Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  Denton recalled there was a regular train that left for the southern coast at midnight. They had less than forty-five minutes to grab their bags and make the connection.

  They swung back through the Plaza Mayor, exiting on the side of the Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s bustling version of New York City’s Time Square. In Spain, the night had just begun. Traffic was humming.

  It wasn’t long before they saw a black and red taxi headed in their direction, its libre sign aglow. McFadden stepped into the street and raised his right arm. Instantly, the cab’s driver floored the gas and the taxi veered toward them at break-neck speed.

  Mark lunged out of the way, pulling the other two with him as he crashed into the concrete curb. The high-pitched squeal of tires echoed in their ears as the cab missed McFadden’s leg by a fraction of an inch. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm.

  The heavy smell of burning rubber hung in the air.

  Denton stood shaking, scraping the dirt from his jeans. 'What in the hell was that?'

  Mark wiped off his trousers and checked the security of his piece. He saw the twisted humor, but didn’t dare smile. 'Carnova’s idea of the Welcome Wagon.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Ana came to, she found herself prone on an earthen floor, her ragged fingernails clawing the dirt. Grateful her hands and legs were free, she pushed herself into a sitting position to examine the creases of her dusty palms.

  Two lives, the old gypsy said – one before, one after.

  She’d been only seventeen. The old woman had accosted her and Emi in the Seville airport. Read both their palms. Not that she ever believed such nonsense. Her sister had talked her into it and had hers read first. Emi was told she’d marry young, have a set of twins, then a little girl.

  A shiver raced down Ana’s spine. That much had come true.

  Ana’s forecast had been more enigmatic – something about an early death. Something in the way her lifeline split and forked to the right. A spiritual conflict perhaps or potentially something more dire. It had frightened her and she’d refused to hear more, brushing it off as an old woman’s lunacy.

  A hint of sunlight crept through a slatted window high on the far wall of her stone prison. She rose and made her way weakly to the huge oak door. Her limbs ached as she pulled at the doorknob in frustration.

  They were pigs. Sick, perverted pigs. Heaven help the Spaniards if Carnova and his men were to realize the plan she’d heard them discussing with El Dedo. Carnova's thick French accent had bothered her from the start. The way he spoke Spanish was so affected. Something about the way he pronounced his vowels tugged at the back of her mind. She had heard that type of intonation before – with Scott. Yes, northern Spain. Carnova was Basque! How could she have missed it? It seemed so obvious now. He must be connected to the LPP.

  Ana had known about the LPP that year she studied in Spain, but had kept her distance like all the Americans had. It was easy, of course, with her program located geographically in the south. She had ventured into the northern territories just once. Part of her mother's family had come from Galicia and she had to see it, know it in a way one can't do through photographs. Knowing Jerez, as she had all her life, wasn't enough. Seeing Scotland, as she had the winter before, was only half the picture – her father's half.

  It meant something to her to walk through the mossy hills of northwestern Spain, and embrace the distant wail of a bagpipe. It made her feel connected. And, the unexpected part was, she could finally see how two halves of the whole fit so neatly together. Both sides of her family had come from parts of the world settled by Celtic tribes. And though the traditions that had evolved in each country over the centuries had diverged, they still held true to a common core of sustenance and determination. A certain single-mindedness that could weather any climate, draw the dew of prosperity from even the driest stone.

  She had been so sure her father would be proud of her pilgrimage, of her interest in tracing her roots, but he was livid. And Ana could count the times on one hand that her father had been angry with her. 'For goodness sakes, child! What in heaven's name are you doing in Galicia?!' The way he had lit into her, and for no apparent reason. How she’d regretted calling him, even if it had been his birthday.

  She crossed the small cubicle to the window and stood there thinking as the breath of morning curled in. Her senses were teased by the fragrance of spring, new flowers, and – what was that familiar smell? Ana turned and pressed her back into the chill of the wall. She let her feet slip slowly toward the center of the room until she was seated, legs outstretched. She closed her eyes and welcomed the puzzling deja vu.

