Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (10 page)

Drake shrugged. “You’re a part of the team. Like all of us. Doesn’t matter when you step up so long as you do when the time comes.”

“I guess.”

“So Webb’s gonna be at the Nou Camp, meeting a contact,” Drake went on. “Maybe we can use you there.”

Lauren arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Drake laughed. “I’m not hinting. Just saying ‘you never know’.”

Lauren joined him in laughter as they walked down more endless corridors, bypassing the normal route taken by millions of tourists and locals.

“Don’t matter what happens here,” Smyth put in. “Webb has some way of staying ahead. Bastard always knows where to go next and then vanishes on us. Here, now, is where we put him down for good.”

“That’s the idea,” Drake said a bit caustically. Smyth seemed to have that effect.

Hayden turned her head to talk as she walked. “If the cult hangs out in Dubai, guys, somebody’s going to have to pay them a visit.”

“Shit,” Drake said. “Don’t send the Swede. He has a bad track record with tourist destinations.”

“Piss off, Yorkie.”

“I was thinking a strong team,” Hayden said. “In case we get chance to take them out.”

Drake agreed. “Great idea. Gonna be hard to get it past the local cops though.”

“We do not exactly need the help,” Mai said almost inaudibly.

“Ooh,” Alicia yelped. “Clandestine mission. We haven’t done one of those in . . . umm, ages.”

“Speak for yourself, bitch.” Kenzie grinned.

Drake turned on her. “You had better not have been getting up to anything during your downtime in DC, Kenzie.”

“Depends what you mean
exactly,
lover.” The Israeli smirked.

Drake let it go, conscious that Kenzie loved to see the hackles raised and wedges driven between friends. She was a bad fit for the team, but Dahl saw something in her and, despite his misgivings, Drake trusted the Swede’s judgment. He nodded at Hayden.

“We’ll sort Webb first,” he said. “Then Dubai.”

“Agreed.”

“We’re here to liaise with the cops now though, right?” Kinimaka asked.

Hayden appeared to catch a sigh. “Yes, Mano.”

Barcelona flashed past as they were escorted from the airport to a local station, all courtesy of Argento’s planning, the most impressive sight being the incredible Sagrada Familia,
the Roman Catholic church which began construction in 1882 and remains unfinished to this very day. Drake remembered once being told about this place with a couple of friends over coffee, but the place itself defied all description.

Dahl put everyone’s thoughts into one succinct sentence. “Half-true stories and deep secrets for a future generation.”

Ahead, the traffic forced them to a crawl and then they were leaving the flow, parking up and being shown where to go. Drake kept an eye out, as did they all, conscious that Webb had retained at least one influential thread of his organization, one that very much included expert surveillance.

Inside, they took up positions and watched over operations. The cops did their jobs well; this was fast becoming the command post for their surveillance operation and the place to watch as hundreds of monitors started coming to life. A tall, white-haired man with jutting teeth orchestrated it all like a conductor, positioning cameras and swiveling mounts, parking up mobile cams and jumping onto local feeds. As much coverage as was possible, and then more.

Hours passed and lunch arrived. Weariness from inaction stole over the team. Streets, roads, alleyways, gates and parking areas were scrutinized with blanket coverage. Bus disembarkation points were subject to a flurry of high-powered lenses. Drake and the others started to turn content gazes upon one another. They would get their man.

Then the crowds started arriving, bodies packed so tightly together they had to walk in rhythm, vehicles gridlocked and buses dropping passengers off in any free space they could find. As the gate time approached, the task for the authorities became harder and harder. Local colors helped blend body with body; and caps, face-paint, even balaclavas and hoodies added to the problem. The facial recognition software ticked away, identifying known criminals, hooligans, gang members and other unsavory types, but nothing stood out in relation to Tyler Webb or terrorist groups.

Drake watched the men work; they knew their jobs well and constantly pointed out familiar faces or zoomed in on new ones. Pickpockets were identified, photographed for file and radioed down to the foot patrols. Troublemakers were blown up on cameras so powerful Drake could count the chin stubble. A hunted thief was spotted, and a man recently escaped from prison. Members of supposedly friendly intelligence agencies, including the CIA. Hayden flushed with embarrassment at that one, but ultimately spread her hands. They had rooted out the worst of the bad seeds there, but some agencies would never tell all.

