by Tom Clancy
The small dish-shaped “ear” the fisherman had placed on top of his boat’s cabin, right behind the navigation light, had picked up every word of the conversation of that altivo, the haughty Esteban Ramirez, and his equally arrogant compadres on board the Verídico.
Adolfo stopped the cassette and rewound it. The smile evaporated as he faced another unit directly to the right. This device was slightly smaller than the tape recorder. It was an oblong box nearly thirteen inches long by five inches wide and four inches deep. The box was made of Pittsburgh steel. In case it were ever found, there would be metallurgic evidence pointing to its country of origin. Ramirez, the traitor, had ties to the American CIA. After seizing power, the General could always point to them as having removed a collaborator who had outlived his usefulness.
There was a green light on the top of the box face and a red light beneath it. The green light was glowing. Directly below them were two square white buttons. Beneath the topmost button was a piece of white tape with the word ARM written in blue ink. That button was already depressed. The second button was not yet depressed. Below it was a piece of tape with the word DETONATE written on it. The General’s electronics expert had given this device to Adolfo as well, along with several bricks of U.S. army plastique and a remote detonator cap. The fisherman had attached two thousand grams of C-4 and a detonator below the waterline of the yacht before it left the harbor. When the blast occurred, it would rip through the hull at a velocity of twenty-six thousand feet per second— nearly four times faster than an equivalent amount of dynamite.
The young man ran a calloused hand through his curly black hair. Then he looked at his watch. Esteban Ramirez, the wealthy son of a bitch who was going to bring them all under the iron heel of his monied Catalonian cohorts, had said that the assassin would be arriving at the airport in an hour. When Adolfo had heard that, he’d used his ship-to-shore radio to pass the information along to his partners in the northwestern Pyrenees, Daniela, Vicente, and Alejandro. They’d hurried out to the airport, which was located outside of Bilbao, which was seventy miles to the east. Just two minutes ago they’d radioed back that the airplane had landed. One of Ramirez’s petty thugs would be bringing him out here. The other members of the familia would be rounded up and dealt with later. That is, if they didn’t panic and disperse of their own accord. Unlike Adolfo, so many of those bastards were only effective when they worked in big, brutal gangs.
Adolfo picked up his cigarette, drew on it one last time, then ground it out. He removed the audiocassette from the recorder and slipped it into his shirt pocket, beneath his heavy black sweater. As he did so, his hand brushed the shoulder holster in which he carried a 9mm Beretta. The gun was one that had been used by U.S. Navy SEALs in Iraq and retrieved by coalition forces. It had made its way to the General through the Syrian weapons underground. Adolfo slipped in a tape of native Catalonian guitar music and pressed PLAY. The first song was called “Salou,” a song for two guitars. It was a paean to the magnificent illuminated fountain in the beautiful town south of Barcelona. The young man listened for a moment, humming along with the lilting tune. One guitar played the melody while the other made pizzicato sounds like water droplets hitting the fountain. The music the instruments made was enchanting.
Reluctantly, Adolfo turned off the tape. He took a short breath and grabbed the detonator. Then he doused the battery-powered lantern that swung from an overhead hook and went upstairs to the deck.
The moon had slid behind a narrow bank of clouds. That was good. The crew of the yacht probably wouldn’t pay attention anyway to a fishing boat over six hundred feet off their portside stern. In these waters, fishermen often trolled for night-feeders. But the men on the yacht would be less likely even to see him if the moon were hidden. Adolfo looked at the boat. It was dark save for its navigation lights and a glow from behind the drawn curtain of the midcabin porthole.
After several minutes Adolfo heard the muffled growl of a small boat. The sound was coming from behind him, from the direction of the shore. He turned completely around and watched a small, dark shape head toward the yacht. It was traveling about forty miles an hour. From the light slap of the hull upon the water Adolfo judged it to be a small, two-person runabout. He watched as it pulled up to the near side of the yacht. A rope ladder was unrolled from the deck. A man stood unsteadily in the passenger’s seat of the rocking vessel.
