My friend had preceded me by three days when I arrived in Santander, a city in northern Spain about which I knew nothing but the bank of the same name.  My friend, a surgeon, was there to give a talk to medical students, and I was to join  him for a day or two before heading south to Madrid.

         When I asked what he thought of the city, he said, “It’s wonderfully quiet, spacious and has a sense of peacefulness about it. I think I could retire here.” Which struck me as a very strange notion on his part because he’d spent his entire career in land-locked, sand-locked Tucson, Arizona, which Santander is nothing like.

         After two days in the city I knew what my friend was feeling, for  it is a wide-open city of long, winding boulevards along the Bay of Santander on La Magdalena Peninsula leading to the Cantabria Sea. It is the capital city of Cantabria with a modest population of under 200,000. Sadly, much of the city dating back to the 9^th Century suffered a devastating 1941 fire that burned for two days and consumed much of the old medieval town, including the cathedral. As a result, the city was restored along modern lines after World War II, so that the curving Paseo de Pereda and Avenida de la Reina sweep the shore and beach of El Sardinero, one of the loveliest in Spain. Above it La Magdalena Royal Palace (right), a mix of turrets, balconies and timbered accents,  was the summer residence of the king and his family, located near the elegant and majestic Hotel Real.

         The rebuilding of the 12^th century Our Lady of the Assumption Cathedral  after the Great Fire took twelve years, but today it has the sheen of freshness, in the Gothic  style with overlapping floors, crypt and an annex of cloisters.

         Fortunately much of the old city has been reclaimed, and its weaving up-and-down streets are ideal for finding what’s behind the next corner. The Centro Botin (below), by architect Renzo Piano,  opened in 2017,  is a complex within the vast Pereda Gardens devoted to art, music and theater, which has given the city a high reputation for Spanish and international culture.

(By the way, Banco Santander's corporate headquarters, located for a century in the Pereda Building in Santander, is currently being transformed into a cultural and leisure space; the bank is now headquartered in Boadilla del Monte, Madrid.)

         I stayed at the Grand Hotel Sardinero overlooking the beach (below), itself an historic building now thoroughly modernized. The standard rooms are fairly basic in décor but have good bathrooms, air-conditioning and easy access to the Internet. The breakfast buffet is satisfying if nothing special. The front desk staff can be helpful when they do not claim being too busy to be so. Currently rooms begin at a very reasonable €71.

        Being a seashore town, Santander gets its pick of fresh seafood. Restaurante Los Peñucas  (C. Marqués de la Ensenada, 35; 942-22-9445) is very popular with the local people who come with their families to this expansive inside-and-out restaurant located where the fishermen bring in their catch each day (left). The décor is minimal, the lighting bright, the noise level remarkably moderate. You pass the open kitchen on your way in, seeing a brigade of cooks steaming, roasting and grilling seafood just brought in from the docks, which the day I visited included a splendid fat  rodaballo (turbot). There are two pages of starters, including plump white asparagus in season,  and 24 seafood items, sold by the kilogram, as well as a three-course plus glass of wine menu of the day at €20.  Langoustines cooked on the plancha griddle were meaty and seared for a smoky flavor. The turbot was silky with its own fat, filleted at the table and served with fried potatoes and salad. The wine list is serviceable, stressing bottlings from Ribera del Duero, averaging €15. Tax and service are included.

         The next day I was ready for roast suckling pig and baby lamb, which are the stars of Spanish cuisine, so we went into the old part of town to Asador Lechazo Aranda (15 Terúan; 942-21-48-23), whose specialties include dishes roasted in a brick oven fired with aromatic wood. It’s open every day and its two main dining rooms start to fill up after one PM. Aranda has a long history in Santander as one of its best––though not expensive––restaurants, known for its stained glass ceiling and Castilian décor, with lovely lighting from sconces on old brick walls.

         We started off with cod and potato croquetas and both a quarter of the suckling pig (€56), which came out sizzling, its aroma perfuming the room, its flesh glistening with melting fat and crackling skin. Practice has obviously made this preparation perfect here, and nothing is made in advance. We did our best to finish the pig, accompanied by cold Mahon beer, but it was futile. We’d need at least another person to polish it off. We saved the baby lamb for next time.

