Force of Fire

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  The painting's central figure was dressed in white, his arms outstretched in crucifixion. At his sides were the disbelieving faces of men; at his feet lay the carnage of others; and, before him, stood the French firing squad, shoulders hunched, rifles trained on their disbelieving victim. It was a fitting portrait. This was exactly what the LPP hoped to do to the Spanish federalists. Drag them out into the street for mass murder. Scott knew if this were ever to come to pass Ana's grandmother, Maria, would be among the first to go. She was a staunch supporter of the King and had had several family members receive royal appointments over the years. Thinking of Maria, Scott found himself wanting to stop it. Of course he wanted Ana back unharmed. This was one gruesome history that didn't merit repetition.

  A tour group of Orientals had been partially obstructing his view with their minicams and large-lensed Nikon cameras. It was not until their guide led them into the next room that Scott saw the old man in the oversized beret seated on a folding stool in front of the canvas, sketch pad in hand. Scott would buy a crude pencil rendering and a little information. A Ben Franklin ought to do it.

  Mark was tugging on his chinos when the telephone rang. He’d tried to call Washington before his run but had been unable to get a line through.

  'Hi, chief. What's the word?' Jarvis said.

  Mark nabbed his briefcase off the nightstand and quickly dropped his scrambler into the hand-held receiver. 'Denton's given us the slip.'

  'Are you sure it was deliberate?'

  'No doubt. But I'm hoping he's working on something.'

  'Yeah, it'd really rot for him to go AWOL on you now.'

  'We'll find him. Count on it. I've got about thirty seconds before his trail goes cold. Got anything big?'

  'Big as they come. We got a cable this morning from Northern Spain. El Dedo's renegade runners and the LPP are claiming responsibility for snatching Ana.'

  'What are their demands?'

  'You were right on target. Archivo azul,' Jarvis said, emphasizing the words. 'We get Ana when they get the file. It's that simple.'

  Mark wished. He had pieced it together during his return flight from Miami. It was the only thing that made sense. The archivo was a cache of top-secret intelligence maps detailing the hidden underground network of military installations in Spain. It was from these installations, and with the aid of Iberian sympathizers, that Ana's father had managed to smuggle arms to the Allies, despite the efforts of Basque militants to sabotage his operation, code-named MILO II.

  'There’s one more thing, boss. The LPP wants to specify the courier.'

  Mark grabbed his damp t-shirt off the bed and wiped the new perspiration forming above his ears. 'Let me guess,' he said, thinking of the man in the park, 'it’s not me.'

  'We’re instructed to take no action until contact is made.' Jarvis kept talking. 'What I don't get, is why these LPP guys think they have a prayer. It's never been U.S. policy to negotiate with terrorists.'

  He was still learning, Mark realized. 'Any leaks to the press?'

  'No, thank God. Everyone here's been keeping a lid on it. We haven't even contacted the mother, as you directed.'

  'Good, good. There’s really nothing she can do but worry. And, if she were to talk – to anyone, it could mean even bigger trouble. Do me a favor.'

  'Name it.'

  'Don't mention this Denton thing to Cromwell.' Mark dropped the phone in its cradle and turned, surprised to find a slight young man watching him, his back to the door Mark was sure he had bolted. He spoke in crisp English with a British intonation, but clearly he was Spanish.

  'So, Mr. Neal, the LPP has made its demands,' he said, his dark eyes fixed with eerie precision.

  'Who are you and how did you get in my room?'

  'You may call me any name you like,' he said, folding his arms in front of him and leaning back into the door. 'Pedro, Juan, Salvador. Yes, Salvador should fit nicely.'

  Mark waited.

  'After all, any name would be as irrelevant as yours, Mr. Taylor. Oh, that’s right. It’s Thomas this week, isn’t it? You really should get more original and move to another part of the alphabet.'

  Whoever he was, he knew too much.

  'You’re obviously not here to kill me. What are you after – information?'

  'Not at all,' he said, licking his lips. 'I know exactly as much as you do. Perhaps more.'

