Scorpion Deception

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Gracia,

Barcelona, Spain

Marchena, the CNI agent who hadn’t showed at the RDV set up by Shaefer at the Placa Vicenc Martorell, was a tall balding man in a gray suit and dark shirt. He had the look of casual authority, like a professional soccer coach, Scorpion thought as he watched him get into his car, a bright red BMW Series 6 coupe in the office building’s underground garage. The Barcelona branch of the Spanish intelligence service, the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, was headquartered in the building, using the cover of a construction machinery company, Grupo Puentas y Gracia. He treats himself well, this Marchena, Scorpion mused as he walked over and rapped on the driver’s window with the Walther pistol.

“Que diables!” Marchena exclaimed in Catalan. What the hell!

Scorpion motioned with the Walther for Marchena to unlock the passenger door. It took Marchena a second to figure it out that there wasn’t enough time to start the car and drive before the stranger with the gun and wearing a blond surfer boy wig could shoot. Marchena pressed the unlock button and Scorpion got in.

“Drive. I’ll tell you where,” Scorpion said in English.

“The hell I will. Who are you?” Marchena replied in good English, not moving.

“I’ll shoot you,” Scorpion said, pointing the Walther at Marchena’s head.

“No, you won’t,” Marchena said confidently, looking around. There were a few other people going to their cars in the garage.

Scorpion fired a shot, the bullet shattering a hole in the driver’s side window, just past the tip of Marchena’s nose. The sound of the shot echoed loudly in the garage, and two people who had been going to their cars froze and looked around.

“Last chance,” Scorpion said, shoving the muzzle against Marchena’s ribs. “Drive.”

Darting him a quick sideways glance, Marchena started the BMW and drove out of the garage into the bright sunlight. Both men put on their sunglasses as they drove on the broad Passeig de Gracia, past fashionable stores and office buildings.

“Where are we going?” Marchena asked.

“Just drive. Go someplace where I can shoot you if I don’t like what you say,” Scorpion said as they slid into the traffic circling the stone obelisk in the center of Placa de Juan Carlos I where the two broad boulevards, the Passeig and the Avinguda Diagonal, intersected.

“Why? Who are you? What do you want?”

“We had a date, remember?”

“Date? What the hell are you talking-” Marchena went suddenly pale. “Deu,” he breathed, glancing at the man beside him. “You’re Scorpion.”

“Why didn’t you show?” Scorpion asked.

Marchena took a deep breath. “How am I still alive?” he muttered, his eyes flicking sideways at Scorpion. “Was it you?” he asked. “It was, wasn’t it? You put five mossos d’esquadra into the hospital while handcuffed. Unbelievable,” shaking his head while watching traffic. “Did you kill Mohammad Karif?”

“Don’t be stupid. Karif was the only link to what happened in Bern. I’m the last person on the planet to want him dead.”

“So who killed him?” Marchena asked, forced to make a left turn as the wide boulevard dead-ended and then a right turn into a narrow residential street.

“A man with a mustache. Looked Middle Eastern. I got there maybe a minute after he killed Karif. He caught me unawares.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was possible,” Marchena said cattily.

“I try not to make a habit of it,” Scorpion said. “If I did, I’d be as dead as Karif.”

Marchena glanced over at him.

“This mythical man with a mustache-” he began.

“He’s not mythical. Somebody killed Karif,” Scorpion said.

“All right, I’ll bite. Why didn’t he kill you?”

“To frame me for Karif’s murder. He’s the one who called the mossos d’esquadra. He must’ve figured if they were chasing me, they wouldn’t be chasing him. They got there as I was leaving.”

“Why’d he kill him?”

“Don’t you watch TV? The Americans want to bomb the hell out of somebody for what happened in Bern. Someone’s trying to avoid it being them.”

“What did Karif have to do with it?”

“Karif was a contact. An Iranian named Norouzi called Karif from Zurich. That’s what brought me to Barcelona. Last night Norouzi was also found dead.”

“They’re shutting down the network. Is that it?” Marchena said, making his way around construction and then turning onto Travessera de Dalt, a long straight street lined with apartment houses.

“Where are we going?” Scorpion asked.

“You wanted to talk. I thought maybe Park Guell. We could walk.”

He wants people around, Scorpion thought. Someplace where he feels safe.

“If I decide to terminate you, having people around won’t make any difference,” Scorpion said. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you make the RDV?”

“Spain is a leading supporter of Palestinian rights. We have more than a million Muslims. If America-or Israel-want to make war with Iran, NATO or no NATO, it’s not good for us. We don’t want any Berns-or Zurichs-in Barcelona,” he said, glancing pointedly at Scorpion. “My bosses ordered me not to meet you, and they were right. You’ve been in Spain less than twenty-four hours, Scorpion, and already we’ve got a dead Muslim and five policemen in the hospital. Whatever you’re here for, Senor Cahill,” making sure Scorpion knew he knew his cover ID, “we want no part.”

For several minutes they didn’t talk. There was a tunnel up ahead. Marchena glanced at Scorpion, who nodded. They drove through the dark tunnel and out into the bright sunshine.

