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Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power

Page 16

by Balance of Power [lit]


  Committee pretty much on her own. But

  Op-Center's attorney Lowell Coffey knew

  his way around the group and would give Plummer an

  assist as needed.

  "Is there anything else?" Hood asked.

  The men shook their heads. Hood thanked them and they

  agreed to meet again at six-thirty, just before the

  BALANCE OF POWER 155

  night shift came on. Though the day team officially

  remained in charge as long as they were on the

  premises, the presence of the backups allowed them

  to get rest if the situation dragged on through the night.

  Until things stabilized or got so far out of

  control that crisis management gave way to open

  war. Hood felt it was his duty to be onsite.

  My duty,

  he thought. Everyone had a different idea about what

  duty was and to whom allegiance was owed. To Hood, the

  bottom line was that he owed it to his country. He'd

  felt that way ever since he first watched Davy

  Crockett die at the Alamo on a Walt

  Disney TV show. He'd felt that when he watched

  the astronauts fly into space on TV during

  Project Mercury, Project Gemini, and

  Project Apollo. Without that kind of devotion and

  sacrifice there was no nation. And without a safe and

  prosperous nation the kids had no future.

  The trick was not so much convincing Sharon of that. She was

  a smart, smart lady. The trick was convincing her that

  his sacrifice mattered.

  He couldn't let it rest. Against his better judgment

  Hood picked up the phone and called home.

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, 12:24 a.m. Madrid, Spain

  Isidro Serrador's small eyes were like stones as

  he watched the men walk into the room.

  The congressional deputy was nervous and wary. He was

  unsure why he had been brought to the police station and

  had no idea what to expect. Had they somehow

  connected him with the death of the American diplomat?

  The only ones who knew were Esteban Ramirez and

  his comrades. And if they betrayed him he'd betray

  them right back. There was no point to that.

  Serrador didn't recognize these men. He

  knew from the chevrons on the sleeves of the sharp

  brown uniforms that one was an army general and the other was

  a major general. He knew from the general's

  swarthy coloring, dark hair, flat black eyes,

  and lithe build that he was of Castilian ancestry.

  The major general stopped several paces away.

  When the general was finally near enough so that Serrador could

  read the white letters on the small black name-tag

  attached to his breast pocket he knew his name:

  amadori.

  Amadori raised a white-gloved hand. Without

  turn

  BALANCE OF POWER 157

  ing, he motioned crisply toward the major

  general. The officer set an audiotape player

  on the table. Then he left, shutting the door behind

  him.

  Serrador looked up at Amadori. He couldn't

  read anything in the general's face. It was set

  perfectly and inexpressively. All formal lines

  like the creases in his uniform.

  "Am I under arrest?" Serrador finally asked,

  quietly.

  "You are not." Amadori's voice and manner were

  rigid-just like his lean face, like his unwrinkled

  uniform, like the taut, creaking leather of his new

  boots and twin holsters.

  "Then what's going on?" Serrador demanded,

  feeling bolder now. " "What is an army

  officer doing at the police station? And what is this?"

  He flicked a fat finger disdainfully at the tape

  recorder. "Am I being interrogated for something? Do

  you expect me to say something important?"

  "No," Amadori answered. "I expect you

  to listen."

  "To what?"

  "To a recording that was broadcast on the radio a

  short time ago." Amadori stepped closer to the

  table. "When you're finished, you will have the

  choice of walking out of here or using this." He

  removed the Llama M-82 DA pistol, a 9

  X 19mm Parabellum. He tossed it

  casually to Serrador, who caught it

  automatically, noted that there was no clip in it, and

  set it on the table between them.

  There was a sudden queasiness in Serrador's groin.

  "Use that?" he said. "Are you insane?"

  "Listen to the tape," Amadori said. "And when

  158 OP-CENTER

  you do, keep in mind that the men you hear have joined the

  American diplomat in the abode of the blessed. You

  are apparently a dangerous man to know. Deputy

  Serrador." Amadori stepped closer and smiled

  for the first time. He leaned toward Serrador and spoke

  in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "Keep

  this in mind as well. Your attempt to capture the

  government of Spain has failed. Mine will not."

  "Yours," Serrador said warily.

  Amadori's thin smile broadened. "A

  Castilian plan."

  "Let me join you," Serrador said urgently.

  "I am Basque. Those other men, the

  Catalonians-they never wanted me to be part of their

  plan. I was convenient because of my position.

  I was an expediter, not an equal. Let me work

  with you."

  "There is no place for you," Amadori said

  coldly.

  "There must be. I'm well connected. Powerful."

  Amadori straightened and tugged down the hem of his

  jacket. He nodded toward the tape player. "You

  were," he said.

  Serrador looked at the machine. Perspiration

  collected under his arms and along his upper lip. He

  jabbed a thick finger at the play button.

