PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Francisco Abalos had to admit that Berganza had thought this through. His and Salvador’s detailed accounts of everything that had happened at the hospital and during the attempted kidnapping gave Abalos a clear picture of what needed to be done. Back at the apartment, Berganza had reached out to his backup four-man team and requested their assistance. Abalos had done the same with his brother Thiago, who had recently joined him as an outside consultant. Like Abalos, Thiago had served with the Spanish military and had seen some action in Afghanistan. With Abalos’s trust in Berganza waning, he wanted someone he could rely on to keep an eye on Berganza’s team.
The assignment Abalos had given Berganza was straightforward, not one Abalos felt the need to participate in, especially since Thiago would be there to represent him. Berganza and his team were blunt instruments. Abalos wasn’t. His delicate use of limited but focused violence made him more akin to a scalpel. He was the man General Velásquez called up when he needed to cut out a nasty infection before it spread. In this situation, thanks to Berganza, it seemed like the infection had already begun to grow, so Abalos’s job had switched to cutting off the source of the infection.
Lucas Miller.
Miller was the priority. The main target. But if presented with the opportunity, he’d kill the American physician, too.
Dr. Shepherd.
Abalos had looked her up before leaving Berganza’s apartment. Dr. Shepherd’s husband was the deputy chief of mission at the US embassy. Because of this new development, he thought he’d better check with General Velásquez before making a move on the good doctor. As far as the general was concerned, killing Dr. Shepherd was worth the additional risks.
No one gave Abalos a second glance when he entered the hospital through the doctor’s entrance at the rear of the main building. He’d spent a few minutes online prior to leaving the apartment to familiarize himself with the layout of the hospital. He headed directly to the staircase and went down one level to the residents’ lounge. The lounge was large enough, with space for eight six-person round tables and a kitchenette, but it was empty. Abalos took a white coat off a hanger and put it over his blue polo shirt, then grabbed a chrome stethoscope someone had left on the kitchenette’s countertop. He draped the medical instrument around his neck and climbed four flights of stairs to the third floor. While he hadn’t seen any cameras in the hospital corridors and Salvador hadn’t reported any, either, Abalos had nonetheless taken additional precautions. Although he had perfect vision, he wore a pair of silver-framed glasses on his narrow but straight nose, contact lenses that turned his dark brown eyes to green, and a false goatee. A brown wig pulled snuggly over his short black hair completed his disguise.
Abalos walked confidently past the nurses’ station, which was occupied by a single nurse who was typing away at a report with a phone jammed between her ear and shoulder. One of the housekeeping staff carrying a fresh batch of linen and towels rushed out of a patient’s room and almost collided with him.
She apologized profusely, but he kept walking, not wanting to stop and give her a chance to remember him. He strolled by the elevators, spotting the chair Salvador had mentioned, but the Czech police officer’s shift had probably ended because the chair was empty.
The door to room 309 was open and Abalos walked right in. He closed the door and locked it. The room was empty but for Lucas Miller, who seemed to be sleeping. Abalos took a good look at him. He had a heavy cast on his right leg and his left arm was wrapped in bandages. His face looked as if someone had pummeled it like a punching bag. Abalos picked up the clipboard hanging at the foot of the bed and read the notes the doctors and nurses had written down.
Miller had been intermittently conscious and wasn’t presently sedated with morphine. His next dose wasn’t scheduled for another hour. The nurse had picked up his dinner tray ten minutes ago and had helped the patient with a personal hygiene problem, whatever that meant. Of more importance to Abalos, Dr. Shepherd was scheduled to check on Miller in about fifteen minutes.
Perfect.
Abalos pulled out his Five-seveN and screwed a suppressor on the end of the threaded barrel. He lodged the tip of the suppressor hard into Miller’s neck. When the man didn’t immediately wake up, Abalos pinched his nose with his left hand.
As he woke up and gasped for air, Miller’s eyes opened almost as wide as his mouth. Abalos swiftly moved his hand from Miller’s nose to his mouth. It took Miller’s brain a moment to process what was happening.
“Shhh . . . Shhh . . . Shhh. Calm down, my friend. Calm down. If I remove my hand, will you scream?”
Miller shook his head.
“Okay,” Abalos said, offering Miller a smile. “But since we don’t know each other well, I’m sure you understand it’s a bit difficult for me to trust you, and I’m sure it’s the same for you. Am I right?”
Miller nodded.
“Good. So let me explain what I’d be forced to do if you were to break your sacred word,” Abalos said, then leaned into Miller until his lips almost touched the reporter’s ear. “I’ll kill everyone that comes through that door. Then I’ll shoot you twice in the abdomen.”
