Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power

by Balance of Power [lit]

  BALANCE OF POWER 263

  the people, gave strength to the priest. Even after the

  gunfire had stopped, more and more of them came into the

  church seeking comfort amidst the confusion.

  Father Norberto didn't hear the telephone ringing in

  the rectory. However, Grandfather Jose did. The

  elderly man answered it and then came running up

  to the priest.

  "Father!" Jose whispered excitedly into his ear.

  "Father, quickly-you must come!"

  "What is it?" Norberto asked.

  " 'It is an aide to General

  Superior Gonzalez in Madrid!" Jose

  declared. "He wishes to speak with you."

  Norberto regarded Jose for a moment. "Are you

  certain he wants to talk to me?"

  Jose nodded vigorously. Puzzled, Norberto

  went to the pulpit and collected his Bible. He handed

  it to the elder member of the church and asked him to read

  to the congregation more from Matthew until his return.

  Then Norberto left quickly, wondering what the

  leader of the Spanish Jesuits wanted with him.

  Norberto shut the door of the rectory and sat at

  his old oak desk. He rubbed his hands together and then

  picked up the phone.

  The caller was Father Francisco. The young priest

  had phoned to inform Norberto that his presence was

  required-not requested, but

  required-

  in Madrid as soon as he could get there.

  "For what reason?" Norberto asked. It should have

  been enough that General Superior Gonzalez wanted

  him. Gonzalez reported directly to the Pope

  and his word carried the authority of the Vatican. But

  when it came to matters involving this province and its

  five

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  thousand Jesuits, Gonzalez usually consulted his

  old friend Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao. Which

  was the way Norberto preferred it. He cared about

  ministering to his parish, not his own advancement.

  "I can only say that he asked for you and several

  others specifically," Father Francisco replied.

  "Has Father Iglesias been sent for?"

  "He is not on my list," the caller replied.

  "An airplane has been arranged for you at

  eight-thirty a.m. It is the General

  Superior's private airplane. Can I tell

  him that you will be on it?"

  "If I'm so ordered," Norberto said.

  "It is the General Superior's wish," Father

  Francisco gently corrected him.

  When it came to ecclesiastic euphemisms,

  Norberto knew that that was the same thing. The priest

  said he would be there. The caller thanked him

  perfunctorily and hung up. Norberto returned

  to the church.

  He took the Bible from Grandfather Jose and continued

  reading to the congregation from Matthew. But while the words

  came, warm and familiar. Father Norberto's heart

  and mind were elsewhere. They were with his brother and with his

  congregation. Most of the members were here now,

  cramming the pews and standing shoulder to shoulder along the

  three walls. Norberto had to decide who would

  help the people through the day and night. This would be

  especially important if friends or relatives

  had been lost at the factory-and if the fighting were

  only the start of something terrible. From the way

  Adolfo had been speaking the night before, the strife

  was just beginning.

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  When a calm had come over the congregation- after seven

  years, Norberto could sense these things- he closed

  the Bible and spoke to them in general terms about the

  sorrows and dangers that might lie ahead. He

  asked them to open their homes and hearts to those who had

  suffered a loss. Then he told them that he must go

  to Madrid to confer with the General Superior about the

  crisis that was facing their nation. He said he would be

  leaving later that morning.

  The congregation was silent after he made his

  announcement. He knew that the people were never surprised

  when they were abandoned by the government. That had been

  true when he was growing up during the Franco

  years; it had been true during the rape of the

  coastal seas during the 1970's; and from all

  appearances it was true now. But for Father

  Norberto to be leaving them at a time of crisis had

  to come as a shock.

  "Father Norberto, we need you," said a young woman

  in the first row.

  "Dear Isabella," Norberto said, "it is not

  my desire to go. It is the General Superior's

  wish."

  "But my brother works at the factory,"

  Isabella continued, "and we have not heard from him.

  I'm frightened."

  Norberto walked toward the woman. He saw the

  pain and fear in her eyes as he approached. He

  forced himself to smile.

  "Isabella, I know what you are feeling," he

  said. "I know because I lost a brother today."

  The young woman's eyes registered shock. "Father-was

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  .nprberto's

  sau backslash every remained firm, reassuring.

  "My dear Adolfo was killed this morning. It is

  my hope that by going to Madrid I can help the

  General Superior end whatever is happening in

  Spain. I want no more brothers to die, no more

  fathers or sons or husbands." He touched

  Isabella's cheek. "Can you-

  will

  you-be strong for me?"

