Force of Fire

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  The warehouse loomed large and silent.

  Mark could hear the sudden flutter of wings as a crown of pigeons rose from the dome housing an enormous cooling fan.

  They slipped silently through the open warehouse door, becoming aware of a vague humming sound, large blades above them turning in slow, mechanical motion.

  The two split up and circled the building's interior in careful measured steps, weapons poised, eyes and ears alert.

  But there was nothing and no one to be found among the towers of sherry casks lining the warehouse aisles.

  'Look's like we're out of luck,' McFadden said.

  Mark squatted to examine something on the dark earth floor.

  'What is it?'

  Mark held a pinch of the dusty white powder between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the fine granules back and forth. He brought the tip of his index finger to his nose, then pressed it lightly against his tongue. 'Cocaine,' he said, looking up. This was one piece of the puzzle the LPP hadn’t wanted him to find.

  McFadden raised his pistol and took a second, more careful look around the warehouse. 'Colombian?'

  Mark stood and examined the plug of one of the wine casks. 'Most likely,' he said, taking a whiff of the over-sized cork in his hand. 'Looks like we’ve just discovered Carnova’s lucrative side-line.'

  'And his route for smuggling weapons?' McFadden asked.

  'Weapons and, quite possibly, an American hostage. Come on. Let’s check out that other building.'

  The cool gray building stood empty as a tomb.

  'Look at the size of this door.' McFadden pressed the expanse of oak between his hands. 'Must be a good ten to twelve inches thick.'

  Mark crossed the room and stood beneath the small window. 'Not much chance of an escape from here.'

  McFadden looped his weapon through his belt behind him and stooped low to examine a scattered pattern on the floor.

  'What’s that?' Mark asked.

  'Chicken scratch. Something’s been clawing at this dirt.'

  The warehouse fan ground to a halt.

  'We’d better get out of here,' Mark said, bolting toward the door. In a split second, he could hear McFadden up and running after him.

  By the time Scott felt the cold rim of the pistol barrel against his temple, it was too late. He knew it was only a matter of seconds. No time to scream, no time to run.

  Scott opened his mouth as the gunman pulled the trigger, thinking of Pauli, thinking of Ana, thinking of the damage he’d done and his final chance to repay it. Then shut his eyes and slipped quietly toward the sleepy village that called him.

  The men raced to where Denton lay on a rock, as if sunning himself like a lizard. He remained immobile, his eyes closed.

  Mark raised his hand in a cautionary fashion and McFadden stopped in his tracks.

  Mark walked over to Denton, carefully surveying the other side of the boulder. He lifted Denton's wrist to check his pulse then let it fall limp against the rock. His head rested in a pool of blood. The wound was still fresh.

  Mark looked up.

  Without saying a word, McFadden scraped his blood-splattered Bible off the earth and broke into a sprint.

  Joe McFadden trekked alongside Mark Neal, the only sound between them the rustling wind through the olive groves bordering the road. They hadn’t been followed, so after a while had slackened their pace.

  Joe massaged his beard stubble, pondering the equation. Something here definitely didn’t add up. Why had Denton been offed and he and Neal been allowed to escape? And what was that bullcrap Neal had alluded to before they entered the warehouse? Unarticulated support? If he and Neal were being double-tailed, that would explain their current predicament of being alive. If it had come down to a choice, for whatever reason the 'protective interests' had decided to secure his and Neal’s safety rather than Denton’s.

  Mark was right about the others at the meson. They could have been a lookout for the gypsy, but McFadden doubted it. They were clearly a tail. But by whom? And why had they disappeared just in time for the LPP rundown in Madrid?

  Perhaps they were not connected at all but were opposing forces as Mark had guessed. Carnova’s men and...

  Joe looked over at Neal. 'Level with me.'

  'What?' Mark asked, with a forced look of ignorance.

  'You know what the hell what. What the hell went on back there?' From the look on his face, he’d been thinking about it too.

  'Carnova and his bastards want us out of their business.'

  'Now tell me something I don’t know.'

