"Bob," Hood said, "I want you to set up whatever electronic recon you can on the deputy."
"It's already done," Herbert said. "We're getting on top of his office and home phones, fax lines, modem, and mail."
"Good."
"What do you plan on doing with Darrell and Aideen?" Herbert asked.
"I'm going to talk to Darrell and then leave the decision in his hands. He's onsite; it should be his call. But before I do I want to talk to Carol Lanning, see if State can give us the big picture of what's really going on in Spain."
"What do you think is going on?" Ann asked.
"Unless I miss my guess," Hood said, "the death of Martha and her killers probably weren't just warning shots."
"What were they?" she asked.
Hood looked at her as he rose. "I believe they were the opening salvos of a civil war."
NINE
Monday, 11:30 P.M. Madrid, Spain
During the months that Congress was in session, Deputy Isidro Serrador lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the very fashionable Parque del Retiro section of Madrid. His small seventh-floor rooms overlooked the spectacular boating lake and beautiful gardens. If one leaned out the window and glanced toward the southwest, Europe's only public statue of the devil was visible. Sculpted in 1880, the statue commemorated the only place where eighteenth-century Spanish ladies were permitted--by tradition, not by law--to defend their own honor in duels. Very few women had ever done so, of course. Only men were vain enough to risk their lives in order to reply to an insult.
Serrador was sitting in a divan and looking out the window at the lamplit park. He had come home after working on congressional business for the rest of the day, content in the knowledge that things had gone exactly as planned. Then he had taken a hot bath and briefly fallen asleep in the tub. When he got out, he turned on the oven to heat the dinner left for him by his housekeeper. He enjoyed a brandy while his pork shoulder, boiled potatoes, and chickpeas warmed. While he ate, on the hour, he would watch television and see how the news channel interpreted the shooting of the American "tourist." Then he would check his answering machine for calls and return them if it wasn't too late. He just didn't feel like dealing with people right now. He simply wanted to savor his triumph.
Watching the news, he thought, will be very amusing.
The experts would talk about the impact of the shooting on tourism without having any idea what was truly going on--or what was going to happen over the next few weeks. It was astonishing how little political and economic forecasters ever really knew. For everyone who said this, someone else said that. It was all just an exercise, a game.
His back was settled comfortably in the thick pillows and his bare feet lay crossed on the coffee table in front of him. The last of the brandy was settled comfortably in the back of his throat and reflections of the day's developments were resting comfortably in his head.
The plan was ingenious. Two minorities, the Basques and the Catalonians, would unite to take over Spain. The Basques would contribute their arms, muscle, and experience at terrorist tactics. The Catalonians would use their influence over the economy, winning political converts by threatening a massive depression. Once control over the nation was established, the Catalonians would grant autonomy to the Basque country, allowing those--like Serrador--who wanted self-rule to have it. And the wealthy Catalonians would continue to run Spain, keeping the other nonautonomous groups in check by controlling commerce.
It was ingenious--and foolproof.
The telephone rang a moment before there was a knock on the door. Serrador started as his reverie was interrupted--on two fronts, no less. Grumbling unhappily, the politician slid his feet into his slippers and rose. As he shuffled toward the telephone he shouted roughly for whoever was at the door to wait a minute. No one could come upstairs without being announced by the concierge. So he wondered which of the neighbors wanted a favor at this hour. Was it the owner of the grocery chain who needed to expand his stores? Or the Castilian bicycle manufacturer who wanted to ship more units to Morocco, the bastard. At least the grocer paid for favors. The bicycle maker asked for them just because he happened to live on the same floor. Serrador helped them because he didn't want to make an enemy. One never knew when the neighbors might see or hear something that could be compromising.
Serrador wondered why he was never visited by one of the beautiful concubines who lived here. There were at least three that he knew of, kept by government ministers who went home to their wives each night.
The antique telephone sat on a small drop-leaf table in the carpeted foyer. Serrador finished tying the red sash of his smoking jacket and picked up the receiver. Let them wait at the door another minute, whoever it was. He'd had a long and exhausting day.
"Si?" he said.
The pounding on the door grew more insistent. Someone outside was calling his name but he didn't recognize the voice.
Serrador couldn't hear whoever was speaking on the telephone. Annoyed, he turned from the mouthpiece and yelled at the door. "Just a moment!" Then he scowled down at the phone. "Yes? What is it?"
"Hello?" said the caller.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Ramirez."
Serrador felt a chill. "Who is this?"
"My name is Juan Martinez, senor," said the caller. "Are you Deputy Serrador?"
"Who is Juan Martinez?" Serrador demanded. And who is at the door? What the hell is going on?
"I'm a member of the familia," Martinez said.
A key clattered against the door. The bolt was thrown back. Serrador glared over as the door opened. The superintendent stood in the hallway. Behind him were two police officers and a sergeant.
"I am sorry, Senor Deputy," said the concierge as the other men entered around him. "These men I had to let up."
"What are you doing?" Serrador demanded of them. His voice was indignant, his eyes unforgiving. Suddenly, he heard the phone click off, followed by the dial tone. He froze with the buzzing phone pressed to his ear, realizing suddenly that something had gone terribly wrong.
