Balance of Power o-5

by Tom Clancy

Adolfo looked up at the face and shook his head once. “No. I speak… the truth.”

  The face hovered a moment longer and then the sock was shoved back down. Adolfo felt himself tugged to the side. They grabbed his left arm and held it and pushed his hand into the opening.

  He screamed in his throat as his fingers curled into a fist and fought to get out of the heat. And then everything went dark.

  He woke bent over the sink with water rushing down over the back of his head. He coughed, vomited up the stew, then was dropped onto his back on the floor. Every patch of flesh on his feet and left hand throbbed hotly.

  The sock was thrust back in his mouth.

  “You’re strong,” the dark face said to him. “But we have time and I have experience. The first things men always give up are lies. We will continue until we have the truth.” He bent closer. “Will you tell us who you work with?”

  Adolfo was trembling. The parts of him that weren’t burned or broken were chilly. It seemed very odd to feel something so trivial as that. He shook his head twice.

  This time he wasn’t moved. The sock was pushed harder into his mouth and held there. One of the crowbars was raised over Adolfo’s right shoulder and was swung down hard. The bone broke audibly under the blow. He cried into the sock. The crowbar was raised again and struck lower, between the shoulder and elbow. Another bone broke. He cried again. Each blow brought a burst of agony and a yelp and then numbness.

  Each scream was a rent in his will. The pain was just pain but every scream was a surrender. And as he surrendered those pieces of his fighting spirit, he had less to draw on.

  “When you talk, the beating will stop,” the voice said.

  Someone started working on his left side and he jumped and howled with each strike. He felt the wall of resistance crumble faster now. And then something surprising happened. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. His body was broken; that wasn’t him. His will was shattered; that wasn’t him. He was someone else. And that someone else wanted to talk.

  He said something into the sock. The face came down and the beating stopped. The sock was removed.

  “Am… Am…”

  “What?” said the dark face.

  “Ama… dori.”

  “Amadori?” the face repeated.

  “Am… a… do… ri.” Each syllable rode out on a breath. Adolfo couldn’t help himself. He just wanted the pain to stop. “Gen… er… al.”

  “General Amadori,” the face said. “That’s who you work with?”

  Adolfo nodded.

  “Is there anyone else?”

  Adolfo shook his head once. He shut his eyes.

  “Do you believe him?” someone asked.

  “Look at him,” someone replied. “He hasn’t got the wits left to lie.”

  Adolfo felt himself being released. It felt good just to lie there on his back. He opened his eyes and stared up at the dark figures gathered around him.

  “What do we do with him?” one man asked.

  “He killed Señor Ramirez,” said another. “He dies. Slowly.”

  That was the final word on the matter — not by concensus but because the man swung his crowbar down on Adolfo’s throat. The fisherman’s head jerked up and then fell back as his larynx shattered; his dead arms didn’t move. Then he lay there tasting blood and wheezing. He was able to draw just enough breath to remain conscious but not enough to satisfy his lungs.

  The pain settled into a steady roar, which helped to keep him conscious. He was Adolfo Alcazar again but the agony in his limbs and in his throat made it difficult to string thoughts together. He couldn’t decide whether he’d acted courageously by holding out for as long as he did or cowardly for having succumbed at all. Flashes of thought said yes he’d been brave, then no he hadn’t. And then it didn’t seem to matter as he shivered and the pain suddenly attacked him. Sometimes it came in like the tide, engulfing him. Sometimes it lapped at him like tiny breakers out at sea. The small swells he could manage. But the big ones tortured him. God, how they made him shake all over.

  He had no idea how long he lay there and whether his eyes had been open or closed. But suddenly his eyes were open and the room was brighter and there was a figure bending beside him.

  It was his brother, Berto.

  Norberto was weeping and saying something. He was making signs over his face. Adolfo tried to raise his arm but it didn’t respond. He tried to speak—

  “A… ma… do… ri.”

  Did Norberto hear? Did he understand?

  “City… chur… church.”

  “Adolfo, lie quietly,” Norberto said. “I’ve telephoned for a doctor — oh, God.”

  Norberto continued saying a prayer.

  “ Warn… Gen… er… al… they… know.…”

  Norberto laid a hand on his brother’s lips to silence them. Adolfo smiled weakly. His brother’s hand was soft and loving. The pain seemed to subside.

  And then his head rolled to the side and his eyes shut and the pain was gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday, 4:19 A.M. San Sebastián, Spain

  The helicopter set María and Aideen down south of the city. It landed atop a hillock along a deserted twist in the Rio Urumea, the river that ran through the city. A rental car, reserved by a local police officer who worked with Interpol, was waiting for them near the road. So was the police officer, thick-mustachioed Jorge Sorel.

  During the helicopter trip, María had studied a map she’d brought with her. She knew the route to the radio station and Aideen could tell that she was anxious to get there. Unfortunately, as María lit a cigarette, Jorge told her there was no reason to go.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Someone attacked the staff a little over an hour ago,” he said.

  “Someone?” María said. “Who?”