  What she smelled was fruit, the fermentation of fruit like the pungent semi-sweetness of apple orchards just before harvest. It was the smell of her own childhood back yard where she’d scaled the pear trees to pluck their sappy fruit. The smell of home...

  Ana recalled the rush of excitement that had driven her and Emi to the door every time Daddy returned from a long tour of reserve duty in Washington. Even as a little girl, she could somehow understand his need to maintain a military affiliation. His Army friends were always coming around, sometimes in uniform, sometimes not. But she knew they were Army and not university. The university people were faddish, outlandish sometimes in their dress and demeanor, but a bit of eccentricity was accepted in the college community. The others were quiet men with close-cut hair. Men who would come and go at odd hours and meet with her father behind his closed office door. It hadn't seemed strange at the time, but now Ana wondered.

  She remembered with a jolt the other time she had seen her father really angry. Though she had never before made the connection, she now realized that earlier time also had something to do with northern Spain.

  She was eight years old and her father had been meeting in his office with a man she had been instructed to call Uncle Tom. Ana's mother was out that night, and she had come downstairs after being put to bed to ask for a glass of water.

  She was so afraid to go to sleep at night, especially when Mother wasn't there. Her father tried to keep the nightmares at bay but they came anyway. Mother had a special way about her that made Ana feel calm and cared for. Her father loved her, she was sure, but he was always preoccupied. It was hard for Ana to tell sometimes what came first in his life.

  The door had been open just a crack, the yellow light from his desk lamp stretching into the hall. Uncle Tom sounded angry. He was shouting obscenities, words Ana couldn't understand and knew she wasn't supposed to. Her father was becoming agitated, urging Tom to keep it down.

  'My God, Tom, do you want to give us away?'

  'Children, Al,' Tom was saying, 'only children.' Ana didn’t like the way he said this.

  'Little pitchers –' her father warned.

  Ana stopped cold. If she knocked at the door now, they'd think she'd been eavesdropping.

  Their discussion continued in hushed tones, but she could tell from the rise and fall of the pitch the two men were arguing. She hesitated a moment, then tiptoed to the door.

  She could see the grit of Uncle Tom's teeth on his cigar as he snarled at her father. What was he saying? So many letters that didn't spell words. They slid across the polished floor like marbles, landing one by one at her feet – SOBs? DOS? WDP? LPP?...

  Suddenly, the door flew open wide and the glare of light hit her eyes. Her father looked down at her, his gaze disapproving. 'Young lady, what are you doing out of bed?'

  She turned in fright and practically flew up the stairs.

  Neither she nor her father ever spoke of the incident again.

  Those Army men, Uncle Tom, the trips to Washington – it had seemed like nothing at the time, nothing more than a part of her father's mysterious grown-up world. But now Ana was an adult and could assess things differently.

  Could the things these bastards were saying be so far off the mark? Did these virtual strangers know more about her own father's past than she
did? Maybe her father's affiliation with the Defense Department hadn't been as tightly sewn up as it had seemed. Maybe there were loose ends she had never been aware of, loose ends used to string her father along until they'd dragged him to an early grave.

  She always regretted she hadn't been home when her father died. It had been Easter weekend and she should have been there, but she’d been forced to make a last-minute trip to close out the project office in Ecuador. The Ambassador, she was told, was streamlining allocation for US assistance funds and her contract had been pegged a low priority. She was new to the international development world and had accepted the defeat for what it was.

  'Nothing personal,' her boss had assured her, 'you did a bang-up job. We just lost funding, that's all. It happens.'

  Her mother told her an old Army buddy of her father's had fortunately been in the house and had been able to rush Albert to the hospital. But, by the time they got there, there was nothing more the doctors could do.

