Balance of Power o-5

by Tom Clancy

  He did. María then turned him around so he was facing the toilet. She told him to kneel in front of it.

  “Please don’t shoot me,” he said. “Please.”

  “I won’t,” she said, “if you do as you’re told.”

  There were two things she could do. One was to stuff his mouth with toilet paper, break his fingers so he couldn’t take it out, then tie him to the heavy tank lid. But that would take time. Instead, she executed a tight front-kick to the back of his head. That drove his forehead into the ceramic tank and knocked him out. He’d probably suffered a concussion, but there was no way to avoid injuries in this situation. Grabbing the uniform and guns, she changed quickly in the adjoining stall. The uniform was baggy, but it would have to do. Tucking her hair into the snug pillbox cap, she holstered the sergeant’s gun and hid the extra pistols under the front of her shirt.

  She stuffed her clothes into the wastebasket — everything except the shoes. She rubbed the soles on her cheeks to give herself “stubble.” When she was finished, she threw the shoes out as well. Then she went to the mirror to give herself a final check. As she did, two other sergeants entered. They were in a hurry.

  “You’re late, García!” one of them barked. He walked past Maria, following the other man toward the urinal. “The lieutenant gave each group five minutes to get in and—”

  The sergeant stopped and turned. Maria didn’t wait for him to act. She faced him and placed her right knee behind his left knee. Then she hooked her right arm, locked it around his neck, and threw him over her leg. He fell in front of her, lengthwise. Because her weight was on her right leg, she was able to lift her left leg. She stomped hard on his chest, breaking ribs and knocking the wind from him. His companion was facing the urinal. He turned but Maria had already stepped over the sergeant and was moving toward him. Lifting her right leg without breaking her stride, she drove her right knee hard into the small of his back. He was slammed against the urinal and fell back. As the soldier hit the tiled floor Maria kicked him in the temple with her heel. He went out immediately. The other man was still moaning so Maria pivoted gracefully and kicked him squarely in the side of the head. He, too, fell unconscious.

  Maria stumbled back. She had marshaled the energy she’d needed for the attack, but the effort had drained her. The blows she’d suffered in the music room ached wickedly and this activity hadn’t helped. But there was still a mission to complete and María intended to finish it. Staggering to the sink, she cupped water in her hands and drank.

  Then she remembered something the man on the floor had said. Soldiers were being allowed to come in here at five-minute intervals. She’d just eaten up nearly two of those. There was no time to delay.

  Pulling herself erect, María turned and started toward the door. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the hallway. She turned right and then turned left a few doors down. She was back in the corridor leading to the throne room.

  There were soldiers stationed here but she moved quickly, as though she were hurrying somewhere. Whenever she worked undercover María had found that two things were necessary for a successful infiltration. First, you had to act like you belonged wherever you were. If you did, no one questioned you. Second, you had to act as though you had somewhere to go — immediately. If you moved fast and with assurance, no one stopped you. She was certain that those qualities, plus the uniform, would get her back to the Hall of the Halberdiers. They might even get her inside. After that, María would need four things in order to get to Amadori.

  The guns, wile — and two special allies.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 4:30 A.M. Washington, D.C.

  Mike Rodgers joined Paul Hood in his office to await word on Striker’s deployment. Shortly after Rodgers arrived, Steve Burkow phoned with news from the White House. Hood hoped the call was only to give him the news. The hawkish National Security chief had a way of using calls like these to push the President’s agenda.

  According to Burkow, the king of Spain had phoned from his residence in Barcelona and spoken with the President. Officers loyal to the king had confirmed that General Rafael Amadori, head of military intelligence and one of the most powerful officers in Spain, had relocated his command center to the throne room of the Royal Palace.

  Hearing that, Hood and Rodgers exchanged glances. Without a word, Rodgers went to a phone by the couch to inform Luis at Interpol that they had positively located their target. Hood allowed himself a little smile. He was pleased that they’d gotten that one right.

