Balance of Power o-5

by Tom Clancy

  “Stay where you are, sir!” the soldier yelled.

  Amadori glanced toward the arches. He saw two people crouched there, a bleeding man and a woman.

  “Get your unit back out here,” Amadori shouted. “Secure the courtyard!”

  The soldier pulled the field radio from his belt and called for reinforcements. As he did, the woman behind the arch aimed at Amadori. The general angrily swung the priest around so he was facing her. The woman held her fire; gunshots from the soldiers quickly drove her back behind the arch. Amadori looked back into the palace to make sure the other woman hadn’t come from around the corner.

  She had not. She didn’t need to.

  Darrell McCaskey was lying on his side halfway down the corridor. He was facing Amadori and holding the gun Aideen had kicked into the corridor.

  Father Norberto looked in as well. He didn’t understand. There was no blood, yet he’d seen the general shoot this man in the back.

  Amadori began to turn the priest around. But McCaskey didn’t give the general a chance to maneuver Father Norberto between them. And he didn’t fire to wound the general. He put two quick shots into Amadori’s temple.

  The general was dead before he reached the ground.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, 12:35 P.M. Madrid, Spain

  “You took one of the bulletproof vests,” Aideen said as she ran toward McCaskey.

  “Never travel without it,” McCaskey said. He winced as she helped him to his feet. “I put it on before I came here. After he shot me — I figured I’d lie low and wait for something like this.”

  “Glad I didn’t just kick out the goggles,” Aideen said.

  Ferdinand ran past them to the priest. Father Norberto was standing just inside the doorway, staring down at the body of General Amadori. He knelt and began to say a prayer over the dead man.

  “Father, he doesn’t deserve your blessing,” Ferdinand said. “Come. We must go.”

  Norberto finished praying. Only when he made the sign of the cross over the general did he rise. He looked at Ferdinand. “Where are we going?”

  “Away,” Ferdinand said. “The soldiers—”

  “He’s right, Father,” Aideen said. “We don’t know what they’re going to do. But we should be somewhere else when they do it.”

  McCaskey held onto Aideen’s shoulder while he drew several painful breaths. “We’ve also got to let the boss know what’s going on as soon as possible,” he said. “Where’s the team?”

  “They encountered some resistance after the flush-out,” she said. “They withdrew.”

  “Can you get to them?”

  Aideen nodded. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, but I’m not going with you,” McCaskey said. “I can’t leave María.”

  “Darrell, you heard what Amadori said,” Aideen declared. “More soldiers are on the way.”

  “I know,” McCaskey said. He smiled faintly. “All the more reason I can’t leave her.”

  “He won’t be alone,” Father Norberto told her. “I’ll stay with him.”

  Aideen regarded them both through her mask. “There isn’t time to argue. I’ll get the word out. You three take care.”

  McCaskey thanked her. As she turned and ran toward the grand staircase, McCaskey hobbled toward the priest.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said in English, pointing to Amadori’s body. “It was necessary.”

  Norberto said nothing.

  Ferdinand put his gun in his waistband. “I’m going to look for my friend Juan,” he said. He regarded McCaskey. “Thank you, sir, for ridding Spain of this would-be caudillo.”

  McCaskey wasn’t exactly sure what Ferdinand had said, but he got the gist of it. “¡De nada!” he said. “You’re welcome.”

  Father Norberto suddenly put his hand around Ferdinand’s neck. He squeezed hard.

  “Padre?” Ferdinand said, confused.

  “Your friend is in there,” Norberto said. There were tears in his eyes as he pointed toward the music room. “He’s dead.”

  “Juan dead? Are you certain?”

  “I am certain,” Norberto said. “I was with him when he died. I was with him when he confessed his sins. He died absolved of them.”

  Ferdinand shut his eyes.

  Norberto squeezed harder. “Everyone has the right to absolution, my son, whether they have slain one or they have slain millions.”

  The priest released Ferdinand and turned away. He walked toward McCaskey, who had limped past them and was peering cautiously out the door. McCaskey didn’t know what the exchange had been about, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

  “What should we do?” Norberto asked.

  “I’m not sure,” McCaskey admitted.

  He watched the soldiers as they watched him. The reinforcements were just arriving from an entrance further along the courtyard. It looked to McCaskey as if they were carrying gas filters. They must have been part of the group that went after Striker.

  Once again McCaskey felt helpless. The Interpol spotters might not realize that Amadori was dead, that a show of force from local police units might be enough to shut the heart of the revolution down. Especially if it came before the soldiers could rally behind a new leader.

  “What if I go and speak with them,” Norberto asked. “Tell them that there is no longer any reason to fight.”

  “I don’t think they’d listen,” McCaskey said. “You may put some fear in some of them — but not all. Not enough to save us.”

  “I’ve got to try,” Norberto said.

