On Scope

8

Financier Juan de Lara was the next target. Kyle Swanson and Beth Ledford studied the photographs of a man who was no battle-hardened terrorist warrior but someone so soft that his idea of exercise would be a round of golf at an exclusive resort, where he could ride in an electric cart with his clubs jangling to the back. Violence was not de Lara’s direct purpose in high-stakes business, but he did not object if casualties resulted, as had happened in Barcelona, to accomplish a higher goal. It was an unavoidable and legitimate by-product of his work.

The corpulent executive lived with his wife in a spacious villa with wide views of the Bay of Palma from their infinity pool, and he kept a beautiful mistress in a penthouse in downtown Madrid, not far from his office. Like the late Cristobál Bello, Juan de Lara had sidestepped personal disaster in the banking collapse and had been left perfectly positioned for continued success when the expected economic recovery kicked in. Rivals complained that he was propped up by secret oil money rerouted through mysterious channels, and he was raking in sizable fees from the European bailout.

“This man is a thoroughly political animal who paints himself as an ardent Spanish patriot,” said Commander Benton Freedman, the wizard of Task Force Trident, who had delivered the folder and the decision that de Lara was to be eliminated. “He became such a player in opposing the European Commission’s bailout conditions that he is now the go-to guy for journalists needing a quote or sound bite from that side of the fence. De Lara says true Spaniards would rather live in an independent nation with ancient and honorable Muslim ties than in a state that is an economic cripple dependent upon the whims of Berlin, Brussels, London, and Washington.”

“Did he order Barcelona?” Coastie wanted to know.

“He condemned it in public,” replied the Lizard. “Fact is, he financed it.”

The words jolted Kyle Swanson, who leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Memories flooded in of dead Marines in brushed aluminum coffins aboard a big airplane, of his friend Mike Dodge and his family, and a resolve took hold. “I want him,” he said.

Freedman had seen that wolfish look before in the gray-green eyes and knew the final decision had been made. He adjusted his big glasses and continued as if nothing had changed. “The general sent me out here for a couple of reasons. I need to tweak the Vagabond communications suite to provide you guys with better secure contact with us back in Washington, so the general thought I might as well deliver the Green Light folder.”

Swanson stared at the pictures again. So this was another paymaster who never got his hands dirty, a toad sunning himself on a gilded lily pad without a care in the world while innocents were slaughtered by his decisions. Swanson saw Juan de Lara as already dead and getting aboard the Boatman’s skiff for a quick trip to hell. Then he snapped his attention back to the folder, which was thick with other information: layouts of his home and apartment, pictures of the wife and mistress, daily habits, overheads of surrounding neighborhoods, some media reports.

“Kyle, with this new secure computer and satellite gear now connected, I can walk you and Coastie through the decision-making process if you want. Part of it came from material taken from the house on Mallorca. Place yielded some really good intel on names, dates, locales, and amounts paid and collected.”

Before Beth Ledford could speak, Kyle overrode any objection. “We were discussing that very thing a while ago, and we know that we are involved in something that is way bigger than ourselves. You don’t need to justify anything to us, Liz. We are satisfied that you guys are making the right calls.”

“Nevertheless, Kyle, the general wanted me to be very clear that this target is a Spanish national and a civilian. His death will demonstrate conclusively that the United States and its allies are rewriting the strategy of retribution. His fingerprints may be all over the money, but Señor de Lara did not directly kill those people nor destroy our consulate in Barcelona.”

Coastie tapped the table with her trimmed and polished nails, which she had painted blue that morning. The little sequence sounded like the hoofbeats of a running horse. “Commander Lizard, sir, are you mistaking us for someone who gives a shit?”

Freeman chuckled. “No. I just had to deliver the information, and I wanted to get out of the office.”

Mannix Dillon slipped an arm through the shoulder strap of her Louis Vuitton handbag and gave the long mirror on the wall behind her office bathroom door a final check. Her hair was fluffed out a bit today to get a windblown look, and she used a small soft brush to smooth out a blemish that she saw in the skin tone. A heavy antique bracelet encircled her right wrist, and she liked the way the tweed skirt and short-sleeved sweater caressed her figure. No doubt, the gym time was paying off. She closed the purse and walked out to the desk of her personal assistant, a nice young man who adored her.

“Perry, I’m going to a short lunch and will be back by one thirty. How about the reservations for tonight?” She thumbed through her electronic diary as she talked at him as if he were a lamp.

“Three places are reserved at the Four Seasons at nine o’clock, Ms. Dillon,” he responded efficiently. “A driver will pick you up at eight thirty. His name is Harold.”

She said, “OK,” and turned away, still not looking at him and asking herself silently, Lunch with Joanie and Patrice, and then clubbing tonight with the same two? She liked them as friends, but really, wasn’t this too much? Patrice, with her crazy hair that drooped over one eye, was vice president of a publishing company and always filled with tidbits of gossip. Joanie had lost her job in the downsizing when the bear stomped through Wall Street and was only now coming back into the marketplace, recently landing an executive position that paid $150,000 a year. They would all bitch over lunch about how anybody could live on such a salary.

