Midnight In Madrid

TWENTY-THREE

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 8, AFTERNOON

On a cluttered backstreet next to the Rastro, Jean-Claude watched the block for a quarter hour before crossing the street and trying the door to a small shuttered shop across the way.

The door was locked. But from within, a meaty hand pushed aside a curtain. Two dark eyes peered into Jean-Claude’s, then past him, and then a bolt dropped from within. The door opened quick, Jean-Claude entered, and the door closed and locked again.

Jean-Claude found himself standing in a compact, cluttered establishment that seemed to sell both everything and nothing.

The two men exchanged cautious greetings in Arabic.

“You’re aware of the nature of my visit?” Jean-Claude asked.

“I am,” Farooq answered, “but only in general terms.” Farooq retreated to a position behind a high counter. Jean-Claude assumed, given the nature of his business, he kept at least one weapon there. He held aloft a plump finger, indicating that Jean-Claude should wait for a moment. He walked to a table behind his counter and turned on an old television set. He adjusted the volume up high, then turned back to his customer.

“Now,” Farooq said. “Perhaps you could explain your needs in greater detail? But do keep in mind that for reasons of security, I keep very little in stock here.”

“I understand,” Jean-Claude said.

“Good. Then I would like to understand too. What is it you desire?”

“Detonators,” Jean-Claude said, continuing in Arabic, “for explosives. A series of very good ones with a zero failure rate.”

Farooq nodded amiably and his eyes twinkled with mischief. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re in the construction business,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell a lie like that,” Jean-Claude answered, “and you wouldn’t be foolish enough to believe it.”

“Perhaps you could share with me a bit about your project,” Farooq said. “I sense that you have given yourself a challenge, perhaps an ideological one.”

Jean-Claude kept quiet.

“What sort of explosives will you be working with? What exactly do you require?”

Jean-Claude said nothing.

“I could supply you with a very basic device that should work for you,” Farooq said. “It would be similar to a standard blasting cap with a primary consisting of a compound formed from lead azide, lead styphnate, and aluminum. It would be pressed into place above the base charge, which is usually TNT.”

“I have explosives more sophisticated and more powerful than TNT,” Jean-Claude said.

Farooq’s attitude changed slightly. His expression darkened and his tone of voice became more grave.

“What might your target be?” he asked. “An individual? Several individuals. A vehicle? Moving or stationery? Large? Small?”

“A building,” said Jean-Claude.

“A building or the people in it?” Farooq asked.

“Both,” Jean-Claude said.

“Very good,” Farooq continued after a moment. “For your purposes then, might I suggest a relatively new item known as a ‘slapper’ detonator? This variety uses thin plates accelerated by an electrically exploded wire or foil to deliver the initial shock…”

“No,” Jean-Claude said. “I consider that type of detonator unreliable. I’m seeking a British item known as a Number Ten Delay switch, which is unavailable in Spain except through merchants such as yourself.”

The Number Ten Delay was a sort of “timing pencil.” It consisted of a brass tube, with a copper section at one end, which contains a glass vial of cupric chloride. A spring-loaded striker was held under tension and kept in place by a thin metal wire. The timer would be primed by crushing the copper section of the tube to break the phial of cupric chloride, which then would slowly eat through the wire holding back the striker. The striker would shoot down the hollow center of the detonator and hit a percussion cap at the other end of the detonator and the combustion would follow. A delay switch ranged from ten minutes to twenty-four hours, accurate within plus or minus three minutes in an hour’s delay and plus or minus an hour in a twelve-hour delay.

Farooq nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. “Then for the first time I understand the high quality of explosives that you have. In what form are the explosives now?”

“Twenty individual bricks,” Jean-Claude said.

“They would be military quality then, I would suspect.”

Jean-Claude said nothing, which was an implied yes.

Farooq thought for a moment then washed his hands at a sink behind his counter. “And you have them in your possession, these explosives?”

“Spare me the stupid inquiries. Would I be here if I didn’t? Again, I know the product that I need. Can you get them for me with no chance that they can ever be traced.”

Farooq was toweling his hands dry by now. “I believe I can,” he said softly.

“Perfect,” Jean-Claude said after a few minutes of examination. “I need two packs with the twelve-hour delay. Can you get them for me?”

“Yes, I can. It will take a few days, but I have my own resources.”

“How much will this cost me?”

The owner wrote an outrageous money figure down on a piece of paper.

“I will also require the entire payment in advance,” Farooq added.

“You’re a robber!” Jean-Claude snapped.

“I am a businessman,” the dealer said. “And, my friend,” the old Arab said. “You are not just buying detonators and the ability to strike at Western infidels. You are also buying my silence and good will. I have been in business for a long time. There must be a reason, and the reason is that my first dissatisfied customer will return and kill me. So I don’t expect you to become one. My price is high, but I deliver with discretion and safety for the buyer. So do we do business or do I ask you to leave?”

Jean-Claude glared at him. Then he nodded, peeled off a wad of money, and paid.