by Tom Clancy
McCaskey looked at Luis. “Did she know I was here, Luis?”
“I took the liberty of informing her.” He patted the back of his friend’s hand. “It’s all right. She gave you her best.”
McCaskey’s expression grew sad again. “That she did,” he replied. “That she most surely did.”
ELEVEN
Tuesday, 12:07 A.M. San Sebastián, Spain
When Juan Martinez maneuvered the runabout away from the Ramirez yacht, the twenty-nine-year-old sailor and navigator had no idea that he’d be saving his own life.
Idling roughly twenty-five meters from the boat, Juan was rocked from his feet by the explosion. But his small boat was not overturned. As soon as the main blast had died, the muscular young man threw the small boat ahead, toward the listing ship.
He had found Esteban Ramirez — who was his employer as well as the father of their powerful familia— lying face-up in the water. His severely burned body was floating some fifteen meters from the yacht. Holding on to a mooring rope, Juan jumped into the choppy waters. Dog-paddling toward Ramirez with his free hand and feet, he reached the man and pulled him toward the boat.
His employer was still breathing.
“Señor Ramirez,” Juan said. “It’s Juan Martinez. I’m going to bring you onto the runabout and get you to a—”
“Listen!” Ramirez wheezed suddenly.
Juan started. A moment later Ramirez’s groping hand latched onto his sleeve. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Serrador!” Ramirez said. “Warn… him.”
“Serrador?” Juan said. “I don’t know him, sir.”
“Office—” Ramirez choked. “Reading glasses.”
“Please, sir,” Juan said. “You mustn’t exert yourself—”
“Must call!” Ramirez said. “Do… it!”
“All right,” Juan said, “I promise to call.”
Just then, Ramirez began to tremble violently. “Get them… or they… will… get us.”
“Who will?” Juan asked.
Suddenly, Juan heard the chugging of an engine on the other side of the yacht. He saw the edges of a bright white light creeping around it, playing across the water. A searchlight. A boat was approaching. Juan didn’t know much about his boss’s business affairs but he did know that their company’s powerful familia had many enemies. The boat might not belong to one of them, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to take that risk.
Before Juan could get his employer onto the runabout, Ramirez opened his mouth but did not close it again. Air hissed softly from deep in his throat as his mouth hung frozen, agape.
Juan shut his employer’s eyes. He decided to leave his body there. Doing so was a sign of disrespect and that bothered him. But whoever was responsible for the explosion might still be in the vicinity. Perhaps even on the boat that was approaching. Juan didn’t think it was prudent to be found here. Climbing back onto the runabout, he engaged the engine and sped away before the boat arrived. He headed out to sea where he wouldn’t be seen, then cut the engine. He remained until he saw the police arrive. Then he set out again, giving the accident a wide berth as he headed toward shore.
Upon reaching the dock, Juan went to a pay phone. Wet and chilly, he called the night watchman at the factory and asked him to send a car for him. Upon arriving, Juan went directly to Señor Ramirez’s office. He forced open the door and sat behind his desk.
His employer had mentioned something about his reading glasses. Juan found the pair in the top drawer. He looked at them. Printed inside the frames — innocuously, like serial numbers — was a series of four telephone numbers and identifying letters.
Ingenious, Juan thought. His boss didn’t need glasses—hadnt needed glasses, he thought bitterly — but no one would ever think to check them for coded messages or phone numbers.
He called the number with the S next to it. Serrador answered — whoever that was. The man was indignant, brusque, and in trouble, judging from the sounds Juan heard over the telephone. He decided to hang up before the call could be traced.
He remained behind the desk in the large second-floor office. He looked out the bank of windows at the large yacht factory. Esteban Ramirez had been good to him for many years. Juan hadn’t been an intimate but he was a member of Señor Ramirez’s familia. And that loyalty continued even after death.
Juan looked at the eyeglasses. He called the other numbers. Housekeepers answered using the family name: they were all men who had been on the ship. Juan knew because he had ferried them there.
Something evil was afoot, as Señor Ramirez had warned. Someone had been careful to wipe out everyone who was involved with the boss and his new project. It was a matter of honor, nothing else, that Juan find that someone and avenge the murders.
The night crew at the factory was already talking about the rumors of the death of their employer. They were also talking about a tape recording that had just been played at the local radio station. A tape that reportedly had their boss revealing his involvement in the murder of the American tourist.
Juan was too angry to allow himself to be overcome by grief. Rounding up several other members of the familia — two watchmen and a night manager — he decided to go to the radio station to find out if there were such a tape.
And if there were, find out who had brought it to them.
And whoever it was, cause him to regret that he had.
TWELVE
Monday, 5:09 P.M. Washington, D.C.
Paul Hood was unhappy. That was occurring a lot lately, and usually for the same reason.
Hood had phoned his wife to tell her that he’d be missing dinner with the family tonight.
“As usual,” Sharon reminded him before leaving him with a curt goodbye and hanging up.
