Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power
Page 2
to look the other way. Get it through your head.
Playing the game, however corrupt it seems, is
still diplomacy."
BALANCE OF POWER 9
"But what if you hadn't known about their
"profession," their code? I didn't."
Aideen lowered her voice. "I was worried about
having our backpacks stolen and our covers blown."
"An arrest would have blown our covers a whole lot
faster," Martha said. She took Aideen by the arm and
pulled her aside. They stood next to a building,
away from pedestrian traffic. "The truth is,
eventually someone would have told us how to get rid of
them. People always do. That's how the game is played, and
I believe in obeying the rules of whatever game
or whatever country I'm in. When I started out in
diplomacy in the early 1970's on the seventh
floor of the State Department, I was excited as
hell. I was on the seventh floor, where all the
real, heavy-duty work is done. But then I found out
why
I was there. Not because I was so damn talented, though
I hoped I was. I was there to deal with the apartheid
leaders in South Africa. I was State's
"in-your-face" figure. I was a wagging finger that
said, "If you want to deal with the U.s., you'll have
to deal with blacks as equals." was Martha scowled.
"Do you know what that was like?"
Aideen made a face. She could just imagine.
"It's not like having your fanny
patted,
I can tell you that," Martha said. "But I did what
I was supposed to do because I learned one thing very
early. If you infract the rules or bend them
to suit your temperament, even a little, it becomes a
habit. When it becomes a habit you get
sloppy.- And a sloppy diplomat is no use
to the country-or to me."
10 OP-CENTER
Aideen was suddenly disgusted with herself. The
thirty-four-year-old foreign service officer would
be the first to admit that she wasn't the diplomat her
forty-nine-year-old superior was. Few people were.
Martha Mackall not only knew her way around
European and Asian political circles-partly
the result of summers and vacations she'd spent
touring the world with her father, popular 1960's soul
singer and Civil Rights activist Mack
Mackall. She was also a summa cum
laude MIT financial wizard who was tight with the
world's top bankers and well connected on
Capitol Hill. Martha was feared but she was
respected. And Aideen had to admit that in this case
she was also right.
Martha looked at her watch. "Come on," she said.
"We're due at the palace in less than five
minutes."
Aideen nodded and walked alongside her boss. The
younger woman was no longer angry. She was disgusted with
herself and brooded, as she usually did when she
screwed up. She hadn't been able to screw up much
during her four years in army intelligence at Fort
Meade. That was paint-by-numbers courier work,
moving cash and top secret information to operatives
domestically and abroad. Toward the end of her
tenure there she interpreted ELINT'-ELECTRONIC
intelligence- and passed it on to the Pentagon.
Since the satellites and computers did all the
heavy lifting there, she took special classes
on elite tactics and stakeout techniques-just
to get experience in those areas. Aideen didn't have a
chance to mess things up either when she left the military
and became a junior political officer at the
U.s. Embassy in Mexico. Most of the
time
BALANCE OF POWER 11
she was using ELINT to help keep track of drug
dealers in the Mexican military, though occasionally
she was permitted to go out in the field and use some of the
undercover skills she'd acquired. One of the most
valuable aspects of the three years Aideen had
spent in Mexico was learning the ploy that had proved
so effective this afternoon-as well as offensive to Martha
and the busload of commuters. After she and her friend Ana
Rivera of the Mexican attorney general's
office were cornered by a pair of drug cartel
musclemen one night, Aideen discovered that the best
way to fight off an attacker wasn't by carrying a
whistle or knife or by trying to kick them in the
groin or scratch out their eyes. It was by keeping
moist towelettes in your handbag. That's what Ana
used to clean her hands and arms after tossing around some
mierda de perro.
Dog droppings. Ana had casually scooped them
off the street and flung them at the toughs who were
following them. Then she'd rubbed some on her arms
to make sure no one grabbed them. Ana said there
wasn't an attacker she'd ever encountered who stuck
around after that. Certainly the three "street
extortionists" in Madrid had not.
Martha and Aideen walked in silence toward the towering
white columns of the Palacio de las Cortes.
Built in 1842, the palace was the seat of the
Congreso de los Diputados; along with the
Senado, the Senate, it comprised the two houses
of the Spanish parliament. Though the sun had set,
spotlights illuminated two larger-than-life
bronze lions. Each lion rested a paw atop
a cannonball. The statues had been cast using
12 OP-CENTER
guns taken from the enemies of Spain. They flanked
the stone steps that led to a high metal door, a
door used only for ceremonies. To the left of the
main entrance was a very tall iron fence, which was spiked
along the top. Beside the fence gate stood a small
guardhouse with bulletproof windows. This was where the
deputies entered the halls of parliament.