  'A bit awkward,' Mark said, flipping his briefcase shut and dragging his thumb across the line of gold numbers. 'Seeing as how we haven’t been formally introduced.'

  'Introductions, yes,' the man said, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward. He extended a lanky arm from beneath the drape of his loosely cut Armani suit. 'Salvador Rebelles, at your service.'

  Mark stayed where he was, not accepting the gesture. 'And you’re with?'

  'The Government,' Rebelles said, with an uncongenial smile.

  'Nationals?'

  'You didn’t really believe you, a CIA agent and a past drug informant, could slip into Iberia unnoticed?'

  'Unnoticed, no. But –' Cromwell had assured him this would never reach street level.

  'Don’t worry, Mr. Neal. Your secret’s safe with me.'

  'You and who else?' The DOS placement in Madrid was to grease the way for their arrival. There was to be limited access and no official cooperation.

  'Only those who need to know. We are a small, select group, not much different from your own.'

  'Defense?'

  'We’re all in the defense business, are we not? Defense of democracy.'

  The man stepped toward him. Mark looked closely but did not see any evidence of a weapon. Although he was certain one was there somewhere beneath those perfectly tailored pin-stripes.

  'What is it you want?'

  'What we all want, Mr. Neal. Assurance that a threat to democracy will not go unchallenged.'

  'My mission is not to secure the monarchy, Mr. Rebelles. That charge, it seems, is yours.'

  'You cannot deny American interest in this agenda or in the objective of eliminating the LPP.'

  'I am not here to obliterate the LPP.'

  'No? And next you’re going to tell me your interest in this venture is purely professional.'

  'What else?' Mark said, feeling the heat at the back of his neck.

  'The phrase blood runs thicker than water translates into all languages, Mr. Neal.'

  'State what you have to say in plain English.'

  'How strictly professional would this operation be if you were to learn of evidence linking one Fidel Carnova to a certain bombing over London twenty-three years ago?'

  Mark could feel the veins in his temples starting to swell. 'You have such proof?'

  'The LPP has not only been a proverbial thorn in the side of the monarchy, Mr. Neal. It is an organization that has wreaked havoc in the lives of thousands worldwide.'

  'It’s more your business to stop it than mine.'

  'Perhaps. But you must understand an outright attack on the northern territories without overt provocation would be seen as a blight against the Crown by the Spanish people. To use an American term, the action would not be viewed as politically correct.'

  'It seems to me your government has had more than enough provocation.'

  'Isolated incidents of terrorism. Unfortunate occurrences, but not the precipitation of war.'

  'You’re asking the United States to wage war?'

  'Not precisely. We understand the covert nature of your operation.'

  Mark had a feeling Rebelles could be of use to him, but wasn’t willing to pay his price.

  'I have one agenda and one agenda only,' Mark said, trying to deny the fact that his agenda was changing. 'And that is to ensure the safe return of one critical American hostage.'

  'Ah, yes,' Rebelles said, bowing slightly and backing out of the room. 'In that case, we’ll make every effort not to stand in your way.'

  Mark was hurrying out his door when he ran smack into Denton, McFadden barking at his heels.


  'And where exactly were you?' Mark asked.

  'Don't give me your superior bullshit, Neal. I've got something.'

  'It better be good,' McFadden said from behind him.

  'We'll find out tonight at the Plaza Mayor,' Denton said, sounding a little too smug for Mark's comfort.

  'You found someone who knows something?' Mark asked, hating to think Cromwell had been right to send Denton along after all.

  'I've got some people asking around.'

  'People?'

  'People who roam. People who know the roads less traveled and the unscrupulous travelers who take them.'

  The gypsies were all over southern Europe, but a particularly large number of these migrant groups had taken a liking to Spain. Their presence was especially notable, Scott remembered, in the south. Although Madrid was popular too, mostly because of the tourists who couldn’t resist a fresh bouquet of roses or the pitiful outstretched hand of a small brown child.

