Balance of Power

brewing.

“Does NATO have any jurisdiction here?” Hood asked.

“No,” Rodgers replied. “They’re not a domestic police force. I checked with General Roche, Commander-in- Chief of Allied Forces in Central Europe. He’s pretty conservative. Doesn’t want to plant a toe outside the charter.”

“With Basques being attacked, the French Basques might not let it remain a domestic matter for long,” Plummer said.

“That’s true,” said Rodgers. “But NATO still won’t want to break their primary mandate, which is to resolve disputes between member nations peaceably.”

“I know William Roche,” Herbert said, “and I don’t blame him. NATO still has egg on its face from the Serbian-Bosnian conflict in ninety-four. The Serbs violated designated safe havens all over the place despite the threat of limited NATO air strikes. If you don’t intend to go in with everything you’ve got, stay on the sidelines.”

“Anyway,” Rodgers said, “there’s a larger issue. If Portugal or France or any local government puts troops on alert it might help to precipitate a crisis.”

“The Spanish are kinda ornery that way,” Herbert said. “Groups of’em will get together and start something because they’re insulted that someone would think they’d start something.”

“Are we talking about lynch mobs?” Hood asked.

“They might look for Portuguese or French nationals to beat up on,” Herbert said. “Then, of course, those governments will have to respond.”

Hood shook his head.

“Welcome to the world of precipitating crises,” Herbert said. “From my kinfolk firing on Fort Sumter to blowing up the battleship Maine, from shooting Archduke Ferdinand to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Give people a spark and you usually end up with a fire.”

“That’s the old way,” Hood said tensely. “Our job is to figure out how to manage these things, to defuse crises.” That came out sounding harsher than Hood had intended and he took a long, slow breath. He had to be careful not to let frustration with his personal crisis seep into his professional crisis. “Anyway,” he said, “this brings us to the matter of Darrell and Aideen. Darrell has recommended sending Aideen to San Sebastian with an Interpol agent. I’ve okayed this. They’re going to go undercover to try and find out how the tape from the yacht was made, by whom, and why.”

“Who’s the Interpol agent?” Herbert asked.

“Maria Corneja,” Hood told him.

“Ouch,” Herbert said. “That’s got to sting a bit.”

Hood thought back to his own brush with his former lover. “They’ll have very minimal contact. Darrell will be able to handle it.”

“I meant it’s gonna sting her,” Herbert said. “She may handle it like the Castilians are handling the Catalonians.”

It was a joke but a nervous one. Maria had been infatuated with McCaskey. Their romance, two years before, had caused almost as much conversation as Op-Center’s first crisis, finding and defusing a terrorist bomb onboard the space shuttle Atlantis.

“I’m not worried about it,” Hood said. “I am worried about giving Aideen an exit strategy in case something goes wrong. They’re flying up to San Sebastian tonight. Darrell says that Interpol is worried about the same thing that’s been hounding police all over Spain: ethnic loyalties within the organization.”

“Meaning that Aideen and Maria are on their own,” Rodgers said.

“Pretty much,” Hood agreed.

“Then I think we need Striker over there,” Rodgers continued. “I can set them down at the NATO airfield outside Zaragoza. That’ll put them about one hundred miles south of San Sebastian. Colonel August knows that region well.”

“Get them going,” Hood said. “Ron, you’ll have to take this to the CIOC. Get Lowell to work with you on it.”

Plummer nodded. Martha Mackall had always handled the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee pretty much on her own. But Op-Center’s attorney Lowell Coffey knew his way around the group and would give Plummer an assist as needed.

“Is there anything else?” Hood asked.

The men shook their heads. Hood thanked them and they agreed to meet again at six-thirty, just before the night shift came on. Though the day team officially remained in charge as long as they were on the premises, the presence of the backups allowed them to get rest if the situation dragged on through the night. Until things stabilized or got so far out of control that crisis management gave way to open war, Hood felt it was his duty to be onsite.

My duty, he thought. Everyone had a different idea about what duty was and to whom allegiance was owed. To Hood, the bottom line was that he owed it to his country. He’d felt that way ever since he first watched Davy Crockett die at the Alamo on a Walt Disney TV show. He’d felt that when he watched the astronauts fly into space on TV during Project Mercury, Project Gemini, and Project Apollo. Without that kind of devotion and sacrifice there was no nation. And without a safe and prosperous nation the kids had no future.

The trick was not so much convincing Sharon of that. She was a smart, smart lady. The trick was convincing her that his sacrifice mattered.

He couldn’t let it rest. Against his better judgment Hood picked up the phone and called home.

THIRTEEN

Tuesday, 12:24 A.M. Madrid, Spain

Isidro Serrador’s small eyes were like stones as he watched the men walk into the room.

The congressional deputy was nervous and wary. He was unsure why he had been brought to the police station and had no idea what to expect. Had they somehow connected him with the death of the American diplomat? The only ones who knew were Esteban Ramirez and his comrades. And if they betrayed him he’d betray them right back. There was no point to that.

Serrador didn’t recognize these men. He knew from the chevrons on the sleeves of the sharp brown uniforms that one was an army general and the other was a major general. He knew from the general’s swarthy coloring, dark hair, flat black eyes, and lithe build that he was of Castilian ancestry.

The major general stopped several paces away. When the general was finally near enough so that Serrador could read the white letters on the small black name-tag attached to his breast pocket he knew his name: AMADORI.

Amadori raised a white-gloved hand. Without turning, he motioned crisply toward the major general. The officer set an audiotape player on the table. Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

Serrador looked up at Amadori. He couldn’t read anything in the general’s face. It was set perfectly and inexpressively. All formal lines like the creases in his uniform.

“Am I under arrest?” Serrador finally asked, quietly.

“You are not.” Amadori’s voice and manner were rigid — just like his lean face, like his unwrinkled uniform, like the taut, creaking leather of his new boots and twin holsters.

“Then what’s going on?” Serrador demanded, feeling bolder now. “What is an army officer doing at the police station? And what is this?” He flicked a fat finger disdainfully at the tape recorder. “Am I being interrogated for something? Do you expect me to say something important?”

“No,” Amadori answered. “I expect you to listen.”

“To what?”

“To a recording that was broadcast on the radio a short time ago.” Amadori stepped closer to the table. “When you’re finished, you will have the choice of walking out of here or using this.” He removed the Llama M-82