The restaurant was a Japanese affair three blocks from her office on Fifth Avenue, and they sat at a table slightly raised on a platform near the back, so they could watch the chefs chopping up ingredients at the sushi bar and shouting greetings to arriving customers. A round of drinks started the lunch; then came tea and some raw things and rice and finally a dessert that bore a vague resemblance to a pudgy rat. It was a good hour, and Patrice was enthusiastic in describing a sex scandal that was about to break involving a mover-shaker type and two pregnant mistresses, one of whom was filing a lawsuit against the other. “Someday,” Patrice said, “the idiots will realize that there is no such thing as privacy in the digital world. The photographs are delightfully grotesque!” They laughed, split their bill three ways with a 15 percent tip, fumbled for exact change, and went back to work.

The April sunshine was warm on her shoulders as Mannix fell into her stride, matching that of the postlunchtime crowd, hundreds of people on the same street, heading in both directions and illegally crossing between cars as taxi horns blared. A hawker selling fake Rolex watches had set up his open briefcase beside a parking meter, and a boxy kiosk newsstand overflowing with newspapers and magazines squatted on the corner. A subway rumbled by underfoot, shaking the metal sidewalk grate. She flowed through the crowd, never so much as brushing a shoulder or an elbow. Moving alone in a sullen crowd was a special New York thing; she loved it.

Her rhythm was suddenly broken when a tall, clean-shaven man with dark hair and bright blue eyes zigged when he should have zagged, and they were doing the foot-to-foot sidestep dance before he actually bumped hard into her. He grabbed her right shoulder, as if to steady himself, smiled, and muttered, “Excuse me. Sorry.” Djahid Rebiane hurried on. No one had noticed the bump, and she was ready to give the automatic glare and maybe a shouted curse—Fucking moron! — but the words didn’t come. Her momentum kept her moving forward; then a pain like none she had ever felt tore at her insides and her steps faltered and slowed and she grabbed her expensive purse hard as she sank to the pavement on her knees, and bright colors mingled in her swirling vision and I’m hurt, I’m hurt, I’m hurt somebody help me screamed in her head, but no words came from her mouth, only gurgling blood. She hit the sidewalk on her right side and rolled onto her back in a spasm of pain, and the moving crowd opened to accept the newly occupied space and kept moving, texting and talking on their cell phones.

The last thing Mannix Dillon ever saw was a beautiful canopy of light over the towers of lower Manhattan.

Uptown in the West Seventies, Yanis Rebiane was sharing a Central Park bench alongside an ambitious young investment banker, handing him a business card and finishing the pitch. “As a token of my goodwill, allow me to give you the name of a German company that is facing disaster. It’s trading somewhere in the fifties right now but is going to nosedive about thirty points.”

Peter McNamara had curly brown hair and big teeth and was itching to close this deal to become the money transfer point for a slice of that outside money being pumped into Spain. Two years out of Wharton, as an anonymous Wall Street drone, he was paid well enough for him to wear this blue suit from last year’s end-of-summer discount rack at Barney’s, but Peter thought of himself as more of a tailored Brooks Brothers kind of guy, with a pair of handcrafted J. M. Westons on his feet. He had no family money, but he was smart and willing to work harder than anybody else, and cut a few corners, for the right price. Arab money spent as well as American money. Show confidence!

He read the card, then stuck it in an inside pocket. “You know that one of my specialties is midcap internationals, Mr. Blanco, and I am always looking for undervalued companies that show growth potential. So I’m familiar with this one. From what I remember of the latest quarterlies, it is not in any trouble at all.”

Yanis had not been entirely truthful with Mannix Dillon. He indeed was quite concerned about the possible material that had been scooped out of the villa belonging to Cristobál Jose Bello. The strike showed the tradecraft of professionals, not some waterfront toughs. Only Allah, praise be unto his name, knew what secrets Bello had memorialized on his hard drives, all of which were gone. Yanis had to assume the worst case, that they were being unraveled somewhere, possibly by intelligence agencies — American most likely, but the special forces from the U.K. and Spain were also possibilities. Nothing had leaked to the press, indicating it was a tightly run operation.

Certainly there would have been some record of transactions with Dillon’s BQM Private Advisers. That was why Rebiane’s son, Djahid, had just bumped into her on Wall Street and shoved an eight-inch blade between her ribs, digging around to cause maximum damage and leaving her staggering to die on the busy sidewalk. BQM had been a handy and efficient contact, but Yanis was confident that the avaricious Peter McNamara, with his country-boy smile and big-city tastes, could take her place. It had been a mistake to allow Mannix to know his real name, a mistake he would not repeat.

To McNamara, Yanis Rebiane would be Carlos Blanco, and he looked around the sidewalk for people who seemed out of place before speaking again. “The roof is caving in on them, due to a class-action lawsuit that is as good as lost even before it has been filed. Loans are already being called, and the company is hiding the troubling data. Bankruptcy in two months at the outside, and the chairman yesterday failed in a suicide attempt.”

“They’ve been cooking their books?” McNamara’s smile grew to include a large expanse of healthy pink gums above the teeth.

“A short sale might be a good investment.”

Peter McNamara was thinking the same thing. With such access, he could reap a fortune. Making the biggest deal of his life, he agreed to Mr. Blanco’s terms for a future relationship.