Daniels took full advantage of it.
"Would you like to find out?"
Three minutes later Daniels walked out of Limousines Barcelona. Day manager Nahmans had given him three names. A Cousin Jack. A Cousin Harold. And Demi Pi-card, a woman who had ordered the limousine a little before seven that morning, charging it to her room at the Hotel Regente Majestic.
82
• 11:15 A.M.
Miguel Balius stood wide-eyed and in shadow next to a broken-down table in the corner of what had once been some kind of stone millhouse. Above him most of the roof was open to the sky, while outside, a roaring stream passed just feet from what at one time must have been a supporting wall.