by Tom Clancy
Plummer nodded. Martha Mackall had always handled the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee pretty much on her own. But Op-Center’s attorney Lowell Coffey knew his way around the group and would give Plummer an assist as needed.
“Is there anything else?” Hood asked.
The men shook their heads. Hood thanked them and they agreed to meet again at six-thirty, just before the night shift came on. Though the day team officially remained in charge as long as they were on the premises, the presence of the backups allowed them to get rest if the situation dragged on through the night. Until things stabilized or got so far out of control that crisis management gave way to open war, Hood felt it was his duty to be onsite.
My duty, he thought. Everyone had a different idea about what duty was and to whom allegiance was owed. To Hood, the bottom line was that he owed it to his country. He’d felt that way ever since he first watched Davy Crockett die at the Alamo on a Walt Disney TV show. He’d felt that when he watched the astronauts fly into space on TV during Project Mercury, Project Gemini, and Project Apollo. Without that kind of devotion and sacrifice there was no nation. And without a safe and prosperous nation the kids had no future.
The trick was not so much convincing Sharon of that. She was a smart, smart lady. The trick was convincing her that his sacrifice mattered.
He couldn’t let it rest. Against his better judgment Hood picked up the phone and called home.
THIRTEEN
Tuesday, 12:24 A.M. Madrid, Spain
Isidro Serrador’s small eyes were like stones as he watched the men walk into the room.
The congressional deputy was nervous and wary. He was unsure why he had been brought to the police station and had no idea what to expect. Had they somehow connected him with the death of the American diplomat? The only ones who knew were Esteban Ramirez and his comrades. And if they betrayed him he’d betray them right back. There was no point to that.
Serrador didn’t recognize these men. He knew from the chevrons on the sleeves of the sharp brown uniforms that one was an army general and the other was a major general. He knew from the general’s swarthy coloring, dark hair, flat black eyes, and lithe build that he was of Castilian ancestry.
The major general stopped several paces away. When the general was finally near enough so that Serrador could read the white letters on the small black name-tag attached to his breast pocket he knew his name: AMADORI.
Amadori raised a white-gloved hand. Without turning, he motioned crisply toward the major general. The officer set an audiotape player on the table. Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Serrador looked up at Amadori. He couldn’t read anything in the general’s face. It was set perfectly and inexpressively. All formal lines like the creases in his uniform.
“Am I under arrest?” Serrador finally asked, quietly.
“You are not.” Amadori’s voice and manner were rigid — just like his lean face, like his unwrinkled uniform, like the taut, creaking leather of his new boots and twin holsters.
“Then what’s going on?” Serrador demanded, feeling bolder now. “What is an army officer doing at the police station? And what is this?” He flicked a fat finger disdainfully at the tape recorder. “Am I being interrogated for something? Do you expect me to say something important?”
“No,” Amadori answered. “I expect you to listen.”
“To what?”
“To a recording that was broadcast on the radio a short time ago.” Amadori stepped closer to the table. “When you’re finished, you will have the choice of walking out of here or using this.” He removed the Llama M-82 DA pistol, a 9 X 19mm Parabellum. He tossed it casually to Serrador, who caught it automatically, noted that there was no clip in it, and set it on the table between them.
There was a sudden queasiness in Serrador’s groin. “Use that?” he said. “Are you insane?”
“Listen to the tape,” Amadori said. “And when you do, keep in mind that the men you hear have joined the American diplomat in the abode of the blessed. You are apparently a dangerous man to know, Deputy Serrador.” Amadori stepped closer and smiled for the first time. He leaned toward Serrador and spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Keep this in mind as well. Your attempt to capture the government of Spain has failed. Mine will not.”
“Yours,” Serrador said warily.
Amadori’s thin smile broadened. “A Castilian plan.”
“Let me join you,” Serrador said urgently. “I am Basque. Those other men, the Catalonians — they never wanted me to be part of their plan. I was convenient because of my position. I was an expeditor, not an equal. Let me work with you.”
“There is no place for you,” Amadori said coldly.
“There must be. I’m well connected. Powerful.”
Amadori straightened and tugged down the hem of his jacket. He nodded toward the tape player. “You were,” he said.
Serrador looked at the machine. Perspiration collected under his arms and along his upper lip. He jabbed a thick finger at the PLAY button.
“What of the driver in Madrid?” he heard someone say. It sounded like Carlos Saura, head of Banco Moderno. “Is he leaving Spain as well?”
“No. The driver works for Deputy Serrador.” That was Esteban Ramirez, the bastard. Serrador listened for a few moments more as the men on the tape talked about the car and about the deputy being a Basque. An ambitious Basque and willing to do anything to further the cause and himself.
The stupid, careless bastard, Serrador thought. He stopped the machine and folded his hands. He looked up at Amadori. “This is nothing,” Serrador said. “Don’t you see? This is designed to discredit me because of my heritage. It’s blackmail.”
“The men did not know they were being taped,” Amadori informed him. “And your driver has already confessed to his part in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
“Then he lies,” Serrador said dismissively. A plug of something caught in his throat. He swallowed it. “I still have a strong and loyal constituency. I’ll beat this.”