         Borel checked into Bazarov’s background and found he was most likely KGB. He came out of the Russian Army and worked in intelligence, with postings in Istanbul, Beirut and Brussels before the liaison work in Paris, where he reported to the chief Ambassador, who in turn reported to the new Russian President, Vladimir Putin.
    Putin’s name had come up while Katie and David were on stories that took them to Taipei and Moscow when he was considered a rising star under President Boris Yeltsin (left). For sixteen years he had been a foreign intelligence officer with the KGB, eventually attaining the rank of Lieutenant Colonel before resigning for a fledgling career in politics that brought him to the attention of the foundering Yeltsin, who made Putin Prime Minister in 1999. With Yeltsin’s resignation in 2000, Putin became President. That was two years ago, and since then he had begun to exert an iron-fisted control over his deputies. It was Putin who appointed Bazarov as junior ambassador to Paris.
         Borel tracked all of Bazarov’s travel over the past two years, showing he spent about half his time in Moscow, half in Paris, with trips throughout European capitals for conferences and meetings. Reports said that he was a stalwart supporter of Putin and might someday replace the current ambassador in Paris.
         Borel also believed Bazarov was still in Paris, saying that he had no reason to leave unless he suspected he was the focus of an investigation. He must have assumed he had covered his tracks successfully, and, as Borel noted, going up to the seventh floor and being let into someone’s room was not a crime. The HAZMAT suit had obviously been disposed of by the embassy staff, and apparently Bazarov had taken a flight to Brussels the next morning, as he had told the concierge, although the police found that he had purchased the ticket days before, not on short notice as he’d told Yves Collard.
         Inquiries had been made at T-Mobile about any possibility someone fitting the description of the man posing as a technician actually worked at the company, but the response was negative. A T-Mobile shirt and a fake work order would have been easy enough to come by or create.
         Borel was in contact with David, who assumed there were no fingerprints in Room 702 but inquired about strands of hair, but nothing had been found.  The fumigation of the building had begun immediately after the incident, so it was difficult to prove that the virus was introduced through the air duct in Room 702. Borel admitted he had no leads at all. No one had seen the technician, aside from Yves Collard and Bazarov.
         Then someone did. Yves was sitting at Brasserie de Prés on Boulevard Saint-Germain (right) finishing his lunch when he saw a man sitting down at another brasserie across the street. It was the technician—the man’s face had been in Yves’s head for days—dressed in jeans and a sweater. Yves positioned himself in his chair so as not to be recognized, looking at the bistro’s window reflection to watch the man, who had just been brought a menu by the waiter. Clearly the man was going to be staying put for some time. Yves dialed the number Borel had given him and told him what he saw, and Borel told him to keep his eye on him and that police would be there immediately. Yves then called David’s number and told him what was happening. David asked for the address and said he and Katie would try to get to the scene without alerting the man.
         Minutes seemed to creep by agonizingly slowly. The man was nibbling on bread and sipping from his water glass. Then, without horns blaring, a police van pulled up to the brasserie, hiding the man from Yves’s view, but within seconds he could see the police had him in handcuffs and were placing him in the back of the van. Within ten seconds the van was gone, leaving behind two policemen at the brasserie to quell the commotion. The owner came out and the police began calming him down then asked him questions about the man.
         A police car came to a quick stop and Borel got out, first speaking with the two policemen then crossing the street to where Yves sat, telling him this was a wonderful coincidence. A few minutes later Katie and David arrived by taxi, hailing Borel and Yves.
         “This is fantastic news!” said Katie.
         “I just looked over and there he was,” said Yves. “I could not believe my eyes.”
         David well knew that much of the time sheer coincidence was the biggest factor in locating suspects, like their running a stop light.
        “And  you don’t think he was waiting there for someone?” asked David.
         “I don’t know, but by the time the police arrived he had ordered his meal, so I don’t think so. If someone else was to meet him, I’m sure he did not approach the table after seeing him arrested.”   
         Borel asked Yves to go over every detail, however small: Which direction did the man come from? Did he arrive by taxi or come out of the Métro? Did he seem to know the waiter? Do you think he might have recognized you? Then he asked Yves to come to the station to make a formal statement, asking Katie and David if they’d like to go along.
         By the time they arrived at the station Borel was receiving preliminary information on the man: His driver’s license gave his name as Charles Massot, 31 years of age, address 322 Rue de Pessac. A business card showed he was, in fact, a technician, but did not work for T-Mobile.
        Massot had been removed from the van after being read his rights and taken to an interview room with a one-way mirror, with Katie and David on the see-through side. The man’s handcuffs were removed. Borel entered the room and said, “You are in a good deal of trouble, Monsieur Massot.” (Katie translated as best she could for David.)
         “Why am I here?” asked Massot blankly.
         “I’m sure you know, but you are under arrest for introducing a virus into the air duct system of the Hôtel Anastasia on the night of April 3 that made many, many people very, very ill. Do you have anything to say?”
         Massot continued to look stoic but not belligerent.
         “I’m sure you want to know why we know you are the perpetrator,” said Borel, “and I assume you are not going to say anything without a lawyer, but here’s what we know.”
         Reading from a folder, Borel went into considerable detail about the events of the night of April 3, saying that Massot need not deny he was the fake T-Mobile technician because the video was very clear about that.
         “We also know that you were involved with a  Russian ambassador named Ilya Bazarov, who came to Room 702, which you had entered at 8:05 and Monsieur Bazarov joining you a few minutes later. At 9:07 you left the hotel and Monsieur Bazarov checked out at 9:15.”
         The man stayed silent, his hands flat on the table.
         “Now,” said Borel, “we will have you arraigned on charges, which may include murder if any of the victims dies from the virus. As I’m sure you know, because of diplomatic immunity, it may be difficult for us to arrest Monsieur Bazarov the way we arrested you, and he may even leave the country without our permission and we shall never see him again. Which would be very disappointing, because then everything would collapse on your head and your head alone, Monsieur Massot. I’m sure you’ll want to tell your lawyer that. But for now, we are finished. We’ll speak again soon.”
         From what Katie and David could see, Borel’s abrupt leaving the room appeared to shake Massot’s demeanor. He took his hands off the table, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Then the door opened and two officers came in to put Massot’s handcuffs back on, leading him out to a cell.
         “The strong, silent type,” said Katie.
        “He’d been prepped, in case he was arrested,” said David. “But Bazarov probably didn’t mention the diplomatic immunity part to him. Now Massot’s brain is going to start assessing his prospects. If he tells his lawyer the truth, the lawyer may try to cut a deal. Like I said, over here you’re guilty until you prove your innocence. Makes it easier to get a conviction. As they say around here, why bother to arrest an innocent person?”