Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  There was a biting tear and the ripping sound of cotton. Then, mercifully, her world went black.

  Mark paused before the double flight of stairs to check his watch. Four o'clock. He was right on time. He scaled the large stone steps and passed under the original portico of the building. He entered the darkened Cathedral and stood in the vaulted shadows before the ornately bejeweled statue of Saint James. It was only a few moments before one of the other bystanders approached him.

  The man was short and squat, his voice high and lilting in defiance of his girth.

  'You come as a pilgrim to Santiago?' the dwarf began in an almost feminine voice.

  Mark nodded, silently appraising. If this was Diego, he was many things, but menacing was not among them.

  'I know you look for a woman,' he said. 'She waits for you at the shore.'

  He fumbled in the weave of his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

  'The way to the beach house is here. You bring us what we want, we give you the women.'

  Women? Mark unfolded the map in his hand. There was a spot circled in red on the northern coast. He had to verify. 'You have Ana Kane here?' he asked, tapping the wrinkled page with the tip of his index finger.

  The fat man twisted his lips in a perverted grin. 'We have the girl here, we have the mother there...' he said, throwing his inflated hands in either direction as he spoke. 'And, unless you deliver both Albert Kane and el archivo azul by sunup, the only way you'll get either woman back will be one piece at a time, by US mail.' The little man ended this last sentence with a demonic snort.

  Mark thought about going after him, of wringing that invisible neck with his bare hands, of beating this disfigured dwarf senseless. But then he saw the others waiting in the shadows – big lumbering men standing in the Cathedral's nave, their eyes upon him and Diego.

  He knew he couldn't risk it. He had to make it back to his hotel and call Washington. So he reluctantly let the disgusting midget go, cackling into the hollows of the near-empty Cathedral.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mark was unable to get a line through to the States for thirty minutes. He paced his room, considering his options. He had to reach Cromwell and warn him about Isabel before it was too late. And Ana. How was he to finesse her escape? It all seemed so implausible now.

  Finally the telephone rang. The hotel operator announced, 'Washington, DC, sir.' Mark waited impatiently as the phone buzzed on the other side of the Atlantic. On the fifth ring it was answered.

  'Cromwell.' The greeting was overwrought.

  'Chief, it's Mark.'

  'What's happened there? Did you meet with Diego?'

  'Yes, sir, and I have bad news.' Mark jumped right in. 'They've got Isabel.'

  For a moment Cromwell was silent. Then, 'Who? Where?'

  'The LPP. And they’re demanding your delivery, as well as the archivoazul, in exchange for Isabel's and Ana's safe return.'

  'That bastard Carnova!'

  Mark thought quickly. If Cromwell was really Albert Kane, then he had been the one to mastermind MILO II, and make an enemy of the Basque insurgents trying to block his effort at the time. Carnova was not a very old man, but still, if he’d started young, like so many guerrilla fighters do...

  'What exactly did Diego say about Isabel?'

  Mark hated the thought of passing it on. 'I don't know where she is, sir, but Carnova's men have threatened brutal deaths for both women, if you and the file are not handed over by sunrise tomorrow.'

  'Christ!' Cromwell bellowed. 'What time is it there?' 'Five o'clock.'

  'It's eleven here,' Cromwell said. 'I think I can still catch the New York connection and, with the time change, make it there by morning.'

  'Surely you're not giving in to their demands?' Mark asked, believing there had to be another way, but not knowing what that was.

  'What other Goddamned choice do I have?!' Cromwell yelled into the receiver.

  Mark remembered the unsecured line and guessed that Cromwell might be speaking for Carnova's benefit as well as his own.

  'No choice, sir. You're exactly right. Carnova has left you no other choice.' Mark paused to wipe the building perspiration from his brow. 'When shall I meet you?'

  'I'll be on the first available flight. Sit tight. I'll phone you from New York to let you know I'm on my way. And Mark –'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Come alone.'

