by Tom Clancy
He turned to the left. María stopped.
“I thought we were going to see the general,” she said.
“We are,” the captain replied. He extended his arm down the hallway — away from the Hall of Halberdiers.
“Isn’t he in the throne room?” she asked.
“The throne room?” The captain laughed loudly. “Wouldn’t that be somewhat presumptuous?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Isn’t being in this palace somewhat presumptuous?”
“Not when the king returns to Madrid and we need to protect him,” the captain said. “We intend to secure both of the royal palaces.”
“But there were guards—”
“Protecting the chamber from the prisoners.” The captain bowed his head in the direction of his outstretched hand. “The general is in the state dining room with his advisors.”
María looked at him. She didn’t believe him. She didn’t know why; she just didn’t.
“But the question is not where the general is located,” the captain continued. “The question is whether you have something to tell him or not. Are you coming, Señorita Corneja?”
María looked down. For now, she had no choice but to do what she was told. “I’m coming,” she said, and walked toward the captain.
The officer turned and strode briskly along the brightly lit corridor, and then around the corner. María walked a little slower, remaining several steps behind him. Other soldiers moved quickly along the corridor. Some of them had prisoners, others were on field phones. A few were carrying computer equipment into rooms. None of them was paying her any attention.
This didn’t feel right but María had to play it out. Yes, she was coming — but not without precautions.
“Would you like a cigarette?” she asked the captain. She was already reaching into the breast pocket of her blouse. She removed the pack and took one of the cigarettes out. She tore a match from the book of matches.
“Thank you, no,” said the captain. “Actually, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke here. So many treasures. A careless flick—”
“I understand,” she said.
The captain had said exactly what María had expected him to say. She began to replace the pack but first palmed the cigarette. Because the captain was facing forward he didn’t see her poke the match into the tobacco of the palmed cigarette. Then she put the cigarette down the front of her pants, into the crotch, and put the pack back in her blouse pocket.
Now, at least, she had a weapon.
The state dining room was on the other side of the music room overlooking the Plaza Incógnita. On the other side of the plaza was the Campo del Moro, the Camp of the Moors. The park marked the site where the troops of the powerful emir Ali bin-Yusuf camped in the eleventh century during the Moorish attempt to conquer Spain.
They reached the door of the music room and the captain knocked. He looked at María and smiled. She reached his side but she didn’t return his smile. The door opened.
The captain extended a hand inside. “After you,” he said.
María took a step toward it and looked in.
The windowless room was dark and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Something moved toward her from the shadows to the right. She backed away only to bump into the captain, who was standing directly and solidly behind her. Suddenly, he pushed her inside. At the same time, two pairs of hands grabbed her forearms. She was pulled off her feet and landed facedown on the floor. Boots were planted firmly on her shoulder blades.
A light came on, casting a soft amber glow throughout the room. María looked out at a pastoral mural as a third set of hands groped her legs, waist, arms, and chest, searching for concealed weapons. Her belt and watch were removed and they took the pack of cigarettes.
When the search was finished, the extra set of hands suddenly pulled back on María’s hair. The tug was rough and she found herself looking up. With her shoulders pushed down and her head drawn back, the pain in her neck was intense.
The captain walked over and looked down at her. He smirked and put the hard heel of his boot against her forehead. He leaned into it and her head went back further.
“You asked me if I were sure 1 would get the information in time,” the captain said. He grinned cruelly. “Yes, señorita. I am sure. Just as I am certain that many of the people we’ve brought to the palace will be purged from the system. Just as I am sure that we will win. A new nation isn’t born without blood, sacrifice, and one thing more: willingness. The willingness to do whatever is necessary to get what you want.”
María’s vocal cord strained against the tightening flesh of her throat. Thick cables of pain twisted along her body from the front of her ears to the small of her back.
“I could snap your neck,” the captain said, “but then you would die and that wouldn’t help me. Instead, I will give you five minutes to reflect on the situation and then tell me what you know. If you talk, you will remain our guest but you will be unharmed. If you choose not to talk, I will leave you to these fine men. Believe me, senorita. They are very good at what they do.”
The captain released her forehead. María gagged horribly as her throat relaxed. The pain in her back was replaced by a cool, tingling sensation up and down her spine. She swallowed hard and tried to move, but the men were still standing on her back.
The captain looked at the men. “Let her taste some of what she can expect,” he said. “Then maybe she will think differently.”
As he backed away, María felt the boots lifted from her shoulders. She was hoisted up by the arms. As she was getting her footing a fist was driven hard into her belly. She doubled over, the air rushing from her lungs. Her legs went out from under her but the men held her up. One of them grabbed her hair from behind, pulled her erect, and she was punched again. María actually felt the contours of the fist against the small of her back. Her legs wobbled like ribbon and she moaned loudly. The next blow came up from under her chin. Fortunately, her tongue wasn’t between her teeth as they clacked loudly and painfully. After a second blow, which knocked her head toward the right, her lower jaw hung down. She felt blood and saliva roll along her extended tongue.