  Neal looked at the river fanning itself out beside the road. 'I had a visitor in Madrid.'

  'Let me guess. A Spanish visitor?'

  There was agreement in Neal’s silence.

  'Dammit, Neal, when were you going to tell me?'

  'This is a DOS operation, McFadden. If you’re under any other impression, you’re sadly mistaken.'

  'You’ll be flying a suicide mission if you try to take this baby solo, and you know it.'

  He was quiet for a few minutes thinking. 'There’s to be no official cooperation.'

  'Unofficial?' Joe asked.

  'You’ll be happy to know,' he said, gesturing toward the Bible tucked under Joe’s arm, 'we’ve got a guardian angel.'

  'Only one?'

  'Only one I’ve met, I saw in Madrid. And, I think he was on the train.'

  'To Jerez?'

  'Can’t say for sure. Dressed differently. More casual. Jogging suit and sneakers.'

  'Carrying a racket?'

  Neal nodded.

  Joe had seen him, too. Young Don Juan. Very smooth. Glossy black hair and a matador’s build. He’d passed through their car one too many times and Joe had noticed him. If someone from Spanish National Intelligence was on their side, that would explain Madrid. And the warehouse. Joe and Neal were, of course, more critical to the operation, and depending on the Spanish agenda...

  Joe wondered just what the Spaniards were hoping the outcome would be, but suspected he knew.

  Denton had been too easy for a professional assassin. Even if Spanish Intelligence had been covering their tails against Carnova’s men back at the warehouse, there wasn’t much they could do about an idiot stretched out on a rock in the middle of nowhere. Any sniper could have picked him off. Dumb-shit Denton had been a fucking sitting duck.

  Joe knew he should cut the man some slack. It was sacrilegious to slight the dead. It was true Denton had been a floater. Drifting here and there, never knowing which way was up. But Joe had read the file; he knew Denton had had his reasons.

  Besides, Joe’s life had once lacked direction in much the same way. But he'd been lucky. He’d had friends in high places and very quickly learned that, no matter what the politicians tell you, in America nepotism isn't dead. In fact, having an uncle in the DOS had proved extremely useful.

  Joe never was one for academics. He was street-wise with a penchant for contact sports: football, wrestling, hockey – anything where he could kick some deserving bastard's ass and get away with it. Hell, get praised for it. He was perfect for the Agency, his old man said, but because his GPA wasn’t perfect, he’d have to get in the back door. Marine Intelligence was a good start. Do the ROTC thing. The recruiters were handing out scholarships left and right. Uncle Tom would be glad to make a well placed call or two for his favorite nephew.

  The only problem with ROTC scholarships is then you owe them. He gave them the best two years of his life.

  Nothing was ever the same after Beirut.

  There’d been this blonde, a network correspondent from the West Coast doing a wire piece on the troops and how they were getting along. Everyone told her she was going where there was no story.

  He still remembered the way her big eyes fluttered under those uncanny lashes. He had wanted to take her to bed, and was ashamed of those thoughts later.

  He’d been tagged the PR man from his unit, so he was awarded the honor of the interview. All the
grunts were jealous. 'Let me know if her tits are really as big as they look,' one had joked, as Joe walked out the door.

  Later, he regretted laughing at the asinine comment. He’d still be mad at the guy who’d said it, but he’d died in the blast with the others.

  Joe had walked into the cafeteria and seen her sitting there. So cosmopolitan. Obviously not Embassy staff or military.

  She was sifting through a wire-ring notebook, the scrawl barely discernible.

  'You can read that thing?' he asked, grabbing an empty chair and sitting down.

  'It’s written in code,' she said, without giving him a smile.

  'Better be careful, Ma’am. Never know when someone from Marine Intelligence might come along and try to crack it.'

  She turned to a blank page without looking up and uncapped her pen. Man, she was tough.

  'So,' she checked her watch, 'you must be Lieutenant McFadden, U.S. Marine Corps.'

  'At your service.' He wished. This babe was a popsicle.

