Midnight In Madrid

FORTY-THREE

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, 12:15 P.M.

Digging, digging, digging.

Over the last few days, Jean-Claude and his associates had made enormous progress. From the basement of the old building on the Calle de Maldonado, they had tunneled and edged their way southward a full city block. Working during the day, when street noise would cover the sounds of their activities, they had taken down small sections of old walls that had been under the city for centuries.

Mahoud and Samy had done the heavy work. Samy’s wife, Tamar, had brought drinks, sandwiches, and pastries during the day. Basheer had watched the entranceway on the Calle Maldonado and had also done some digging.

When they removed rocks and passed through the new passages, they were careful to then reassemble the walls as they continued on their path. No point to arouse the suspicion of anyone else who might be prowling. They could assemble or re-assemble from either direction as they went in and out.

They traveled in pairs, each with a small shovel, a few hammers, and picks. Each carried a small handgun in case of an extreme emergency. Tamar kept a kitchen knife on her, just in case. The cell of self-styled jihadistas was small and tight. Jean-Claude, the leader and organizer, was the only one who would travel by himself. All five were Moroccans by birth except for Jean-Claude, who was French by birth and Moroccan by origin.

They were like rats. They scurried along, perilously close to contact with the overall workaday population of the city, yet they were subterranean and unobserved.

After months of planning, their underground passageway had pressed alongside and underneath the Calle Claudio Coello. Then it crossed underneath the intersection with the Calle Juan Bravo. JeanClaude himself was with the group and doing some excavation himself the day they got that far.

Jean-Claude had everything he needed up until this point. Electricity, a ventilation system, and small pumps to remove groundwater. In some areas he had wood roofing to bolster the makeshift walls and ceilings. In most areas they had clearances nearly six feet high and about five feet wide. Yet there were those spots along the path where they were forced to crawl through low, cramped, wet spaces that hardly allowed any air.

They followed a series of old cellars. They came mostly to crumbling walls where weak spots could be found and exploited. In these spots they pushed their way through to the next chamber and continued.

A few meters south of the Calle Juan Bravo, they hit a hard impasse. A construction gang from many years in the past had used one of the sub-basements as a repository for every bit of discarded construction refuse known to man: rotting old planks to hard chunks of concrete the size of boulders, to bags of garbage and wine and beer bottles from lunches consumed decades ago.

It was a roadblock. But Jean-Claude had anticipated something like this.

When his workers reported the impasse, he went with them. He carried with him a remote-controlled detonator, a PVC pipe, potassium nitrate, kitty litter, corn syrup, and a safety fuse.

This was risky. Jean-Claude needed to set off a small explosion via a modest pipe bomb about twenty feet under the middle of Madrid. He ordered his underlings to remain behind. Then, working with his own hands, he cleared as much rubble from the chamber of blockage as he could. His explosives were not the powerful sophisticated ones that had come all the way from Iraq. Rather it was routine stuff, about the amount that loggers might use to break apart a tree stump.

Of course, there was always the chance that the charge was too big and by setting off a modest underground blast, he might inadvertently create a sinkhole that would bring down everything from the street above: cars, buses, people, parts of buildings.

There was also the chance that the blast would ignite a fire. A fire like that would prohibit him and his cell from carrying out the rest of their plans. But he didn’t have much choice. He had to get past this underground chamber of rubble, and there was no room to excavate it. Best to turn part of it to dust.

The area was stinking and wet where he planted his bomb. Nothing should burn very easily. And in terms of lives and property, none of the potential losses came back on him. Those who suffered would all be Spaniards and foreigners who were tied up in the pro-Judeo-Christian Western economic system that exploited Islam.

So why should he care?

He used an old Casio watch as the timer and set the moment of ignition for one hour hence. He planted the small pipe bomb where he hoped it would blow a hole in each direction, creating a further passageway to his destination at an address under a building on the Calle Serrano. His detonator today was simple, an old-style low-tech blasting cap. He double-checked everything as the seconds began to tick away. A full minute was gone when he finally turned and hurried away.

The rest of his team had already dispersed for the day, though they left a few bricks and stones out of the established route so that Jean-Claude could travel faster. Within a quarter hour, his small knapsack over his back, his pistol tucked into a roomy pants pocket, he was all the way back to the building on the Calle Maldonado. Moments after that, he was back up to the street, anxious but breathing easier.

He walked out of the building and joined the crowds for a pleasant summer mid-afternoon in Madrid. He looked at his watch and pondered his next move.

He walked to a café that he reckoned was about a hundred feet from where the flash point of the blast would take place. He took a seat at a table, ordered a drink, and waited, checking out the Western women in the café as he did so.

He counted the minutes. And the seconds.

In his mind, he went through a secret countdown. The time eventually drew very near. His agitation increased.

He looked in the geographic direction of the impending blast.

A voice from nearby made him jump. “¿Señor?”

He whirled around and his heart nearly stopped. Two uniformed police officers from the city of Madrid peered down at him, eyes behind reflective sunglasses, weapons hanging crisply at their sides.

Jean-Claude was speechless.

