by Tom Clancy
“Amadori is based in Madrid, at the office of the Defense Ministry,” Juan said. “But we hear he has established a headquarters elsewhere. We’re trying to find out where. He has powerful Castilian allies in the Congreso de los Diputados and in the Senado. They’re backing him with deeds and with silence.”
“What do you mean?”
“The prime minister has the right to declare martial law,” Juan said, “but the parliament can effectively block him by cutting off funds if they don’t approve of the measure or the leader.”
“And they haven’t done that here,” Maria suggested.
“No,” Juan said. “I’ve been told by an informer from the Ruiz familia—”
“The computer makers?” Maria asked.
“Yes,” Juan said. “I’ve been told that the funding was actually above what the prime minister had requested. By fivefold.”
María whistled.
“But why wouldn’t they back him?” Aideen asked. “Spain is facing great danger.”
Juan looked from María to Aideen. “Usually, the money is approved in parcels. That’s done as a means of preventing exactly this kind of coup. Powerful people are behind this. Perhaps they or their families have been threatened. Perhaps they’ve been promised positions of greater authority in the new regime.”
“Regardless,” María said, “they’ve given Amadori the power and the money to do whatever he deems necessary.” She drew slowly on her cigarette. “Simple and brilliant. With the army under his control and the government crippled by acts of treason, General Amadori can’t be stopped by any legal means.”
“Exactly,” Juan said. “Which is why the familia has had to work on this in our own way.”
María looked at Juan then ground her cigarette on the floor. “What would happen if he were removed?”
“Do you mean dismissed?” Juan asked.
“If I’d meant dismissed I would have said dismissed,” the woman replied sharply.
Juan turned and put his cigarette out against the metal wall. He shrugged. “We would all benefit. But it would have to be done quickly. If Amadori has time to establish himself as the savior of Spain, then whatever momentum he creates will continue with or without him.”
“Granted,” María said. “And he will move quickly to present himself as a hero.”
Juan nodded. “The problem is, it won’t be easy getting close to him. If he stays in one place, there will be security. If he moves around, his itinerary will be classified. We’d have to be very lucky just to—”
Aideen held up her hand. “Quiet!”
The others looked at her. A moment later María obviously heard it too. By then they could feel it in their gut — the low beat of distant rotors.
“Helicopters!” Juan said. He jumped to the back of the van and opened the door.
Aideen looked past him. Coming in over the nearby hills were the navigation lights of four helicopters. They were about a mile away.
“They’re coming toward the factory,” Juan said. He turned toward María. “Yours?”
She shook her head. She pushed past him and jumped onto the asphalt. She stood watching the choppers for a moment. “Get your people out of here or into safe areas,” she said. “Arm them.”
Aideen slid out around the men. “Hold on,” she said. “Are you telling him to shoot at Spanish soldiers?”
“I don’t know!” she snapped. She started running toward the car. “These are probably Amadori’s men. If any of the familia members are captured or killed, it accomplishes what we’re afraid of. By shutting down pockets of dissent, he’s strengthened in the eyes of the people.”
Aideen jogged after her. She was trying to imagine some other scenario. But there were no riots in San Sebastián and the police were handling the inquiry into the explosion in the bay. There were only small homes and fields between this spot and the mountains: the Ramirez factory was the only target large enough to merit four helicopters.
This is a civilized nation preparing to make war on itself, she told herself. Though it was difficult to accept that fact, it was becoming more and more real by the moment.
Juan stepped from the van. He was followed by Ferdinand.
“Where are you going?” Juan shouted after the women.
“To call my superior!” María shouted back. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Tell your people that we will not fight back unless we’re attacked!” Juan yelled as he and Ferdinand started running toward the factory. The helicopters were less than a quarter mile away. “Tell them that we have no quarrel with the honest soldiers or people of—”
His words were drowned out by the rattling drone of the rotors as the choppers bore down on the factory. An instant later the crisp chatter of the airborne Modelo L-1-003 guns was added to the din and both Juan and Ferdinand fell to the ground.
TWENTY-TWO
Tuesday, 5:43 A.M. Madrid, Spain
Darrell McCaskey couldn’t sleep.
After bringing Aideen to the airfield, he’d returned with Luis to Interpol’s Madrid office. The small complex occupied a single floor of the district police station. The turn-of-the-century brick building was located just off the broad Gran Via on Calle de Hortaleza. The ride back to the city had been a quiet one as McCaskey reflected on his months with María.
Suddenly exhausted when they returned, McCaskey had lain down on a soft sofa in the small dining room. But while he’d gladly shut his heavy eyelids, his heavy heart had refused to shut down. María’s anger had disturbed him, though it was not unexpected. Worse than that, though, was simply seeing the woman again. It reminded McCaskey of the biggest mistake of his life: letting her go two years before.
The sad thing was, he’d known it then.
Lying there, McCaskey remembered vividly all the differences that had come up during her stay in America. She had a live-for-today attitude, not worrying very much about health or money or the danger of some of the assignments she took. They had different tastes in music and in the sports they liked to watch or play. She liked to bike everywhere, he liked to walk or drive. He loved cities and high energy places, she loved the country.
