by Tom Clancy
Norberto went with him. McCaskey moved as fast as he could, each step bringing sharp pain along both sides. He tried to raise his left arm; a blinding flash stabbed his lungs and arched his spine. He switched his gun to his other hand. He wasn’t as good left-handed, but he’d made up his mind that he was going to get to María — crawling if necessary, but he was going to reach her.
The two men stepped outside with Father Norberto between McCaskey and the soldiers. McCaskey stumbled from the lingering pain of having tried to lift his arm. The priest grabbed his left arm. McCaskey leaned on him gratefully. As he did, Father Norberto took the gun from him.
“What are you doing?!” McCaskey shouted.
The priest held the gun butt-up. Then he bent and laid it on the courtyard. “I am giving them one reason less to shoot at us.”
“Or one more!” McCaskey cried as they continued walking.
He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about the soldiers shouting at them in Spanish. María was watching them from behind the base of the arch, her gun in sight.
There was a shot and a loud chink roughly a yard from Father Norberto. Stone chips flew toward them. One of them struck the priest in the thigh. He winced but continued walking.
María returned fire. One of the soldiers shot at her and drove her back.
The soldiers fired again. This time the bullet hit closer, just inches from the priest. It kicked up a fresh spray of stone. Norberto jerked toward McCaskey as several shards struck him in the side.
“Are you all right?” McCaskey asked.
Norbert nodded once. But his lips were pressed together and his brow was creased. He was hurting.
Suddenly, there was shouting behind them. It was coming from the direction of the palace.
“El general está muerto!” someone shouted.
McCaskey didn’t need Father Norberto to translate for him. The general was dead — and in a moment they would be, too.
“Come on!” he said, urging the priest forward.
But even as he did so, McCaskey knew they were never going to make it. Other soldiers picked up the cry. There were shouts of rage and disbelief.
Just then there was another sound. The sound of helicopters. McCaskey stopped. He looked to his left, toward the palace. The soldiers also looked over. A moment later six choppers flew over the southern wall. They hovered over the courtyard, blocking the sun and sending out an ear-splitting roar.
It was the sweetest sound McCaskey had ever heard. The sweetest sight McCaskey ever saw was what looked like police sharpshooters leaning from the open doors and aiming CETME assault rifles down at the soldiers.
McCaskey heard sirens along the avenues alongside the palace. Aideen and Striker must have gotten out and given the police enough intel to send in the cavalry — serious business cavalry.
McCaskey started walking again. “Come on, Father,” he said. “They’re on our side.”
The dual air and land approach suggested to McCaskey that the police were waiting for the army to split up like this so they could pin both parts down. That would significantly weaken resistance.
McCaskey and Father Norberto finished crossing the courtyard as the sirens neared and the choppers held the soldiers back. McCaskey ached to embrace María. But in his present condition it would probably cost him his lungs. She was also hurt, and Luis needed attention.
“It’s good to see you again,” María said, smiling. “Did I hear correctly? About Amadori?”
McCaskey nodded as he looked at Luis. The officer was ashen, his breathing very shallow. McCaskey checked the improvised bandage. Then he took off his own shirt and began tearing it into fresh strips.
“Father,” McCaskey said, “we have to get Luis to a hospital. Please — would you flag down a car?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Norberto said.
McCaskey looked toward the street. A police car had pulled up to the curb and four men had gotten out. They were dressed in distinctive dark blue berets, white belts, and spats.
“The Guardia Real,” María said. “The Royal Guard.”
A fifth man got out as well. He was a tall, white-haired gentleman with a proud military bearing. He approached quickly.
“It’s General de la Vega,” McCaskey said. Then he shouted, “We need help here. Luis needs a doctor!”
“ ¡ Ambulancia!” María added.
The Royal Guard members began running toward them. One of them shouted something to María.
She nodded then turned to McCaskey. “They’re setting up a mobile field hospital in the Plaza de Oriente,” she said. “They’re going to take him there.”
McCaskey looked down at Luis. He finished bandaging the Interpol officer then took his hand and squeezed it hard. “Hold on, partner,” McCaskey said. “Help’s here.”
Luis squeezed back weakly. His eyes remained shut. Father Norberto knelt beside Luis to pray for him. The priest was obviously hurting. It was also obvious that he had no intention of letting that stop him.
A moment later gunfire erupted once again from inside the palace. McCaskey and María exchanged glances.
“Sounds like the government’s playing for keeps,” McCaskey said.
María nodded. “We’re going to lose a lot of good people today. And for what? One man’s insane vision.”
