Conviction

20

“It’s possible,” Fisher told Grim, “but I’ve never been a big believer in coincidences.”

“Me neither,” she replied from the LCD screen. “With luck, I’ll have something for you in a few hours.”

The night before, after dumping the keys to the gray compact in the sewer, Fisher had walked back toward the center of town, stopping briefly to buy a newspaper, in which he wrapped his blood-speckled polo shirt. When he reached the bullring, the community party was in full swing and a huge bonfire was burning. He tossed the newspaper and shirt into the blaze, then spent fifteen minutes dancing and drinking and generally making a spectacle of himself before walking to another convenience store, this one close to his hotel. He used the pay phone to dial 112—Spain’s version of 911—and told the dispatcher in hurried Spanish that he’d heard gunfire near the intersection of Cuesta de los Yeseros and Calle del Alamillo Bajo. He’d then hung up and returned to his hotel.

The choice to call the police and remain in town rather than simply driving away was a tactical gamble, Fisher knew, but given Chinchón’s size a foreigner leaving town in the dead of the night following a brutal triple murder wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Fisher completed the ruse by waking up before dawn the next day, dropping his packed duffel bag off the balcony, and stopping in the lobby to ask the clerk when the bullfight was to begin and how to reach Guadalupe and whether the monastery there was open to the public. Once out the door he picked up his duffel, walked to his car, and drove away, taking the M-404 west out of town before turning north at Ciempozuelos and heading for Madrid and the Third Echelon safe house, where he packaged up his take from van der Putten’s killers and sent it via International Next Flight Out. Grim had the package sixteen hours later.

“One thing I can tell you is that the SD card you got from van der Putten’s safe looks like bank account info,” Grim now said. “As you’d expect, he had several — two of them hidden behind front companies. I’m working on it. If Ames paid him in anything other than cash, it should be there.”

“Good.”

“Back to our noncoincidental coincidence: It could mean either Noboru or Ames was lying about van der Putten.”

“It’s worse than that,” Fisher replied. “It means one of them is the mole.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Grimsdóttir absorbed this. On the screen, her brows furrowed and she let out a sigh. “It could be worse than that. If van der Putten wasn’t the source of the lead that pointed Hansen and his team to Vianden, that leaves only three people who could’ve tipped off Ames: me, Moreau, and Kovac.”

“You know who gets my vote,” Fisher replied. “The question is, did he do it to make you look bad, or is it something else?”

“Such as?”

“Ernsdorff. When did you tell Kovac I was moving toward Vianden?”

“About four hours before Ames got his tip.”

“As soon as he realized I was moving toward Vianden and Ernsdorff, he got nervous and ordered Ames to cut me off. Problem was, I’d already penetrated Ernsdorff’s estate.”

“If all that’s true, why didn’t Kovac simply call Ernsdorff and warn him?”

“Hard to say. Insulation, maybe. Maybe Kovac and Ernsdorff are separated by layers — if so, that means there’re bigger fish out there.”

“Big enough to pull the strings of a deputy director of the NSA and Europe’s premier black-market banker. Scary thought.”

They talked for a few more minutes; then Fisher disconnected and made two more calls: one to Iberia to book an evening flight to Lisbon, and a second to DHL to arrange shipment of his gear. He then went out for a bite to eat, caught four hours of sleep, and then took a taxi to the airport. His flight departed at eight thirty. Owing to the time difference and distance, the seventy-minute flight put him in Lisbon ten “clock” minutes after he departed. By nine he was on the road, and an hour later he pulled into Setúbal and checked into the Hotel Aranguês.

Located on the Tróia Peninsula and the Sado River estuary, Setúbal was a town of 120,000 built around the sardine-fishing industry, which had been a booming business since the early 1900s. According to the plethora of well-crafted if melodramatic minibiographies and magazine profiles Fisher had found of Charles “Chucky Zee” Zahm, the former SAS commando turned novelist/master thief was himself a fan of fishing. Game fish, however — not sardines — were why he’d moved to Setúbal. Accompanying many of the stories were in-action photos of Zahm straining at a fishing rod on the afterdeck of his hundred-foot Azimut Leonardo 98 yacht, standing at the wheel of his hundred-foot Azimut Leonardo 98 yacht, sitting in scuba gear on the gunwale of his hundred-foot Azimut Leonardo 98 yacht… It took little imagination to guess Zahm’s favorite pastime, nor his most prized possession. This was understandable, of course. The Azimut Leonardo 98 sold for 4.9 million euros, or roughly 6.8 million U.S. dollars. The pictures of Zahm’s ocean-view villa, down the coast from Setúbal in Portinho da Arrábida, further confirmed the man’s love of the nautical life.

Fisher gave this some thought and decided the temptation was too great to resist. It was time to find out exactly how far Zahm’s love of the ocean went.

Fisher was up and out the door shortly after dawn the next day, and by the time the sun’s upper rim rose over the ocean’s surface he was out of the city and winding his way south along the coast road. He stopped at a small restaurant called the Bar Mar, on Figueirinha beach, then continued on, arriving in Portinho da Arrábida ten minutes later. Of the short list of possible retirement spots he’d accumulated, the village immediately jumped to the top.