  "What of the driver in Madrid?"

  he heard someone say. It sounded like Carlos

  Saura, head of Banco Modemo.

  "Is he leaving Spain as well?"

  " "No. The driver works for Deputy

  Serrador.""

  That was Esteban Ramirez, the bastard. Serrador

  listened for a few moments more as the men on the tape

  talked about the car and about the deputy being a

  Basque.

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  An

  ambitious

  Basque and willing to do anything to further the

  cause and himself.

  The stupid, careless bastard,

  Serrador thought. He stopped the machine and folded

  his hands. He looked up at Amadori. "This is

  nothing," Serrador said. "Don't you see? This is

  designed to discredit me because of my heritage. It's

  blackmail."

  "The men did not know they were being taped," Amadori

  informed him. " "And your driver has already confessed

  to his part in exchange for immunity from

  prosecution."

  "Then he lies," Serrador said dismissively.

  A plug of something caught in his throat. He

  swallowed it. "I still have a strong and loyal

  constituency. I'll beat this."

  Amadori's smile returned. "No, you

  won't."

  "You unremarkable

  pig!"

  Serrador flu
shed as fear shaded to indignation. "Who

  are you?" It was a slur, not a question. "You bring me

  here late at night and you force me to listen to a tape

  recording of questionable merit. Then you call me a

  traitor. I will fight for my life and for my

  honor. You won't win this."

  Amadori smirked. "But I already have won." He

  stepped back, drew his own gun, and held his arm out

  straight. The pistol was pointed down at

  Serrador's forehead.

  "What are you talking about?" Serrador demanded. His

  stomach was liquid. Sweat glistened across his forehead

  now.

  "You took the gun from me," Amadori said. "You

  threatened me with it."

  "What?"

  Serrador looked at the gun. And then he

  160 OP-CENTER

  realized what had happened, why he had been brought

  here.

  Serrador was right. He could very well have argued that the

  Catalonians had set him up. That they'd bribed

  his driver to testify against him. Had he been allowed

  to defend himself he might have persuaded people that he

  wasn't involved in the death of the American. With the

  help of a clever attorney he might have convinced a

  court that he was being framed. That this was an attempt

  to turn people against him and his Basque supporters.

  After all, Ramirez and the others were dead. They

  couldn't defend themselves.

  But that wasn't what Amadori wanted.

  He needed Serrador to be what he really was: a

  Basque who had joined with the Catalonians

  to overthrow the government of Spain. Amadori needed

  a Basque traitor for his plans.

  "Wait a minute-please," Serrador said.

  The deputy's frightened eyes turned toward the gun

  on the table. He had touched it. That was something else

  the general had needed. His fingerprints on the damn-

  The general pulled the trigger. The slightly turned

  head of Deputy Isidro Serrador snapped

  back as the bullet pierced his temple. He was

  dead before his brain could process the pain, before the sound

  of the blast reached his ears.

  The force of the impact knocked Serrador backward

  onto the floor. Even before the sound of the shot had

  died, Amadori had picked up the gun from the table,

  inserted a full clip, and placed it on the floor

  beside Serrador. He stood for a moment and watched as

  BALANCE OF POWER 161

  Serrador's dark blood formed a red halo under his

  head.

  A moment later the general's aides and police

  officers crowded into the small room. A beefy

  police inspector stood behind him.

  " "What happened?"'" the inspector

  demanded.

  Amadori bolstered his pistol. "The deputy

  grabbed my gun," he said calmly, pointing to the

  weapon on the floor. "I was afraid that he might

  try to take hostages or escape."

  The police inspector looked from the body

  to Amadori. "Sir, this matter will have to be

  investigated."

  Amadori's face was impassive.

  "Where will you be-for questioning?" the inspector asked.

  "Here," Amadori replied. "In Madrid. With

  my command."

  The inspector turned to the men behind him. "Sergeant

  Blanco? Telephone the commissioner and let him know

  what has happened. Tell him I await further

  instructions. Let his office handle the press.

  Sergeant Sebares? Notify the coroner. Have him

  come to handle the body."

  Both men saluted and left the room. Amadori

  turned and walked slowly after them. He was followed

  by the major general.

  He was also followed by the stares of men who clearly

  feared him, whether they believed his story or not. Men

  who apparently sensed that they had just witnessed a

  purge. Men who had watched a military

  general take the first, bold steps to becoming a

  military dictator.

  FOURTEEN

  Tuesday, 2:00 a.m. Madrid, Spain

  Maria Comeja was already waiting in a dark, grassy

  corner of the airfield when Aideen, Luis

  Garcia de la Vega, and Darrell McCaskey

  arrived in an unmarked Interpol car. The

  helicopter that would ferry them north was idling some

  two hundred yards away on the tarmac.