  Ana never had the chance to say goodbye to her father. The body was cremated, even before she could fly home. She knew he’d wanted it that way; he’d mentioned it several times before. Personally, Ana found it a gruesome way to terminate a dignified life.

  A host of sharp voices rang out in the courtyard beyond the window, jerking her back to the present. They were speaking of the prisoner – about her.

  Suddenly, the knob of her cell door began to turn. El Dedo appeared, accompanied by a young gypsy woman. 'Take her and get her clean!' he ordered with a grimace. 'Her stench will give us away!'

  The young girl, who couldn't have been more than eighteen, waved a pistol in Ana's direction. 'Ven!' she directed, leading a tentative Ana out the door.

  The train wound its way through the sleepy, whitewashed villages of southern Spain, wild sunflowers flanking the track, swinging their obedient faces to the sun. Mark woke gently to a lavender sky and the soft, steady lull of churning wheels. The scenery was dry, yet dramatic: small ivory towns perched like doves on the crests of brownish hills. Here and there, a nest of olive branches reaching for the sky.

  When they approached the first of the vineyards, Denton advised the others they were nearing Jerez de la Frontera.

  Denton had been here once before with Ana to visit her ailing grandmother. He told Mark and McFadden that Maria and her husband Carlos had co-founded the Delgado winery, one of the biggest in Spain. But to hear Ana tell it, it was really her grandmother who got the business off the ground. Carlos, it seemed, had had a penchant for drinking and squandering their earnings on common whores. It was a family disgrace, but one Maria played off with uncanny form. She ignored his dalliances and focused her energies on building the business. She parlayed their small operation into a multi-million dollar industry, thanks to the export agreement she signed with the British.

  Scott told them of Maria’s business savvy, how she’d managed to hold onto most of their assets during the war, even after Franco seized control and stripped the upper class of its wealth.

  She’d opened a Swiss account early on and had been building a nest egg of their investments over the years.

  Scott paused for a moment, thinking, then turned to Mark. 'You don’t suppose –'

  'We’re not involving Maria.'

  Mark pulled his gear from the rack overhead as the wheels of the train screeched to a halt. 'You already told us she’s not doing well. What’s the point in upsetting her?'

  McFadden was the first to stand. 'We wouldn’t have to upset her. We could go easy, feel her out. See if she knows anything.'

  'No can do,' Mark said, leveling a look at McFadden. 'I’ve got strict orders to leave her family out of it, and that’s precisely what we’re going to do.'

  Ana’s shoulder slammed into blistering wood. She bent her chin in to her chest to avoid contact with the rough beams above her head. She kicked with her bound feet, thrashing against their furious hands with her heels. Then the lid slammed down and all was still within her prison.

  The Americans joined the throng by a milling taxi stand outside the station, the adjoining plaza framed by blooming orange trees. Mark was eager to find a hotel and link up with Washington, but Denton had other plans.

  He stood there stroking his beard, as if trying to remember. 'I’m almost positive,' he finally said.

  They climbed into the cab and Denton gave directions. Mark didn’t really believe Denton capable of directing much of anything, much less an operation like this one. Still, he had a point. The Delgados’ old warehouse was a good starting place. The label the gypsy woman slipped them had hinted at that. Mark didn’t really believe Ana would be there, but something would. He was sure of it.

  It was a long ride out into the countryside. Joe McFadden not only didn’t like sitting still, he didn’t like sitting quietly. He nudged Denton who was preoccupied with the landscape. 'If the Delgados were so well off here, what prompted them to send Isabel to the States?'

  Denton shook his head. 'They were only well off in comparison. Because of Maria, the family managed to maintain a certain lifestyle. But things were tough for them in other ways. Carlos didn’t survive the war.'

  'A loyalist?' Mark asked.

  'Unfortunately, for him.'

  McFadden shifted in his seat. 'How’d it happen?'

  'Ana never would talk about it. I’m not even sure if she knew.'

