Martha was here with a cover story known only to a handful of government officials. She had come to Madrid to help Deputy Serrador work out a plan to keep his own people, the Basques, from joining with the equally nationalistic Catalonians in an effort to break away from Spain. The Basque uprisings in the 1980s had been sporadic enough to fail but violent enough to be remembered. Martha and Serrador both believed that an organized revolt by two of the nation's five major ethnic groups--especially if those groups were well armed and better prepared than in the 1980s--would not only be enormously destructive but would have a good chance of succeeding.
If this were an assassination, if Martha had been the target, it meant that there was a leak in the system somewhere. And if there were a leak then the peace process was in serious danger. It was a cruel irony that only a short time before, Martha had been insisting that nothing must be allowed to interfere with the talks.
You know what's at stake....
Then, of course, Martha had been worried about Aideen's overreaction in the street.
If only that had been our worst roadblock, Aideen thought. We sweat the details and end up missing the big picture--
"Senorita?" the inspector said.
Aideen blinked. "Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
Aideen had been looking past Comisario Fernandez, at the dark windows. But she focused on the inspector now. He was still standing a few feet away, smiling down at her.
"Yes, I'm fine," she said. "I'm very sorry, Inspector. I was thinking about my friend."
"I understand," the inspector replied quietly. "If it would not be too much for you, might I ask you a few questions?"
"Of course," she replied. She'd been slumping forward but now she sat up in the chair. "First, Inspector, would you mind telling me if the surveillance cameras told you anything?"
"Unfortunately, they did not," the inspector said. "The gunman was standing just out of range."
"He knew what that range was?"
"Apparently, he did," the inspector admitted. "Unfortunately, it will take us a while to find out everyone who had access to that information--and to interrogate them all."
"I understand," Aideen said.
The inspector drew a small, yellow notebook from his coat pocket. The smile faded as he studied some notes and slipped a pen from the spiral binder. When he was finished reading he looked at Aideen.
"Did you and your companion come to Madrid for pleasure?" the inspector asked.
"Yes. Yes, we did."
"You informed the guard at the gate that you came to the Congreso de los Diputados for a personal tour."
"That's right."
"This tour was arranged by whom?"
"I don't know," said Aideen.
"Oh?"
"My companion set it up through a friend back in the States," Aideen informed him.
"Would you be able to provide me with the name of this friend?" the inspector asked.
"I'm afraid not," Aideen replied. "I don't know who it was. My coming on this trip was rather last-minute."
"Possibly it was a coworker who arranged it," he suggested. "Or else a neighbor? A local politician?"
"I don't know," Aideen insisted. "I'm sorry, Inspector, but it wasn't something I thought I'd need to know."
The inspector stared at her for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes slowly and wrote her answers in his notebook.
Aideen didn't think that he believed her; that was what she got from the disapproving turn of his mouth and the stern knot of flesh between his eyebrows. And she hated stonewalling the investigation. But until she heard otherwise from Darrell McCaskey or Deputy Serrador, she had no choice but to continue to play this by the cover story.
Comisario Fernandez turned slowly and thoughtfully to a fresh page of the notebook. "Did you see the man who attacked you?"
"I didn't see his face," she said. "He fired a flash picture just before he reached for his weapon."
"Did you smell any cologne? Aftershave?"
"No."
"Did you notice the camera? The make?"
"No," she said. "I wasn't close enough--and then there was the flash. I only saw his clothes."
"Aha," he said. He stepped forward eagerly. "Can you tell me what they looked like?"
Aideen took a long breath. She shut her eyes. "He was wearing a tight denim jacket and a baseball cap. A dark blue or black cap, worn with the brim in front. He had on loose khaki trousers and black shoes. I want to say that he was a young man, though I can't be entirely certain."
"What gave you that impression?"
Aideen opened her eyes. "There was something about the way he stood," she replied. "His feet planted wide, his shoulders squared, his head held erect. Very strong, very poised."
"You've seen this look before?" the inspector asked.
"Yes," Aideen replied. The killer had reminded her of a Striker, though of course she couldn't say that. "Where I went to college there was ROTC," she lied. "Reserve Officers' Training Corps. The killer had the bearing of a soldier. Or at least someone who was skilled in handling firearms."
The inspector made an entry in his notebook. "Did the gunman say anything to you?"
"No."
"Did he shout anything--a slogan or a threat?"
"No."
"Did you notice the kind of weapon he used?"
"I'm sorry, I did not. It was a handgun of some kind."
"A revolver?"
"I wouldn't know," she lied. It was an automatic. But she didn't want the inspector to know that she knew enough to tell the difference.
"Did he pause between shots?"
"I believe so."
"Was it loud?"
"Not very," Aideen said. "It was surprisingly quiet." The gun had been silenced but she didn't want to let him know that she knew that.
"It was probably silenced," the inspector said. "Did you see the getaway car?"
"Yes," Aideen said. "It was a black sedan. I don't know what kind."
"Was it clean or dirty?"
"Average."
"Where did it come from?" the inspector asked.
"I believe it was waiting for the killer down the street," Aideen said.
