Balance of Power o-5

by Tom Clancy

  As Norberto neared St. Ignatius he looked across the long, low field. He could see the helicopters hovering over the factory in the distance. But there was no time to wonder about them. The church was already filling with mothers and young children as well as the elderly. Soon the fishermen would arrive, returning to shore to make certain their families were safe. He had to attend to these people, not to his own wounds.

  Norberto’s arrival was heralded by the relieved cries of the people outside the church and thanks to God. For a moment — a brief, soul-touching moment — the priest felt the same love and compassion for the poor that the Son of Man Himself must have felt. It didn’t alleviate his pain. But it did give him renewed strength and purpose.

  The first thing Father Norberto did upon arriving was to smile and speak softly. Speaking softly made the people quiet down. It forced them to control their fear. He got everyone inside and into pews. Then, as Norberto lit the candles beside the pulpit, he asked white-haired “Grandfather” José if he would usher newcomers inside in an orderly fashion. The former salvage ship captain, a pious Catholic, accepted the task humbly, his gray eyes gleaming.

  When the candles were lit and the church was awash with their comforting glow, the priest went to the altar. He used it to steady himself for just a moment. Then he led the congregation through Mass, hoping that they would take comfort as much in the familiar ritual as in the presence of God. Norberto hoped that he, too, would find solace there. But as he proceeded through the Liturgy of the Word, he found little for himself. The only consolation he had was the fact that he was giving comfort to others.

  When Father Norberto finished the service, he turned to the uneasy crowd, which was already over one hundred strong. The heat of their bodies and their fear filled the small, dark church. The smell of the sea air came through the open door. It inspired Father Norberto to speak to the crowd from Matthew.

  In a loud and strong voice he read for the parishioners. “ ‘And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was great calm.’ ”

  The words of the Gospel, along with the need of the people, gave strength to the priest. Even after the gunfire had stopped, more and more of them came into the church seeking comfort amidst the confusion.

  Father Norberto didn’t hear the telephone ringing in the rectory. However, Grandfather José did. The elderly man answered it and then came running up to the priest.

  “Father!” José whispered excitedly into his ear. “Father, quickly — you must come!”

  “What is it?” Norberto asked.

  “It is an aide to General Superior González in Madrid!” José declared. “He wishes to speak with you.”

  Norberto regarded José for a moment. “Are you certain he wants to talk to me?”

  José nodded vigorously. Puzzled, Norberto went to the pulpit and collected his Bible. He handed it to the elder member of the church and asked him to read to the congregation more from Matthew until his return. Then Norberto left quickly, wondering what the leader of the Spanish Jesuits wanted with him.

  Norberto shut the door of the rectory and sat at his old oak desk. He rubbed his hands together and then picked up the phone.

  The caller was Father Francisco. The young priest had phoned to inform Norberto that his presence was required — not requested, but required—in Madrid as soon as he could get there.

  “For what reason?” Norberto asked. It should have been enough that General Superior González wanted him. González reported directly to the Pope and his word carried the authority of the Vatican. But when it came to matters involving this province and its five thousand Jesuits, González usually consulted his old friend Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao. Which was the way Norberto preferred it. He cared about ministering to his parish, not his own advancement.

  “1 can only say that he asked for you and several others specifically,” Father Francisco replied.

  “Has Father Iglesias been sent for?”

  “He is not on my list,” the caller replied. “An airplane has been arranged for you at eight-thirty A.M. It is the General Superior’s private airplane. Can I tell him that you will be on it?”

  “If I’m so ordered,” Norberto said.

  “It is the General Superior’s wish,” Father Francisco gently corrected him.

  When it came to ecclesiastic euphemisms, Norberto knew that that was the same thing. The priest said he would be there. The caller thanked him perfunctorily and hung up. Norberto returned to the church.

  He took the Bible from Grandfather José and continued reading to the congregation from Matthew. But while the words came, warm and familiar, Father Norberto’s heart and mind were elsewhere. They were with his brother and with his congregation. Most of the members were here now, cramming the pews and standing shoulder to shoulder along the three walls. Norberto had to decide who would help the people through the day and night. This would be especially important if friends or relatives had been lost at the factory — and if the fighting were only the start of something terrible. From the way Adolfo had been speaking the night before, the strife was just beginning.

  When a calm had come over the congregation — after seven years, Norberto could sense these things — he closed the Bible and spoke to them in general terms about the sorrows and dangers that might lie ahead. He asked them to open their homes and hearts to those who had suffered a loss. Then he told them that he must go to Madrid to confer with the General Superior about the crisis that was facing their nation. He said he would be leaving later that morning.

  The congregation was silent after he made his announcement. He knew that the people were never surprised when they were abandoned by the government. That had been true when he was growing up during the Franco years; it had been true during the rape of the coastal seas during the 1970s; and from all appearances it was true now. But for Father Norberto to be leaving them at a time of crisis had to come as a shock.

  “Father Norberto, we need you,” said a young woman in the first row.

  “Dear Isabella,” Norberto said, “it is not my desire to go. It is the General Superior’s wish.”

