by Tom Clancy
“Were the men from San Sebastián?” Norberto asked.
“I don’t know,” Adolfo said. “I left when the police arrived. There was nothing I could do.” As he spoke he began throwing the wet clothes over a line strung by the open window. He always brought spare clothes on the boat so he could change into something dry. He did not look at his brother.
Norberto walked slowly toward the old iron stove. There was a small pot of stew on top. “I made some cocido at the rectory and brought it over,” he said. “I know how you like it.”
“I wondered what smelled so good. Not my clothes.” He smiled. “Thanks, Berto.”
“I’ll warm it for you before I head back.”
“It’s all right,” Adolfo said. “I can do that. Why don’t you go home? I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”
“So have you,” Norberto said. “A long day and a long night.”
Adolfo was silent. Did Norberto suspect?
“I was reading just now that in the same way as God is beneficial, good is beneficial,” Norberto said with a smile. “So let me be good. Let me do this for you.” He went to the stove and lit the flame with a wooden match. He shook the match out and removed the lid from the pot.
Adolfo smiled cautiously. “All right, mi hermano,” he said. “Be good. Even though if you ask anyone in town, you are already good enough for the two of us. Sitting with the sick, reading to the blind, watching children at the church when both parents are away—”
“That’s my job,” Norberto said.
Adolfo shook his head. “You’re too modest. You’d do those things even if the priesthood weren’t your calling.”
The smell of lamb filled the room as the stew began to warm. The deep popping of the bubbles sounded very cozy. They reminded Adolfo of when he and Norberto were boys and they ate whatever their mother had left for them on the stove. When they were together like this, it didn’t seem so very long ago. Yet so much had happened to Spain… and to them.
Adolfo kept his movements unhurried. Even though he didn’t have time for this now, he didn’t want to give Norberto a reason to worry about him.
Norberto looked over at his brother as he stirred the stew. The priest appeared wan and tired in the yellow light of the bare overhead bulb. His shoulders were more and more rounded every year. Adolfo had long ago decided that doing good must be a draining experience. Taking on the sorrows and pain of others without being able to pour out your own — except to God. That required the kind of constitution Adolfo did not have. It also required a kind of faith Adolfo did not have. If you were suffering on earth you took action on earth. You didn’t ask God for the strength to endure. You asked God for the strength to make things right.
“Tell me, Adolfo,” Norberto asked without turning. “What you said a moment ago — was it true?”
“I’m sorry?” Adolfo said. “Was what true?”
“Do I need to be good enough for you and me?”
Adolfo shrugged. “No. Not as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about as far as God is concerned?” Norberto asked. “Would He say that you are good?”
Adolfo draped his wet socks over the line. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask Him.”
“Unfortunately, He doesn’t always answer me, Dolfo.” Norberto turned now. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Adolfo wiped his hands on his pants. “There is nothing on my conscience, if that’s what you mean.”
“Nothing?”
“No. Why are you really asking me this? Should I be worried about something?”
Norberto took a mug from the shelf and ladled stew into it. He brought it over to the table and pointed. “Eat.”
Adolfo walked over. He picked up the stew and sipped it. “Hot. And very good.” As he sipped more he continued to watch his brother. Norberto was acting strangely.
“Did you catch anything tonight?” Norberto asked.
“Quite a bit,” Adolfo replied.
“You don’t smell of fish,” Norberto said.
Adolfo chewed on a thick chunk of lamb. He pointed to the clothesline. “I changed.”
“Your clothes don’t smell of fish either,” Norberto said. He looked down.
Suddenly, Adolfo realized what was wrong. He was the fisherman but Norberto was doing the fishing. “What brought this on?” he asked.
“The police telephoned a while ago.”
“And?”
“They told me about that terrible explosion on a yacht,” Norberto said. “They thought I might be needed to give the last sacraments. I came here so I could be closer to the wharf.”
“But you weren’t,” Adolfo said confidently. “No one could have survived that explosion.”
Norberto looked at him. “Do you know that for certain because you saw the blast? Or is there another reason?”
Adolfo looked at him. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. He put the mug down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “I really must get going.”
“Where?”
“I’m meeting friends tonight.”
Norberto stepped over to his brother. He put his hands on Adolfo’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. Adolfo was very aware that his face was closed to his brother. A blank mask.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Norberto asked.
“About what?”
“About — anything,” Norberto replied uneasily.
“About anything? Sure. I love you, Berto.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know,” Adolfo said. “And I know you, Norberto. What’s troubling you? Or should I help you? You want to know what I was doing tonight? Is that what this is about?”
“You’ve already said you were fishing,” Norberto said. “Why shouldn’t I believe you?”
“Because you knew exactly what the explosion was and yet you pretended not to,” Adolfo said. “You didn’t come here to be closer to the sea, Berto. You came here because you wanted to see if I was home. All right. I wasn’t. You also know that I wasn’t fishing.”
Norberto said nothing. He removed his hands from Adolfo’s shoulders. His arms fell heavily.