“It’s not that simple,” Scorpion said. “You can’t ignore us,” implying he was speaking not just for the CIA, but for the entire U.S. government. Total bullshit, he thought. The reality was, except for Shaefer and maybe Rabinowich, he was on his own.

“Meaning?” Marchena said, turning left into a narrow street going up a hill. He’s heading for the park, Scorpion thought. Human instinct. In danger, people always head up, and if possible, toward other people.

“It’s not that simple,” Scorpion repeated, letting the implied weight of Washington sink in.

“What do you want?” Marchena said finally, pulling the car into a parking space on the street. Ahead, they could see the entrance to Park Guell, the gate flanked by two gingerbread gatehouses designed by the famed architect, Gaudi, after whom the word “gaudy” was coined.

“I want you to get a message to a certain mosso d’esquadra, but it has to be done the right way.”

Marchena shut the ignition and turned to face Scorpion.

“Who is this mosso? A mole-or is he simply a corrupt policia?”

He’s good, Scorpion thought. The Spaniard had figured it out in a second. He would have to keep that in mind when dealing with him.

“Haven’t a clue. He’s probably just a bad cop, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.” Scorpion shrugged.

“What does matter?”

“That he passes information to certain Muslim interests.”

Marchena looked at him sharply.

“Hezbollah? Mind?” he asked, taking out a pack of Fortuna cigarettes. Scorpion nodded, and Marchena pulled one out and lit it. “Or maybe Kta’eb Hezbollah?” exhaling a stream of smoke.

“You’re good. We should have met when we were supposed to. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble-and those cops wouldn’t be in the hospital. What else do you know?” Scorpion said quietly, keeping the Walther still pointed at Marchena.

“Shall we walk?” Marchena asked, indicating the park.

“Give me the car key-and don’t be stupid,” Scorpion said. They were talking. If Marchena felt more comfortable in the park, he thought, all the better. In the sun visor mirror, Scorpion checked the blond wig he had picked up in a theatrical supply shop in the Raval. Now that he was clean-shaven, the change in his appearance was astonishing, he thought, putting the gun in his pocket.

Marchena handed him the key. They got out of the BMW, walked into the park and up broad stone stairs curving past a fountain with a sculpture shaped like a dragon covered with bits of colored tiles like a mosaic. A crowd of tourists posed for photos on the steps and around the fountain. They went up to an undulating stone pavilion lined with columns and past a long serpentine stone bench covered in colored tiles, all designed by Gaudi. At the top was a terrace with a snack stand. People crowded at tables, eating and enjoying the view.

If Marchena was going to make a move, he would do it here, Scorpion thought, but by now it seemed the Spaniard was as interested in what he had to say as he was in getting the man to help him.

They kept walking, following curving paths through stands of trees. The day was sunny and clear, and for a time they said nothing. They climbed to a stone cross at the top of a hill. From there, they could see over the city to the Mediterranean, the sun sparkling on the sea.

“So what is this information you want this poli malo”-bad cop-“to pass to these Islamic capullos?” Marchena asked.

“Careful. You’re letting your prejudice show,” Scorpion said.

Marchena shook his head.

“You Americans. We’ve been fighting Muslims for a thousand years. You’re Johnny-come-slowlies, believe me.” He stopped walking and looked directly at Scorpion. “I don’t want my city turned into a war zone,” he added before starting to walk again. “What do you want him to know?”

“Just tell him where I am. I’ve been spotted. Very hush-hush. Use my code name, ‘Scorpion.’ ”

“You’re painting a target on your back. . Of course,” the Spaniard smiled, taking a deep drag of the cigarette and exhaling, “you’re setting a trap.”

“The key to all of this is that this policia-his name is Victor Pintero; he’s a sotsinspector in the El Raval district-has to believe he got this information on his own. That it’s top secret. Shouldn’t be hard. Everyone’s hunting me. I’m Karif’s killer. Make it part of the policia manhunt. Except you let him know the CNI knows something the ordinary policia don’t.”

Marchena’s eyes narrowed. He flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Karif was a Kta’eb Hezbollah agent. He was killed by the American agent, Scorpion,” Scorpion said.

“And where will whomever they send find you?” he asked.

Scorpion told him.

“Why there?” Marchena muttered, half to himself.

“To minimize civilian casualties.”

“Jesus Cristo,” Marchena swore, shaking his head. “And I should do this because. .?”

“Right now the trail ends in Barcelona,” Scorpion said. “One way or another, America will have its justice for Bern. Trust me, this city isn’t where you want the war to happen.”

Marchena dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.

“I was ordered to stay out of this, so no Spanish will be involved. But I have to tell you, two of the mossos you injured at the comisaria are in critical condition. They may not survive. They had families.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Scorpion said. “For what it’s worth, if I wanted to kill them, they wouldn’t be alive.”

“It would be best if you were to leave Spain soon, Scorpion,” Marchena said. “I’d say the quicker you are out of my country, the better, but the truth is, if these are the same hombres who did Bern and Zurich, I suspect you will not be alive much longer.”