While it wasn’t exactly great PR, what was unforgivable was that the fifteen CIA operatives involved had used their real names during the operation to rack up hotel loyalty points. To make matters worse, they had also used their personal cell phones. It was beyond embarrassing.

“Do we have anyone in Italy working the bombing?”

“Besides a nonofficial cover operative or two the Agency secretly still has over there, the Bureau continues to have a decent relationship with the Italians and had a couple of teams wheels up within an hour of the attack.”

Harvath liked the people at the FBI, but he knew that outside the forensics specialists they’d have working the bombing, any other agents would take a backseat to their Italian counterparts. The attack had happened on Italian soil, and despite the high number of American casualties this would remain an Italian investigation.

“I still don’t buy that the Troll was involved in something like this.”

“Maybe you put too much of a dent in his business. Maybe he needed to branch out and start dealing in explosives. It doesn’t matter. We’ve been tasked with bringing him in. If you don’t want the assignment, I can give it to somebody else.”

“No,” replied Harvath, removing the file from the table. “This is mine.”

Carlton nodded. “We have an apartment in Rome you can use, unless you want to begin in Naples, in which case we’ll arrange something for you there.”

“He’s not in Italy. He’s in Spain.”

“How do you know?”

Harvath had a lot to do. Standing, he picked up his coffee mug and said, “Because he just called me to set up a meeting.”

BILBAO

TUESDAY

After landing in Madrid, Harvath passed through immigration and customs, then took the metro into the city. It was packed with tourists.

Near the boisterous Puerta del Sol, he entered a nondescript building, rode the aging elevator to the fourth floor, and used the key he had been given to gain access to the Carlton Group’s Madrid safe house.

He located the capabilities kit that had been left for him and cataloged its contents. While capabilities kits could be tailored to the specific assignment, as a rule they contained all of the hard-to-acquire items an operative might need in a foreign country.

Kits were Spook 101 and normally included cash, sterile SIM cards, cell phones, lock-picking tools, a condensed trauma kit, tracking bugs, Tuff Ties, a Taser, folding knife, multitool, IR laser designator, infrared strobe, night vision monocular, and a compact weapon with high-end ammunition. In Harvath’s case, the compact weapon was a Glock 19 with two spare magazines of 9mm +P ammunition.

The contents of the kit fit neatly into the 3-Day pack he had brought along with him.

Following a quick shower and shave, he gathered up his belongings and returned to the metro. At Chamartín station, he boarded a train headed north.

Though Carlton could have arranged for the gear to be dead-dropped in Bilbao, Harvath preferred doing it this way. There was no telling who or what would be waiting for him when he arrived. It was a city he didn’t know and didn’t have any allies in. Too much could go wrong. It was better to arrive prepared.

As the high-speed train raced across the Spanish countryside, he closed his eyes. He thought about Tracy and the good-bye call he had placed before leaving. He also thought about the family he was never going to have with her.

Shortly past nine o’clock in the evening, the train arrived at Abando Station. Mixing in with other passengers, Harvath kept his eyes open as he headed toward the escalators beneath the magnificent wall of stained glass at the end of the terminal.

He took the Bilbao metro and got off two stops before his hotel. Moving through the neighborhood, he conducted a series of surveillance detection routes, or SDRs, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The evening air was cool and carried a hint of rain.

At a small café across from the hotel, Harvath ordered a coffee and watched the ebb and flow of the sidewalk traffic. He studied the cars parked up and down the street and when he was confident that he hadn’t been followed and that the hotel wasn’t under surveillance, he paid his bill, crossed the street, and checked in.

In his room, he changed into a pair of dark jeans and a sweater. He tucked his Glock into a leather holster near the small of his back. He put on a comfortable pair of low-profile hiking boots and a leather jacket with deep pockets.

Exiting the hotel through the service entrance, he struck out for the city’s medieval neighborhood known as the Casco Viejo.

It was a fifteen-minute walk. Most of the restaurants and bars were still empty, save for the few that catered to tourists not yet in sync with the Spanish custom of dining later in the evening.

Oblivious to the cars and the hour, children kicked soccer balls in the street as older people walked small dogs and young mothers pushed babies in cheap strollers.

Bilbao was a featureless city like Milan, but with a Spanish twist. Bland buildings roofed in red tiles were wedged cheek-by-jowl, fronted by concrete sidewalks. There were very few trees and even less grass. Every single inch of space that could be used, had been used.

Nearer the old town the streets narrowed and the architecture became more interesting. Harvath removed a map he had picked up in the hotel lobby and studied it as he walked. He strolled up and down the Siete Calles, or seven streets as they were known, and got a feel for the neighborhood. It was full of shops, bars, and restaurants.

Behind the cathedral in the Calle de la Tendería he found a Basque restaurant within sight of the street’s only tobacconist. He took a seat inside, two tables back from the window, withdrew a guidebook from his pocket, and made himself comfortable.

Over the next three hours, he pretended to linger over his food and his guidebook as he watched the traffic patterns at the tiny tobacco shop. He even tipped the busboy to go buy cigarettes for him.

As he watched the young man cross the street, he debated finding a stand-in to do the exact same thing for him tomorrow. He was concerned that the meeting could be a setup. But if he conned some unsuspecting person into going into the shop on his behalf and something happened, the person could very well be killed. That wasn’t a risk he was comfortable with.

He knew he had to walk into that store himself tomorrow if he wanted the truth about the Troll. He didn’t like it, but there was no way of getting around it. All he could do was be as prepared as possible.