Chapter IX

Barcelona, Spain

FOR THE TWO WEEKS FOLLOWING the Monaco Grand Prix, a lull occurred in the number of CIA agents who suddenly went missing. Pritchett, while concerned about serving as bait for Medved, found relief in the fact that the KGB had halted its aggressive nature. He considered that may have boded well for him if the plan failed and he was indeed captured by the KGB.

Maybe they’ll let me live. As long as I’m alive, there’s still a chance that I could escape from prison.

If he was being truly honest with himself, Pritchett realized that a CIA station chief—one serving in Bonn, Germany, no less—would be tortured to learn everything possible before unceremoniously killing him. Pritchett wasn’t certain what part of his fate he feared more: the sudden end or enduring the torture. He decided that the best way to ensure his safety was to make sure the plan worked.

Pritchett walked along Las Ramblas, stopping to purchase a collector’s edition of The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha from a street vendor. While still admiring Don Quixote for his lofty aspirations, Pritchett still viewed the character as a fool. Yet in some ways, Pritchett felt an affinity with Quixote. Deep down, they both wanted the same thing: a better world. However, where the two diverged centered around methodology. Quixote wanted to ride into every situation armed, a provocation that would more often than not hurt his ultimate desire to help mankind. Pritchett discovered that a covert approach resulted in not only a far better success rate but also proved to result in better relations between the nations.

But Quixote never put himself in a scenario that Pritchett was preparing to walk into, the type where capture was a possibility.

Pritchett strengthened his mind and concluded that even if he did die, his death would be for the greater good. His death would have purpose. His death would have meaning. But he would still be dead.

Instead of dwelling on the potential outcomes, Pritchett decided to enjoy meandering along Las Ramblas. Every few meters, vendors vied for his attention, often begging him to purchase one of their products. The trinkets amounted to little more than a flimsy item that would be broken just hours after purchasing it. Pritchett was only interested in one thing: capturing Andersson and getting some straight answers for once.

* * *

MADDUX ARRIVED IN BARCELONA two days before the scheduled operation to catch Andersson. The trap laid in Monte Carlo was hopefully convincing enough that he would walk into it without questioning its validity. The CIA station in Budapest had narrowly missed catching one of the new Russian super assassins, but it did manage to gather enough intelligence on how these agents were being handled as well as the protocol for receiving operations. Rose’s appearance in Andersson’s tent at the Monaco Grand Prix may have been unconventional, but the information she handed to him was in line with the intelligence gathered on how missions were assigned. And if Andersson was Medved, he wouldn’t hesitate to follow the instructions Rose delivered.

With little to do other than meet with Spanish law enforcement to ensure that everyone involved was on the same page as well as meet with a few potential drivers for a future Opel television commercial, Maddux had some free time. And he wasn’t going to waste it in any of the tourist spots. He was going to go check out the address he’d found in connection with his father.

The Vallvidrera residential area of Zona Alta located northwest of downtown Barcelona struck Maddux as a likely place for a spy to live. Far away from the bustling city, any suspicious activity from enemy agents would be easy to identify.

Maddux glanced at the note in his hand to make sure he was at the right address. Spacious and guarded lots were common traits among most of the homes in Vallvidrera. Leafy vines wrapped around portions of the wall surrounding the property. A cast-iron gate provided the only glimpse at what was on the other side.

Terracotta tiles adorned the roof of the three-story beige stucco home. The terrace encircled the structure, which was flanked on both sides by a pair of garitas. Maddux studied the grounds for a few minutes, deciding the best way to approach the house. He feared buzzing the owner from the street might not result in any answers. By the time he decided to scale the wall, a delivery truck pulled up and a driver with a package pushed a button to alert the resident. Moments later, the gate swung open slowly and the driver walked the rest of the way to the front door.

Maddux seized the opportunity to gain easy access, slipping in before the gate closed. He followed the delivery man, hoping to get an audience with the resident. There were no givens that the owner would be the same as when his father had some interaction here. But Maddux was determined to track down every lead and see where it took him.