But whatever their differences, and they were considerable, one thing was true. They had loved each other. That should have counted for more than it did. It sure as hell did now.
McCaskey could still remember her face when he told her the relationship wasn’t working for him. He would always see that face, hard but deeply hurt — like a soldier who’d been wounded but refused to believe it and was determined to keep going. It was one of those snapshots that stayed in the soul and came back from time to time, as vivid as the moment it happened. “Emotional malaria,” Op-Center psychologist Liz Gordon had once called it when they were talking about failed relationships.
She got that right.
McCaskey gave up trying to keep his eyes shut. As he lay staring up at the fluorescent lights, Luis came running in. He hurried to a phone on one of the four round tables in the dining room. He snapped his fingers and motioned for McCaskey to pick up another one.
“It’s María,” Luis said. “On line five. They’re under attack.”
McCaskey swung from the sofa and rushed to the nearest table. “Are they okay?”
“They’re in a car,” Luis said. “María said she thinks it best to stay where they are.” He scooped up a phone.
McCaskey did likewise and punched line five.
“María?” Luis said. “Darrell is on the phone and Raul is checking on the helicopters. What’s happening now?”
McCaskey decided not to ask for an update. If he missed anything Luis would fill him in.
“Two of the helicopters are circling low over the factory grounds,” María said. “The other two are hovering just above the roof. Troops are climbing out. Some of the soldiers are taking up positions on the edge of the roof. Others are using aluminum ladders to climb down toward the doors. All of them are armed with submachine gun
s.”
“You said they already shot two men—”
“They shot at two members of the Ramirez familia, Juan and Ferdinand,” María said. “Both men had taken part in the retaliation for the yacht attack. But they hit the ground and surrendered — I think they’re all right.”
Her voice was calm and strong. McCaskey was proud of her. He had a deep desire to take back those stupid, selfish words he’d once uttered to her.
“We were meeting with the men when the attack began,” María continued. “I don’t know if the troops targeted them specifically or if the helicopters opened fire on the nearest target.”
“The sentry—” Aideen said.
“Yes, that’s right,” María added. “Aideen noticed that the guard at the factory was gone when the attack began. He’s former military. He could have pointed the men out to the helicopters.”
A tall, muscular officer ran into the dining room. Luis turned and looked at him. The man shook his head.
“No flight plan was filed for the helicopters,” he said.
“Then this isn’t going through the regular military chain of command,” Luis said into the phone.
“I’m not surprised,” María said.
“What do you mean?” Luis asked.
“I’m convinced that General Rafael Amadori is running this put-down operation as a private war,” María said. “It appears that he’s engineered events so that parliament has granted him emergency powers. He also has a very narrow window in which to eliminate opposition. By the time anyone decides to try and stop him it will be too late.”
“Do we know where the general is based?” McCaskey asked.
“Not yet,” the woman replied. “But I’m sure he’s made it difficult for anyone to get near him. I’ll have to give Amadori this much: he appears to be very well prepared.”
McCaskey noticed a change in María’s voice. He recognized it because it had always made him feel a little jealous. She did not approve of Amadori’s motives or actions, but there was a trace of admiration for the man.
María fell silent as gunfire erupted in the distance.
Aideen said something McCaskey couldn’t quite make out.
“María!” McCaskey yelled. “Talk to me!”
It was several seconds before she came back on. “Sorry,” she said. “The troops have entered the factory. We were trying to see what they were doing — there are parked cars in the way. We heard a few bursts of fire from the soldiers and then—damn!”
“What?” McCaskey said.
There was a peppering of loud reports followed by the unbroken drone of automatic fire.
“María!” McCaskey shouted.
“They let the soldiers provoke them,” she said.
“Who did?” Luis demanded.
“Probably some of the familia members and maybe some of the other workers,” María said. “There was gunfire from inside the factory. They must have shot at the soldiers. Workers are running out — falling out. The ones with guns are being cut down. Juan is yelling for them to surrender.”
McCaskey looked over at Luis. The Interpol officer seemed pale as he looked back at McCaskey.
“This is incredible,” María said. “The soldiers are shooting anyone who doesn’t put down their weapons. Even if they’re just goddamned crowbars! People are shouting inside. It sounds like they’re warning people to surrender.”
“How near are the soldiers to your position?” McCaskey asked.
“About four hundred yards. But there are other cars around — I don’t think they know we’re here.”
Perspiration collected on McCaskey’s upper lip. The law was collapsing. He wished there were some way he could get the two women out of there. He looked over at his companion. Luis’s eyes were moving quickly without focusing on anything. He was anxious too.
“Luis,” McCaskey asked thickly, “what about the police chopper?”
“It’s still there—”
“I know. But can you get permission for it to go in?”
Luis lifted his hands helplessly. “Even if I could, I doubt they’d go. The soldiers might suspect a familia ruse.”