  “There’s now no doubt about what this General Amadori is planning,” Burkow continued. “The President has informed the king about the presence of the Striker team in Madrid. His Majesty has given us his approval to take whatever action is necessary.”

  “Of course he did,” Hood said. The President’s action was expedient and probably necessary, but it made him uneasy.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge the king,” Burkow said. “He has also acknowledged that it probably won’t be possible to hold Spain together. He said that too many long-simmering ethnic demons have been let loose. He also told the President that if the U.N. and NATO will assist in an orderly disassembling of the nation, he will abdicate.”

  “What good would that do?” Hood asked. “The king’s powers are only ceremonial.”

  “That’s true,” Burkow said. “But he’s prepared to use his abdication as a gesture to the people of Spain. He wants to show them that if they want autonomy, he won’t stand in their way. However, he’s adamant about not handing over power to a tyrant.”

  Hood had to admit that even though the king probably had a fortune hidden in foreign banks, there was an admirable if grandstanding logic to what he had proposed. “When will the king be making this gesture?” Hood asked.

  “When Amadori is no longer a threat,” Burkow replied. “Speaking of which, what’s the status of your team?”

  “We’re awaiting word,” Hood said. “Striker should be arriving at the target any mo—”

  “They’re there,” Rodgers said suddenly.

  “Hold on, Steve,” Hood said. “Mike, what’ve you got?”

  “Darrell just heard from Colonel August,” Rodgers said, the phone still pressed to his ear. “Striker has successfully deployed along the east side of the opera house. They have the palace in view and so far no one has bothered them. The soldiers seem to be concentrating on the palace and nothing more. Colonel August is awaiting further instructions.”

  “Thank Darrell for me,” Hood said, and repeated the information to Burkow. As he spoke, he brought up the mission profile McCaskey had filed a half hour before. There was a map of that section of Madrid as well as a detailed map of the Royal Palace, along with various assault and infiltration configurations. According to McCaskey, the estimate from the Interpol spotter put the palace strength at four or five hundred troops. Most of them were clustered outside the southern end, where the throne room was located.

  “What would the plan and timing be if they had to go in now?” Burkow asked.

  Rodgers had come over to the desk. He looked over Hood’s shoulder. Hood put the phone on speaker.

  “There’s a sewer on the northwest corner of the Plaza de Oriente,” Hood said. “It connects to a catacomb which used to be part of an old Moorish fortress. It’s used to store rat poison now.”

  “Hold it,” Burkow said. “How do they get into the sewer?”

  “They use an old French Resistance trick,” Rodgers replied. “Create a diversion and hit the main target. Nothing lethal — just lots of smoke.”

  “I see,” Burkow said.

  “The catacomb connects to a palace dungeon, which hasn’t been used for that purpose in over two centuries,” Hood said.

  “You mean it’s just sitting there?” Burkow said.

  “That’s correct,” Hood replied.

  “Given Spain’s history vis-à-vis the Inquisition,” Rodgers said, “I’m not surprised it hasn’t been restored
and opened to the public.”

  “Entering the dungeon will bring the Strikers right below the Hall of Tapestries,” Hood continued. “From there, it’s a short trip to the throne room.”

  “A short trip as the crow flies,” Rodgers said, “though there are probably troops up and down the corridor. If they go in a three-cut mode, there’ll definitely be casualties among the Spaniards.”

  “Three-cut mode?” Burkow said.

  “Yes, sir,” Rodgers said. “Cut through any resistance, cut down the target, then cut out. In other words, if they don’t bother to obtain uniforms and sneak up on Amadori and take pains to minimize casualties — on either side.”

  “I see,” Burkow said.

  “We intended to wait and see if we hear from our person inside,” Hood said.

  “The Interpol agent who allowed herself to be captured,” Burkow said.

  “That’s right. We don’t know whether she’ll try to reach us or try to take out the target herself,” Hood said. “But we thought it best to give her time.”

