Maji sat quietly on the hard wooden pew, enjoying the solitude and the patterns of color from the early morning light through the stained glass windows.
“Company approaching on the plaza side,” came Dave’s voice through her earpiece. “Two photogs and a camera van.”
“Want me to stay put?”
“They can’t get in. What do you see in there?”
Looking around at all the frescoes, the stations of the cross, the stained glass, and the gilt work, Maji could almost imagine being here in the 1700s. Well, minus the sneakers and jeans. She’d probably be in rags, a peasant. “Just a really nice church. Soaring ceilings, aroma of incense and candles, the usual.”
“Way to sell it. You must have grown up with serious Catholic bling if that place doesn’t impress you. No sign of him?”
“Not everybody with a Spanish surname goes to mass, Brown. But, yeah, it’s pretty cool.” Looking at the emblems of the cockerel on the floor tiles, Maji wondered if Arturo Echeverra had discussed those with his daughter as well. It was pretty funny, roosters all over the floor of an otherwise grand and cathedral-like church. Her own Catholic father would have made it seem hilarious. “And spooky quiet. How long do we give him to show?”
“Until staff arrive to open the place to the public. Keep checking out the interior. We’ll make sure the press stay out.”
So Maji wandered to the side chapels, checking out the smaller altars of the saints. None of it spoke to her of a higher power the way the ocean did, or the mountains or desert, for that matter. But the deep silence was soothing.
The massive front door rattled. “The press seem pretty sure Erlea’s in here.”
“Roger that. One of them is going around the side of the building.”
Maji heard movement and faded back into the shadows. A man in work clothes emerged from the sacristy and headed for the rattling door. “Staff’s here already.” Paid off by a news outlet to provide access? “The sexton may be letting them in.”
“Stay out of sight.”
“Roger. Rios out.”
Maji slipped into a shadowed nook. Not a great spot to run from, but…
“We’re closed!” the sexton yelled through the slot in the front door, first in Catalan and then in Spanish. For good measure he did so one more time, in thickly accented English. Maji couldn’t make out the voices on the other side, but the sexton sounded resolute when he replied, “Come back at ten,” and stomped away. Bless his cranky heart.
“Still out front. Setting up video,” Dave said, updating her. “Stay put. Any sign of Echeverra?”
The sexton stopped in the dead center of the church, sweeping his eyes over the side chapels in Maji’s vicinity. “Please tell me you didn’t leave,” he said in a low voice, his Spanish more cultivated than what he’d yelled at the reporters. “It should be safe to talk now.”
Daddy in the house. Maji waited to hear if Dave had caught Echeverra’s entreaty.
“Proceed with caution,” Dave instructed.
Maji stepped out of the shadows. “I’m here.”
“Beatriz.” Echeverra crossed himself and headed toward her, stopping short when he was a few feet away. “No. Who are you?”
“A friend of your daughter. Hired to protect her. We needed to make sure it was safe for her to meet the person claiming to be her father.”
“I know my face is different, but I swear to you, I am Ar—”
Maji acted alarmed. “No. I haven’t swept this place for bugs. We should go somewhere more secure. The press already thinks”—she mouthed Erlea—“is in here.”
“I never dreamed the whole world would call her by my pet name,” Echeverra said. “How do I know you are really her friend?”
Maji gestured toward the flower-petaled stained glass. “She told me about the peek at heaven and”—she pointed to the wall over the altar—“Mary on the half shell.”
Echeverra laughed. “Oh, what a fool I was. To be angry about such trifles, so pious and self-righteous. What can I do to assure you, and her, that I am me? And that she should see me.”
Maji was convinced. But she had instructions. “We’ll set up a meeting in a secure location when we’ve verified your identity and what it is you want from her.” He flinched when she reached inside her jacket pocket. “Relax. I’m unarmed. I have a DNA swab. And I promise we’ll keep the testing a secret.”
“Oh,” he said, taking the vial. “What do I do?”
“Just scrape the swab inside your cheek and seal it back in the tube.” Maji took a seat on the nearest pew and motioned for him to join her. He sat, perched near the end, still wary.
“Tell my daughter that I still make sure no one eats the roosters. She’ll understand.” He used the swab and handed the vial back. “Technology. Keeps making it harder for a man to disappear.”
“Especially one who wants his life back. Do you?”
“I can never get back the years stolen from my family, the pain of losing me. But I am still committed to peace, and I would help if it did not endanger them.”
“I’m told the government will wait to prosecute you until after the talks, if you attend.”
Echeverra gave a bitter laugh. “It was the government who set me up. The National Police infiltrated my group, and the two men who orchestrated the bombing were rewarded with promotions. They are quite high up in government today.”
Oh, crap. If Romero was with GEO, he was clean. But GEO was under the National Police. How classified was his mission briefing, and who had access to it? Would they hear this? “Stop,” she said. “Don’t say their names out loud. Don’t tell me them at all.”
“Of course. I should not endanger you for helping. But I have evidence. And if I can get it to…my daughter, she can give it to the press. They pay attention to her. Once it is out, I will be safe and so will my family.”