“We watch them all,” the buck-toothed man said. “We have to. But the resources are stretched every time.”

“I get it,” Drake said. “For every ten ‘friendly’ agents you spend time on, one terrorist could just slip by.”

“Yes, sir.”

“An hour until kick off.” Hayden pointed at the clock. “We should go to our positions.”

“Check comms,” the surveillance team-leader said.

They did.

“Be ready and familiarize yourselves with our grid system. You should know every point, so that when we call out a position you can converge immediately, as one unit.”

“Your men too,” Smyth rasped.

“They will do as they are trained to do,” the leader said a little cryptically.

Hayden signaled and the team moved out, their position only a few minutes’ walk from the famous Camp Nou stadium. For Drake—a one-time soccer fan and now an idle follower—the sight was a little underwhelming at first. The same as many modern, similar stadiums, the curving painted concrete walls and advertising spoke only of the moneymen, the surrounding streets merely the same. A hubbub of noise, laughter and shouting filled the streets, a riot of color bounded before his gaze. Men, women and children sauntered, queued and darted without apparent purpose. Crowds huddled to discuss team sheets and recent performances, upcoming player transfers and new arrivals. Rival fans called out in friendly fashion, at least for now.

Drake threaded through the pack with his team around him, heading for an obscure side door built into the concrete wall. A keypad was spotted and a six-digit PIN entered, and then they were inside the huge arena, treading hallowed halls where no fan or soccer player ever walked. Nevertheless a deep rolling thunder of sound could already be heard, spreading through the very foundations of the stadium and echoing through every wall. The chants of the faithful, the songs of all the dedicated believers. Drake imagined the players gathering now and wondered if they could hear it in their changing rooms—something incredibly uplifting for the home team and entirely intimidating for the visitors.

“How many does this place hold?” he asked.

“Over ninety nine thousand,” Dahl said immediately. “Largest in Europe.”

Drake slowed as they approached a door that led out into the stadium itself. They all took a breath, ready for the onslaught of noise and light, the eruption of passion.

“We ready?” Hayden asked.

“Occasion doesn’t choose dates,” Mai said. “This is an occasion, and we have to make it happen.”

Drake smiled across at her. “We always do, love. Always do.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The enormity of their task was immediately clear. Drake hadn’t been to a soccer match in many years and some of the others had never encountered a stadium like this in their lives. It wasn’t only the vast scope of the seating, the infinite curve of the walls, the bobbing, matching colors—it was also the sheer swell of noise that assaulted the senses like a battlement full of Gatling guns. Hayden hesitated under vocal fire and Drake took her by the arm.

“Focus,” he said. “We’re only here for show. The real work’s being done by the surveillance units.”

Endless rows of seating bowed away in two directions, some rows blue and some purple. The walkways in between tiers were what Drake was looking for and he pointed them out to the team.

“Our way of getting around,” he said. “But it’s gonna be hard reaching Webb without being seen.”

They walked the narrow path between levels, scanning faces in the crowd as far back as they could. One thing soon became clear.

“We have to split up,” Dahl said. “We’re no good all stuck together like this.”

The team went in separate directions, climbing the stands and switching back, staying in contact through their comms. Drake watched the swell of the crowd, ignored the chanting and the antics from the stands and tried to focus on faces. Kick-off time was approaching and a sense of rising excitement amplified the already churning atmosphere. The field down and to his right lay bright green and seemingly flawless, soon to be picked out by floodlights. Faces bobbed and grinned in all directions, many of them Spanish, which helped immensely as he sought the American in their midst.

Several times, he spotted potential suspects, but each was discounted after closer study. Both Mai and Alicia transmitted over the comms that they’d marked a candidate but facial rec was quickly carried out and the man omitted. Hayden told them all to recheck their own phones where she’d sent a picture of Webb to help their inundated senses maintain a center of attention.

Many thousands passed inspection. Alicia and Mai were both among the crowd, Smyth approaching those whose backs were turned and spinning them around whilst Yorgi looked on. Dahl shouldered his way through groups and lifted the caps of those who unwittingly hid their faces. Mostly surprise greeted him with the odd angry word.

