Midnight In Madrid

SIXTY-ONE

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 17, LATE AFTERNOON

On a cluttered back street next to the Rastro, in the rear of a small locked store, Jean-Claude stood in a closed room and obtained the final ingredients for mass homicide.

His detonators were in a small bag on the counter.

The old Arab named Farooq motioned to it when the younger man came in the door. The proprietor also held a pistol in his hand the entire time as Jean-Claude made the pickup, just in case. He hated the sight of such people and sometimes hated himself for having to deal with them.

But Jean-Claude caused no trouble.

He gathered the detonators and pushed them into a backpack. He gave the old man a smile, went out the door, and prepared to head home.

The Metro was giving him the creeps today, and he also had some hotel business to attend to. He had even pulled his Vespa out of storage for the occasion.