The men released her and she dropped to the floor. She landed on her back with her arms splayed and her knees raised. Slowly, her bent legs rolled to the right. María didn’t hurt; she knew that the pain would come later. But she felt utterly spent, the way she did when she bicycled up a hill and had no strength left in her limbs. Yet as weak as she was she forced herself to open her eyes and look at the men. She wanted to see where they wore their guns.
They were all right-handed. That would make things easier.
The soldiers stepped into the hallway, splitting up her cigarettes. They shut the door and turned off the light. She knew this drill: break the body and then leave the shocked, disoriented mind a few minutes alone to contemplate mortality.
Instead, she forced her trembling hand down the front of her jeans. She found the cigarette and she drew it out. She rolled onto her side and peeled the paper away to get at the match. It was a trick she’d come up with years before when she worked undercover. Being frisked usually cost her her cigarettes. This way she got to keep a match. In a bind, fire was an ideal offensive weapon.
Her eyes were adjusted to the dark and she looked around. There was a group of music stands in the corner. She looked overhead and saw what she’d expected to see: a pair of sprinklers. There was one by the door in front and the other by the door that led to the dining room.
Perfect.
She crawled over to the stands. Her limbs were still shaking. She promised that she wouldn’t ask much of them; only the strength to get her through the next hour or so.
When she reached the corner she got to her knees and then stood. She was wobbly but able to remain on her feet. Her jaw was beginning to ache and she was glad for that: the pain kept her alert. She staggered toward the door, set the stand down, and removed her sweater. S
he took off her denim shirt, put the sweater back on, then dropped the shirt a few feet from the door.
Once, when she had gone undercover to expose police abuses in Barcelona, María was arrested with a group of hookers. She had used her hidden match to melt the soles of her shoes. The smell brought the guards as they were about to rape a woman in a cell down the corridor. She literally arrested one of them with his pants down. This time she needed more than the stench of burning rubber. She needed something that would catch their eye.
She set the stand beside the door then knelt beside the shirt. Carefully, she struck the match against the bottom of her shoe. It occurred to her how useful shoe bottoms had been this morning. The match flared. She shielded it as she moved it toward the shirt. She touched it to the collar and the garment began to smoulder. A moment later it erupted in flame.
María crept back to the music stand. Struggling to her feet, she picked up the stand and leaned against the wall beside the door. She was breathing heavily to fight down the rising nausea caused by the blows to her belly. This wasn’t the first time María had been punched. She’d been hit by rioters, junkies, an angry motorist, and once — only once — by a jealous lover. She’d struck most of them back; she’d sent her lover to the hospital. But this was the first time she’d been held and beaten. The indignity of the attack and the cowardice of the attackers tasted worse than the blood that formed a shallow pool in her cheeks.
Flames consumed the shirt quickly. A thick column of dark, gray smoke rose behind the door. But the smoke wasn’t going high enough, fast enough. So María stretched the music stand out and jostled the burning pile. There was a soft hiss. Fiery shards and dark, red-rimmed ash flew from the shirt in all directions. They winked out after a moment and drifted to the ground. But the smoke from the stirred shirt swirled higher and higher.
Now it was high enough. An instant later an alarm went off, followed by the two sprinklers.
As soon as the water sprayed down, María stuck the music stand back in the shirt. She pushed it around like a mop. The shirt came apart in small pieces and she spread the ash over the floor.
She heard footsteps and moved back beside the door — on the right side. She was still holding the stand. The footsteps stopped.
“You two wait here,” said one of the men, “in case she tries to get out.”
Good, María thought. One soldier was coming in alone. That would make this easier. The door flew out and the soldier ran in. As he did he slid on the wet ash and landed on his back, hard. María immediately raised the music stand above her head. She drove the short, metal tripod legs into his face and he screamed. His fall and shriek were a blur of action. They obviously surprised the soldiers in the corridor and caused them to hesitate.
That was the beauty of elite soldiers, she thought. They were young, fit, and nowhere near as experienced as ragged old warriors.
Their hesitation was all María needed. She tossed the music stand away and let her weak legs have their way: she literally fell over, face first, onto the soldier. She landed across his waist.
Across the holster.
María knew that the two men in the hallway wouldn’t shoot her. Not yet. As the fire bell clanged and water rained down on María, the two soldiers rushed forward. At the same time, swearing viciously and vowing to rape her, the hurt soldier tried to push María off. She let him. As she rolled over, she slid the 9mm pistol from his holster. She released the safety and without hesitation fired a shot into his knee. He screeched and blood splattered her face. But María didn’t seem to notice as she got up on one knee, aimed low at the other two soldiers, and fired. The pistol coughed twice and blood splashed outward from their knees. The men cried out and crumpled in the doorway.
As water continued to sprinkle down on her, María stuck the pistol in her waistband. Then she waddled over on her knees and relieved the writhing soldiers of their weapons. The knee wounds pleased her. There wouldn’t be a day in the lives of these men that they didn’t think of her. The pain and disability would be a constant reminder of their brutality.