  “We don’t know yet,” admitted the officer.

  “Professionals?” she said impatiently.

  “Very possibly,” he acknowledged. “The attackers seemed to know exactly what they were doing. There were numerous broken limbs and everyone had a broken jaw.”

  “What did they want?” María asked.

  Jorge shook his head. “Again, we can’t even begin to speculate. The only reason we went up there was because the station suddenly went off the air.”

  María swore angrily. “This is maravilloso,” she said. “Marvelous. Are there any leads?”

  Jorge was still shaking his head. “The victims were unable to speak and now the doctors have them sedated. We assume the attackers were looking for whoever provided them with the audiotape.”

  “The idiots,” María snarled. “Didn’t they anticipate that? Didn’t they take precautions?”

  “Yes,” said Jorge. “The irony is they were very well prepared. The station has always been a target for malcontents. Their politics, you know — very antigovernment. The facility is surrounded with barbed wire and is constructed like a bunker. It even has a metal door. The employees keep guns inside. But deterrents only sway the timid hearted. And these attackers were not timid.”

  “Constable,” Aideen said patiently, “do you have any idea who it was that provided the tape?”

  Jorge snuck an uncomfortable look at María. “I’m afraid the answer is once again no,” he said. “We have two patrols going through the surrounding villages. They’re looking for groups of people who may be searching for the person or persons who provided the tape. But we came to this relatively late. So far, we’ve found no one.”

  “The attackers would probably separate once they left here,” María said. “They wouldn’t want to risk everyone getting caught. They also wouldn’t stay together after they found whoever they were looking for,” María said. She drew on her cigarette and exhaled through her nose. She regarded Jorge intently. “Are you sure that’s all you can tell us?”

  “I’m sure,” he replied. His gaze was equally intent.

  “What are the chances that the person who had the tape wa
s from this area?” Aideen asked.

  “Very good,” said María. “Whoever planned this would have wanted someone who knew the waters where the yacht was destroyed. Someone who knew the town and the people at the station.” She looked at Jorge. “Give me a place to start looking.”

  Jorge shrugged. “The town is small. Everyone knows it. For someone who knows the waters, talk to the fishermen.”

  María looked at her watch. “They’ll be going out in about an hour. We can talk to them at the docks.” She pulled hard on her cigarette. “Who blesses the waters for the fishermen?”

  “That would be Father Norberto Alcazar,” Jorge said. “He will only do it for the old families, not the companies.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You will probably find him at the Jesuit church in the hills south of Cuesta de Aldapeta,” Jorge said. “That’s on the west side of the river just outside of San Sebastián.”

  María thanked him. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then she dropped it and crushed it hard under her heel. She let out the smoke as she walked toward the car. Aideen followed her.

  “Father Alcazar is a very pleasant man,” Jorge said after them. “But he may not be forthcoming about his flock. He is very protective of them.”

  “Let’s hope that he wants to protect one of them from being murdered,” María said.

  “You have a point,” Jorge said. “Call on your cell phone when you are ready. The helicopter will come back for you here. The airport is small and has been reserved for military business — as a precaution.”

  María acknowledged brusquely as she got behind the wheel of the car and started it up. Dirt and clods of grass spit behind them as the car tore away from the foot of the hillock.

  “You’re not happy,” Aideen said as she took the map from her backpack and unfolded it. She also had a loaded.38 in the backpack which María had given her during the flight.

  “I wanted to kick him,” María grumbled. “They only went up there because the station went off the air. The police should have known that someone would go after the radio crew.”

  “Maybe the police wanted the station to be attacked,” Aideen said. “It’s the same way with gang wars. The authorities stand back and let the bad guys kill each other.”

  “It’s more likely that they were told to stay out of it,” María said. “The men who were killed on the yacht were influential businessmen. They headed devoted familias—employees who will do anything for them, including murder. The police are paid to stay out of such things.”

  “Do you think the constable—”

  “I don’t know,” María admitted. “But I can’t be sure. One can never be sure in Spain.”

  Aideen thought back to what Martha had said about the police in Madrid cooperating with the street extortionists. That might be diplomacy, she thought, but it stinks. She was forced to wonder if even the government police in Madrid were giving the investigation of Martha’s assassination their all.

  “That’s one of the reasons I left Interpol,” María went on as she headed north along the river. “Dealing with these people is more frustrating than it’s worth.”

  “But you came back,” Aideen said. “For Luis?”

  “No,” María replied. “I came back for the same reason I left. Because there is so much corruption the rest of us can’t afford to give up. Even to manage my small theater in Barcelona, I had to pay fees to the police, to the sanitation workers, to everyone but the postal workers. I had to pay them to make sure that they did the jobs they were already paid to do.”

  “So the government workers have their cushion and the industrial workers belong to families,” Aideen said. “Independent workers end up paying extortion to one or fighting the strength of the other.”

  María nodded. “And that is why I’m here. It’s like love,” she said. “You can’t give up because it doesn’t work the first time. You learn the rules, you learn about yourself, and you get back in the arena for another run at the bull.”