“¡Señor! Su documento nacional de identidad, por favor!” repeated the ranking cop, asking for his identity card.

“Why?” Jean-Claude asked.

“Don’t ask us why, sir,” the ranking cop pressed. “Do you have your card or not?”

Jean-Claude went to his rear pocket where there was a small billfold. He thought of the gun in his other pocket and processed quickly the scenario of shooting his way out of this. The only ID he had was his real one, the French one. But to not produce an ID would be to invite further questions, further searches.

He produced the ID and handed it to the lead cop.

Without asking, the second cop picked up Jean-Claude’s backpack and looked into it. Luckily, it was empty, other than tools. But the cop wasn’t satisfied. He picked up a chisel and turned it over and over, examining it with growing suspicion.

The lead cop continued to eye the small ID card issued by the French government. He raised his glasses for a good look. His gaze jumped back and forth between Jean-Claude and the card.

“¿Frances?” the lead cop asked.

“Si. Oui.” Jean-Claude answered. He knew if he were asked to stand up, things would get worse.

“What are you doing with these things?” the second cop asked of the tools. “Breaking into cars? Homes?”

“I’m a workman. A carpenter,” Jean-Claude said. Then he added, with a smile, “Like Jesus.”

The two cops didn’t think that was funny. Not at all and particularly not coming from a French Arab. They only glared. Jean-Claude knew he had miscalculated with that remark.

“Se levanta, por favor,” the lead cop said. Stand up!

Jean-Claude’s insides nearly exploded. He would have bolted, but the second cop had blocked his exit, not by coincidence. The second cop’s meaty hand was on his sidearm also. Not by coincidence either.

The first cop pulled out a handheld tracking computer and ran Jean-Claude’s ID through it like a credit card. He waited. Cop number two engaged the suspect in small talk.

“Where is your job? As a ‘carpenter,’” the policeman asked with obvious cynicism. “What exactly do you do?”

Jean-Claude talked his way through a pack of lies and half truths. The cop did not take notes.

“Why are you in Spain? Where do you live?” the cop asked next. Cop number one was eyeing his computer. The gun in Jean-Claude’s pocket felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

There was silence. Everyone else in the café was now staring. Even the proprietor had moved into a position to watch but knew better than to interfere with the police.

Jean-Claude told more lies but told the truth about his home address, which he now knew might not be safe to go back to. He was registered with the local authorities, as required by law. A lie here would have raised even more suspicion. The sweat continued to roll off him. Then the first cop stepped back a pace and did something that Jean-Claude liked even less. He pulled out a small digital camera and took Jean-Claude’s picture, so fast that Jean-Claude couldn’t object, not that it would have mattered.

The cop checked the image he had taken, then put the camera away.

Jean-Claude glanced at his watch. There was a quiet moment.

“Late for something?” the second cop asked.

“Just wondering about the time,” Jean-Claude explained.

“Why would it matter?” the cop asked.

“It doesn’t,” said Jean-Claude.

“Then why did you look?”

“I just looked. That’s all.”

“Maldito moro,” muttered the cop. Damned Arab. “Why do you people come here?”

Jean-Claude held his tongue. Then he felt the detonation. He was certain! He had felt a small shock wave, a small rumble, from the point of impact about a hundred feet away. It was much like the feeling of a truck rumbling by on a city street, or the sensation New Yorkers feel when a subway train rumbles under a building. Then it was gone, the rumbling, vanishing as abruptly as it had arrived.

He had heard it. Or thought he had. He glanced around in every direction, the second cop still fixing him in his gaze. Much as Jean-Claude was thrilled by the explosion, he felt as if he had guilt written all over him. He half expected to see some kind of commotion on the street, people asking questions, people wondering. Like New York after September 11, like London after the horrible attacks on the transportation system in September of 2005, Madrid had remained a city on edge, a city jittery at the sound of any strange, loud noise.

But there was absolutely no notice being taken here on the streets.

None. The pipe bomb had contained itself, at least for now.

Then the lead cop put the computer away. “Esta bien,” he said.

He returned the ID card. The second cop tossed the knapsack back to the ground, still open, the tools rattling, the cop still glaring.

The first cop looked him up and down. “You don’t belong here. People here wash. This isn’t a bar for workmen or riffraff.”

“Árabes,” the second cop muttered.

Jean-Claude held them in his gaze and suppressed everything he might have wanted to say. “I can drink here like anyone else,” he said.

“Then drink,” said the cop.

It was only then that Jean-Claude realized he had never touched his coffee.

“I will,” he said softly. And he did, as the cops departed and the café settled down again.

Jean-Claude drew a long breath and exhaled. Not far away, just up the block, loomed the United States Embassy and all the security that surrounded it. Jean-Claude glared at all the Americans around him, glanced away, then fully understood why he had been questioned and why he would have to be much more careful in the coming days.

And that photo! Where was that going to show up?

He knew the whole equation for him in Spain had now changed. He knew the explosion he had set off that day would have kicked up massive amounts of dust and smoke. And there still could be a collapse on the streets or a fire. But there could be no question of moving forward, as rapidly as possible.

That photograph. Time was limited!