by Tom Clancy
Nine lives, Hood thought. And for each of those lives there were maybe two, three, or four dependents. That was not a responsibility to be taken lightly. He examined the afternoon reports and saw that the situations were relatively stable and unchanged. He closed the file.
These foreign operatives counted on their files and their communications with Op-Center to be absolutely secure. They contacted Op-Center by calling a telephone number at an office in Washington, an office that rented space to executives. The number was registered to Caryn Nadler International Travel Consultants. The operatives spoke in their native languages, though each word they used was assigned a different meaning in English. “Can I book a flight to Dallas?” in Arabic could mean “The Syrian President is gravely ill” in English. Though the translation files were all dedicated, seven people other than Paul Hood had access to them… and also to the identities of the operatives. Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers were two of them and Darrell McCaskey was the third. Hood trusted them completely. But what about the other four people, two of them in Herbert’s office, one in McCaskey’s group, and one on Rodgers’s team? All of them had passed standard background checks, but were those checks thorough enough? Were the codes themselves sufficiently secure in the event that foreign surveillance picked them up? Unfortunately, one never knew the answer to that until someone disappeared or a mission was sabotaged or a team was ambushed.
There was peril in espionage and intelligence work. That was a given. For the operatives, the danger was also part of the excitement. Despite what had happened to Martha in Spain, Op-Center was doing everything it could to minimize the risks. At the moment, the shooting of Martha Mackall was being investigated by Darrell McCaskey, Aideen Marley, and Interpol in Spain. Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert were studying intelligence reports here and Ron Plummer was talking to foreign diplomats in Washington and abroad. Carol Lanning was conferring with State Department contacts. Whether it was NASA, the Pentagon, or Op-Center, the cleanups were always so damn thorough.
In retrospect, why didn’t the preparations ever seem as careful? Hood asked himself. Because it was retrospect, dammit. They had the luxury of hindsight to see what they did wrong.
What had they done wrong here? Op-Center had had no choice about sending Martha. After Av Lincoln had suggested her name and Serrador had approved her, she had to go. As for Aideen working as her assistant instead of Darrell — it made complete sense. Aideen spoke the language, which Darrell did not. Serrador had risen from a working-class family and so had Aideen — Hood thought that might help them. And even if Darrell had been there with them, that probably wouldn’t have helped Martha. Not if she was the target.
Still, Hood was ashamed that the system had failed on his watch. Ashamed and also angry.
He was angry at so much right now he couldn’t focus on any one thing for long. He was angry at the cavalier way in which a life had been ended. Hood abhorred murder for any reason. When he had first come to Op-Center, he’d read a closed CIA file about a small assassination squad created during the Kennedy administration. Over a dozen foreign generals and diplomats were executed from 1961 to 1963. The justification for the existence of such a team was politically valid, Hood supposed. However, he had trouble accepting it morally — even if lives were saved in the long run.
But that was the tragedy about Martha’s death. It wasn’t as if a despot had been removed to improve the life of others, or a terrorist had been taken out to prevent a bombing or shooting. Someone had gunned down Martha to make a point. A point.
He was angry at the Spanish government. They had asked for help with satellite surveillance, to watch terrorist activities, and they’d gotten it. But when it came to giving help they were less than forthcoming. If they had any information about the shooting they weren’t sharing it. What little information Op-Center possessed had come from Darrell McCaskey, who had gotten it from his sources at Interpol. No one had claimed responsibility for the killing. Herbert’s surveys of the airwaves and fax transmissions to government and police offices had confirmed that. The getaway car had not been found either by ground or helicopter surveillance, and the National Reconnaissance Office at the Pentagon had been unable to spot it by satellite. The Spanish police were searching for a cortacarro, the Spanish equivalent of a chop shop. But if the car had been driven to one, no one expected to find the vehicle before it was dismantled. The bullets were undergoing chemical tests to see if their point of origin could be determined. By the time they were traced, and assuming whoever bought them could be identified, the trail would be cold. Finally, McCaskey reported that the mail carrier who had died had no criminal background. He appeared to be an unfortunate bystander.
