by Tom Clancy
The entire maneuver had taken less than three seconds. A pair of soldiers who were standing just inside the hall started toward her. But she backed against the doorjamb, her body shielded by the sergeant. There was no way to get at her without killing the sergeant.
“Stop!” she snapped at the soldiers.
They did.
The prisoners who had been shuffling along behind Maria froze. Juan was among them. Several prisoners cheered. Juan appeared confused.
“Now,” Maria said to the sergeant, “you can listen carefully or I’ll clean your ears for you.”
“I–I’ll listen,” he replied.
“Good,” Maria said. “I want to see someone on the general’s staff.” She didn’t really. She wanted to see the general. But if she demanded that right away she’d never get it. She had to give someone more information than they could handle so that she was moved along the chain of command.
A door opened a short way down the wide corridor. A young captain with curly brown hair stepped from a room on the other side of the detention area. As he emerged, his expression quickly shaded from puzzlement to annoyance to anger. He began walking toward her. He wore a.38 on his hip.
María looked at him. His green eyes held hers. She decided not to say anything to him; not yet. Hostage negotiations were the opposite of chess: whoever made the first move was always at a disadvantage. They gave up information, even if it was just their tone of voice telling an opponent their level of confidence in a situation. Quite often that information was enough to let you know whether they were ready to kill you, ready to negotiate, or hoping to delay things until they could decide their next step.
The officer’s tan uniform was extremely neat and clean. His black boots shone and the fresh soles clicked sharply on the tile floor. His hair was perfectly combed and his square jaw was closely shaved. He was definitely a desk officer. If he had any field experience, even in war games, she would be surprised. That could work in her favor: he wasn’t likely to make an important decision unless he checked with a superior officer.
“So,” he said. “Someone does not wish to cooperate.”
His voice was very strong. María watched his hand. She didn’t think he was going to reach for his gun. Not if he were a desk officer who’d never had to look into someone’s eyes while he pulled the trigger. On the other hand, he might want to impress his soldiers and the prisoners by making an object lesson of her. If he did, she’d shoot him and head toward the staircase.
“To the contrary, Captain,” María replied.
“Explain,” he snapped. He was less than three yards from her.
“I’m with Interpol,” she said. “My ID is in my pocket. I was working undercover and was accidentally rounded up with the rest of this familia.”
“Working undercover with whom?” he asked.
“With Adolfo Alcazar,” she said. “The man who destroyed the yacht. He was murdered this morning. I was on the trail of his killers when I was apprehended.”
That much was true, of course. She didn’t say she was looking for information about Amadori.
María had spoken loudly and, as she’d planned, Juan had overheard.
“¡El traidor!” he shouted, and spat. “Traitor!”
The captain motioned to a soldier, who struck Juan in the small of the back with his truncheon. Juan groaned and arched painfully but María didn’t react. The captain had been watching her.
“You know who committed the crime?” the captain asked.
“I know more than that,” María replied.
The captain stopped just a few feet from María. He studied her for a long moment.
“Sir,” she said. “I’m going to release the sergeant and turn over his weapon. Then I have a request to make.”
María didn’t give the officer time to think. She lowered the gun, pushed the sergeant away, then handed the pistol grip first to the captain. He motioned for the sergeant to accept it. The man took the gun and hesitated before returning it to his holster.
The captain’s eyes were still on María. “Come with me,” he said.
He’d bought it. He turned and María followed him toward his office. She’d moved up the ladder. They entered the Hall of Columns, which was exactly that. Desks, chairs, telephones, and computers were being moved in. The large room was being turned into a command center. As soon as they were inside, the captain turned to María.
“What you did out there was very bold,” he said.
“My mission demanded it,” she replied. “I can’t afford to be stopped.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
“María Corneja,” she replied.
“I had heard that the bomber was dead, María,” the captain said. “Who killed him?”
“Members of the familia,” she replied. “But that’s a small problem. They weren’t in it alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are being supported by the United States,” she said. “I have names and I have details of what they’re planning next.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“I will tell you,” María said, “at the same time that I tell the general.”
The captain sneered. “Don’t haggle with me. I could turn you over to my interrogation group and have the information myself.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But you’d be losing a valuable ally. And besides, Captain, are you so sure you’d get the information in time?”
The sneer remained on his face as he considered what she’d just said. Suddenly, he motioned to a soldier who was carrying in a pair of chairs. He set them down, ran over, and saluted.
“Stay with her,” the captain said.
“Yes, sir,” the young soldier replied.
The captain left the room. María lit a cigarette and offered the soldier one. He declined, respectfully. As she inhaled, María considered what she’d do if the captain said the general wouldn’t see her. She’d have to try to get away. Let Luis know somehow where the madman-who-would-be-king was hiding. Then hope that someone could get in here and dethrone him.
Try to get away, she thought. Let Luis know somehow. Hope that someone could get in. There were a lot of “maybes” in all of that. Perhaps too many on which to hang the fate of a nation of over forty million.
