amiss.
Jean-Claude gave a head gesture to Basheer. Basheer helped him retrieve one duffel bag, Jean-Claude carried the other. They loaded them quickly into the trunk of Basheer’s Benz and took off. Mahoud remained behind, moved his own car back to the street, closed and locked the garage, and departed.
They drove across the city to another destination, a pastry shop operated by a Muslim couple named Samy and Tamar.
Samy and Tamar were a likeable young couple in their twenties who operated a pastry shop in El Rastro, a neighborhood named after the Sunday market held within its bounds. The quarter lay within the triangle formed by the La Latina Metro stop, Puerta de Toledo, and Glorieta de Embajadores and was in the larger neighborhood of Lavapiés, an artsy, bohemian section of Madrid. In medieval times, Lavapiés had been the Moorish and Jewish quarter located outside the city walls. The neighborhood has retained an outsider character with visible immigrant communities from Morocco, sub-Saharan Africa, and India. Samy and Tamar enjoyed living there. They had many friends and liked to sit in the cafés until late at night, laughing, drinking tea, telling jokes, and watching sports on television.
Lavapiés was undergoing a process of gentrification as more and more cafés, bars, and galleries opened every day. Samy and Tamar had many friends who worked for the government and even several friends who were British or American. Sometimes this created odd situations as both Samy and Tamar would rail against American and English “colonialism” throughout the world. Yet never, even in their bitterest diatribes, did their friends ever feel the two young Muslims were railing against them . The hatred wasn’t personal, it was political .
Samy and Tamar had been recruited into Jean-Claude’s cell two months earlier. They too hated America deeply for what they felt Americans had done to Muslim people worldwide. This, despite the fact that Tamar loved to dress Western in public, with skirts above her knees, and liked American movies and music. Fortunately, her husband permitted it, within reason. So they lived happily together.
And they too were happy to be conduits for Jean-Claude’s cargo.
So when Jean-Claude dropped the cargo at the bakery, Samy personally stashed both bags in a locked area of a deep walk-in pantry in his bakery.
He was thrilled with what he had and happy to be part of Jean-Claude’s team and mission.
NINETEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, 4:23 P.M.
A s a warm afternoon faded in the Spanish capital, Alex opened her laptop on a table on her small balcony at the Ritz. She had a soft drink on ice and had changed out of her “meeting” clothes into more comfortable duds: shorts and a T-shirt, an outfit that made perfect sense in terms of relaxation, but too casual to wander around the starchy old Ritz or even this very dressy neighborhood.
She settled into a comfortable cushioned chair. Five floors below traffic rumbled along the Paseo del Prado, though the crescent in front of the Ritz was quiet.
As the computer booted, Alex’s gaze drifted out across the city. Madrid had been the capital of the Iberian Peninsula since the middle of the sixteenth century. She gazed over the ancient city and felt a surge of excitement and fascination. It would be nice, she told herself, to come back here someday with time to burn, time to enjoy at her own pace the museums, nightclubs, and sporting events. She would love to watch Real Madrid, the city’s world-class soccer team play a game at Estadio Santiago Bernabeu or catch a bullfight at Las Ventas, the world’s most famous bullring. She would like to come back here someday with someone she loved.
And then her thoughts tripped a mental landmine, one of sadness and longing, one of still painfully missing her fiancé, Robert, who had died early that year. The memories set off a wave of bittersweet loneliness within her, one she fought almost every day for at least a
Jean-Claude gave a head gesture to Basheer. Basheer helped him retrieve one duffel bag, Jean-Claude carried the other. They loaded them quickly into the trunk of Basheer’s Benz and took off. Mahoud remained behind, moved his own car back to the street, closed and locked the garage, and departed.
They drove across the city to another destination, a pastry shop operated by a Muslim couple named Samy and Tamar.
Samy and Tamar were a likeable young couple in their twenties who operated a pastry shop in El Rastro, a neighborhood named after the Sunday market held within its bounds. The quarter lay within the triangle formed by the La Latina Metro stop, Puerta de Toledo, and Glorieta de Embajadores and was in the larger neighborhood of Lavapiés, an artsy, bohemian section of Madrid. In medieval times, Lavapiés had been the Moorish and Jewish quarter located outside the city walls. The neighborhood has retained an outsider character with visible immigrant communities from Morocco, sub-Saharan Africa, and India. Samy and Tamar enjoyed living there. They had many friends and liked to sit in the cafés until late at night, laughing, drinking tea, telling jokes, and watching sports on television.
Lavapiés was undergoing a process of gentrification as more and more cafés, bars, and galleries opened every day. Samy and Tamar had many friends who worked for the government and even several friends who were British or American. Sometimes this created odd situations as both Samy and Tamar would rail against American and English “colonialism” throughout the world. Yet never, even in their bitterest diatribes, did their friends ever feel the two young Muslims were railing against them . The hatred wasn’t personal, it was political .
Samy and Tamar had been recruited into Jean-Claude’s cell two months earlier. They too hated America deeply for what they felt Americans had done to Muslim people worldwide. This, despite the fact that Tamar loved to dress Western in public, with skirts above her knees, and liked American movies and music. Fortunately, her husband permitted it, within reason. So they lived happily together.
And they too were happy to be conduits for Jean-Claude’s cargo.
So when Jean-Claude dropped the cargo at the bakery, Samy personally stashed both bags in a locked area of a deep walk-in pantry in his bakery.
He was thrilled with what he had and happy to be part of Jean-Claude’s team and mission.
NINETEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, 4:23 P.M.
A s a warm afternoon faded in the Spanish capital, Alex opened her laptop on a table on her small balcony at the Ritz. She had a soft drink on ice and had changed out of her “meeting” clothes into more comfortable duds: shorts and a T-shirt, an outfit that made perfect sense in terms of relaxation, but too casual to wander around the starchy old Ritz or even this very dressy neighborhood.
She settled into a comfortable cushioned chair. Five floors below traffic rumbled along the Paseo del Prado, though the crescent in front of the Ritz was quiet.
As the computer booted, Alex’s gaze drifted out across the city. Madrid had been the capital of the Iberian Peninsula since the middle of the sixteenth century. She gazed over the ancient city and felt a surge of excitement and fascination. It would be nice, she told herself, to come back here someday with time to burn, time to enjoy at her own pace the museums, nightclubs, and sporting events. She would love to watch Real Madrid, the city’s world-class soccer team play a game at Estadio Santiago Bernabeu or catch a bullfight at Las Ventas, the world’s most famous bullring. She would like to come back here someday with someone she loved.
And then her thoughts tripped a mental landmine, one of sadness and longing, one of still painfully missing her fiancé, Robert, who had died early that year. The memories set off a wave of bittersweet loneliness within her, one she fought almost every day for at least a
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