  She scribbled on her pad in frustration. Her pen was dry. She reached across the table for a pencil, upsetting her stale cup of coffee. Joe jumped to his feet as the cold mocha-colored liquid sloshed toward him, spraying his pant leg.

  She laughed. 'Oh, I’m so sorry. Oh my goodness,' she said, reaching for the table dispenser and heaping napkins on the mess. Joe caught the first glimpse of her eyes under those fluttering dark lashes. They were aquamarine. He’d never seen that color.

  He walked to the bar for some paper towels and came back to help her.

  She was still giggling. 'I don’t know what’s gotten into me,' she said, catching her breath. 'Lost it, I guess.'

  She was really quite pretty, in that fresh-faced California way. Joe judged her to be about his age. A year or two older at most.

  'Don’t worry about it,' he told her. 'We all have our days.'

  'Yes, well,' she said, sitting back down, 'this one’s been a doozy.'

  She was smiling now, but had these little crinkles around her eyes that made her look tense. Joe knew what could ease that tension.

  'Can I get you something?' she asked. 'It’s on me – a peace offering.'

  What Joe wanted a piece of wasn’t on the Embassy menu. He leaned forward just a bit. 'It’s so hard to talk with all this distraction...'

  'Yeah right,' she said, purposely naive, 'we’ll just have to make the best of it.'

  She took a fresh pen from her purse and resumed her pose with the notebook. 'You sure you don’t want coffee?'

  He shook his head, looking down at the stain on uniform. 'Thanks, I’ve already had mine.'

  'So, Lieutenant, what made you join the Marines?'

  Back to business. 'I heard they were looking for a few good men.'

  'Ha, ha,' she said, chilling again.

  All she needed was one fabulous earth-shaking fuck. He could ask her – outright. No need for pretense. They could go back to the ladies room at the motor pool. It was always vacant. Lock the door and go to it like animals. Why not? They were both young and healthy, both in need of the release. She’d board that plane for LA flying high.

  'Did you hear me, Lieutenant?'

  'Sorry,' he said, still lost in his fantasy.

  She checked the clock on the wall against her watch. 'Damn. My watch is slow. I’ll never get to my interview with the attaché in time. Listen, I hate to ask you this –' Ask, ask, he thought. Anything. '– but could we finish this up later?'

  'Any time you’d like.'

  'Okay, fine,' she said, looking preoccupied. 'I don’t mean to brush you off, but I’ve really got to go over these notes before my meeting.'

  'I understand,' Joe said, pushing his chair back from the table. Maybe he should ask her. Just ten minutes. It was a short walk. But she had already turned her attention to her notebook.

  'It was a pleasure,' he said, wishing very much it had been more so for the two of them.

  He left her sitting there feeling sorry for himself.

  The next thing he remembered was hitting the ground as shards of glass exploded from the long windows of the cafeteria. A wave of heat flattened him to the pavement, and for a long moment there was a terrifying silence.

  Then the screams began.

  Mark motioned to the rushing waters beside them. 'This the Guadalquivir?'

  'Looks like. Runs from the ocean smack into the heart of Seville.'

  Mark thought this over remembering what he’d learned about this region while studying the drug trade. The south was a gateway for incoming contraband from Latin America and Southeast Asia. Shipments were smuggled either by boat or plane to North Africa, then spirited across the narrow Strait of Gibraltar into southern Spain. From there, it was a matter of simple logistics to transfer the dope over the mainland and into central Europe. Basque cooperation in the stronghold that divides Spain and France could be extremely useful. So useful that that cooperation could be worth a lot of money. Money or artillery. Possibly both.

  If Colombia had the drugs and Colombia had the arms, where did that leave Costa Negra? Right between one money-grubbing terrorist and some of the most menacing warlords in the world. Not an enviable position for most, but for Luis Vaquero, aka El Dedo, it was a dream come true. He could secure arms for his rebellion against the Costa Negran government and cash to finance his operations. Plus, he’d have earned a few friends in some very low places. Quite a perk for the very sort of man to sell out to the highest bidder.

  Mark considered the size of the sherry barrels, fine for packing with weapons or cocaine, but also suitable for hiding a body – at least a slight female body pressed into contorted form.