“Or his vanity,” McCaskey said. “I’m never sure which one motivates a dictator more.”
As they spoke, the police arrived. Two men lifted Luis up gently and carried him toward the plaza. The general thanked McCaskey and María for all they had done, then ran after them. The other two Royal Guardsmen stopped and lifted María.
“An honor guard.” She grinned.
McCaskey smiled and rose, assisted by Father Norberto. They walked alongside María as she was carried away. McCaskey felt a knifelike jab with every step he took. But he kept up with the guards. It was rare to get a second chance at anything, whether it was the opportunity to fix a wrong choice at a moment of crisis or to reclaim a lost love. McCaskey had experienced both. He knew what it was like to be tortured by events his indecision or fear or weakness had caused.
If María Corneja would have him, there was no way he intended to lose her again. Not even for a minute. The pain of blowing a second chance would be much, much worse.
María sought and found McCaskey’s hand. A moment later her eyes found his. And at least one pain stopped when it became clear that she felt the same.
FIFTY
Tuesday, 7:20 A.M. Washington, D.C.
Though he hadn’t slept much over the past twenty-four hours, Paul Hood felt surprisingly refreshed.
He had spoken with Colonel August and Aideen Marley when they returned to Interpol headquarters. The fate of Darrell McCaskey, María Corneja, and Luis García de la Vega hadn’t been known then — although General Manolo de la Vega had assured him that when the time was right, a police assault squad would be going in even if he had to kick each butt in personally.
McCaskey finally called from a field hospital only to say that they were all right. A more detailed report would have to wait until they were on a secure line back at Interpol.
Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, Coffey, and Plummer celebrated with a fresh pot of coffee and congratulations all around. There was a call from Ambassador Abril, who said that the king and the prime minister had been informed and would be addressing Spain at two P.M. local time. Abril could not tell them whether the Royal Palace had been taken from General Amadori’s troops. He said that that information would be provided to the White House when it was available and would have to make its way through channels.
Abril also could not tell them what the future of Spain might be — not only because it would be inappropriate to, but because he truly didn’t know.
“Deputy Serrador and General Amadori both released some very powerful opposing forces,” he said. “Ethnic and cultural differences have been inflamed. I hope — yet am not hopeful — that they can
be doused.”
“We’ll all be praying for the best,” Hood said.
The ambassador thanked him.
* * *
After Hood hung up, Herbert muttered a few graphic Southern expressions for the ambassador and his secrecy — though Ron Plummer reminded him that Abril was acting according to protocol.
“I remember how upset Jimmy Carter was when the American hostages were released from Tehran,” he said. “The Iranians waited until Ronald Reagan had been sworn in to let them go. When former President Carter telephoned the White House to find out if the Americans were free, he was told that that information was classified. He had to find out about it much later.”
Herbert was not appeased. He picked up the phone on the armrest of his wheelchair and called his office. He asked his assistant to phone Interpol and ask the spotters for an update on the situation at the palace. Less than two minutes later he was informed that the shooting had stopped and, in the few areas of the courtyard they could see, the police seemed to be in control. A call to Stephen Viens and a check with NRO satellites confirmed that soldiers were being disarmed in other parts of the compound and civilians were being led out to a Red Cross facility that was being set up outside the Cathedral of the Almudena.
Herbert grinned triumphantly. “What do you say we inform Abril that ‘diplomatic channels’ include a lot more stations than they used to.”
The call from McCaskey finally came at seven-forty-five. Hood put it on the speakerphone. McCaskey said he was whipped and suffering from three broken ribs and a bruised kidney. Otherwise, he said, he was in good spirits. María and Luis were in surgery but both were expected to pull through.
“I’ll be staying here for a while to recover,” McCaskey said. “Hope that isn’t a problem.”
“No problem at all,” Hood said. “Stay until you recover everything you feel you need.”
McCaskey thanked him.
They did not discuss McCaskey’s role in killing General Amadori. That would not be discussed until someone from Op-Center — probably Mike Rodgers — flew over to debrief him. It was understood among intelligence agents that assassination must be treated with an almost ceremonial reverence. Debriefing must be done face to face, like confession. That helped to ensure that killing a leader or spy, while sometimes necessary, would never be taken casually.
“There is one thing I’d like to do as soon as possible,” McCaskey said.
“What’s that?” Hood asked.
“There’s been a lot of religious unrest here,” McCaskey said. “General de la Vega tells me that it appears that General Superior González, leader of the Jesuits in Spain, was a strong supporter of General Amadori. The General Superior was overcome with tear gas in Striker’s assault — he’d been meeting with the general in the throne room. There is certain to be a Vatican investigation.”
