Suddenly, a soldier stepped from behind the gatepost. He entered the gate and walked toward McCaskey. He was armed with a submachine gun. It was pointed directly at McCaskey.
"No disparar, " McCaskey repeated in case the soldier hadn't heard him the first time.
"!Vuelta!" the soldier shouted.
McCaskey looked at him and shrugged.
"He wants you to turn around!" Maria yelled.
McCaskey understood. The soldier wanted to make sure he didn't have a weapon shoved in his waistband. McCaskey stopped, turned, and lifted his pants legs for good measure. Then he continued walking. The soldier didn't shoot him. He also didn't lower his weapon, which McCaskey now recognzied as an MP5 of Hong Kong origin. If he fired at this range, he'd cut McCaskey in half. McCaskey wished he could see the soldier's face beneath his cap. It would have been nice to have some idea what the man was thinking.
The walk to where Luis was lying took less than a minute but it felt much, much longer. When McCaskey arrived the Spanish soldier was still about thirty feet away. The soldier kept the gun pointed in McCaskey's direction. The American knelt slowly, keeping his arms raised. He looked down at the wounded men.
The captain was looking up at him, wheezing through his teeth. His lower leg was sitting in a deepening puddle of blood. If he didn't get help soon he'd bleed to death.
Luis was lying facedown across him, like an X. McCaskey bent his head and looked at Luis. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. His normally dark face was pale. The bullet had struck the right side of his neck about two inches below the ear. Blood was dripping onto the stone blocks. It streamed toward the pool of the captain's blood and they mingled thickly.
McCaskey stood slowly and straddled the men. He put his arms under Luis and lifted him up. As he rose he heard a commotion at the gate. McCaskey and the Spanish soldier both looked over.
A sergeant at the gatepost had his hand around a priest's arm. The priest was speaking quietly and pointing toward the wounded men. The sergeant was yelling. After a moment, the priest simply wrested his arm away and stormed forward. The sergeant continued to yell at him. He shouted for the priest to stop.
The priest shouted back that he would not. He pointed toward the palace, where there were still the sounds of gunfire and clouds of yellow smoke. He said he was going to see if he could be of any assistance.
The sergeant warned him that there was danger.
The priest said he didn't care.
So that was what the debate was all about, McCaskey thought. The priest's safety. Never assume.
McCaskey didn't want to stand there while Luis bled. Cradling him gently to his chest, he turned and started walking toward the arches. The soldier let him go. McCaskey turned and saw him attending to the wounded captain.
McCaskey returned to the arch. Carefully, he set Luis down beside Maria. He looked back. The priest was kneeling beside the captain. He turned back to the injured man.
"Poor Luis," Maria said. She set the gun down and touched his cheek.
McCaskey felt a pinch of jealousy. Not for Maria's touch but for the concern he saw in her eyes. The look came from deep inside her, pushing aside her own pain. He had been such a damn fool to lose her. He noticed, now, how pale she looked as well. He had to get help for her.
McCaskey unbuttoned his cuff and ripped off the bottom of his sleeve. He lay the cloth on Luis's wound.
"You both need medical help," McCaskey announced. "I'm going to try and get to a telephone--call for an ambulance. As soon as I do that, I'll look for your friend Juan."
Maria shook her head. "It may be too late--"
She tried to get up. McCaskey pushed down firmly on her shoulders.
"Maria--"
"Stop it!" she shouted.
"Maria, listen to me," McCaskey said. "Give me just a little time. With any luck this assault will make it unnecessary to rescue Juan or anyone else from General Amadori's thugs."
"I don't believe in luck," Maria said. She used her free hand to push aside his arms. "I believe in the lousiness of people. And so far I've never been disappointed. Amadori may execute his prisoners just to keep them from talking about what he's been doing--"
Maria stopped. She glanced past McCaskey. As she did, her eyes widened.
"What is it?" McCaskey asked, turning around.
"I know that man," she said.
McCaskey gazed into the courtyard. The priest was hurrying toward them. He slowed as he neared. He obviously recognized her as well.
"Maria," the priest said as he reached the arch.
"Father Norberto," she replied. "What are you doing here?"
"It was strange fortune brought me," he said. He squatted and touched her head comfortingly. Then he looked at her wound. "My poor girl."
"I'll live," she said.
"You've lost a lot of blood," Norberto said. He glanced at Luis. "So has this man. Has a doctor been summoned?"
"I'm going now," McCaskey said.
"No!" Maria shouted.
"It's all right," Norberto said, "I'll stay with you."
"It isn't that," Maria said. "There's a prisoner--he must be helped!"
"Where?" Norberto asked.
"He's in a room over there," she said. She pointed toward the doorway along the palace wall. "I'm afraid they'll kill him."
Norberto took her hand. He patted it as he rose. "I will go to him, Maria," he said. "You stay here and try not to move."
Maria looked from the priest to McCaskey. The concern McCaskey had seen in the woman's eyes was gone, replaced by contempt. His heart shattered, McCaskey left without a word. He was followed closely by Father Norberto.
The men entered the doorway together, McCaskey going 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--"
"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 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 McCaskey assumed was Juan.
"Father--how is he?" McCaskey asked.
Norberto didn't turn around. His shoulders slumping, h
e 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 assistance 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.
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?"
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."
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 Adolfo's life. As much as he was a grieving brother he was also a father ordained in the sight of God.
"Father--" 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.
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't 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 througho
ut Europe when news of his atrocities got out.
Still--
Colonel August didn't like partial successes. Aideen 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.
"Sir--"
"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.
Balance Of Power (1998) Page 31
