by Tom Clancy
August was a soldier, not a philosopher. But if there were an irony in all this, he was pretty sure he’d find it in there.
Written in blood and bound in suffering.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 1:35 A.M. Washington, D.C.
Hood awoke with a jolt.
He had returned from the White House and immediately called Darrell McCaskey to relay the President’s orders. McCaskey had been silent and accepting. What else could he be? Then, knowing he’d want to be awake whenever the Striker operation commenced, Hood shut the lights off and lay down on his office couch to try to rest.
He started to think about Op-Center’s unprecedented two-tiered involvement in the operation. First there was the elimination of Amadori. Then there was the aftermath, helping to manage chaos. With Amadori gone many politicians, businesspeople, and military officers would fight to fill the power vacuum. They would do that by seizing individual regions: Catalonia, Castile, Andalusia, the Basque Country, Galicia. Bob Herbert’s office was compiling a list for the White House. So far, there were at least two dozen viable contenders for a piece of the power. Two dozen. At best, what used to be Spain would become a loose confederation of states similar to the former Soviet Union. At worst, those states would turn on each other like the former republics of Yugoslavia.
His eyes were heavy and his thoughts became disjointed and Hood drifted off quickly. But his sleep was troubled. He didn’t dream about Spain. He dreamt about his family. They were all driving together and laughing. Then they parked and walked down an anonymous Main Street somewhere. The kids and Sharon were eating ice cream cones. They continued laughing. The ice cream was melting fast and the more it dripped over their fists and clothes the more they laughed. Hood sulked beside them, feeling sad and then angry. Suddenly he stopped behind a parked car and slammed his fists on the trunk. His family continued to laugh, not at him but at the mess the ice cream was making. The three of them were ignoring him and he started to scream. His eyes snapped open—
Hood looked around. Then his eyes settled on the illuminated clock on the coffee table beside the couch. It had been only about twenty minutes since he’d shut his eyes. He lay back down, his head on the cushioned armrest. He closed his eyes again.
There was nothing quite like waking from a bad dream. He always felt a tremendous relief because that world wasn’t real. But the emotions it aroused were genuine and that kept the sense of well-being from seeping deep inside. Then there were the people he dreamt about. Dreams always made them more real, more desirable.
Hood had had enough. He needed to talk to Sharon. He got up, turned on the desk light, and sat down. He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes then punched in her cell phone number. She answered quickly.
“Hello?”
Her voice was strong. She hadn’t been sleeping.
“Hi,” Hood said. “It’s me.”
“I know,” Sharon said. “It’s kind of late for anyone else to be calling.”
“I guess it is,” Hood said. “How are the kids?”
“Good.”
“And how are you?”
“Not so good,” Sharon told him. “How about you?”
“The same.”
“Is it work,” she asked pointedly, “or us?”
That pinched. Why did women always assume the worst about men, that they were always preoccupied and upset about their jobs?
Because we usually are, Hood told himself. Somehow, when it was this late and this dark and this quiet, you just had to be honest with yourself.
“Work is what it always is,” he answered. “We’ve got a crisis. Even with that, what I’m most upset about is you. About us.”
“I’m only upset about you,” Sharon replied.
“All right, hon,” Hood said calmly. “You win that one.”
“I don’t want to ‘win’ anything,” she said. “I just want to be honest. 1 want to figure out what we’re going to do about this. Things can’t continue the way they are. They just can’t.”
“I agree,” Hood said. “That’s why I’ve decided to resign.”
Sharon was silent for a long moment. “You’d leave Op-Center?”
“What choice do I have?”
“The truth?” Sharon asked.
“Of course.”
“You don’t need to resign,” she said. “What you need to do is spend less time there.”
Hood was really annoyed. He’d been sincere. He’d played his hole card — a big one. And instead of giving her husband a big wet kiss, Sharon was telling him how he’d done that all wrong.
“How am I supposed to do that?” Hood asked. “Nobody can predict what’s going to happen here.”
“No, but you have backups,” Sharon said. “There’s Mike Rodgers. There’s the night team.”
“They’re all very capable,” Hood replied, “but they’re here for when things are running smoothly. I have to be on top of a situation like this one, or like the one we had last time—”
“Where you were nearly killed!” she snapped.
“Yes, where I was nearly killed, Sharon,” Hood said. He stayed calm. His wife was already getting angry and his own temper would just fuel that. “Sometimes there’s danger. But there’s danger right here in Washington.”
“Oh, please, Paul. It isn’t the same.”
“All right. It is different,” Hood admitted. “But there are also rewards from what I do. Not just a good home but experiences. The kids have gone overseas with us, been exposed to things other people never get to do or see. How do you break that all out? How do you decide, ⊂This trip to a world capital wasn’t worth missing ten dinners with Paul.’ Or, ‘Okay, we got to a single green one offshore. Apparently, the change in Administration policy did not include sending American land troops to the region. The offshore marker was most likely for a carrier to airlift U.S. officials if it became necessary.
No one had had a chance to do more than say hello to Hood before the President arrived.