“That’s going to make a lot of Spaniards very unhappy,” Rodgers said. “Especially if the General Superior denies the charges and loyalties are strained between the Jesuits and other Roman Catholics.”
“It’s all going to help contribute to the collapse of Spain as we knew it,” McCaskey said, “which everyone here believes is imminent. Someone who spoke directly with the prime minister told General de la Vega that a new constitution is already being worked on — one that will allow the different regions virtual autonomy under a very loose central government.”
Herbert folded his powerful arms. “Why don’t we call old Abril up and let him know what’s gonna happen in his own country.”
Hood frowned and motioned him silent.
“The reason I mentioned General Superior Gonzalez,” McCaskey said, “is that there is a Jesuit priest who helped to save our lives. His name is Father Norberto Alcazar.”
“Is he all right?” Hood asked, writing down his name.
“He was hurt getting me safely to María’s side — couple of heavy-duty bruises from gunfire chopping up the courtyard. Nothing serious, though. But I want to do something for him. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of priest who’d want to be kicked upstairs or anything like that. Father Norberto was telling me at the field hospital that he lost his brother in this ordeal. He’s had it pretty rough. Perhaps we can do something for his parish. Work it through the Vatican, if the White House can arrange that.”
“We’ll certainly talk to them about that,” Hood said. “We can set up a scholarship somewhere in the brother’s name.”
“Sounds good,” McCaskey said. “Maybe one for Martha too. Maybe from all of this madness a little good will come.”
After the other men in the room wished McCaskey well—“And I don’t mean with just your health,” Herbert added — Hood hung up. Father Norberto’s story reminded him of something that tends to get lost in events like these. It isn’t only a nation whose destiny is changed. The ripples go outward, affecting the world — and the ripples go inward, affecting every citizen. It was not only an awesome metamorphosis to behold. It was damn near overwhelming to have been an integral part of the process. And without having left this office.
It was time to hang that responsibility up.
Hood buzzed Bugs Benet and asked him to call his wife. She was at her parents’ home in Old Say brook, Hood told him.
Herbert looked at Hood. “Sudden trip?” he asked.
Hood shook his head. “Long time in the works.”
Hood swung the computer monitor toward him. He went to his personal file.
Bugs buzzed. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Kent says that Sharon and the kids left early this morning to go back to Washington,” Bugs told him. “They were going to take the eight o’clock flight. Do you want to speak with him?”
“No,” Hood said. He looked at his watch. “Thank him and tell him I’ll call later.”
“Shall I ring Mrs. Hood’s cellular?”
“No, Bugs,” Hood said. “I’ll tell her when I meet her at the airport.”
Hood hung up and finished his coffee. Then he rose.
“You’re going to the airport now?” Herbert asked. “Chief, I’m sure you’re going to have to brief the President.”
Hood looked at Rodgers. “Mike, are you okay to handle that?”
“Sure,” Rodgers said. He patted his bandages. “I got myself rewrapped before I came here.”
“Good,” Hood said. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and put it in a drawer. “I’m going to get out of here before I get summoned.”
“When will you be back?” Herbert asked.
Hood looked at the monitor. He stood over the keyboard. “I’ll see you at the service for Martha,” he said.
He looked at Rodgers then. The general’s eyes were sharp and unblinking. He understood.
“I can tell you this, though,” Hood continued. “Darrell was right. Good can come from madness. Through all the crises we’ve had to deal with, I couldn’t have been blessed with a greater team.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Herbert said.
Hood smiled. Still smiling, he e-mailed his resignation to the White House. Then he turned from his desk, threw a respectful salute at Mike Rodgers, and walked out the door.
ABOUT THE CREATORS
Tom Clancy is the author of The Hunt for Red October, Red Storm Rising, Patriot Games, The Cardinal of the Kremlin, Clear and Present Danger, The Sum of All Fears, Without Remorse, Debt of Honor, and Executive Orders. He is also the author of the nonfiction books Submarine, Armored Cav, Fighter Wing, Marine, and Airborne. He lives in Maryland.
Steve Pieczenik is a Harvard-trained psychiatrist with an M.D. from Cornell University Medical College. He has a Ph.D. in International Relations from M.I.T. and served as principal hostage negotiator and international crisis manager while Deputy Assistant Secretary of State under Henry Kissinger, Cyrus Vance, and James Baker. He is also the bestselling novelist of the psycho-political thrillers The Mind Palace, Blood Heat, Maximum Vigilance, and Pax Pacifica.
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