  Mark hung up the phone, wondering just what Albert Kane's plan really was. The Cromwell he knew was a smart man with good instincts. He had been in the business a long time. Mark just hoped that Cromwell's personal involvement in the case hadn't skewed his judgement. But he had no way of knowing, so he stayed in his room and kept the information to himself, not wanting to involve McFadden in his unclear strategy. Besides, Cromwell had warned him to come alone, and he knew enough not to disobey that order.

  Joe was walking through he hotel lobby when Salvador lowered his paper. He set it down on the table in front of himself and poured some tea. When he lifted the lid of the sugar bowl, Joe was standing in his face.

  'And so we meet again, Mr. McFadden,' Rebelles said, not looking up. 'Care for some tea?'

  Joe sat impatiently beside him, declining the offer. 'How long you been here?'

  He dragged his soppy tea bag from its cup, coiling its string around his spoon to squeeze out the last few drops. 'Two hours, at least.'

  'And Neal?'

  Rebelles lifted three cubes from his saucer and dropped them into his tea. 'He’s your partner, not mine.'

  'Come on, Rebelles, don’t play cute with me. Where is he?'

  'I am only one man, Mr. McFadden.'

  'One man, or one of many?'

  He didn’t answer.

  'Last time I saw him, he was going for a walk,' Joe said. 'But that had to have been more than three hours ago.'

  'Mr. Neal’s in his room,' Rebelles said smugly.

  'What?'

  'I don’t like to repeat myself, Mr. McFadden.'

  Son of a bitch. 'Listen, Rebelles,' Joe said, scooting closer and locking the Spaniard’s knee in a dead man’s hold. 'I don’t appreciate playing games.'

  'Then, I’m afraid,' he said, wincing as Joe twisted then released his hand, 'you’ve come to the wrong place.'

  Joe tried Neal’s room, but was unsuccessful in getting anyone to answer the door. He pulled a credit card from his wallet and wrestled it into the door jam, wiggling the knob. The door popped open.

  Joe checked the notepad on the nightstand to see if it had been written on. It was clean. So was the wastebasket.

  Damn you, Neal. You fucking Kamikaze.

  He hurried down the stairs to the lobby where he found Rebelles still nursing his tea. He didn’t like the stinking bastard but, at the moment, he was all Joe had.

  Cromwell's 747 arrived at the Labacolla Airport under the blanket of night. Mark was waiting in a tan rental car. He stepped from behind the wheel to greet his boss, who was descending the gaunt metal steps of the plane.

  'Good to see you, Chief.' Mark stretched out his hand. Cromwell took it firmly, bringing his other hand to pat the back of Mark's grip.

  'Good work in finding Ana, son,' he said, as they stepped into the car, and sped off from the runway. 'Where we headed?' Cromwell asked, looking around at the darkened countryside.

  'To the beach, sir. I've got the coordinates memorized.' Mark looked down at the gold combination lock on Cromwell's leather briefcase. 'Did you really bring the file, sir?'

  Cromwell stared straight out through the windshield for a long moment before answering. Their headlights painted vertical yellow stripes on the narrow forest road.

  'Yes,' he said without moving, 'I brought the file.'

  Mark straightened his arms, locking his hands around the wheel. He didn't like the sound of this.

  'Sir,' he ventured after a pause, 'what about Isabel?'

  'I've got people on it. She'll be all right,' he said, trying to mask the emotion
in his voice.

  Mark shook his head in agreement, not wanting to voice an opinion.

  The gruff man, the lanky one with the pistol, pushed Isabel into Albert's chair. At his desk, she sat trembling, wondering if her husband's spirit could somehow see her, wondering if he knew.

  A second man stood stone-faced at the office door, keeping an eye on the front hall. Isabel could hear the third man upstairs, overturning drawers and rustling through the medicine cabinets. Suddenly the noises ceased, and the heavy sound of booted footfalls descended the curved staircase. The bearded man appeared in the doorway, pushing its guard rudely out of his way.

  A cool, yellowed grin broke the dark expanse of his facial hair. 'I have found the perfect thing,' he said, dangling Albert's worn razor between his thumb and forefinger. The other men laughed as the bearded one opened the metal instrument to extract its rusted blade. 'So fitting for you, princesa,' he said, approaching her, blade in hand. 'To die by your husband's instrument.'

