Balance of Power o-5

by Tom Clancy

  Sharon didn’t feel that what she’d said to Paul was wrong. He should spend more time with his family and less time at work. His job required a greater commitment than nine-to-five, but Op-Center would continue to function if he came home for dinner some nights… if he went on vacation with them once in a while. But how Sharon had spoken to him — that was a different matter. She was frustrated and instead of talking to him she’d taken it out on him. After taking his kids away, that had to leave him feeling very much alone.

  The woman took off her robe and lay down on the twin bed. The pillow was cold with her sweat and the branch was still scratching. She looked over. As she did, she saw her cellular phone on the night table. The black plastic glowed in the moonlight.

  Rolling onto her side, Sharon picked up the phone, flipped it open, and began punching in Paul’s private number. She stopped after the area code. She discontinued the call and set the phone aside.

  She had a better idea. Instead of giving him a call — where even a small thing, like getting voice mail or hearing the wrong word could trigger a relapse — she’d give him an olive branch. Feeling guilty and forgiving at the same time, Sharon lay back, shut her eyes, and dropped almost at once into a contented sleep.

  FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 11:50 A.M. Madrid, Spain

  When the soldiers in the courtyard suddenly withdrew, Darrell McCaskey silently thanked Brett August. The Strikers had to be the reason for the abrupt pullback.

  After the helicopter took off, the soldiers on the rooftop kept McCaskey and María pinned down. At the same time the scattered soldiers around the perimeter regrouped. It appeared as if they were organizing for an assault. But the attack never came. Everyone seemed riveted by loud pops from inside the palace.

  “It’s begun,” McCaskey said to María.

  Yellow smoke filtered through several of the windows along the wall beside the arches. There were shouted commands at the far end of the courtyard, near the western side of the palace. Though it was difficult to see because of the high, bright sun and deep shadows, the bulk of the soldiers seemed to disappear. Not long after that, McCaskey heard gunfire behind the ornate white walls.

  “What’s going on?” María asked. She was leaning against the inside of the arch closest to the palace wall. Her legs were stretched in front of her. McCaskey had placed his handkerchief across the gunshot wound in her side and was holding it in place.

  “It’s the countercoup,” he replied. He didn’t want to say much in case they were overheard. “How are you doing?”

  “All right,” she replied.

  As they spoke, McCaskey had squinted across the wide, sunlit space. To the south — McCaskey’s left — a tall iron gate separated the palace courtyard from the cathedral. The church doors had been shut before but now it looked as though people were beginning to emerge — priests as well as parishioners. He assumed that they’d heard the helicopter and the shots that had been fired at it. Within the courtyard itself Luis was still lying across the captain. The Interpol chief was silent but the Spanish officer was moaning.

  “We have to bring him in,” María said.

  “I know,” McCaskey said. He continued to peer into the sunlight. He was finally able to pick out at least three soldiers who had remained behind. Two of them were roughly four hundred feet away. They were crouched behind a post that supported the gate on the southern side of the courtyard. A third soldier was squatting behind an old lamppost about three hundred feet straight ahead, to the north.

  McCaskey put his gun in María’s hand. “Listen, María. I’m going to try and get Luis. I’ll see if the soldiers will trade him for that captain.”

  “That is not a trade,” María declared angrily. “Luis is a man. The captain is una víbora. A snake that crawls on the ground.” She glanced out at the captain and her swollen upper lip pulled into a sneer. “He is lying there just as he should — on his belly.”

  “Hopefully,” McCaskey said evenly, “the soldiers won’t see things quite the same way. Can you move around slightly so they can see the gun?”

  María put her left hand on the bloody handkerchief and twisted slightly. She brought her right hand around.

  “Hold it,” he said before the gun came around. “I want to tell the soldiers something first. How do you say, ‘Don’t shoot’?”

  “No disparar.”

