Chapter X

PRITCHETT ORDERED A SHOT of tequila and sat at El Rio Cantina in Barceloneta just a couple blocks from the beach. The quiet fisherman’s quarter was in the midst of a transition into a more robust commercial area. But some quaint locales remained, establishments that only attracted local patrons. While new restaurants and taverns were being erected closer to the beach for tourists, a few streets away, Barceloneta was still lost in time.

Pritchett picked at his paella, unsure if he wanted to finish it or not. His stomach churned as he listened to the end of the Barcelona Grand Prix on the radio. He was hungry, and Maddux encouraged him to eat something.

“I wish I had never agreed to this,” Pritchett said. “It’s bad enough that I always walk around in fear of someone shooting me in the back of the head. But to invite someone to do it? It’s sheer lunacy.”

“It’ll never come to that,” Maddux said. “We have plenty of agents here who will take down Andersson.”

“You still think he’ll show?”

“If he is who we think he is, he’ll most definitely make an appearance.”

The announcer calling the race became excited, sharing with listeners that Jim Clark had taken the checkered flag. Pritchett listened for several more minutes before the final standings were announced. Andersson finished fourth from last place.

“Just my luck,” Pritchett said. “Andersson stunk it up today. It means he was either thinking about killing me all day, which distracted him from his driving, or he will be ticked that he performed so poorly that he’ll be looking to let off a little steam.”

“Either way, it won’t matter,” Maddux said. “He’s never going to get off a shot.”

“Forget it,” Pritchett said before tossing back the shot of tequila. He screwed up his face, pursed his lips, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he exhaled and blinked hard.

Maddux chuckled and slapped Pritchett on the back. “See, all you needed was some tequila to put you at ease.”

Pritchett went back to eating his paella. “I guess I shouldn’t be so nervous about this. After what I read about what these KGB-trained super assassins can do, I don’t want any part of them.”

Maddux glanced at Pritchett’s hook. “Andersson should be more afraid of you than he knows. I’m sure you know how to use that thing.”

Pritchett held it up and smiled as he studied. “I used to wield this as a weapon back in the day. I prefer to manage things from behind a desk these days. I thought the last action I’d ever see in the field was in New York at the World’s Fair.”

“Life has a funny way of surprising us sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“To say I’m surprised would be an understatement.”

“I don’t care how scared you are,” Maddux said, “the fact that you have enough courage to even suggest you would be willing to do this tells me that you will finish this assignment.”

“As long as I finish it in one piece with Medved in custody.”

“If he comes here, I guarantee you that will happen.”

“Good,” Pritchett said as he shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth. “That’s what I want to hear.” He motioned for the bartender. “Another shot of tequila, por favor.”

Pritchett spun around on his barstool to an empty restaurant. One of the agents at the racetrack a half-hour drive away was monitoring Andersson’s status. The minute he drove off the grounds, Pritchett and the team would be notified.

The plan was simple as far as CIA operations went. With the agency renting out the entire restaurant for a private party, it planned to populate the restaurant with its agents along with assisting Spanish law enforcement. Once Andersson entered the tavern and asked the bartender for Pritchett, one of the lead agents would signal to the others to apprehend Andersson. The whole process figured to be quick and painless, especially if everything happened as planned before any weapons were drawn.

But Pritchett knew nothing ever went as planned, which was why he was still anxious.

When Maddux got up to go check in with the rest of the team assembled, Pritchett was left alone with his thoughts. He considered ordering another shot of tequila but decided against it. If something went awry, he wanted to have the full complement of his wits. He briefly contemplated his future with the agency, wondering if it might be time to call it a career. After all, he had plenty to be proud of and a list of accomplishments that could fill several books. But the idea was fleeting, pushed out by an even more terrifying thought to Pritchett than being used as bait to catch a Russian super assassin: What would I do if I quit the agency? I belong in the world of espionage because that’s who I am—I’m a spy.

Pritchett ceased his self-loathing and determined not to wallow in his fear any longer.

And you’re a damn good spy, too.

A few minutes later, Maddux whistled from the doorway and alerted Pritchett to the fact that Andersson had left the track and was in his car.

“Let me know when you’re certain he’s heading our way,” Pritchett said.

Over the years in joint operations with the FBI, Pritchett had captured more than a dozen KGB spies on U.S. soil. Conceived and led by Pritchett, Operation AE Black Hat was responsible for the arrest of six KGB operatives in an intricate spy ring that had its tentacles reaching into the Pentagon and FBI. He caught another KGB agent offering to pose as a double spy by laying a trap for him comprised of faulty intelligence. When the agent was caught feeding intelligence back to the Kremlin, he had an unfortunate accident one afternoon while trying to make some toast in the bathtub. Two spies he caught were traded back for one embassy worker and a U.S. Senator’s son. Over the years, Pritchett made a name for himself in Soviet intelligence circles.

