by Tom Clancy
“The killings had to be,” Juan choked. His hand was shaking and he clutched Norberto’s fingers harder. “But… I am truly sorry for them.”
Norberto shut his eyes. His teeth were locked and trembling, his hand unresponsive to Juan’s touch. Yet he fought the urge to drop this hand that had snuffed out Adolfo’s life. As much as he was a grieving brother he was also a father ordained in the sight of God.
“Father—” Juan coughed. “Help… me to say… the words.”
Norberto drew air through his teeth. It is not necessary that I forgive him. Forgiveness is the province of God.
The priest opened his eyes and glared down at the bruised face and broken body sprawled before him. “Father, forgive me my transgressions,” Norberto said coldly, “for which I am truly repentant.”
“I… repent,” Juan rasped. “I… repent… truly.” Juan shut his eyes. His breath came in short gasps.
“Sins forgiven are removed from the soul, restoring the sinner to a state of sanctifying grace,” Norberto said. “May God forgive you your trespasses and deliver you unto salvation.”
Juan’s lips parted slowly. There was a short sigh. Then there was nothing more.
Norberto continued to stare down at the dead man. Juan’s hand was cold. Blood continued to trickle from his chest and cheek.
Norberto could not justify or forgive what this man had done. But Adolfo had gone fishing in a sea where the prey fight back. If Juan had not slain his brother then someone else would have. Tears filled Norberto’s eyes. He should have stopped it with Adolfo.
If only he had known about his brother’s other life. If only he’d been less harsh then perhaps Adolfo wouldn’t have been afraid to come to him. Why did he let him go out that night? Why didn’t he stay with him when he went to deliver that audiotape, the tape that helped to start all of this. Why didn’t I act when there was still time? And the worst punishment of all was that he had not been able to save his brother’s soul — only that of his killer.
“Oh, God,” Norberto said, letting his head roll back and tears fall freely. He set Juan’s hand down beside his body and covered his own eyes.
As Father Norberto knelt there he felt Death leave — though it did not go very far. The priest forced himself to stop crying. This was not the time to mourn Adolfo or to damn his own failings. There were others who needed comfort or absolution — others who may have acted arrogantly in the bloom of life, only to find humility in the face of eternal damnation.
Father Norberto rose. He made the sign of the cross above Juan Martinez. “May God forgive you,” he said softly.
And may God forgive me, Father Norberto thought as he turned and left the room. He hated the man who had just died. But in his heart, in the deepest and truest part of him, he hoped that God had heard his repentance.
There had been enough damnation for one day.
FORTY-THREE
Tuesday, 12:12 P.M. Madrid, Spain
It was the policy of all American elite forces to leave nothing usable behind. In some cases, where the mission was covert-red — meaning that no one could know the forces had even been there — even shell casings were collected. In a covert-green raid like this one it was only necessary that the identities of the operatives never be revealed.
Colonel August was aware that Aideen Marley had peeled off from the group. She had no orders to do so, but he couldn’t fault her initiative. As it stood, if she failed to get General Amadori the mission would be considered a partial success. Striker would have succeeded in flushing out the officer before he was ready. The firefight would force the municipal police and other officials to enter the palace. They’d find the prisoners and learn how they were forced to come here. Amadori might still be in a position to seize power, but this would make it a little more difficult. Certainly he’d find it tough to get support throughout Europe when news of his atrocities got out.
Still—
Colonel August didn’t like partial successes. Aideen had gone off to the southern wing of the palace in pursuit of Amadori. If Striker could keep the army off her back long enough, and if Amadori’s wound kept his mind on escape instead of security, she might be able to finish the job they set out to do. If she succeeded, they could still spare Spain the months of violent conflict and ruthless purges that would ensue if Amadori survived.
There were approximately three hundred feet between the Strikers and the oncoming Spanish soldiers. Though Amadori’s troops were wearing gas masks, the thick yellow smoke from the grenades had prevented them from proceeding more than a few yards every minute. Striker, meanwhile, had been able to keep up a steady retreat. They’d even helped several of the prisoners get out, those who had been kept in the Hall of the Halberdiers and had managed to make their way through the dissipating gas.
Striker was nearing the grand staircase of the palace. Behind it was the stairway to the dungeon. To the south was the corridor Amadori and Aideen had taken. Sidling up to Corporal Prementine, Colonel August instructed him to select one soldier to cover the retreat. Prementine was then to lead the other Strikers out of the palace.
“Sir,” Prementine said, “one soldier won’t be enough to do the job. I’d like to remain behind as well.”
“Negative,” August said. “That would make three of us.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll be here as well,” August said.
“Sir—”
“Do it, Corporal,” August said.
“Yes, sir,” Prementine said, saluting.
The corporal informed Private Pupshaw that he’d be staying behind with Colonel August. The burly private responded with an enthusiastic salute and then reported to his commanding officer. August told Pupshaw that when they reached the staircase he was to take up a position just inside the corridor. August would handle the crossfire from the northern side of the staircase. If either of them were attacked from behind, the other would be in a position to cover him.
