Oath of Office

The Russians were pros and had decided on a modest hotel, the size and quaintness of which made tight surveillance difficult. Da Rocha, on the other hand, was in this for no motherland. When it came to priorities, God and country came in far behind the lifestyle of playboy international arms dealer, and the more flamboyant the better. Gold jewelry, fast cars, and five-star hotels. He’d booked a deluxe room at the Alfonso XIII, less than ten minutes south on the far side of the Alcázar palace and gardens.

“We’re on-site,” Midas said over the net. “How we looking back there, bud?”

“Clean so far,” Ryan said. He worked his way around a crowd of elderly couples getting directions from a carriage driver who’d stopped in the middle of Avenida de la Constitución, the horse standing hipshot and head down. This gave Ryan a chance to slow his pace and cross the street as if to make a turn, watching to see if anyone followed him, all while keeping an eye on Midas. At one point, Midas slowed, giving Jack time to step into a small shop to check his six o’clock while he bought a pack of gum. He could not count the number of pocketable snacks he’d purchased over the years to give him an excuse to slow down and watch while on surveillance-detection runs.

“Good deal,” Midas said. “I’ll hang out in the lobby for a minute and see if anyone comes in behind me. A guy just stepped out of the security office. Looks like DVRs instead of flesh-and-blood watchers. Maybe we caught a break on that front.”

“Maybe,” Jack said, doubtful even as he spoke. Breaks were for bones. It was a rare mission that actually went better than planned. “Walking through the front door now.”

Ryan strolled past Midas as if he were a guest, trotting up the marble steps and through the tiled archways leading to the Moorish upper lobby. It was redolent with tobacco and floor wax, and the muted lighting made it reminiscent of an old-world palace. Ryan pushed the call button on the rich mahogany paneling and took the time to look around. This place was like the White House, only bigger, and absent the somber air. The doors opened to an empty car, and Ryan stepped inside, glad to have the elevator to himself for the trip to da Rocha’s suite on the third floor. Spaniards ate dinner late, so most of the guests would still be out exploring the warm Seville nights or trying pacharán, the liqueur made from sloe berries and coffee favored in Spain as a digestif. Jack grimaced at the thought. His mom appreciated sloe gin in the winter, but he hadn’t inherited her taste for the stuff.

“Clear,” Jack said when he stepped off the elevator and into an empty hallway. The polished wood, arched ceilings, and gleaming tile floors reminded him of the old government buildings in D.C. — built before chintzy cubicles and cheap GSA carpet squares. “Our guy’s room is to the right and then on the right, five down.”

“Copy,” Midas said. “Boarding the car alone now. Be with you—”

“Company!” Jack cut him off, forcing a smile as he pretended to speak into the cell-phone buds that hung from his ear. Two men exited da Rocha’s suite, easing the door shut behind them. Jack had obviously caught them between an earlier quick peek into the hallway and their exit. Both men gave a startled jump when they saw him walking toward them. He gave them a nonchalant nod, looking past as if on the way to his own room. He even stumbled a bit, giving them the impression that he’d had too much good Spanish wine. Both men scanned up and down the hall, assessing the situation, and then began to walk toward Jack. Less than fifty feet away, Ryan raised his hand as if to cough, chancing a whisper into the mic on his neck loop. “Two bad guys. ’Bout to get real.”

“Twenty seconds,” Midas said.

“Gaspard’s men,” Ryan whispered quickly, and then cleared his throat before lowering his hand. He gave the oncoming men another friendly nod. Ignoring them would have been conspicuous, and the nod allowed him to make eye contact to see if either of them recognized him. One of them carried a laptop, the other was a broad, flat-nosed man who he recognized from Gaspard’s gray Mercedes in Portugal. It was a fair bet that this guy was in charge. No matter if it was a mob limo or the U.S. Secret Service, the big boss sat in the back. The driver was a specialist, good at his or her job but not particularly high up in the organization. Security leaders generally reserved shotgun for themselves. Flat Nose gave a sideways glance to his friend, a subtle shift of his eyes that said that hotel guest or not, Jack was a witness, which made him a threat.

Jack felt the surge of adrenaline he always felt when a fight was imminent. Metal detectors at various venues around Seville meant a couple of the team had to travel light — no weapons — or risk losing sight of their Russian rabbits if they ducked inside, an effective way to scrape away an armed tail. Tonight, Jack and Midas drew that duty.