A strong military offensive and paranoia. It was a combination that caused leaders to shut themselves off from all but their closest advisors. It was also a mix that could turn soldiers into indiscriminate executioners. McCaskey wished that Striker were here instead of over the Atlantic, hours away.
No one spoke for a long moment. McCaskey continued to regard Luis. There were three options. The women could stay where they were; they could try to get out; or they could attempt to surrender. If they tried to sneak away and were spotted, they’d probably be cut down. If they attempted to surrender they might also be shot. The safest course seemed to be to stay where they were and use their fake IDs if they were discovered. McCaskey wondered if Luis were going to make the call for them. The Interpol officer was big on taking responsibility for his people’s actions and then taking any heat those actions generated. But this wasn’t about blame or credit. This was about lives.
“María,” Luis said into the speaker, “what do you want to do?”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” María said. “I don’t know what the attackers are after. We’re seeing prisoners coming out now. Dozens of them. But we have no idea where they’re going to be taken. Possibly to be interrogated. I wonder—”
“What do you wonder?” Luis asked.
There was muted conversation on María’s end. Then silence except for faint gunfire.
“María?” Luis said.
The conversation stopped. There was only gunfire.
“María!” Luis repeated.
After a moment Aideen came on. “She’s not here.”
“Where is she?” Luis asked.
“On her way to the factory with her hands raised,” Aideen replied. “She’s going to try to surrender.”
TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 10:45 P.M. Washington, D.C.
The phone call from National Security Chief Steve Burkow was brief and surprising.
“The President is considering a radical shift in Administration policy toward Spain,” Burkow informed Paul Hood. “Be at the White House situation room at eleven-thirty tonight. And would you please have the latest intelligence on the military situation sent over?”
It was less than an hour since the conference call with U.N. Secretary-General Manni. It had been decided, then, that the status quo was going to be maintained. Hood had been able to lie down and take a short nap. He wondered what could have changed since the call.
Hood said he’d be there, of course. Then he went into the small private washroom in the back of his office. He shut the door. There was a speakerphone set in the wall under the light switch. After splashing water on his face he called Bob Herbert. Herbert’s assistant said that he was talking to Darrell McCaskey and asked if this were a priority call. Hood said it wasn’t and asked for Herbert to call back when he got off.
Hood had already finished washing his face and straightening his tie when the internal line beeped. Hood was glad to hear it. Like a scavenger drawn to carrion, his tired mind had padded back to Sharon and the kids. He didn’t know why — to punish himself, he wondered? — but he didn’t want to think about them now. When a crisis was pending, it was not the best time to reassess one’s life and goals.
Hood hit the telephone speaker button and leaned on the stainless steel sink. “Hood,” he said.
“Paul, it’s Bob,” Herbert said. “I was going to call you anyway.”
“What’s Darrell’s news?”
“It’s pretty grim,” Herbert said. “NRO intelligence has confirmed that four helicopters, apparently sent by General Amadori, attacked the Ramirez factory at 5:20 A.M., local time. Aideen Marley and María Corneja were in the parking lot, hunkered down in their car, during the attack. The Spanish troops gunned down about twenty people before taking control of the factory and rounding up others. According to Aideen �
�� who’s still in the car and in contact with Darrell — María surrendered to the soldiers. Her hope is that she can find out where Amadori is headquartered and get that information back to us.”
“Is Aideen in any immediate danger?”
“We don’t think so,” Herbert said. “The troops aren’t making a sweep of the parking lot. It looks to her like they want to finish rounding up a few people and get the hell out.”
“What about María?” Hood asked. “Will she try to stop Amadori?” He knew that the White House would have some of this information. That was probably one of the reasons for the hastily called meeting. He also knew that the President would ask the same question.
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “As soon as I hang up I’m going to ask Liz for the psychological workup she did when María was working here. Maybe that’ll tell us something.”
“What does Darrell think?” Hood asked impatiently. “If anyone would know María Corneja, he’s the man.” Hood didn’t put much trust in psychoanalytical profiles. Cold, paint-by-number studies were less valuable to him than human feelings and intuition.
“What man knows any woman?” Herbert asked.
Hood was about to tell Herbert to spare him the philosophy when his mind flashed to Sharon. Hood said nothing. Herbert was right.
“But to answer your question,” Herbert continued, “Darrell says he wouldn’t put it past her to kill him. She can be single-minded and very, very focused. He says she could find a handy pen or paperclip and rip a hole in his femoral artery. He also says he could see her hating his barbarity but also applauding his courage and strength.”
“Meaning?”
“She could think too much or too long,” Herbert said. “Hesitate and miss an opportunity.”
“Would she ever join him?” Hood asked.
“Darrell says no. Emphatically no,” Herbert added.
Hood wasn’t so sure, but he’d go with Darrell on this one. Herbert didn’t have any additional information on Serrador’s death or outside confimation of his involvement with Martha’s murder. But he said he’d keep working on both. Hood thanked Herbert and asked him to send all of the latest data to the President. Then he headed out to the White House.