Chapter 17
David Becker stepped out onto the scorching tile concourse
of Plaza de España. Before him, El Ayunta miento–the ancient city council building–rose from the trees on a three-acre bed of blue and white azulejo tiles. Its Arabic spires and carved facade gave the impression it had been intended more as a palace than a public office.
Despite its history
of military coups, fires, and public
hangings, most tourists visited because the local brochures plugged it as the English
military headquarters in the film Lawrence of Arabia . It had been far cheaper for Columbia Pictures
to film in Spain than in Egypt, and the Moorish influence
on Seville’s architecture was enough to convince moviegoers
they were looking at Cairo.
Becker
reset his Seiko for local time: 9:10 p.m.–still afternoon by local standards; a proper Spaniard never ate dinner before sunset, and the lazy Andalusian sun seldom surrendered the skies before ten.
Even in the early-evening heat, Becker found himself walking
across the park at a brisk clip. Strathmore’s tone had sounded a lot more urgent this time than it had that morning.
His new orders left no room for misinterpretation: Find the Canadian,
get the ring. Do whatever
is necessary, just get
that ring.
Becker wondered
what could possibly be so important
about a ring with lettering all over it.
Strathmore hadn’t
offered, and Becker hadn’t asked. NSA, he thought. Never Say Anything.
* * *
On the other side of Avenida Isabela Católica, the clinic
was clearly visible–the universal symbol of a red cross in a white circle
painted on the roof. The Guardia
officer had dropped the Canadian
off hours ago. Broken wrist, bumped head–no doubt the patient
had been treated
and discharged by now. Becker just hoped the clinic had discharge information–a local hotel or phone number where the man could be reached. With a little
luck, Becker figured he could find the Canadian, get
the ring, and be on his way home without
any more complications.
Strathmore had told Becker,
“Use the ten thousand cash to buy the ring if you have to. I’ll reimburse
you.”
“That’s
not necessary,” Becker
had replied. He’d intended
to return the money
anyway. He hadn’t gone to Spain for money, he’d gone for Susan. Commander
Trevor Strathmore was Susan’s mentor
and guardian. Susan owed him a lot; a one-day errand
was the least Becker could do.
Unfortunately, things this morning
hadn’t gone quite as Becker had planned. He’d hoped
to call Susan from the plane and explain everything. He considered having the pilot radio Strathmore so he could pass along a message
but was hesitant to involve
the deputy director in his romantic problems.
Three times Becker had tried to call Susan himself–first from a defunct cellular
on board the jet, next from a pay phone at the airport,
then again from the morgue.
Susan was not in. David wondered where she could be. He’d gotten her answering machine but had not left a message;
what he wanted to say was not a message for an answering
machine.
As he approached the road, he spotted
a phone booth near the park entrance. He jogged over, snatched
up the receiver, and used his phone card to place the call. There was a long pause as the number connected. Finally it began to ring.
Come on. Be
there.
After five rings the call connected.
“Hi. This
is Susan Fletcher. Sorry I’m not in right now, but if you leave your
name…”
Becker listened
to the message. Where is she? By now Susan would be panicked. He wondered
if maybe she’d gone to Stone Manor without him. There was a beep.
“Hi. It’s David.”
He paused, unsure what to say. One of the things he hated about answering
machines was that if you stopped to think, they cut you off. “Sorry I didn’t call,” he blurted just in time. He wondered
if he should tell her what was going on. He thought better of it. “Call Commander Strathmore. He’ll explain everything.” Becker’s heart was pounding. This is absurd, he thought. “I love you,” he
added quickly and
hung up.
Becker waited
for some traffic
to pass on Avenida Borbolla. He thought about how Susan undoubtedly would
have assumed the worst; it
was unlike him not to call when
he’d promised to.
Becker stepped out onto the four-lane
boulevard. “In and out,” he whispered to himself.
“In and out.” He was too preoccupied to see the man in wire-rim glasses watching from across the street.
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