  Because los gitanos were highly mobile groups, they were hard to pin down and even harder to convict for transgressions real or imagined. They were slippery eels who lived by the edge of the waters and slid their way discreetly in and out of society. La gitana was the perfect companion to the Spanish underground, and being the eager entrepreneur she was, she often worked both sides of the fence.

  The side Scott was familiar with ran against the law. In some ways, he was surprised to find so many of those old channels still in place. In others, he wasn’t. This was Spain, and change came slowly to a country with such a rich, dark history. Besides, the Spaniards were famous for living by their own version of the 'if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it' maxim. Have another copa and enjoy the view: 'salud, amor, dinero, y el tiempo para gozarlos'. 'Health, love, and money, and the time to enjoy them,' went the popular toast. Spain was not about progression, Scott realized; it was about savoring the moment. And with so many people savoring, nobody ever went anywhere.

  Except the gypsies. And they saw everything – what was usual and what was not so usual. They never got involved, but for a price they would tell on others who had.

  Mark spent the afternoon linked up with Jarvis in Washington, updating his files on the LPP. He’d hoped to pick up a clue as to where the kidnappers had taken Ana, but so far he was coming up dry.

  The fact the cable had come from northern Spain was not in itself significant. The LPP had its headquarters there. Ana could be anywhere on this vast peninsula, Mark thought, studying the map he’d brought along.

  His discussion with the man in the park had proved futile. Mark knew he’d been sent as a messenger. What kind, he hadn’t been willing to wait and find out. Not with a pistol drawn at his back.

  Mark knew firsthand the three of them were in danger. Carnova’s men were on to them and weren’t too pleased with interference from American Intelligence. The Spaniards, on the other hand, were thrilled. They were happy to step back and let Mark’s group contend with their threat to the north. But without the full-throttle support of American Defense that Mark’s operation was unlikely to get, Rebelles’ plan was an impossible scheme.

  And what of Rebelles’ allusion to Carnova’s participation in the Heathrow bombing? Was a link really possible? This was the first Mark had heard of the LPP’s potential involvement. Up until now, the 'unofficial' blame assigned by US Government had fallen squarely on the IRA. But because there was no hard proof – only speculation – nothing had ever been done about it. This was either one of Spanish Intelligence’s best-kept little secrets or one of its biggest lies. It was plausible, but then what would the LPP have stood to gain? Terror for terror’s sake, a strike against America? Or perhaps even a specific enemy on the plane?

  Mark picked up the phone and had the operator ring Washington. Jarvis was still at his desk.

  'Pete, I want you to look into something for me.'

  'Yes sir. More on Carnova?'

  That remained to be seen. 'I want you to do an archive search. Airplane downing. London, 1977.'

  'Heathrow? Sir, those files have been closed.'

  Jarvis certainly wasn’t old enough to remember the bombing but Mark assumed he’d been briefed on it somewhere. 'Well, then find a way to reopen them. I need the passenger list.'

  'Anything else, sir?'

  Mark looked down at his watch. He was due to meet the others in fifteen minutes. 'Tell you what, Jarvis. Do this old man a favor and do some homework for me.'

  'Homework?'

  'I’m going to test your analytical skills. You get your hands on that list and go through it with a fine-toothed comb.'

  'Anything in particular I’m looking for?'

  'Somebody, anybody who could be seen as an enemy of our friend Carnova.'

  The sun set late in Spain, so by the time Denton led McFadden and Mark to the Plaza Mayor, it was just twilight. After they made their way in through the massive stone porticos, the threesome discovered a splash of outdoor cafes neatly assembled on the plaza’s interior courtyard. Mark suggested a strategic corner restaurant offering local fare and red-checkered tablecloths. Once settled, Denton ordered them a selection of tapas and McFadden conjured up a pitcher of Sangria.