Hood was also angry at himself. He should have had enough foresight instead of hindsight not to have let Martha and Aideen undertake what amounted to an undercover operation without a shadow or two, someone to watch their backs. Perhaps the gunman couldn’t have been stopped but maybe he could have been captured. Just because the job was clean — an office meeting instead of open surveillance or espionage — he’d let them go in alone. He hadn’t anticipated trouble. No one had. The congressional security office had a solid reputation and there was no reason to doubt their efficiency.
Martha had paid for his carelessness.
The office door was open and Ann Farris walked in. Hood looked up. She was dressed in an oyster-colored pantsuit, her brown hair bobbed chin-length. Her eyes were soft and her expression was compassionate. Hood glanced back at the computer monitor just to look away.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Ann replied. “How’re you doing?”
“Lousy,” Hood said. He opened a file Herbert had transmitted about Serrador. “What’s doing on your end?”
“A couple of reporters have connected Martha with Op-Center,” Ann said, “but only Jimmy George at the Post has figured out that she probably wasn’t there as a tourist. He agreed to hold the story for a day or two in exchange for some exclusives.”
“Fine. We’ll give him the morgue shots,” Hood said bitterly. “That’ll sell a few papers.”
“He’s a good man, Paul,” Ann replied. “He’s playing fair.”
“I suppose he is,” Hood replied. “At least there was a dialogue between you two. You spoke and reason prevailed. Remember reason, Ann? Remember reason and talk and negotiation?”
“I remember them,” Ann said. “And the truth is, a lot of people still practice them.”
“Not enough,” Hood said. “When I was mayor of L.A. I had a feud with Governor Essex. Lord Essex, we called him. He didn’t like what he called my unorthodox way of doing things. He said he couldn’t trust me.” Hood shook his head. “The truth is, I cared about the quality of life in Los Angeles while he dreamed of being President. Those two goals didn’t mix. So he stopped talking to me. We had to communicate through Lieutenant Governor Whiteshire. The joke is, L.A. didn’t get the money it needed and Essex didn’t get reelected as governor. Freakin’ baby. Politicians don’t communicate, sometimes families don’t communicate, and then we’re surprised when things come apart. I’m sorry, Ann. I congratulate you for talking to Mr. George.”
Ann walked over and leaned across the desk. She reached out her right hand and touched the back of Hood’s hand with her fingertips. They felt gentle and very, very feminine. “Paul, I know how you feel.”
“I know that,” Hood said softly. “If anyone does, you do.”
“But you’ve got to believe that no one could have anticipated this,” Ann said.
“There you’re wrong,” Hood replied. He withdrew his hand from under hers. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”
“Nobody screwed up,” she said. “This was unforeseeable.”
“No,” he replied. “It was just unforeseen. We have combat simulations, terrorist simulations, and even assassination simulations. I can push a button on this computer and it’ll show us ten different ways to capture or kill the warlord-of-the-month. But the process
of anticipating simple security problems wasn’t built into our system and Martha is dead as a result.”
Ann shook her head. “Even if we’d had security people watching her, Paul, this couldn’t have been prevented. They couldn’t have moved in in time. You know that as well as I do.”
“At least they might have gotten the killer.”
“Maybe,” Ann said. “And Martha would still be dead.”
Hood wasn’t convinced, though he would know more when his own cleanup analysis was completed. “Is there anything else we have to take care of, press-wise?” he asked as his phone beeped twice. That meant it was an internal call. Hood glanced at the caller code. It was Bob Herbert.
“Not a thing,” Ann said. She rolled her lips together as though she wanted to say more, but she didn’t.
So much for communication, Hood thought cynically as he picked up the phone. “Yes, Bob?”
“Paul,” he said urgently, “we’ve got something.”
“Go ahead.”