  Air traffic was extremely light. In his speech

  to the nation in six hours, the prime minister would

  announce that flights to and from Madrid were going to be

  cut by sixty-five percent in order to ensure the

  security of planes leaving the airport. But

  foreign governments had been informed of the plan

  shortly after midnight and flights were already being

  canceled or rerouted.

  Aideen had gone back to her hotel room and

  pulled together some clothes and tourist

  accoutrements-including her camera and Walkman

  tape recorder, both of which could be used for

  reconnaissance. Then she went to Interpol

  headquarters with Luis while McKaskey phoned

  Paul Hood. Luis reviewed maps

  of the region in addition to briefing her on the character of the

  people up north and providing her with up-to-the-

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  minute intelligence. Then they went back to the

  hotel, collected McCaskey-who had obtained

  an okay from Hood for Aideen's participation in the

  mission-and drove out to the airport.

  Aideen didn't know what to expect from Maria.

  Little had been said about her, apart from the brief

  exchange in the hotel room. She didn't know

  whether she'd be welcomed or whether being an

  American and a woman would work for her or against her.

  Maria had been sitting astride her ten-speed

  bicycle, smoking. Flicking the cigarette onto

  the asphalt, she dropped the kickstand of the

  bicycle. She walked over slowly, with an

  athlete's easy grace. She stood about

  five-foot-seven but seemed taller because of the way

  she held her square jaw high: high and set. Her

  long brown hair hung down her neck, the fine

  strands stirred by the wind. The top two buttons of

  her denim shirt were open over her green wool

  sweater and the bottoms of her tight jeans were tucked

  into well-worn cowboy boots. Her blue eyes

  swept past Luis and Aideen and came

  to rest on McCaskey.

  His

  "Buenas noches,""

  she said to him in a husky voice.

  Aideen didn't know whether that was intended as a

  greeting or a dismissal. Obviously

  McCaskey wasn't sure either. He stood

  stiffly beside the car, his expression blank. Luis

  hadn't wanted him to come to the airport, but he

  insisted that it was his duty to see Aideen off.

  They watched Maria as she approached. Her eyes

  didn't flinch or soften. Luis put his hand around

  Aideen's arm. He stepped toward Maria, drawing

  Aideen with him.

  164 OP-CENTER

  " "Maria, this is Aideen Mariey. She works

  with OpCenter an
d was present at the shooting."

  Maria's deep-set eyes shifted to Aideen but

  only for a moment. She walked past her and stopped in

  front of Darrell.

  Luis called after her. "Maria, Aideen will be

  accompanying you to San Sebastian."

  The thirty-eight-year-old woman nodded. But she

  didn't take her eyes off McCaskey. Their

  faces were only inches apart.

  "Hello, Maria," McCaskey said.

  Maria was breathing slowly. Her thick eyebrows

  formed a hard, rigid line like a bulwark. Her

  pale, sensuously arched lips formed another. "

  "I prayed that I would never see you again," she said.

  Her accent, like her voice, was thick and deep.

  McCaskey's own expression hardened. "I

  guess you didn't pray hard enough."

  "Maybe not," she replied. "I was too busy

  crying."

  This time McCaskey did not respond.

  Maria's eyes ranged over him. Other than that,

  her features didn't change. It seemed

  to Aideen that the woman was looking for something. A man

  she once loved, memories to soften the hate? Or

  was she searching for something different? Something

  to revitalize her anger. The sight of arms, a

  chest, thighs, and hands she had once held and

  caressed.

  After a moment Maria turned and walked back to her

  bicycle. She snatched her grip from the basket

  behind the seat.

  "Keep this for me, Luis," she said, indicating the

  BALANCE OF POWER 165

  bicycle. She walked over to Aideen and

  offered her hand. "I apologize for my rudeness,

  Ms. Marley. I'm Maria Comeja."

  Aideen accepted her hand. "Call me Aideen."

  "I'm glad to know you, Aideen," Maria said. She

  looked at Luis. "Is there anything else I

  need to know?"

  Luis shook his head. "You know the codes. If

  something comes up, I'll call on your cellular

  phone."

  Maria nodded and looked at Aideen. "Let's

  go," she said and started toward the helicopter. She

  made a point of not looking at McCaskey again.

  Aideen slung her own backpack over a shoulder

  and scurried after her.

  "Good luck to both of you," McCaskey said to the

  women as they passed.

  Aideen was the only one who turned and thanked him.

  The Kawasaki chopper revved up as the women

  approached. Though they wouldn't have been able to hear one

  another over the din, Aideen found the bitter silence

  awkward. She also felt torn. As

  McCaskey's colleague she felt she should say

  something on his behalf. But as a woman she felt like

  she should have ignored him too-and, while she was at it,

 

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