  “But my brother works at the factory,” Isabella continued, “and we have not heard from him. I’m frightened.”

  Norberto walked toward the woman. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes as he approached. He forced himself to smile.

  “Isabella, I know what you are feeling,” he said. “I know because I lost a brother today.”

  The young woman’s eyes registered shock. “Father—”

  Norberto’s smile remained firm, reassuring. “My dear Adolfo was killed this morning. It is my hope that by going to Madrid I can help the General Superior end whatever is happening in Spain. I want no more brothers to die, no more fathers or sons or husbands.” He touched Isabella’s cheek. “Can you — will you — be strong for me?”

  Isabella touched his hand. Her fingers were trembling and there were tears in her eyes. “I–I did not know about Dolfo,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. I will try to be strong.”

  “Try to be strong for yourself, not for me,” Norberto said. He looked up at the fearful eyes of the young and old. “I need all of you to be strong, to help one another.” Then he turned to Grandfather José, who was standing in the crowd along the wall. He asked the old sailor if he would remain at the church as a “caretaker priest” until his return, reading from the Bible and talking to people about their fears. He had come up with the term on the spot and José liked it. Grandfather José bowed his head and accepted gratefully and humbly. Norberto thanked him and then turned to his beloved congregation.

  “We face difficult times,” he said to the people. “But wherever I may be, whether in San Sebastían or in Madrid, we’ll face them together — with faith, hope, and courage.”

  “Amen, Father,” Isabella said in a strong voice.

  The congregation echoed her words, as though one great voi
ce were filling the church. Though Norberto was still smiling, tears spilled from his eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness but of pride. Here before him was something the generals and politicians would never obtain, however much blood they spilled: the trust and love of good people. Looking at their faces, Norberto told himself that Adolfo had not died in vain. His death had helped to bring the congregation together, to give the people strength.

  Norberto left the church amidst the good wishes and prayers of the parishioners. As he stepped into the warm daylight and headed toward the rectory, he could not help but think how amused Adolfo would have been by what had just happened. That it had been he, a disbeliever, and not Norberto who had inspired and unified a frightened congregation.

  Norberto wondered if God had provided this sanctifying grace as a means for Adolfo to overcome his mortal sin. The priest had no reason to believe that, no theological precedent. But as this morning had proved, hope was a powerful beacon.

  Perhaps, he thought, that’s because sometimes hope is the only beacon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 8:06 A.M. Madrid, Spain

  Once the soldiers had secured the Ramirez boat factory, they lined up the three dozen surviving employees and checked their IDs. As she watched the soldiers pick out people, María realized that all of the core leaders of the familia were still alive. The factory guard and other informants must have kept careful records, including photographs. Amadori would have the cream of the familia for show-trials. He could show the nation, the world, that ordinary Spaniards were plotting against other Spaniards. That he had brought order to impending chaos. The people who were gunned down were probably not guilty of anything. In life, they could have insisted that they were not members of the familia. In death, they could be whatever Amadori wanted them to be. The care with which he had planned even this relatively small, remote action was chilling.

  Those factory workers whose names were on the army’s list were brought to the rooftop. One of the helicopters was used to ferry prisoners to the small airport outside of Bilbao. There, fifteen workers plus María were held inside a hangar at gunpoint.

  Juan and Ferdinand were among the captives. They were tightly bound. Neither man spoke and neither man looked at her. She hoped they didn’t suspect her of having set them up.

  María couldn’t address that right now. Time and deeds, not protests, would clear her. She was just glad to be here. When she’d surrendered, Maria still had no idea whether prisoners were being taken at all. She had approached the factory with her arms raised, hoping that the soldiers would hold their fire because she was a woman. María may have had a rocky history where relationships were concerned, but she’d never gone wrong betting on the pride of Spanish men. As soon as she was spotted — halfway across the parking lot — she was ordered to stay where she was. Two soldiers came rushing from inside. One of them frisked her with enthusiasm until she informed them that she had something to tell General Amadori. She wasn’t sure what she had to tell him, but she’d think of something. The fact that she knew the general’s name seemed to catch the men off guard. They didn’t treat her gently after that, but they refrained from abusing her.

  The prisoners stood in a bunch quietly, some of them smoking, some of them nursing lacerations, waiting to see whether they were being taken away or whether someone was coming. When a prop plane arrived from Madrid, the group was led onboard.

  The flight to Madrid took just under fifty minutes. Though the prisoners’ wounds were dressed, none of the captives spoke and none of the soldiers addressed them. As she sat in the twenty-four-seater, staring out at the bright patchwork of farms and cities, María played scenarios out in her mind. She would talk to no one but Amadori, who would see her — she hoped — because she could tell him how much the world intelligence fraternity knew about his crimes. Perhaps an arrangement could be reached wherein he would restrict his ambitions to becoming part of a new government.

  She also imagined the general not caring what anyone knew or thought. Whether he wanted to rule an independent Castile or all of Spain, he had the guns and he had the momentum. He also had familia members not just to interrogate but to hold as hostages if he wished.

