in first. He'd left the gun with Maria in case the
soldiers had a change of heart. He hoped he
wouldn't need it here. The gunfire was louder, of
course. But it was still far enough away so that McCaskey
didn't think they'd get caught in a firefight.
He looked at the old wooden cross hanging on
the priest's chest. McCaskey's tired eyes
lingered for a moment as he asked God to help his
comrades who might be in the middle of the fighting.
There were eight doors along the short
corridor. They were all shut. McCaskey
stopped and turned to the priest.
Speaking in a very low whisper, he asked, "Do you
speak English?"
"Some," Norberto replied.
"Okay," McCaskey said. "I'm not going
to leave you alone."
"I'm never alone," Father Norberto replied,
gently touching the cross.
"I know that. I mean-unprotected."
"But the wounded ones-was
"There may be a telephone in one of these rooms,"
McCaskey told him. "If there is, I'll
make the call and stay with you. We'll find
Maria's friend and take him out together."
Norberto nodded as McCaskey turned the first
doorknob. The door opened into a dark study. After
being
404 OP-CENTER
out in the bright sun it took a moment for
McCaskey" s eyes to adjust. When they did
he saw a desk at the far end of the chamber. There was
a telephone in the near corner .
"That's a break," McCaskey said.
"You go," the priest said. "I'll continue
searching for the woman's companion."
"All right," McCaskey said. "I'll join you as
soon as I'm finished."
Norberto nodded and went to the next door.
Shutting the door, McCaskey went to the
telephone. He lifted up the receiver and swore;
there was no dial tone. He'd been afraid of that.
Amadori's people must have shut down access to all
outside lines. In case any of the prisoners got
away they wouldn't be able to get intelligence out of
here.
Returning to the corridor, McCaskey moved on
to the next room. The door was opened and he looked
in. It was a music room. It smelled faintly
of smoke and then he noticed the ashes on the
floor. This must have been where the fire alarm went
off. Father Norberto was in the corner with a prisoner,
whom McKaskey assumed was Juan.
"Father-how is he?" McCaskey asked.
Norberto didn't turn around. His shoulders
slumping, he just shook his head gravely.
McCaskey turned. The only way he was going
to be able to get help was if he found Striker. They
could call Interpol and ask for medical assistance.
Even if the strike force hadn't succeeded
in killing Amadori, the general was going to have to allow
medical assis-
BALANCE OF POWER 405
tance into the palace. His own people had been injured in the
fighting.
McCaskey took a deep breath and started down the
corridor.
FORTY-TWO
Tuesday, 12:06 p.m. Madrid, Spain
The music room of the palace was dark. However, there
was enough light coming in from the corridor to allow Father
Norberto to see the man slouched in the corner on the
floor. He was gravely wounded. There were splashes
of blood on him, on his clothes, and on the wall
behind him. Fresh blood continued to pour from gashes on
his cheek, forehead, and mouth. There were several raw,
bloody wounds in his legs and chest.
Father Norberto could literally feel the presence of
Death-just as he had when he knelt like this beside his
brother. The sensation was always the same, whether Father
Norberto was ministering to the terminally ill or holding
the hand of someone who had been fatally injured. Death
had a sweet, vaguely metallic scent that
filled the nostrils and poisoned the stomach. The
priest could almost feel Death's touch. It
was like a cool, invisible smoke chilling the air and
seeping into his flesh, his bones, his soul.
Death had come for this man. As Norberto's eyes
adjusted to the dark, he could see what a miracle it
was that the man still lived. The monsters who had
imprisoned him in this room had shot, beaten, and
burned him without mercy or restraint.
BALANCE OF POWER 407
For what?
Norberto wondered with bitter indignation.
For information? For vengeance? For amusement?
Whatever the reason, it couldn't justify this. And in a
Catholic nation, a nation that purportedly lived by the
Decalogue and by the teachings of Jesus Christ,
what his captors had done was a mortal sin. For
their crimes they would live outside of God's
grace for eternity.
Not that that would help this poor man. Father Norberto
lowered himself to his knees beside the dying prisoner.
He pushed the man's sweat-dampened hair from his
forehead and touched his bloody cheek.
The prisoner opened his eyes. There was no sparkle
in them; only confusion and pain. They drifted down the
priest's robe and then returned to his eyes. He
tried to lift his arm. Father Norberto
caught his trembling hand and held it between his own hands.
"My son," said Norberto. "I am Father
Norberto."
The man looked up. " 'Father-what... is
happening?"