President Michael Lawrence stood a broad-shouldered six-foot-four. He both looked and sounded presidential. Whatever combination of the three Cs — charisma, charm, and calm — created that impression, Lawrence had them. His longish silver hair was swept back dramatically and his voice still resonated as though he were Mark Antony on the steps of the Roman Senate. But President Lawrence also looked a great deal wearier than he had when he took office. The eyes were puffier, the cheeks more drawn. The hair looked silver because it was more white than gray. That was common among U.S. presidents, though it wasn’t just the pressures of the office which aged them tremendously — it was the fact that lives were deeply and permanently affected by every decision they made. It was also the steady flow of early morning and late night crises, the exhausting travel abroad, and what Liz Gordon once described as “the posterity effect”: the pressure of wanting to secure a positive review in the history books while pleasing the people you were elected to serve. That was a tremendous emotional and intellectual burden that very few people had to deal with.
The President thanked everyone for coming and sat down. As he poured himself coffee, he offered his con-pain in the ass as politics was, and as long as the hours were, and even though privacy was nonexistent, I gave up something where I felt I was making a difference.” His voice was tense. He was angrier about that than he’d thought. ”So I quit politics and I got caught up in long hours all over again. Do you know why? Because once again I’m making a difference. Hopefully making things better for people. I like that, Sharon. I like the challenge. The responsibility. The sense of satisfaction.”
“You know, I liked what I did too before I became a mother,” Sharon said. “But I had to cut way back on that for the sake of the kids. For our family. At least you don’t have to do anything that extreme. But you also can’t micromanage, Paul. You have backups. Let them help you so that you can give us what we need to remain a family.”
“You mean by your definition—”
>
“No. We need you. That’s a fact.”
“You have me,” Hood said. He was growing angry now.
“Not enough,” Sharon shot back. Her voice was clipped and firm. Here they were again, in the roles they always assumed when well-meaning discussions degenerated into unpleasant debates. Paul Hood playing the angry offense, his wife playing the cool defense.
“Jesus,” Hood said. He wanted to lay the phone aside and scream. He settled for squeezing the receiver. “I’ve promised to quit, I’ve got a crisis here, and I can’t sleep without thinking about all of you. And you tell me all the things I’m doing wrong while you’re up there holding the kids hostage.”
“I’m not holding them hostage,” Sharon said curtly. “We’re yours whenever you want us.”
“Sure,” Hood said. “On your terms.”
“These are not ‘my terms,’ Paul. This isn’t about me winning and you losing. It’s not about you giving up a job or career. It’s about making a few changes. Asking for a few concessions. It’s about the kids winning.”
The interoffice line beeped. Hood looked at the LCD: it was Mike Rodgers.
“Sharon, please,” Hood said. “Hold on a sec.” He put her on mute and picked up the other phone. “Yes, Mike?”
“Paul, I’m here with Bob Herbert. Check the computer. I’m sending over a picture from the NRO. We need to talk, now.”
“All right,” Hood said. “I’ll be right with you.” He returned to Sharon. “Hon, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” she said softly. “But you’re not as sorry as I am. Goodbye, Paul. I do love you.”
She hung up and Paul spun toward the computer monitor on the adjoining stand. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened. About how his family was slipping away and there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. What rankled him most was Sharon seemed to believe that having him none of the time was better than having him some of the time. That made no sense.
Unless she’s trying to pressure me, he thought.
He resented that. But then, what other weapon did Sharon have? And she was right: he had screwed up, and more than once. He’d abandoned them on day one of their vacation in California. He’d forgotten birthdays and anniversaries and school concerts. He’d neglected to ask about report cards and doctor’s appointments and God knows what else.
Hood picked up the interoffice line as the black-and-white satellite photo was downloaded. This was not the time to beat himself up. Tens of thousands of lives were at risk. He still had responsibilities, however distasteful Sharon had managed to make the word sound.
“Mike, I’m here,” Hood said. “What am I looking at?”
“The Royal Palace in Madrid,” he said. “The effective view is from twenty-five feet up looking down from about two o’clock. That’s the main courtyard of the palace.”
“I don’t suppose those are tourist vans,” Hood said.
“No,” Rodgers said. “Here’s how we got there. After the attack on the Ramirez factory, Steve Viens had an NRO satellite follow the prisoners. They went from the parking lot to the airport in Bilbao to the airport in Madrid. Then they were bused from there to the palace. We think that woman near the front of the line is María Corneja.”
Hood enlarged the figure in the center. The computer automatically cleaned up the image for him. He hadn’t known Maria well and he wasn’t sure he’d recognize her if she hadn’t been pointed out. But it certainly could be her, and it was the only woman in view.
The screen cleared. Other photographs began to appear.
“These are higher level views,” Rodgers said. “Fifty feet, one hundred feet, two hundred feet. From the number of soldiers there and the top-level brass who are coming and going we think that that’s where Amadori may be. But there’s a problem.”
“I see it,” Hood said as the higher views appeared. “A square building with a courtyard in the center and nothing higher around it. Infiltration during the day is going to be a problem.”
“Bingo,” Rodgers said. “And waiting twelve hours until dark may not be acceptable.”
