Then — we will see.”
“That could take weeks, months,” McCaskey said.
“While haste, Senor McCaskey, may cost us more lives.”
“I’m willing to take that risk,” Aideen muttered. “The cost of retreat and inactivity may be much higher.”
Serrador walked behind the desk. “Prudence is neither of those.” He pressed a button on the telephone. “I sought the help of the distinguished Senorita Mackall. She has been taken from us. I sought and may still seek the help of the United States. Is that still available, Senor McCaskey, should I call on it?”
“You know it is, Mr. Deputy,” McCaskey answered.
Serrador dipped his head.
The door opened. A young aide in a dark suit took a step into the office. He stood with his arms stiffly at his sides.
“Hernandez,” said the deputy, “please take our guests out through the private entrance and tell my driver to see that they get safely back to their hotel.” He looked at McCaskey. “That is where you wish to go?”
“For the moment, yes. If possible, I’d like to go wherever the investigation is being handled.”
“I see. You have a background in law enforcement, I recall.”
“That’s right,” said McCaskey. “I spent a lot of time working with Interpol when I was at the FBI.”
Serrador nodded. “I’ll look into it, of course. Is there anything else I can do for either of you?”
McCaskey shook his head. Aideen did not move. She was seething. Again, politics. Not leadership, not vision. Just a cautious “T-step,” as they used to call a little dance move back in Boston. She wished she’d saved some of the
“My automobile is bulletproof and two of the guards will accompany you,” Serrador said. “You will be safe. In the meantime, I will speak with those of my colleagues who were scheduled to participate in today’s meeting. I will contact you in a few days — in Washington, I imagine? — to let you know how and if we wish to proceed.”
“Of course,” McCaskey replied.
“Thank you.” Serrador smiled thinly. “Thank you very much.”
The deputy extended his hand across the large mahogany desk. McCaskey shook it. Serrador swung his hand toward Aideen. She shook it as well, very briefly. There was no warmth in the short look they exchanged.
McCaskey had eased his hand onto Aideen’s back. He half-guided, half-pushed her out the door and they walked the corridor in silence.
When they were inside the deputy’s limousine, McCaskey turned to Aideen. “So.”
“So. Go ahead. Tell me I was out of line.”
“You were.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry. I’ll take the next plane home.” This was becoming the theme of the day. Or maybe it was something larger, the wrong fit of Aideen Marley and ivory tower diplomacy.
“I don’t want you to do that,” McCaskey said. “You were out of line but I happen to agree with what you were saying. I don’t think our accidental good-cop, bad-cop routine worked, but it’s got potential.”
She looked at him. “You agreed with me?”
“Pretty much. Let’s wait until we can call home and see what the rest of the clan has to say,” McCaskey continued.
Aideen nodded. She knew that that was only part of the reason McCaskey didn’t want to talk. Limousine drivers were never as invisible as passengers presumed: they saw and heard everything. And putting up the partition wouldn’t guarantee privacy. Chances were good that the car was bugged and their conversation was being monitored. They waited until they had returned to McCaskey’s hotel room before continuing. He’d set up a small electromagnetic generator designed by Matt Stoll, Op-Center’s technical wizard. The unit, approximately the size and dimensions of a portable CD player, sent out a pulse that disrupted electronic signals within a ten-foot radius and turned them to “gibberish,” as Stoll described it. Computers, recorders, or other digital devices outside its range would be unaffected.
McCaskey and Aideen sat on the side of the bed with the Egg, as they’d nicknamed it, between them.
“Deputy Serrador thinks that there isn’t much we can do without cooperation on this end,” McCaskey said.
“Does he,” Aideen said bitterly.
“We may be able to surprise him.”
“It might also be
“That’s true,” McCaskey said. He looked at Aideen. “Anything else before I call the boss?”
Aideen shook her head, though that wasn’t entirely true. There was a great deal she wanted to say. One thing Aideen’s experiences in Mexico had taught her was to recognize when things weren’t right. And something wasn’t right here. The thing that had pushed her buttons back in the deputy’s office wasn’t just the emotional aftermath of Martha’s death. It was Serrador’s rapid retreat from cooperation to what amounted to obstruction. If Martha’s death were an assassination — and her gut told her that it was — was Serrador afraid that they’d target him next? If so, why didn’t he take on extra security? Why were the halls leading to his office so empty? And why did he assume — as clearly he did — that simply by calling off the talks word would get back to whoever did this? How could he be so certain that the information would get leaked?
McCaskey rose and went to the phone, which was outside the pulse-radius. As Aideen listened to the quiet hum of the Egg, she looked through the twelfth-floor window at the streetlights off in the distance. Her spirit was too depleted, her emotions too raw for her to try to explore the matter right now. But she was certain of one thing. Though these might be the rules by which the Spanish leaders operated, they’d crossed the line into three of her own rules. First, you don’t shoot people who are here to help you. Second, if shooting them is designed to help you, then you’re going to run into rule number three: Americans — especially this American — shoot back.
FIVE
The hull of the small fishing boat was freshly painted. The smell of the paint permeated the cramped, dimly lighted hold. It overpowered the bite of the handrolled cigarette Adolfo Alcazar was smoking as well as the strong, distinctive, damp-rubber odor of the wetsuit that hung on a hook behind the closed door. The paint job was an extravagance the fisherman couldn’t really afford but it had been necessary. There might be other missions, and he couldn’t afford to be in drydock, replacing rotted boards. When he’d agreed to work with the General, Adolfo knew that the old boat would have to last them for as long as this affair took. And if anything went wrong, that could be a while. One didn’t undermine one takeover and orchestrate a counterrevolution in a single night — or with a single strike. Not even with a big strike, which this one would be.
There was a click. The short, muscular man stopped staring into space. He looked down at the tape recorder on the wooden table beside him. He lay his cigarette in a rusted tin ashtray and sat back down into the folding wooden chair. He pushed PLAY and listened through the earphones, just to make sure the remote had picked up the sounds. The General’s technical officer from Pamplona, the man who had given him the equipment, had said the equipment was extremely precise. If properly calibrated, it would record the voices over the slosh of the ocean and the growl of the fishing boat’s engine.
He was correct.
After nearly a minute of silence Adolfo Alcazar heard a mechanical-sounding but clear voice utter, “It is
No, Adolfo realized as he listened more closely. The noise wasn’t static. It was applause. The men in the yacht were clapping.
Adolfo smiled. For all their wealth, for all their planning, for all their experience at managing their bloodthirsty
