to be observed when you took that much money from a foreign government.
As Brian had learned.
It was all a show. But the real show was happening in secret. The SVR was directing, with Brian as an audience of one.
Then why hadn’t Irlov called again since this morning? The harder Brian tried to remember Irlov’s exact words, the slipperier the conversation seemed. Irlov had never confirmed that the Russians had actually taken Kira, much less that they would give her back.
They had to have her, though. Nothing else made sense.
And the ransom demand had come so soon after the call. Like Irlov was proving he controlled the kidnappers even if he said he didn’t. But why lie to Brian, then? And were the kidnappers planning to collect the money, or was the demand for show?
Too bad Brian couldn’t run the possibilities by Becks. All those years in counterintel, she must have learned something about the Russians, how they worked. Brian wanted to buy another burner, call Irlov again. But he’d look even more desperate. All he could do now was wait. For Irlov. The kidnappers. Or both.
Then Barraza staring at him across the table, asking whether he knew anything. Sometimes cops had this weird radar with him. Like he gave off an I’m a perp vibe that they could feel even if they didn’t know how.
The pressure made his head hurt. He cursed under his breath. To his surprise Becks reached over, squeezed his hand. Pretending to understand. Pretending this wasn’t her fault. When the truth was even in here he’d felt her annoyance when he tried to talk. Let Special Agent Becks handle things. Same attitude as always. Same reason Kira was in this mess, if he came right down to it.
He squeezed her hand back.
“I’m gonna go check on Tony.”
* * *
Outside the conference room, Tony sat in a blue plastic chair. Not texting, not looking at his phone. Just sitting, lips tight. Blaming himself. Bri felt for the kid. They trusted him enough to let him manage himself while they talked to the cops. Not enough to let him hear for himself what was happening.
Brian reached down, hugged him awkwardly.
“Almost done. We got the ransom money set up—”
“Really?” Tony sounded hopeful.
“The Spanish are gonna pay. Don’t want to scare the tourists.” Close enough to true. “And the Mossos guy, Hector, he told us everything they’re doing, they’re not messing around. Now we go to a bank to pick up the money.”
“And wait for the people who have her”—he couldn’t say kidnappers, poor kid—“to call us?”
“About right.”
Tony nodded. “What’s Mom think?”
“Ask her yourself.” Try to help the kid, all he wants is mommy. “I mean, she’ll be right out, let me see what’s going on.”
* * *
Back inside, the contracts were ready. Eight copies, four English and four Spanish. Dos millones de euros… prometer pagar… Fine, whatever. Brian signed them all.
Fernandes’s phone buzzed. He had a rapid-fire Spanish conversation, hung up shaking his head.
“None of these banks have two million euros lying around. Even the Santander on Passeig de Gràcia says it only has half a million.”
“Your central bank must have a branch here,” Rebecca said.
“The Bank of Spain,” Fernandes said. “We ask them, it will take all week.”
“What about the casino?” Brian said.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, the Unsworths and Fernandes stepped into an unmarked Mossos van. Two officers waited in the front seats, armed but no uniforms. Garza, the Special Operations colonel, had already left. My men are ready, his final words.
“Come on,” Fernandes said. He had the tight-lipped look of a pool hustler who knew he’d been taken but couldn’t figure out how. Brian knew the feeling.
They were quiet on the trip down to the waterfront. Even Becks seemed to have nothing to say. Brian wondered what his dearly beloved wife was thinking. She’d be blaming herself, no doubt, making the kidnapping all about her. He blamed her, too. For a change they agreed.
He wondered what she’d do if he told her the truth. But Becks wasn’t the forgiving sort. He’d have to trust Irlov. At least the Russian knew what Brian was worth.
* * *
A blond-haired man in a crisp blue suit waited for them in the Casino Barcelona garage. “Ken Harrington, director of security.”
“You’re Irish?” Brian couldn’t help himself.
“Welcome to the modern EU. Free markets, free sangria, I think that’s this year’s slogan. Mr. Fernandes, may I see the letter we discussed?”
Fernandes handed Harrington an envelope. The letter inside guaranteed the government of Spain