Privates Scott and DeVonne left behind their remaining supply of gas grenades. There were only three of them. August figured they would get five strong minutes of defense out of two of those grenades and cover fire. The last grenade would give them another two minutes for their own retreat. The timetable was snug, but it was doable. He only hoped that Aideen could catch up to her wounded prey, do what needed to be done, and exit cleanly.
Corporal Prementine wished the two men well. Silently, he and the other Strikers departed.
August thanked him then informed Pupshaw that they were to hold their positions for exactly five minutes from the time they reengaged the Spanish soldiers. At August’s signal they would then follow their fellow Strikers back “down the hole,” Pupshaw retreating first.
August and Pupshaw lay on their bellies and prepared to meet the assault. They would fire low, no higher than the knees. Pupshaw had a grenade ready to roll against the Spaniards. August raised his left arm.
Twenty seconds later the first Spanish soldier appeared through the thinning yellow cloud. August turned his left thumb down.
Pupshaw pulled the pin and rolled the grenade.
FORTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 12:17 P.M. Madrid. Spain
As he moved down the corridor, Darrell McCaskey felt naked without a weapon. But it had been more important to him that Maria have one. It had been a while since he’d used the aikido skills he’d learned when he joined the FBI, but they would have to suffice.
McCaskey slowed as he neared the next corridor. He stopped at the corner and peeked around stealthily, the way he used to do when he was on stakeouts. He took a mental snapshot of the scene and then withdrew quickly, his heart jumping from slow to hyperactive.
There was a tall man standing part of the way down the corridor. He was a general with Francoesque layers of braid and an array of medals. He was armed with a handgun and he was wearing a gas filter and goggles. He was also bleeding from a wound in his leg.
It had to be Amadori.
The man had been looking behind him
as he approached. McCaskey was sure Amadori hadn’t spotted him. He swore at himself for having left his gun with Maria. He had nothing to use against the man. Nothing except his fists and the fact that Amadori didn’t know he was here.
The FBI had taught McCaskey that if an agent didn’t bring superior firepower to a situation he should back off until he could muster that firepower. A standoff always favored the pursuer. Failure favored the pursued.
But with everything that was at stake, McCaskey couldn’t take the chance of letting Amadori go.
McCaskey looked up and mustered his resolve. He listened to the general’s limping footsteps. Amadori was approximately ten feet away. McCaskey would crouch and swing around, try to pin his legs to the wall, then grab his arm before he could fire.
Just then, McCaskey heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw Father Norberto walking toward him. That wasn’t all he saw. Above the music room, McCaskey noticed a red eye looking down from the ceiling.
It was a camera eye. And Amadori was wearing goggles — Remote Surveillance System goggles.
The footsteps stopped. McCaskey swore. He’d been too damn tired to think this through and now he was at a serious disadvantage. Amadori knew precisely where he was.
There was nothing to do but retreat. He turned and ran toward the door that led to the courtyard.
“What is it?” Father Norberto asked.
McCaskey motioned him back. The priest just stood there, confused.
“Jesus!” McCaskey cried in frustration. He didn’t think Amadori would shoot a member of the clergy. But a Catholic priest would make the perfect hostage. No one would dare order an attack for fear of hitting the priest.
McCaskey had to get the priest out of here. Reaching Father Norberto, he put his arms around him and tried to move him toward the courtyard door. A moment later he heard a shot and felt a punch in his back and then everything went blindingly red.
FORTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 12:21 P.M. Madrid, Spain
It was easy for Aideen to follow the trail of blood. The drops were so close together they overlapped in spots. Amadori was losing blood quickly. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the general would be alone when she caught up to him. Alone and waiting for her.
Amadori fired once as Aideen came around the corner. She jumped back as soon as she saw him and the bullet whizzed by. There was silence after the echo of the gunshot died. Aideen stood there listening, trying to determine if Amadori moved. As she waited, she felt something pressed hard against the small of her back. She turned around and saw a man step the rest of the way from a doorway. It was the major general. He was holding a gun on her.
Aideen cursed under her breath. The officer was wearing his RSS goggles. He must have been tuned in to the cameras behind them and spotted her. They’d separated and now she’d been snared.
“Face front and raise your hands,” he commanded in Spanish.
Aideen did. He relieved her of her gun.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Aideen didn’t answer.
“I don’t have time to waste,” the major general said. “Answer and I’ll let you go. Refuse and I’ll leave you here with a bullet in your back. You have a count of three.”
Aideen didn’t think he was bluffing.
“One,” said the officer.
Aideen was tempted to tell him that she was an Interpol operative. She had never faced death that seemed so imminent. It had a way of weakening one’s resolve.
“Two.”
She doubted that the major general would spare her even if she told him who she was. But she would definitely die if she didn’t.
Yet by telling the truth, she could very well ruin the lives and careers of María, Luis, and their comrades. And she would destroy countless other lives if she helped Amadori survive this assault.
Maybe she’d been meant to die in the street with Martha. Maybe there was no escaping that.
Aideen heard the gun bark behind her. She jumped. She felt blood on her neck. But she was still standing.