“You’ve always been able to see inside me,” Adolfo said. “To know what I was thinking, feeling. When I was a teenager I’d come back from a night of whoring or cockfights and lie to you. I’d tell you I was playing soccer or watching a movie. But you always looked in my eyes and saw the truth, even though you said nothing.”
“You were a boy then, Dolfo. Your activities were a part of growing up. Now you’re a man—”
“That’s right, Norberto,” Adolfo interrupted. “I’m a man. One who barely has time for cockfighting, let alone whoring. So you see, brother, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Norberto stepped closer. “I’m looking in your eyes again now. And I believe there is something to worry about.”
“It’s my worry, not yours.”
“That isn’t true,” Norberto said. “We’re brothers. We share pain, we share secrets, we share love. We always have. I want you to talk to me, Dolfo. Please.”
“About what? My activities? My beliefs? My dreams?”
“All of it. Sit down. Tell me.”
“I don’t have time,” Adolfo said.
“Where your soul is concerned you must make the time.”
Adolfo regarded his brother for a moment. “I see. And if I did have time would you be listening to me as a brother or as a priest?”
“As Norberto,” the priest replied gently. “I can’t separate who I am from what I am.”
“Which means you would be my living conscience,” Adolfo said.
“I fear that that position may be open,” Norberto replied.
Adolfo looked at him a few seconds longer. Then he turned away. “You really want to know what I was doing tonight?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” Adolfo said. “I’ll tell you because if anythin
g happens I want you to know why I have done what I’ve done.” He turned back and spoke in a low voice lest the neighbors hear through the thin walls. “The Catalonian men on the boat that sank, Ramirez and the rest of them, planned and carried out the execution of an American diplomat in Madrid. In my pocket I have their taped conversation about the murder.” The cassette rattled as he patted it through his sweater. “The tape is in effect a confession, Norberto. My commander, the General, was right about these men. They were the leaders of a group that is attempting to bankrupt our nation in order to take it over. They killed the diplomat to make sure that the United States does not become involved in their conquest of Spain.”
“Politics do not interest me,” Norberto said quietly, “you know that.”
“Perhaps they should,” Adolfo replied. “The only help that ever reaches the poor of this parish comes from God and that doesn’t put food on the table. It isn’t right.”
“No, it isn’t,” the young priest agreed. “But ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ ”
“That’s true in your profession, not mine,” Adolfo said angrily.
He went to go but Norberto grasped his arm. He held it firmly. “I want you to tell me, Adolfo. What part did you have in the killing?”
“What part did I have?” Adolfo said quietly. “I did it,” he blurted out. “I’m the one who destroyed the yacht.”
Norberto recoiled as though he’d been slapped.
“Millions of our people would have suffered had those monsters lived,” Adolfo said.
Norberto made the sign of the cross on his forehead. “But they were men, Adolfo. Not monsters.”
“They were ruthless, unfeeling things,” Adolfo snapped. He didn’t expect his brother to understand what he had done. Norberto was a Jesuit, a member of the Society of Jesus. For over five hundred years the order’s adherents had been trained to be soldiers of virtue, to strengthen the faith of Catholics and to preach the Gospel to non-Catholics.
“You are wrong.” Norberto trembled as he squeezed Adolfo’s arm even tighter. “These ‘things,’ as you call them, were people. People with immortal souls created by God.”
“Then you should thank me, brother, for I have returned their immortal souls to God.”
There were tears in the priest’s eyes. “You take too much on yourself. Only God has the right to take a soul.”
“I have to leave.”
“And those millions you speak of,” Norberto continued, “their suffering would only have been in this world. They would have known perfect happiness in the presence of God. But you — you risk damnation for eternity.”
“Then pray for me, brother, for I intend to continue my work.”
“No, Adolfo! You mustn’t.”
Adolfo gently pulled away his brother’s fingers. He squeezed them lovingly before dropping them.
“At least let me hear your confession,” Norberto urged.
“Some other time,” Adolfo replied.
“Some other time may be too late.” Norberto’s voice, like his eyes, were now full of emotion. “You know the punishment if you die unrepentant. You will be estranged from God.”
“God has forgotten me. Forgotten all of us.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry,” Adolfo said. The fisherman looked away from his brother. He didn’t want to see the hurt in his kind eyes. And he didn’t want to face the fact that he’d caused it. Not now. Not with so much left to do. He took another swallow of stew and thanked his brother again for bringing it. Then he pulled a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pants pocket — his last, he noted. He’d have to stop and buy pre-mades. Lighting it, he headed toward the door.
“Adolfo, please!” Norberto grabbed his brother’s shoulder and turned him around. “Stay here with me. Talk to me. Pray with me.”
“I have business up on the hill,” he replied evenly. “I promised the General I’d deliver the taped conversation to the radio station there. They are Castilians at the station. They will play the tape. When they do, all the world will know that Catalonia has no regard for life, Spanish or otherwise. The government, the world will help end the financial oppression they’ve forced on us.”