Nestled at the foot of the Serra de Arrábida—serra translates as “saw,” an apt term for the mountain range that rose behind the village — Portinho da Arrábida was a ready-made postcard, with red-roofed bungalow houses perched atop lush slopes, white-sand beaches, and crystalline blue-green waters enclosed by a crescent of rocky shoreline.

Following a series of screen captures he’d sent to his iPhone from Google Earth, he drove through the village, then followed a switchback road into the mountains until he found a scenic overlook that offered him the vantage point he needed. He got out and walked to the wooden railing, where a bank of pole-mounted binoculars had been installed. He dropped a fifty-cent euro piece into the slot and pressed his face to the viewer.

His first view of Zahm’s home told Fisher two things: One, the term “villa” was a gross trivialization; and two, the pictures hadn’t done the place justice.

At three-thousand-plus feet, the ranch-style structure clad in floor-to-ceiling windows sat atop a hillside in a saddle between the Serra de Arrábida escarpment and a cliff overlooking the ocean. A ten-foot-wide moat-like swimming pool encircled the rear two-thirds of the house, while in the front a set of stone steps spiraled down to terraces set into the cliff, one containing a negative-edge pool that seemed to hang in midair above the water a hundred feet below. The second deck was covered in lounges, chairs, and blue-and-white-striped umbrellas, plus a freestanding cedar shack Fisher guessed served as a changing room/bathroom. At the bottom of the steps a two-hundred-foot stone jetty led to a trio of skiffs equipped with outboard motors, but there was no sign of Zahm’s yacht.

Fisher scanned farther out, checking the ocean’s surface from horizon to horizon until he spotted her anchored off an island five miles down the coast. He could see six men on deck, all shirtless and bronze in the morning sun. A fit group, he decided. Though from this distance they were mere specks, he saw a familiar economy and confidence in the way they moved. It was the kind of bearing gained from spending years in an elite military outfit, in this case the Special Air Service. The man at the center of the group — Zahm, Fisher assumed — sat in a fighting chair on the afterdeck, heaving and leaning on a ten-foot fishing pole. Fifty yards off the stern a marlin broke the surface and arced into the sky, trying to shake the hook, its black back glistening in the sun before it plunged beneath the surface again. A silent cheer went up on the yacht’s afterdeck.

Fisher pulled his face away from the viewer.

“Going to be tricky,” he muttered.

Handling one SAS soldier was nothing to take lightly. Handling six SAS soldiers was a do-or-die proposition. Do it right, without mistakes, or you won’t survive the encounter. The fact that the group had been retired for quite some time improved Fisher’s odds, but not by a comfortable margin. A lot would depend how much of their old ways they’d retained.

After another hour the yacht hauled anchor and got under way. It took less than a minute for the twin 2,216-horsepower engines to bring her up to a cruising speed of thirty knots — almost thirty-five miles per hour — which meant they would be back in ten minutes or so. Fisher spent the time taking eighty-five pictures of Zahm’s übervilla, focusing on sight lines, angles, entrances, points of cover, and possible infiltration and exfiltration routes. The house’s floor plan was open, with most rooms carpeted and separated by hanging walls or fabric panels, which made surveillance easy but movement inside problematic: Thick carpet was a double-edged sword.

Eleven minutes after it left the island, the yacht was pulling up to the jetty. The man himself was at the wheel atop the flying bridge. He deftly spun the hundred-foot craft in a sliding Y-turn before reversing the engines and easing her alongside the jetty’s bumpers. Fisher could now see the yacht’s name etched on the stern—Dare—a play on the SAS motto, Who dares wins, Fisher guessed.

Zahm’s buddies were moving before the Dare’s engines were shut off, jumping to the dock and securing lines while Zahm barked orders and gesticulated. Seemingly satisfied all was in order, he climbed down from the bridge, leapt onto the jetty, and the group proceeded toward the steps.

What they did next told Fisher much. A few minutes after they settled onto the second terrace deck, a trio of white-smocked servants emerged from the house carrying trays of tall glasses and pitchers filled with something other than lemonade. Zahm was a gin-and-tonic man, and it stood to reason that his entourage followed suit. Another thirty minutes of watching proved Fisher’s theory as the group grew steadily more boisterous. Twice more the servants returned with refills and took away the empties. It was not yet nine in the morning.

The world at their fingertips, and Zahm and his Little Red Robbers pass most of their time drunk, Fisher thought. While pathetic of them, this was good news for him.

He spent the remainder of the morning touring the mountains above Zahm’s villa, stopping whenever he came across a valuable vantage point. By the time the sun reached its zenith, he’d taken nearly two hundred photographs of the villa and surrounding terrain. Many of the shots would probably turn out to be duplicates or near duplicates, but that was the beauty of digital cameras, Fisher had learned: massive storage capacity and the DELETE button. Also, even seemingly identical pictures often revealed useful details when viewed at full screen, zoomed in, and through image filters.

He spent another hour doing reconnaissance on Portinho da Arrábida’s beaches, below Zahm’s villa, then drove back to his hotel in Setúbal. The DHL box containing his gear was waiting for him. Once in his room, he dug out the OPSAT, powered it up, and established an encrypted link with Grimsdóttir. A message was waiting:

Ames had lied. He hadn’t gotten the Vianden tip from van der Putten.