They're very much aware of the world going on around them, as usual. And they're envious of the people in that world, where the problems don't usually involve life and death and the fate of millions. They're also slightly condescending toward those people.
If they only knew what real responsibility was....
Then there's the personal side of the situation. There's extreme tension over the fate of people everyone works with and cares about. It's not unlike waiting for a loved one to come out of life-threatening surgery. But it is worse in one key way. This is something you ordered them to do. And being good soldiers, they accepted the assignment with courage and poise.
Add to that the possibility that those heroic souls might have to be disavowed if captured, left to twist in the wind. That was good for a healthy helping of guilt. And there was more guilt over the fact that while their butts were on the firing line, yours was safe and secure. There was also envy--ironically for the same reason. There's no high quite like risking your life. Throw exhaustion into the mix, with eyes that fight to shut and minds too tired to process thoughts or emotions, and the mood was unlike any other.
Yet Herbert cherished that mood every time it came around. He cherished it without gloom and without pessimism. Occasionally their worst fears were realized. Occasionally there was death. A Bass Moore like in North Korea or a Lt. Col. Charlie Squires. But because of everything that was at risk in operations like these, Herbert never felt more alive.
Hood obviously didn't share his feelings. He had been extremely down since before the operation began, something Herbert had never seen before. Of all of them, Hood was usually the most even-keeled, always ready with an encouraging word or smile. This morning there was none of that. He had also become uncharacteristically angry when he learned that Darrell McCaskey had choppered over to the palace. And even worse, that McCaskey had taken Luis Garcia de la Vega with him. Unlike Striker, McCaskey could easily be traced to Op-Center. Through Luis, Op-Center's involvement with Interpol on this mission could be ascertained. With all of the nations connected to Interpol--a few of which were not exactly America's best friends--the political mess could be horrendous. It was Hood, not By-the-Book Rodgers, who had thought out loud about disciplinary action against McCaskey. It was the usually skittish Coffey who had pointed out that it might not be as bad as Hood thought. Since Maria Corneja was a prisoner at the palace, a rescue attempt might be entirely justified under Interpol's charter. Hood calmed down upon hearing that. The mood in the room returned to being merely apprehensive.
And through it all, through the heavy silence and gnawing concern, there wasn't a word from Spain or Interpol. Not until 4:30, when they got a call from a groggy Ann Farris at home. She told them to turn on the television and have a look at CNN.
Coffey hopped from the sofa and walked to the back of the room. While he opened the TV cabinet in the back of the office, Hood pulled the remote control from his desk. As everyone turned around, he punched the television on. At the top of the news on the half-hour was a report on a shootout at the Royal Palace in Madrid. An amateur videotape had captured the Interpol helicopter leaving the courtyard south of the palace while gunfire was heard in the distance. Then the report cut live to a camera crew on the scene in a helicopter. There were faint traces of yellow smoke rising from several windows.
"That's Striker's IA," Herbert said, referring to the irritant agent.
Rodgers was sitting in the armchair next to Hood's desk. He reached for the small color map that had been downloaded from the Interpol computer. Herbert rolled his chair over.
"That smoke on TV looks awfully close to the courtyard, doesn't it?" Rodgers asked.
"Right where the throne room should be," Herbert said.
"So the Strikers are definitely in there," Hood said. He looked at the clock on his computer. "And on time."
Herbert turned back to the TV and leaned an ear toward the screen. The onsite announcer had nothing to offer but dire superlatives about the event. The usual drone. There was no information about the cause or the nature of the struggle. But that wasn't what he was listening for.
"I'm hearing gunfire," Herbert said cautiously. "Muted--like it's not coming from the courtyard."
"Is that surprising?" Hood asked. "We knew that if the Strikers succeeded in getting Amadori there'd almost certainly be pursuit."
"Pursuit," Rodgers said. "Not resistance. The IA should have prevented that."
"Unless the gunfire's coming at 'em blindly," Herbert said. "People can do some weird stuff when they're choking."
