Midnight In Madrid

SIXTY-SIX

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 18, EVENING

No more than three blocks away from Samy’s bistro, through the maze of streets in the Rastro, Basheer sat nervously in the living room of the small house he shared with his wife, Leila. He was watching the late sports on television and was particularly interested in a match of his adopted land Morocco against Cameroon.

Leila came out of the bedroom to see what he was watching. She was wearing only a linen robe that she normally wore around the house. When she saw her husband was viewing sports, she gave up on getting his attention.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said softly. “Then let’s get into bed.”

Basheer grunted his approval. It made sense: first his favorite activity, then his second.

Leila went to the bathroom and started the water for her shower. Playfully, she stood in the doorway and slid out of her robe. Then she tossed her robe into the living room and stood naked before her husband, trying to interest him.

Her husband smiled but didn’t budge from the sports. “Later,” he said.

A minute passed. Maybe two.

Basheer heard a noise in the entrance hallway behind him, but the account of the game he wanted was seconds away. So he didn’t investigate. There were only friends in this building, anyway, so what could go wrong?

A few seconds later, he heard a creak behind him on the old floorboards. The creak finally caused him to turn and glance behind him. He did a double take and jumped from his chair.

A Chinese guy! Stealthy as a giant cat! How the-?

Charles Ming stood with his arm extended, with a gun pointed forward.

Basheer opened his mouth to scream but never had the chance. Charles Ming squeezed the trigger hard three times. Three bullets slammed into Basheer’s chest before he had the chance to duck for cover or even scream. He hit the floor hard and in deep pain. He knew life was ebbing out of him, and all he could think of now was that this must have something to do with the bomb that didn’t go off.

Ming stepped over him and sent another bullet directly through his heart.

Ming looked at the linen robe on the floor. He heard the shower water running and knew how easy the end of this job would be. He stepped over the robe and walked to the bathroom door, which was half open.

He pushed it the rest of the way.

Behind a vinyl see-through shower curtain, he could see the body of a woman. She was young and a little plump, with black hair and very pale skin the color of a fish fillet. He studied her for a moment because he had never before seen a woman undressed without having to pay for it. He reasoned that her skin was pale because it never saw the sunshine. Unlike Western or Chinese women, she never wore a bikini or went to the beach.

But Ming made no special note of her. She was an assignment, same as her husband who was dead on the floor behind him. He gazed at her with curiosity for a few seconds. He wondered how long he could stare before she saw him.

He had his answer a few seconds later. She turned.

Her eyes went as wide as saucers. Then she screamed.

The sound of the scream pulled Ming out of his mini-reverie. He raised the pistol sharply and fired three shots into the woman’s body from a distance of five feet.

Her knees buckled, her body slammed against the back wall of the shower, and her voice went quiet like a television suddenly turned off. She dropped like a sack of potatoes, made a gurgling sound, and was still.

As a courtesy to the people downstairs, Ming stepped forward and turned off the water before he departed.