“We picked this recording up from a small commercial radio station in Tolosa. I’m sending it over on the Vee-Bee. We haven’t been able to verify the authenticity of the tape you’re about to hear, though we’ll be able to do that in about an hour. We’re getting sound bites of the speaker from a Spanish television station here in order to compare the voices. My gut tells me they’re real but we’ll know for sure in an hour or so.
“The first voice you’re going to hear is the local radio announcer introducing the tape,” Herbert went on. “The second voice is from the tape itself. I’m e-mailing the translation over as well.”
Hood acknowledged as he closed the Serrador file and brought up Herbert’s e-mail. Then he hit the Vee-Bee key on the keyboard. The Vee-Bee, or Voice Box, was the equivalent of audio e-mail. The sounds were digitally scanned and cleaned by one of “Miracle” Matt Stoll’s computer programs. The audio delivered by the Vee-Bee simulator was as close to real life as possible. Thanks to the digital encoding, the listener could even isolate background or foreground sounds and play them separately.
Ann came around the desk and leaned over Hood’s shoulder. Her warmth, her closeness were comforting. He concentrated on reading the translation as the message played.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” said the announcer. “We interrupt the supper club troubador to report about further developments in the explosion of the yacht tonight in La Concha Bay. A few minutes ago, a tape recording was delivered to our studio. It was brought by a man who represented himself as a member of the First People of Spain. This recording is reportedly of a conversation which took place onboard the yacht, identified as the Verídico, moments before it blew up. With the delivery of this tape, the FPS claims responsibility for the attack. They also declare Spain as the province of Spaniards, not of the elite of Catalonia. We will play the recording in its entirety.”
A parenthetical comment from Herbert read: The FPS is a group of Castilian pure-bloods. They’ve been publishing broadsides and recruiting members for two years. They’ve also claimed responsibility for two acts of terrorism against Catalonian and Andalusian targets. Their size and the identity of their leader(s) is unknown.
His jaw tightening, Hood continued reading the transcript as the recording began to play. He listened to the cool, quiet voice of Esteban Ramirez as he spoke about the Catalonian plans for Spain and boasted about the involvement of his group in the murder of Martha Mackall. His group — with the help of Congressional Deputy Isidro Serrador.
“Lord Jesus,” Hood said through his teeth. “Bob — is this possible?”
“Not only is it possible,” Herbert said, “but it explains Serrador’s unwillingness to continue the talks with Darrell and Aideen. That son of a bitch set us up, Paul.”
Hood looked at Ann. He’d seen many of her darker moods during their nearly two years together but he’d never seen anything like the way she looked now. The compassion had faded completely from her face. Her lips were pressed tightly together and he could hear her breathing through her nostrils. Her eyes were hard and her cheeks were flushed.
“What do you want to do, Paul?” Herbert asked Hood. “And before you answer, keep in mind that the Spanish courts are not going to throw the book at a leading political figure because of an illegal tape recording made by someone whose hands are probably as dirty if not dirtier than Serrador’s. They’ll have a long, tough talk with him and investigate the hell out of him. But if he’s got friends — and I’m sure he has — they’re going to say he was framed. They’ll do everything they can to stall the machinery of justice.”
“I know,” Hood said.
“I know you know,” Herbert replied. “But they could let him plea-bargain, just to keep his constituents happy. Or they may let him off. Or they may let him ‘escape’ the country when no one’s looking. What I’m saying is, we may have to take this matter into our own hands. If Serrador turns out to be a terrorist sponsor, we should fight fire with fire.”
“I hear you,” Hood said. He thought for a moment. “I want the bastard, and if I can’t have him legally at least I want him dead-to-rights.”
So much for higher morality, Hood told himself. He thought for a moment more. He didn’t want Serrador to slip away. Unfortunately, he had only two HUMINT resources on the scene, Darrell and Aideen. And he didn’t know if they were up to keeping tabs on him until Striker or some third party group could get in and have a heart-to-heart talk with the bastard. He’d have to talk to Darrell about that. In the meantime, he needed more intelligence.
“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 o
f 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.