“And what will the world think of the Castilian who killed these men?” Norberto managed to lower his voice on the word killed lest he be overheard. “Will they pray for your soul?”
“I don’t want their prayers,” Adolfo said without hesitation. “I only want their attention. As for what the world will think, I hope they’ll think that I had courage. That I didn’t resort to shooting an unarmed woman in the street to make a point. That I went right to the heart of the devils’ conspiracy and cut that heart out.”
“And when you have done that,” Norberto said, “the Catalonians will try to cut your heart out.”
“They may try,” Adolfo admitted. “Perhaps they will even succeed.”
“Then where does it end?” Norberto asked. “When every heart has been cut out or broken?”
“We didn’t expect that one strike would end their ambitions or that Castilian lives would not be lost,” Adolfo said. “As for when the bloodshed will end, it should not be very long. By the time the Catalonians and their allies mobilize it will be too late to stop what is coming.”
Norberto’s broad shoulders slumped and he shook his head slowly. The tears rolled easily from his eyes. He suddenly seemed spent.
“Dear God, Dolfo,” he sobbed. “What is coming? Tell me, so that at least I can pray for your soul.”
Adolfo stared at his brother. He rarely saw Norberto cry. It had happened once at their mother’s funeral and another time over a young parishioner who was dying. It was difficult to see it and be unmoved.
“I and my comrades are planning to give Spain back to its Castilian people,” Adolfo said. “After a thousand years of repression, we intend to reunite the body of Spain with its heart.”
“There are other means with which to accomplish that goal,” Norberto said. “Nonviolent means.”
“They’ve been tried,” Adolfo said. “They don’t work.”
“Our Lord never raised a sword nor took a life.”
Adolfo lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “My brother,” he said as he looked into Norberto’s tear-glossed eyes, “if you can arrange for His help, then I will not take another life. I swear.”
Norberto looked as if he wanted to say something but stopped. Adolfo patted his cheek and smiled. Turning, he opened the door and stepped out. He stopped and lowered his head.
Adolfo believed in a just God. He did not believe in a God who punished those who sought freedom. He couldn’t let his brother’s beliefs affect him. But this was Norberto, a good man who had worried about him man and boy and cared for him and loved him whatever he did. He couldn’t leave him in pain.
Adolfo looked back. He smiled at his brother and touched his soft cheek. “Don’t pray for me, Norberto. Pray for our country. If Spain is damned, my salvation will be unhappy — and undeserved.”
He drew on the cigarette and hurried down the steps leaving a trail of smoke and his weeping brother behind him.
EIGHT
Monday, 4:22 P.M. Washington, D.C.
Paul Hood took his daily late-afternoon look at the list of names on his computer monitor. Just a few minutes before he had put his thumb on the five-by-seven-inch scanner beside the computer. The laser unit had identified his fingerprint and had asked for his personal access code. One point seven seconds later it brought up the closed file of HUMINT personnel reporting to Op-Center from the field. Hood used the keyboard to enter his wife’s maiden name, Kent. That opened the file and the names appeared on the screen.
There were nine “human intelligence” agents in all. Each of these men and women was a national on Op-Center’s payroll. Beside the names were their present whereabouts and assignments; a summary of their last report, which had been prepared by Bob Herbert (the full report was on file); an
d the location of the nearest safe house or exit route. If any of the operatives were ever found out, Op-Center would look for them at those places and make every effort to extricate them. To date, none of the agents had ever been compromised.
Three of the operatives were based in North Korea. Their mission was an ongoing follow-up to the Striker team’s destruction of the secret missile site in the Diamond Mountains. The agents’ job was to make sure that the missile launchers weren’t rebuilt. Even though a traitorous South Korean officer had masterminded the construction of the base originally, no one put it past the opportunistic North Koreans to take advantage of the equipment that had been left behind by attempting to build a new missile installation.
Two Op-Center agents were located in the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon and two others were working in Damascus, Syria. Both teams were based in terrorist hideouts and were reporting on the political fallout due to Op-Center’s activities there. The fact that Op-Center operatives had helped to avert a war between Syria and Turkey was not being looked upon favorably: the feeling in the Middle East was that nations there took care of their own problems, even if that solution was war. Peace brought by outside forces, particularly by the United States, was looked upon as illicit and dishonorable.
The last two agents were in Cuba, keeping an eye on developing political situations in that nation. The reports were that the aging Castro’s hold was beginning to fray. Whatever the dictator’s drawbacks — and they were considerable — his iron heel had ironically kept the entire Caribbean more or less stabilized. Whatever tyrant came to power in Haiti, Grenada, Antigua, or on any of the other islands still needed the approval of Castro to run arms or drugs or even maintain a sizeable military force. They knew that the Cuban leader would have rivals assassinated before he let them become too powerful. The concensus was that as soon as Castro was gone, chaos and not democracy would come to the island and to the region. The United States had a contingency plan, Operation Keel, to fill and control that power vacuum using the military and economic incentives. Op-Center’s agents were key parts of the EWAP network — early warning and preparedness — which was designed to pave the way for the plan.
