"Incoming from Striker," Bob Herbert said.
He was manning the phone in Hood's office while Hood and Rodgers were on a conference call with National Security head Burkow and Spanish ambassador Garcia Abril in Washington. Attorney Lowell Coffey and Ron Plummer were also in the office.
The ambassador informed Washington that the Spanish prime minister and King had relieved General Amadori of his command. His forces were being turned over to General Garcia Somoza, who was being flown in from Barcelona. In the meantime, the local police forces--which included the elite Guardia Real from the Palacio de la Zarzuela--were being organized for a counterattack to take back the palace.
Hood took the Striker call at once, patched through from Interpol headquarters. He put it on the speaker. The radio silence had been nerve-wracking, especially since the spotters and satellite reconnaissance had reported shots and tear gas from different parts of the palace compound. He was also afraid the police would move in before Striker could move out.
"Home run," August said as soon as Hood was on. "We're out of the dugout and back in the street."
There were smiles around the room and fists raised in triumph. Rodgers informed Burkow and Ambassador Abril.
"Excellent," Hood said enthusiastically. Since Striker was out in the open, August would be forced to give his report in the baseball code they'd arranged. "Injuries?"
"A minor sprain," said August. "But we have a problem. The coach went in to get his lady. The lady's boss went with him. The coach is all right but the others are hurt. They should really see a doctor."
"Understood," Hood said. McCaskey was the coach. August was telling him that he and Luis had gone in to get Maria and that the condition of Luis and Maria was possibly life-threatening.
"One more thing," August said. "When we tried to pick off their ace player we got caught in a pickle. Coach was the one who ended up nailing him."
Hood and Rodgers exchanged looks. McCaskey was the one who had ended up getting to Amadori. That hadn't been the game plan. But if there was one thing Hood had discovered about his team--Herbert, Rodgers, and McCaskey in particular--they were very good at improvising.
"It's our feeling," August continued, "that the coach probably shouldn't stay in the stadium for any length of time. We don't really want the other team talking to him. Do you want us to try and get them out?"
"Negative," Hood said. Good as Striker was, he refused to send them back in without a rest--especially with a police force getting ready to move in. "Where are the coach and his people?"
"The coach is by the doorway at B1," August said. "The lady and boss are in seats V5, one and three."
"Very good," Hood said. "You did your job, slugger. Now go home. We'll talk when you get there."
Herbert had rolled his chair to the computer and punched in the map coordinates August had provided. He asked the computer for a satellite update of the spot. Stephen Viens had linked them directly to the NRO download and it came up in fifteen seconds.
"I've got visuals on Maria and Luis," Herbert said. He pulled back so he could see the entire courtyard. "I've also got about thirty soldiers getting ready to do something."
Rodgers updated Burkow and Abril. As he did, Lowell Coffey went to the coffee machine and poured a cup.
"Paul," Coffey said, "if Amadori's dead, those soldiers may not kill our people or anyone else. They'll hold them as hostages. Use them to bargain their way to some kind of amnesty."
"And they'll probably get it, too," Plummer pointed out. "Whoever ends up running the country won't want to further alienate the ethnic supporters these people may have."
"So if the authorities don't attack," Coffey went on, "we'll probably get everyone out in time--including Darrell. The soldiers don't gain anything by killing them."
"Except McCaskey," Herbert pointed out. "Colonel August is right. If the soldiers in the compound find out that he's the one who killed Amadori, they're going to want his blood. Bad."
"How will they know he killed the general?" Coffey asked.
"The security cameras," Herbert said. He brought up the map of the palace. "Look where he is."
Coffey and Plummer gathered around the computer. Rodgers was still on the telephone with Burkow and the Spanish ambassador.
"There are cameras at both ends of the corridor," Herbert said. "Darrell may have been taped. When they find the general dead, his soldiers may take the time to watch and see who did it."
"Any chance of erasing the tape with some kind of electronic interference?" Coffey asked.
"A low-flying aircraft with a directed electromagnetic burst could do it," Herbert said, "but it would take time."
Rodgers hit the mute button and stood. "Gentlemen," he said, "it's unlikely we'll be able to do anything in time."
"Explain," Hood said.
"Interpol informed the prime minister of Striker's success," Rodgers said. "The ambassador has just informed me that they want to move the police in now, before the rebel forces have a chance to regroup."
Herbert swore.
"What are their orders if the soldiers take hostages?" Hood asked.
Rodgers shook his head. "There aren't going to be any hostages," Rodgers said. "The Spanish government doesn't want to give the rebels--which is how they're describing them--a forum that will keep them center stage."
"Can't blame them for that," Herbert said.
"I can when one of my people is still in the compound," Hood said angrily. "We did a goddamn job for them--"
"And now they're marching down the road we paved for them," Rodgers said, "acting in the best interests of their nation. The job we were asked to do by the President of the United States was to help give Spain back to its elected officials. There weren't any guarantees, Paul, about how those officials were going to behave afterward."
Hood pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, then went to the shelf near the TV and got himself a cup of coffee.
Rodgers was right. Chances were good that the Spanish prime minister and possibly even the king wouldn't survive this debacle. They weren't acting in their own self-interest. They were trying to preserve Spain. And in the long run, that helped Europe and the United States. There wasn't a polarized nation on earth that would benefit if yet another country collapsed into smaller republics.
Yet it wasn't their actions that bothered him. It was their we'll-take-it-from-here attitude, now that the difficult work had been done. What about the lives that had been sacrificed to correct what had occurred during their watch?
"Paul," Rodgers said, "the Spanish government probably doesn't even know about Darrell's role in the action. They probably assume that Striker got in and out as planned."
"They didn't bother to ask."
"And if they did, nothing would be different," Rodgers said. "Nothing could be different. The government can't give us time to figure something out because they can't afford to give the rebels time."
Hood took his coffee back to the desk.
"I've faced these things before," Herbert said. "They suck. But Darrell isn't green. He'll probably pick up on what's happening. Maybe he'll be able to get himself and the others to safety until the shooting's over."
"I also informed Interpol about the situation," Rodgers said. "I didn't tell them about Darrell's actions. That can come out later, when--with luck--we'll have him back here."
"Yeah," Herbert said. "Then we can at least have some fun denying that he was ever even there."
"I told them where Darrell, Maria, and Luis are," Rodgers continued, "and that they need medical attention. Hopefully, the message will make its way through the bureaucracy."
Hood sat. "Probably, maybe, and hopefully. I guess there are worse words."
"A whole lot of them," Herbert said. "Like never, impossible, and dead."
Hood looked at him and then at the others. He was going to miss these people when he submitted his resignation--these good patriots and d
edicated professionals. But he wasn't going to miss the waiting and the grief. There had been enough of that to last him a lifetime.
He also wouldn't miss the loneliness and the guilt. Wanting Nancy Bosworth in Germany and Ann Farris in Washington. That kind of empty flirtation was never what he'd wanted his life to be about.
Hood found himself hoping that Sharon had had a change of heart--that maybe she'd decided to come back. And he had to admit that Herbert was right. Hope was a lot more satisfying than never.
FORTY-NINE
Tuesday, 12:57 P.M. Madrid, Spain
Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor, Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, "The alternative is not breathing and that ain't better." Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn't stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or--depending upon the caliber and proximity of firing--from causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself. He was worried about Maria. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori's uniform. But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn't speak Spanish. A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two--not worth the effort.
Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general's radio. McCaskey figured they didn't have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn't answering.
More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard. McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailen--and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once Maria left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she'd be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn't know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they'd be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they'd witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.
McCaskey decided that he was going to have to try to get to Maria and cover her as she left. As he was about to ask Ferdinand for his help, the Spaniard said something and offered McCaskey his hand.
"Is he planning to leave us?" McCaskey asked.
"He is," replied Norberto.
"Hold on," McCaskey said. He refused to take Ferdinand's hand. "Tell him that I need his help getting to Maria. He can't go."
Norberto translated for McCaskey. Ferdinand answered, shaking his head while he did.
"He says he's sorry," Norberto informed McCaskey, "but his familia needs him."
"I need him too!" McCaskey snapped. "I've got to reach Luis and Maria--get them out of here."
Ferdinand turned to go.
"Dammit," McCaskey shouted, "I need someone to cover me!"
"Let him go," Norberto said flatly. "We'll both go to your friends. They won't shoot us."
"They will when they realize that their leaders are dead."
There were loud footsteps down the hall. They were followed by gunshots. Ferdinand screamed.
"Shit!" McCaskey yelled. "Let's go."
Father Norberto's face was impassive but he hesitated.
"You can't help him," McCaskey said and started toward the door. "Come on."
Norberto went with him. McCaskey moved as fast as he could, each step bringing sharp pain along both sides. He tried to raise his left arm; a blinding flash stabbed his lungs and arched his spine. He switched his gun to his other hand. He wasn't as good left-handed, but he'd made up his mind that he was going to get to Maria--crawling if necessary, but he was going to reach her.
The two men stepped outside with Father Norberto between McCaskey and the soldiers. McCaskey stumbled from the lingering pain of having tried to lift his arm. The priest grabbed his left arm. McCaskey leaned on him gratefully. As he did, Father Norberto took the gun from him.
"What are you doing?!" McCaskey shouted.
The priest held the gun butt-up. Then he bent and laid it on the courtyard. "I am giving them one reason less to shoot at us."
"Or one more!" McCaskey cried as they continued walking.
He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about the soldiers shouting at them in Spanish. Maria was watching them from behind the base of the arch, her gun in sight.
There was a shot and a loud chink roughly a yard from Father Norberto. Stone chips flew toward them. One of them struck the priest in the thigh. He winced but continued walking.
Maria returned fire. One of the soldiers shot at her and drove her back.
The soldiers fired again. This time the bullet hit closer, just inches from the priest. It kicked up a fresh spray of stone. Norberto jerked toward McCaskey as several shards struck him in the side.
"Are you all right?" McCaskey asked.
Norbert nodded once. But his lips were pressed together and his brow was creased. He was hurting.
Suddenly, there was shouting behind them. It was coming from the direction of the palace.
"El general esta muerto!" someone shouted.
McCaskey didn't need Father Norberto to translate for him. The general was dead--and in a moment they would be, too.
"Come on!" he said, urging the priest forward.
But even as he did so, McCaskey knew they were never going to make it. Other soldiers picked up the cry. There were shouts of rage and disbelief.
Just then there was another sound. The sound of helicopters. McCaskey stopped. He looked to his left, toward the palace. The soldiers also looked over. A moment later six choppers flew over the southern wall. They hovered over the courtyard, blocking the sun and sending out an ear-splitting roar.
It was the sweetest sound McCaskey had ever heard. The sweetest sight McCaskey ever saw was what looked like police sharpshooters leaning from the open doors and aiming CETME assault rifles down at the soldiers.
McCaskey heard sirens along the avenues alongside the palace. Aideen and Striker must have gotten out and given the police enough intel to send in the cavalry--serious business cavalry.
McCaskey started walking again. "Come on, Father," he said. "They're on our side."
The dual air and land approach suggested to McCaskey that the police were waiting for the army to split up like this so they could pin both parts down. That would significantly weaken resistance.
McCaskey and Father Norberto finished crossing the courtyard as the sirens neared and the choppers held the soldiers back. McCaskey ached to embrace Maria. But in his present condition it would probably cost him his lungs. She was also hurt, and Luis needed attention.
"It's good to see you again," Maria said, smiling. "Did I hear correctly? About Amadori?"
McCaskey nodded as he looked at Luis. The officer was ashen, his breathing very shallow. McCaskey checked the improvised bandage. Then he took off his own shirt and began tearing it into fresh strips.
"Father," McCaskey said, "we have to get Luis to a hospital. Please--would you flag down a car?"
"I don't think that will be necessary," Norberto said.
McCaskey looked toward the street. A police car had pulled up to the curb and four men had gotten out. They were dressed in distinctive dark blue berets, white belts, and spats.
"The Guardia Real," Maria said. "The Royal Guard."
A fifth man got out as well. He was a tall, white-haired gentleman with a proud military bearing. He approached quickly.
"It's General de la Vega," McCaskey said. Then he shouted, "We need help here. Luis needs a doctor!"
"!Ambulancia!" Maria added.
The Royal Guard members began running toward them. One of them shouted something to Maria.
She nodded then turned to McCaskey. "They're setting up a mobile field hospital in the Plaza de Oriente," she said. "They're going to take him there."
McCaskey looked down at Luis. He finished bandaging the Interpol officer then took his hand and squeezed it hard. "Hold on, partner," McCaskey said. "Help's here."
Luis squeezed back weakly. His eyes remained shut. Father No
rberto knelt beside Luis to pray for him. The priest was obviously hurting. It was also obvious that he had no intention of letting that stop him.
A moment later gunfire erupted once again from inside the palace. McCaskey and Maria exchanged glances.
"Sounds like the government's playing for keeps," McCaskey said.
Maria nodded. "We're going to lose a lot of good people today. And for what? One man's insane vision."
"Or his vanity," McCaskey said. "I'm never sure which one motivates a dictator more."
As they spoke, the police arrived. Two men lifted Luis up gently and carried him toward the plaza. The general thanked McCaskey and Maria for all they had done, then ran after them. The other two Royal Guardsmen stopped and lifted Maria.
"An honor guard." She grinned.
McCaskey smiled and rose, assisted by Father Norberto. They walked alongside Maria as she was carried away. McCaskey felt a knifelike jab with every step he took. But he kept up with the guards. It was rare to get a second chance at anything, whether it was the opportunity to fix a wrong choice at a moment of crisis or to reclaim a lost love. McCaskey had experienced both. He knew what it was like to be tortured by events his indecision or fear or weakness had caused.
If Maria Corneja would have him, there was no way he intended to lose her again. Not even for a minute. The pain of blowing a second chance would be much, much worse.
Maria sought and found McCaskey's hand. A moment later her eyes found his. And at least one pain stopped when it became clear that she felt the same.
FIFTY
Tuesday, 7:20 A.M. Washington, D.C.
Though he hadn't slept much over the past twenty-four hours, Paul Hood felt surprisingly refreshed.
He had spoken with Colonel August and Aideen Marley when they returned to Interpol headquarters. The fate of Darrell McCaskey, Maria Corneja, and Luis Garcia de la Vega hadn't been known then--although General Manolo de la Vega had assured him that when the time was right, a police assault squad would be going in even if he had to kick each butt in personally.
McCaskey finally called from a field hospital only to say that they were all right. A more detailed report would have to wait until they were on a secure line back at Interpol.
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