She wondered what her chances would be of getting the captain’s gun, making her way through the detention room, forcing herself into the throne room, and putting a bullet in Amadori’s forehead.
Probably not very good. Not with twenty or so soldiers between here and there. Somehow, she had to get in there legitimately and talk to the general. Tell him something that would slow him down. Then get back to Luis and help figure out some way of toppling the bastard.
The captain returned before María had finished her cigarette. He strode through the doorway of the Hall of Columns and stopped. He smiled sweetly and she knew then she’d won.
“Come with me, María,” he said. “You have your audience.”
María thanked him — always thank the messengers in case you need a favor later — and lifted her shoe. She extinguished the cigarette on her sole. As she walked toward the captain she slipped the cigarette back in the pack. He gave her a curious look.
“It’s a habit I picked up in the field,” she said.
“Don’t waste your resources?” he asked. “Or don’t risk starting a fire, which can attract attention?”
“Neither,” she replied. “Don’t leave a trail. You never know who’s going to come after you.”
“Ah,” the captain smiled knowingly.
María smiled back, though for a different reason. She’d just tested the officer with a heads-up and he’d failed. She’d hinted that she was schooled at infiltration, that she knew more than he did, and the captain had let it go. He didn’t stop and take a second look at her. He was leading her right to the general.
Perhaps Amadori had made a few other mistakes in getting his coup underway. With any luck
, María would be able to find them.
And then somehow, some way, get out to report them.
TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday, 8:11 A.M. Zaragoza, Spain
The C-141B transport set down heavily on the long runway at the Zaragoza Airbase, NATO’s largest field in Spain. The four twenty-one-thousand-pound Pratt & Whitney turbofans howled as the aircraft rolled to a stop. The plane had made a refueling stop at the NATO base in Iceland before completing the eight-hour trip against daunting headwinds.
During the flight Colonel August and his Striker team had received regular updates from Mike Rodgers, including a complete rundown on the White House meeting. Rodgers said that Striker’s orders vis-à-vis General Amadori would be given to them by Darrell McCaskey. Receiving them face-to-face wasn’t so much a security issue as an old tradition among elite forces: if you were sending a team on a hazardous mission, it was customary to look the leader in the eyes. A commander who couldn’t do that did not have the mettle, and thus the right, to send anyone into danger.
Colonel August had also spent a few hours going through NATO’s dossier on General Amadori. Though Amadori had never participated in any NATO maneuvers, he was a top-ranked officer of a member nation. As such, his file was short but complete.
Rafael Leoncio Amadori had been raised in Burgos, the one-time capital of the kingdom of Castile and the burial place of the legendary hero El Cid. Amadori joined the army in 1966, when he was twenty. After four years he was moved to Francisco Franco’s personal guard, the result of a longtime friendship between Franco and Amadori’s father, Jaime, who was the Generalissimo’s bootmaker. By the time Amadori was made a lieutenant in 1972, he was one of the top men in charge of Franco’s counterintelligence team. That was where he met Antonio Aguirre, ten years his senior, who was to become his top aide and most trusted advisor. Aguirre was Franco’s advisor on domestic affairs.
Once he had joined the inner circle, Amadori was personally responsible for sniffing out and eliminating opponents of Franco’s regime. With the death of Franco in 1975, Amadori moved back into the general military. However, his years in intelligence had not been wasted. Amadori rose quickly. More quickly than his accomplishments would suggest. If August had to guess, his promotions were probably the result of having collected compromising data on everyone who had been in a position to help or hinder his advancement.
August was convinced that if a coup were in progress — and it certainly looked as if one were — it had not simply happened overnight. Like the American kid who grew up wanting to be President, General Amadori obviously grew up wanting to be Franco.
August and six other Strikers had made the trip to Spain. Because a situation was developing in Cuba which could require HUMINT, Sgt. Chick Grey had been left behind with a contingent of Strikers in the event they were needed. Grey was a bright and highly capable leader who was due to get his second lieutenant’s stripes very soon.
In Spain, August’s second-in-command would be Corporal Pat Prementine. The serious young NCO, an expert at infantry tactics, had distinguished himself in the rescue of Mike Rodgers and his team during the Bekaa Valley operation. Prementine would be more than able to step in if anything happened to August. Privates Walter Pupshaw, Sondra DeVonne, David George, and Jason Scott had performed brilliantly in that operation as well, just as they had on previous missions. Communications man Ishi Honda was also on hand. Neither Colonel August nor his predecessor, the late Lt. Col. Charles Squires, would have gone anywhere without their ace radio operator.
The Strikers changed to civilian clothes before landing. They were met at the airbase by an unmarked Interpol helicopter, which flew them directly to the airport in Madrid. Their uniforms and gear, carried in oversized duffelbags, went with them. At the airport they boarded a pair of vans and were driven to the office of Luis García de la Vega. August and his team were greeted by Darrell McCaskey, who was awaiting the return of Aideen Marley.