"Could those shots be coming from the firing squad we were told about?" Coffey asked.
Rodgers shook his head. "This is individual fire and much too sporadic."
"The good news," Herbert said, "is if the Strikers had been caught, there wouldn't be any shooting at all."
The men were silent for a moment. Hood looked at the computer clock. "They were supposed to signal Luis's office once they got back into the dungeon." He looked at the phone.
"Chief," Herbert said, "it's an open line from here to there and my people are monitoring it. They'll let us know as soon as they hear anything."
Hood nodded. He looked back at the television. "I don't know where the Strikers get it," he said. "The courage to do these things. I don't know where any of you gets it. In Vietnam, Beirut--"
"It comes from a lot of places," Rodgers said. "Duty, love, fear--"
"Necessity," Herbert added. "That's a big one. When you don't have a choice."
"It's a combination of all of those," Rodgers said.
"Mike," Herbert said, "you know all about famous quotes. Who was it that said you can't fail if you screw your courage up--or words to that effect."
Rodgers looked at him. "I think the quote you're looking for is, 'But screw your courage to the sticking-place and we'll not fail.' "
"Yeah, that's the one," Herbert said. "Who said that? Sounds like Winston Churchill."
Rodgers grinned faintly. "It was Lady Macbeth. She was encouraging her husband to murder King Duncan. He did and then the whole plot came crashing down around him."
"Oh," Herbert replied. He looked down. "Then that's not the quote we want, is it?"
"That's all right," Rodgers said. He was still grinning slightly. "The regicide may have backfired badly but the play was a brilliant success. It all depends how you look at things."
"As I used to tell all my clients while the jury was deliberating," Coffey said, "trust in the system and in the people to whom we've entrusted it." He was still standing by the television, staring at the screen. "Because as another great thinker once said, 'It ain't over till it's over.' "
Herbert looked back at the television. The sounds of gunfire seemed to increase in frequency but not in volume. The announcer made an observation about that.
Herbert still felt alive. And optimistic, because that was his nature. But there was no ignoring the shadow that had fallen over the room. The unhappy truth that what they had all been quietly hoping for had not materialized: a call or broadcast declaring that a coup attempt in Spain had ended with the assassination of its leader.
The realization that the mission had not gone exactly as planned.
FORTY
Tuesday, 5:49 A.M. Old Saybrook, Connecticut
Sharon Hood couldn't sleep. She was tired and she was at her childhood home in her old bed but her mind wouldn't shut down. She'd argued with her husband, read one of her old Nancy Drew books until three, then shut off the light and stared at the patterns of moonlight and leaves on the ceiling for nearly two hours. She looked around at the posters that had hung there since before she moved out to go to college.
Posters of the movie Doctor Zhivago. Of the rock group Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. A cover of a TV Guide signed, "Cherish and Love, David Cassidy," which she and her friend Alice had waited in line three hours to get at a local shopping center.
How had she managed to be interested in all those things, get hig
h honors in school, hold a part-time job, and have a boyfriend when she was sixteen and seventeen?
You didn't need as much sleep then, she told herself.
But was that really what made it all mesh? Time alone? Or was it the fact that if one job didn't work, she got another. Or if one boyfriend didn't make her happy, she got another. Or if one group recorded a song she didn't like, she stopped buying their records. It wasn't a matter of energy. It was a matter of discovery. Learning about what she needed to be happy.
She thought she'd found it with that multimillionaire winemaker Stefano Renaldo. Sharon had met his sister in college and gone home with her one spring break and had been seduced by Stefano's wealth and his yacht and his attention. But--ironically, now that she thought about it--after two years she realized that she didn't want someone who'd inherited all his money. Someone who didn't have to work for a living. Someone who people came to for investment capital while he, depending upon his mood, yea'd or nay'd their hopes and dreams. That kind of life--that kind of man--was not for her.