That had to be the assassin.
The detonator felt slick in Adolfo’s perspiring hand. He gripped it tightly, his finger hovering above the lower button.
The seas were unusually active. They seemed to be reflecting the times themselves, uneasy and roiling below the surface. There were only four or five seconds from the peak of one uproll to the peak of the next. But Adolfo stood at the edge of the rolling deck with the sure poise of a lifelong fisherman. According to the General, he needed to be in a direct and unobstructed line with the plastique. Though they could have given him a more sophisticated trigger than the line-of-sight transmitter, these were more commonly available and less easy to trace.
Adolfo watched as the yacht rocked gently from side to side. The assassin started uncertainly up the short ladder and the runabout moved away to keep from being rocked by the yacht’s swells. A man appeared on deck. He was a fat man smoking a cigar — clearly not one of the crewmen. Adolfo waited. He knew exactly where he’d placed the explosives and he also knew the precise moment when they’d be exposed by the roll of the boat.
The yacht tilted to port, toward him. Then it rolled away. Adolfo lowered the side of his thumb onto the bottom button. One more roll, he told himself. The ship was inclined toward the starboard for just a moment. Then gently, gracefully, it righted itself for a moment before angling back to port. The hull of the yacht rose, revealing the area just below the waterline. It was dark and Adolfo couldn’t see it, but he knew that the package he’d left was there. He pushed hard with his thumb. The green light on the box went off and the red light ignited.
The portside bottom of the hull exploded with a white-yellow flash. The man on the ladder evaporated as the blast followed a nearly straight line from prow to stern. The fat man flew away from the blast into the darkness and the deck crumpled inward as the entire vessel shuddered. Splinters of wood, shards of fiberglass, and torn, jagged pieces of metal from the midcabin rode the blast into air. Burning chunks arced brightly against the sky while broken fragments, which had been blown straight along the sea, plopped and sizzled in the water just yards from Adolfo’s fishing boat. Smoke rose in thick sheets from the opening in the hull until the yacht listed to port. Then it became steam. The yacht seemed to stop there for a moment, holding at an angle as water rushed through the huge breach; Adolfo could hear the distinctive, hollow roar of the sea as it poured in. Then the yacht slowly rolled onto its side. Less than half a minute after the capsizing, the wake caused the fishing boat to rock quickly from side to side. Adolfo easily retained his balance. The moon returned from behind the clouds then, its bright image jiggling on the waves with giddy agitation.
Dropping the detonator into the water, the young man turned from the sea and hurried back into the cabin. He radioed his associates that the job had been accomplished. Then he walked to the controls, stood behind the wheel, and turned the boat toward the wreckage. He wanted to be able to tell investigators that he had raced to the scene to look for survivors.
He felt the weight of the 9mm weapon under his sweater. He also wanted to make sure there weren’t any survivors.
SIX
Monday, 1:44 P.M. Washington, D.C.
Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert was in a gray frame of mind as he arrived in Paul Hood’s bright, windowless basement office. In contrast to the warm fluorescence of the overhead lights, the gloomy mood was much too familiar. Not long ago they’d mourned the deaths of Striker team members Bass Moore, killed in North Korea, and Lt. Col. Charles Squires, who died in Siberia preventing a second Russian Revolution.
For He
rbert, the psychological resources he needed to deal with death were highly refined. Whenever he learned of the demise of enemies of his country — or when it had been necessary, early in his intelligence career, to participate in some of those killings — he never had any problems. The life and security of his country came before any other considerations. As Herbert had put it so many times, “The deeds are dirty but my conscience is clean.”
But this was different.