  He stepped around McCaskey and walked out the door. McCaskey didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t believe the soldiers would hurt the priest. And if he could buy them an extra minute or two, it was worth a try. At this point, he was willing to try anything.

  McCaskey had no idea what was going to happen to the movement with Amadori dead. But from the way the three dozen or so soldiers were massing along the southern side of the courtyard, he had a good idea what was going to happen to him and María and all the prisoners who were being kept here.

  They would become pawns in one of the most significant and dangerous hostage dramas of this century.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, 6:50 A.M. Washington, D.C.

  “Incoming from Striker,” Bob Herbert said.

  He was manning the phone in Hood’s office while Hood and Rodgers were on a conference call with National Security head Burkow and Spanish ambassador García Abril in Washington. Attorney Lowell Coffey and Ron Plummer were also in the office.

  The ambassador informed Washington that the Spanish prime minister and King had relieved General Amadori of his command. His forces were being turned over to General García Somoza, who was being flown in from Barcelona. In the meantime, the local police forces — which included the elite Guardia Real from the Palacio de la Zarzuela — were being organized for a counterattack to take back the palace.

  Hood took the Striker call at once, patched through from Interpol headquarters. He put it on the speaker. The radio silence had been nerve-wracking, especially since the spotters and satellite reconnaissance had reported shots and tear gas from different parts of the palace compound. He was also afraid the police would move in before Striker could move out.

  “Home run,” August said as soon as Hood was on. “We’re out of the dugout and back in the street.”

  There were smiles around the room and fists raised in triumph. Rodgers informed Burkow and Ambassador Abril.

  “Excellent,” Hood said enthusiastically. Since Striker was out in the open, August would be forced to give his report in the baseball code they’d arranged. “Injuries?”

  “A minor sprain,” said August. “But we have a problem. The coach went in to get his lady. The lady’s boss went with him. The coach is all right but the others are hurt. They should really see a doctor.”

  “Understood,” Hood said. McCaskey was the coach. August was telling him that he and Luis had gone in to get María an
d that the condition of Luis and María was possibly life-threatening.

  “One more thing,” August said. “When we tried to pick off their ace player we got caught in a pickle. Coach was the one who ended up nailing him.”

  Hood and Rodgers exchanged looks. McCaskey was the one who had ended up getting to Amadori. That hadn’t been the game plan. But if there was one thing Hood had discovered about his team — Herbert, Rodgers, and McCaskey in particular — they were very good at improvising.

  “It’s our feeling,” August continued, “that the coach probably shouldn’t stay in the stadium for any length of time. We don’t really want the other team talking to him. Do you want us to try and get them out?”

  “Negative,” Hood said. Good as Striker was, he refused to send them back in without a rest — especially with a police force getting ready to move in. “Where are the coach and his people?”

  “The coach is by the doorway at B1,” August said. “The lady and boss are in seats V5, one and three.”

  “Very good,” Hood said. “You did your job, slugger. Now go home. We’ll talk when you get there.”

  Herbert had rolled his chair to the computer and punched in the map coordinates August had provided. He asked the computer for a satellite update of the spot. Stephen Viens had linked them directly to the NRO download and it came up in fifteen seconds.

  “I’ve got visuals on Maria and Luis,” Herbert said. He pulled back so he could see the entire courtyard. “I’ve also got about thirty soldiers getting ready to do something.”

  Rodgers updated Burkow and Abril. As he did, Lowell Coffey went to the coffee machine and poured a cup.

  “Paul,” Coffey said, “if Amadori’s dead, those soldiers may not kill our people or anyone else. They’ll hold them as hostages. Use them to bargain their way to some kind of amnesty.”

  “And they’ll probably get it, too,” Plummer pointed out. “Whoever ends up running the country won’t want to further alienate the ethnic supporters these people may have.”

  “So if the authorities don’t attack,” Coffey went on, “we’ll probably get everyone out in time — including Darrell. The soldiers don’t gain anything by killing them.”

  “Except McCaskey,” Herbert pointed out. “Colonel August is right. If the soldiers in the compound find out that he’s the one who killed Amadori, they’re going to want his blood. Bad.”

  “How will they know he killed the general?” Coffey asked.

  “The security cameras,” Herbert said. He brought up the map of the palace. “Look where he is.”

  Coffey and Plummer gathered around the computer. Rodgers was still on the telephone with Burkow and the Spanish ambassador.

  “There are cameras at both ends of the corridor,” Herbert said. “Darrell may have been taped. When they find the general dead, his soldiers may take the time to watch and see who did it.”

  “Any chance of erasing the tape with some kind of electronic interference?” Coffey asked.

  “A low-flying aircraft with a directed electromagnetic burst could do it,” Herbert said, “but it would take time.”

  Rodgers hit the mute button and stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s unlikely we’ll be able to do anything in time.”

  “Explain,” Hood said.

