Lady Death by Brian Drake (good e books to read .TXT) 📕

“The hack so short it almost doesn’t matter?”

“Yes.”

“We found a name. Well, part of a name, and we’ve had to do some digging because of the missing pieces.”

“Tell me.”

“Ben Doyle.”

“Arms dealer,” Raven said. “He hangs out in Madrid, last I heard.”

“Right. The British have an interest in him so there’s always eyes on him.”

“Will they help us bring him in?”

“We haven’t asked.”

“Are we going to ask?”

“Depends on you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We’d like to question him, Sam. Question. Not mutilate. No more of your cowboy crap. We want to know if he’s supplied the weapons for Operation Triangle, or if he’s done any work for Schrader in the past.”

“Doyle keeps his mouth shut. He works with the type of efficiency Schrader would appreciate.”

“Find out.”

“And if the answer is yes?”

“Bring him in and we’ll do the rest.”

“Operation Triangle may happen tomorrow, Clark. We don’t have time to play question and answer.”

“And we’re wasting time talking about it,” Wilson said. “Get to Madrid.”

“All right.”

Raven ended the call without saying goodbye. He yanked out his Bluetooth earpiece and tossed it and the cell phone on the sofa to his left. Leaning against the window frame, he stifled a curse. He didn’t blame the CIA for being upset, but also didn’t appreciate the lack of urgency. If they didn’t stop Tanya, they’d have a bigger disaster to deal with than an angry German government.

Madrid was a beautiful city, but Ben Doyle knew there were drawbacks making life less than ideal.

He sat in a gaudy café with pea-green walls and warped brown-and-white checkered tile floor. The owner’s idea of decorations was every piece of junk he could find. The odds and ends hung from the ceiling on wires, collecting dust, or were glued to the walls. Sloppy glue residue was visible around the edge of every item. Doyle thought all Spaniards were lazy. “Manana” the chant of the country. The café confirmed his prejudice; the bored attitude of the wait staff didn’t help.

But the café served excellent espresso which he sipped while eating a strawberry Danish.

Other “not so good” elements sat within the café too.

First, the American tourists. Loud. Mostly obese. They occupied several tables, none familiar with the other, and talked loudly about sightseeing plans for the day. They looked around the café in wonder, as if it were a cute piece of Madrid culture. It was, but for the wrong reasons.

There were other patrons, quiet ones, natives, who watched the Americans with careful eyes. They were the pick pockets who roamed Madrid, preying on tourists with no fear of the police. The cops didn’t care what they did. They’d follow the tourists and wait for the opportunity to lift a wallet or two.

In a sense, Ben Doyle was in the same class. But his protection payments didn’t extend to various western intelligence agencies who kept an eye on him from time to time. He had instead made a deal with one of them. Protection in exchange for information when they asked. Only when they asked.

The observations didn’t get in the way of his business.

Ben Doyle sold guns.

Lots and lots of guns.

He didn’t move heavy ordnance. If you wanted missiles, tanks, or fighter planes, he wasn’t the guy. If your shopping list required assorted small arms, ammunition, and explosives, he could beat the big guys.

His career started by helping the “New” IRA in Northern Ireland move drugs. The profits from the venture financed the purchase of the Hotel Sensanna, where he lived, and start the gun business. The hotel was the perfect front to cover his illegitimate career and launder his gun money.

A few days ago, he’d completed a major deal for such items for a client in Berlin. The client was happy. Doyle’s bank account was happy too.

He had another deal coming up at three in the morning, this one much smaller, only two cases of submachine guns. But a deal is a deal. Sitting in the cafe with his espresso and Danish gave him time to think. He decided the exchange would be his last.

All he had to do was tell his associate.

When she entered the café, he stood and smiled. He knew other eyes were locked on Amira Raferi but he didn’t care and she pretended not to notice. Amira was half Egyptian, half French, and all gorgeous, packing her slender figure into tight jeans and a Tee-shirt a size too large tied above her belly.

“Hello, Ben,” she said quietly as they embraced. She spoke English well, but her heavy French accent overpowered every word. They sat. He waved at a passing waiter and was ignored. He shook his head.

“Never mind,” she told him.

“You don’t want coffee?”

“We have a problem,” she said. “About tonight.”

Ben Doyle shook his head and broke off a piece of his Danish. “Go ahead,” he said, chewing. “Give me the bad news.”

For sure, the coming deal would be his final one.

He was growing weary of “problems”. Always problems. Never ending problems.

Amira leaned close and began to talk.

2

“There’s a rumor,” Amira said, “Franco is going to hijack the guns.”

Doyle sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the top of his nose. Franco. The hot-headed leader of an upstart ETA cell who thought he was Genghis Khan. The world belonged to him; he simply hadn’t conquered any land yet.

He’d bid for the guns same as Doyle’s paying client. He didn’t have the budget to beat the client’s final offer.

Doyle opened his eyes and watched one of the pick pockets follow out an American couple. How he envied the pick pocket at the moment.

“I’m too old for this,” he said.

Amira frowned. “I didn’t expect you to answer that way.”

Doyle wasn’t “old”. Almost 40. He looked trim and healthy with close-cropped hair and matching beard. Without the beard he had a perpetual “babyface” as his mother used to say.

He didn’t answer her. His gaze wandered over her shoulder to the front window. People walked. Traffic moved at a slow pace in the