“What about Spanish uniforms?” Hood asked. “Can’t Striker wear those to get inside?”
“In theory, maybe,” Rodgers said. “The problem is it doesn’t look like any of the soldiers who bring prisoners to the palace or patrol the grounds are actually going inside. That’s another reason we think General Amadori’s there. He’s probably got an elite guard inside, patroling the halls and taking care of security. They’re the only ones who’ll have access.”
“Are there any underground passageways?”
“We’re looking into that now,” Rodgers said. “Even if there are, coming up inside those big sunlit corridors is going to be risky.”
Hood’s eyes burned and his mind was whirling. Part of him wished he could just bomb the palace, fly up to Connecticut, and collect his family. Maybe stay there and open a fish-and-chips stand on the seashore.
“So we wait?” Hood asked.
“No one here or in Madrid’s in favor of that,” Rodgers said. “But Aideen just arrived at the Interpol office. She and Darrell are talking the situation over with Brett and members of the Interpol team, adapting their playbook for the palace. There’s a team of Interpol spotters on the roof of the Teatro Real, the opera house, on the other side of the avenue. They’re scanning the entire palace with an LDE trying to pick out Amadori’s voice.”
The LDE — the Long Distance Ear — was a funnel-like dish that collected all the sounds from a narrow area and keyed in on those of a specific decibel range. In the case of a room inside a castle, it would automatically filter out external sounds such as cars, birds, and pedestrians. It would only “hear” very low intensity sounds inside walls. It would then compare the sounds to whatever was digitally stored in its memory — in this case, Amadori’s voice.
“How long will it take them to scan the entire castle?” Hood asked.
“Until about four o’clock,” Rodgers said.
Hood looked at the computer clock. “That’s nearly two hours from now.”
“I don’t like the idea of Striker sitting around and getting stale either,” Rodgers said, “but it’s the best they can do.”
“How far is the palace from the Interpol office?” Hood asked.
“I’m checking a map now,” Rodgers said. “It looks to be about fifteen minutes by car — if there’s no traffic or military checkpoints.”
“Which means that if they sit and wait for the LDE findings they’re as much as two hours and fifteen minutes away,” Hood said. “If Amadori decided to leave the area before we pinpoint him, we’d have a problem.”
“True,” Rodgers said. “But even if the Strikers were at the palace, there’s nothing they can do. They can’t choose a game plan without knowing exactly where he is. Besides, if Amadori isn’t there we may be sending them off in the wrong direction.”
Hood looked at the high-resolution photograph of the troops in the courtyard. There were at least two hundred of them, broken into small groups. The soldiers looked as though they were drilling — perhaps to defend the compound, perhaps to serve as firing squads. In any case, it reminded Hood of the pictures he’d seen of Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guards drilling in front of his residence before Desert Storm. Muscle flexing.
Amadori had to be there.
“Mike,” Hood said, “we’re responsible for María being in on this. She’s got no backup. I can’t have that.”
Rodgers was silent for a moment. “I don’t disagree. But we’ve been over these photographs and we’re going through floor plans of the palace now. Getting in there isn’t going to be easy.”
“They don’t have to go in,” Hood said. “I just want some firepower in the area. Darrell can be in touch with them through Ishi Honda.”
“That’s right,” Rodgers said. “But the mission is still Amadori and we don’t know for sure that he’s there. We haven’t been a
ble to pick up any ELINT yet. It’ll be another hour or so before we can start getting that.”
Hood was not getting impatient with Rodgers. The general was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Pointing out options and possible pitfalls.
“If Amadori’s somewhere else we’ll pull Striker off,” Hood said. “And who knows? Maybe the son of a bitch will decide to show himself and save us the trouble of going in.”
Rodgers exhaled audibly. “That’s not likely, Paul. But I’ll tell Brett to move out. I also want to remind you that, while we brought María into this, she acted without orders,” Rodgers said. “She put herself in this situation. And not for our benefit, but for the benefit of her country. I will not be in favor of risking team lives to evacuate her.”
“Noted,” Hood said. “And thanks.”
Rodgers clicked off and Hood hung up. He dumped the photos from the monitor and turned off the desk lamp. He shut his eyes.
It made no sense; none at all. Clinging to a job that by its very nature left you alone, cut off from your family and often cut off from subordinates. Maybe that’s why he felt drawn to María’s situation. She was alone too.
No, Hood wouldn’t forget the mission. And he wouldn’t forget what Mike Rodgers had been too respectful to point out: that the Strikers had lives and loved ones, just like María.
But Hood also couldn’t forget Martha Mackall. And he’d be damned if he did nothing while another unarmed colleague faced danger in the bloody streets of Madrid.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 8:36 A.M. Madrid, Spain
María followed the young captain into the corridor, confident that she could trust the officer to bring her to Amadori. Neither the captain nor the general had anything to gain by tricking her. They had to be curious about the information she said she possessed. And if he didn’t trust her, he wouldn’t be in front of her. He’d be behind her, with a gun.
Nonetheless, she was startled by the relative ease with which she’d been able to bully the captain. Either he was inexperienced or far more clever than she gave him credit for.