  The man who had been by the doorway resumed his post with a question. 'Shouldn't we wait for instructions?'

  'Albert Kane will not act on threats,' the leader said. 'He will comply only when he sees the results of his deadly wavering.'

  'Where’s the beach house?' Cromwell asked, breaking the silence.

  'To the east of La Coruna, sir.'

  'La Coruna,' Cromwell repeated thoughtfully, 'and the Costa del Muerto.'

  'Sir?'

  'Costa del Muerto,' he said. 'The Galician Coast of Death, named for its lethal convergence of elements. The relentless tides and crosswinds have claimed thousands of ships and aircraft over the years.'

  Mark had seen from the map that La Coruna lay on a tip of land extending from Spain's high northwestern corner. It sat like a narrow finger pointing to the turbulent melding of the wild Atlantic and merciless Cantabric Sea.

  'Sir, I have a question,' Mark said, easing their car around a curve. Cromwell was silent, but Mark knew he was waiting. 'Is there a problem with McFadden?'

  'McFadden, son? Has he done something?'

  'No, sir. He’s been excellent. But when you asked me to come alone–'

  'It was the unsecured line. Couldn’t risk telling you any more.'

  Mark breathed a sigh of relief. His instincts hadn’t failed him after all.

  Cromwell adjusted the briefcase on his knees. 'We received a tip we’re working against a double-agent.'

  Mark thought immediately of Rebelles.

  'Someone working with the Catalonians, possibly one of their leaders.'

  Mark had heard of them. AlianzaIndependista de Catalunia or the AIC. There was momentum for revolution building in Catalonia. Rebels in northeastern Spain who wanted a separate state. Already their language was apart, many of their customs unique to that coastal region.

  'Barcelona?' Mark asked.

  'We think that’s where they’re headquartered, but aren’t sure.'

  Of course, the LPP was a rival group. Competing separatists vying to take over the northern segment of the country. Only maybe now, the north didn’t seem like enough. If the LPP could plan a royal coup, why couldn’t they? And if they had a way to secure the archivo...

  'Sir, we’ve been in contact with an agent named Salvador Rebelles.'

  Cromwell had started fiddling with the glove box, but stopped what he was doing and looked up. 'Define contact.'

  How could he put this without making Joe and him seem inept? 'He’s been helpful in eliminating the competition, sir.'

  'What competition?'

  'Whoever it is who’s been trying to take us out.'

  Cromwell finally got the lock to work on the glove box and jimmied it open. He felt along the inside of its hollow, reaching two fingers behind the tiny light bulb.

  Jesus Christ, what had he found?

  'Where’d you get this car?'

  'Sir?'

  'The car, Mark, quick!'

  'It was in Avilla. We’d had a close call on the road.'

  'What papers did you use?'

  'Second set. Naturally. After Denton–'

  'Damn,' Cromwell cried, slamming his back into the well of his seat.

  Mark was almost afraid to ask.

  'Homing device,' Cromwell said, staring out the window. 'Lined with plastic explosive.'

  Joe studied Rebelles as he lifted the small electronic device from the seat of his car. 'A bug?' he asked, fastening his seatbelt.

  'A tracking device, Mr. McFadden.' He flipped open a small electronic screen with map coordinates flashing around the perimeter. A pulsating red dot moved across a topographical area that looked like the northern coast.

  'I’ve got them,' he said, setting the sensor down on the seat and cranking his engine.

  'Don’t you think we’d better call for reinforcements?'

  'Not to worry, Mr. McFadden. All taken care of.'

  'How long since you’ve taken a roll?' Cromwell asked.

  Mark was doing his damnedest to keep his hands steady on the wheel. 'Sir?'

  'A roll, son, as in out of a moving car.'

  Mark got the feeling this was a very specific question.

  'When I tell you,' Cromwell said, 'I want you to turn this car north and set it in second gear.'

  Mark swallowed hard.

  Cromwell looked out over the ocean, judging each side-road as they passed it by. It was hard to tell in the dark. 'Next one, Mark. Up ahead!'

  There was maybe fourteen feet of gravel, then a brutal precipice colliding with the sea. 'That’s not a road, sir.'