"You've been hurt," Norberto said. "Just rest
quietly."
"Hurt? How badly?"
"Be still," Norberto said softly. He squeezed
the man's hand and smiled down at him. "What is
your name?"
"I am Juan . .. Martinez."
"I am Father Norberto. Do you wish to make a
confession?"
Juan looked around. His eyes were darting and
afraid. "Father . . . am I... dying?"
408 OP-CENTER
Norberto did not reply. He only held
Juan's hand tighter.
"But how can this .. . be?" Juan asked. "There is
no pain."
"God is merciful," Norberto said.
Juan clutched the priest's fingers. His eyes shut
slowly. "Father-if God is merciful, then I
pray . . . He will forgive my sins."
"He will forgive only if you repent sincerely,"
Norberto replied. In the distance he heard guns
popping with less frequency. There would be many others
who needed God's comfort-and His forgiveness. Pressing
his cross to the lips of the wounded man, Norberto
asked, "Are you truly sorry for having offended
God with all the sins of your past life?"
Juan kissed the cross. "I am truly
sorry," he said contritely and with great effort. "
"I have killed .. . many men. Some at a radio
station. Another in a room-a fisherman."
Norberto felt Death turn and laugh at him.
He had never experienced anything so cruel or
punishing as this moment-the realization that the hand nestled in
/> his was the hand that had slain his brother.
Norberto's eyes were points of rage in a sea of
ice. They burned into the man before him as though he were
the Devil himself. Father Norberto wanted
desperately to throw the man's hand aside and watch
him slide into eternal damnation, unconfessed and
unsaved.
This man murdered my brother-
"The killings had to be," Juan choked. His hand was
shaking and he clutched Norberto's fingers harder.
"But... I am truly sorry for them."
BALANCE OF POWER 409
Norberto shut his eyes. His teeth were locked and
trembling, his hand unresponsive to Juan's touch.
Yet he fought the urge to drop this hand that had snuffed
out Adolfp's life. As much as he was a grieving
brother he was also a father ordained in the sight of
God.
"Father-was Juan coughed. "Help ... me to say .
.. the words."
Norberto drew air through his teeth.
It is not necessary that I forgive him. Forgiveness is the
province of God.
The priest opened his eyes and glared down at the
bruised face and broken body sprawled before him.
"Father, forgive me my transgressions,"
Norberto said coldly, "for which I am truly
repentant."
"I... repent," Juan rasped. "I...
repent... truly." Juan shut his eyes. His
breath came in short gasps.
"Sins forgiven are removed from the soul, restoring the
sinner to a state of sanctifying grace,"
Norberto said. "May God forgive you your
trespasses and deliver you unto salvation."
Juan's lips parted slowly. There was a
short sigh. Then there was nothing more.
Norberto continued to stare down at the dead man.
Juan's hand was cold. Blood continued to trickle
from his chest and cheek.
Norberto could not justify or forgive what this man
had done. But Adolfo had gone fishing in a sea
where the prey fight back. If Juan had not slain
his brother then someone else would have. Tears filled
Norberto's eyes. He should have stopped it with
Adolfo.
410 OP-CENTER
If only he had known about his brother's other
life. If only he'd been less harsh then perhaps
Adolfo wouldn't have been afraid to come to him. Why
did he let him go out that night? Why didn't he
stay with him when he went to deliver that audiotape,
the tape that helped to start all of this.
Why didn 'I I act when there was still time?
And the worst punishment of all was that he had not been
able to save his brother's soul-only that of his killer.
"Oh, God," Norberto said, letting his head
roll back and tears fall freely. He set
Juan's hand down beside his body and covered his own
eyes.
As Father Norberto knelt there he felt
Death leave- though it did not go very far. The priest
forced himself to stop crying. This was not the time to mourn
Adolfo or to damn his own failings. There were others
who needed comfort or absolution-others who may have
acted arrogantly in the bloom of life, only
to find humility in the face of eternal damnation.
Father Norberto rose. He made the sign of the
cross above Juan Martinez. "May God
forgive you," he said softly.
And may God forgive me.
Father Norberto thought as he turned and left the
room. He hated the man who had just died. But in his
heart, in the deepest and truest part of him, he
hoped that God had heard his repentance.
There had been enough damnation for one day.
FORTY-THREE
Tuesday, 12:12 p.m. Madrid, Spain
It was the policy of all American elite forces
to leave nothing usable behind. In some cases, where the
mission was covert-red-meaning that no one could know the
forces had even been there-even shell casings were
collected. In a covert-green raid like this one it
was only necessary that the identities of the operatives
never be revealed.