  McCaskey leaned his head out from behind the arch. “¡No disparar!” he yelled. He kept his head exposed then asked María, “How do you say, ‘Let’s take care of our wounded’?”

  She told him.

  McCaskey shouted, “¡Cuidaremos nuestros heridos!”

  There was no response from the soldiers. McCaskey frowned. This was one of those moves where you had to put everything on the table and pray.

  “All right,” he said to María as he rose. “Let them see the gun.”

  María twisted further until her right hand came from behind the archway. The gun glinted in the sun at the same time as McCaskey stepped into the open. He held his hands up to show that he was unarmed. Then, slowly, he began walking into the courtyard.

  The soldiers did nothing. The sun felt savagely hot as McCaskey stepped closer to the wounded men. He was aware of continued gunfire from inside the palace — not a good sign. The Strikers should have been in and out without engaging the enemy.

  Suddenly, a soldier stepped from behind the gatepost. He entered the gate and walked toward McCaskey. He was armed with a submachine gun. It was pointed directly at McCaskey.

  “No disparar, ” McCaskey repeated in case the soldier hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “¡Vuelta!” the soldier shouted.

  McCaskey looked at him and shrugged.

  “He wants you to turn around!” Maria yelled.

  McCaskey understood. The soldier wanted to make sure he didn’t have a weapon shoved in his waistband. McCaskey stopped, turned, and lifted his pants legs for good measure. Then he continued walking. The soldier didn’t shoot him. He also didn’t lower his weapon, which McCaskey now recognzied as an MP5 of Hong Kong origin. If he fired at this range, he’d cut McCaskey in half. McCaskey wished he could see the soldier’s face beneath his cap. It would have been nice to have some idea what the man was thinking.

  The walk to where Luis was lying took less than a minute but it felt much, much longer. When McCaskey arrived the Spanish soldier was still about thirty feet away. The soldier kept the gun pointed in McCaskey’s direction. The American knelt slowly, keeping his arms raised. He looked down at the wounded men.

  The captain was looking up at him, wheezing through his teeth. His lower leg was sitting in a deepening puddle of blood. If he didn’t get help soon he’d bleed to death.

  Luis was lying facedown across him, like an X. McCaskey bent his head and looked at Luis. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. His normally dark face was pale. The bullet had struck the right side of his neck about two inches below the ear. Blood was dripping onto the stone blocks. It streamed toward the pool of the captain’s blood and they mingled thickly.

  McCaskey stood slowly and straddled the men. He put his arms under Luis and lifted him up. As he rose he heard a commotion at the gate. McCaskey and the Spanish soldier both looked over.

  A sergeant at the gatepost had his hand around a priest’s arm. The priest was speaking quietly and pointing toward the wounded men. The sergeant was yelling. After a moment, the priest simply wrested his arm away and stormed forward. The sergeant continued to yell at him. He shouted for the priest to stop.

  The priest shouted back that he would not. He pointed toward the palace, where there were still the sounds of gunfire and clouds of yellow smoke. He said he was going to see if he could be of any assistance.

  The sergeant warned him that there was danger.

  The priest said he didn’t care.

  So that was what the debate was all about, McCaskey thought. The priest’s safety. Never assume.

  McCaskey didn
’t want to stand there while Luis bled. Cradling him gently to his chest, he turned and started walking toward the arches. The soldier let him go. McCaskey turned and saw him attending to the wounded captain.

  McCaskey returned to the arch. Carefully, he set Luis down beside María. He looked back. The priest was kneeling beside the captain. He turned back to the injured man.

  “Poor Luis,” María said. She set the gun down and touched his cheek.

  McCaskey felt a pinch of jealousy. Not for María’s touch but for the concern he saw in her eyes. The look came from deep inside her, pushing aside her own pain. He had been such a damn fool to lose her. He noticed, now, how pale she looked as well. He had to get help for her.

  McCaskey unbuttoned his cuff and ripped off the bottom of his sleeve. He lay the cloth on Luis’s wound.