Hood tried not to blame his wife for being disappointed. How could he? She didn’t know he’d lost Martha in the field. He wasn’t permitted to discuss Op-Center matters with anyone over an open line. Anyway, Sharon was more upset for the two kids than for herself. She said that even though it was spring vacation, eleven-year-old Alexander had gotten up early and set up his new scanner by himself. He was burning to show his father some of the computer-morphs he’d created. By the time Hood got home most nights, Alexander was too drowsy to boot the system and talk him through the steps of whatever he’d been working on, which was what the boy liked to do. Thirteen-year-old Harleigh practiced her violin for an hour after dinner each night. Sharon said that for the past few days, ever since she’d mastered her Tchaikovsky piece, the house at sunset had been a magical place to be. Sharon said it would be more magical for them all if Paul were there once in a while.
A part of Hood felt guilty. Sharon and also Madison Avenue were responsible for that. Family-first was the advertising mantra of the nineties. But Pennsylvania Avenue made him feel guilty too. He had a responsibility to the President and to the nation. He had a responsibility to the people whose lives and livelihoods depended upon his industry, his judgment. His focus.
He and Sharon both knew what the rules were when he took this job. Wasn’t it she who had wanted him to get out of politics? Wasn’t she the one who had hated the fact that being the family of the mayor of Los Angeles had entitled them to zero privacy even when they were together? But the truth was, whatever he did Hood wasn’t a high school principal with summers off like her father. He wasn’t a banker anymore, who worked from eight-thirty to five-thirty with the occasional client dinner. Or an independently wealthy yachtsman like that rugged, self-impressed Italian winemaker Stefano Renaldo with whom she’d sailed the world before marrying Hood.
Paul Hood was a man who enjoyed his work and the responsibility of it. And he enjoyed the rewards, too. Each morning he woke up in the quiet house and went downstairs to make his coffee and sat there drinking it in the den and looking around and thinking, I did this.
They all enjoyed the rewards. There wouldn’t be a computer or violin lessons or a nice house for them to miss him at if he didn�
�t work hard. Sharon would have to work full-time instead of being able to appear semiregularly on a cable TV cooking show. She didn’t have to thank him but did she have to damn him? She didn’t have to enjoy his absence — he didn’t — but she could make it easier.
His hand was still on the phone. His eyes were on his hand. It had taken only a moment for the pros and cons to flash through his brain. He lifted his hand and sat back, a sour look on his face.
These weren’t exactly new or deeply buried feelings. Neither was the bitterness, which set in next. If only Sharon supported him instead of condemning him. It wouldn’t make him try any harder to be home earlier. He couldn’t. His hours were what they were. But it would make him feel like he had a real home to go to instead of a seminar on What’s Wrong with Paul Hood.
He thought of Nancy Bosworth again. Not long before, he’d bumped into his old flame in Germany. Never mind that she’d been the one who ran out on him years before. Never mind that she’d shattered his heart. When he saw her again he felt drawn to her because she was someone who wanted him, uncritically. She had only kind and flattering things to say.
Of course, Hood said, his conscience taking Sharon’s side, Nancy can afford to be generous. She doesn’t have to live with you and raise two kids and hurt for them when Dad’s not there.
But that didn’t change the fact that he’d wanted to hold Nancy Jo Bosworth tightly and he’d wanted to be held by her. That he’d yearned to crawl into her arms because she wanted him there, not as a reward for being good to his kids. That was passionless.
Then he thought about Ann Farris. The beautiful and sexy press liaison liked him. She cared about him. She made him feel good about himself. And he liked her. There were many times when he’d had to fight the urge to reach across the desk and touch her hair. But he knew that if he ever crossed that line, even a bit, there would be no going back. Everyone at Op-Center would know. Washington would know. Eventually Sharon would know.
So what? he asked himself. What’s wrong with ending a marriage that isn’t working the way you want it to anyway?
The words hung in his brain like a medical diagnosis he didn’t want to hear. He hated himself for even flirting with the notion of divorce, for despite everything he loved Sharon. And she had thrown in her lot with him, not with Renaldo. She had committed to building a life with him, not around him. And there were some things women would always be more possessive of than men. Like kids. That didn’t make her right and him wrong, her good and him bad. It made them different, that’s all. And differences could be worked out.
The bitterness was softened by the reminder that he and Sharon were vastly different people. She was a dreamer and he was a pragmatist. He was being judged by a standard that was more romantic wishfulness than reality. It was time to shelve those concerns for now because reality had to be dealt with. Besides, because they were family, his wife and children would forgive him.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to work in the World According to Paul.
Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and Ron Plummer arrived for a 5:15 update. Hood was ready for them, his conscience relatively clear and his mind almost entirely focused. Plummer had been named the acting diplomatic officer until an official review process for Martha’s replacement could take place. That would not happen until the current crisis had passed. If Plummer had the chops for the job they’d know soon enough and the review would be a simple formality.
“Grim news,” Herbert said as he rolled in on his automated wheelchair. “The Germans just canceled a big soccer match they were supposed to play tomorrow in Barcelona at the Olympic Stadium. Said they’re concerned about the ‘air of violence’ in Spain.”
“Will the cancellation be recorded as a forfeit for Germany?” Hood asked.