  Along the far reaches of the road, small teetering spots began to appear. Some sort of vehicles in motion, yet not traveling with the steady velocity of cars.

  'Hey, McFadden, what do you make of that?' Mark watched McFadden study the oncoming scene.

  'I’ll bet they’re wagons. Come to think of it, must be around carnival time.'

  Wagons. That made sense. And, as they pulled closer, Mark could see that McFadden had been right. Spaniards approached, dressed in traditional ruffled costumes and wide-brimmed hats. They were driving horse-drawn wagons covered with fresh flowers and multi-colored ribbons.

  'Feria,' McFadden explained. 'Holy Week’s taken pretty seriously here, but this baby’s one hedonistic blow-out. Celebration of the grape harvest.'

  Grapes for making sherry, Mark thought, surveying the crowd passing them by. 'Looks like it's going to be one heck of a party.'

  'People come from all over. Should be quite a show.'

  Mark considered this a moment. 'Most certainly it's the type of thing where people go to see and be seen?'

  'Most certainly.'

  'Everybody who is somebody will be there?'

  'Everybody.'

  'Even some of the not-so-esteemed members of the LPP?'

  'Most assuredly,' McFadden said, seeming to read Mark's thoughts.

  Mark sent McFadden downtown to rent a car and walked to the public telephone facility to call Washington, cursing himself a second time for losing his briefcase. Now he would be unable to secure the line.

  The young lady at the calling station was very solicitous. He got through to the States in a record ten minutes.

  Thankfully, Jarvis was already at the office. 'Give me that location again. Delgado Warehouse?'

  'Right,' Mark said. 'Northeast of Jerez, ten to twelve kilometers.'

  'Are you sure about Denton, sir? We could send a–'

  'Positive. Body transport’s all we need. And the Spanish authorities need to be officially alerted.'

  'Officially?'

  'Just do it.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Update Mr. Cromwell as soon as he gets in. He deserves to know. Oh, and Jarvis, any luck with London?'

  'I’ve got the list, sir. You some place I can send it?'

  Mark gritted his teeth. 'No, dammit. Lost my gear.'

  'You, si
r?'

  Mark could hear the implication he was slipping. But he wasn’t slipping. He could still play ball with the best of them and he was going to prove it. 'Give me your take on it. Anything stand out?'

  Jarvis was quiet a moment, probably deciding whether or not to mention Mark’s family.

  Mark blew a hard breath and glanced around the calling station. There were people behind him waiting in line. 'Look, I haven’t got all day.'

  'Okay, there was one thing: a group of 'undisclosed' passengers. Had to con Betty in file security to get the names, and even then it took me a while –'

  'Spill it,' Mark cut in.

  'The Greek Princess, Juliana.'

  'She was on the plane?'

  'Traveling under an assumed name for privacy purposes. And get this, Chief. I found an International Herald Tribune paper trail that says she was going to get married. The details were being negotiated between her family and that of the heir apparent of another country.'

  'Heir, as in heir to a throne?'

  'Prince Luis Roberto of Spain. The rebel with a cause against the Basque kingdom. Under the parliamentary stipulations of the time, he couldn’t have reigned a bachelor.'

  Mark knew Luis Roberto, eldest son of the reigning royal family, had never held the crown. So the plan had worked; he’d never gotten control. He’d been passed over for the position of king, which had been handed down to his younger brother. Surely, if they’d had evidence, the monarchy would have taken action against Carnova and his men. But it appeared Carnova had been as crafty in outwitting the Spanish as he had US Intelligence.

  'You’re certain about this?' Mark asked.

  'Dead certain, sir. Carnova had his motive.'

  Neal had asked him to go downtown and get a car. Only Joe didn't go downtown. As soon as Neal was out of sight, he pulled the wrinkled leather address book from his rear jeans pocket. He had scooped it off the damp ground beside Denton's body. It had been neatly concealed beneath the blood-speckled Bible. He had retrieved it inconspicuously without a word to Neal. A page had been earmarked. Denton had had a plan.