She up and left the yacht one sunny morning, flew back to the United States, and didn't look back. The bastard never even phoned to see where she'd gone and Sharon didn't understand how she could ever have been with him--what the hell she'd been thinking. Then she met Paul at a party. It wasn't like being hit with a hammer. Except for Stefano, no man had ever struck Sharon that way--and Stefano's appeal was all on the surface. The relationship with Paul took time to develop. He was even-tempered, hard-working, and kind. He seemed like someone who would give her room to be herself, support her in her work, and be a nurturing father. He wouldn't smother her with gifts or jealousy the way Stefano had. And then one day, at a Fourth of July picnic a couple of months after they met, she happened to look into his eyes and it all clicked. Affection became love.
A branch scraped heavily against the window and Sharon looked over. The branch had certainly grown since she was a girl. That same branch used to scratch so gently against the same window.
It has grown larger, she thought, but it hasn't changed. She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing, being able to stay the same. Good for a tree, bad for people, she decided. But change was one of the most difficult things for anyone to do. Change--and compromise. Admitting that your way might not be the only way of doing things or even the best way.
Sharon gave up trying to sleep. She'd pull another Nancy Drew from her shelf. But first she slid from the bed, pulled on a robe, and went to look in on Harleigh and Alexander. The kids were sleeping in the bunk bed that used to belong to her younger twin brothers--Yul and Brynner. Her parents had met at a matinee of the original The King and 1. They still sang "Hello, Young Lovers" and "I Have Dreamed" to one another, off-key but beautifully.
Sharon envied her parents the open affection they shared. And the fact that her father was retired and they got to spend so much time together and they seemed so thoroughly happy.
Of course, she thought, there were times when Mom and Dad weren't so content--
She remembered quiet tension when her father's business wasn't going so well. He rented bicycles and boats to people who came to the sleepy resort on the Long Island Sound, and some summers were bad ones. There were gas shortages and recessions. Her father had to put in long hours then, running his business during the day and working as a short-order cook at night. He used to come home smelling of grease and fish.
Sharon looked at her children's peaceful faces. She smiled as she listened to Alexander snore, just like his dad.
The smile wavered. She shut the door and stood in the dark hall, her arms folded around her. She was angry at Paul and she missed him terribly. She felt safe here, but she didn't feel at home here. How could she? Home wasn't where her possessions were. Home was where Paul was.
Sharon walked slowly back to her old bedroom.
Marriage, career, children, emotion, sex, stubbornness, conflict, jealousy--was it hope or arrogance that possessed two people and convinced them that all of those things could be melded into a working life?
Neither, she told herself. It was love. And the bottom line, however she got to it, was that as much as her husband frustrated her more than any man had or could, as much as he wasn't there as much as she or the kids wanted or needed, as much as she was angry at him almost as much as she felt affection for him, she still loved him.
Deeply.
Alone now in the small, quiet hours of the morning, Sharon felt that she may have come down too hard on Paul. Leaving Washington with the kids, snapping at him on the phone--why the hell wasn't she willing to cut him any slack? Was it because she was angry that he could take all the time he wanted for his career and she couldn't? Very possibly. Was it also because she keenly remembered missing her father during the summer busy season and when he had to hold a night job? Probably. She didn't want her kids to experience the same thing.
Sharon didn't feel that what she'd said to Paul was wrong. He should spend more time with his family and less time at work. His job required a greater commitment than nine-to-five, but Op-Center would continue to function if he came home for dinner some nights ... if he went on vacation with them once in a while. But how Sharon had spoken to him--that was a different matter. She was frustrated and instead of talking to him she'd taken it out on him. After taking his kids away, that had to leave him feeling very much alone.
The woman took off her robe and lay down on the twin bed. The pillow was cold with her sweat and the branch was still scratching. She looked over. As she did, she saw her cellular phone on the night table. The black plastic glowed in the moonlight.