Was Romero listening on the comms? The whispering voice of intuition said to get Echeverra out of there. “Sir, it may not be that simple. Who helped you to disappear? Got you papers, changed your face?”
“Some bad men of a different sort. Criminals. They would sell me out in a minute.”
Yes, the Nuvoletta would indeed. Intel trading was one of the many rackets that put them on Delta’s hit list. And a corrupt official in the National Police might already have bought whatever they had to sell on Echeverra. “I think we should move this conversation, sir. Now.”
Romero’s words, “Keep him there,” rang in Maji’s ear. In response, the little voice in her head switched from whisper to scream. Get Echeverra out now, let Dave sort out whether Romero was compromised or not. Get out now.
* * *
Maji pressed a finger to her lips and motioned Echeverra to get up and run with her. He clearly knew this place well, so she followed him toward the sacristy, across the church from the side door Maji had used to enter.
“No one uses the emergency exit but workers,” Echeverra said, starting to suck wind after only a short jog down the back hall.
“Stop,” Romero commanded as they rounded the next corner.
Echeverra smacked into him and flailed backward, panic on his face.
Maji caught him and stepped between the two men, keeping both within reach. “Stay calm,” she urged.
“Yes, please.” Romero stood with his hands out in a placating gesture, his suit tidy as always. “Ms. Rios, I am on your side.”
“Maybe you are,” Maji said, “but consider who you work for.” She avoided the words National Police. Echeverra already looked close enough to a heart attack.
“I understand your concern,” Romero said with a tiny nod. “But my unit is very much like your unit,” he said, using the name Delta used for itself, with emphasis. “If you had a general under suspicion of corruption, wouldn’t you investigate? Independently.”
So she was getting her operator-to-operator talk after all. Maji had pictured chatting over beers, but this would do. “You may be clean. But are you sure your team isn’t compromised? Because this man is under my protection now. So I need to be sure, too.”
“Downshift, Rios,” Dave’s voice said. “Our team will escort them both. Hand him over at the back entrance. Play nice.”
Romero heard that, too, Maji realized as he flashed her a brief, hopeful smile. But he spoke to Echeverra. “We have had Aguilar under watch for years, Mr. Echeverra. He’s on the brink of retirement and likely to disappear if we don’t get him soon. We haven’t confirmed the second man’s identity, but if you have proof, we’ll gladly take him down, too.” He met Maji’s watchful gaze again. “I’m going to reach inside my jacket for my ID. Okay?”
Maji nodded.
Echeverra read the ID to himself. “Internal Affairs, eh? You don’t think I’m a terrorist, then?”
“That will depend on the evidence you provide,” Romero admitted. “But I hope not. My wife is Basque. I understand that peace is long overdue.”
“Sounds like you have a lot to talk about,” Maji said. “Mr. Echeverra, will you go with him?”
Echeverra nodded. “You will keep Beatriz safe?”
“Yes, sir.” Maji shook his hand and walked back through the church. “Dave, you got another exit in mind for me?”
“Out the way you came. Keep the paparazzi focused on you,” he instructed. “Put on a show if you have to. Anything but singing.”
“Roger that. Listen for the side door.”
The minute Maji appeared in the alley, a voice rang out, “Erlea. Over here. Hey, I’ve got her.”
Maji turned quickly, as if startled, and headed for the main plaza. “One guy in the alley, behind me,” she told Dave. At the corner she paused and peeked out to check on the video crew. A local constable was gesticulating at them while giving a lecture on parking in the pedestrian plaza. She started across it at a slow jog, watching her footing on the uneven paving.
Hearing a shout behind her, Maji glanced back and saw a guy with the video camera on his shoulder leave his fellow journalist to deal with parking enforcement. Fortunately, he couldn’t gain much speed while looking through a viewfinder and running over the treacherous stone surface.
She could be out of range in seconds, if she didn’t prolong the diversion. “What do you need from me?”
“Just take your time,” Dave replied. “Clear the plaza, duck into that café with the green awning. A white van’s waiting by the back door.”
“Roger that.”
Behind her, there was a thud and crunch followed by a keening laced with curses. Maji glanced back and saw the videographer on the ground, clutching his knee. With all eyes on her, his colleagues didn’t seem to notice. She sprinted back to him and knelt by his side.
“Medic,” he gasped, all the color drained from his face.
Maji stood and pointed at the constable by the camera van. “You. Call a medic,” she yelled at him in Catalan.
He looked at her, hesitant. Was her Catalan that bad?
“Call a medic, right now,” she yelled in full command voice, this time in Spanish.
He lifted the radio mic to his mouth as the telephoto lenses on the other reporters’ cameras whirred and clicked. “Good luck,” she said to the fallen journalist, then pivoted and ran.
“Good show,” Dave said.
* * *
Erlea stopped stretching and greeted Maji as she arrived on stage. “Good morning. I can’t believe I beat you here.”
“Went running first,” Maji said. “Over to this beautiful old church in—”
Nigel stormed onto the stage, spotted them, and didn’t even ask who was who. “You two. A word.” His nostrils pinched in that way that showed he was livid. “Do you know what’s all over the internet? Erlea helping the paparazzi.”
“What happened?” Erlea asked.