McCaskey and August retired to the small, cluttered office of an agent who was on assignment. McCaskey had appropriated a portable coffeemaker and moved it in here.
“It’s good to see you,” McCaskey said, shutting the door.
“Likewise,” August replied.
“Sit,” McCaskey said.
August looked around. The two chairs beside the door were full of overstuffed folders so he perched himself on the corner of the desk. He watched as McCaskey went to the coffeemaker and poured Colonel August a cup.
“How do you take it?” McCaskey asked.
“Black, no sugar,” August replied.
McCaskey handed him the cup then poured some for himself. August took a sip and set his cup on the mousepad.
“That’s some pretty shitty stuff, isn’t it?” McCaskey said, pointing to the coffee.
“Maybe,” August said. “But at least the price is right.”
McCaskey smiled.
It hadn’t taken long for August to determine that McCaskey was what the elite forces called “TBW.” Tired but wired. The former G-man was exhausted but anxious, running on adrenaline and caffeine. When the rush ended, McCaskey would crash big-time.
“Let me bring you up to date,” McCaskey said. He sipped his own coffee and sat heavily in the swivel chair. Matt Stoll’s small electromagnetic egg was between them, ensuring the security of the conversation. “Aideen Marley is on the way back to Madrid. She was up at the Ramirez boat factory in San Sebastián when it was attacked by General Amadori’s forces. You know about that?”
August nodded.
McCaskey looked at his watch. “Her chopper should be landing in about five minutes and she’ll be brought back here. She went up to find out more about the forces that are rallied against Amadori. He beat her to them. Aideen’s partner on the mission, María Corneja, managed to get herself captured by Amadori’s soldiers. We don’t know exactly where Amadori is based. We’re hoping that María can find out and somehow let us know. Have you spoken with Mike?”
August nodded.
“Then you have some sense of what your mission is.”
August nodded again.
“Once Amadori is found,” McCaskey said, his gaze locked on August, “he must be captured or removed by terminal force.”
August nodded a third time. His face was impassive, as though he’d just been given the day’s duty roster. He had killed men in Vietnam and he’d been tortured nearly to death when he was a POW there. Death was extreme, but it came with the uniform and it was the coin of war. And there was no doubt that Amadori was at war.
McCaskey folded his hands. His tired eyes were still on August.
“Striker’s never had a mission like this,” McCaskey said. “Do you have a problem with it?”
August shook his head.
“Do you think any of your team will have a problem with it?”
“I don’t know,” August said. “But I’ll find out.”
McCaskey looked down. “There was a time when this kind of thing was standard operating procedure.”
“There was,” August agreed. “But back then it was a first-strike option rather than a last resort. I think we’ve found the moral high ground.”
“I suppose so,” McCaskey said. He rubbed his eyes. “Anyway, you guys hang loose in the commissary. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything.”
McCaskey rose and drained his coffee cup. August stood and took a sip from his own cup. Then he handed it to McCaskey. McCaskey smiled and accepted it. He took a swallow.
“Darrell?” August said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re looking pretty close to flameout.”
“I’m gettin’ there,” he admitted. “It’s been a long haul.”
“You know,” August said, “if we have to go in I need you to be sharp. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if after Aideen arrives, you lay down somewhere. I can debrief her, talk to Luis, come up with a few scenarios.”
McCaskey walked around the desk. He slapped August on the ba
ck. “Thank you very much, Colonel. I believe I will take that rest.” He grinned. “You know what sucks?”
August shook his head.
“Not being able to do the things that you were able to do easily in your twenties,” McCaskey said. “That sucks. All-nighters used to be a breeze for me. So was eating junk food and not having my stomach burn like a son-of-a-bitch.” The grin faded. “But age makes it different. Losing a coworker makes it different. And something else makes it different. The realization that just being right doesn’t matter. You can have law and treaties and justice and humanity and the United Nations and the Bible and everything else on your side, and you can still get your ass handed to you. You know what the moral high ground has cost us, Colonel? It’s cost us the ability to do the right thing. Pretty damn ironic, huh?”
August didn’t answer. There was no point. Soldiers didn’t have philosophies; they couldn’t afford to. They had targets. And the failure to achieve them meant death, capture, or dishonor. There was no irony. At least, not in that.
The officer headed toward the commissary, where his team was waiting. When he arrived, he turned on the computerized “playbook” he carried. He indicated the plan McCaskey had presented, then he polled the team to make sure everyone was willing to be on the field, ready to play.
They were.
August thanked them, after which the team hung loose. All except for Prementine and Pupshaw, who figured out where and how hard to hit the soda machine so it would dispense free cans.
August accepted a 7-Up and then sat back in the plastic chair. He drank the soda to wash away the bitter coffee taste. As he did, he thought about what had happened over the past day. The fact that the politicians in Spain had turned to Amadori to stop a war. Instead, he used it as a primer to start a bigger war. Now the politicians were turning to more soldiers to stop that war.
