to work harder kicking the asses of those who don't
take pride in what they do."
"All of which is very heartfelt," August said.
"It's also beside the point, Mike. You like
classical music, right?"
Rodgers nodded. "So?"
"I forget which writer it was who said that life should be like
a Beethoven symphony. The loud parts of the music
represent our public deeds. The soft passages
suggest our private reflection. I think that most
people have found a good and honest balance between the two."
Rodgers looked down at his tea. "I don't
believe
k tilde his
BALANCE OF POWER 29
that. If it were true, we'd be doing better."
"We've survived a couple of world wars and a
nuclear cold war," August replied. "For a
bunch of territorial carnivores not far removed
from the caves, that ain't bad." He took a long,
slow sip of tea. "Besides, forget about recreation and
weekends. What started this all was you making a joke
and me approving of it. Humor ain't
weakness, pal, and don't start coming down on yourself for
it. It's a deterrent, Mike, a necessary
counterbalance. When I was a guest of Ho Chi
Minh, I stayed relatively sane by telling myself
every bad joke I could remember. Knock-knocks.
Good news, bad news. Skeleton jokes. You
know: 'A skeleton walks into a bar and orders a
gin and tonic . . . and a mop." his
Rodgers didn't laugh.
"Well," August said, "it's amazing how funny
that seems when you're strung up by your bleeding
goddamn wrists in a mosquito-covered swamp.
The point is, it's a bootstrap deal, Mike.
You've got to lift yourself out of the muck."
"That's you," Rodgers said. "I get angry.
Bitter. I brood."
"I know. And you let it sit in your gut. You've
come up with a third kind of symphonic music: loud
passages that you keep inside. You can't possibly
think that's good."
"Good or not," Rodgers said, "it comes naturally
to me. That's my fuel. It gives me the drive
to fix systems that are broken and to get rid of the people
who spoil it for the rest of us."
"And when you can't fix the system or get
back at
30 OP-CENTER
the bad guys?" August asked. "Where does all
that high octane go?"
"Nowhere," Rodgers said. "I store it. That's the
beauty of it. It's the far eastern idea of
chi-
inner energy. When you need it for the next battle it's
right there, ready to tap."
"Or ready to explode. What do you do when there's so
much that you can't keep it in anymore?"
"You burn some of it off," Rodgers said. "That's
where recreation comes in. You turn it into physical
exertion. You exercise or play squash or call
a ladyfriend. There are ways."
"Pretty lonely ones."
"They work for me," Rodgers said. "Besides, as long
as you keep striking out with the ladies I've got you
to dump on."
"Striking out?" August grinned. At least
Rodgers was talking and it was about something other than
misery and the fall of civilization. "After my long
weekend with Barb Mathias I had to take a
sabbatical."
Rodgers smiled. "I thought I was doing you
a favor," he said. "She loved you when we were
kids."
"Yeah, but now she's forty-four and all she wants
is sex and security." August twirled noodles
around his fork and slid them into his mouth.
"Unfortunately, I'm only rich in one of those."
Rodgers was still smiling when his pager beeped. He
twisted to look at it then winced as his bandages
pulled at the side.
"Those pagers are made to slip right off your belt,"
August said helpfully.
BALANCE OF POWER 31
"Thanks," Rodgers said. "That's how I lost the
last one." He glanced down at the number.
"Who wants you?" August asked.
"Bob Herbert," Rodgers said. His brow knit as
he took his napkin from his lap. He rose very
slowly and dropped it on the chair. "I'll call
him from the car."
August leaned back. "I'll stay right here," he
said. "I'm told that there are three women to every man
in Washington. Maybe one of them will want your
plate of cold-growing string beans."
"Good luck," Rodgers told him as he moved
quickly through the small, crowded restaurant.
August finished his lo mein, drained his cup, and
poured more tea. He drank it slowly as he looked
around the dark restaurant. This state of mind
Rodgers was in would not be easy to dispel. August had
always been the more optimistic of the two. It was true,
he couldn't glance at the Vietnam Veterans
Memorial or flip past a cable documentary about
the war or even pass a Vietnamese
restaurant. Not without his eyes tearing or his belly
burning or his fists tensing with the desire to hit
something. August was usually upbeat and hopeful but he
was not entirely forgiving. Still, he didn't hold on
to bitterness and disappointment the way Mike did.
And the problem here was not so much that society had let
Mike down but that Mike had let himself down. He
wasn't about to let that go without a serious struggle.