  Mark knew the Plaza from the brief smattering of history he’d assembled during his drug-tracking days for the DEA. It was an ominous place, an old king’s court that had witnessed both the grand and ignoble elements of the Spanish tradition. Mark could almost envision the eyes of the spectators on the shuttered filigree balconies above as they took in the glitter and atrocities of the Spanish Golden Age. Fine ladies veiled in lace peering through shimmering lashes at torch-lighted royal fetes. Those same charcoal-rimmed eyes opened wide above sweeping fans, gaping at the sight of skewered bulls or roasting heretics choking out their final blackened breath.

  A sense of dark foreboding seized Mark around his middle. He tried to shake it off with a swig of his cool wine punch and turned to Denton. 'We can’t stay here forever.'

  McFadden was getting antsy too. He had that restless tick in his shoulder Mark had first noticed in Costa Negra.

  McFadden rummaged in his pocket for some change. 'I say we hit the cuevas.'

  Mark was game for anything, anything but sitting still.

  Typically, Denton had to protest. 'I’m sure if we just sit tight –'

  McFadden turned to him. 'How do you even know your contacts are legit?'

  'I know.'

  Mark didn’t want them getting into it. 'Listen, Denton, if your people are good as you say, they’ve got somebody watching, right?'

  Denton shrugged. 'So?'

  'So, when they’ve got what we need, they’ll find us. It’s in their financial interest.'

  Denton led them beyond the granite archways to the darkened alleys adjoining the Plaza’s back side. There, hewn into the rock of the Plaza’s underbelly, lay the honeycomb of caverns used for centuries as Spanish pubs. They climbed a short flight of steps to an open door. Candlelight flickered from the depth of the cave. They made their way through the maze-like rooms, stooping to avoid the low beams of the ceiling. Spaniards gathered around small tables, sitting on crude wooden stools.

  Mark noted there was not a woman in the place over thirty. Only young girls in groups, students probably, from the university. The waiters, all male, were fortyish and quick on their feet, nimbly carrying nests of tiny glasses through the air above the heads of the crowd. Then there were the old men, sagging faces dressed in black downing their worries with their wine.

  They found a vacant table and settle d in. McFadden looked at Denton and cocked his head.

  'Maybe you should go make friendly with those kids over there.'

  'Give me some time.'

  McFadden rolled his eyes. His shoulder was twitching again.

  Mark smiled at the waiter as he set down their drinks, then waited until he disappeared. 'Look, Denton, I know you think you know the game here. Nobody’s disputing that. It’s just that we’re under a bit of pressure and McFad
den and I are in a business where we’re used to getting things done –'

  '– quickly,' McFadden said.

  Denton picked up the brown ceramic pitcher to refill their glasses. 'There’s something the two of you don’t understand. Nothing happens quickly in Spain.'

  Just then a fleshy gypsy woman appeared at their table. Mark was taken aback. He hadn’t seen her come in. But he had noticed the others. Bullish men at the corner table making a half-hearted attempt at a game of cards. Mark was certain he’d seen them in the Plaza, pausing to study the menu tacked to the wall just beyond their table.

  The gypsy smiled broadly, exposing one gold tooth among several brown ones. 'Flores para los senores.'

  She laid down her wilting bouquet, flattening her thick chest against Denton’s back as she leaned in toward the table.

  Denton thanked her, reaching into his hip pocket for his billfold.

  'Damn –' he mouthed, lunging for a swatch of her colored rags as she melted into a group of departing students.

  Mark and McFadden both laughed.

  'Let’s hope she delivered more than flowers,' Mark said, finishing his drink. The men in the corner were still playing the same hand.

  'Certainly paid enough for this sad bunch –' McFadden was picking up the flowers when a black slip of paper fell out from beneath the large ribbon that bound them. It looked like a wine label that had been peeled from its bottle.

  Mark slid it across the table, cupping it into his hand. 'Sherry?' he asked, lowering his voice and raising his eyes.

  McFadden craned his neck to take a look. 'Delgado Brand?' he whispered. 'That label’s out of commission.'

  Denton followed Mark’s gaze to the corner table, then motioned for him to hand over the label.

  'Jesus H. Christ,' he said in an equally hushed tone, 'That’s Delgado as in Carlos and Maria.'