Oath of Office

22

“She’s fifteen yards out,” Clark said into the radio. “Blond hair, shorter than Adara’s. White knee-length shorts, black T-shirt. She’s getting plenty of attention.”

“She’s wearing sandals,” Jack noted. “Looks like she’s not planning to run.”

“Okay,” Clark said, lips just inches from his beer. Passersby would think he was talking to Ryan. “I have da Rocha now. He’s coming in from the other direction. No weapons that I can see so far. Ding, Midas, start to drift his way in case they split up when we go inside the plaza. I’d like to keep eyes on da Rocha. Adara, Dom, you two ease this way but hang behind a little. I haven’t seen any Russian countersurveillance yet, but they’re out there. I’m sure of it.”

Jack tapped the table to get Clark’s attention. “Fournier’s carrying something.”

“My friends,” da Rocha said, striding purposefully up to the seated Russians. He kept his hands in the open so as not to alarm anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. “What a small world it is, meeting you twice in one week.”

Both Russians pushed away from the table and stood, as did the Spaniard.

Da Rocha’s mouth fell open in mock astonishment. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is this Don Felipe Montes?” He took a half-step toward the street, forcing the Spaniard to turn into the sun to look at him.

Montes gave the Russians a wary glance. “This man is a friend of yours?”

“A mere acquaintance,” da Rocha said, still driving the conversation. “And a hopeful business partner, to be sure.” He turned to glance at Lucile, who’d stopped a few steps behind the Spaniard. “In any case. I will not bother you any longer. I am only here by chance. It seems as though my taxi dropped me off in the wrong location. Is the bull arena somewhere nearby?”

The Spaniard stifled a grin and pointed west. “You are standing in its very shadow, señor.”

Da Rocha looked across the street and scratched his head. “I expected it to be larger,” he said. “Are you certain? Where would one go inside?”

Montes rolled his eyes at the Russians, who had yet to say a single word, and then stepped sideways, away from the Russians. He took da Rocha by the shoulder and pointed down a narrow cobblestone pedestrian alley that ran adjacent to the Plaza de Toros.

“Down there?” da Rocha said.

“Follow the crowd,” Montes said.

Da Rocha stepped away, throwing a glance at the Russians as if to say “Watch this.”

Lucile Fournier walked forward, passing the little crowd by the curb as she touched Don Felipe with her mobile phone.

The Spaniard gave a little jump, like she’d given him a shock. His jaw moved back and forth as a hand shot to his collar, trying to get more air. Da Rocha sprang to help, assisting the man as he stumbled backward to collapse into his chair. He remained upright, eyes open, arms trailing down beside him. Those seated at nearby tables might have thought the poor man was just winded, or perhaps overcome by the brightness of the sun.

Da Rocha patted the man’s arm, as if checking on a friend.

“What have you done?” the Russian with the long upper lip said. Da Rocha had correctly identified him as the leader.

“A demonstration,” da Rocha said. “The newest in shellfish toxin. Not all armaments need to include facial recognition or advanced GPS — though I certainly have that as well if you want it.”

Both Russians glanced nervously up and down the street, wanting to put distance between themselves and the dead Spaniard but unsure of what would come next.

“Shellfish toxin?” the Russian with the odd haircut asked. “How would you even know he is allergic?”

Lucile laughed out loud. “Monsieur, everyone is allergic to this shellfish toxin.”

“Amazing,” da Rocha said, “how quickly it worked. Wouldn’t you say?” He dropped a business card on the table in front of the Russians. “We both know that you are in the market for someone with certain skills and contacts. I assure you, a business arrangement with me would not disappoint you.” He patted the dead Spaniard on the shoulder. “As you can see, I am very resourceful.”

Clark had to concentrate to keep from jumping to his feet. “Everyone stay put,” he said. “The guy in the beret was just hit. Anyone hear a shot?”

No one had.

“This was something else,” Jack said. “Poison, maybe.”

“Ricin?” Midas mused.

“A little too quick for that,” Clark said. “She jabbed him with something, though. The Russians are moving now. Da Rocha and the woman are coming toward you, Adara. See if you can figure out where they are staying. But be alert.”

“Ballsy,” Ding said. “That makes two that we know of who she’s killed in front of a large and hostile audience.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. “Like I said. Everyone keep your heads on a swivel.”

He nodded at Ryan, who left a couple of euros on the table to pay for their beers. The Russians walked east on Calle Adriano, toward their hotel, leaving the dead local and the bullfighting arena behind. For the time being, at least, they seemed to have lost their taste for blood.