Neither woman spoke as they walked past the imposing
granite facade of the palace. Though Aideen had
only worked at Op-Center a short while, she
knew that in spirit her boss was already at the meeting.
Martha was quietly reviewing things she'd want
to say to Serrador. Aideen's own role was to draw
on her experience with Mexican
insurrectionists and her knowledge of the Spanish language
to make sure nothing was misstated or
misinterpreted.
If only we "d had a little more time to prepare,
Aideen thought as they walked around snapping
pictures, acting like tourists as they slowly made
their way to the gate. Op-Center had barely had time
to catch its breath from the hostage situation in the
Bekaa Valley when this matter had been relayed
to them from the U.s. Embassy in Madrid.
Relayed so quietly that only Deputy
Serrador, Ambassador Neville,
President Michael Lawrence and his closest
advisors, and the top people at Op-Center knew about
it. And they would keep quiet. If Deputy
Serrador were correct, tens of thousands of lives
were at risk.
A church bell rang in the distance. To Aideen, it
somehow sounded
holier
in Spain than it did in Washington. She counted out
the tolls. It was six o'clock. Martha and Aideen
made their way to the guardhouse.
BALANCE OF POWER 13
Nosotros aqui para un viaje todo
comprendido,
Aideen said through the grate in the glass. "We're
here for a tour." Completing the picture of the excited
tourist, she added that a mutual friend had arranged for a
private tour of the building.
The young guard, tall and unsmiling, asked for their
names.
Senorita Temblon y Senorita Serafico,
Aideen replied, giving him their cover
identities. Before leaving Washington Aideen had
worked these out with Serrador's office. Everything, from the
airplane tickets to the hotel reservations, was in
those names.
The guard turned and checked a list on a
clipboard. As he did, Aideen looked around.
There was a courtyard behind the fence, the sky a
beautiful blue-black above it. At the rear of the
courtyard was a small stone building where auxiliary
governmental services were located. Behind that was a
new glass-covered building, which housed the offices
of the deputies. It was an impressive complex that
reminded Aideen just how far the Spanish had come
since the death in 1975 of El Caudillo, "the
leader," Francisco Franco. The nation was now a
constitutional monarchy, with a prime minister
and a largely titular king. The Palacio de las
Cortes itself spoke very eloquently of one of the
trying times in Spain's past. There were bullet
holes in the ceiling of the Chamber of Sessions, a
remnant and graphic reminder of a right-wing coup
attempt in 1981. The palace had been the site
of other attacks, most notably in 1874 when
President Emilio Castelar lost a vote of
confidence and soldiers opened fire in the hallways.
14 OP-CENTER
Spain's strife had been mostly internal in this
century, and the nation had remained neutral during
World War II. As a result, the world had paid
relatively little attention to its problems and
politics. But when Aideen was studying languages
in college her Spanish professor, Senor
Armesto, had told her that Spain was a nation on the
verge of disaster.
Where there are three Spaniards there are four
opinions,
he had said.
When world events favor the impatient and disaffected,
those opinions will be heard loudly and violently.
Senor Armesto was correct. Fractionalization was
the trend in politics, from the breakup of the
Soviet Union and Yugoslavia to the
secessionist movement in Quebec to the rising
ethnocentrism in the United States. Spain was
hardly immune. If Deputy Serrador's
fears were correct-and Op-Center's intelligence
had corroborated it-the nation was poised to suffer its
worst strife in a thousand years. As Intelligence
Chief Bob Herbert had put it before Martha left
Washington, "This will make the Spanish Civil
War look like a brawl."
The guard put his list down.
"Un momenta,"
he said, and picked up the red telephone on the
console in the back of the booth. He punched in a
number and cleared his throat.
As the sentry spoke to a secretary on the other
end, Aideen turned. She looked toward the broad
avenue, which was packed with traffic-
la hora de aplastar,
or "crush hour," as they called it here. The bright
lights of the slow-moving cars were blinding in the dark
twilight. They seemed to pop on and off as
BALANCE OF POWER 15
pedestrians scurried past. Occasionally, a
flashbulb would fire as a tourist stopped
to take a picture of the palace.
Aideen was blinking off the effects of one such flash
when a young man who had just taken a picture put his
camera in the pocket of his denim jacket. He
turned toward the booth. She couldn't see him
clearly beneath the brim of his baseball cap, but she
felt his eyes on her.
