“This man has the makings of a genocidal maniac,” she said.
“I don’t know about that,” said Hood, “but he certainly seems determined to seize Spain.”
“And we’re determined to stop him,” the President said.
“How?” asked Burkow. “We can’t do it officially. Paul, Marius — have we got people underground there that we can count on?”
“I’ll have to ask our contact in Madrid,” Fox said. “That kind of work hasn’t been a part of our repertoire for a while.”
Burkow looked at Hood. So did the President. Hood said nothing. With Fox effectively out of the front line, he knew what was coming.
“Paul, your Striker team is en route to Spain,” the President said, “and Darrell McCaskey is already there. You’re also working with an Interpol agent who surrendered to the troops at that factory massacre. What about her, Paul? Can she be counted on?”
“She surrendered to try and get to Amadori,” Hood acknowledged. “But we don’t know what she’ll do if and when she gets to him. Whether she’ll reconnoiter or try and neutralize him.”
Hood hated himself for using that euphemism. They were talking about assassination — the same thing they’d all deplored when it happened to Martha Mackall. And for exactly the same reason: politics. This was, truly, a dirty, stinking business. He wished that he were with his family instead of here.
“What’s this woman’s name?” the President asked.
“Maria Corneja, Mr. President,” Hood replied. “We have a file on her. She was attached to Op-Center for several months when we were first commissioned. She learned from us and we from her.”
“What would Ms. Corneja do if she had the support of a team like Striker?” the President asked.
“I’m not sure,” Hood answered honestly. “I’m not sure it would even make a difference. She’s tough and pretty independent.”
“Find out, Paul,” the President said. “But do it quietly. I want this to stay at Op-Center from now until it’s finished.”
“I understand,” Hood said. His voice was a low monotone. His spirits were even lower. No one else had even offered to jump in with him.
He wasn’t a boy. He knew that there might come a time when it would be necessary to stage a black-ops action like this — the use of Striker or one of his people to target and take out an enemy. Now that it was here he didn’t like it. Not the job and not the fact that Op-Center was on its own. If they succeeded, a man was dead. If they failed, this would be on their consciences for the rest of their lives. There was no clean way out of it.
Carol Lanning must have understood that. She and Hood remained seated at the table, side by side, as the President and the others left. The men all said good-night to Hood but nothing more. What
When the room was empty, Carol put her hand on Hood’s.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s no fun being disavowed.”
“Or set up,” Hood said.
“Hmmm,” she replied. “You don’t think anyone else knew what the President was planning?”
Hood shook his head. “And when they leave here, they’ll forget he ever suggested it. Like he said, this is Op-Center’s play.” He shook his head again. “The damn thing is it’s not even retribution. The men who killed Martha are dead.”
“I know,” Carol said. “Nobody ever said this business was fair.”
“No, they didn’t.” Hood wanted to get up. But he was too damn tired and way too disgusted to even think about moving.
“If I can do anything for you, unofficially, let me know,” she said. She squeezed his hand again and rose. “Paul — it’s a job. You can’t afford to look at it any other way.”
“Thanks,” Hood said. “But if I do that I can’t see how I’ll be any different than Amadori.”
She smiled. “Oh, you will be, Paul. You’ll never try to convince yourself that what you’re doing is right. Only necessary.”
Hood didn’t really see the distinction, but this wasn’t the time to try to find it. Because, like it or not, he
He rose slowly and left with Carol. It was ironic. He once thought that running Los Angeles was difficult: angering special interests with everything you did and living in the public eye. Now he was working undercover and feeling as alone — personally and professionally — as a person could be.
He didn’t remember who had said that in order to lead men you had to turn your back on them. But they were right, which was why Michael Lawrence was President and he wasn’t. That was why someone like Michael Lawrence had to be President.
Hood would do this job because he had to. After that, he vowed, he would do no more. Here in the White House — which had awed him less than an hour before — he vowed that however this ended he would leave Op- Center… and get his family back.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sleepy San Sebastian had been roughly awakened by the sounds of gunfire at the factory.
Father Norberto had remained at his brother’s apartment long after the police had come for his body. He had stayed there, kneeling on the hardwood floor, to pray for Adolfo’s soul. But when Father Norberto heard the gunfire, followed by the cries of people in the street and shouts of
As Norberto neared St. Ignatius he looked across the long, low field. He could see the helicopters hovering over the factory in the distance. But there was no time to wonder about them. The church was already filling with mothers and young children as well as the elderly. Soon the fishermen would arrive, returning to shore to make certain their families were safe. He had to attend to these people, not to his own wounds.
Norberto’s arrival was heralded by the relieved cries of the people outside the church and thanks to God. For a moment — a brief, soul-touching moment — the priest felt the same love and compassion for the poor that the Son of Man Himself must have felt. It didn’t alleviate his pain. But it did give him renewed strength and purpose.
The first thing Father Norberto did upon arriving was to smile and speak softly. Speaking softly made the people quiet down. It forced them to control their fear. He got everyone inside and into pews. Then, as Norberto lit the candles beside the pulpit, he asked white-haired “Grandfather” Jose if he would usher newcomers inside in an orderly fashion. The former salvage ship captain, a pious Catholic, accepted the task humbly, his gray eyes gleaming.
When the candles were lit and the church was awash with their comforting glow, the priest went to the altar. He used it to steady himself for just a moment. Then he led the congregation through Mass, hoping that they would take comfort as much in the familiar ritual as in the presence of God. Norberto hoped that he, too, would find solace there. But as he proceeded through the Liturgy of the Word, he found little for himself. The only consolation he had was the fact that he was giving comfort to others.
When Father Norberto finished the service, he turned to the uneasy crowd, which was already over one hundred strong. The heat of their bodies and their fear filled the small, dark church. The smell of the sea air came through the open door. It inspired Father Norberto to speak to the crowd from Matthew.
In a loud and strong voice he read for the parishioners. “ ‘And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was great calm.’ ”
The words of the Gospel, along with the need of the people, gave strength to the priest. Even after the gunfire had stopped, more and more of them came into the church seeking comfort amidst the confusion.
Father Norberto didn’t hear the telephone ringing in the rectory. However, Grandfather Jose did. The elderly man answered it and then came running up to the priest.