A bald man with a goatee answered the door. Maddux guessed the man was in his early 60s. His gravely voice boomed as he thanked the delivery man and looked up at Maddux.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t accept any solicitation,” the old man said in Spanish. “That’s why we have a gate.”

Maddux stepped aside to allow the delivery man to pass along the cobblestone path but remained pat.

“I’m not here to sell you anything, sir,” Maddux said in English. “But I do have a few questions for you.”

Maddux cautiously approached the man, walking up the steps to the front porch. Maddux reached inside his coat pocket and produced a picture of his father.

“Do you know this man?” Maddux asked.

The man took the photo and studied it for a second then shook his head. “He doesn’t look familiar,” the man answered in English.

“How long have you lived here?”

“I can’t remember the year, but it hasn’t been too long, maybe seven or eight years.”

That timeframe perplexed Maddux. Unsure of when his father was in Barcelona made it difficult to determine if this owner could’ve known Maddux’s father or not. Based on the man’s emphatic denial, Maddux was inclined to take it as the truth. But the location and house screamed spy to Maddux. That along with the fact that the man transitioned to perfect English without even a hint of an accent gave Maddux even more reason to resist making any snap judgments.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Maddux said, “but thank you for your time.”

The man nodded politely. “Buenos dias,” he said before shutting and locking the door.

Maddux strolled toward the gate but studied the surroundings with keen interest. The man would’ve been about Maddux’s father age.

By the time Maddux reached the gate, the driver was still sitting along the curb in his truck.

“Can you tell me who lives here?” Maddux asked.

The driver shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said in a Spanish-accented English. “The packages I deliver here are addressed to a different person each time.”

“How long have you been delivering here?”

“Once a week for the past ten years.”

“And has that man always lived here?”

“As long as I can remember, he always answers the door.”

“No wife or kids?”

“I cannot say for sure,” the driver said. “But I meet his wife once. I have not seen her in a long time, maybe five years. I’m not sure what happened to her, but she’s gone. Maybe the old man kill her, but no one knows for sure.”

“Is there every any mail addressed to her?”

“Not since I stopped seeing her. It’s like she disappeared from the planet without a trace.”

“Have you noticed anything else unusual about this house?” Maddux asked.

The man glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to get going. I have a lot of deliveries to make.”

Maddux dug into his pocket and handed the man 500 pesetas. “Just one more question.”

The man pocketed the money and exhaled slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything fishy happening here?”

“Fishy?” the driver asked.

“You know, strange or unusual?”

“That is a constant. I can’t tell you the number of people I have seen coming and going at that place. Today was one of those rare days where I actually had to ring the doorbell to be buzzed in.”

“I appreciate your help,” Maddux said, tapping the side of the man’s truck door, signaling that their conversation was over.

Maddux continued along the sidewalk. He looked over his shoulder at the house, which seemed quiet from the road. Without any context with the address, he didn’t know the significance of the address—or the people inside, for that matter. But his instinct told him the old man was lying.

* * *

THE OLD MAN picked up his phone and dialed a number. He always suspected he might get a visit from John Hambrick’s son.

“Yeah,” the man on the other end of the line said.

“I got a visit today from the kid,” the old man said.

“Hambrick’s kid?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Depends on what you told him.”

“I didn’t tell him anything. He showed me a picture of Hambrick, and I told the kid that I’d never seen him before.”

“This’s a dangling thread.”

“I know. Still want me to leave him alone?”

“For now. I doubt he knows anything. He’s just grasping at straws at this point.”

“But what if he starts to put it all together?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there—or if he gets there. He has many miles to travel before he starts to piece everything together.”

“I could make it look like an accident.”

“And raise his old man’s ire? No thanks. Let’s just leave it as is and deal with the kid if he starts to become a problem.”

The old man hung up and ventured up to the veranda. He could still see the man walking down the sidewalk. He stopped and glanced back at the house, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched.