Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  Thankfully, the Delgado apartment was on the west end of the city, not far from where Joe caught his cab. If he'd had a way to judge the distance, he could have walked it. But he was here now and had already saved a few minutes of time.

  Joe rang the bell and waited behind the wrought-iron gate while a maid in a white apron and elbow-length gloves descended the stairs. He told her he was a good friend of Mrs. Delgado's granddaughter, in Spain on travels, and was immediately let in.

  Maria Delgado was delighted to hear from an old friend of her youngest granddaughter. She insisted Joe join her for tea. He was pressed for time, but decided to go along with the protocol. The generous upstairs apartment was graced with finely sculptured antiques and pretty porcelain vases. Rich oil paintings hung from walls dripping with rosaries and skillfully rendered portraits of the Virgin Mary. Though Maria was frail, a quiet strength emanated from her coffee-colored eyes.

  She was happy to indulge him with tales of the old days. He already seemed to know so much of the story and Maria was proud her Ana had taken the time to share the details of her heritage. It was painfully obvious she knew nothing of Ana's disappearance, and, after seeing the way her eyes lit up at the thought of her granddaughter's many successes, Joe couldn’t bring himself to burden her with the unhappy news.

  He rose to leave, thanking her for her hospitality, promising to share the details of their congenial visit with Ana when next he saw her. As he passed through the foyer something odd struck him from the collection of photographs arranged on the low marble table by the door.

  'Con permiso?' he asked, requesting permission to examine the photos more closely.

  'Como no?' Maria answered, flashing him a feeble smile.

  He was drawn to one picture in particular. It was an old black and white photograph, probably taken during the late nineteen- forties, of a handsome U.S. Army officer and his stunning Spanish bride. The woman Joe recognized immediately as Ana's mother. Ana and the young Isabel shared an uncanny resemblance. But the soldier, the young light-eyed American...

  What was it about those eyes? Oh my God. And then Joe knew. Ana's father, Albert Kane, was none other than the very much alive George Cromwell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Albert Kane poured himself another drink from the bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table, and tilted the blinds. He studied the black waters of the Potomac from his fourteenth story window. If the builders had been honest about it, they would have labeled this floor number thirteen, he thought. Now that would have been appropriate. He downed his liquor, then reached for the bottle a second time. What a sham his life had been. Pretending to be dead, for Christ's sake...

  When the DOS slipped him into their Witness Displacement Program, they’d promised him all sorts of great things, including protection for his family and a limited term to his sequestering. But even after four years, there still seemed little hope of getting out.

  Carnova's men had been onto him, threatened to expose his double life. This would have jeopardized several top-secret operations in progress at the time. It was critical, the DOS told him, that his pivotal role in covert US operations not be revealed. The only way to ensure this would be to remove the threat of his exposure by having him 'die.' He would then be off the LPP's hook, and the DOS could redistribute his assignments before any security leaks gave way. It was the perfect solution.

  Perfect for everyone, that is, except for Albert Kane and his bereaved family. It had been an agonizing decision, and yet he knew what was expected. It was a question of self-sacrifice for the greater good.

  But what about his wife and two girls? Ana was barely out of college and just getting a promising start on a career in Washington. Emi, in grad school at Isa's old alma mater, George Washington, had recently wed a fine young man from the Midwest and was already expecting twins. Albert had been so proud of the two of them. Such smart, determined young women. Ana, he thought with a melancholy smile, was the image of her mother at that age, only taller.

  He had followed the lives of the Kane women from his hidden post within DOS. Once Kane became George Cromwell, his lifestyle changed dramatically. He was no longer allowed to travel or engage directly in covert operations. His role became that of a supervisor, overseeing the younger, more agile agents and analysts on their various missions. The post was interesting but, for a man used to being at the center of the action, restrictive. Still, being a Division Chief did have its perks, not the least of which was his ability to keep detailed track of his family's activities.