A moment later Aideen felt the major general stumble against her. She lurched involuntarily as he fell forward. The two guns clattered on the floor. She glanced back at the officer. Blood spurted like a water fountain from the back of his head. She looked up.
A familiar man was walking toward her, down the corridor. He was holding a smoking pistol and wearing a look of grim satisfaction.
“Ferdinand?” she said.
The familia member hesitated.
“No, it’s all right,” she said. She looked around quickly. Then she turned her back toward the surveillance camera behind her. Certain she wouldn’t be seen, Aideen lifted her black mask just enough for him to see her face. “I’m here with others,” she said. “We want to help.”
Ferdinand continued walking toward her. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Juan and I doubted you back at the factory, after the attack. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t blame you. You had no way of knowing.”
Ferdinand held up the gun. “This came to me when your friend caused an uproar before. They took her away, and also Juan. I want to find them — and I want to find Amadori.”
“Amadori went this way,” Aideen said. She pointed as she stopped to pick up her gun. She also picked up the major general’s gun and goggles.
The dead man’s blood was cooling on the back of Aideen’s neck and she used the sleeve of her black shirt to wipe it off. She felt sick as she walked away. Not because the man had died; he’d been ready enough to kill her. What bothered her was that neither the general nor the major general had had a hand in the event that brought Op-Center into this situation in the first place, the murder of Martha Mackall. To the contrary. These people had killed the men behind the murder. The crime for which they were being hunted was having orchestrated a coup against a NATO ally — a coup that, ironically, a majority of the people in Spain might have supported had it been put to a vote.
Martha was wrong, Aideen thought miserably. There are no rules. There’s only chaos.
Aideen and Ferdinand started off after Amadori. Aideen was in the lead, Ferdinand a few paces behind her. Aideen checked the gun she’d retrieved. The safety was switched off. That bastard of a major general had been ready to shoot her in the back.
The corridor ahead was empty. They heard a shot and quickened their pace. Aideen wondered if someone else — possibly Maria? — had found Amadori. The trail of blood continued around the corner. They followed it, stopping short as they entered the hallway leading past the music room. They saw General Amadori standing there with a gun in his white-gloved hand. The gun was being held to someone’s head. It took a moment for Aideen to realize who the general was holding in front of him.
It was Father Norberto. And at his feet was another man lying faceup. He wasn’t moving.
It was Darrell McCaskey.
FORTY-SIX
Tuesday, 12:24 P.M. Madrid, Spain
When Father Norberto had entered the courtyard outside the palace, he didn’t believe the soldiers were going to hurt him. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices.
He had no such illusions about this man, the one who had just shot the American in the back. The officer had a gun pressed under his jaw and was holding his hair tightly with the other hand. The man was bleeding. He did not have the time or disposition to talk.
“Where is the major general?” Amadori shouted.
Aideen dropped the major general’s goggles and gun and kicked them into the hallway. “He’s dead. Now let the priest go.”
“A woman?” Amadori yelled. “Damn you, who is making war on me? Show yourself now!”
“Let the padre go, General Amadori,” Aideen said. “Release him and you can have me.”
“I do not negotiate,” Amadori yelled. He took a quick look behind him. The door to the courtyard was only a few yards away. He pulled off his goggles and threw them to the floor. Then he pressed the gun harder ag
ainst Father Norberto’s throat and continued backing toward the door. “My soldiers are still outside, watching the perimeter while their brothers fight. When I call them they’ll come. They’ll hunt you down.”
“You’ll shoot me if I show myself.”
“That is correct,” said Amadori. “But I’ll release the priest.”
The woman was silent.
Throughout his years in the priesthood, Norberto had talked to grieving widows and parishioners whose brothers or sisters or children had died. Most of them had expressed the desire to die as well. Despite his own loss, Norberto didn’t feel that way. He did not want to be a martyr. He wanted to live. He wanted to continue helping others. But he wasn’t going to let a woman die for him.
“My child, leave here!” Norberto cried.
Amadori pulled tighter on his hair. “Don’t talk.”
“My brother, Adolfo Alcazar, believed in you,” Norberto said. “He died in your service.”
“Your brother?” the general said. He continued walking. He was just a few feet from the door. “Don’t you realize that the people who killed Adolfo are here?”
“I know,” Norberto said. “One of them died in my arms, just as Adolfo did.”
“Then how can you take their side?”
“I haven’t taken their side,” Norberto said. “I am on the side of God. And in His name I beg you to call off this war.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Amadori snapped. “My enemies are the enemies of Spain. Tell me who the woman is and I’ll release you.”
“I won’t help you,” Norberto said.
“Then you’ll die.” Amadori groaned as he reached the door. He was obviously in pain. Still holding the priest, he stepped into the gleaming sunlight and turned toward the southern gate. “I need assistance!” he yelled. He looked back quickly to make sure Aideen hadn’t moved.
The soldiers on the other side of the courtyard had their guns pointed toward the arches. They turned to look at the door. Suddenly, one of the soldiers stepped from behind the gatepost.