“I don’t buy it,” Grimsdóttir told Fisher.
“I disagree,” Fisher replied. “The SAS doesn’t induct idiots. Maybe Zahm is just that smart. Write a bunch of critically panned novels that make millions and hide in plain sight as a dim-witted former soldier.”
“While pulling off some of the biggest heists in Britain’s history,” Grim finished.
“He’s got the training. With his money and contacts, it wouldn’t have taken much to learn the ropes. There are plenty of retired thieves who’d gladly pass on their knowledge for a price. How solid does Ernsdorff’s info look?”
“Very. Names, dates, accounts, sexual predilections… In fact, it looks like a blackmail file. But for what purpose?”
“Can’t be money,” Fisher replied. “Ernsdorff has more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. My guess: He’s leveraging Zahm — using his Little Red Robbers for a job or jobs.”
“That seems out of character given what we know about Ernsdorff. He’s been exclusively a background player”
“We know he plays middleman for bad guys and their money. And we know he’s playing bank for this auction. From that, it’s not that big a leap to other kinds of services.”
18
One of the benefits of hunting people who live on the fringes of society is that they also tend to gravitate toward the fringes of communities. When you kill and steal and blackmail for a living, and have even a modicum of karmic awareness, you tend to worry about your deeds someday coming back to haunt you. Aside from the very rich, who could afford to live apart from the world and surrounded by security, or the very careful, who left no footprints that would lead enemies to their door, the bad guys who survive the longest are the ones who ignore that reclusive impulse and choose, instead, to dwell in plain sight, disguised as average citizens.
Luckily for Fisher, Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, was neither wealthy nor karmically self-aware. Upon retiring from active mercenary life and setting himself up as an information clearinghouse, van der Putten moved to Chinchón, a town of five thousand whose two claims to fame were its central square, which served as a temporary bullring, and the church of Nuestra Señora de la Ascunción, where Francisco Goya’s Assumption of the Virgin was housed.
After signing off with Grimsdóttir and picking up a rental car, Fisher made two stops: one to replenish his basic traveling supplies, including an economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen for his bruised ribs, and the second to pick up the DHL box containing his weapons and gear. He was heading south out of the city by three and arrived in Chinchón an hour later, in the middle of siesta, the traditional Spanish period of late-afternoon rest and rejuvenation. He wore Bermuda shorts, sandals, and an “I ♥ Madrid” T shirt.
Chinchón was perched on the eastern slopes of Spain’s Sistema Ibérico mountain range, so the narrow cobble and brick streets rose and fell and branched at unexpected angles. The architecture was what one would expect from a village born during the Middle Ages: buildings of heavy, dark chiseled beams stacked closely together, faded stucco walls of yellow ocher and pale mocha, half-hidden courtyards, balconies fronted by ornate black iron railings, and a sea of undulating roofs covered in U-shaped terra-cotta tiles.
Fisher found a parking spot behind a tavern a few blocks from the Plaza Mayor and got out to stretch his legs. The streets were eerily quiet and deserted, save for the handful of people Fisher could see sitting on front porches and swinging in hammocks. A lone dog — a mix between a beagle and a husky, Fisher guessed — padded across the street and into a shaded alley. He stopped to give Fisher a glance over his shoulder, then trotted off into the shadows.
Fisher wandered for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet, then made his way toward what he hoped was the Plaza Mayor. It wasn’t hard; all the roads and alleys and paths seemed to converge on the town’s center. The bullring was up, Fisher saw: a six-foot-tall bloodred-and-yellow-striped fence enclosing a dirt clearing about 120 feet across. Surrounding the ring, like bleachers, were three-story galleried houses fronted by dark green railings. The sun reflected off the taupe-colored dirt, causing Fisher to squint. He caught a whiff of manure on the breeze.
A hand-painted sign on a nearby fence post announced that the bullfight would take place the next morning. With luck, he’d be gone by then. Not only did he have no love for the sport, but he needed to get on with the business of paying Charles “Chucky Zee” Zahm a visit and finding out precisely what he and his Little Red Robbers had been doing for Yannick Ernsdorff.
Fisher returned to his car and meandered through town to the southwestern outskirts and followed the signs for Castillo de Chinchón until he pulled onto the tree lined dirt road that led him to a small gravel parking lot. As castles went, Chinchón’s was probably underwhelming for the unseasoned traveler; Fisher had seen enough of these to know that was more the rule than the exception. Built on a square and anchored on each corner by a turret barely taller than the crumbling stone walls, the castillo was not quite two hundred square feet; it was, however, built on a slope overlooking the entire town, which, during its prime, likely compensated for its size.
There were only two cars in the lot and both looked local.
Fisher parked, got out, and walked across the bridge through the portcullis, pausing to grab a brochure from the wall-mounted box. Once inside he walked across the courtyard to the northern wall and followed the steps up the battlement. He was alone; if the two cars in the lot belonged to attendants, they were probably on siesta somewhere.
He pulled his binoculars from his rucksack and panned down the green fields between the castle and the town, picking out landmarks until he found what he was looking for. Karlheinz van der Putten’s home, a two-story red-roofed villa surrounded by a low outer wall built under the shadows of mature olive trees, sat by itself on a dead-end road. Judging by the built-in swimming pool, lined with blue and white arabesque tiles, and the travertine flagstone deck, van der Putten had done well since going into business for himself. A balcony fronted by hand-chiseled cedar rails overlooked the pool deck; spanning the balcony’s width were sliding-glass doors through which Fisher could see a master suite. A matching set of sliding doors on the ground floor led to what looked like a living room, a breakfast nook, and a kitchen.
Fisher scanned the patio until he saw a lone man sprawled on a chaise lounge beneath a potted lemon tree. The angle made positive identification difficult, but the face seemed to match that of van der Putten. Fisher smiled. It seemed the man had spent a good portion of his profits on groceries. Van der Putten was pushing the scales at nearly three hundred pounds. His height, five feet six, combined with his choice of swimwear, a pair of red Speedo trunks, did nothing for him. The image of a sausage ringed by a too-tight rubber band came to mind. Still, Fisher could tell there was a layer of muscle beneath the layer of fat. He’d take care not to underestimate the portly mercenary’s experience and familiarity with violence — in fact, the story behind his nickname, Spock, told Fisher that van der Putten was not only familiar with violence but that he enjoyed it.