Although Herbert’s wife, Yvonne, had been killed nearly sixteen years ago in the terrorist bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, he was still mourning her death. The loss still seemed fresh. Too fresh, he thought almost every night since the attack. Restaurants, movie theaters, and even a park bench they had frequented became shrines to him. Each night he lay in bed gazing at her photograph on his night table. Some nights the framed picture was moonlit, some nights it was just a dark shape. But bright or dark, seen or remembered, for better or for worse, Yvonne never left his bedside. And she never left his thoughts. Herbert had long ago adjusted to having lost his legs in the Beirut explosion. Actually, he’d more than adjusted. His wheelchair and all its electronic conveniences now seemed an integral part of his body. But he had never adjusted to losing Yvonne.
Yvonne had been a fellow CIA agent — a formidable enemy, a devoted friend, and the wittiest person he’d ever known. She had been his life and his lover. When they were together, even on the job, the physical boundaries of the universe seemed very small. It was defined by her eyes and by the curve of her neck, by the warmth of her fingers and the playfulness of her toes. But what a rich and full universe that had been. So rich that there were still mornings when, half-awake, Herbert would reach his hand under her pillow and search for hers. Not finding it, he’d squeeze her lumpy pillow in his empty fingers and silently curse the killers who’d taken her from him. Killers who had gone unpunished. Who were still permitted to enjoy their own lives, their own loves.
Now Herbert had to mourn the loss of Martha Mackall. He felt guilty. Part of him was pleased that he wasn’t the only one grieving now. Mourning could be an oppressively lonely place to be. Less guiltily, Herbert also wasn’t willing to laud the dead just because they were dead, and he was going to have to listen to plenty of that over the next few days and weeks. Some of the praise would be valid. But only some of it.
Martha had been one of Op-Center’s keystones since the organization’s inception. Regardless of her motivation, Martha had never given less than her utmost. Herbert was going to miss her intelligence, her insights, and her justified self-confidence. In government, it didn’t always matter whether a person was right or wrong. What mattered was that they led, that they roused passions. From the day she arrived in Washington Martha certainly did that.
Yet in the nearly two years that he had known Martha Mackall, Herbert had found her to be abrasive and condescending. She often took credit for work done by her staff — a common enough sin in Washington, though a rare occurrence at Op-Center. But then, Martha wasn’t devoted solely to Op-Center. Since he’d first encountered her when she worked at State, she had always applied herself to the advancement of the cause that seemed most important to her: Martha Mackall. For at least the last five or six months she’d had her eyes on several ambassadorial positions and had made no secret of the fact that her position at Op-Center was simply a stepping stone.
On the other hand, Herbert thought, when patriotism isn’t enough to drive you to do your best, ambition is a workable substitute. As long as the job got done, Herbert wasn’t one to throw stones.
Herbert’s cynicism burned off quickly, though, as he crossed the threshold into Hood’s small, wood-paneled office. “Pope” Paul had that effect on people. Hood believed in the goodness of humankind and his conviction as well as his even temper could be contagious.
Hood finished pouring himself a glass of tap water from a carafe on his desk. Then he rose and walked toward the door. Herbert had been the first to arrive, and Hood greeted him with a handshake and tight-lipped solemnity. Herbert wasn’t surprised to see the director’s dark eyes lacking their usual spirit and vigor. It was one thing to get bad news about an operative on a covert mission. Reports like that were statistical inevitabilities and a part of you was always braced for that kind of loss. Each time the private phone or fax line beeped, you half-expected a coded communique with a heart-stopping phrase like “The stock market is down one” or “Lost a charge card — cancel account.”
But to hear about the death of a team member who was on a quiet diplomatic mission to a friendly nation during peacetime — that was another matter. It was disturbing regardless of what you thought about the person.
Hood sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “What’s the latest from Spain?”
“You read my e-mail about the explosion off the coast of San Sebastián, up north?”
Hood nodded.
“That’s the last thing I have,” Herbert replied. “The local police are still pulling body parts and pieces of yacht from the bay and trying to ID the people. No one has claimed responsibility for the attack. We’re also monitoring commercial and private broadcasts in case the perps have something to say.”
“You wrote that the yacht blew up midship,” Hood said.
“That’s what two eyewitnesses onshore said,” Herbert replied. “There hasn’t been any official word yet.”