  The promised security for his family that had been part of the original deal was only kept up for the first year after Albert changed roles. Afterwards, the DOS determined his family was no longer in danger. It was a waste of taxpayer money to keep up the surveillance.

  He shook his head and swirled the melting cubes in his glass, rubbing his reddened eyes with the backs of his hands. Thank God Neal had agreed to handle the case for him. Of course, Mark probably didn't believe he had any choice, and Albert, as Cromwell, had decided to make no noises to the contrary.

  Mark was a sharp analyst with a keen sixth sense. Albert could think of no one he trusted more.

  He’d received word Mark had made contact in Madrid and was headed south to Jerez.

  Albert thought of Maria. Surely they won't consider...? No, I gave Mark strict orders, he tried to reassure himself.

  At least Isa didn't know about Ana. Poor Isabel, it would just be too much. Albert knew she was strong enough to handle anything, anything but this. No, there was no point in telling Isa; she’d already suffered enough.

  Albert recalled the serious, inquisitive girl Tom had persuaded him to meet.

  'She's perfect for you, Al,' Tom insisted. 'Beauty with brains to boot, just your style.'

  Albert hadn't been sure. For a young man of twenty-three, he hadn't dated much before the War. Romance was not in his nature. Books and intrigue were more his calling. But when he first met Isabel Delgado in that smoky Georgetown bar, he was immediately captivated by her intensity of spirit, her strong and challenging mind, her alluring Spanish smile. He remembered with fondness that silly way she insisted on calling him Lieutenant, despite the fact the War had ended and he had returned to his civilian uniform.

  'Please, Miss Delgado, call me Albert.'

  She looked at him with those big dark eyes catching the glow from the candle beside them. 'Of course,' she said shyly. So, proper and yet...

  'I think I need some air.'

  He leapt at the chance to get her alone. What he would do, he didn’t know. He was totally unprepared. He thought it over as they walked down Connecticut Avenue. She had her arm linked through his. There was a sweet perfume in her hair.

  Tom and Peggy were just ahead. He should lose them, he thought, inhaling the soft early morning air. This night was meant for two.

  Somehow they found themselves walking down a side street to a little bridge overlooking the canal. He was grateful for the cool mist blowing off the water. It dusted their faces and hid the perspiration on his brow. If only she knew how nervous he was, how badly he wanted to kiss her.

  The moonlight was dancing on her shoulders, shoulders begging for an embrace. He’d never felt so ill at ease, and yet so completely comfortable. He knew if he wrapped his arms around her, they’d find a place there, a place around her body where they belonged.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her then, awkwardly at first, but something came over him. Something that seized him from the inside out and poured every ounce of his being into his kiss. He was entirely hers.

  She pulled back in shock. 'Albert!'

  Indeed. What had gotten into him? The first woman in his life he could actually envision... But, wait. That wasn’t distress written in her eyes, nor was it anger. It was an invitation, a subtle beckoning that belied her words.

  He was apologizing still in spite of himself. 'If you can ever find it in your heart...'

  She reached her slender arms ar
ound his neck, stretching her slight body to meet the length of his own. Their lips met in a way that was impossible to tell who was at fault. This was one guilty pleasure Albert could savor the rest of his life.

  He started to pour himself another drink, then stood, abruptly changing his mind.

  All this time. All this time and there was still only one other person who knew.

  'Damn you!' he roared, slamming his short glass tumbler into the linoleum floor. 'Damn you, Albert Kane, and what you’ve become!'

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tom undid the top button on his pleated cotton shirt as he walked down the hall to the water cooler. He hadn’t wanted to bother the secretary.

  He filled a paper cup and leaned into the wall thinking. He’d stay a moment, just in case he wanted more. It was so damn hot in the tropics. He knew he should be used to it by now. But the humidity still made him sweat like a pig. It was embarrassing. He wished he could get by without an undershirt, but it would be unseemly for a man of his stature.