A
street extortionist posing as a tourist?
she wondered impertinently as the man ambled toward
her. Aideen decided to let Martha handle this one and
she started to turn away. As she did, Aideen
noticed a car pulling up to the curb behind the man.
The black sedan didn't so much arrive as edge
forward, as though it had been waiting down the block.
Aideen stopped turning. The world around her suddenly
seemed to be moving in slow motion. She watched as the
young man pulled what looked like a pistol from inside
his jacket.
Aideen experienced a moment of paralytic
disbelief. It passed quickly as her training took
over.
"Fusilar!"
she shouted. "Gunman!"
Martha turned toward her as the gun jerked with
booming cracks and dull flares. Martha was thrown
against the booth and then dropped to her side as Aideen
jumped in the opposite direction. Her thinking was
to draw the man's fire away from Martha. She
succeeded. As Aideen dove for the pavement, a
startled young mailman who was walking in front of her
stopped, stared, and took a bullet in his left
thigh. As his leg folded and he pitched forward, a
second bullet
16 OR-CENTER
hit his side. He landed on his back and Aideen
dropped flat beside him. She lay as low as she could
and as close to him as she could as he writhed in
agony. As bright blood pumped from his side, she
reached over and pressed her palm to the wound. She
hoped that pressure would help stanch the bleeding.
Aideen lay there, listening. The popping had stopped
and she raised her head carefully. As she watched,
the car pulled from the curb. When people began to scream in
the distance, Aideen rose slowly. She kept up
pressure on the man's wound as she got on her
knees.
"Ayuda!"
she yelled to a security guard who had run up to the
gate at the Congress of Deputies.
"Help!"
The man unlocked the gate and rushed over. Aideen
told him to keep pressure on the wound. He did
as he was told and Aideen rose. She looked
back at the booth. The sentry was crouched there,
shouting into the phone for assistance. There were people across the
street and in the road. The only ones left in
front of the palace were Aideen, the man beside her, the
guard-and Martha.
Aideen looked at her boss in the growing darkness.
Passing cars slowed and stopped, their lights
illuminating the still, awful scene. Martha was lying on
her side, facing the booth. Thick puddles of
blood were forming on the pavement beneath and behind her body.
&
nbsp; "Oh, Jesus," Aideen choked.
The young woman tried to rise but her legs wouldn't
support her. She crawled quickly toward the
BALANCE OF POWER 17
booth and knelt beside Martha. She bent over her and
looked down at the handsome face. It was utterly still.
"Martha?" she said softly.
Martha didn't respond. People began to gather
tentatively behind the two women.
"Martha?"
Aideen said more insistently.
Martha didn't move. Aideen heard the sound of
running feet inside the courtyard. Then she heard
muted voices shouting for people to clear the area.
Aideen's ears were cottony from the shots.
Hesitantly, she touched Martha's cheek with the
tips of two ringers. Martha did not respond.
Slowly, as though she were moving in a dream, Aideen
extended her index finger. She held it under
Martha's nose, close to her nostrils. There was
no breath.
"God, oh God," Aideen was muttering. She
gently touched Martha's eyelid. It didn't
react and, after a moment, she withdrew her hand. Then
she sat back on her heels and stared down at the
motionless figure. Sounds became louder as her ears
cleared. The world seemed to return to normal motion.
Fifteen minutes ago Aideen was silently
cursing this woman. Martha had been caught up in
something that had seemed so important-so very damned
important. Moments always seemed important
until tragedy put them in perspective. Or
maybe they
were
important because inevitably there would be no more. Not
that it mattered now. Whether Martha had been
right or wrong, good or bad, a visionary or a
control freak, she was dead. Her moments were over.
The courtyard gate flew open and men ran from behind
it. They gathered around Aideen, who was star 18
OP-CENTER
ing vacantly at Martha. The young woman touched
Martha's thick, black hair.
"I'm sorry," Aideen said. She exhaled
tremulously and shut her eyes. "I'm so very, very
sorry."
The woman's limbs felt heavy and she was sick that
the reflexes that had been so quick with those street kids
had failed her completely here. Intellectually,
Aideen knew that she wasn't to blame. During her
weeklong orientation when she first joined Op-Center,
staff psychologist Liz Gordon had warned
Aideen and two other new employees that if and when
it happened, unexpectedly facing a weapon for the first
time could be devastating. A gun or a knife