picked up by the Raven, along with the pair of shoes he’d left to be resoled. Before heading home, he stopped at the specialty food department of El Corte Inglés and bought a bag of the freshly ground Columbian coffee he’d grown fond of.
There was a certain risk, he acknowledged, as he waited for the elevator to descend from the fourth floor of his apartment building, in relying on such a circuitous delivery route. But he had weighed that risk against the more obvious danger of returning to the Prado.
Not until he had double-locked the door to his apartment did he remove the crumpled envelope from his breast pocket. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with a message typed in English. It specified an emergency evening meeting for the next Thursday at Café Sabatini in the old quarter of town. Though the message looked as though it could have come from Eisenberg’s replacement, he knew it wasn’t from one of the Falcon’s agents. The headers and trailers that bracketed the message were similar to what he had expected but the validation sequence was missing. Peregrine agents didn’t make mistakes like that, which meant the message was forged.
Chyort! How in the devil had Bogolubov found out about the dead drop? Either it was horrible luck or the comrade general was a lot craftier than he’d thought. Either way, the noose around his neck was drawing tighter. The urgent request for a meeting was a trap.
* * *
T HE ATMOSPHERE of tension in the Aviary was so heavy that Gordon’s beloved parrots were squawking like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. Constance McGuire closed the door to the concealed office, effectively cutting off the screeching. Gordon’s mood had deteriorated as the day had worn on. He’d gone from sending back the crab salad to the kitchen because the plate wasn’t chilled to dumping a box of government pens in the trash because they were the wrong shade of blue.
“Was there a break in the police investigation of the terrorist attack?” Connie asked as he put down his growing San Jeronimo folder.
“Damn right. It wasn’t terrorists at all.”
“Really?” Connie couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice as she swiveled to face him. She was thoroughly familiar with the terrorist modus operandi. This had matched up on almost all counts.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look that way,” Gordon informed her.
“Who?”
“The police have discovered it was drug-related. The bomb was intended to assassinate Juan Inurria, a local underworld kingpin who was trying to extend the boundaries of his territory and apparently stepped on someone else’s toes. Incidentally, he wasn’t killed. But he’s in hiding—supposedly on the Costa del Sol.”
Connie thought for a moment. “I hate to even ask, but are you sure there’s no possibility that either one of our men could have been involved?”
From the way Gordon tensed, she knew she’d hit a nerve. Maybe this very question was what had been bothering him all morning.
“Not the Raven, certainly,” he said quickly. “Since he hasn’t touched our money, I can’t imagine his going after dirty cash.”
“And Dan?”
A weary look crossed the veteran spymaster’s craggy features. “Connie, I pride myself on being a good judge of character, but there’s some angle to this that I just can’t figure out yet. I don’t want to think Dan had branched out from intelligence work to underworld activities. But right now I just can’t be sure.”
Connie had seldom seen her employer so distressed, but she knew the only comfort she could give him was to be as businesslike as possible. “So what sources of information are you tapping?” she asked.
“Well, there’s the report Cal Dixon made to the Director of Central Intelligence in Langley last night. He seems to have good connections with the Madrid police department, and that’s to our benefit, since we’re on the hidden drop list for all his communications.”
“Then
There was a certain risk, he acknowledged, as he waited for the elevator to descend from the fourth floor of his apartment building, in relying on such a circuitous delivery route. But he had weighed that risk against the more obvious danger of returning to the Prado.
Not until he had double-locked the door to his apartment did he remove the crumpled envelope from his breast pocket. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with a message typed in English. It specified an emergency evening meeting for the next Thursday at Café Sabatini in the old quarter of town. Though the message looked as though it could have come from Eisenberg’s replacement, he knew it wasn’t from one of the Falcon’s agents. The headers and trailers that bracketed the message were similar to what he had expected but the validation sequence was missing. Peregrine agents didn’t make mistakes like that, which meant the message was forged.
Chyort! How in the devil had Bogolubov found out about the dead drop? Either it was horrible luck or the comrade general was a lot craftier than he’d thought. Either way, the noose around his neck was drawing tighter. The urgent request for a meeting was a trap.
* * *
T HE ATMOSPHERE of tension in the Aviary was so heavy that Gordon’s beloved parrots were squawking like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. Constance McGuire closed the door to the concealed office, effectively cutting off the screeching. Gordon’s mood had deteriorated as the day had worn on. He’d gone from sending back the crab salad to the kitchen because the plate wasn’t chilled to dumping a box of government pens in the trash because they were the wrong shade of blue.
“Was there a break in the police investigation of the terrorist attack?” Connie asked as he put down his growing San Jeronimo folder.
“Damn right. It wasn’t terrorists at all.”
“Really?” Connie couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice as she swiveled to face him. She was thoroughly familiar with the terrorist modus operandi. This had matched up on almost all counts.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look that way,” Gordon informed her.
“Who?”
“The police have discovered it was drug-related. The bomb was intended to assassinate Juan Inurria, a local underworld kingpin who was trying to extend the boundaries of his territory and apparently stepped on someone else’s toes. Incidentally, he wasn’t killed. But he’s in hiding—supposedly on the Costa del Sol.”
Connie thought for a moment. “I hate to even ask, but are you sure there’s no possibility that either one of our men could have been involved?”
From the way Gordon tensed, she knew she’d hit a nerve. Maybe this very question was what had been bothering him all morning.
“Not the Raven, certainly,” he said quickly. “Since he hasn’t touched our money, I can’t imagine his going after dirty cash.”
“And Dan?”
A weary look crossed the veteran spymaster’s craggy features. “Connie, I pride myself on being a good judge of character, but there’s some angle to this that I just can’t figure out yet. I don’t want to think Dan had branched out from intelligence work to underworld activities. But right now I just can’t be sure.”
Connie had seldom seen her employer so distressed, but she knew the only comfort she could give him was to be as businesslike as possible. “So what sources of information are you tapping?” she asked.
“Well, there’s the report Cal Dixon made to the Director of Central Intelligence in Langley last night. He seems to have good connections with the Madrid police department, and that’s to our benefit, since we’re on the hidden drop list for all his communications.”
“Then
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