Even without the whole story, the articles were shocking and depressing, particularly since Smith knew what they meant. As he thought about them and wondered what he would find in Toledo, the ancient city came into view, rising on the plain ahead, the towers of the Cathedral and the Alcazar standing majestically above the roof tiles of the rugged skyline. He had read that Toledo’s origins were so old they were lost in the preroman days of the Celts. When the Romans arrived in the second century b.c., they had made it their city for seven hundred imperial years, until the barbarian Visigoths moved in and took over for the next two hundred, ending in A.D. 712.
That was when, legend had it, King Rodrigo laid lascivious hands on Florinda, daughter of the Count Julian, whom he spotted bathing naked in the Rio Tajo. Instead of taking the matter to the courts, the outraged fatheridiot that he waspromptly rode to the Arabs for help. Since they were already planning to invade, the Arabs were only too happy to oblige. Thus Toledo changed hands once more and grew into a cosmopolitan and enlightened Moorish center. It finally returned to Spanish control in 1085, when the king of Castile conquered it.
Surrounded on three sides by the river, the city was perched high above it on a craggy outcrop. It was a natural fortress, needing only a pair of walls on its exposed north side to be all but impregnable in those long-ago days. More recent growth was beyond those walls and also south, on the other side of the riverrecent being anything built in the last three or four centuries.
Smith continued through the slightly wider northern streets, nearing the northern walls. Watching all around, at last he drove into the old city through the Puerta de Bisagra, a stone entryway built in the ninth century, and plunged his car into the maze of narrow, twisting streets and alleys that haphazardly spiraled toward the city’s great pride, its Gothic Cathedral, and its equally great sorrow, the Alcazar, all but destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, although now rebuilt.
Using the detailed map, he watched carefully for the markers that would lead him to the Basque’s home address. He got lost in the twilight that was spreading across the city, reversed course, and discovered many of the streets were so narrow that iron upright posts blocked vehicles from entering. Most were wide enough for a car, but only just. As he plowed ahead in the Renault, people stepped into recessed doorways to give him room to pass. Buildings, monuments, plazas, churches, synagogues, mosques, stores, elegant restaurants, and housesmany of them medievalfilled every square inch of this rugged promontory. The scenery was breathtaking, but also dangerous. It provided too many opportunities for ambush.
The Basque’s address was an apartment building near the Cuesta de Carlos V, in the shadow of the Alcazar itself, just below Toledo’s summit. The directions that were included with the map warned that the address was on a particularly steep, sloping lane, where not even the smallest car could pass. He parked two blocks away and walked, keeping to the deepening shadows. A multitude of languages filled the air as sightseers moved through the beautiful old city, taking pictures.
As soon as he saw the house ahead, he slowed. It was a typical flat-front, brick structure of four stories with a shallow-pitched, red-tile roof. The windows and door were unadorned square holes in the brick, set deeply in, only two windows to a floor. As he passed, he saw the front door was open. The narrow foyer was lighted, showing an enclosed staircase. The Basque supposedly rented a room on the second floor.
Smith continued on to the end of the block, where there was a small plaza rimmed with shops and bars. Streets spilled into it from four directions. He stopped at an outdoor cafeacute; where he took a table facing back along the street. The air was scented with spicescardamom, ginger, and chiles. From here, he could keep the Basque’s apartment building in view. He ordered a beer and tapas, and waited as a band began playing from one of the nearby clubs. It was saucy merengue music from the former Spanish outpost of the Dominican Republic. The vibrant music filled the night, and Smith ate, drank, and watched. No one seemed to show any interest in him.
At last he saw three men enter the open front door of the apartment building, where light spilled out. One of them looked very much like the photo of the Basque that had been in the Sreteacute;’s file. The same heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and thick chin. Smith paid his bill and returned to the narrow street. Night had fallen, and shadows spilled black and nearly impenetrable down to the cobblestones. As he moved quietly toward the apartment building, he had the sense again that he was being observed. His nerves felt raw, and he paused in the deep shadow of a tree.
The gun seemed to come from nowhere, the cold muzzle pressed into the back of his neck. The voice was a hoarse whisper in Spanish. “We were warned you might show up.”
There were a few pedestrians on the narrow street, but he and the gunman were almost invisible where they stood. Streetlights in the old city were few and far between.
“You expected me?” Smith said in Spanish. “Interesting. The Black Flame is back with a vengeance.”
The muzzle jammed deeper. “We’re going to walk across the street and in through the door you’ve been watching.” He held up a small walkie-talkie that Smith could just make out with his peripheral vision and spoke into it: “Cut the lights. I’m bringing him in.”
At that moment, the terrorist’s attention was divided, thinking about Smith while relaying his information. As the man clicked off the walkie-talkie, Smith figured he had few options. He had to take a chance.
He slammed an elbow back hard into the man’s stomach and ducked. There was a quiet pop as the fellow jerked his weapon’s trigger. It was a silenced pistol, the noise lost in the sound of music and traffic out in the plaza. The bullet shot harmlessly over Smith’s back and pinged into the cobblestones. Before the terrorist could recover, Smith continued his lunge forward and kicked back with his left foot. He connected with the man’s chin. There was a grunt, and the man went down.
Smith checked the man’s vital signs: He was alive but unconscious. He picked up the man’s Walther, a good German pistol, and slung him over his shoulder. Because the terrorists in the apartment building had been alerted, it would not be long before they came out looking. Smith hurried along the street, carrying the dead weight back to his car. The terrorist shuddered and moaned as Smith dumped him into the front passenger seat.
Smith hurried around to the driver’s side and got in, just in time to see a flash of light. It was the man again. He had awakened and was flourishing a knife. But he was weak, and Smith yanked it away and stared into the black eyes in the car’s shadows.
“Bastardo!”
the man groaned. “Now we talk,” Smith told him in Spanish.
“I don’t think so.” His face was unshaved, and there was a wild look in his gaze. He blinked rapidly, as if fighting to think.
Smith studied him. He was a little over six feet and muscled, almost hulking. His hair was thick, black, and curly, an inky mass in the shadowy car. He was young. The beard and large size hid his true age. Smith guessed he might be twenty. A young man in middle-class America, but in the world of terrorists, fully grown.
The eyes widened, then narrowed. He reached up unsteadily and rubbed his chin. “Are you going to murder me, too?”
Smith ignored the question. “What’s your name?”
The youth thought about it, seemed to decide he could reveal that. “Bixente. My name’s Bixente.”
No last name, but Smith would tolerate that. While he held his pistol in one hand, he moved the knife up with the other until the blade touched Bixente’s chin. He flinched and jerked his head back.
“A name’s a good start,” Smith told him. “Tell me about the Black Flame.”
Silence. Bixente trembled, looking younger.
Smith pressed the flat of the blade along Bixente’s cheek. He rolled it back and forth once, and Bixente recoiled.
Smith assured him, “I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s just have a friendly conversation.”
Bixente’s face twisted, and it seemed to Smith that he was fighting some internal battle. Smith took the blade away from the young man’s skin. It was another gamble, but sometimes psychology was more potent than force. He held the knife up where Bixente could see it and said, “Look, I just want some information. You’re too young to be involved in all this anyway. Tell me about yourself. How did you get mixed up with the Black Flame?” He lowered the knife.