  He wondered how it was going in Washington. Knew it must be hell on old Al. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Carnova was dragging it out – toying with Albert, hedging his bets Kane was still out there. And, even if he wasn’t, Carnova figured the people at DOS owed Kane a reasonable allegiance. For all Kane had done, all he’d sacrificed, surely the Defense Department could muster a bit of compassion for his daughter. Perhaps it was worth something, something the LPP could use. That was the twisted reasoning.

  Al was steady, a seasoned pro. Tom had seen him finesse many an operation, even the sticky ones, with impeccable cool. But this one was different. It was personal. And one never could tell exactly how an operator would react when he was hit below the belt.

  Tom remembered the girls when they were young. They were beautiful children, with delightful manners and compelling smiles. Although the younger one, Ana, never smiled at him. He had a sense she didn’t trust him, although he’d never given her reason. It was like she had a sixth sense about his relationship with her father.

  Al had been so proud of her when she’d gone into international development. He and Tom had talked about the danger of Ana’s and Tom’s paths crossing some day, and Tom had gone to great lengths to prevent that from happening. Even after so many years, she might recognize him, and start to put things together.

  It had been a real stroke of luck when he’d been assigned the Ambassadorship in Ecuador. He’d been able to arrange it so Ana had to be in country throughout the Easter holiday. Al hadn’t wanted her there when the DOS subterfuge went down. She’s too smart to have in the house, he said. Just one more complication. Emi was married and living on her own. And Isa, well, she was simple enough to take care of.

  Tom remembered the first time he had seen Isabel Delgado. He’d gone to pick Peggy up for a date. The two girls were hurrying through the lobby of their dorm, their arms loaded with books.

  'Tommy!' Peggy said, breathless. 'I’m sorry. We lost track of time at the library. Here,' she said, taking Isabel by the elbow and shoving her in Tom’s direction, 'get acquainted with my roommate, I'll be down in a jiff.'

  Isabel smiled politely. 'How do you do?' she asked in flawless English. She was a polished girl, modestly dressed, but still beautiful in an understated way. If it hadn’t been for Peggy...

  Tom knew within minutes of talking to her that she was a gem. Intelligent, witty – with just enough sass in her eyes to make things interesting. He thought of Al, and all the Latin girls who’d been after him in the Caribbean. Not a one had turned his head. But Isabel Delgado had potential.

  'And where are you from, Lieutenant?' she asked.

  All the appropriate questions. 'South Carolina.'

  'Ah, Charleston is beautiful,' she said with a look of fond remembrance.

  'Yes, and the coast, the region I’m from, is grand. You’ll have to come visit–'

  She looked at him in a queer sort of way. '– with Peggy, of course,' he said.

  'Of course. I’d love to.'

  Just then, Peggy appeared in the doorway, all dolled up to go. Tom stood and took Isabel’s hand.

  'It’s been a real pleasure, Miss Delgado. I hope we’ll have the opportunity again.'

  As he and Peggy headed out the door, Tom turned to his date. 'You know, I never got the chance to ask your charming roommate where she’s from.'

  Peggy playfully poked him in the ribs. 'Now Tommy, you’re not getting any ideas?'

  He stopped and spun her around, kissing her firmly on the lips. After a long, lingering moment, he pulled back. 'Just one –'

  She laughed, and snuggled into his arm as they headed downtown. 'She’s from Spain, you big lug. Little town. Somewhere near Seville.'

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Joe led Neal through the cobblestone streets of Seville's old Jewish Quarter, the Barrio de Santa Cruz, asking directions as he went. They paused for a moment before the large wrought iron crucifix gracing the oddly shaped Plaza de Santa Cruz, where the uneven corners of the square met at strange angles. Joe took in the deep aroma of jasmine, the tiny white buds weeping through the cracks of the stone wall just ahead. What was it about that tantalizing smell? Of course – Ana. It was always in her perfume.

  Joe loved the smell of her, that delicious inviting spot just behind her ear. Why had it taken him so long to put it all together?

