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Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power

Page 39

by Balance of Power [lit]

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

 

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