Balance of Power

“Father!” Jose whispered excitedly into his ear. “Father, quickly — you must come!”

“What is it?” Norberto asked.

“It is an aide to General Superior Gonzalez in Madrid!” Jose declared. “He wishes to speak with you.”

Norberto regarded Jose for a moment. “Are you certain he wants to talk to me?”

Jose nodded vigorously. Puzzled, Norberto went to the pulpit and collected his Bible. He handed it to the elder member of the church and asked him to read to the congregation more from Matthew until his return. Then Norberto left quickly, wondering what the leader of the Spanish Jesuits wanted with him.

Norberto shut the door of the rectory and sat at his old oak desk. He rubbed his hands together and then picked up the phone.

The caller was Father Francisco. The young priest had phoned to inform Norberto that his presence was required — not requested, but required—in Madrid as soon as he could get there.

“For what reason?” Norberto asked. It should have been enough that General Superior Gonzalez wanted him. Gonzalez reported directly to the Pope and his word carried the authority of the Vatican. But when it came to matters involving this province and its five thousand Jesuits, Gonzalez usually consulted his old friend Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao. Which was the way Norberto preferred it. He cared about ministering to his parish, not his own advancement.

“1 can only say that he asked for you and several others specifically,” Father Francisco replied.

“Has Father Iglesias been sent for?”

“He is not on my list,” the caller replied. “An airplane has been arranged for you at eight-thirty A.M. It is the General Superior’s private airplane. Can I tell him that you will be on it?”

“If I’m so ordered,” Norberto said.

“It is the General Superior’s wish,” Father Francisco gently corrected him.

When it came to ecclesiastic euphemisms, Norberto knew that that was the same thing. The priest said he would be there. The caller thanked him perfunctorily and hung up. Norberto returned to the church.

He took the Bible from Grandfather Jose and continued reading to the congregation from Matthew. But while the words came, warm and familiar, Father Norberto’s heart and mind were elsewhere. They were with his brother and with his congregation. Most of the members were here now, cramming the pews and standing shoulder to shoulder along the three walls. Norberto had to decide who would help the people through the day and night. This would be especially important if friends or relatives had been lost at the factory — and if the fighting were only the start of something terrible. From the way Adolfo had been speaking the night before, the strife was just beginning.

When a calm had come over the congregation — after seven years, Norberto could sense these things — he closed the Bible and spoke to them in general terms about the sorrows and dangers that might lie ahead. He asked them to open their homes and hearts to those who had suffered a loss. Then he told them that he must go to Madrid to confer with the General Superior about the crisis that was facing their nation. He said he would be leaving later that morning.

The congregation was silent after he made his announcement. He knew that the people were never surprised when they were abandoned by the government. That had been true when he was growing up during the Franco years; it had been true during the rape of the coastal seas during the 1970s; and from all appearances it was true now. But for Father Norberto to be leaving them at a time of crisis had to come as a shock.

“Father Norberto, we need you,” said a young woman in the first row.

“Dear Isabella,” Norberto said, “it is not my desire to go. It is the General Superior’s wish.”

“But my brother works at the factory,” Isabella continued, “and we have not heard from him. I’m frightened.”

Norberto walked toward the woman. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes as he approached. He forced himself to smile.

“Isabella, I know what you are feeling,” he said. “I know because I lost a brother today.”

The young woman’s eyes registered shock. “Father—”

Norberto’s smile remained firm, reassuring. “My dear Adolfo was killed this morning. It is my hope that by going to Madrid I can help the General Superior end whatever is happening in Spain. I want no more brothers to die, no more fathers or sons or husbands.” He touched Isabella’s cheek. “Can you — will you — be strong for me?”

Isabella touched his hand. Her fingers were trembling and there were tears in her eyes. “I–I did not know about Dolfo,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. I will try to be strong.”

“Try to be strong for yourself, not for me,” Norberto said. He looked up at the fearful eyes of the young and old. “I need all of you to be strong, to help one another.” Then he turned to Grandfather Jose, who was standing in the crowd along the wall. He asked the old sailor if he would remain at the church as a “caretaker priest” until his return, reading from the Bible and talking to people about their fears. He had come up with the term on the spot and Jose liked it. Grandfather Jose bowed his head and accepted gratefully and humbly. Norberto thanked him and then turned to his beloved congregation.

“We face difficult times,” he said to the people. “But wherever I may be, whether in San Sebastian or in Madrid, we’ll face them together — with faith, hope, and courage.”

“Amen, Father,” Isabella said in a strong voice.

The congregation echoed her words, as though one great voice were filling the church. Though Norberto was still smiling, tears spilled from his eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness but of pride. Here before him was something the generals and politicians would never obtain, however much blood they spilled: the trust and love of good people. Looking at their faces, Norberto told himself that Adolfo had not died in vain. His death had helped to bring the congregation together, to give the people strength.

Norberto left the church amidst the good wishes and prayers of the parishioners. As he stepped into the warm daylight and headed toward the rectory, he could not help but think how amused Adolfo would have been by what had just happened. That it had been he, a disbeliever, and not Norberto who had inspired and unified a frightened congregation.

Norberto wondered if God had provided this sanctifying grace as a means for Adolfo to overcome his mortal sin. The priest had no reason to believe that, no theological precedent. But as this morning had proved, hope was a powerful beacon.

Perhaps, he thought, that’s because sometimes hope is the only beacon.

TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday, 8:06 A.M. Madrid, Spain

Once the soldiers had secured the Ramirez boat factory, they lined up the three dozen surviving employees and checked their IDs. As she watched the soldiers pick out people, Maria realized that all of the core leaders of the familia were still alive. The factory guard and other informants must have kept careful records, including photographs. Amadori would have the cream of the familia for show- trials. He could show the nation, the world, that ordinary Spaniards were plotting against other Spaniards. That he had brought order to impending chaos. The people who were gunned down were probably not guilty of anything. In life, they could have insisted that they were not members of the familia. In death, they could be whatever Amadori wanted them to be. The care with which he had planned even this relatively small, remote action was chilling.

Those factory workers whose names were on the army’s list were brought to the rooftop. One of the helicopters was used to ferry prisoners to the small airport outside of Bilbao. There, fifteen workers plus Maria were held inside a hangar at gunpoint.

Juan and Ferdinand were among the captives. They were tightly bound. Neither man spoke and neither man looked at her. She hoped they didn’t suspect her of having set them up.

Maria couldn’t address that right now. Time and deeds, not protests, would clear her. She was just glad to be here. When she’d surrendered, Maria still had no idea whether prisoners were being taken at all. She had approached the factory with her arms raised, hoping that the soldiers would hold their fire because she was a