Balance of Power

“So what’s your crapstorm?” he asked.

“Riots,” Herbert said. “They’re bustin’ out everywhere.” He hesitated. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look faraway.”

“I’m fine, thanks, Bob. What’s the overview?”

Herbert gave him a you-ain‘t-foolin’-me look and moved on. “The riots are no longer contained in the Avila, Segovia, and Soria corridor of Castile,” Herbert said. “Ron, you’ve got the latest.”

“This just came via fax from the U.S. consulate in the city,” Plummer said, “though I’m sure several news services must be on it by now. Word of the Barcelona soccer cancellation got out — not surprising when the German players quietly tried to skip town. Angry fans actually blockaded the motorway with their cars as the bus headed to the El Prat airport. The policia nacional, Spain’s state troopers, came to try and rescue them. When the policia were hit with rocks, the Mossos d’Escuadra were called to help them.”

“They’re the autonomous police of Catalonia,” Herbert said. “They’re mostly responsible for government buildings and have a take-no-prisoners attitude.”

“Except that prisoners were taken,” Plummer said. “Over twenty. When the Mossos d’Escuadra contingent brought them in, the police station was attacked by a mob. Martial law is about to be declared in the city, which is where we’re at right now.”

“Now, Barcelona’s about two hundred miles from San Sebastian,” Herbert said, “and it’s an urban center as opposed to a resort. I’m not worried that the rioting is going to spread there quickly.” He hunched forward and folded his hands. “But I am worried, Paul, that when martial law is declared it’s going to have a very, very strong impact on the collective Spanish conscience.”

“How so?” Hood asked.

“One word,” Herbert replied. “Franco. There are strong and bitter memories of his militant, fascist Falange party. The first time government sponsored militancy surfaces in nearly a quarter of a century, you can bet there’s going to be very fierce resistance.”

“The irony,” said Plummer, “is that the Germans helped Franco win the Spanish Civil War. Having Germans as a flashpoint here is going to make the resentment even tougher to put down.”

“What does this have to do with our people?” Hood asked. “Are you saying they should lay low until we see what happens?”

Herbert shook his head. “I’m saying that you should get them out, recall Striker, and urge the President to evacuate all nonessential American personnel. Those who stay in Spain should button up tight.”

Hood regarded him for a long moment. Herbert was not a man prone to overreaction. “How bad do you think it’s going to get?” Hood asked.

“Bad,” Herbert said. “Some major political fault lines have been activated here. I think we may be looking at the next Soviet Union or Yugoslavia.”

Hood looked at Plummer. “Ron?”

Plummer folded the fax and creased it sharply with his fingertips. “I’m afraid I’m with Bob on this one, Paul,” he said. “The nation of Spain is probably going to come apart.”

SEVENTEEN

Tuesday, 3:27 A.M. San Sebastian, Spain

Adolfo Alcazar was exhausted when he got into bed.

He slept on a small, flat mattress in a corner of the one-room apartment. The sagging mattress rested on a metal frame not far from the stove; still lit and glowing dimly, the stove provided the only light in the small room. The old frame was rusted from the sea breeze that blew through the window.

He smiled. The mattress was the same one he’d bounced on when he was a boy. It occurred to him now as he lay down, naked, how pure an act that had been — to bounce on the bed. It was an activity that didn’t give a damn about what went before or what was coming next. It was a complete, self-contained expression of freedom and joy.

He remembered having to stop when he grew a little and made more noise. The people who lived downstairs complained. It had been a harsh thing for a child to learn, that he wasn’t free. And that was only the first lesson in his lack of liberty. Until he met the General his life had been a series of surrenders and retreats that made others happy or rich. As he lay down in bed, in the bed that used to make him feel so free, Adolfo felt a taste of what it was like to be free again. Free of government regulations that told him what he could fish and fishing magnates who told him when and where he could fish so as not to interfere with them and recreational boats clogging his harbor because the boating industry had more influence in Madrid than small fishermen had. With the help of the General he would be free to make a living in a nation that once again belonged to the people. To his people. The General didn’t care if you were Castilian like Adolfo or Catalonian or Basque or Galician or whatever. If you wanted to be free from Madrid, if you wanted self-rule for your people, you followed him. If you wanted to maintain the status quo or profit from the sweat of others, you were removed.

Lying on his back, staring into the darkness, Adolfo finally shut his eyes. He had done well today. The General would be pleased.

The door flew inward with a crack, startling him. Four men rushed toward him before he was fully awake. As one man shut the door the others pulled him facedown on the floor. His arms were stretched out from his sides and his palms were pressed down on the floor. They pinned him in that position with their knees and with their hands.

“Are you Adolfo Alcazar?” one of them demanded.

Adolfo said nothing. He was looking toward the left, toward the stove. He felt the middle finger of his right hand pulled back slowly until it broke with a single, flashing snap.

“Yes!” he shrieked. Then he moaned.

“You killed many men today,” one of them said.

Adolfo’s head was cloudy with thought but clear with pain. Before he could clear his mind his right index finger was pulled back and broken. He screamed as the pain raced up to his elbow and back again. He felt something — one of his socks — stuffed roughly between his teeth.

“You killed the head of our familia,” the man said.

His ring finger was drawn back until it popped. They released it and the three broken fingers sat side by side, bloated but numb. His hand was trembling as they twisted back the pinky finger. It flopped down, shattered like the others. Then he felt something hard and cold on his thumb. His head was forced around and he saw a crowbar, held vertically. The curved end was resting on top of his thumb. It was raised straight up and brought down hard. The thumb burned as the skin ripped and bone cracked. The crowbar went up again and then came down, this time on the wrist joint. It came down once in the center, once on the left, and once on the right. Each blow sent a swift, hot wave of pain up his arm to his shoulder and along his neck. When it passed there was only a deep throbbing weight on his forearm, like an anvil was sitting on it.

“Your hand will never again be raised against us,” the man said.

With that, they released Adolfo and turned him over. He tried to control his right arm but it flopped as though it were asleep. He caught a glimpse of blood as it trickled down his forearm. He didn’t feel it until it reached his elbow.

Struggling weakly, Adolfo was dragged several feet and then they pinned him again, on his back. The sock was still jammed in his mouth. It was dark and tears of pain filled Adolfo’s eyes. He could not see the faces of his captors. He fought to get free again but his efforts were like the wriggling of a fish in one of his nets.

“Save your strength,” the man said. “You’re not going anywhere — except to hell if you don’t tell us what we wish to know. Do you understand?”

Adolfo looked up at the dark face. He tried to spit out the sock, not to respond but in defiance.

The man grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Adolfo’s head toward him. “Do you understand?”

Adolfo didn’t answer. A moment later the man nodded to someone kneeling on Adolfo’s knee. A moment