"About how far?"
"Maybe twenty or thirty yards," Aideen said. "It seemed to creep up along the curb a few seconds before the man opened fire."
"Did any of the shots come from the car?"
"I don't think so," she replied. "The only flashes I saw came from the one gun."
"You were behind the other victim, the postman, for part of the attack. You were very conscientiously attending to his wound. You might have missed a second gunman."
"I don't think so," she said. "I was only behind him at the very end. Tell me--how is the gentleman? Will he recover?"
"Sadly, senorita, he has died."
Aideen glanced down. "I'm sorry."
"You did everything you could to help him," the inspector said. "There is nothing you should regret."
"Nothing," she muttered, "except moving in that direction. Did he have a family?"
"Si," said the inspector. "Senor Suarez supported a wife, a baby son, and a mother."
Aideen felt her temples grow tight as fresh tears formed behind her eyes. Not only had she failed to do anything to help Martha, but her instincts to draw the gunman's fire had cost an innocent man his life. In retrospect, she should have jumped toward Martha. Maybe she could have put her body between the gunman and Martha or tried to pull the wounded woman behind the goddamn sentry booth. She should have done anything but what she'd done.
"Would you like a glass of water?" the inspector asked.
"Thank you, no. I'm all right."
The inspector nodded. He paced for a moment, staring at the floor, before looking back at Aideen. "Senorita, " he said, "do you believe that you and your companion were the gunman's targets?"
"I believe we were," she replied. She had expected the question and now she wanted to be very caref
ul about how she answered it.
"Do you know why?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"Have you any suspicions? Are you involved in any kind of political activity? Do you belong to any groups?"
She shook her head.
There was a knock on the door. The inspector ignored it. He regarded Aideen harshly and in silence.
"Senorita Temblon," he said, "Forgive me for pressing you at this time, but a killer is free in the streets of my city. I want him. Can you think of no reason that someone would want to attack you or your friend?"
"Comisario," she replied, "I have never been to Spain nor do I know anyone here. My companion was here years ago but she has--she had--no friends or enemies that I know of."
There was a second knock. The inspector went to the door and opened it. Aideen couldn't see who was standing outside.
"Si?" the inspector asked.
"Comisario, said a man, "Deputy Serrador wishes for the woman to be brought to his office at once."
"Does he?" the inspector asked. He turned and looked at Aideen. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps, senorita, the deputy wishes to apologize in person for this terrible tragedy."
Aideen said nothing.
"Or perhaps there is some other reason for the audience?" the inspector suggested.
Aideen rose. "If there is, Comisario Fernandez, I won't know that until I see him."
The inspector folded away his notebook and bowed courteously. If he were annoyed with her he didn't show it. He thanked Aideen for her assistance, apologized again for what had happened, then extended an arm toward the open door. Aideen left the room. The sergeant who had brought her inside was waiting. He greeted her with a bow and they walked down the corridor together.
Aideen felt bad for the inspector. He had an investigation to oversee and she hadn't given him anything to go on. But as Martha had pointed out, there were rules for every society and for every stratum of that society. And whatever the country, despite the constitutions and the checks and balances, the rules were always different for government. Phrases like "need-to-know" and "state secrets" effectively shut out otherwise legal inquiries. Unfortunately, in many instances--this one among them--the obstructions were necessary and legitimate.
Deputy Serrador's office was located a short walk down the corridor. The office was the same size and had largely the same decor as the room Aideen had just left, though there were a number of personal touches. On three walls were framed posters of the bullring of Madrid, the Plaza de las Ventas. On the fourth wall, behind the desk, were framed newspaper front pages describing Basque activities during the 1980s. Family photographs were displayed on shelves around the room.
Deputy Serrador was seated behind the desk when Aideen entered. Darrell McCaskey was sitting on the sofa. Both men rose when she entered. Serrador walked grandly from behind the desk, his arms outstretched and a look of deep sympathy on his face. His brown eyes were pained under his gray eyebrows. His high, dark forehead was creased beneath his slicked-back white hair and his wide mouth was downturned. His soft, large hands closed gently around Aideen's.
"Ms. Marley, I am so, so sorry," he said. "Yet in my grief I am also relieved that you are unharmed."
"Thank you, Mr. Deputy," Aideen said. She looked at McCaskey. The short, wiry, prematurely gray Deputy Assistant Director was standing stiffly, his hands folded in front of his groin. He was not wearing the kind of diplomatic sympathy that was all over Serrador: his expression was grave and tight. "Darrell," she said. "How are you?"
"I've been better, Aideen. You all right?"
"Not really," she said. "I blew it, Darrell."
"What do you mean?"
"I should have reacted ... differently," Aideen said. Emotion caused her to choke. "I saw what was happening and I blew it, Darrell. I just blew it."
"That's insane," McCaskey said. "You're lucky you were able to get out of the way at all."
"At the expense of another man's life--"
"That was unavoidable," McCaskey said.
"Mr. McCaskey is correct," Serrador said. He was still holding her hands within his. "You mustn't do this to yourself. These things are always much clearer in--what do you call it? Hindsight."