When Rodgers returned, August knew at once
that something was wrong. The bandages and pain notwithstanding,
the general moved assertively through the crowded
restaurant, weaving around waiters and
32 OP-CENTER
customers instead of waiting for them to move. He did
not rush, however. The men were in uniform and both foreign
agents and journalists paid close attention
to military personnel. If they were called
away in a hurry, that told observers which branch and
usually which group within that branch was involved in a
breaking event.
August rose calmly before Rodgers arrived. He
stretched for show and took a last swallow of tea.
He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and
moved out to greet Rodgers. The men didn't speak
until they were outside. The mid-fall air was
biting as they walked slowly down the street to the car.
"Tell me more about the good things in life," Rodgers
said bitterly. "Martha Mackall was assassinated
about a half hour ago."
August felt the tea come back into his throat.
"It happened outside the Palacio de las
Cortes in Madrid," Rodgers went on. His
voice was clipped and low, his eyes fixed on something
in the distance. Even though the enemy was still faceless,
Rodgers had found a place to put his anger. "The
status of your team is unchanged until we know
more," Rodgers went on. "Martha's assistant
Aideen Marley is talking to the police.
Darrell was in Madrid with her and is heading over
to the palace now. He's going
to call Paul at
fourteen hundred hours with an update."
August's expression hadn't changed, though
he felt tea and bile fill his throat. "Any
idea who's responsible?"
"None," Rodgers said. "She was traveling
incognito. Only a few people even knew she was
there."
BALANCE OF POWER 33
They got into Rodgers's new Camry. August
drove. He started the ignition and nosed
into traffic. The men were silent for a moment. August
hadn't known Martha very well, but he knew that she was
no one's favorite person at Op-Center. She
was pushy and arrogant. A bully. She was also
damned effective. The team would be much poorer for
her loss.
August looked out the windshield at the overcast
sky. Upon reaching Op-Center headquarters,
Rodgers would go to the executive offices in the
basement level while August would be helicoptered
over to the FBI Academy in Quantico,
Virginia, where Striker was stationed. Striker's
status at the moment was neutral. But there were still two
Op-Center personnel in Spain. If things got
out of hand there they might be called upon to leave in a
hurry. Rodgers hadn't told him what Martha was
doing in Spain because he obviously didn't
want to risk being overheard. Bugging and
electronic surveillance of cars belonging
to military personnel was not uncommon. But
August knew about the tense political situation in
Spain. He also knew about Martha's involvement in
ethnic issues. And he assumed that she was
probably involved in diplomatic efforts to keep
the nation's many political and cultural entities
from fraying, from becoming involved in a catastrophic
and far-reaching power struggle.
He also knew one thing more. Whoever had killed her was
probably aware of why she was there. Which raised
another question that transcended the shock of the moment:
whether this was the first or the last shot in the possible
destruction of Spain.
THREE
Monday, 6:45 p.m. San Sebastian, Spain
Countless pieces of moonglow glittered atop the
dark waters of La Concha Bay. The luminous
shards were shattered into shimmering dust as the waves
struck loudly at Playa de la Concha, the
expansive, sensuously curving beach that bordered the
elegant, cosmopolitan city. Just over a half
mile to the east, fishing vessels and recreational
boats rocked in the crowded harbor of
Parte Vieja,
the "old section." Their masts creaked in the firm
southerly wind as small waves gently tapped at
the hulls. A few stragglers, still hoping for a
late-day catch, were only now returning to anchor.
Seabirds, active by the score during the day,
roosted silently beneath aged wharfs or on the high
crags of the towering Isia de Santa Clara near
the mouth of the bay.
Beyond the nesting birds and the idle boats, slightly
more than a half mile north of the coast of Spain,
the sleek white yacht
Veridico
lolled in the moonlit-waters. The
forty-five-foot vessel carried a complement of
four. Dressed entirely in black, one crewman
stood watch on deck while another had the helm.
A third man was taking his dinner in the curving dining
area
BALANCE OF POWER 35
beside the galley and the fourth was asleep in the forward
cabin.
There were also five passengers, all of whom were
gathered in the very private midcabin. The door was
shut and the heavy drapes were drawn over the
two portholes. The passengers, all men, were
seated around a large, ivory-colored table. There was
a thick, oversized leather binder in the center of the
table and a bottle of vintage Madeira beside it. The
dinner plates had all been cleared away and only
the near-empty wineglasses remained.
