Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 PRESENT DAY BARCELONA, SPAIN MITCH Rapp could feel the surveillance team. Like an itch that he couldn''t quite reach or the buzzing of an unseen mosquito, he could sense their presence. If asked, he could point toward their watching eyes in the same manner in which a compass needle unerringly swung toward magnetic north. For most people, the notion that a person could intuitively detect an unseen observer was ridiculous. He was not most people. Over the course of the last hour, the team had grown bolder. As Rapp had followed his companion''s lead through the winding warren of Barcelona''s streets, the sensation had progressed from a buzzing at the edge of his consciousness to shapeless forms just outside his field of view. More than once he''d felt the compulsion to quickly turn his head in an effort to catch a glimpse of the unseen watchers.
Rapp had ignored that urge. If the surveillance team realized that they''d been made, the members would have to make a decision--withdraw or escalate. Rapp knew the team represented a tactical problem that he would have to solve, but he intended to do so on his terms, not theirs. In addition to the standard mental checklist he addressed before choosing a time and place for possible kinetic action, this afternoon he had another factor to consider. The blonde seated across the table from him. "Something the matter, darling?" Though she knew English, the woman asked the question in French in keeping with their agreement. Rapp spoke the language like a native, and the passport resting in his back pocket proclaimed him a resident of la République française . This was a lie.
One of many. "Everything''s fine," Rapp said, studying his girlfriend. Greta Ohlmeyer possessed the sort of magnetism that caused would-be suitors to make fools of themselves. The Nordic beauty was a statuesque five feet eight with bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw that tapered to a little apple chin. The Swiss woman''s hair was almost always pulled back into a high ponytail, and though they''d been dating for a little over a year, Mitch was often at a loss for words in her presence. He''d lost count of the number of suitors who had gone to ridiculous lengths in the hopes of garnering a smile from her. Collisions between members of the male species and inanimate objects were almost a daily occurrence around Greta. "You''re not behaving as if everything''s fine.
" "I need to use les toilettes ," Rapp said. "Could you please order me another glass of sangria?" "Of course." The brief change in her countenance suggested that Greta was not buying what he was selling. A slight narrowing of her eyes, a pursed lower lip, and a single worry line that marred her otherwise smooth forehead. Someone who had not spent hours memorizing her every feature might not have noticed the minuscule differences in her expression. Rapp noticed. Reaching across the table, he squeezed Greta''s hand. Her soft fingers sent a jolt of electricity crackling up his arm.
She smiled. It was tentative, but a smile nonetheless. She knew the effect she had on him. She also knew what he did for a living. Rapp slid his gaze across his surroundings as he stood. He and Greta were seated among a cluster of tables that served as the outdoor eating area for a café located on the southwestern corner of the Plaça dels Àngels. The open-air plaza was anchored to the northwest by the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art and a municipal building to the southeast. To Rapp''s eye, the museum''s edgy lines and endless panes of glass seemed at odds with the municipal building''s stodgy faded stone façade, but the throngs of pedestrians who transited the plaza didn''t seem to mind.
Mothers pushing baby strollers jostled with young professionals on their way to or from lunch, while tourists clustered in twos and threes armed with cameras and maps. The shops and restaurants lining the courtyard made Plaça dels Àngels a natural gathering point for Catalans and tourists alike, but another, more distinct clique also made use of the slate walking area. A coterie of skateboarders incorporated the museum steps and tiered concrete entrance into their aerial performance. While predominately male, a handful of women also numbered among the dozen or so skaters. A redhead wearing a tank top and loose cargo pants broke from the pack, riding her board straight at the concrete ledge adjacent to Rapp''s table. The velocity she generated in the run-up to the trick was impressive. Her twin braids streamed behind her, reminding him of a crimson battle ensign snapping in the wind. He guessed her to be about his age, but with her face scrunched up in concentration, she looked much younger.
The ledge was only a few board lengths away, but the woman was determined to go faster still. Risking her balance, she shifted her trail leg off the board for a final, monstrous push. Then she stomped the tail of her board and went airborne. The ollie was expertly done. The redhead''s board cleared the ledge with room to spare. The same could not be said of her rear foot. The edge of her toe clipped the concrete lip, sending skateboard in one direction and woman another. Over the course of the four years he''d spent on the Syracuse University lacrosse field, Rapp had developed the ability to mentally slow down a developing play and determine its probable outcome in real time.
Imagining the skateboarder as an attacker hurtling down the field with the ball in her crosse''s pocket and a clear shot at goal made the rest easy. In the blink of an eye, Rapp analyzed the woman''s flight path and computed a likely point of interception. Sliding left, he interposed himself between the redhead and the unforgiving pedestrian walkway. A millisecond later, she slammed into his chest. Rather than attempting to arrest her momentum, Rapp went with the flow, cradling her unhelmeted head as they both tumbled to the ground. The jarring collision between the unforgiving stone and his arms and shoulders foreshadowed bruises to come, but he was able to take the majority of the impact across his thick back muscles. Maybe not as clean as the countless falls he''d practiced in the jiujitsu dojo, but it got the job done. For a moment he was flat on his back and nose to nose with the startled woman.
He wondered what she saw in his coal-black eyes. A startled tourist? A Good Samaritan? Or maybe something else. Rapp unlocked his arms, and the skateboarder shot to her feet. He couldn''t understand the torrent of Spanish pouring from her lips, but judging by her embarrassed smile and flushed features, he could guess. " C''est bon ," Rapp said. " C''est bon ." The woman loosed a final bit of Spanish before grabbing him in a surprisingly strong hug. Then she picked up her board and headed back to the circle of skaters.
Rapp watched her go before turning to Greta. He smiled. She did not. Chuckling, Rapp summited the steps and entered the museum.