Chapter 26 Maggie
Maggie
Wednesday
They sat at an outdoor table of a cervecería on Plaza de Agustín Lara, sipping sparkling water as they watched the apartment building across the street.
It had been years since Maggie last visited Madrid, and she did not remember seeing this many tourists thronging the sidewalks, or so many shops hawking trinkets and tee shirts and paper-thin slices of jamón.
The steady stream of people strolling past their table made Maggie and Lloyd feel comfortably anonymous as they picked at another platter of olives and cheese.
This was not a grand plaza, certainly not as popular as the eternally crowded Plaza Mayor.
Its major attraction was the historical marker dedicated to Mexican composer Agustín Lara, whom Maggie had never heard of until today.
It was yet another gap in her knowledge.
As she grew older, as she felt the years slip away, she realized there were so many facts she would never have time to learn, skills she would never master.
Once, she could think: Someday I’ll pick up the guitar, or I’ll learn to speak Arabic.
Now she’d come to accept that those things might never happen, that there were not enough years left in her lifetime.
But today, she’d learned who Agustín Lara was, and she’d discovered this plaza, where she and Lloyd had stationed themselves all afternoon, watching the building where Zoya Larina, now named Beatriz Guerrero, lived.
It was just the sort of unremarkable residence you would choose if you were trying to keep a low profile, which Zoya had clearly been striving for.
The modest ocher-colored building was like many others in the neighborhood, three stories high, with six apartments and balconies that featured wrought iron railings.
On the first floor was a panadería, offering tempting-looking baked goods.
In the apartments above, the smell of fresh bread would probably waft upstairs from the bakery, a lovely aroma to wake up to.
Zoya/Beatriz lived in the second-floor unit at the corner of the building, and although they’d spied a dark-haired woman move past one of the windows, they could not catch a clear glimpse of her.
From where they watched, she was nothing more than a featureless silhouette.
Like the woman herself.
Ben and Declan had been unable to find any details on Beatriz Guerrero, aside from the fact that a woman with her name had been living in this Madrid apartment for the past eight years.
Prior to that, she’d left no footprints, digital or otherwise.
She had no known prior address, no marital or occupational history.
Her true past, like that of Willem Dekker, had been expunged from any records, and no wonder; those who betrayed Moscow were marked for death, often a painful one.
Every assassination was a message to other Russian sleepers who might contemplate defection: Betray the motherland, and we will find you. We will punish you.
No wonder Zoya had cast off her old identity and now lived quietly under a new name, in a city where she could move freely among neighbors who had no idea who she really was, or had been.
“Why is she still there, in that apartment?” said Lloyd. “Someone should have warned her by now. We should warn her.”
“Two complete strangers walk in off the street and tell her she’s marked for death? How do you think she’ll react?”
He sighed. “Not well,” he conceded.
“No, we need to sit tight and watch what happens next. If we play our hand too soon, we could blow an ongoing operation.”
“It just feels so passive.” He fussed with his napkin. Took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on again. “I want to be doing something.”
“We are doing something. We’re gathering intelligence. Watching Beatriz to see where she goes, whom she meets.”
“What if someone tries to kill her while we’re watching? It wouldn’t be hard, you know. Fire a bullet through that window.”
“I don’t think that’s how they’ll do it.
A sniper bullet is too painless, too anonymous.
They want her to suffer. They want to make her an example, to warn anyone else who’s thinking about defecting.
This death has to be hands on. A shove out a window.
A slashed throat.” Maggie frowned at the apartment window.
“Although I do wonder if we’re misreading the situation.
Why hasn’t she been relocated? There’s something going on here, something we haven’t—”
“There.” Lloyd snapped straight in his chair. “That’s her.”
They couldn’t see the woman’s face clearly, but there was no mistaking the waterfall of thick black hair that cascaded to her shoulders. Beatriz had just emerged from the building and was now walking toward the center of Plaza de Agustín Lara, moving with the languid sway of a full-figured woman.
Lloyd pushed to his feet, ready to pursue her.
“Hold back,” Maggie cautioned. “Don’t alert her. Or anyone else.”
There was certainly no danger of losing sight of her.
Not only did Beatriz move at a leisurely pace, but she also wore a brightly patterned dress that practically screamed for attention.
She did not look like someone trying to avoid being noticed, which was yet another detail that bothered Maggie.
The whole situation seemed wrong. The woman in the bright dress.
Her slow, unconcerned pace. Not once did Beatriz pause to look over her shoulder, to scan her surroundings.
Instead, she seemed determined to be noticed. As if . . .
“Lloyd,” she said. “Stop. This is a setup.”
“What?”
“She’s baiting us.”
“Or she’s baiting him,” he said, his gaze suddenly fixed on a man at the opposite side of the plaza.
The man was moving parallel to Beatriz, his pace steady and unrelenting. Dressed in blue jeans and a gray hoodie, he was an unobtrusive figure, easily missed among the crowd of tourists. Now he veered diagonally across the plaza, moving in a line that would intersect with the woman.
At the far end of the plaza, a dark blue van swooped into position. The side door slid open.
In that instant, Maggie saw the plan, as clearly as if a blueprint had been rolled out in front of her.
Gray Hoodie would close in on Beatriz. It would take only a shove, and she’d be forced into the waiting van.
The abduction would happen so swiftly that no one in the plaza would even notice what had happened.
The abductors would drive off with their prize, to a location where the knives would come out, where her screams wouldn’t be heard.
In a day or two, her body would be found, bearing obvious evidence of torture.
The punishment that every traitor to the motherland deserved.
Time to move.
Maggie had no chance to think, to consider their options. A woman’s life was at stake, and they could no longer stand aside as mere observers. This was the operational tipping point, when surveillance demanded action.
Maggie sprinted ahead of Lloyd, past clueless tourists ambling in the plaza, past a woman pushing a baby stroller.
Beatriz moved closer and closer to the waiting van. Straight toward the trap.
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Gray Hoodie closing in from the side.
She heard Lloyd’s footfalls pounding somewhere behind her.
What chance did two senior citizens have to foil a kidnapping?
The men were almost certainly armed, but with so many witnesses in the plaza, would they risk attracting attention with gunfire?
Beatriz was only a few yards from the van. So was Gray Hoodie. In a matter of seconds, it would all be over.
“Zoya!” Maggie shouted. “Watch out!”
The woman halted. Turned, just as Lloyd threw himself at Gray Hoodie in a flying tackle.
Both men slammed to the pavement. Lloyd struggled clumsily to pick himself off the ground, but Gray Hoodie was back on his feet in an instant.
He glanced around at the spectators now surrounding him, all of them staring. So many eyes, so many witnesses.
Time to abort.
He dove into the van, and the door slid shut. With a screech of tires, the vehicle took off and vanished around the corner.
Beatriz stood frozen, staring at Lloyd as he limped toward her, brushing himself off. “It’s all right! Everything’s fine!” he said. “But madam, you really need to—”
“What the bloody hell are you two doing here?” the woman snapped.
Lloyd’s jaw fell open. “Ingrid? Is that you?”