Oath of Office

39

Ding Chavez had the eyeball. He was having a hard time figuring out if da Rocha and his creepy killer girlfriend were inexperienced or if they just believed they were invincible. Da Rocha kept checking his watch, which was weird, but not overly so. Whatever the deal was, neither of them seemed to be looking for a tail. They’d come out of the hotel a little over a half-hour before, dressed for a casual evening. Fournier wore a loose light jacket over a dark T-shirt, perfect for hiding whatever kind of pistol she’d have under there. Da Rocha, wearing slacks and a long-sleeve paisley dress shirt, carried a leather messenger bag slung diagonally across his body.

Nice man-purse, Chavez thought.

The wily bastard had gone all day without logging on to his computer. Nobody did that. The team had decided that if he didn’t pop up online by that evening, something had gone wrong with Gavin’s malware. As it was, they were operating in the blind, with no idea of what da Rocha was up to.

A stubby two-car commuter train squealed and rumbled down the tracks in the middle of Calle San Fernando, north of the Hotel Alfonso XIII and the Hard Rock Cafe, where da Rocha and Fournier had apparently gone for drinks. They were inside only a half-hour before they came out and hung a left, hand in hand, looking for all the world like tourists. It seemed odd to Chavez that someone would come to a city as steeped in history and culture as Seville and go to a Hard Rock Cafe, but, he supposed, if you were from Europe, a Hard Rock offered a change of pace — and, at the very least, a cool T-shirt.

It was late evening, and the streets around Seville University and the Real Alcázar park teemed with people heading off for predinner drinks. Flocks of tourists took advantage of the temperate spring weather before it gave way to the incredible heat of an Andalusian summer. The Plaza de Toros was less than a kilometer to the northwest. There had been another bullfight tonight, which added substantially to the crowds.

Hundreds of people, some milling in place, some rushing here and there, broke up the human terrain and made it relatively easy for Chavez to follow without being spotted. It didn’t seem to matter. Da Rocha and Fournier were so engrossed in sightseeing that they never even looked behind them.

“Heads up,” Chavez said over the radio. “They must have somebody out there running countersurveillance.”

“Maybe,” Clark said.

“Or maybe they’re just dumbasses,” Midas offered. He was waiting around the corner, ready to pick up the eyeball if the couple turned past the university onto del Cid.

“Or,” Clark said, “they’re professional criminals, not intel experts. They might think about somebody following them once in a great while, but they’re more likely to worry about personal security in the mano-a-mano sense of things — what is going to try to hurt me in the here and now, rather than who might be building a file on me.”

“Not very smart,” Adara said, “but it works to our advantage.”

“We’ll see,” Clark said. “They may not be experienced in tradecraft, but I don’t get the impression either one of them is stupid.”

Da Rocha checked his watch for the fifth time since leaving the hotel.

Chavez reported this to the rest of the team. “This dude has to be meeting someone. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but he is concerned about some kind of appointment.”

“Maybe he’s killing time,” Adara offered.

“Right turn on del Cid,” Chavez piped. “They’re crossing to the west side like they might be going to walk around the Plaza de España or that little park right beside it. Lots of trails there, if I remember my map correctly.”

“I have the eye,” Midas said, crossing San Fernando on the opposite side of del Cid. Chavez continued walking straight, passing him at the intersection without making eye contact.

“Copy that,” Adara said, sounding a little breathless. She was dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt that was loose enough to conceal her copper-wire neck loop and microphone. Her radio was in a small fanny pack. “I’m a block to your east. I’ll jog down to the park and get a little ahead.”

“They’re picking up their pace,” Midas said. “Not running exactly, but walking with purpose.”

“Are you burned?” Clark asked.

“I don’t think so,” Midas said. “They’re still chatting, but they’re definitely walking faster.”

Chavez turned right at the next block, working his way through the food stalls and carnival rides of the San Sebastian Park night market. The smell of grilled meat and fried bread made his stomach growl, but he hustled along toward the east side of the park, not following yet, but providing backup for his now diminished team in case things went bad. He wasn’t so much upset about Ryan and Caruso heading off to Afghanistan as he was realistic. Even the full complement of six wasn’t optimum for a prolonged surveillance op. Four was little better than a wing and a prayer. Still, this was the field. You soldiered on, doing more with less, and grinned about it because, in the end, stopping evil dumbasses in their endeavors to do bad shit was still the best job in the world.

“They’ve cut into the park,” Midas said. “Just south of the Plaza de España.”

“I’m jogging loops,” Adara said. “I’ll head that way and pick up the eyeball.”

“Stand by,” Midas said. “I’m with a crowd of tourists that happen to be taking the same route they are. No need to switch up yet.”

Crisscrossing paths through the orange groves, palms, and jacaranda made it possible for the team to move in a little tighter. Their targets meandered back and forth, stopping now and then to read signs or watch the ducks — as Midas said, killing time.

Da Rocha checked his watch again.

They were on the western edge of the park now, and he pointed north, up the six-lane avenue called Paseo de las Delicias.

“Looks like he might be heading toward the hotel,” Midas said.

“I’ll keep to the trees,” Adara said, “running parallel.”

“Copy,” Midas said. “Still northbound on—”

“They’re crossing the road,” Midas said. “East to west.”

Chavez broke out of the park a half-block behind Midas, planning to pick up the pace so he could take over the eye. But he could tell that was not going to happen.

It was as if someone had just flipped an on switch. Both da Rocha and Fournier became much more animated. Chavez watched as they waited for a lull in the traffic and then trotted across. There was no more hand-holding or gazing at the sites of Seville. They were going somewhere.

“Are they turning?” Clark asked, as if he already knew the answer.

Chavez figured it out at about the same moment Clark did.

“Well, shit,” he said, as their targets continued to jog to the banks of the Guadalquivir River canal and hop deftly into a waiting inflatable boat. Moments later, the outboard growled to life and the little boat sped south into the darkness.

Chavez reported what he’d seen.

“That,” Midas said, “was pretty damned slick.”

“I should have thought about the river,” Clark said. “Midas, how much luggage did you see in the hotel room last night?”

“Not much, now that you mention it. You want me to go check his hotel room while he’s not in it?”

“No,” Clark said. “If the malware is working I don’t want to spook him in case he has someone watching it. We better pray he logs on with that computer, because he could be going anywhere. It’s only fifty miles to the ocean. If he wanted to, he could be in North Africa by morning.”