  They strode through the winding streets, geraniums from the balconies above bleeding color onto whitewashed stucco walls. To their left sat a modest outdoor bar with a smattering of low wooden tables. Joe was about to suggest they grab a drink, when he heard the low rumbling behind him.

  He swiveled his head just as Neal dipped his hand under his coat. Two young men on motorbikes thundered down the narrow alley.

  They were at an intersection, a convergence of myriad side streets in this completely pedestrian zone.

  'Split!' Neal cried, dashing off to his left.

  Joe cut a hard right and fled down the slender avenue, boot heels crushing cobblestone. His right shoulder was a blistering tear, the slug wounds from Costa Negra biting as his feet pounded rocky ground.

  The roar of the engine grew louder. He took another sharp turn. The hungry growl of the motorbike slid after him.

  Joe hit his first left, his chest pulling for air. Up ahead was a gate to a private patio, swung open to the street. He took a chance and lunged through the naked portal, pulling wrought iron to him as he went. The gate clinked shut. He slipped the metal guard into place and pressed his back against the courtyard wall. On the other side, he heard the angry acceleration escalate in his direction. The engine let out a roar as it shot through the narrow space. And then it was gone, taking with it the soft, low moan of retreating wind.

  Joe waited five minutes, then made his cautious return to the spot of their parting. It was an old operator’s rule. Back to the scene of the crime.

  It was a telling relief to see Neal stepping from the door of the modest two-star hotel. Joe had realized in Jerez that no one man could take this show alone. Now, if he only could get Neal to believe it.

  Neal carried a copy of a Spanish newspaper under his arm and walked casually up to where Joe stood beside an empty outdoor table. 'Give me the address,' he said out of the corner of his mouth, barely pausing as he paused to shake out his paper, obliquely scanning Section A.

  Joe didn’t look at him when he spoke. 'Better to get out of the Barrio.'

  Neal gently rattled his paper and began folding it meticulously in thirds. 'Not on your life. That’s just what they’d expect.'

  Finally, they arrived at the small pension. Joe motioned Neal over and rang the bell of the stucco rooming house, Calle Moreno '6' stenciled in black above the gated door. Joe had found the listing in Denton's address book and knew from the information penned there the duena was named Consuelo. This tidbit proved to be their entree.

  Consuelo at first eschewed the Americans, telling them it was Feria and por su puesto her roomi
ng house was full. But when Joe told her Denton had sent them with assurance they'd find a hospitable welcome, she’d relented. The only thing she had left, she told him, was a small washroom on the roof. It was not heated, but the night air in Seville was already warm. They would find two folding cots pushed into the corner behind the basin. She would bring their linens later.

  She led them up the narrow curve of the stairs to the roof. It would have been a tighter squeeze had they not lost their luggage to the cabby in Jerez. From the flat rooftop, the two men could see the prominent landmarks of the city sparkling in the mid-day sun.

  Joe noticed La Giralda, the old Moorish tower, and its adjoining Baroque cathedral were not far away. Glistening on the east bank of the River sat the thirteenth century 'Tower of Gold.' He had seen these things in pictures and postcards, but it was entirely different seeing them in person from this stunning bird’s eye view.

  Across the glassy sheet of water that divided the two Sevilles, old and new, lay a modern mix of business and apartment buildings. And just beyond the last flat-topped roof sprawled the barren soil of the fair grounds.

  Neal walked to the edge of the roof to get a better look at the distant men setting up colorful tents for the evening festivities. He’d said very little since Joe had told him about Cromwell.

  'Casetas,' Joe explained, breaking the silence. 'Each group of power players sets up its own. It's a privilege to get invited, or so I hear.'

  They watched as the small Ferris wheel was engulfed by blooming canvas houses.

  Neal spoke without turning his head. 'How tough do you think it'd be to infiltrate a tent run by the LPP?'

  'LPP?' Joe laughed. 'Hell, I'd be willing to bet those bastards are giving their tickets away!'