  Another family secret, Mark thought. Denton continued to tell them the family history as he knew it. Maria was ashamed of what she saw happening in Spain: once prominent families, reduced to living in street-level apartments with no domestic help. An appalling reversal of roles. Things were changing too fast. And what was once important – who you were, where you came from – didn’t matter any more.

  Maria felt she no longer belonged in the chameleon world around her. But, because of her gender, because of her class, she felt powerless to change it. The only change she could make was a personal one, one that would affect the future of her only daughter Isabel.

  'So she sent her to America,' McFadden surmised, 'land of opportunity.'

  'Yes, America,' Denton said. 'And the type of opportunity Maria was hoping for was the marrying kind. Nice, faithful American husband, someone dedicated to the family. Ana says Maria loved Albert like a son.'

  The white cocoon of the city was growing distant; Mark could see the vine-covered hills approaching. His muscles were tensing up. They were getting close.

  To the left of the highway sat two buildings: one, nearly a quarter-mile long and built mostly of wood; another, smaller, made entirely of stone.

  The taxi driver turned down the dirt road and pulled up beside the larger structure, idling his engine.

  'This is it,' Denton said, stepping from the car. McFadden got out behind him, carrying the book that had been resting on his knee. Mark exited the other door, drawing his Browning. As soon as they were out of the cab, the driver floored the accelerator and took off with a roar. Mark damned himself for not being more careful. All his gear was in there.

  'What now?' Denton asked.

  'He could just have been spooked,' Mark said, 'when I pulled my weapon.'

  McFadden thought this over. 'It’s possible. People do rob cabbies in Spain, just like back in the land of opportunity.'

  'I don’t know,' Denton said. 'All of a sudden I’ve got a bad feeling.'

  Denton’s instincts had been right so far.

  'Nobody’s going to make you go in there,' Mark said. 'But, for what it’s worth, I think you were right about the warehouse. There’s something here we’re meant to find.'

  'Could be a trap,' McFadden said.

  'Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. But think about it. Who would set us up? The gypsy woman in Madrid?

  'You saw the others at the pub. They knew we were there–'

  'Yeah, and they sent old four-wheels to run us down,' Denton snapped.

  'Could be. Or could be he tried to scare us,' McFadden said, appearing to align himself with
Mark.

  Mark gave the two of them a confidential look. 'I have reason to believe we’re being assisted.'

  'If that was assistance, man,' Denton said, 'that cabby needs a course in driver’s ed!'

  Mark looked at him, losing patience. 'Nobody can be everywhere at all times.'

  Denton threw up his arms. 'Oh, that’s comforting. So now we’re to believe this place is safe because you claim we’ve got some imaginary back up? You’re saying the thugs at the meson were somehow there to protect us, while the taxi driver was LPP?'

  'I’m saying there appear to be double interests at work,' Mark answered.

  'Trick is discerning the two,' quipped McFadden.

  'Oh, that’s just dandy,' Denton said. 'So who gets to be the guinea pig who decides what these guys’ intentions are?'

  Mark and McFadden looked at each other.

  'I’m going in,' Mark said, deciding as he spoke. McFadden turned the book over in his hand and Mark suddenly realized it was a Bible.

  'Right behind you.'

  'You surprise me, McFadden,' Mark said, unable to mask his skepticism. 'I never figured you a religious man.'

  'Ah, la Biblia,' he said, drawing the Good Book to his chest in an exaggerated motion. 'The power of the Lord protects me!' With that, McFadden parted the book to expose a Beretta resting comfortably in the cradle of its counterfeit pages.

  Denton looked at them and backed away in defeat.

  'Fine, fine. You two go ahead and make sitting ducks of yourselves. I’m no GS- Goddamned-whatever-the-hell-it-is. They don’t pay me enough for this job. I’m a fricking volunteer.'

  Mark smiled as McFadden tossed the hollow book in Denton’s direction. 'Here, Denton. Pray for us.'

  The warehouse loomed large and silent.