On Scope

9

The first morning of surveillance broke with a serene sky that polished the streets of the old city with the glow of promise for still another new day. They could only hope it would last. It rained a lot in April, when a downpour seemed always just over the horizon.

When Juan de Lara, still in his pajamas, opened the French doors that led onto the little balcony of his apartment, he stepped outside for a moment to enjoy the view of the capital and breathe deeply, huffing fresh air deep into his lungs. Marta was still sprawled on the creamy silk sheets with her dark hair fanned on the pillow, but de Lara had to go to work. He was eager to get out and about, for today he was to collect another wire transfer for a hundred thousand U.S. dollars for his personal account from Mannix Dillon at BQM to spread around Spain like a political lubricant.

He noticed that he was not the only early bird this morning, for a petite woman down the block was wrestling with a tripod, a large sketchbook, and a small valise of her paints and brushes. She was facing away from him, probably setting up to catch the morning light on the dome of the Almudena Cathedral over on Calle Bailén. Artists seemed to love the massive architecture of the cathedral, which took more than a century to build and had not been consecrated until 1993, but de Lara thought the bulky gray building was somewhat grotesque, a new pretender in a land of antiquity. The Muslims might have something to say about that in the future, for beneath the ornate cathedral were the ruins of a mosque.

He was dressed and out of the front door in thirty minutes, strolling briskly, his big stomach rocking back and forth with each step. The fat man took his usual table at a sidewalk café and sat alone for fifteen minutes to read both El País and El Mundo del Siglo Veintiuno while enjoying a thick coffee-and-milk mixture with sugar around the rim and a shot of brandy. The carajillo tasted so good that he had two more. He read that police had been forced to fire rubber bullets into a crowd of demonstrators yesterday, which he considered even better news than the 3–nil soccer score, Real Madrid over AC Milan. When finished with his liquid breakfast, he walked to his office.

Kyle Swanson followed.

At one o’clock, the city began to shut down for siesta, and de Lara made his leisurely way back to the apartment, taking a taxi all the way to the door. The little artist was still at her tripod, proving that she was not a native. Nobody but sub-Britons and Americans avoided the time-honored habit of the siesta, taking a break during the long day. He noticed that the woman was young and pretty, with blond hair pinned up beneath a bright green kerchief, and wondered what she was painting. Artists were strange people, he thought. They didn’t necessarily draw what other people saw. He went inside and found Marta waiting, eager for his return. She had not even gotten out of her bedclothes from the morning, and he put on his pajamas and crawled in beside her, nuzzling the midnight hair before falling asleep.

“He’s down for the count.” Swanson’s voice came to Coastie through a flesh-colored earbud hidden beneath the bright scarf. “I’m on deck, so you go ahead and break down your stuff and get out of here. We don’t want you getting too much of his attention.”

Beth Ledford took out her cell phone for a quick call, and by the time she was packed up, a hired car pulled to the side and Lady Pat opened the door. She slid inside while the driver, part of her security guard, stashed the art gear. “I did great work today,” Coastie said. “I smeared some blue paint on the canvas, along with red paint and yellow paint, and drew circles and stuff. A nice lady stopped and asked what I was painting, and I said I was an impressionist.”

“Let’s get some lunch and continue your education, child,” said Pat. “I’m taking you through the Prado this afternoon, where you will see the works of El Greco, Goya, Velázquez, and other Spanish artists. Everything from monsters and lunatics to court portraits and naked ladies.”

“Our target appears totally unconcerned,” Coastie said, scrubbing her fingers with some damp wipes.

“Wealth does that to some people, Beth. They view themselves as undefeatable sharks in the money sea, creatures with no natural enemies.”

“I mean, he’s trying to overthrow the government, but first he’s going home for nappies with his babe? What kind of crazy is that?”

Lady Pat recognized the tone. Coastie was working through the mechanics without knowing it. “These things never fly in a straight line. You just do your part of the job and don’t get sidetracked with conflicting thoughts.”

“Should we go pick up Kyle?”

“Leave Kyle alone. He’s at work, almost like a snake coiling in a corner and getting ready to strike. You and I have to do the Prado now.”

At three o’clock, de Lara awoke and once again padded to the balcony in his slippers and pajamas, leaving Marta still snoring slightly. He threw the doors apart with a grand flourish and stepped outside again, smiling. The city was still there, beckoning him. The little artist was gone. He stretched, opening both arms wide, and thought about the cash that had come in that morning. There was a new source, not Dillon, along with a note that the new contact was another American, Peter McNamara.