"That's what we call it," McCaskey said with barely concealed irritation. "Everything is always much clearer after the fact."
Aideen gave McCaskey a questioning look. "Darrell, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing except that Deputy Serrador is disinclined to hold any discussions at the moment."
"What?" Aideen said.
"It would be most inappropriate," Serrador stated.
"We don't agree," McCaskey replied. He looked at Aideen. "Deputy Serrador says that the arrangement was made with Martha. That it was her experience and her ethnic background that enabled him to convince the Basques and Catalonians to consider possible U.S. mediation."
Aideen regarded Serrador. "Martha was a respected and highly skilled diplomat--"
"A remarkable woman," Serrador said with a flourish.
"Yes, but as gifted a negotiator as Martha was, she was not indispensible," Aideen went on.
Serrador stepped back. His expression was disapproving. "You disappoint me, senorita."
"Do I?"
"Your colleague has just been murdered!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Deputy," Aideen said, "but the issue is not my sense of occasion--"
"That is true," said Serrador. "The issues are experience and security. And until I'm convinced that we have both, the talks will be postponed. Not canceled, Senor McCaskey, Senorita Marley. Merely delayed."
"Deputy Serrador," McCaskey said, "you know as well as I that there may not be time for a delay. Before Ms. Marley arrived I was telling you about her credentials, trying to convince you that the talks can go ahead. Ms. Marley has experience and she isn't timid, you can see that."
Serrador looked disapprovingly at the woman.
"We can carry on," McCaskey said. "As for security, let's assume for the moment that word of this meeting did get out. That Martha was the target of an assassination. What does that mean? That someone wants to scare away American diplomats. They want to see your nation come apart."
"Perhaps the goal isn't even a political one," Aideen said. "Martha thinks--Martha thought that perhaps someone is hoping to make money on an armed secession."
Serrador cleared his throat. He looked away at his desk.
"Mr. Deputy, please," McCaskey said. "Sit down with us. Tell us what you know. We'll take the information back with us and help you put a plan in place before it's too late."
Serrador shook his head slowly. "I have already spoken with my allies in the Congress. They are even more unwilling than I am to involve you now. You must understand, Senor McCaskey. We were talking with the various separatist parties before this--and we will do so again. It was my personal hope that if the United States could be brought into the discussions unofficially, and the leaders of both sides could be persuaded to make concessions, Spain could be saved. Now I'm afraid we'll have to try and solve the problem internally."
"And how do you think that will end?" Aideen demanded.
"I don't know," Serrador replied. "I only know, regrettably, how your association with this process must end."
"Yes," she said. "Thanks to the death of one who was brave enough to lead ... and the retreat of one who wasn't."
"Aideen!" McCaskey said.
Serrador held up a hand. "It's all right, Senor McCaskey. Senorita Marley is overwrought. I suggest you take her back to the hotel."
Aideen glared at the deputy. She wasn't going to be bullied into silence and she wasn't going to do an end run. She just wasn't.
"Fine," she said. "Play it cautiously, Mr. Deputy. But don't forget this. When I dealt with revolutionary factions in Mexico the results were always the same. The government inevitably relied on muscle to crush the rebels. But it was never enough to destroy them completely, of course, and the insurrectionists went und
erground. They didn't flourish but they didn't die. Only people who were caught in the crossfire died. And that's what's going to happen here, Deputy Serrador. You can't tamp down centuries of resentment without a very big boot."
"Ah. You have a crystal ball?"
"No," she replied sharply. "Just some experience in the psychology of oppression."
"In Mexico," Serrador pointed out. "Not in Spain. You'll find that the people are not just--what do you call them? Haves and have-nots. They are also passionate about their heritage."
"Aideen," McCaskey said, his voice stern, edgy. "That's enough. No one knows what's going to happen anywhere. That's what these meetings were supposed to be about. They were supposed to be fact-finding, sharing ideas, a chance to find a peaceful resolution to the tensions."
"And we may yet have those explorations," Serrador said, once again the diplomat. "I mean no disrespect to the loss of your colleague but we've lost just one opportunity. There will be other ways to avoid spilling blood. Our immediate concern is to find out who was responsible for this crime and how the information got out of my office. Then--we will see."
"That could take weeks, months," McCaskey said.
"While haste, Senor McCaskey, may cost us more lives."
"I'm willing to take that risk," Aideen muttered. "The cost of retreat and inactivity may be much higher."
Serrador walked behind the desk. "Prudence is neither of those." He pressed a button on the telephone. "I sought the help of the distinguished Senorita Mackall. She has been taken from us. I sought and may still seek the help of the United States. Is that still available, Senor McCaskey, should I call on it?"
"You know it is, Mr. Deputy," McCaskey answered.
Serrador dipped his head. "Gracias."
"De nada," McCaskey replied.
The door opened. A young aide in a dark suit took a step into the office. He stood with his arms stiffly at his sides.
"Hernandez," said the deputy, "please take our guests out through the private entrance and tell my driver to see that they get safely back to their hotel." He looked at McCaskey. "That is where you wish to go?"
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