"Deputy Delegado Isidro Serrador?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes--"
"You will please come with us."
"Why?"
"To answer questions regarding the murder of an American tourist."
Serrador pressed his lips together. He breathed loudly through his nose. He didn't want to say anything, ask anything, do anything until he'd had a chance to speak with his attorney. And think. People who didn't think were doomed before they started.
He nodded once. "Permit me to dress," he said. "Then I will come with you."
The sergeant nodded and sent one of the men to stand by the bedroom door. He wouldn't let Serrador shut it but the deputy didn't make an issue of it. If he let his temper go there'd be no getting that genie back in the bottle. It was best to suffer the humiliation and stay calm and rational.
The men took Serrador down to the cellar and out through the garage of the building--so he wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of being arrested, he assumed. At least they didn't handcuff him. He was placed in an unmarked police car and driven to the municipal police station on the other side of the park. There, he was escorted into a windowless room with a photo of the king on the wall, a hanging fixture with three bulbs in white tulip-shaped shades, and an old wooden table beneath it. There was a telephone on the table and he was told he could use it to make as many calls as he wished. Someone would come to speak with him shortly.
The door was shut and locked. Serrador sat in one of the four wooden chairs.
He phoned his attorney, Antonio, but he was not in. Probably out with one of his young women, as a wealthy bachelor should be. He didn't leave a message. He didn't want Antonio coming home and some talkative nymph overhearing the message. There hadn't been any press waiting outside so at least this was being done quietly.
Unless they were at the front of my apartment? he thought suddenly. Maybe that was wh
y the police had taken him out through the garage door. Maybe that was what the concierge had meant: These men I had to let up. The press often tried to get to people who lived in the building, and the staff was good about insulating celebrity tenants from reporters. And his telephone number was changed regularly so they wouldn't be able to bother him.
But the caller had had it. He still wondered who that was and what he had tried to warn him about. No one could have known that he was involved with the people who had killed the American. Only Esteban Ramirez knew that and he wouldn't have told anyone.
It occurred to him then to telephone the answering machine in his office. It also occurred to him that this telephone might be bugged, but that was a chance he was willing to take. He didn't have much of a choice.
But before he could place the call, the door opened and two men walked in.
They were not police.
TEN
Tuesday, 12:04 A.M. Madrid, Spain
The International Crime Police Organization--popularly referred to as Interpol--was established in Vienna in 1923. It was designed to serve as a worldwide clearinghouse for police information. After the Second World War, the organization was expanded and re-chartered to focus on smuggling, narcotics, counterfeiting, and kidnapping. Today, one hundred seventy-seven nations provide information to the organization, which has offices in most of the major cities of the world. In the United States, Interpol liaises with the United States National Central Bureau. The USNCB reports to the Undersecretary for Enforcement of the U.S. Treasury Department.
During his years with the FBI, Darrell McCaskey had worked extensively with dozens of Interpol officers. He had worked especially closely with two of them in Spain. One was the remarkable Maria Corneja, a lone wolf special operations officer who had lived with McCaskey in America for seven months while studying FBI methods. The other was Luis Garcia de la Vega, the commander of Interpol's office in Madrid.
Luis was a dark-skinned, black-haired, bear-large, two-fisted Andalusian Gypsy who taught flamenco dancing in his spare time. Like the dance style, the thirty-seven-year-old Luis was spontaneous, dramatic, and spirited. He ran one of the toughest and best-informed Interpol bureaus in Europe. Their efficiency and effectiveness had earned him both the jealous loathing and deep respect of local police forces.
Luis had intended to come to the hotel right after the shooting, but the events in San Sebastian had caused him to delay his visit. He arrived shortly after eleven-thirty P.M., as McCaskey and Aideen were finishing dinner.
Darrell greeted his old friend with a long embrace.
"I'm sorry about what has happened," Luis said in husky, accent-tinged English.
"Thank you," McCaskey said.
"I'm also sorry to be so late," Luis said, finally breaking the hug. "I see that you have adapted the Spanish way of dining. Eat very late at night and then sleep well."
"Actually," said McCaskey, "this is the first chance we've had to order room service. And I'm not sure either of us will be able to sleep tonight, however much we eat."
"I understand," Luis remarked. He squeezed his friend's shoulders. "A terrible day. Again, I'm very sorry."
"Would you care for something, Luis?" McCaskey asked. "Some wine, perhaps?"
"Not while I am on duty," Luis replied. "You should know that. But please, you two go ahead." His eyes fell on Aideen and he smiled. "You are Senorita Marley."
"Yes." Aideen rose from the table and offered her hand. Though she was physically and emotionally exhausted, something came alive when she touched the man's hand. He was attractive, but that wasn't what had stimulated her. After everything that had happened today she was too numb, too depleted to care. What he gave her was the sense of not being afraid of anything. She had always responded to that in a man.
"I'm sorry about your loss," Luis said. "But I'm glad that you are all right. You are all right?"
"Yes," she said as she sat back down. "Thanks for your concern."
"Mi delicia, " he said. "My pleasure." Luis pulled over an arm chair and joined them at the table.
