Returning to Malaga wouldn’t have been his first choice. In fact, it was very near the bottom of his list. There was emotional baggage, from what Hayward considered to be simpler times, though that wasn’t quite right. The time he’d spent with Katrin Ferdinand-Xavier in her family’s beachfront condo had been anything but simple. Malaga was where he came to know that he loved Katrin deeply and powerfully, and it was where he came to fully appreciate the devastation his growing love for her was bound to bring.
Then there were more pragmatic concerns. Malaga contained the collection of thugs who had knocked him unconscious in the Ferdinand-Xaviers’ condo, sliced up Maria Ferdinand-Xavier, and lured him to find her body and deal with the bloody aftermath of her murder. So, Hayward reflected, the rest of his life could pass without him ever seeing Malaga again, and it wouldn’t hurt his feelings even a little.
But the chief problem in Hayward’s world now was a logistical one. He was puttering along off the coast of Spain in a glorified life raft. He had no idea how much fuel the excursion boat contained. More importantly, he had no idea how much fuel he might need to return safely to shore. He’d driven the Swan Song long and hard the previous evening, heading out to sea and away from the Spanish police, who had undoubtedly received an anonymous tip regarding a noisy disturbance coming from the vicinity of slip fourteen on the north pier.
For all those reasons, Malaga was a terrible destination, but it was the closest slice of civilization, and Hayward had no choice but to head there.
There was also the matter of the small object in his pocket, which he had removed from beneath the skin of Maria Ferdinand-Xavier’s lower leg. He had a hunch about the object’s function, and he needed the services of a particular kind of professional. Hayward needed a veterinarian. Malaga was undoubtedly home to half a dozen of them, which meant that Hayward was going to have his work cut out for him when—if—he returned safely to dry land. He needed to navigate the city without drawing the attention of his former employers in the process.
Motion caught Hayward’s eye, making him mindful of another hazard he hadn’t yet considered. Getting caught in the excursion boat belonging to the Swan Song, which was busy billowing black smoke into the air, would prompt a few uncomfortable questions.
His attention snapped to what appeared to be an object on the horizon. The object had sharp edges and rose and fell with the surf. Definitely a boat. Definitely heading toward him.
He torqued the steering handle hard to the right. The small boat lurched to the left in response. He twisted the throttle all the way to the stop, wishing for much more horsepower, and straightened the boat on its new heading.
He watched the other boat carefully. If it remained on its earlier vector, he would see its shape drift right in his field of vision toward the aft of his boat. But that wasn’t what he saw. Instead, the boat remained in a fixed spot in his field of vision. It had adjusted its course.
In fact, it had established a collision course.
“Son of a bitch,” Hayward breathed. The shape grew larger. He couldn’t make out much detail, but he thought he saw a light bar across the top of the boat’s superstructure. Police? Hayward’s gut tightened.
He turned hard to the right, hoping the other boat’s change of course was mere coincidence. But it wasn’t. It adjusted its heading, and Hayward once again saw the shape stabilize in the same spot on the horizon and set a course to intercept him.
There wasn’t much he could do. There was no way he was going to outrun the larger boat, and if it was really a police boat as he suspected, running would be a terrible choice. It would do nothing but invoke their chase instinct.
Hayward released the throttle. The engine slowed, then idled. The bow of the boat settled back to the water and he bobbed along with the surf.
The shape grew larger. Garbled words came at him from a loudspeaker atop the boat. Spanish, but Hayward didn’t make out their meaning.
Red and blue lights flashed. He needed a plan, and fast.
It became obvious to Hayward in very short order that the police boat’s appearance hadn’t been coincidental; it had been dispatched to collect him. That meant either the Agency eyeballs had watched him leave the harbor in the Swan Song, or they had some other method of tracking his whereabouts. Neither eventuality would have surprised him. The Agency’s invasiveness was always impressive. It was their defining attribute, in his experience.
But he still wondered what the hell they were up to. It made no sense for them to set him up for Maria’s murder. If they wanted him out of the picture, they could have simply made good on their promise to blot him when they ambushed him in the Ferdinand-Xaviers’ condo. So what was their play? What were they after? And where would the Spanish police fit into the equation?
There was nowhere to hide, and Hayward sat slumped in the excursion boat as the Guardia Civil patrol pulled alongside. He raised his hands and offered no resistance as the officers hauled him aboard. They forced him onto the deck, spread-eagled, and searched him. Then they shackled his hands and strapped him into a bucket seat in the rear of the cabin.
There wasn’t any interrogation to speak of. Hayward expected some perfunctory attempt to demonstrate the legitimacy of his arrest, but they didn’t bother. It was clear to him that the officers weren’t representing the Spanish state’s interest in law and order as much as they were furthering their own interests. They were moonlighting. Hayward had a strong hunch where the funds had come from to underwrite this particular operation. The initials were C and I and A.