Colonel August was aware that Aideen
Marley had peeled off from the group. She had no
orders to do so, but he couldn't fault her
initiative. As it stood, if she failed to get
General Amadori the mission would be considered a
partial success. Striker would have succeeded in flushing
out the officer before he was ready. The firefight would
force the municipal police and other officials
to enter the palace. They'd find the prisoners and
learn how they were forced to come here. Amadori might still
be in a position to seize power, but this would make it a
little more difficult. Certainly he'd find it tough
to get support throughout Europe when news of his
atrocities got out. Still Colonel August
didn't like partial successes. Aideen
412 OP-CENTER
had gone off to the southern wing of the palace in
pursuit of Amadori. If Striker could keep the
army off her back long enough, and if Amadori's
wound kept his mind on escape instead of security,
she might be able to finish the job they set out to do.
If she succeeded, they could still spare Spain the
months of violent conflict and ruthless purges that
would ensue if Amadori survived.
There were approximately three hundred feet between
the Strikers and the oncoming Spanish
soldiers. Though Amadori's troops were wearing
gas masks, the thick yellow smoke from the
grenades had prevented them from proceeding more than a
few yards every minute. Striker, meanwhile, had
been able to keep up a steady retreat. They'd even
helped several of the prisoners get out, those who had
been kept in the Hall of the Halberdiers and had
managed to make their way through the dissipating gas.
Striker was nearing the grand staircase of the palace.
Behind it was the stairway to the dungeon. To the south was
the corridor Amadori and Aideen had taken.
Sidling up to Corporal Prementine, Colonel
August instructed him to select one soldier
to cover the retreat. Prementine was then to lead the
other Strikers out of the palace.
"Sir," Prementine said, "one soldier won't be
enough to do the job. I'd like to remain behind as well."
"Negative," August said. "That would make three
of us."
"Sir?"
"I'll be here as well," August said.
BALANCE OF POWER 413
"Sir-was
"Do it. Corporal," August said.
"Yes, sir," Prementine said,
saluting.
The corporal informed Private Pupshaw that he'd
be staying behind with Colonel August. The burly
private responded with an enthusiastic salute and
then reported to his commanding officer. August told
Pupshaw that when they reached the staircase he was
to take up a position just inside the corridor.
August would handle the crossfire from the northern
side of the staircase.
If either of them were attacked
from behind, the other would be in a position to cover him.
Privates Scott and DeVonne left behind their
remaining supply of gas grenades. There were only
three of them. August figured they would get five
strong minutes of defense out of two of those
grenades and cover fire. The last grenade would
give them another two minutes for their own retreat.
The timetable was snug, but it was doable. He only
hoped that Aideen could catch up to her wounded prey,
do what needed to be done, and exit cleanly.
Corporal Prementine wished the two men well.
Silently, he and the other Strikers departed.
August thanked him then informed Pupshaw that they were
to hold their positions for exactly five minutes from
the time they reengaged the Spanish soldiers. At
August's signal they would then follow their
fellow Strikers back "down the hole," Pupshaw
retreating first.
August and Pupshaw lay on their bellies and
prepared to meet the assault. They would fire low,
no higher than the knees. Pupshaw had a grenade
ready
414 OP-CENTER
to roll
against the Spaniards. August raised his left arm.
Twenty seconds later the first Spanish soldier
appeared through the thinning yellow cloud. August
turned his left thumb down.
Pupshaw pulled the pin and rolled the grenade.
FORTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 12:17 p.m. Madrid, Spain
As he moved down the corridor, Darrell
McCaskey felt naked without a weapon. But it
had been more important to him that Maria have one. It
had been a while since he'd used the aikido
skills he'd learned when he joined the FBI, but
they would have to suffice.
McCaskey slowed as he neared the next
corridor. He stopped at the corner and peeked
around stealthily, the way he used to do when he was on
stakeouts. He took a mental snapshot
of the scene and then withdrew quickly, his heart jumping from
slow to hyperactive.
There was a tall man standing part of the way down the
corridor. He was a general with Francoesque
layers of braid and an array of medals. He was
armed with a handgun and he was wearing a gas filter and
goggles. He was also bleeding from a wound in his leg.
It had to be Amadori.
The man had been looking behind him as he approached.
McCaskey was sure Amadori hadn't spotted
him. He swore at himself for having left his gun with
Maria. He had nothing to use against the man. Nothing
except his fists and the fact that Amadori didn't
Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power Page 39