  There was another consideration. The very real possibility that simply by talking to Amadori María might fuel his ambition. The hint of a threat, of a challenge, could cause him to become defensive, even more aggressive. After all, he too was a proud Spanish man.

  The airplane taxied to a deserted corner of the airport — ironically, to a spot not far from where she had departed earlier in the day. Two large canvas-backed trucks were waiting to meet the plane. In the distance, María could see busy pockets of jeeps, helicopters, and soldiers. Since she and Aideen had left here seven hours before, portions of Barajas Airport seemed to have been turned into a staging area for other raids. That made tactical sense. From here, every part of Spain was less than an hour away.

  María had a sick feeling deep in her belly. A feeling that whatever had been set in motion could not be stopped. Not without shutting down the brain behind it. In that case, the question María had to ask was Could General Amadori be stopped? And if so, how?

  The eight prisoners sat in facing rows of benches and the trucks headed into the heart of the city. Four guards watched over them, two at each end of the truck. They were armed with pistols and truncheons. Traffic was unusually light on the highway, though the nearer they got to the center of Madrid the thicker the military activity became. María could see the trucks and jeeps through the front window. As they entered the city proper the traffic was heaviest near key government buildings and communications centers. María wondered if the soldiers were there to keep people out or to keep them in.

  The small, anonymous caravan drove slowly along Calle de Bailén and then came to a stop. The driver had a brief conversation with a guard and then the trucks moved on. María leaned forward and a guard warned her back. But she had already seen what she wanted to see. The trucks had arrived at the Palacio Real, the Royal Palace.

  The palace had been erected in 1762, constructed on the site of a ninth-century Moorish fortress. When the Moors were expelled, the fortress was destroyed and a glorious castle was built here. It burned down on Christmas Eve, 1734, and the new palace was built on the site. More than any place in Spain, this ground — considered holy, to some Spaniards — symbolized the destruction of the invader and the birth of modern Spain. The location of Nuestra Señora de la Almudena, the Cathedral of the Almudena, just south of the palace completed the symbolic consecration of the ground.

  Four stories tall and built of white-trimmed granite from the Sierra de Guadarrama, the sprawling edifice sits on the “balcony of Madrid,” a cliff that slopes majestically toward the Manzanares River. From here, the views to the north and west are sweeping and spectacular.

  General Amadori was setting himself up in style. This wasn’t the king’s residence. His Highness lived in the Palacio de la Zarzuela, at El Pardo on the northern outskirts of the city. She wondered if the king was there and what he had to say about all of this. She had a sharp sense of déjà vu as she thought of the monarch and his young family locked in a room of the castle — or worse. How many times in how many nations had this scenario been acted out? Whether the kings were tyrants or constitutional monarchs, whether their heads were taken or just their crowns, this was the oldest story in civilization.

  She was sickened by it. And just once she’d like to see the story end with a twist.

  They were driven around the corner to the Plaza de la Armería. Instead of the usual early-morning lines of tourists, the vast courtyard was filled with soldiers. Some were drilling and some were already on duty, guarding the nearly two dozen entrances to the palace itself. The trucks stopped beside a pair of double doors set beneath a narrow balcony. The prisoners were led from the trucks into the palace. They shambled down a long hallway and stopped just beyond the grand staircase, in the center of the palace. A door opened; Ma
ría was standing near the front of the line and looked in.

  Of course, she thought. They were at the magnificent Hall of the Halberdiers. The axlike weapons had been removed from the walls and racks, and the room had been turned into a detention center. A dozen or so guards stood along the far wall and at least three hundred people sat on the parquet floor. María noticed several women and children among them. Beyond this chamber was the heart of the Royal Palace: the throne room. There were two additional guards, one on either side of the grand doorway. María did not doubt for a moment that behind the closed door was where General Amadori had established his headquarters. María was also convinced that more than vanity had brought him to this spot. No outside force could attack the general without coming through the prisoners. The detainees formed a thick and very effective human shield.

  A sergeant stepped from the room. He shouted for the new group to enter. The line began to move. When María reached the door, she stopped and turned to the sergeant.

  “I must see the general at once,” she said. “I have important information for him.”

  “You’ll get your turn to tell us what you know,” the gaunt soldier said. He grinned lasciviously. “And maybe we’ll get a turn to thank you.”

  He grabbed her left arm just above the elbow and pushed her. María took a step forward to regain her balance. At the same time she turned slightly and slapped her right hand hard on the backs of the fingers that were holding her. The shock of the slap caused the sergeant’s grip to loosen momentarily. That was all the time Maria needed. Grabbing the fingers in her fist, she spun around so that she was facing the soldier. At the same time she turned his hand palm up, bent the fingertips back toward his elbow, and snapped all four fingers at the knuckles. As he shrieked with pain, María’s left hand snaked down. She snatched the 9mm pistol from his holster. Then she released his broken fingers, grabbed his hair, and yanked him toward her. She put the barrel of the pistol under his right ear. His forehead was against her chin and his legs were shaking visibly.