Eventually Hayden, Smyth and Kenzie ended up back at the CCTV HQ, hating the onslaught of overwhelming noise and thinking they might be able to do better behind a TV screen. Drake remained in the thick of it, not once staying still.

“Bet I clock ’im before you do, Ikea boy.”

“If by that you mean catch sight of the critter then I very much doubt it. I’m taller, younger and overall the better bet.”

“You’re on.”

“Guys,” Hayden drawled. “I think the cameras are better than your eyes.”

“Then you’re on too.”

“Maybe we could form teams,” Alicia put in a little slyly. “Me and Drake, and Dahl and Kenzie.”

The Swede bit hard. “You wear your insinuations well, lady.”

“Maybe.” Mai spoke carefully. “But Drake and I work so much better together.”

Drake winced, sensing a coming battle. Mai was not a woman to give up anything easily, let alone something that spanned decades. He guessed the only reason she held herself back was because she’d left so suddenly and with no guarantee of return. It must have hit her very hard.

His feet quickened, his senses hyper-alert. It came as a surprise to see the crowd on their feet and he realized the game had kicked off; he’d been fully in the zone. Floodlights blazed and the players stalked their positions as they tested out the opposition. Drake couldn’t see an empty space, but now all the faces were turned toward him.

Alicia called in a possible spot that proved fruitless. So did Beau. The whole quadrangle that entangled them became a slowly contracting noose. Where would it all end? He stopped, watching an American standing silent and unmoved amidst a gaggle of noisy human geese, hopeful but knowing full well it wasn’t Webb.

Then Dahl broke the radio silence. “I believe I have him.”

Hayden shot a comment back, and then Drake was waiting, no sarcasm now but hopeful that somebody had spotted their prey. A timer was ticking somewhere, for something, they just didn’t know what. Was it to cover Webb’s escape? Or something worse? And where had the cult positioned themselves?

Hayden’s voice slashed across the airwaves. “That’s him! Go get ’im, Torsten!”

Drake moved fast. He knew exactly where Dahl was and wanted to back the big Swede up.

*

Dahl blinked, almost shocked that the affirmative had come back. That really was Tyler Webb then, standing near the back row of a tier, in the middle of the aisle, next to a woman wearing the Barcelona colors. Fans gave voice to their feelings all around the two as they bent their heads together and talked.

“Two marks,” Dahl said, moving carefully and seemingly without aim. “The woman beside him appears to be his contact.”

“Running her now,” Hayden came back. “If she knows Webb well enough to meet like this she can’t be good. Watch out.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Dahl inched ever closer, affected by the knowledge that Webb knew him by sight and just one, tiny uplifting of those eyes would . . .

There.

Webb spotted him, locking on and spitting out a curse word. The woman bolted without even a glance; clearly expecting the worse from the get-go. Dahl saw her scarper to the left, pushing fans aside, and Webb started to move to the right. Bodies moved aside or were pushed hard and windmilled their arms as they staggered. Dahl had no option but to chase after Webb, dashing down the closest aisle and dealing out the same treatment to the row of fans gathered there.

He trampled feet, kicked shins and elbowed stomachs, knocking one larger man who saw him coming, over the back of his chair. The man had decided to challenge the Mad Swede. Not the best idea at any time, but even less so when Dahl was chasing one of the world’s most wanted men.

Dahl shouted into his neck mic. “He’s running. Converge!”

Webb reached the aisle first and dashed up the steps that separated tiers. Dahl danced around a pregnant woman, lost ground, then hit the steps himself on one knee, leapt up and ran hard. Webb jumped into another row, causing havoc.

“Someone chase down that woman!” Hayden cried.

“On it,” Alicia answered, and Mai also called an affirmative.

Dahl leapt up another row, now only one away from the fleeing Webb and half a dozen seats behind. He called out for the man to halt, to no avail. It was all a distraction procedure anyway. Webb stumbled, but caught himself on a chair arm and practically jumped into a seated man’s lap. Dahl shouldered past a thick group, and lost sight of the American for one moment.