Amadori’s smile returned. “No, you won’t.”
“You unremarkable pig!” Serrador flushed as fear shaded to indignation. “Who are you?” It was a slur, not a question. “You bring me here late at night and you force me to listen to a tape recording of questionable merit. Then you call me a traitor. I will fight for my life and for my honor. You won’t win this.”
Amadori smirked. “But I already have won.” He stepped back, drew his own gun, and held his arm out straight. The pistol was pointed down at Serrador’s forehead.
“What are you talking about?” Serrador demanded. His stomach was liquid. Sweat glistened across his forehead now.
“You took the gun from me,” Amadori said. “You threatened me with it.”
“What?” Serrador looked at the gun. And then he realized what had happened, why he had been brought here.
Serrador was right. He could very well have argued that the Catalonians had set him up. That they’d bribed his driver to testify against him. Had he been allowed to defend himself he might have persuaded people that he wasn’t involved in the death of the American. With the help of a clever attorney he might have convinced a court that he was being framed. That this was an attempt to turn people against him and his Basque supporters. After all, Ramirez and the others were dead. They couldn’t defend themselves.
But that wasn’t what Amadori wanted. He needed Serrador to be what he really was: a Basque who had joined with the Catalonians to overthrow the government of Spain. Amadori needed a Basque traitor for his plans.
“Wait a minute — please,” Serrador said.
The deputy’s frightened eyes turned toward the gun on the table. He had touched it. That was something else the general had needed. His fingerprints on the damn—
The general pulled the trigger. The slightly turned head of Deputy Isidro Serrador snapped back as the bullet pierced his temple. He was dead before h
is brain could process the pain, before the sound of the blast reached his ears.
The force of the impact knocked Serrador backward onto the floor. Even before the sound of the shot had died, Amadori had picked up the gun from the table, inserted a full clip, and placed it on the floor beside Serrador. He stood for a moment and watched as Serrador’s dark blood formed a red halo under his head.
A moment later the general’s aides and police officers crowded into the small room. A beefy police inspector stood behind him.
“What happened?” the inspector demanded.
Amadori holstered his pistol. “The deputy grabbed my gun,” he said calmly, pointing to the weapon on the floor. “I was afraid that he might try to take hostages or escape.”
The police inspector looked from the body to Amadori. “Sir, this matter will have to be investigated.”
Amadori’s face was impassive.
“Where will you be — for questioning?” the inspector asked.
“Here,” Amadori replied. “In Madrid. With my command.”
The inspector turned to the men behind him. “Sergeant Blanco? Telephone the commissioner and let him know what has happened. Tell him I await further instructions. Let his office handle the press. Sergeant Sebares? Notify the coroner. Have him come to handle the body.”
Both men saluted and left the room. Amadori turned and walked slowly after them. He was followed by the major general.
He was also followed by the stares of men who clearly feared him, whether they believed his story or not. Men who apparently sensed that they had just witnessed a purge. Men who had watched a military general take the first, bold steps to becoming a military dictator.
FOURTEEN
Tuesday, 2:00 A.M. Madrid, Spain
María Corneja was already waiting in a dark, grassy corner of the airfield when Aideen, Luis García de la Vega, and Darrell McCaskey arrived in an unmarked Interpol car. The helicopter that would ferry them north was idling some two hundred yards away on the tarmac.
Air traffic was extremely light. In his speech to the nation in six hours, the prime minister would announce that flights to and from Madrid were going to be cut by sixty-five percent in order to ensure the security of planes leaving the airport. But foreign governments had been informed of the plan shortly after midnight and flights were already being canceled or rerouted.
Aideen had gone back to her hotel room and pulled together some clothes and tourist accoutrements — including her camera and Walkman tape recorder, both of which could be used for reconnaissance. Then she went to Interpol headquarters with Luis while McCaskey phoned Paul Hood. Luis reviewed maps of the region in addition to briefing her on the character of the people up north and providing her with up-to-the-minute intelligence. Then they went back to the hotel, collected McCaskey — who had obtained an okay from Hood for Aideen’s participation in the mission — and drove out to the airport.
Aideen didn’t know what to expect from Maria. Little had been said about her, apart from the brief exchange in the hotel room. She didn’t know whether she’d be welcomed or whether being an American and a woman would work for her or against her.
Maria had been sitting astride her ten-speed bicycle, smoking. Flicking the cigarette onto the asphalt, she dropped the kickstand of the bicycle. She walked over slowly, with an athlete’s easy grace. She stood about five-foot-seven but seemed taller because of the way she held her square jaw high: high and set. Her long brown hair hung down her neck, the fine strands stirred by the wind. The top two buttons of her denim shirt were open over her green wool sweater and the bottoms of her tight jeans were tucked into well-worn cowboy boots. Her blue eyes swept past Luis and Aideen and came to rest on McCaskey.
“Buenas noches, ” she said to him in a husky voice.
Aideen didn’t know whether that was intended as a greeting or a dismissal. Obviously McCaskey wasn’t sure either. He stood stiffly beside the car, his expression blank. Luis hadn’t wanted him to come to the airport, but he insisted that it was his duty to see Aideen off.