  “Interpol informed the prime minister of Striker’s success,” Rodgers said. “The ambassador has just informed me that they want to move the police in now, before the rebel forces have a chance to regroup.”

  Herbert swore.

  “What are their orders if the soldiers take hostages?” Hood asked.

  Rodgers shook his head. “There aren’t going to be any hostages,” Rodgers said. “The Spanish government doesn’t want to give the rebels — which is how they’re describing them — a forum that will keep them center stage.”

  “Can’t blame them for that,” Herbert said.

  “I can when one of my people is still in the compound,” Hood said angrily. “We did a goddamn job for them—”

  “And now they’re marching down the road we paved for them,” Rodgers said, “acting in the best interests of their nation. The job we were asked to do by the President of the United States was to help give Spain back to its elected officials. There weren’t any guarantees, Paul, about how those officials were going to behave afterward.”

  Hood pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, then went to the shelf near the TV and got himself a cup of coffee.

  Rodgers was right. Chances were good that the Spanish prime minister and possibly even the king wouldn’t survive this debacle. They weren’t acting in their own self-interest. They were trying to preserve Spain. And in the long run, that helped Europe and the United States. There wasn’t a polarized nation on earth that would benefit if yet another country collapsed into smaller republics.

  Yet it wasn’t their actions that bothered him. It was their we’ll-take-it-from-here attitude, now that the difficult work had been done. What about the lives that had been sacrificed to correct what had occurred during their watch?

  “Paul,” Rodgers said, “the Spanish government probably doesn’t even know about Darrell’s role in the action. They probably assume that Striker got in and out as planned.”

  “They didn’t bother to ask.”

  “And if they did, nothing would be different,” Rodgers said. “Nothing could be different. The government can’t give us time to figure something out because they can’t afford to give the rebels time.”

  Hood took his coffee back to the desk.

  “I’ve faced these things before,” Herbert said. “They suck. But Darrell isn’t green. He’ll probably pick up on what’s happening. Maybe he’ll be able to get himself and the others to safety until the shooting’s over.”

  “I also informed Interpol about the situation,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t tell them about Darrell’s actions. That can come out later, when — with luck — we’ll have him back here.”

  “Yeah,” Herbert said. “Then we can at least have some fun denying that he was ever even there.”

  “I told them where Darrell, María, and Luis are,” Rodgers continued, “and that they need medical attention. Hopefully, the message will make its way through the bureaucracy.”

  Hood sat. “Probably, maybe, and hopefully. I guess there are worse words.”

  “A whole lot of them,” Herbert said. “Like never, impossible, and dead.”

  Hood looked at him and then at the others. He was going to miss these people when he submitted his resignation — these good patriots and dedicated professionals. But he wasn’t going to miss the waiting and the grief. There had been enough of that to last him a lifetime.

  He also wouldn’t miss the loneliness and the guilt. Wanting Nancy Bosworth in Germany and Ann Farris in Washington. That kind of empty flirtation was never what he’d wanted his life to be about.

  Hood found himself hoping that Sharon had had a change of heart — that maybe she’d decided to come back. And he had to admit that Herbert was right. Hope was a lot more satisfying than never.

  FORTY-NINE

  Tuesday, 12:57 P.M. Madrid, Spain

  Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor, Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, “The alternative is not breathing and that ain’t better.” Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn’t stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or — depending upon the caliber and proximity of firing — from causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself. He was worried about María. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori’s uniform. But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn’t speak Spanish. A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two — not worth the effort.

  Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general’s radio. McCa
skey figured they didn’t have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn’t answering.

  More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard. McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailén — and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once María left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she’d be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn’t know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they’d be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they’d witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.

  McCaskey decided that he was going to have to try to get to María and cover her as she left. As he was about to ask Ferdinand for his help, the Spaniard said something and offered McCaskey his hand.

  “Is he planning to leave us?” McCaskey asked.

  “He is,” replied Norberto.

  “Hold on,” McCaskey said. He refused to take Ferdinand’s hand. “Tell him that I need his help getting to María. He can’t go.”

  Norberto translated for McCaskey. Ferdinand answered, shaking his head while he did.

  “He says he’s sorry,” Norberto informed McCaskey, “but his familia needs him.”

  “I need him too!” McCaskey snapped. “I’ve got to reach Luis and María — get them out of here.”

  Ferdinand turned to go.

  “Dammit,” McCaskey shouted, “I need someone to cover me!”

  “Let him go,” Norberto said flatly. “We’ll both go to your friends. They won’t shoot us.”

  “They will when they realize that their leaders are dead.”

  There were loud footsteps down the hall. They were followed by gunshots. Ferdinand screamed.

  “Shit!” McCaskey yelled. “Let’s go.”

  Father Norberto’s face was impassive but he hesitated.

  “You can’t help him,” McCaskey said and started toward the door. “Come on.”