room to a fireplace that bore a gas grate. Tissot knelt and gently laid the file in the fireplace. He used a cedar match to ignite the file, then turned on the gas with a key at the side of the hearth. With an abrupt whoosh, the entire file erupted in flames.
A careful, precise man, Tissot stood before the fireplace and watched the file disintegrate into a harmless gray powder.
He turned and walked back to his desk.
“So now it’s the Americans,” said the colonel with exasperation. “Now they plan to send someone?”
Stanislaw nodded and pondered the point. “The result will be the same.”
“I know,” Tissot said. “Fools,” he muttered.
But while his lips passed a single word, volumes passed in his mind. He was midway through his eighth decade of life. He had been brought up in a world that had possessed its standards of good and evil, right and wrong. The colonel had tenaciously held those standards and still lived by them. Yet the world was a different place now. He dimly recognized a new world social order, and he did not like it. So he battled against it.
Colonel Tissot withdrew a thin file from his antique desk. He handed it to Stanislaw. The file was in English. Stanislaw scanned it.
“The American they will probably send is very young and highly inexperienced,” Colonel Tissot said, reverting to English. “That is what my contacts in Spain have advised me. Foolish, foolish. But the Americans are invariably foolish.”
Stanislaw raised an eyebrow. He reached to the back page of the file with his scarred left hand. He withdrew a photograph of the subject. For a moment, Tissot’s gaze settled on the scar, and he remembered its origin. A decade earlier, in a drunken rage over a woman, Stanislaw had attempted to kill a man with his bare hands. In trying to defend himself, the other man had shoved a knife through Stanislaw’s right palm. Stanislaw had pulled it out by himself and used it to slit the victim’s throat.
Afterward, he had bandaged the hand with a bar towel, sutured the wound by himself, and refused any subsequent medical attention.
Stanislaw glanced at a series of surveillance photographs.
“The pictures are less than ten days old,” Tissot said. “Good to know who the enemy is, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is.” He glanced at the pictures for a few final seconds.
Then he placed the photos back in the rear of the file and closed it. He leaned back in his chair.
“You’ll take care of this?” Tissot asked.
Stanislaw gazed off for a moment. “Americans are naïve and undisciplined. The men when they travel sneak off to brothels. The women have sexual liaisons with strangers that they would dare not have back in America.” The Pole’s eyes twinkled. “The agent will be found dead of a gunshot with evidence suggesting that sort of immoral behavior.”
Tissot raised an eyebrow in approval and nodded.
“You will have the first opportunity. Act upon it immediately, if you please. A backup team in Spain has already been engaged, but I would prefer not to use them.”
Stanislaw nodded. “I expect no difficulties,” he said.
Colonel Tissot leaned back in his own chair. He rubbed his tired eyes.
“Nor do I,” he said. “Take the file with you. Burn it after you’ve memorized it. And do not make any mistakes. There is no room for mistakes.”
ELEVEN
MADRID, SPAIN, SEPTEMBER 7, 8:38 A.M.
T he United States Embassy in Madrid stands at the north end of Calle Serrano. It is a slab building in the style of the United Nations Secretariat, though at nine stories, considerably smaller. A metal fence runs around the compound.
At exactly 8:45 on her first morning in Madrid, Alex arrived at the public entrance to the embassy. Wearing a summer-weight navy suit and carrying her new laptop, she proceeded to the consular section. She identified herself to the Marine Security Guard at the window, who checked her official passport against information provided by Washington. He
A careful, precise man, Tissot stood before the fireplace and watched the file disintegrate into a harmless gray powder.
He turned and walked back to his desk.
“So now it’s the Americans,” said the colonel with exasperation. “Now they plan to send someone?”
Stanislaw nodded and pondered the point. “The result will be the same.”
“I know,” Tissot said. “Fools,” he muttered.
But while his lips passed a single word, volumes passed in his mind. He was midway through his eighth decade of life. He had been brought up in a world that had possessed its standards of good and evil, right and wrong. The colonel had tenaciously held those standards and still lived by them. Yet the world was a different place now. He dimly recognized a new world social order, and he did not like it. So he battled against it.
Colonel Tissot withdrew a thin file from his antique desk. He handed it to Stanislaw. The file was in English. Stanislaw scanned it.
“The American they will probably send is very young and highly inexperienced,” Colonel Tissot said, reverting to English. “That is what my contacts in Spain have advised me. Foolish, foolish. But the Americans are invariably foolish.”
Stanislaw raised an eyebrow. He reached to the back page of the file with his scarred left hand. He withdrew a photograph of the subject. For a moment, Tissot’s gaze settled on the scar, and he remembered its origin. A decade earlier, in a drunken rage over a woman, Stanislaw had attempted to kill a man with his bare hands. In trying to defend himself, the other man had shoved a knife through Stanislaw’s right palm. Stanislaw had pulled it out by himself and used it to slit the victim’s throat.
Afterward, he had bandaged the hand with a bar towel, sutured the wound by himself, and refused any subsequent medical attention.
Stanislaw glanced at a series of surveillance photographs.
“The pictures are less than ten days old,” Tissot said. “Good to know who the enemy is, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is.” He glanced at the pictures for a few final seconds.
Then he placed the photos back in the rear of the file and closed it. He leaned back in his chair.
“You’ll take care of this?” Tissot asked.
Stanislaw gazed off for a moment. “Americans are naïve and undisciplined. The men when they travel sneak off to brothels. The women have sexual liaisons with strangers that they would dare not have back in America.” The Pole’s eyes twinkled. “The agent will be found dead of a gunshot with evidence suggesting that sort of immoral behavior.”
Tissot raised an eyebrow in approval and nodded.
“You will have the first opportunity. Act upon it immediately, if you please. A backup team in Spain has already been engaged, but I would prefer not to use them.”
Stanislaw nodded. “I expect no difficulties,” he said.
Colonel Tissot leaned back in his own chair. He rubbed his tired eyes.
“Nor do I,” he said. “Take the file with you. Burn it after you’ve memorized it. And do not make any mistakes. There is no room for mistakes.”
ELEVEN
MADRID, SPAIN, SEPTEMBER 7, 8:38 A.M.
T he United States Embassy in Madrid stands at the north end of Calle Serrano. It is a slab building in the style of the United Nations Secretariat, though at nine stories, considerably smaller. A metal fence runs around the compound.
At exactly 8:45 on her first morning in Madrid, Alex arrived at the public entrance to the embassy. Wearing a summer-weight navy suit and carrying her new laptop, she proceeded to the consular section. She identified herself to the Marine Security Guard at the window, who checked her official passport against information provided by Washington. He
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