Midnight In Madrid

SIXTY-NINE

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 18, 11:59 P.M.

Jean-Claude was elsewhere, putting the final touches on the charge of explosives.

Working alone in the narrow, cramped chamber under the American Embassy, he braced his flashlight between an old brick and a stone. Working with the low beam from the flashlight, he spread before him the ten different detonators from the pack he had purchased.

He was taking no chances. He would use all of them. He only needed one to trigger the ten kilos of explosives he had spread in separate packets around the chamber. If just one ignited, chances are much of the block would implode.

On the first Number Ten Delay switch, Jean-Claude used a pair of pliers to crush the end of a thin copper tube containing acid. There was no need to crush the end of the tube completely flat. All he needed to do was crush it sufficiently to break the glass vial, thereby releasing the liquid within. Then he removed and discarded the safety pin holding back the striker. Finally, he inserted the other end of the pencil detonator into a brick of explosives. His charges were good for twenty-four hours, meaning they would blow the next night around midnight, give or take.

He repeated the procedure four more times. He then drew back and fought for his breath. The air was disappearing in this cramped hole. And he was sweating profusely. It occurred to him that if there were some sort of freak accident with the acid leaking too quickly into the explosives, he would be blown into oblivion. So, twenty-four-hour timer or not, it was wise to move as quickly as possible.

There! Everything was set!

Then something clattered in the small adjoining chamber. Jean-Claude froze.

“What the-?”

It wasn’t that unusual for rocks or pieces of concrete to crumble and fall, or for a rat to disturb something. But this sounded different. It sounded like a tool, a flashlight or something, dropping.

His eyes went to the portal that led to the next chamber. He saw a flicker of a light waving. Good God, he was not alone!

What the-!

Then he heard something human. A cough! The cough of a woman!

He left the detonators where they were, set to blast away within twenty-four hours. Angrily, suspiciously, he drew his gun from his belt.

Whoever was in the next chamber sounded as if she was getting to her feet after somehow burrowing in.

Well, he’d killed that busybody woman who had worked for the Metro, and he would kill again.

Jean-Claude checked his pistol and readied it for a quick discharge. It was completely loaded. Whoever was there, he would cut them in half, no questions asked.

He held his pistol aloft and went to the passageway where he could ambush his intruder.