She pulled off the soldiers’ neckties and quickly bound their wrists. Then she stuffed unburned sections of her shirt into their mouths. The bonds and gags weren’t as secure as she’d have liked, but there wasn’t a lot of time. She used the jamb to help her stand. As soon as she was sure her legs would hold her, she started shuffling quickly down the hall in the opposite direction from which she’d come. The corridor enclosed the main floor in the center of the palace. Continuing in this direction would bring her back to the Hall of Halberdiers and the throne room.
As she released the safeties of the two pistols in her hands, she vowed that this time she would have her audience with Amadori.
TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, 9:03 A.M. Madrid, Spain
Luis García de la Vega strode into the commissary. With him was his father, retired General Manolo de la Vega of the Spanish Air Force. Because Luis couldn’t be sure who on his staff might be sympathetic to the rebel faction, he wanted someone behind him he knew he could rely on. As he’d told McCaskey, he and his tall, white-haired father rarely agreed on political issues. Manolo leaned to the left, Luis to the right.
“But in a crisis,” he said, “where Spain itself is at risk, I trust no one more.”
The room was empty except for the seven Strikers, Aideen, and McCaskey. The Interpol officer walked over to Darrell McCaskey, who was helping Aideen put together her grip. The Strikers had already packed their gear and were marking and examining tourist maps of the city.
“Anything new?” McCaskey tiredly asked Luis.
“Yes,” Luis said as he pulled McCaskey aside. “A fire bell went off at the palace approximately ten minutes ago.”
“Location?”
“A music room in the southern wing of the palace,” Luis said. “The palace called the fire department to say it was a false alarm. But it wasn’t. One of our spotters used heat-goggles and found the hot spot. The fire was extinguished, according to the spotter.”
“Whoever’s running things in the palace took quite a risk,” McCaskey said, “considering all the treasures in there. I don’t assume that’s standard operating procedure.”
“Not at all,” said Luis. “The bastards didn’t want anyone coming in. A half hour before, they also turned away a Civil Guard patrol when it attempted to make its daily inspection of the grounds.”
“If Amadori is there, they won’t turn away Striker,” McCaskey vowed. “Hell, they won’t know what hit them. What does the prime minister’s office have to say about the situation?”
“They’re still not acknowledging, officially, that Amadori has effectively seized power,” Luis replied.
“What about unofficially?”
“Most of the top government officials have already sent their families to France, Morocco, and Tunisia.” Luis frowned. A moment later the frown became a smirk. “You know, Darrell — I’ll bet my family and I could get a table at the best restaurant in town tonight.”
“I’ll bet you could,” McCaskey said, smiling weakly. He walked back to the table where Aideen was checking the equipment Interpol had provided for her. These included a camcorder — which was linked to a receiver in the communications office — a first-aid kit, a cellular phone, and a gun.
Aideen made sure the camcorder battery was fully charged. As she did, McCaskey checked the clip of the 9X19 Parabellum Super Star pistol she’d been issued. Aideen had already inspected it. But she realized that McCaskey was probably anxious and needed to keep busy. After examining the weapon he returned it to her backpack.
As the Strikers pulled on their backpacks, McCaskey studied Aideen to make sure that she looked like a member of a tour group. She wore Nikes, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. In addition to the backpack, she carried a guidebook and bottled water. She felt like a tourist — right down to the jet lag. As McCaskey looked at her, Aideen gazed longingly at the empty table behind him. She’d been able to
sleep on the return flight from San Sebastian. But all the nap had done was take the edge off her exhaustion, and she knew it was just a matter of time before she crashed. She glanced behind her at the vending machines and contemplated a Diet Pepsi. She weighed the value of the caffeine against the risk that she’d have to find a bathroom before the mission was completed. That was something she’d learned to take into consideration during long, daytime stakeouts in Mexico City. Two hours could seem very, very long when you couldn’t leave your post.
She decided to forgo the beverage.
McCaskey, on the other hand, looked as though he were ready to crash now. When she’d first briefed him about Martha’s assassination, she remembered thinking how calm he sounded. She realized, now, that it wasn’t calmness: it was focus. She doubted whether he’d shut his eyes since Martha Mackall’s death. She wondered whether this reflected his determination to avenge her death, determination to punish himself, or both.
When McCaskey was finished with Aideen he turned to Colonel August. The officer was chewing gum and wearing a stubble. Sunglasses with Day-Glo green frames and reflective lenses were propped on his forehead. He was dressed in khaki-colored Massimo shorts and a wrinkled, long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just one turn. He looked like a very different man than the quiet, conservative soldier Aideen had met a few times back in Washington. August had a radio disguised as a Walkman to communicate with McCaskey. The volume dial was actually a condensor microphone. The colonel also carried bottled water. If it were poured onto the cassette in the Walkman, the tape — which was coated with diphenylcyanoarsine — would erupt into a cloud of tear gas. The dispenser would remain operational for nearly five minutes.
“All right,” McCaskey said. “You’re going to wait at the east side of the opera house. And if you get chased away?”
“We go to Calle de Arenal to the north,” August replied. “We follow it east around the palace and enter the Campo del Moro. If that’s blocked off, the fallback position is the Museo de Carruajes.”
