Madrid, Spain
Madrid had a vibrant energy all its own, and residents and visitors alike reveled in it, particularly at night. Palpitating music and a festive spirit infused the air. From rushing taxis to unrepentant fun, Madrilegrave;nes were a tolerant people, occasionally known to flaunt their anarchist streak in a search for a wild time amid the cobbled streets and pretty fountains under big, old trees.
Peter left the borrowed touring car in the garage of its owner, a trusted friend, then led Jon and Randi onto the metro. Carrying their few pieces of luggage, they kept careful watch everywhere, fighting off the conflicting emotions of urgency and mental exhaustion, although Randi and Jon had each taken good naps during the drive, while Peter, the stalwart Brit, had already had more sleep than either of them and so had driven them on in to Madrid.
With relief, they disembarked at the San Bernardo metro station and entered the Malasana, known to locals as the Barrio de Maravillas, or District of Miracles. Here in the city’s colorful bohemian quarter, nightlife was in abundance, and they passed bars, restaurants, and clubs, some a bit decayed but always charming. But then, this was a haven for not only artists and writers but expatriate yuppies who toted their dreams and assumptions with them around the world. Everywhere Jon, Randi, and Peter walked, lively music vibrated out into the streets.
The MI6 safe house was on Calle Dominguin, not far from Plaza del Dos de Mayo, the hub of this spirited area. It was a six-story stone building in a row of identical attached and semiattached stone buildings, with painted wood shutters, shuttered doors that opened onto traditional iron balconies, and shops and restaurants on the street level below. The odors of liquor and cigarette smoke drifted along the street as Jon, Randi, and Peter arrived at the address. Advertisements for Langostino Plancha and Gambas al Ajillo showed in the dark windows of the first-floor shop.
They stopped at an inconspicuous door, and Jon and Randi kept watch as Peter unlocked it. With a final look all around, they slipped inside and upstairs.
The place was decorated with comfortable furniture that had seen better days, but then, a safe house’s purpose had nothing to do with being a decorator’s showplace. They chose bedrooms, changed into casual trousers and shirts, and met in the second-floor living room.
Jon announced, “I’d better contact army intelligence.” He used his cell phone to dial Fred Klein. As the phone’s electronic codes and numbers were scanned and cleared, there were the usual clicks, silences, and hums.
Finally, Fred’s voice announced simply: “Not a word. Hang up. Now.”
The line went dead, and Jon quickly switched off the phone. Startled, dismayed, he muttered, “Damn. There’s more trouble.” He repeated what his “army contact” had said.
“Maybe it’ll be different with Langley,” Randi said, and dialed her cell phone. The phone in far-off Virginia rang for a long time, and she grimaced and shrugged at Jon and Peter. “Nothing yet.”
At last there was a short, sharp series of clicks. “Russell?”
“Who did you expect?”
“Hang up.”
Randi clicked the cell phone off. “What the hell could it be?”
“Sounds to me as if someone’s compromised your secure dedicated electronic intelligence communications systems,” Peter decided. “Which could also mean those at SIS in London, including MI5 and MI6.”
Randi swallowed hard. “Good God. At least they didn’t learn anything from us.”
“Ah,” Peter told her, “but I’m afraid they might have.”
“Yes,” Jon said, understanding. “They could know now where you and I both are, Randi, assuming they’re interested, know who they’re tracking, and have the DNA computer up and running.”
“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ Jon. You said the machine wasn’t at the farmhouse, and the last we saw of Mauritania’s people, they were taking off in helicopters.”
“All too true,” Peter said. “But I doubt the prototype’s ever far away from Mauritania, which makes me think they had a second safe house nearby and used that farmhouse to meet and pay off Elizondo and his Basques and store the Chambords. Which is why I will not call London. Too bloody close to Madrid. I think we need to assume for the time being that all our electronics are under siege. Which means it’s entirely possible they have a bead on you two now. They don’t necessarily know about me, but if I whip out my cell phone and report into MI6, there’s the chance they’ll figure out about me faster than a hare across the highlands, and about MI6.”
