Balance of Power

Aideen said nothing.

“Or perhaps there is some other reason for the audience?” the inspector suggested.

Aideen rose. “If there is, Comisario Fernandez, I won’t know that until I see him.”

The inspector folded away his notebook and bowed courteously. If he were annoyed with her he didn’t show it. He thanked Aideen for her assistance, apologized again for what had happened, then extended an arm toward the open door. Aideen left the room. The sergeant who had brought her inside was waiting. He greeted her with a bow and they walked down the corridor together.

Aideen felt bad for the inspector. He had an investigation to oversee and she hadn’t given him anything to go on. But as Martha had pointed out, there were rules for every society and for every stratum of that society. And whatever the country, despite the constitutions and the checks and balances, the rules were always different for government. Phrases like “need-to-know” and “state secrets” effectively shut out otherwise legal inquiries. Unfortunately, in many instances — this one among them — the obstructions were necessary and legitimate.

Deputy Serrador’s office was located a short walk down the corridor. The office was the same size and had largely the same decor as the room Aideen had just left, though there were a number of personal touches. On three walls were framed posters of the bullring of Madrid, the Plaza de las Ventas. On the fourth wall, behind the desk, were framed newspaper front pages describing Basque activities during the 1980s. Family photographs were displayed on shelves around the room.

Deputy Serrador was seated behind the desk when Aideen entered. Darrell McCaskey was sitting on the sofa. Both men rose when she entered. Serrador walked grandly from behind the desk, his arms outstretched and a look of deep sympathy on his face. His brown eyes were pained under his gray eyebrows. His high, dark forehead was creased beneath his slicked-back white hair and his wide mouth was downturned. His soft, large hands closed gently around Aideen’s.

“Ms. Marley, I am so, so sorry,” he said. “Yet in my grief I am also relieved that you are unharmed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Deputy,” Aideen said. She looked at McCaskey. The short, wiry, prematurely gray Deputy Assistant Director was standing stiffly, his hands folded in front of his groin. He was not wearing the kind of diplomatic sympathy that was all over Serrador: his expression was grave and tight. “Darrell,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better, Aideen. You all right?”

“Not really,” she said. “I blew it, Darrell.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should have reacted… differently,” Aideen said. Emotion caused her to choke. “I saw what was happening and I blew it, Darrell. I just blew it.”

“That’s insane,” McCaskey said. “You’re lucky you were able to get out of the way at all.”

“At the expense of another man’s life—”

“That was unavoidable,” McCaskey said.

“Mr. McCaskey is correct,” Serrador said. He was still holding her hands within his. “You mustn’t do this to yourself. These things are always much clearer in — what do you call it? Hindsight.”

“That’s what we call it,” McCaskey said with barely concealed irritation. “Everything is always much clearer after the fact.”

Aideen gave McCaskey a questioning look. “Darrell, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing except that Deputy Serrador is disinclined to hold any discussions at the moment.”

“What?” Aideen said.

“It would be most inappropriate,” Serrador stated.

“We don’t agree,” McCaskey replied. He looked at Aideen. “Deputy Serrador says that the arrangement was made with Martha. That it was her experience and her ethnic background that enabled him to convince the Basques and Catalonians to consider possible U.S. mediation.”

Aideen regarded Serrador. “Martha was a respected and highly skilled diplomat—”

“A remarkable woman,” Serrador said with a flourish.

“Yes, but as gifted a negotiator as Martha was, she was not indispensible,” Aideen went on.

Serrador stepped back. His expression was disapproving. “You disappoint me, senorita.”

“Do I?”

“Your colleague has just been murdered!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deputy,” Aideen said, “but the issue is not my sense of occasion—”

“That is true,” said Serrador. “The issues are experience and security. And until I’m convinced that we have both, the talks will be postponed. Not canceled, Senor McCaskey, Senorita Marley. Merely delayed.”

“Deputy Serrador,” McCaskey said, “you know as well as I that there may not be time for a delay. Before Ms. Marley arrived I was telling you about her credentials, trying to convince you that the talks can go ahead. Ms. Marley has experience and she isn’t timid, you can see that.”

Serrador looked disapprovingly at the woman.

“We can carry on,” McCaskey said. “As for security, let’s assume for the moment that word of this meeting did get out. That Martha was the target of an assassination. What does that mean? That someone wants to scare away American diplomats. They want to see your nation come apart.”

“Perhaps the goal isn’t even a political one,” Aideen said. “Martha thinks — Martha thought that perhaps someone is hoping to make money on an armed secession.”

Serrador cleared his throat. He looked away at his desk.

“Mr. Deputy, please,” McCaskey said. “Sit down with us. Tell us what you know. We’ll take the information back with us and help you put a plan in place before it’s too late.”

Serrador shook his head slowly. “I have already spoken with my allies in the Congress. They are even more unwilling than I am to involve you now. You must understand, Senor McCaskey. We were talking with the various separatist parties before this — and we will do so again. It was my personal hope that if the United States could be brought into the discussions unofficially, and the leaders of both sides could be persuaded to make concessions, Spain could be saved. Now I’m afraid we’ll have to try and solve the problem internally.”

“And how do you think that will end?” Aideen demanded.

“I don’t know,” Serrador replied. “I only know, regrettably, how your association with this process must end.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks to the death of one who was brave enough to lead… and the retreat of one who wasn’t.”

“Aideen!” McCaskey said.

Serrador held up a hand. “It’s all right, Senor McCaskey. Senorita Marley is overwrought. I suggest you take her back to the hotel.”

Aideen glared at the deputy. She wasn’t going to be bullied into silence and she wasn’t going to do an end run. She just wasn’t.

“Fine,” she said. “Play it cautiously, Mr. Deputy. But don’t forget this. When I dealt with revolutionary factions in Mexico the results were always the same. The government inevitably relied on muscle to crush the rebels. But it was never enough to destroy them completely, of course, and the insurrectionists went underground. They didn’t flourish but they didn’t die. Only people who were caught in the crossfire died. And that’s what’s going to happen here, Deputy Serrador. You can’t tamp down centuries of resentment without a very big boot.”

“Ah. You have a crystal ball?”

“No,” she replied sharply. “Just some experience in the psychology of oppression.”

“In Mexico,” Serrador pointed out. “Not in Spain. You’ll find that the people are not just — what do you call them? Haves and have-nots. They are also passionate about their heritage.”

“Aideen,” McCaskey said, his voice stern, edgy. “That’s enough. No one knows what’s going to happen anywhere. That’s what these meetings were supposed to be about. They were supposed to be fact-finding, sharing ideas, a chance to find a peaceful resolution to the tensions.”

“And we may yet have those explorations,” Serrador said, once again the diplomat. “I mean no disrespect to the loss of your colleague but we’ve lost just one opportunity. There will be other ways to avoid spilling blood. Our immediate concern is to find out who was responsible for this crime and how the information got out of my office.