  The first pale red light of dawn began to brighten the skies. The hilltops started to take shape against the lighter sky. As she glanced eastward, Aideen thought how funny it was that she liked and admired María. The woman was no less confident and aggressive than Martha had been. But except for when she’d had to face Darrell back at the airport, there was something selfless about María. And Aideen could hardly blame María for throwing a little attitude Darrell’s way. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, seeing him again had to be rough.

  They reached the outskirts of San Sebastián in less than thirty minutes and crossed the bridge at María Cristina. Then they headed southwest toward the church. They stopped to ask a shepherd for directions and were at the church just as the rim of the sun flared over the hill.

  The small stone church was open. There were two parishioners inside, a pair of fishermen, but not the priest.

  “Sometimes he goes to the bay with his brother,” one of the fishermen told the women. The men told them where Adolfo lived and the route Father Alcazar usually took to get there. They got back in the car and headed north, María opening the window, lighting another cigarette, and puffing on it furiously.

  “I hope this doesn’t bother you,” María said of the cigarette. “They say that the smoke is bad for others but I can assure you that it saves lives.”

  “How do you figure that?” Aideen asked.

  “It keeps me from getting too angry,” María replied. She did not appear to be joking.

  They found Calle Okendo and drove two blocks to the southeast. The street was narrow; when they reached the two-story apartment building María had to park half on the sidewalk. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been room for another vehicle to get by. Aideen put her.38 into the pocket of her windbreaker before she slid from the car. María tossed her cigarette away and slid her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans.

  The downstairs door did not have a lock on it and they entered. The dark stairwell smelled of a century of fishermen and dust, which tickled Aideen’s nose. The steps creaked like dry old trees in a wind and listed toward the dirty white wall. There were two apartments on the second floor. The door to one of them was slightly ajar. María gave it a push with her toe. It groaned as it opened.

  They found Father Alcazar. He was kneeling beside the naked body of a man and weeping openly. His back was toward them. María stepped in and Aideen followed. If the priest heard them he made no indication of it.

  “Father Alcazar?” María said softly.

  The priest turned his head around. His red eyes were startling against his pale pink face. His collar was dark where it was stained with tears. He turned back to the body and then rose slowly. Backlit by the sharp morning light his black robe looked flat, like a silhouette. He walked toward them as though he were in a trance. Then he removed a jacket from a hook behind the door, went back to the dead man, and laid it across his body.

  As he did, Aideen had a chance to study the body. The victim had been tortured, though not out of vengeance. There were no burn or knife marks on his torso. His eyes, ears, breast, and groin appeared to be intact; only his limbs had been worked over. He’d been tortured for information. And his windpipe had been smashed; to kill him slowly, as opposed to a blow to the head. Aideen had seen this before, in Mexico. It wasn’t pretty, but it was prettier than what the drug lords did to people they tortured for betraying them. Strangely enough, it never stopped other people from betraying the Mexican señoríos, as they called them. The dead men and women always believed that they were the ones who would never be caught.

  The priest turned back toward the women. “I am Father Alcazar,” he said.

  María stepped toward him. “My name is María,” she said. “I’m with Interpol.”

  Aideen wasn’t surprised that María had told him who she really was. The killings were escalating. This wasn’t the time to go undercover.

  “Did you know this man?” María asked.

>   The priest nodded. “He was my brother.”

  “I see,” María said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten here sooner.”

  Norberto Alcazar gestured weakly behind him as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “I tried to help him. I should have tried harder. But Adolfo — he knew what he had gotten himself into.”

  María stepped up to the priest. She stood as tall as he did and looked flush into his bloodshot eyes. “Father, please — help us. What had Adolfo gotten himself into?”

  “I don’t know,” the priest said. “When I arrived here he was hurt and talking wildly.”

  “He was still alive?” María asked. “You’ve got to try to remember, Father, what he said! Words, names, places — anything.”

  “Something about the city,” Norberto said. “About a church. He said a place or a name — Amadori.”

  María’s eyes burned into his. “General Amadori?”

  “It could be,” Norberto said. “He… he did say something about a general. I don’t know. It was difficult to understand.”

  “Of course,” María said. “Father, I know this is difficult. But it’s important. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  He shook his head. “Adolfo was going to the radio station last night,” he sobbed. “That is all I know. I do not know what business he had there other than to deliver a tape recording. I came back this morning on my way to bless the waters. I wanted to see if he was all right. I found him like this.”

  “You saw no one coming or leaving?”

  “No one.”

  María regarded him for a moment longer. Her brow was deeply knit, her eyes smouldering. “One question more, Father. Can you tell us where to find the Ramirez boatworks?”

  “Ramirez,” the priest said. He took a long tremulous breath. “Dolfo mentioned him. My brother said that Ramirez and his friends were responsible for killing an American.”

  “Yes,” said María. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “They killed this woman’s partner.”

  “Oh — I’m so sorry,” Norberto said to Aideen. His eyes returned to María. “But Ramirez is dead. My brother — saw to that.”