  “You both need medical help,” McCaskey announced. “I’m going to try and get to a telephone — call for an ambulance. As soon as I do that, I’ll look for your friend Juan.”

  María shook her head. “It may be too late—”

  She tried to get up. McCaskey pushed down firmly on her shoulders.

  “María—”

  “Stop it!” she shouted.

  “María, listen to me,” McCaskey said. “Give me just a little time. With any luck this assault will make it unnecessary to rescue Juan or anyone else from General Amadori’s thugs.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” María said. She used her free hand to push aside his arms. “I believe in the lousiness of people. And so far I’ve never been disappointed. Amadori may execute his prisoners just to keep them from talking about what he’s been doing—”

  María stopped. She glanced past McCaskey. As she did, her eyes widened.

  “What is it?” McCaskey asked, turning around.

  “I know that man,” she said.

  McCaskey gazed into the courtyard. The priest was hurrying toward them. He slowed as he neared. He obviously recognized her as well.

  “María,” the priest said as he reached the arch.

  “Father Norberto,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “It was strange fortune brought me,” he said. He squatted and touched her head comfortingly. Then he looked at her wound. “My poor girl.”

  “I’ll live,” she said.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Norberto said. He glanced at Luis. “So has this man. Has a doctor been summoned?”

  “I’m going now,” McCaskey said.

  “No!” María shouted.

  “It’s all right,” Norberto said, “I’ll stay with you.”

  “It isn’t that,” María said. “There’s a prisoner — he must be helped!”

  “Where?” Norberto asked.

  “He’s in a room over there,” she said. She pointed toward the doorway along the palace wall. “I’m afraid they’ll kill him.”

  Norberto took her hand. He patted it as he rose. “I will go to him, María,” he said. “You stay here and try not to move.”

  María looked from the priest to McCaskey. The concern McCaskey had seen in the woman’s eyes was gone, replaced by contempt. His heart shattered, McCaskey left without a word. He was followed closely by Father Norberto.

  The men entered the doorway together, McCaskey going in first. He’d left the gun with María in case the soldiers had a change of heart. He hoped he wouldn’t need it here. The gunfire was louder, of course. But it was still far enough away so that McCaskey didn’t think they’d get caught in a firefight. He looked at the old wooden cross hanging on the priest’s chest. McCaskey’s tired eyes lingered for a moment as he asked God to help his comrades who might be in the middle of the fighting.

  There were eight doors along the short corridor. They were all shut. McCaskey stopped and turned to the priest.

  Speaking in a very low whisper, he asked, “Do you speak English?”

  “Some,” Norberto replied.

  “Okay,” McCaskey said. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

  “I’m never alone,” Father Norberto replied, gently touching the cross.

  “I know that. I mean — unprotected.”

  “But the wounded ones—”

  “There may be a telephone in one of these rooms,” McCaskey told him. “If there is, I’ll make the call and stay with you. We’ll find María’s friend and take him out together.”

  Norberto nodded as McCaskey turned the first doorknob. The door opened into a dark study. After being out in the bright sun it took a moment for McCaskey’s eyes to adjust. When they did he saw a desk at the far end of the chamber. There was a telephone in the near corner.

  “That’s a break,” McCaskey said.

  “You go,” the priest said. “I’ll continue searching for the woman’s companion.”

  “All right,” McCaskey said. “I’ll join you as soon as I’m finished.”

  Norberto nodded and went to the next door.

  Shutting the door, McCaskey went to the telephone. He lifted up the receiver and swore; there was no dial tone. He’d been afraid of that. Amadori’s people must have shut down access to all outside lines. In case any of the prisoners got away they wouldn’t be able to get intelligence out of here.

  Returning to the corridor, McCaskey moved on to the next room. The door was opened and he looked in. It was a music room. It smelled faintly of smoke and then he noticed the ashes on the floor. This must have been where the fire alarm went off. Father Norberto was in the corner with a prisoner, whom McCaskey assumed was Juan.