Rolling onto her side, Sharon picked up the phone, flipped it open, and began punching in Paul's private number. She stopped after the area code. She discontinued the call and set the phone aside.
She had a better idea. Instead of giving him a call--where even a small thing, like getting voice mail or hearing the wrong word could trigger a relapse--she'd give him an olive branch. Feeling guilty and forgiving at the same time, Sharon lay back, shut her eyes, and dropped almost at once into a contented sleep.
FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, 11:50 A.M. Madrid, Spain
When the soldiers in the courtyard suddenly withdrew, Darrell McCaskey silently thanked Brett August. The Strikers had to be the reason for the abrupt pullback.
After the helicopter took off, the soldiers on the rooftop kept McCaskey and Maria pinned down. At the same time the scattered soldiers around the perimeter regrouped. It appeared as if they were organizing for an assault. But the attack never came. Everyone seemed riveted by loud pops from inside the palace.
"It's begun," McCaskey said to Maria.
Yellow smoke filtered through several of the windows along the wall beside the arches. There were shouted commands at the far end of the courtyard, near the western side of the palace. Though it was difficult to see because of the high, bright sun and deep shadows, the bulk of the soldiers seemed to disappear. Not long after that, McCaskey heard gunfire behind the ornate white walls.
"What's going on?" Maria asked. She was leaning against the inside of the arch closest to the palace wall. Her legs were stretched in front of her. McCaskey had placed his handkerchief across the gunshot wound in her side and was holding it in place.
"It's the countercoup," he replied. He didn't want to say much in case they were overheard. "How are you doing?"
"All right," she replied.
As they spoke, McCaskey had squinted across the wide, sunlit space. To the south--McCaskey's left--a tall iron gate separated the palace courtyard from the cathedral. The church doors had been shut before but now it looked as though people were beginning to emerge--priests as well as parishioners. He assumed that they'd heard the helicopter and the shots that had been fired at it. Within the courtyard itself Luis was still lying across the captain. The Interpol chief was silent but the Spanish officer was moaning.
"We have to bring him in," Maria said.
"I know," McCa
skey said. He continued to peer into the sunlight. He was finally able to pick out at least three soldiers who had remained behind. Two of them were roughly four hundred feet away. They were crouched behind a post that supported the gate on the southern side of the courtyard. A third soldier was squatting behind an old lamppost about three hundred feet straight ahead, to the north.
McCaskey put his gun in Maria's hand. "Listen, Maria. I'm going to try and get Luis. I'll see if the soldiers will trade him for that captain."
"That is not a trade," Maria declared angrily. "Luis is a man. The captain is una vibora. A snake that crawls on the ground." She glanced out at the captain and her swollen upper lip pulled into a sneer. "He is lying there just as he should--on his belly."
"Hopefully," McCaskey said evenly, "the soldiers won't see things quite the same way. Can you move around slightly so they can see the gun?"
Maria put her left hand on the bloody handkerchief and twisted slightly. She brought her right hand around.
"Hold it," he said before the gun came around. "I want to tell the soldiers something first. How do you say, 'Don't shoot'?"
"No disparar."
McCaskey leaned his head out from behind the arch. "!No disparar!" he yelled. He kept his head exposed then asked Maria, "How do you say, 'Let's take care of our wounded'?"
She told him.
McCaskey shouted, "!Cuidaremos nuestros heridos!"
There was no response from the soldiers. McCaskey frowned. This was one of those moves where you had to put everything on the table and pray.
"All right," he said to Maria as he rose. "Let them see the gun."
Maria twisted further until her right hand came from behind the archway. The gun glinted in the sun at the same time as McCaskey stepped into the open. He held his hands up to show that he was unarmed. Then, slowly, he began walking into the courtyard.
The soldiers did nothing. The sun felt savagely hot as McCaskey stepped closer to the wounded men. He was aware of continued gunfire from inside the palace--not a good sign. The Strikers should have been in and out without engaging the enemy.
Balance Of Power (1998) Page 30