  Isabella touched his hand. Her fingers were trembling

  and there were tears in her eyes. "I-I did not know

  about Dolfo," she said softly. "I'm so sorry.

  I will try to be strong."

  "Try to be strong for yourself, not for me," Norberto

  said. He looked up at the fearful eyes of the young and

  old. "I need

  all

  of you to be strong, to help one another." Then he

  turned to Grandfather Jose, who was standing in the crowd

  along the wall. He asked the old sailor if he

  would remain at the church as a " "caretaker

  priest"" until his return, reading from the Bible

  and talking to people about their fears. He had come up with the

  term on the spot and Jose liked it. Grandfather

  Jose bowed his head and accepted gratefully and

  humbly. Norberto thanked him and then turned

  to his beloved congregation.

  "We face difficult times," he said to the people. "But

  wherever I may be, whether in San Sebastian or

  in Madrid, we'll face them together-with faith,

  hope, and courage."

  "Amen, Father," Isabella said in a

  strong voice.

  The congregation echoed her words, as though one great

  voice were filling the church. Though Norberto was still

  smiling, tears spilled from his eyes. They weren't

  tears of sadness but of pride. Here before him

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  was something the generals and politicians would never

  obtain, however much blood they spilled: the trust and

  love of good people. Looking at their faces,


  Norberto told himself that Adolfo had not died in

  vain. His death had helped to bring the congregation together,

  to give the people strength.

  Norberto left the church amidst the good wishes and

  prayers of the parishioners. As he stepped into the warm

  daylight and headed toward the rectory, he could not

  help but think how amused Adolfo would have been

  by what had just happened. That it had been he, a

  disbeliever, and not Norberto who had inspired and

  unified a frightened congregation.

  Norberto wondered if God had provided this

  sanctifying grace as a means for Adolfo

  to overcome his mortal sin. The priest had no

  reason to believe that, no theological precedent.

  But as this morning had proved, hope was a powerful

  beacon.

  Perhaps,

  he thought,

  that's because sometimes hope is the only beacon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 8:06 a.m. Madrid, Spain

  Once the soldiers had secured the Ramirez

  boat factory, they lined up the three dozen

  surviving employees and checked their ID'S. As

  she watched the soldiers pick out people, Maria

  realized that all of the core leaders of the

  familia

  were still alive. The factory guard and other informants

  must have kept careful records, including

  photographs. Amadori would have the cream of the

  familia

  for show-trials. He could show the nation, the world, that

  ordinary Spaniards were plotting against other

  Spaniards. That he had brought order to impending

  chaos. The people who were gunned down were probably not

  guilty of anything. In life, they could have insisted that

  they were not members of the

  familia.

  In death, they could be whatever Amadori wanted them

  to be. The care with which he had planned even this

  relatively small, remote action was

  chilling.

  Those factory workers whose names were on the army's list

  were brought to the rooftop. One of the helicopters was

  used to ferry prisoners to the small airport

  outside of Bilbao. There, fifteen workers plus

  Maria were held inside a hangar at gunpoint.

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  Juan and Ferdinand were among the captives. They were

  tightly bound. Neither man spoke and neither man

  looked at her. She hoped they didn't suspect

  her of having set them up.

  Maria couldn't address that right now. Time and deeds,

  not protests, would clear her. She was just glad to be

  here. When she'd surrendered, Maria still had no

  idea whether prisoners were being taken at all. She

  had approached the factory with her arms raised,

  hoping that the soldiers would hold their fire because she was

  a woman. Maria may have had a rocky history

  where relationships were concerned, but she'd never gone

  wrong betting on the pride of Spanish men. As

  soon as she was spotted-halfway across the parking

  lot-she was ordered to stay where she was. Two

  soldiers came rushing from inside. One of them

  frisked her with enthusiasm until she informed them that

  she had something to tell General Amadori.

  She wasn't sure what she had to tell him, but

  she'd think of something. The fact that she knew the

  general's name seemed to catch the men off guard. They

  didn't treat her gently after that, but they refrained

  from abusing her.

  The prisoners stood in a bunch quietly, some of

  them smoking, some of them nursing lacerations, waiting

  to see whether they were being taken away or whether someone

  was coming. When a prop plane arrived from Madrid,

  the group was led onboard.

  The flight to Madrid took just under fifty

  minutes. Though the prisoners" wounds were dressed,

  none of the captives spoke and none of the soldiers

  addressed them. As she sat in the

  twenty-four-seater, staring out

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  at the bright patchwork of farms and cities, Maria

  played scenarios out in her mind. She would talk

  to no one but Amadori, who would see her-she hoped-

  because she could tell him how much the world intelligence

  fraternity knew about his crimes. Perhaps an

  arrangement could be reached wherein he would restrict his

  ambitions to becoming part of a new government.