  Burkow was silent for a moment. “While we wait, we run the risk of Amadori growing exponentially stronger. There’s a point at which a usurper ceases to be regarded as a rebel and becomes a hero to the people. Like Castro when he overthrew Batista.”

  “That is a risk,” Hood agreed. “But we don’t think Amadori is at that point yet. There are still dozens of riot zones and Amadori hasn’t been named as an interim leader in any of the newscasts we’ve monitored. Until a few major figures join him — not just politicians, but business and religious leaders — he’s probably going to lay low.”

  “He’s already started leaning hard on industrial leaders,” Burkow pointed out. “The men on the yacht and the familia members he rounded up—”

  “He probably will scare others into line,” Hood agreed, “but I doubt that’ll happen within the next hour or two.”

  “So you think we should wait.”

  “Striker’s on alert and ready,” Hood said. “The delay isn’t likely to do much harm and it may give us some valuable onsite intel.”

  “I disagree that the delay isn’t likely to do much harm,” Burkow said. “General VanZandt believes that it may also give Amadori a chance to punch up his own security. And getting him is the primary objective.”

  Hood looked up at Rodgers. They both knew what Burkow was implying: this wasn’t the time to be cautious.

  Hood agreed, to a point. The blitzkriegs, purges, and murders seemed to put Amadori in a class with Hitler and Stalin, not Fidel Castro or Francisco Franco. He couldn’t be allowed to rule Spain.

  “Steve,” Hood said, “I agree with you. Amadori is the primary objective. But the Strikers are the only resource we have. If we use them recklessly, that’ll endanger their lives and also jeopardize the mission.” He looked at the computer clock. His assistant Bugs Benet had programmed it to give him the local time as well as the time in Madrid. “It’s nearly eleven A.M. in Spain,” he continued. “Let’s see what the situation is at noon. If we haven’t heard anything from María Corneja by then, Striker will move in.”

  “A lot can happen in an hour, Paul,” Burkow complained. “A few key endorsements could make Amadori unstoppable. Remove him then and you kill a world leader instead of a traitor.”

  “I understand that,” Hood replied. “But we need more information.”

  “Look,” Burkow pressed, “I’m starting to get pissed off. Your team is one of the best strike forces in the world. Don’t sit on them. Let them loose. They’ll collect their own intel as they proceed.”

  “No,” Hood said emphatically. “That isn’t good enough. I’m going to give María the extra hour.”

  “Why?” Burkow demanded. “Listen, if you’re afraid to give the order to waste that son-of-a-bitch general—”

  “Afraid?” Hood snapped. “That bastard sat back and let one of my people die. I can eat what’s on the plate. Gladly.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is we’ve been so damned target focused we haven’t worked out an exit strategy for Striker.”

  “You don’t need María for that,” Burkow said. “They go out the same way they go in.”

  “I don’t mean we need an exit strategy from the palace,” Hood said. “I’m talking about culpability. Who’s going to take the heat for this, Steve? Did the President work that out with the king?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t in on the conversation.”

  “Are we supposed to disavow Striker if they’re caught?” Hood asked. “Say they’re mercenaries or some kind of rogue operation and then let them twist in the wind?”

  “Sometimes that has to happen,” Burkow said.

  “Sometimes it does,” Hood agreed. “But not when there’s an alternative. And the alternative we have here is to let a Spaniard be involved somewhere. A patriot. Someone Striker is there to support, even if that’s just smoke-and-mirrors for public consumption.”

  Burkow said nothing.

  “So I’m going to wait until noon to see if we get anything from María,” Hood said. “Even her whereabouts in the palace will do. If Striker can scoop her up on the way to Amadori, then no — I won’t have any problem giving the order to waste the son-of-a-bitch.”

  There was a long moment of thick silence. Burkow finally broke it.

  “I can tell the President it’ll happen at noon?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Hood.

  “Fine,” Burkow said coldly. “We’ll talk then.”