They watched Maria as she approached. Her eyes didn’t flinch or soften. Luis put his hand around Aideen’s arm. He stepped toward María, drawing Aideen with him.
“María, this is Aideen Marley. She works with Op-Center and was present at the shooting.”
María’s deep-set eyes shifted to Aideen but only for a moment. She walked past her and stopped in front of Darrell.
Luis called after her. “María, Aideen will be accompanying you to San Sebastian.”
The thirty-eight-year-old woman nodded. But she didn’t take her eyes off McCaskey. Their faces were only, inches apart.
“Hello, María,” McCaskey said.
Maria was breathing slowly. Her thick eyebrows formed a hard, rigid line like a bulwark. Her pale, sensuously arched lips formed another. “I prayed that I would never see you again,” she said. Her accent, like her voice, was thick and deep.
McCaskey’s own expression hardened. “I guess you didn’t pray hard enough.”
“Maybe not,” she replied. “I was too busy crying.”
This time McCaskey did not respond.
Maria’s eyes ranged over him. Other than that, her features didn’t change. It seemed to Aideen that the woman was looking for something. A man she once loved, memories to soften the hate? Or was she searching for something different? Something to revitalize her anger. The sight of arms, a chest, thighs, and hands she had once held and caressed.
After a moment Maria turned and walked back to her bicycle. She snatched her grip from the basket behind the seat.
“Keep this for me, Luis,” she said, indicating the bicycle. She walked over to Aideen and offered her hand. “I apologize for my rudeness, Ms. Marley. I’m María Corneja.”
Aideen accepted her hand. “Call me Aideen.”
“I’m glad to know you, Aideen,” María said. She looked at Luis. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
Luis shook his head. “You know the codes. If something comes up, I’ll call on your cellular phone.”
María nodded and looked at Aideen. “Let’s go,” she said and started toward the helicopter. She made a point of not looking at McCaskey again.
Aideen slung her own backpack over a shoulder and scurried after her.
“Good luck to both of you,” McCaskey said to the women as they passed.
Aideen was the only one who turned and thanked him.
The Kawasaki chopper revved up as the women approached. Though they wouldn’t have been able to hear one another over the din, Aideen found the bitter silence awkward. She also felt torn. As McCaskey’s colleague she felt she should say something on his behalf. But as a woman she felt like she should have ignored him too — and, while she was at it, used her own eyes to curse all men. Curse her father for having been an abusive alcoholic. Curse the drug dealers who ruined lives and families and made widows and orphans in Mexico. Curse the occasional gentleman caller in her own life who was only a gentleman for as long as it took to become an intimate.
They climbed on board and were airborne in less than a minute. They sat close beside each other in the small, noisy cockpit, the silence continuing until Aideen finally had had enough of it.
“I understand you were out of the police business for a while,” she said. “What did you do?”
“I managed a small legitimate theater in Barcelona,” she said. “For excitement I took up skydiving. For even more excitement I acted in some of the plays. I’ve always loved acting, which is why I loved undercover work.” Her tone was personable, her eyes unguarded. Whatever memories had troubled her back at the airfield were passing.
“That was your specialty?” Aideen asked.
Maria nodded. “It’s very theatrical and that’s what I enjoy.” She tapped her duffelbag. “Even the codes are from plays. Luis uses numbers which refer to acts, scenes, lines, and words. When I work out of town he phones them. When I work in town he often leaves slips of papers under
rocks. Sometimes he even writes them in the open as graffiti. He once left me — what do you call them? Good-time numbers on a telephone booth.”
“That’s what they call ’em in the States,” Aideen said.
Maria smiled a little for the first time. With it, the last traces of her anger appeared to vanish. Aideen smiled back.
“You’ve had a terrible day,” María said. “How are you feeling?”
“Still pretty shell-shocked,” Aideen replied. “All of this hasn’t really sunk in yet.”
“I know that feeling,” María said. “For all its finality death never seems quite real. Did you know Martha Mackall well?”
“Not very,” Aideen replied. “I’d only worked with her a couple of months. She wasn’t a very easy woman to get to know.”
“That’s true,” María said. “I met her several times when I lived in Washington. She was intelligent but she was also very formal.”
“That was Martha,” Aideen said.
Mentioning her stay in America seemed to bring María back down again. Her little smile evaporated. Her eyes darkened under her brow.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” María said.
“It’s all right,” Aideen said.
María stared ahead. “Mack and I were together for a while,” she continued as though Aideen had not spoken. “He was more caring and more devoted than any man I’ve ever met. We were going to stay together forever. But he wanted me to give up my work. He said it was too dangerous.”
Aideen was starting to feel uncomfortable. Spanish women talked openly about their lives to strangers. Ladies from Boston didn’t.
María looked down. “He wanted me to give up smoking. It was bad for me. He wanted me to like jazz more than I did. And American football. And Italian food. He loved his things passionately, including me. But he couldn’t share all of that the way he wanted to, and eventually he decided he’d rather be alone than disappointed.” She looked at Aideen. “Do you understand?”
Aideen nodded.