tied him up, taped his mouth, and buried the knife under the backseat. He figured it would take the teenager at least a half hour to work himself over the seat, dig out the knife, and cut himself free. Smith locked the car, stowed his suitcase, laptop, and trench coat in the trunk, pocketed the keys, and moved quickly off. If Theacute;regrave;se Chambord was somewhere
Chapter Twelve
Night had turned the beautiful little city into an atmospheric scene from history, with black shadows and yellow lamplight and Spanish music floating on the summery air. Smith entered the small plaza where he had stopped before to watch the house, planning to swing around a side street that would give him a different approach. Now that the hour was later, and the crowds had dwindled, Toledo had become a different city. Quiet and serene, it resembled one of El Greco's moonlit paintings, strategic pieces of its rich architecture glowing in floodlights.
But as he left the plaza, he saw four men emerge from the chaos of streets and alleys. He recognized one, thick and pockmarked, from the night Theacute;regrave;se Chambord was kidnapped. There was also the man who resembled the photo of the Basque who had been taken into custody in Paris. The Black Flame. They were looking for him.
As the four Basque killers circled Smith, he raised his voice just enough so that he knew they could hear. He said in Spanish, "Which of you is Elizondo? All I want is to talk. I'll make it worth your while. Let's talk, Elizondo!"
None responded. Their expressions deliberate, they continued to close in, guns low at their sides, ready to raise and fire in the blink of their dark eyes. Around them, the historic buildings loomed like evil spirits from another world.
"Stop where you are," Smith warned, and flashed his silenced 9mm.
But the gun was not enough to stop them. They tensed but never broke stride, their circle tightening like a garrote. They did, however, glance for orders to a wiry older man who wore the red Basque beret.
Smith studied the four a second longer, figuring the odds. As the merengue music pulsed in the shadowy night, he spun around and took off. As he ran, a fifth man, older, suddenly stepped out of another alley some ten yards ahead to block his path. Behind him, the terrorists' feet hammered closer over the cobblestones. Heart pounding, Smith skidded around the corner of the first alley he came to and raced headlong down it, away from his pursuers.
A tall, elderly Anglican priest was hiding in the recessed doorway of a closed estanco, a tobacco shop, from which the faint, sweet odors of its wares seeped. In the night, he was all but invisible in his black clerical suit, only the faint reflection of light from his white, turned collar hinting at his presence.
He had tailed the men from the house of the Basque who had been arrested in Paris. When they had ducked into hiding, any passersby near enough to hear would have been astonished, perhaps offended, by a most unclerical mutter: "Shit! What the hell are they up to now?"
The faux cleric had hoped to observe a meeting that would give him what he had come to Toledo to learn. But what he saw now was no meeting. The Basque militant he had recognized in Paris, Elizondo Ibarguengoitia, had led him first to San Sebastian and then here to Toledo, but there was no sign of the kidnapped woman. Nor of any corroboration of the suspicions of the cleric's bosses.
He was growing irritated by so much nonsense. Dangerous nonsense, at that. Which was why he held an even more unclerical itema silenced 9mm Clock.
This time his wait was brief. A rangy, athletic man appeared from the plaza.
"Bloody damn!" the faux cleric grumbled, surprised.
Shortly afterward, the five Basques also emerged onto the street, one by one. Each carried a pistol, held discreetly down at their sides, convenient for use but only barely visible to anyone else. The cleric left the shelter of the corner.
Halfway down the alley, Smith flattened back against the building, Sig Sauer steady in both hands. He focused on the mouth of the alley where he had just entered. A trio of touristsa well-dressed man and two young womendanced past on the street, in rhythm with the throbbing music. They were having a good time, oblivious to the tense drama around them.
As they disappeared from sight, Smith continued to wait, And wait. It was