“It’s ridiculous to have to hop on planes and fly home to report in person,” Randi decided. “But it’s true we used to do business this way, with messengers hand-carrying information back and forth. Good Lord, we could be going back to the Dark Ages in intelligence.”
“Goes to show how dependent we’ve become on our oh-so-convenient electronic communications,” Peter said. “Still, we must somehow figure out how to contact our superiors about the Crescent Shield, Mauritania, the DNA machine, and the Chambords. They must be told.”
“True.” Jon pushed his cell phone back into his pocket with a gesture of finality. “But until we can, we’re going to have to operate on our own. Looks to me as if Mauritania himself is our best hope to track. Where he likes to operate, hide out. What his mental quirks are.” In intelligence, quirks, patterns, and habits were often a fugitive’s weak spots, revealing to experienced analyses far more than anyone might guess. “And then there’s the elusive Captain Darius Bonnard. As General La Porte’s aide, he’s got damned high access and cover. And he of course could’ve made the phone call from NATO.”
Peter’s leathery face showed deep worry lines. “All true. And Randi’s probably right about the wisdom of getting back to old-fashioned intelligence communications.” He suggested, “London’s a lot closer than Washington. If need be, I can flog myself over there to cheek in.”
“Our embassies in Madrid will have fully coded communications,” Randi said. “But considering the last assault when every code was cracked, the embassies’ communications are probably compromised, too.”
“Right. Anything electronic is out,” Peter said.
Jon paced in front of a stone fireplace that looked as if it’d had no fire in years. “Maybe they didn’t disrupt everything everywhere,” he said cautiously.
Peter looked at him sharply. “You have an idea, Jon?”
“Is there a real phone in this house? Nothing electronic.”
“On the third floor, in the office. That just might work.”
Randi glared from one to the other. “You two mind telling me what you’re talking about?”
Jon was halfway up the stairs as Peter said, “Regular phone wires. A direct call. Fiber-optics, don’t you know.”
“Of course.” She followed Jon, Peter close behind. “Even if the Crescent Shield had the technology or the time to tap a cable, they’d still have all the problems of sorting through the dreck. A technician told me once that so much data went through fiber-optics lines that to tap into it was like getting sprayed in the face by a high-pressure hose.” She had been told a cable as narrow as her wrist could carry an astronomical fortythousand phone conversations all at once, comparable to the entire trans-Atlantic voice traffic handled by satellites back in Cold War days. The way fiber-optics worked was to translate phone calls, faxes, e-mail messages, and data files into beams of light that traveled through a single strand of glass as thin as a human hair. Most undersea cables contained eight such strands, or fibers. But extracting the data required gaining access to the minute light beams in the ocean’s black, high-pressure depthsa dangerous, almost impossible task.
Peter grumbled agreement: “Even if they had the time and technology to tap a cable, would they waste their time listening in to a million long-distance phone calls, give or take, discussing in detail Aunt Sarah’s bunions and the Queen Mum’s shocking gin intake? I doubt it.”
“Exactly,” Randi agreed.
As soon as the threesome reached the bare-bones office, Jon tapped his calling card number into the telephone on the desk. Then he entered the number he wanted in Washington. As he waited for it to ring, he pulled out the desk chair and sat. Peter leaned on a nearby desk, and Randi fell into an old, padded rocker.
A brisk female voice answered. “Colonel Hakkim’s office.”
“It’s Jon Smith, Debbie. I need to talk to Newton. It’s urgent.”
“Hold on.”
The strange vacuum of hold, and a man’s concerned voice: “Jon? What’s up?”
“I’m in Madrid, and I need a favor. Could you send someone over to E block to the Leased Facilities Division and office 2E377, and have him tell the woman there to tell her boss to call Zapata at this number?” He read the number of the safe house phone. “Make sure whoever you send uses that nameZapata. Can you do it?”