“And there isn’t likely to be,” Hood said. “Spain doesn’t like to share its internal matters. Does the midship location mean anything?”
Herbert nodded. “The blast was nowhere near the engines, which means we’re almost certainly looking at sabotage. The timing may also be significant. The explosion occurred soon after Martha was shot.”
“So the two events could be related,” Hood said.
“We’re looking into it,” Herbert replied.
“Starting where?”
Hood was pushing more than usual, but that wasn’t surprising. Herbert had felt that way after Beirut. Apart from wanting the killer found and punished, it was important to keep one’s mind active. The only other option was to stop, mourn, and have to deal with the guilt.
“The attack on Martha does adhere to the modus operandi of the Homeland and Freedom group,” Herbert said. “In February of 1997 they killed a Spanish Supreme Court judge, Justice Emperador. Shot him in the head at the front door of his building.”
“How does that tie in to Martha?”
“Judge Emperador heard labor law cases,” Herbert said. “He had nothing to do with terrorists or political activism.”
“I don’t follow.”
Herbert folded his hands on his waist and answered patiently. “In Spain, as in many countries, judges involved in terrorist matters are given bodyguards. Real bodyguards, not just for show. So Homeland and Freedom typically goes after friends and associates in order to make a point to the principals. That’s been their pattern in a half-dozen shootings since 1995, when they tried to murder King Juan Carlos, Crown Prince Felipe, and Prime Minister Aznar. The failure of that operation had a chilling effect.”
“No more direct frontal assaults,” Hood said.
“Right. And no more prime targets. Just attacks on the secondaries to rattle the support structure.”
Two other people had arrived as Herbert was speaking.
“We’ll talk about all this in a minute,” Hood said. He took a swallow of water and rose as staff psychologist Liz Gordon and somber-looking press officer Ann Farris walked in. Herbert saw Ann’s eyes catch Hood’s for a moment. It was an open secret along the executive corridors of Op-Center that the young divorcee was more than fond of her married boss. Because Hood was so unreadable — a talent he had apparently developed as mayor of Los Angeles — no one was quite sure how Hood felt about Ann. However, it was known that the long hours he spent at Op-Center had put a strain on his relationship with his wife, Sharon. And Ann was attractive and attentive.
Martha’s shell-shocked number-
two man, Ron Plummer, arrived a moment later with Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II and Deputy Assistant Secretary of State Carol Lanning. The slim, gray-haired, sixty-four-year-old Lanning had been a very close friend and mentor to Martha. Officially, however, that wasn’t the reason she was here. Hood had asked Lanning to come to Op-Center because an American “tourist” had been shot abroad. It was now a matter for her division of the State Department, the Security and Counselor Affairs — the nuts and bolts group which dealt with everything from passport fraud to Americans imprisoned abroad. It was the job of Lanning and her staff to work as liaisons with foreign police departments to investigate attacks on American citizens. Like Hood, Lanning was temperate by nature and an optimist. As she sat down beside Herbert, the intelligence chief found it extremely unsettling to see Lanning’s bright eyes bloodshot and her thin, straight mouth pulled into a deep frown.
Mike Rodgers was the last to arrive. He strode through the door quickly, his eyes alert and his chest expanded. His uniform was smartly pressed, as always, and his shoes were brightly polished.
God in Heaven bless the general, Herbert thought. Outwardly, at least, Rodgers was the only one who seemed to have any fight in him. Herbert was pleased to see that Rodgers had regained some of the grit he had lost in Lebanon. The rest of them would need to draw upon that if they were going to carry on here and revitalize Darrell McCaskey and Aideen Marley in Spain.
Hood went back to his desk and sat down. Everyone else took seats except for Rodgers. The general folded his arms, squared his shoulders, and stood behind Carol Lanning’s chair.
“As you all know,” Hood began, “Martha Mackall was murdered in Madrid at approximately six P.M. local time.”
Although Hood was addressing everyone in the room, he was looking down at the desk. Herbert understood. Eye contact could do him in. And he had to get through this.