Maji lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “One of the journalists fell and twisted his knee. I stopped to see if he was okay. No big deal.”
“So it was you,” Nigel said. “I thought as much.” He turned to Erlea. “She went back to him, heedless of the cameras closing in, and called out for the policeman to get him a doctor.”
“Did they get close enough to tell it wasn’t me?” Erlea asked.
He looked appalled. “No. But it was very out of character. They are calling you a hero.”
“Well, that’s a little like calling me a decent human being.” Erlea threw one arm dramatically over her forehead. “How dreadful.”
Maji just smiled softly and kept her mouth shut.
Erlea did not wait for more from her manager. “If you think all good publicity is the diva melting down or blowing up, perhaps it’s not too late for me to talk with Claudia Sandoval.”
“Break your contract and I’ll ruin you,” Nigel said in a low, dangerous tone. He stalked off.
Erlea turned to Maji. “You’ve already had a workout. Want breakfast instead?”
“Nope. He makes me want to puke. I need a dose of the energy harmonizing way before I can think about food. And I can’t wait to see what your style of Aikido looks like.”
Erlea laughed. “It looks like flying lessons. You up for that?”
“Hell, yeah.”
* * *
Maji sat silently at the skirted table, glad for the big sunglasses. All the lights and camera flashes were trying to give her a migraine.
“Just another minute,” Dave spoke to her via the earpiece.
She gave Alejandro a nod.
“Mr. Winterbottom is nearly here. We will begin in a moment,” he told the assembled press.
“All clear, good to go,” Dave’s voice announced.
Nigel stepped from behind the curtain and raised at hand. “Thank you all for coming today,” he said. “We understand your interest in current politics, but please limit your questions to those pertaining to music.” He managed to sound haughty even in Spanish.
“Ready to swap out,” Dave said, and on cue Maji began coughing, softly at first, then harder. Red faced, she took a drink of water and held up one hand. “Momento.”
She ducked behind the curtain, handing Erlea the glass with a smile. “Room’s secured. Knock ’em out.”
Erlea, dressed and styled identically, gave her a wink and went out to face the media.
Maji pulled baggy coveralls on over her outfit, tugged the knit cap over her hair, and settled in to listen to Erlea talk like a rock star.
Nigel called on a reporter from Entre magazine first.
“Erlea, what were you doing at a church at sunrise?” the pretty blonde asked. What was her name again?
“Giving first aid to one of us, Julia,” a voice called out. “Can I get some CPR?” Laughter followed. Friendly laugher, Erlea noted with relief.
Julia looked annoyed but pressed on. “Were you meeting with your father? Is he alive?”
Erlea smiled and removed the sunglasses. “Julia,” she began, ignoring Nigel’s warning look. “I don’t know for sure. I would like to think so. From time to time I visit Our Lady of the Angels, which holds good memories for me. It makes me feel closer to him.”
“But what about the bombing? The murder charges?” a man a few rows back called out.
Nigel stood. “If you continue in this vein—”
“Then we might clear a few things up,” Erlea interjected. “The man I knew as a child was truly devoted to peace for Spain, as well as cultural autonomy for his people. The bombing was a crime, a tragedy, and I find it hard to believe my father could have done such a thing. If he is alive, I hope we all will finally learn the truth.”
“When you say his people, what do you mean? Aren’t you Basque, too?”
That’s the part you heard? Erlea gave him a smile anyway. “I feel a misquote coming on, but let me try and explain. All my life, some people have told me that I am too Basque, and others that I am not Basque enough.”
“And now on to music,” Nigel interrupted.
“When we are done,” Erlea said. She took a moment to look at the men and women with their recorders and video cameras running, to see them as people, and to breathe down into her center. “I am, before all else, an artist. And art belongs to everyone. I have Basque blood, yes. But also Catalan. And I am Spanish from both sides. All of my grandparents remind me of what Spain was like under Franco, the repression even my mother grew up with. As a musician, I have a responsibility to reach for freedom, to honor all cultures, and to support the self-determination of all people. Spain’s diversity is its greatest wealth. If you find my music reflects this, then I am doing my job as an artist.”
“Which brings us back to the show,” Nigel said, pretending with his tone and expression to defer to her. “Yes?”
“By all means,” Erlea replied. “This show will slay you, I swear.”
* * *
Erlea sounded hoarse by the time Nigel finally called time on the press conference.
Maji offered her a high five as Erlea followed Nigel and Alejandro back through the curtain. Erlea slapped her palm and collapsed into a chair. “Why can’t you learn to talk like me? We could have taken turns.”
“You don’t want me talking music or politics for you,” Maji assured her.
“Shut up,” Nigel hissed. “Are they gone yet?”
Maji got Dave’s confirmation. “The room is clear. Awaiting clearance for transport.”
Nigel turned on Alejandro. “Did you know she was going to pull this…this…”
“Having opinions on things that matter?” Erlea suggested. “Or being nice to the press for once?”
“They loved it,” Alejandro said. “But no,” he hastened to add, “I had no idea.”
“Well, you’d better hope it plays well,” Nigel said. “Watch all the outlets and give me a report every four hours.”
Alejandro swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”