Day two was a repeat of Day One, for Juan de Lara was a thorough creature of habit, and they tracked him with ease from morning until after siesta.

The young artist was back at her easel on the street below early that morning, again facing the cathedral dome, and the mogul crossed over to walk by her on his way to the coffee and newspapers. She was cute, no doubt, and he said hello to her in English. She glanced up and briefly smiled but said nothing in return. Her canvas looked like a mishmash of colors, but what did he know about art? Later, when he returned for siesta, he wondered if he should make a more direct approach. Artists never had any money, and maybe a generous amount might lure her into bed with him and Marta for an afternoon. By the time he stepped onto the balcony right at three o’clock, she was gone again.

While Beth and Pat went to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofía to view the Picasso and Dalí collections, Swanson roamed the blocks around the apartment with a Canon camera around his neck, snapping photos like a tourist, and was in position at three to snap de Lara in his sleepwear. He also had a laser range finder, a GPS locator, and a wind meter, and he carefully measured and drew up a sniper range card.

De Lara had no security whatsoever. It would have been easy just to walk up and shoot him, but getting away after that might be impossible. The police of Madrid and Spanish security forces had stepped up their defensive posture since Islamic terrorists in 2004 killed 191 people on four trains, and Kyle had seen numerous cops cruising the avenues at random, while security cameras hung everywhere. An escape and evasion route had to be planned as well as the hit.

Swanson was not arrogant enough to think that such increased vigilance might not have spotted him. Having done such countersurveillance himself, he spent a lot of time that afternoon watching for watchers. A broad window in a jewelry store mirrored the opposite side of the street; sudden stops and reversing his route would make any tail duck for cover; going into a store and stopping behind a counter just inside would force a follower to hesitate long enough to be noticed; and changing lines on the Madrid Metro or swapping taxis made it almost impossible for only one or two people to keep him in view. He saw no suspicious people or cars behind him.

The street was a broad hive of buildings, mostly residential apartments and many ground-level shops. Windows and doorways galore offered opportunities which he bypassed. Swanson had decided to take down de Lara at three o’clock the following afternoon, so he was looking for a secure platform with a direct line of sight to the balcony. There was no hope of anything from a window directly across the street unless they risked breaking into a private apartment or a store, which heightened the odds of a police response. The possibility of taking a position on the rooftop of the opposite building was also discarded; sloping red tiles almost guaranteed failure.

He walked along straight for a while to create a channel that would stretch out any surveillance, then made a sharp left turn, a right at the next corner, and left again. No familiar faces or automobiles were tracking him.

A final wide detour brought him up the next street over from the de Lara place. The value of the property in such an exclusive area had overcome the depression, and an old building was being renovated. Kyle saw the opportunity. Checking his map, he counted his steps from the west corner until he was standing at exactly the distance from the west corner of de Lara’s street to the front door of his apartment. The construction area was precisely on the needed spot.

During siesta, the workers had left the site unattended, and Kyle slipped beneath a yellow tape that cordoned off the building and went inside. He stood still, taking in the sights and smells and sounds. Empty. A staircase led from the ground floor all the way to the top, and he went up, his eyes searching everywhere for potential risk. A door frame beckoned at the top floor and he went in, pulling out a small pair of binos. Standing at the window, he had a clear and direct view of the balcony of Juan de Lara.

Turning around, he examined the far wall of the room in which he stood. It was back far enough to be in shadow from the midday sun, and carpentry debris littered the floor. He liked it. This would do. He used a broom to give the area a quick sweep and brush away his footprints.

There would be no time to loiter after the shot, because the Madrid residents would be on the move again, showing up for their afternoon shifts, but he counted on the laborers on this job to milk their siestas for as long as possible. He and Beth would not need much time to break down their gear and go down the stairs after taking the shot. The entire ground floor was wide open except for machinery and tools, wallboard, and paint, with multiple points of egress. He made a note to arrange for his CIA contact to park a 4x4 truck two blocks from the site, so they could get over to the M-30 and out of town.

It should work. Then the rain started, a few gentle drops that increased steadily in strength before he waved down a cab. It was slashing at the rooftops and flooding the streets by the time he reached their hotel. Night came early, preceded by thick and rolling storm clouds and curtains of falling water.