Abalos removed his hand from Miller’s mouth and said, “I’m glad we came to an agreement, Lucas.”
“What do you want?”
Abalos raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re a smart man. Surely you know why I’m here.”
“Your . . . Your accent is different from the others’,” Miller said.
“Is it, now? You want to know why? I’m from Spain, Lucas. Spain, not Mexico.”
Abalos could see this confused Miller.
“You work for the Mexican cartels . . . but you’re from Spain?”
“I’m an outside consultant,” Abalos replied. “I could explain it to you, but why bother? We both know you’ll never leave this hospital room, don’t we?”
Miller’s eyes began to water.
“It’s a bit late for you to realize you messed with the wrong crowd, amigo,” Abalos said. “But I’d hate for you to think I’m all stick and no carrot, because that’s not true. So, here’s the good news. Answer all my questions truthfully, and I give you my word you won’t feel a thing.”
Miller was trembling now. Tears ran freely down his cheeks.
“But here’s the stick, Lucas. There has to be one, yes? Lie to me even once, and I’ll take my time with you. That I promise you. I’ll then travel to North Macedonia, and I’ll murder your wife and child. I might even be tempted to pay a visit to your daughter’s first-grade teacher. What’s her name again? Help me out here, Lucas. Her name?”
Miller stuttered, trying to find words. “I . . . I . . .”
“I’m disappointed, Lucas. You’ve been having an affair with her for two years, and you can’t remember her name? Color me surprised.”
“Liljana. Her name’s Liljana.”
“Whatever,” Abalos said. “You got my point.”
“Why? You . . .”
Abalos drove the tip of the suppressor deep into Miller’s mouth. “From now on, amigo, the only time you’ll speak is to answer my questions. Nod if you understand.”
Miller did. Abalos removed the pistol from Miller’s mouth and wiped the barrel against the man’s chest.
“You had visitors earlier today. Who were they?”
Miller cleared his throat. “FBI. They were FBI agents.”
“What did they want?”
“They asked me questions about Raphaël Feldmann.”
“Who’s Feldmann?”
“He’s a Swiss banker who deals with people like you—”
“Careful, Lucas. Don’t give me attitude,” Abalos warned. “Continue.”
Miller’s expression was one of pure hatred. Even his eyes glinted with it. But he still answered Abalos’s question.
“Feldmann is the reason why me and my brother came to Prague.”
“What else did you talk about?”
Miller hesitated, but not for long. “I did mention Proyecto de la Verdad to them.”
“I thought you would have,” Abalos said. “What did you tell them about it?”
“I . . . I . . . I don’t remember—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Lucas,” Abalos hissed, jabbing the suppressor deeper into the soft tissue of Miller’s neck. “Because I’ll be on the next flight to North Macedonia to party with your wife and daughter.”
“I think . . . I might have told them . . . That I kept a paper file at my apartment.”
“In Skopje?”
“Yes.”
“What else, cabrón? What else did you share with them about Proyecto de la Verdad?”
“Nothing! I’m . . . I’m sorry. Please. I really don’t know. I . . . I must have passed out. I don’t think I said anything else.”
As Miller spoke, Abalos studied his face, looking for a micro-expression that would point to a lie. He didn’t see any.
He really doesn’t know.
Behind Abalos, someone tried to open the door. Abalos raised his index finger to his lips and motioned for Miller to remain quiet.
“Don’t say a word, Lucas. Think about your family.”
Whoever was at the door tried to open it again, then knocked.
“Hello? Hello? This is Dr. Shepherd. Open the door. Now.”
Abalos held the Five-seveN behind his back and walked to the door. He unlocked it.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor,” Abalos said, opening the door, a warm smile on his lips. “Please come in. Please. I didn’t know it was locked.”
Dr. Shepherd stepped into the room and looked at Abalos. The American doctor didn’t look convinced of Abalos’s sincerity. Her eyes moved from Abalos’s face to his clothes. She frowned.
“Who are you?” she asked. “And why are you wearing a resident’s lab coat?”
“I’m a friend of Lucas. I was just checking up on him,” he replied, closing the door with his foot.
“Don’t close—”
Abalos brought the FN Five-seveN up and fired one round into Dr. Shepherd’s mouth. The back of her head exploded, with blood and bits of brain tissue splattering the medical cabinets behind her.
In the hospital bed, Lucas Miller was sobbing. Abalos walked over to him.
“Please. I didn’t lie to you. I beg you. You have to believe me,” Miller pleaded.
Abalos shot Miller twice in the heart, and drilled one more round through his right eye.