McCaskey resumed eating his spicy partridge. "So?"
"That smells very good," Luis said.
"It is," McCaskey said. His eyes narrowed. "You're stalling, Luis."
Luis rubbed the back of his neck. "Si," he admitted. "I'm stalling 'big time,' as you say in America. But it's not because I have something. It's because I have nothing. Only thoughts. Ideas."
"Your thoughts are usually as good as someone else's facts," McCaskey said. "Would you care to share them?"
Luis took a drink from McCaskey's water glass. He gestured vaguely toward the window. "It's terrible out there, Darrell. Simply terrible. And it's getting worse. We've had very small anti-Basque and anti-Catalonian riots in Avila, Segovia, and Soria."
"All Castilian regions," Aideen said.
"Yes," Luis remarked. "It doesn't appear as if the police there are doing everything they can to prevent these outbursts."
"The police are standing along racial lines," McCaskey said.
Luis nodded slowly. "I've never seen such--I'm not even certain what to call it."
"Collective insanity," Aideen said.
Luis regarded her. "I don't understand."
"It's the kind of thing psychologists have been warning about regarding the coming millennium," Aideen said. "The fear that we're all going into it but most of us won't be coming out alive. Result: a sense of mortality which brings out panic. Fear. Violence."
Luis looked at her and pointed. "Yes, that's right. It's as though everyone has caught some kind of mental and physical fever. My people who have gone to those regions say there's a sense of hatred and excitement you can almost feel. Very strange."
McCaskey frowned. "I hope you're not saying that Martha's shooting is part of a mass psychotic episode."
Luis waved his hand dismissively. "No, of course not. I'm merely remarking that something strange is happening out there. Something I've never felt before." He leaned forward, toward the Egg. "There is also something brewing, my friends. Something that I think is very well planned."
"What kind of 'something'?" McCaskey asked.
"The ship that sank in San Sebastian was destroyed with C-4," Luis said. "Traces were found on some of the debris."
"We heard that from Bob Herbert," McCaskey said. He regarded Luis expectantly. "Go on. There's an 'and' in your voice."
Luis nodded. "One of the dead men, Esteban Ramirez, was at one time a CIA courier. His company's yachts were used to smuggle arms and personnel to contacts around the world. There have been whisperings about that for a while, but those whisperings are bound to become louder now. People here will say he was hit by American agents."
"Do you believe that the CIA was involved in the attack, Luis?" Aideen asked.
"No. They wouldn't have done something so public. Nor would they have been so quick to retaliate for the murder of your colleague. But there will be loud gossip about that in political circles. No one talks more than people in government. You know that, Darrell."
McCaskey nodded.
"And the Spanish people will hear about it," Luis continued. "Many will believe it and turn on Americans here."
"According to Bob Herbert, who I spoke with earlier," McCaskey said, "the Agency is as surprised by the attack on the yacht as everyone else is. And Bob always gets through the bureaucratic double-talk over there. He knows when they're bullshitting him."
"I agree that the CIA probably isn't behind this," Luis said. "So here is a possible scenario. An American diplomat is murdered. That sends a message to your government to stay out of Spanish affairs. Then the men who killed her are murdered. The tape recording tells all of Spain that the Catalonian dead and their Basque accomplice, Deputy Serrador, are ruthless assassins. That turns the rest of the nation against those two groups."
"To what end?" McCaskey asked. "Who benefits from a civil war? The economy is ravaged and everyone suffers."
"I've bee
n considering that," Luis said. "By law, treason is punishable by capital punishment and a seizure of assets. The taking of Catalonian businesses would help to distribute power more evenly among other groups. Conceivably, the Castilians, Andalusians, and Galicians would all benefit."
"Back up a moment," Aideen said. "What would the Catalonians and Basques gain by joining forces?"
"The Catalonians control the heart of Spain's economy," Luis said, "and a core group among the separatist Basques are highly experienced terrorists. These are very complementary assets if one is looking to paralyze a nation and then take it over."
"Attack the physical and financial infrastructure," McCaskey said, "then come in and save it like a white knight."
"Exactly. A cooperative effort supports intelligence we have had--not first hand and not enough to act upon--that they have been planning a combined action of some kind."
"How'd you come by this information?" McCaskey asked.
"Our source was a longtime hand on the Ramirez yacht," Luis said. "A good man. Reliable. He was killed in the explosion. He reported on frequent meetings between Ramirez and key members of industry, as well as regular trips along the Bay of Biscay."
"Basque Country," remarked McCaskey.
Luis nodded. "With frequent disembarkments by Ramirez. Our informant reported that a bodyguard always went with him, some member of his familia. He had no idea who Ramirez met there or why. He only knew that over the last six months the meetings increased from once-monthly to once-weekly."
"Is there any chance that your informant was double-dipping?" McCaskey asked.
"You mean selling this information to someone else?" Luis asked.
"That's right."
"I suppose it's possible," Luis said. "Obviously, some outside person or group learned what Ramirez and his people were planning and made sure that things went wrong. The question is who. To begin with, whoever stopped Ramirez and his group knew that the assassination of your diplomat was going to happen."
Balance Of Power (1998) Page 11