Money greased wheels all over the world, and Hayward’s time in the Agency’s employ taught him that everyone had a price. It also taught him the exquisite art of finding that price.
“These are troubled times, my friends,” Hayward said, employing the formal and slightly stilted language customarily adopted in coastal Spain to open bribery negotiations. “Perhaps, if there is some burden that weighs heavily on your minds, you might offer me the opportunity to be of assistance.”
The lead gendarme, a square, squat man with a large florid honker of a nose and the name Garcia written in bold gold lettering on his name badge, regarded Hayward for a long moment. “These are indeed troubled times, sir,” he said, “but there are no difficulties you may assist us with.”
This was an expected rebuff, a cynical and ritualistic nod toward propriety, and Hayward knew not to take it seriously. “Forgive me, sir, but is there no area in which I might be helpful?”
“Alas, we have already received all the necessary assistance,” Garcia said.
Hayward knew what he meant. The CIA had already paid them a handsome bribe to pluck him from the ocean. Hayward had concluded the Agency hadn’t killed him because they still needed him. That conclusion fit the current situation as well, Hayward decided. He couldn’t very well find the ChemEspaña data if he got himself lost at sea. But he wasn’t about to settle for falling once again under the Agency’s direct oversight.
“Perhaps, sir,” Hayward said, “you might allow me to demonstrate my goodwill.”
Garcia smiled in a way that told Hayward they were now getting down to business. “I am afraid, sir, that it would have to be a persuasive demonstration.”
Persuasive it was. Once the Guardia Civil boat moved close enough to the shore to permit cell phone access, Hayward transferred a hefty retainer to Garcia’s account. Hayward moved the money from a hidden account, one of the dozen or so he’d established for a rainy day. He had set the accounts up without the Agency’s cognizance, he believed, but it was impossible to know for sure.
Garcia used his smartphone to check his bank balance. His square face erupted into a broad smile when he saw the new deposit.
“You are most gracious,” he said. “Malaga is a humble place, and we are simple people, but we are at your service.”
Hayward smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
“A man freshly plucked from the sea must have substantial needs of his own,” Garcia went on. “My fellow officers and I would welcome the opportunity to assist you.”
Who said you couldn’t buy friends? Hayward didn’t waste any time making his request. “Me gustaría ver a un veterinario,” he said.
His request drew puzzled stares from Garcia and his fellow officers. For a moment, he wondered whether his Spanish skills had failed him. Just to be sure, he repeated the phrase in English: “I would like to see a veterinarian.”
Hayward saw more puzzled looks on the officers’ faces, then a brief huddle. They talked among themselves, arriving in short order at a consensus. Garcia delivered the good news.
An hour later, with an additional electronic transaction completed to ensure a completely smooth transition between the Guardia Civil’s sea and land arms, Garcia and his cohorts handed Hayward off to a pair of their land-locked counterparts.
The patrolmen gave him a ride in the backseat of their police car to the nearest veterinarian’s office in Malaga. The two officers posted themselves near the front door, standing guard. They were eager to earn an additional stipend, Hayward surmised.
Hayward approached the receptionist and explained his situation, nodding toward the Guardia Civil officers to underscore the urgency of his request. The receptionist nodded, rose, and disappeared behind a door. Half a minute later, she emerged from the same door with the veterinario in tow. He wore a white smock, smelled of animals, glanced nervously at the officers in his lobby, and asked how he might be of assistance.
Hayward produced the small cylindrical object he had removed hours before from Maria Ferdinand-Xavier’s lower leg. The veterinarian understood instantly. He took the electronic identification tag, turned on his heel, and motioned for Hayward to follow.
The veterinarian led him to what Hayward surmised was an exam room. The air smelled of wet dog but also carried subtle notes of disinfectant and cat piss. The electronic ID tag scanner sat atop a counter against the far wall. The veterinarian waved the scanner over the small tag in his hand, studied the readout, then frowned.
He repeated the process, this time wearing a quizzical expression. “Something’s wrong,” he said in Spanish. “The animal tag should have the pet owner’s name and address, but it doesn’t have any of that information.”
Hayward asked to see the scanner’s display. The veterinarian obliged, and Hayward partially agreed with the man’s assessment: there was no name contained in the digital information stored on the tag.
But it definitely contained an address—nine digits separated into smaller groups by three decimal points. That many decimal points made no sense numerically, but Hayward instantly understood their significance. It was an IP address. Internet protocol. The collection of numbers that uniquely identified a single network-enabled device among billions of them on Planet Earth.
Hayward asked for a pen and paper, then scribbled down the IP address and shoved it into his pocket. “Which way to the back door?” he asked. The veterinarian looked confused, but raised his arm and pointed. “Muchas gracias, señor,” Hayward said, disappearing down the hallway.