Oath of Office

Lisanne took the moment of relative calm to change out of the tight climbing shoes and into a pair of Brooks runners from her daypack. They rode on in silence while they worked through the quiet neighborhood of vacation rental villas and down the hill toward town, leaving the radio net to the others. Ryan figured he had a good fifteen minutes before the two or three Guarda units stationed in Carvoeiro broke loose from the scene and came back into town to look for a dark Audi. Human nature would make them want to stare at the mangled body, at least for a short time.

Ryan made a slow right on Rua do Cerro. Trees lined the quiet street, lush and green with new spring foliage. Low limestone walls, thick hedges, and dazzlingly white villas made him wish he were here on vacation instead of on an op.

“This is incredible,” Lisanne said, her voice hushed as if she were in church.

Ryan stopped at the bottom of the hill, at the intersection with the larger Estrada do Farol. Midas and Ding were to the east, waiting to pick them up so they could abandon the Audi, which had been rented under a false ID.

“What do you think?” He looked at Lisanne. “Keep looking or turn left?”

Chavez answered, “Get your ass over here.”

“Copy that,” Ryan said, making the turn. He hadn’t gone a half-block before Lisanne gave an excited bounce in her seat, humming with sudden emotion.

“On the left,” she said. “Red Ducati.”

Ryan slowed, peering up a cobblestone drive alongside a white three-story building with a bar and restaurant on the ground level and two floors of apartments above. The fuel tank and front tire of a red Ducati Monster peeked out from behind a rock wall in back.

“We might have her,” Ryan said, giving their location over the net. “She could be in one of the upper apartments.”

“Or the next building,” Chavez said. “Or across the street, or just maybe she’s abandoned her bike and is at this very moment hauling ass to Lisbon.”

“Your call, boss,” Ryan said. “But we’re sitting right here. I think I should try and get a plate number off the bike. I’ll drop Lisanne off here so she can watch the front, then I’ll drive up, take a look, and be down the hill in a flash. I’ll pick up Lisanne and we’ll be outa here in two minutes, maybe less.”

“Two minutes,” Chavez said. “We’ll head your way.”

* * *

Dominic Caruso asked the waitress for a touch more Foral de Portimão, an inexpensive local red that she’d recommended. Adara reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze, prompting him to follow her gaze over his shoulder.

“Our friends on overwatch are starting to get antsy,” she said, once the waitress had poured the wine and left.

Clark came over the radio. “I see that.”

Adara smiled at Dom, chatting away about the weather, the beach, anything but a surveillance on a couple of Russian spooks. She gave a play-by-play so he didn’t have to turn around. “One of them just clouded up like he saw something he didn’t like… He’s standing now. I think he’s about to head across the street… Nope. Scratch that. Now he’s sitting back down.”

“Must be in commo with his Ruski friends,” Dom said. He scanned the balcony for anything out of the ordinary. “I think I see what’s going on.”

“Care to enlighten us?” Clark said.

“There’s a new player,” Dom said. “Tall, jeans, tan sport coat with the sleeves pushed up like he’s auditioning for a remake of Miami Vice. Dark hair cut over his ears. Big honking watch I can see from here. He was just standing in the doorway watching a minute ago. I thought he was looking for someone. He’s making his way toward the Russians’ table now. There’s no one else seated at that end of the balcony. That must be what spooked our friends here.”

“One of Gaspard’s men?” Clark offered.

“Could be,” Dom said. “He’s sitting at the table with the Russians. Hard to tell from this distance, but they don’t look very happy to see him.”

* * *

Urbano da Rocha made his move the moment he received the call from Lucile. He’d had no doubt of her abilities, but things happened, and he did not care to be caught in a meat grinder between Hugo Gaspard and the two Russians who were about to become his friends.

“Hallo,” he said, giving the two men the closest thing to a benign smile a man like him could muster. “Would you mind terribly if we speak English? I can manage in Russian, but in this sort of back-and-forth, mistakes could be made, leading to unfortunate events.”

Neither Russian smiled. They did not appear to be startled as much as dyspeptic, bothered as they might be bothered by a fly that had just flown onto their pudding from a manure pile.

“Who are you?” the elder Russian said, curling a long upper lip.

“My name is da Rocha.”

“I do not know you,” the Russian said.

“What you mean to say,” da Rocha said, still smiling, “is that you do not know me yet.”