  She also imagined the general not caring what anyone

  knew or thought. Whether he wanted to rule

  an independent Castile or all of Spain, he

  had the guns and he had the momentum. He also had

  familia

  members not just to interrogate but to hold as hostages

  if he wished.

  There was another consideration. The very real possibility

  that simply by talking to Amadori Maria might

  fuel his ambition. The hint of a threat, of a

  challenge, could cause him to become defensive,

  even more aggressive. After all, he too was a

  proud Spanish man.

  The airplane taxied to a deserted corner of the

  airport-ironically, to a spot not far from where she

  had departed earlier in the day. Two large

  canvas-backed trucks were waiting to meet the

  plane. In the distance, Maria could see busy

  pockets of jeeps, helicopters, and soldiers.

  Since she and Aideen had left here seven hours

  before, portions of Barajas Airport seemed to have

  been turned into a staging area for other raids. That

  made tactical sense. From here, every part of Spain

  was less than an hour away.

  Maria had a sick feeling deep in her belly.

  A feeling that whatever had been set in motion could not

  be stopped. Not without shutting down the brain

  behind

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  it. In that case, the question Maria had to ask was

  Could

  General Amadori be stopped? And if so, how?

  The eight prisoners sat in facing rows of benches

  and the trucks headed into the heart of the city. Four

  guards watched over them, two at each end of the

  truck. They were armed with pistols and truncheons.

  Traffic was unusually light on the highway, though

  the nearer they got to the center of Madrid the thicker

  the military activity became. Maria could see the

  trucks and jeeps through the front window. As they

  entered the city proper the traffic was heaviest near

  key government buildings and communications centers.

  Maria wondered if the soldiers were there to keep people out

  or to keep them in.

  The small, anonymous caravan drove slowly

  along Calle de Bailen and then came to a stop.

  The driver had a brief conversation with a guard and then

  the trucks moved on. Maria leaned forward and a

  guard warned her back. But she had already seen what

  she wanted to see. The trucks had arrived at the

  Palacio Real, the Royal Palace.

  The palace had been erected in 1762,

  constructed on the site of a ninth-century Moorish

  fortress. When the Moors were
expelled, the fortress

  was destroyed and a glorious castle was built here.

  It burned down on Christmas Eve, 1734, and the

  new palace was built on the site. More than any

  place in Spain, this ground-considered holy, to some

  Spaniards-symbolized the destruction of the invader

  and the birth of modern Spain. The location of

  Nuestra Senora de la Almudena, the

  Cathedral of the Almudena, just south

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  of the palace completed the symbolic consecration of the

  ground.

  Four stories tall and built of white-trimmed

  granite from the Sierra de Guadarrama, the

  sprawling edifice sits on the "balcony of

  Madrid," a cliff that slopes majestically

  toward the Manzanares River. From here, the views

  to the north and west are sweeping and spectacular.

  General Amadori was setting himself up in style.

  This wasn't the king's residence. His Highness lived

  in the Palacio de la Zarzuela, at El

  Pardo on the northern outskirts of the city. She

  wondered if the king was there and what he had to say about

  all of this. She had a sharp sense of deja

  vu as she thought of the monarch and his young family locked

  in a room of the castle- or worse. How many times

  in how many nations had this scenario been acted out?

  Whether the kings were tyrants or constitutional

  monarchs, whether their heads were taken or just their

  crowns, this was the oldest story in civilization.

  She was sickened by it. And just once she'd like to see the

  story end with a twist.

  They were driven around the corner to the Plaza de la

  Armeria. Instead of the usual early-morning lines of

  tourists, the vast courtyard was filled with soldiers.

  Some were drilling and some were already on duty, guarding the

  nearly two dozen entrances to the palace itself. The

  trucks stopped beside a pair of double doors set

  beneath a narrow balcony. The prisoners were led from the

  trucks into the palace. They shambled down a long

  hallway and stopped just beyond the grand staircase, in the

  center of the palace. A door opened;

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  Maria was standing near the front of the line and looked

  in.

  Of course,

  she thought. They were at the magnificent Hall of the

  Halberdiers. The axlike weapons had been

  removed from the walls and racks, and the room

  had been turned into a detention center. A dozen or

  so guards stood along the far wall and at least

  three hundred people sat on the parquet floor.

  Maria noticed several women and children among them.