Midnight In Madrid

SIXTY-FOUR

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 18, EVENING

On a side street café in the Rastro, business was finally slacking off in the early evening. Samy had been nervous that day, waiting for some kind of shoe to drop and wondering why there had been no massive explosion under the United States Embassy. But Samy had also stayed true to Jean-Claude’s command to go to work as usual, act as usual, have a normal day as much as possible, and pretend that nothing strange was going on at all. Anything else might attract suspicion.

After all, no one knew who the conspirators were, Jean-Claude had sworn, other than each other? They just needed to wait.

Nonetheless, Samy had been on pins and needles all day, waiting to hear something, waiting for a special report to break into the news on Spanish television, watching everyone with paranoia, particularly anyone who looked like a cop or who looked in any way suspicious.

Gradually the little café called Klafouti had emptied out. Now it was almost midnight. There were two couples there at separate tables and a single man in a suit, an Asian, sitting by himself, reading. One of the couples got up and left. Then the other couple, by virtue of the blackberry wine they had been drinking liberally, started cuddling and smooching. Soon they got up and left too, weaving merrily toward the door.

Ali, the heavy man with the moustache who was Samy’s boss, spoke to Samy in Arabic. “I’m going to put the Cerrado sign on the door,” Ali said, indicating he was ready to close. “And I’m turning the window light off. Let’s go home.”

Samy thought that was an excellent idea.

Ali went next door to use the bathroom at the grocery store that was run by his cousin. In the rear of his store, Samy started cleaning the counter behind the pastry display case. The single man who had been reading a newspaper, the lone customer remaining, got up, yawned, stretched, and gave Samy a nod.

“Buenas noches,” Samy called back.

The man nodded in return, then took some steps toward the door.

Samy turned his back and busied himself with neatening up. Then Samy heard the door close and he heard steps. He figured Ali was back and said something to him. But there was no answer. A second later Samy felt something indefinably amiss and knew something was wrong.

He turned abruptly. The single man, the Asian, was standing on the other side of the pastry case, staring at him. Samy froze. He knew this was trouble.

David Wong looked at Samy carefully.

“¿Qué quiere usted, Señor?” Samy asked. What do you want?

“Do you speak English?” Wong asked in English.

Samy understood but quickly shook his head. The Asian’s eyes were fixed on him like lasers.

Wong reached into a pocket and pulled out a picture of Lee Yuan, his mentor, just as Yuan had been Peter’s mentor and the mentor of his partner Charles Ming.

“Do you know anything about this man?” the Asian asked softly.

Samy shook his head again. He looked to the door, the escape route. The man in front of him had closed it, locked it apparently, and pulled the shade down.

Samy fumbled in English. “I don’t know any Chinaman,” he said.

“Now you do,” Wong answered.

For a moment Samy was paralyzed. Then there was a knocking on the front door. He heard Ali’s voice calling. “Samy? Samy, you in there?”

“Ayúdame! Ayúdame!” Samy screamed in Spanish. Help me! Help me!

Samy suddenly backpedaled. He tried to edge around the display case to where there was a narrow passage on the far side from where he could sprint to the door.

Wong lowered his left hand, and the picture of Lee Yuan was gone. Then the right hand came up, and it held a small gun, one of those Italian jobs that are just perfect for killing in small areas like stores, washrooms, and public transportation.

Samy yelled in terror when he saw the outline of the weapon. At the front door, Ali knocked sharply now, frantically next, then started to pound at the wooden frame. When all that failed, he hit the door with his shoulder.

Samy scrambled but Wong fired. The first bullet caught the waiter in the shoulder but hurled him sideways against the wall. Then the well-dressed Asian was on him like a big cat. Samy began to sputter and plead, half prayers, half curses, a desperate plea for his life.

Wong wasn’t listening any more than a cat would consider pleas from a mouse.

Wong pounced on his fallen prey, pushed the nose of the pistol to Samy’s head. Samy tried to cover it with his hands, but Wong pushed the gun between the Arab’s frenzied trembling palms and fired point blank.

One shot. Two shots.

The bullets blew out Samy’s eye socket, half of his brain, and the back part of his skull, all of which splattered and coated the floor beneath him.

Wong quickly stuffed his gun back under his suit jacket and went to the door. He threw the door open. Ali now stood in front of him in shock and surprise.

“Buenas noches,” Wong said.

“What’s going on?” Ali asked in Spanish.

Wong smiled. “Nada,” he said.

As Ali spoke to Wong, his gaze traveled past Wong and settled on Samy’s sprawled body on the floor. Wong caught the moment of realization in Ali’s eyes and jumped on it.

Wong brought up a knee that impacted like an express train into Ali’s groin.

When the café owner doubled over in absolute agony, Wong uppercut a vicious fist into the man’s face, crushing his nose with a tremendous crunch, splintering it to pieces within its skin. A downward smash of the elbow to the back of Ali’s head, sent him to the floor. There Wong left him, sobbing in a huddled mass at the doorway to his café, but in all ways better off than Samy had been for the encounter.

Wong straightened the lapels of his jacket and departed at a normal pace.