  'Good God Almighty, Mark. I know it’s not a road. Turn!'

  Mark downshifted and slowly rounded the corner.

  Cromwell hit a button and locks sprung up on all four doors. 'Don’t forget your seatbelt,' Cromwell warned, throwing open his door and tossing his briefcase out onto the rocky slope. The gears strained as the car began picking up speed. Nothing but pure black sky lay ahead. Mark grabbed his handle and flung the door open wide.

  Wheels churned over spiraling earth, patches of tumbling sea grass coming into view.

  'Now!' Cromwell shouted.

  The two of them lunged from the car, seconds before it took a steady dive off the cliff and plummeted into the ocean.

  'Cono!' Rebelles smacked his hand against the box on the seat between them.

  Joe craned his neck, trying to see. 'What is it?'

  'We’ve lost the signal.'Rebelles frantically reset knobs and mashed buttons, dividing his attention between the box and the wheel. An oncoming car veered toward them and let out a furious horn.

  'Jesu Cristo, hombre!' Joe shouted. 'Get back in your lane!'

  Rebelles looked up and steadied their car on its course, then picked up his car phone. 'I need two squads,' he said rapidly in Spanish, 'something is wrong.'

  Mark and Cromwell ran their way to the nearest populated cabin. Fortunately, there was one less than a quarter of a mile down the main road. The white sedan parked out front was unlocked.

  'I’ll drive,' Cromwell said, tossing his briefcase onto the seat and getting behind the wheel. Mark climbed in as Cromwell pulled some wires from the base of the ignition and took out his pocketknife.

  The engine gurgled to life and Cromwell hit the gas, just as lights appeared in the window of the house.

  The grenadine sun peered over the horizon.

  'Buckle up!' Cromwell shouted. 'This is going to be a bumpy ride.'

  They took off with a jerk, then burned onto the Bay Road.

  In the purplish light, a blur of white-capped waves rolled and crashed into the rock-strewn sands. Modest brown houses whizzed by, their porches boarded to keep out the winds.

  'There, Chief!' Mark said, pointing. It was no more than a crude wooden shack at the foot of a hill sloping toward the sea. A few cars were parked outside, and there appeared to be movement within.

  Cromwell slowed the engine, gears howling in deceleration, then brought the humming car to a halt at the top of the drive.
r />   Isabel sat still, staring at the man with her deep black eyes. She recognized the insignia on his ratty olive uniform. How she loathed him, how she loathed all of them. They were animals. The resistance always was. Animals like the beasts who had forced her father and several hundred others to dig their own graves before shooting them point-blank in the head.

  The bearded one gave the order to a second man who was standing nearby with a coil of rope.

  'Tie her arms to the chair.'

  'You filthy separatist pig!' Isabel shouted at the man with the rope as he drew near, crowning her insult with a stream of spittle.

  The leader's face tightened.

  'Oh, so you're a brave one, are you? Well then, we'll just have to see how bravely you die.'

  Isabel's wrists were bound tightly to the arms of Albert's chair. The lanky man held the gun on her. But she knew shooting her would give them limited satisfaction. They were preparing a slow and excruciating death. She damned them all to hel with a searing look.

  'Let's see,' the bearded one said, lightly turning the blade over in his hand, 'shall we start with the left wrist or the right?'

  'Start with my left, you bastard pig! It will bleed faster, spewing your ugly face with real Spanish blood!' she fired in rapid Castilian.

  The man angrily crossed the room and seized her forearm. She clenched her fist, forcing her veins into position.

  'Whore!' he shouted, digging the raw edge of the blade into the soft underside of her left wrist.

  'Ah yes,' she said, the blood spurting from her veins, spewing the bearded man’s shirt with trickling splinters of red. 'Look closer, you worthless putamadre. Your yellow blood will never gurgle with such pure intent. You are polluted!' She laughed through gritted teeth. 'The fountain of my federalist blood marks your filthy body with certain defeat!'

  'Shut the witch up!' the man with the gun screamed, bringing his hands to his ears, the pistol now resting oddly against the side of his head.