participate in some of those killings — he never had any problems. The life and security of his country came before any other considerations. As Herbert had put it so many times, “The deeds are dirty but my conscience is clean.”
But this was different.
Although Herbert’s wife, Yvonne, had been killed nearly sixteen years ago in the terrorist bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, he was still mourning her death. The loss still seemed fresh.
Yvonne had been a fellow CIA agent — a formidable enemy, a devoted friend, and the wittiest person he’d ever known. She had been his life and his lover. When they were together, even on the job, the physical boundaries of the universe seemed very small. It was defined by her eyes and by the curve of her neck, by the warmth of her fingers and the playfulness of her toes. But what a rich and full universe that had been. So rich that there were still mornings when, half-awake, Herbert would reach his hand under her pillow and search for hers. Not finding it, he’d squeeze her lumpy pillow in his empty fingers and silently curse the killers who’d taken her from him. Killers who had gone unpunished. Who were still permitted to enjoy their own lives, their own loves.
Now Herbert had to mourn the loss of Martha Mackall. He felt guilty. Part of him was pleased that he wasn’t the only one grieving now. Mourning could be an oppressively lonely place to be. Less guiltily, Herbert also wasn’t willing to laud the dead just because they were dead, and he was going to have to listen to plenty of that over the next few days and weeks. Some of the praise would be valid. But only some of it.
Martha had been one of Op-Center’s keystones since the organization’s inception. Regardless of her motivation, Martha had never given less than her utmost. Herbert was going to miss her intelligence, her insights, and her justified self-confidence. In government, it didn’t always matter whether a person was right or wrong. What mattered was that they led, that they roused passions. From the day she arrived in Washington Martha certainly did that.
Yet in the nearly two years that he had known Martha Mackall, Herbert had found her to be abrasive and condescending. She often took credit for work done by her staff — a common enough sin in Washington, though a rare occurrence at Op-Center. But then, Martha wasn’t devoted solely to Op-Center. Since he’d first encountered her when she worked at State, she had always applied herself to the advancement of the cause that seemed most important to her: Martha Mackall. For at least the last five or six months she’d had her eyes on several ambassadorial positions and had made no secret of the fact that her position at Op-Center was simply a stepping stone.
On the other hand, Herbert thought, when
Herbert’s cynicism burned off quickly, though, as he crossed the threshold into Hood’s small, wood-paneled office. “Pope” Paul had that effect on people. Hood believed in the goodness of humankind and his conviction as well as his even temper could be contagious.
Hood finished pouring himself a glass of tap water from a carafe on his desk. Then he rose and walked toward the door. Herbert had been the first to arrive, and Hood greeted him with a handshake and tight-lipped solemnity. Herbert wasn’t surprised to see the director’s dark eyes lacking their usual spirit and vigor. It was one thing to get bad news about an operative on a covert mission. Reports like that were statistical inevitabilities and a part of you was always braced for that kind of loss. Each time the private phone or fax line beeped, you half- expected a coded communique with a heart-stopping phrase like “The stock market is down one” or “Lost a charge card — cancel account.”
But to hear about the death of a team member who was on a quiet diplomatic mission to a friendly nation during peacetime — that was another matter. It was disturbing regardless of what you thought about the person.
Hood sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “What’s the latest from Spain?”
“You read my e-mail about the explosion off the coast of San Sebastian, up north?”
Hood nodded.
“That’s the last thing I have,” Herbert replied. “The local police are still pulling body parts and pieces of yacht from the bay and trying to ID the people. No one has claimed responsibility for the attack. We’re also monitoring commercial and private broadcasts in case the perps have something to say.”
“You wrote that the yacht blew up midship,” Hood said.
“That’s what two eyewitnesses onshore said,” Herbert replied. “There hasn’t been any official word yet.”
“And there isn’t likely to be,” Hood said. “Spain doesn’t like to share its internal matters. Does the midship location mean anything?”
Herbert nodded. “The blast was nowhere near the engines, which means we’re almost certainly looking at sabotage. The timing may also be significant. The explosion occurred soon after Martha was shot.”
“So the two events could be related,” Hood said.
“We’re looking into it,” Herbert replied.
“Starting where?”
Hood was pushing more than usual, but that wasn’t surprising. Herbert had felt that way after Beirut. Apart from wanting the killer found and punished, it was important to keep one’s mind active. The only other option was to stop, mourn, and have to deal with the guilt.
“The attack on Martha does adhere to the modus operandi of the Homeland and Freedom group,” Herbert said. “In February of 1997 they killed a Spanish Supreme Court judge, Justice Emperador. Shot him in the head at the front door of his building.”
“How does that tie in to Martha?”
“Judge Emperador heard labor law cases,” Herbert said. “He had nothing to do with terrorists or political activism.”
“I don’t follow.”
Herbert folded his hands on his waist and answered patiently. “In Spain, as in many countries, judges involved in terrorist matters are given bodyguards. Real bodyguards, not just for show. So Homeland and Freedom typically goes after friends and associates in order to make a point to the principals. That’s been their pattern in a half-dozen shootings since 1995, when they tried to murder King Juan Carlos, Crown Prince Felipe, and Prime Minister Aznar. The failure of that operation had a chilling effect.”
“No more direct frontal assaults,” Hood said.
“Right. And no more prime targets. Just attacks on the secondaries to rattle the support structure.”
Two other people had arrived as Herbert was speaking.
“We’ll talk about all this in a minute,” Hood said. He took a swallow of water and rose as staff psychologist Liz Gordon and somber-looking press officer Ann Farris walked in. Herbert saw Ann’s eyes catch Hood’s for a moment. It was an open secret along the executive corridors of Op-Center that the young divorcee was more than fond of her married boss. Because Hood was so unreadable — a talent he had apparently developed as mayor of Los Angeles — no one was quite sure how Hood felt about Ann. However, it was known that the long hours he spent at Op-Center had put a strain on his relationship with his wife, Sharon. And Ann was attractive and attentive.
Martha’s shell-shocked number-two man, Ron Plummer, arrived a moment later with Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II and Deputy Assistant Secretary of State Carol Lanning. The slim, gray-haired, sixty-four-year-old Lanning had been a very close friend and mentor to Martha. Officially, however, that wasn’t the reason she was here. Hood had asked Lanning to come to Op-Center because an American “tourist” had been shot abroad. It was now a matter for her division of the State Department, the Security and Counselor Affairs — the nuts and bolts group which dealt with everything from passport fraud to Americans imprisoned abroad. It was the job of Lanning and her staff to work as liaisons with foreign police departments to investigate attacks on American citizens. Like