Yet operating in Europe was still relatively new for him—and not easy, even for an experienced officer as himself. Making the right call while conducting missions on foreign soil often consisted of balancing political relations while keeping the country’s intelligence agency happy. This exponentially increased the level of difficulty for each exercise.

“He’ll be here in five minutes,” Maddux reported from the doorway. “You ready?”

Pritchett didn’t turn around, waving his hook in the air instead. “I was born ready.”

Pritchett slipped his hand into his coat pocket and gripped the blade. It was there just in case things went sideways. If Andersson somehow evaded capture and was intent on killing Pritchett, he at least wanted to be able to defend himself. A gun would’ve been preferred, but with a sharp hook in one hand and a knife in the other, Pritchett could deliver a lethal cut in a matter of seconds. He could recall at least three times where he ripped through the jugular of attackers with his hook, the slash they never saw coming. Even with one hand, Pritchett still considered himself competent in hand-to-hand combat, competent enough that he could survive a fight against an equal opponent. However, he joked that he held elite status within the agency for hand-to-hook fighting.

Nevertheless, Pritchett hoped his interaction with Andersson wouldn’t get that far.

“He just parked outside on the street,” Maddux reported.

“Damn,” Pritchett muttered. “I was hoping he wasn’t Medved.”

“We’ve got your back, sir,” Maddux said. “Just stick with the plan.”

The plate of paella was long gone, replaced in the past few minutes by crema catalana. Pritchett dipped his spoon into the dessert and savored the bite.

“If things go south, at least I had a fantastic final meal.”

“Sir, you’re not going to die today. Not if I can help it,” Maddux said.

“I know,” Pritchett said. “I’m going to be fine.”

He slammed his hook into the table and used his other hand to dab the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

“Now get to your position, Maddux. We’ve got a super assassin to snare.”

Pritchett took another bite of the dessert and waited. If everything went off without a hitch, Andersson would be in the private room in a matter of seconds. And Pritchett didn’t want to waste any of the dessert.

He waited and trusted that his team was prepared to corral Andersson and eliminate any threat he might pose.

Less than a minute later, Pritchett heard an unfamiliar voice.

“Mr. Pritchett?” a man said.

Pritchett turned around slowly, laying eyes on Gunnar Andersson.

“Yes?”

“Do you recognize me?” Andersson asked.

Pritchett pursed his lips. “You look familiar. Should I know you?”

“Never mind that. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Before Andersson could utter another word, CIA agents along with Spanish law enforcement officers descended upon him, forcing him to the ground. Maddux asked one of the Spanish cops if he wanted to do the honors, and he readily obliged.

Andersson squirmed on the floor, a futile effort to regain his freedom. Even if he had managed to slip out of the handcuffs slapped on him, he would’ve struggled to leave the room given the amount of force and gun power surrounding him.

“Here’s his MP,” one of the agents said, holding up a Makarov pistol after fishing it from his pocket.

“Standard issue from the KGB,” a Spanish officer chimed in.

Pritchett loomed over the Grand Prix driver. “My, my. Aren’t we full of surprises.”

“You are going to be full of regret before this is all over with,” Andersson said.

“Perhaps,” Pritchett said as he shrugged, “but it won’t be on your account. Eliminating KGB vermin like you is what we do.”

Standing toe-to-toe with Medved, Pritchett used his hook to stroke Andersson’s face. “You’re going to wish you’d stuck to simply driving cars.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Andersson said. “Whoever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m not KGB.”

Pritchett nodded at the agents holding Andersson, signaling for them to carry away their prisoner.

Maddux approached Pritchett after Andersson had been secured in a car in the back alleyway.

“Do you believe him? You think there’s a chance he isn’t KGB?” Maddux asked.

Pritchett shook his head. “This is how the KGB trains their agents. Incessant denial until you start to question yourself and your training. Don’t be so easily fooled.”

“But what if he isn’t? That would mean—”

“What? That the true Medved is still out there? Him and a handful of these other so-called super assassins still circling us like sharks? It’s possible—or it’s possible that this entire exercise was something the KGB did to see how gullible our agents would be. Either way, I have little doubt that Andersson is associated with some type of KGB operation. He even had a Makarov.”

“I still think we need to proceed with caution. Nothing has changed the fact that we have a leak in our agency somewhere.”

“And I still fully intend to plug it,” Pritchett said. “I’ll connect with you later, but we need to get moving. I have a spy to interrogate.”