The men were dressed in expensive pastel-colored
blazers and large, loose-fitting slacks. They
wore jeweled rings and gold or silver
necklaces. Their socks were silk and their shoes were
handmade and brightly polished. Their haircuts were
fresh and short. Their cigars were Cuban and four of
them had been burning for quite some time; there were more in a
humidor in the center of the table. The men's hands were
soft and their expressions were relaxed. When they
spoke their voices were soft and warm.
The owner of the
Veridico,
Senor Esteban Ramirez, was also the founder of the
Ramirez Boat Company, the firm that had built
the yacht. Unlike the other men, he did not
smoke. It wasn't because he did not want to but because
it was not yet time to celebrate. Nor did he
reminisce about how their Catalonian grandparents
had raised sheep or grapes or grain in
the fertile fields of Leon. As important as
his heritage was, he couldn't think about such things right
now. His mind and soul were preoccupied with what should
36 OP-CENTER
have happened by now. His imagination was consumed with everything
that was at stake-much as it had been during the years of
dreaming, the months of planning, and the hours of
execution.
What was keeping the man]
Ramirez reflected quietly on how, in years
gone by, he used to sit in this very room of the yacht and
wait for calls from the men he worked with at the
American CIA. Or wait to hear from the members
of his His
'familia,""
a very close and trusted group comprised of his most
devoted employees. Sometimes the
familia
henchmen were on a mission to deliver packages or
to pick up money or to break the bones of people who
didn't see the sense of cooperating with him. Some of
those unfortunate people had worked for one or two of the men
who sat at this table. But that was in the past, before they were
united by a common goal.
Part of Ramirez yearned for those more relaxed
days. Days when he was simply an apolitical
middleman making a profit from smuggling guns or
personnel or learning about covert activities by the
Russians or Moslem fundamentalists. Days
when he used
familia
muscle to obtain loans that the banks didn't
want to give him, or to get trucks to carry goods
when no trucks were available.
Things were different now. So very, very different.
Ramirez did not speak until his cellular phone
rang. At the beep, he moved unhurriedly and
slipped the telephone from the rightside pocket of his
blazer. His small, thick fingers trembled
slightly as he unfolded the mouthpiece. He
placed the telephone to his ear.
BALANCE OF POWER 37
After speaking his name he said nothing. He simply
listened as he sat looking
at the others.
When the caller had finished, Ramirez closed the
telephone gingerly and slipped it back into his
pocket. He looked down at the clean ashtray in
front of him. He selected a cigar from the
humidor and smelled the black wrapper. Only
then did a smile break the flat smoothness
of his soft, round face.
One of the other men took the cigar from his mouth. "What
is it, Esteban?" he asked. "What has hap"
pened?"
"It is accomplished," he said proudly. "One of the
targets, the primary target, has been
eliminated."
The tips of the other cigars glowed richly as the four
men drew on them. Smiles lit up as well and
hands came together in polite but heartfelt
applause. Now Ramirez clipped the tip of his
cigar into the ashtray. He toasted the tip with a
generous flame from the antique butane gas lighter
in the center of the table. After rolling the cigar back and
forth until the edges glowed red he puffed
enthusiastically. Ramirez allowed the smoke
to caress his tongue. Then he rolled it around his mouth
and exhaled.
"Senor Sanchez is now at the airport in
Madrid," Ramirez said. He was using the name the
killer had assumed for this mission. "He will reach
Bilbao in one hour. I will ring the factory and have
one of my
familia
drivers meet him there. And then, as
planned, he will be brought out to the yacht."
"For a short stay, I trust," one of the men said
anxiously.
"For a very short stay," Ramirez replied. "When
38 OP-CENTER
Senor Sanchez arrives I will go on deck and
pay him." He patted his vest pocket, where he
had an envelope stuffed with international currency.
"He will not see anyone else so there is no way
he can ever betray you."
"Why would he?" asked the man.
"Extortion, Alfonso," Ramirez explained.
"Men like Sanchez, former soldiers who have come
into money, tend to live lavishly, only for the day.
When they run out of money, sometimes they come back and
ask for more."
"And if he does?" asked Alfonso. "How will you
protect yourself?"
Ramirez smiled. "One of my men was present with a
video camera. If Sanchez betrays me, the
tape will find its way into the hands of the police. But
enough of what could be. Here is what will be. After
Sanchez has been paid he will be escorted back
to the airport and will leave the country until the
investigation has been closed, as agreed."
Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power Page 4