  The National Security chief hung up. Hood looked up at Rodgers. The general was smiling.

  “I’m proud of you, Paul,” Rodgers said. “Real proud.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” Hood closed down the computer file and rubbed his eyes. “But God, I’m tired. Tired of all of this.”

  “Close your eyes,” Rodgers said. “I’ll take the watch.”

  “Not till this is over,” Hood said. “But you can do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  Hood picked up the phone. “I’ll get on top of Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens, tell them I want that woman found and pinpointed. Meantime, see if there’s anything else Darrell can do. An hour’s not much time, but maybe somebody once bugged the palace. See if he can scare up any enemies of the king.”

  “Will do.”

  “And make sure he briefs Striker about what we’re waiting on.”

  Rodgers nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. Hood made the calls to Herbert and Viens. When he was finished, he folded his arms on his desk and rested his forehead on them.

  He was tired. And he wasn’t particularly proud of himself. To the contrary. He was disgusted by his eagerness to tear down Amadori as payback for Martha Mackall — even though it was someone else who had planned and carried out her murder. It was all part of the same inhuman tableau.

  Eventually, though, it would all be over. Amadori would be dead or Spain would be Amadori’s — in which case it was the world’s problem and not his. Then Hood would leave here and go home to nothing. Nothing but a few private satisfactions, some awful regrets, and the prospect of more of the same for as long as he stayed at Op-Center.

  That wasn’t enough.

  He would never get Sharon to see things his way. But as he sat there, his mind fuzzy and his emotions clear, he had to admit that he was no longer sure his way was right. Was it better to have big professional challenges and the respect of Mike Rodgers? Or was it better to have a less demanding job, one that left him time to enjoy the love of his wife and children and the small satisfactions they could all share?

  Why should I have to choose? he asked himself. But he knew the answer to that.

  Because the price of being one of the power elite in any field was time and industry. If he wanted his family back he was going to have to take back some of those things. He was going to have to join a university or a bank or a think tank — something that left him time for violin recitals and baseball games and snuggling
in front of the boob tube.

  Hood raised his head and turned back to his computer. And as he waited for news from Spain, he typed:

  Mr. President:

  I herewith resign the office of Director of Op-Center.

  Sincerely,

  Paul Hood

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 10:32 A.M. Madrid, Spain

  When María finally reached the corridor outside the Hall of the Halberdiers, she was no longer able to proceed cautiously. The room was located toward the near end of the long hallway. The corridor was crowded with groups of soldiers, who were methodically searching the palace rooms. She had no doubt that they were looking for her.

  It had been relatively easy getting this far. There were a number of interconnected rooms along the way and she’d been able to stay out of the corridor. The only stop she’d made was to try to telephone Luis to brief him. But the palace phones had been disconnected and she didn’t want to risk trying to get a radio from one of the communications officers.

  Swallowing her pain, she marched ahead quickly, purposefully. Her arms swung stiffly at her sides, her cap was pulled low, and her eyes peered straight ahead. Look official, she kept reminding herself.

  María believed that in most cases an infiltration should be done quietly. The rules were enter in the dark, don’t make noise, and blend in with the shadows. In the present situation she wouldn’t be able to sneak through. The only approach to take was to act as though she belonged. Unfortunately, while there were women in the Spanish army, none of them were assigned to combat units. And as far as María could tell, none of them were here. Which is why she jogged toward the Hall of the Halberdiers. The cap hid her hair and the tunic hid her arms and chest. All she wanted to do was to get back to the room. If she could get inside, she had a plan that might get her through to the throne room.

  If she ran too fast, María knew that she’d attract attention. If she ran too slowly, she was afraid that someone would stop her and ask why she wasn’t with her unit. Her heart seemed to be pounding in all directions at once. Her body ached from the beating and she was frightened for Spain. But the danger and hurt and most of all the responsibility made her feel alive. These moments were like the instant before pulling a parachute ripcord or stepping onstage. They were hyperintense and unlike anything else in life.