  “Father — how is he?” McCaskey asked.

  Norberto didn’t turn around. His shoulders slumping, he just shook his head gravely.

  McCaskey turned. The only way he was going to be able to get help was if he found Striker. They could call Interpol and ask for medical assistance. Even if the strike force hadn’t succeeded in killing Amadori, the general was going to have to allow medical assistance into the palace. His own people had been injured in the fighting.

  McCaskey took a deep breath and started down the corridor.

  FORTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 12:06 P.M. Madrid, Spain

  The music room of the palace was dark. However, there was enough light coming in from the corridor to allow Father Norberto to see the man slouched in the corner on the floor. He was gravely wounded. There were splashes of blood on him, on his clothes, and on the wall behind him. Fresh blood continued to pour from gashes on his cheek, forehead, and mouth. There were several raw, bloody wounds in his legs and chest.

  Father Norberto could literally feel the presence of Death — just as he had when he knelt like this beside his brother. The sensation was always the same, whether Father Norberto was ministering to the terminally ill or holding the hand of someone who had been fatally injured. Death had a sweet, vaguely metallic scent that filled the nostrils and poisoned the stomach. The priest could almost feel Death’s touch. It was like a cool, invisible smoke chilling the air and seeping into his flesh, his bones, his soul.

  Death had come for this man. As Norberto’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see what a miracle it was that the man still lived. The monsters who had imprisoned him in this room had shot, beaten, and burned him without mercy or restraint.

  For what? Norberto wondered with bitter indignation. For information? For vengeance? For amusement?

  Whatever the reason, it couldn’t justify this. And in a Catholic nation, a nation that purportedly lived by the Decalogue and by the teachings of Jesus Christ, what his captors had done was a mortal sin. For their crimes they would live outside of God’s grace for eternity.

  Not that that would help this poor man. Father Norberto lowered himself to his knees beside the dying prisoner. He pushed the man’s sweat-dampened hair from his forehead and touched his bloody cheek.

  The prisoner opened his eyes. There was no sparkle in them; only confusion and pain. They drifted down the priest’s robe and then returned to his eyes. He tried to lift his arm. Father Norberto c
aught his trembling hand and held it between his own hands.

  “My son,” said Norberto. “I am Father Norberto.”

  The man looked up. “Father — what… is happening?”

  “You’ve been hurt,” Norberto said. “Just rest quietly.”

  “Hurt? How badly?”

  “Be still,” Norberto said softly. He squeezed the man’s hand and smiled down at him. “What is your name?”

  “I am Juan… Martinez.”

  “I am Father Norberto. Do you wish to make a confession?”

  Juan looked around. His eyes were darting and afraid. “Father… am I… dying?”

  Norberto did not reply. He only held Juan’s hand tighter.

  “But how can this… be?” Juan asked. “There is no pain.”

  “God is merciful,” Norberto said.

  Juan clutched the priest’s fingers. His eyes shut slowly. “Father — if God is merciful, then I pray… He will forgive my sins.”

  “He will forgive only if you repent sincerely,” Norberto replied. In the distance he heard guns popping with less frequency. There would be many others who needed God’s comfort — and His forgiveness. Pressing his cross to the lips of the wounded man, Norberto asked, “Are you truly sorry for having offended God with all the sins of your past life?”

  Juan kissed the cross. “I am truly sorry,” he said contritely and with great effort. “I have killed… many men. Some at a radio station. Another in a room — a fisherman.”

  Norberto felt Death turn and laugh at him. He had never experienced anything so cruel or punishing as this moment — the realization that the hand nestled in his was the hand that had slain his brother.

  Norberto’s eyes were points of rage in a sea of ice. They burned into the man before him as though he were the Devil himself. Father Norberto wanted desperately to throw the man’s hand aside and watch him slide into eternal damnation, unconfessed and unsaved.

  This man murdered my brother—