“That’s a good question,” Herbert said, “to which the answer is no, unfortunately.” He pulled a printout from a pouch on the side of his chair. “The Federation of International Football Associations has ruled that in a nation where — and I quote—‘there is a substantial disturbance of services or a reasonable fear for security, a visiting team may request a postponement for the duration of said unrest.’ What’s going on in Spain certainly fits that requirement.”
“Which will probably cause more unrest among soccer fans,” Plummer said, “which will help the situation unravel further.”
“In a peanut shell, yeah,” Herbert replied. “The prime minister is going to go on TV in the morning to urge everyone to stay calm. But the military has already been sent into major cities in three Castilian provinces to keep peace where the police have been sitting on their hands. The people there have always had a real dislike for the Catalonians and Basques who work there. The stuff with Serrador and the group in San Sebastián really sent them over the edge.”
“The question is, where does it go from here?” Hood asked.
“We’ll know more after the prime minister speaks,” Plummer replied.
“What’s your sense of things?” Hood pressed.
“The situation will probably deteriorate,” Plummer said. “Spain has always been a patchwork of very different people — not unlike the Soviet Union was. Something like this, which polarizes ethnic groups, is a very tough fix.”
Hood looked at Rodgers. “Mike?”
The general was leaning against the wall. He shifted slowly, still obviously in pain. “The military people I spoke with in Portugal are extremely concerned. They can’t remember a time when tensions were so openly high.”
“I’m sure you know that the White House has contacted our ambassador in Spain,” Herbert said. “They’ve been told to button the embassy up tight.”
Hood nodded. National Security Chief Steve Burkow had phoned a half hour earlier to tell him that the embassy in Madrid was being put on alert. Passes for the military staff had been revoked and all nonmilitary personnel were ordered to remain on the compound. There was some fear about further attacks against Americans. But there was a more general concern that Americans might get caught in the overall violence that seemed to be brewing.
“Does NATO have any jurisdiction here?” Hood asked.
“No,” Rodgers replied. “They’re not a domestic police force. I checked with General Roche, Commander-in-Chief of Allied Forces in Central Europe. He’s pretty conservative. Doesn’t want to plant a toe outside the charter.”
“With Basques being attacked, the French Basques might not let it remain a domestic matter for long,” Plummer said.
“That’s true,” said Rodgers. “But NATO still won’t want to break their primary mandate, which is to resolve disputes between member nations peaceably.”
“I know William Roche,” Herbert said, “and I don’t blame him. NATO still has egg on its face from the Serbian-Bosnian conflict in ninety-four. The Serbs violated designated safe havens all over the place despite the threat of limited NATO air strikes. If you don’t intend to go in with everything you’ve got, stay on the sidelines.”
“Anyway,” Rodgers said, “there’s a larger issue. If Portugal or France or any local government puts troops on alert it might help to precipitate a crisis.”
“The Spanish are kinda ornery that way,” Herbert said. “Groups of’em will get together and start something because they’re insulted that someone would think they’d start something.”
“Are we talking about lynch mobs?” Hood asked.
“They might look for Portuguese or French nationals to beat up on,” Herbert said. “Then, of course, those governments will have to respond.”
Hood shook his head.
“Welcome to the world of precipitating crises,” Herbert said. “From my kinfolk firing on Fort Sumter to blowing up the battleship Maine, from shooting Archduke Ferdinand to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Give people a spark and you usually end up with a fire.”
“That’s the old way,” Hood said tensely. “Our job is to figure out how to manage these things, to defuse crises.” That came out sounding harsher t
han Hood had intended and he took a long, slow breath. He had to be careful not to let frustration with his personal crisis seep into his professional crisis. “Anyway,” he said, “this brings us to the matter of Darrell and Aideen. Darrell has recommended sending Aideen to San Sebastián with an Interpol agent. I’ve okayed this. They’re going to go undercover to try and find out how the tape from the yacht was made, by whom, and why.”
“Who’s the Interpol agent?” Herbert asked.
“María Corneja,” Hood told him.
“Ouch,” Herbert said. “That’s got to sting a bit.”
Hood thought back to his own brush with his former lover. “They’ll have very minimal contact. Darrell will be able to handle it.”
“I meant it’s gonna sting her,” Herbert said. “She may handle it like the Castilians are handling the Catalonians.”
It was a joke but a nervous one. María had been infatuated with McCaskey. Their romance, two years before, had caused almost as much conversation as Op-Center’s first crisis, finding and defusing a terrorist bomb onboard the space shuttle Atlantis.
“I’m not worried about it,” Hood said. “I am worried about giving Aideen an exit strategy in case something goes wrong. They’re flying up to San Sebastián tonight. Darrell says that Interpol is worried about the same thing that’s been hounding police all over Spain: ethnic loyalties within the organization.”
“Meaning that Aideen and María are on their own,” Rodgers said.
“Pretty much,” Hood agreed.
“Then I think we need Striker over there,” Rodgers continued. “I can set them down at the NATO airfield outside Zaragoza. That’ll put them about one hundred miles south of San Sebastián. Colonel August knows that region well.”
“Get them going,” Hood said. “Ron, you’ll have to take this to the CIOC. Get Lowell to work with you on it.”