Balance of Power

woman. Maria may have had a rocky history where relationships were concerned, but she’d never gone wrong betting on the pride of Spanish men. As soon as she was spotted — halfway across the parking lot — she was ordered to stay where she was. Two soldiers came rushing from inside. One of them frisked her with enthusiasm until she informed them that she had something to tell General Amadori. She wasn’t sure what she had to tell him, but she’d think of something. The fact that she knew the general’s name seemed to catch the men off guard. They didn’t treat her gently after that, but they refrained from abusing her.

The prisoners stood in a bunch quietly, some of them smoking, some of them nursing lacerations, waiting to see whether they were being taken away or whether someone was coming. When a prop plane arrived from Madrid, the group was led onboard.

The flight to Madrid took just under fifty minutes. Though the prisoners’ wounds were dressed, none of the captives spoke and none of the soldiers addressed them. As she sat in the twenty-four-seater, staring out at the bright patchwork of farms and cities, Maria played scenarios out in her mind. She would talk to no one but Amadori, who would see her — she hoped — because she could tell him how much the world intelligence fraternity knew about his crimes. Perhaps an arrangement could be reached wherein he would restrict his ambitions to becoming part of a new government.

She also imagined the general not caring what anyone knew or thought. Whether he wanted to rule an independent Castile or all of Spain, he had the guns and he had the momentum. He also had familia members not just to interrogate but to hold as hostages if he wished.

There was another consideration. The very real possibility that simply by talking to Amadori Maria might fuel his ambition. The hint of a threat, of a challenge, could cause him to become defensive, even more aggressive. After all, he too was a proud Spanish man.

The airplane taxied to a deserted corner of the airport — ironically, to a spot not far from where she had departed earlier in the day. Two large canvas-backed trucks were waiting to meet the plane. In the distance, Maria could see busy pockets of jeeps, helicopters, and soldiers. Since she and Aideen had left here seven hours before, portions of Barajas Airport seemed to have been turned into a staging area for other raids. That made tactical sense. From here, every part of Spain was less than an hour away.

Maria had a sick feeling deep in her belly. A feeling that whatever had been set in motion could not be stopped. Not without shutting down the brain behind it. In that case, the question Maria had to ask was Could General Amadori be stopped? And if so, how?

The eight prisoners sat in facing rows of benches and the trucks headed into the heart of the city. Four guards watched over them, two at each end of the truck. They were armed with pistols and truncheons. Traffic was unusually light on the highway, though the nearer they got to the center of Madrid the thicker the military activity became. Maria could see the trucks and jeeps through the front window. As they entered the city proper the traffic was heaviest near key government buildings and communications centers. Maria wondered if the soldiers were there to keep people out or to keep them in.

The small, anonymous caravan drove slowly along Calle de Bailen and then came to a stop. The driver had a brief conversation with a guard and then the trucks moved on. Maria leaned forward and a guard warned her back. But she had already seen what she wanted to see. The trucks had arrived at the Palacio Real, the Royal Palace.

The palace had been erected in 1762, constructed on the site of a ninth-century Moorish fortress. When the Moors were expelled, the fortress was destroyed and a glorious castle was built here. It burned down on Christmas Eve, 1734, and the new palace was built on the site. More than any place in Spain, this ground — considered holy, to some Spaniards — symbolized the destruction of the invader and the birth of modern Spain. The location of Nuestra Senora de la Almudena, the Cathedral of the Almudena, just south of the palace completed the symbolic consecration of the ground.

Four stories tall and built of white-trimmed granite from the Sierra de Guadarrama, the sprawling edifice sits on the “balcony of Madrid,” a cliff that slopes majestically toward the Manzanares River. From here, the views to the north and west are sweeping and spectacular.

General Amadori was setting himself up in style. This wasn’t the king’s residence. His Highness lived in the Palacio de la Zarzuela, at El Pardo on the northern outskirts of the city. She wondered if the king was there and what he had to say about all of this. She had a sharp sense of deja vu as she thought of the monarch and his young family locked in a room of the castle — or worse. How many times in how many nations had this scenario been acted out? Whether the kings were tyrants or constitutional monarchs, whether their heads were taken or just their crowns, this was the oldest story in civilization.

She was sickened by it. And just once she’d like to see the story end with a twist.

They were driven around the corner to the Plaza de la Armeria. Instead of the usual early-morning lines of tourists, the vast courtyard was filled with soldiers. Some were drilling and some were already on duty, guarding the nearly two dozen entrances to the palace itself. The trucks stopped beside a pair of double doors set beneath a narrow balcony. The prisoners were led from the trucks into the palace. They shambled down a long hallway and stopped just beyond the grand staircase, in the center of the palace. A door opened; Maria was standing near the front of the line and looked in.

Of course, she thought. They were at the magnificent Hall of the Halberdiers. The axlike weapons had been removed from the walls and racks, and the room had been turned into a detention center. A dozen or so guards stood along the far wall and at least three hundred people sat on the parquet floor. Maria noticed several women and children among them. Beyond this chamber was the heart of the Royal Palace: the throne room. There were two additional guards, one on either side of the grand doorway. Maria did not doubt for a moment that behind the closed door was where General Amadori had established his headquarters. Maria was also convinced that more than vanity had brought him to this spot. No outside force could attack the general without coming through the prisoners. The detainees formed a thick and very effective human shield.

A sergeant stepped from the room. He shouted for the new group to enter. The line began to move. When Maria reached the door, she stopped and turned to the sergeant.

“I must see the general at once,” she said. “I have important information for him.”

“You’ll get your turn to tell us what you know,” the gaunt soldier said. He grinned lasciviously. “And maybe we’ll get a turn to thank you.”

He grabbed her left arm just above the elbow and pushed her. Maria took a step forward to regain her balance. At the same time she turned slightly and slapped her right hand hard on the backs of the fingers that were holding her. The shock of the slap caused the sergeant’s grip to loosen momentarily. That was all the time Maria needed. Grabbing the fingers in her fist, she spun around so that she was facing the soldier. At the same time she turned his hand palm up, bent the fingertips back toward his elbow, and snapped all four fingers at the knuckles. As he shrieked with pain, Maria’s left hand snaked down. She snatched the 9mm pistol from his holster. Then she released his broken fingers, grabbed his hair, and yanked him toward her. She put the barrel of the pistol under his right ear. His forehead was against her chin and his legs were shaking visibly.

The entire maneuver had taken less than three seconds. A pair of soldiers who were standing just inside the hall started toward her. But she backed against the doorjamb, her body shielded by the sergeant. There was no way to get at her without killing the sergeant.

“Stop!” she snapped at the soldiers.

They did.

The prisoners who had been shuffling along behind Maria froze. Juan was among them. Several prisoners cheered. Juan appeared confused.

“Now,” Maria said to the sergeant, “you can listen carefully or I’ll clean your ears for you.”

“I–I’ll listen,” he replied.

“Good,” Maria said. “I want to see someone on the general’s staff.” She didn’t really. She wanted to see the general. But if she demanded that right away she’d never get it. She had to give someone more information than they could handle so that she was moved along the chain of command.

A door opened a short way down the wide corridor. A young captain with curly brown hair stepped from a room on the other side of the detention area. As he emerged, his expression quickly shaded from puzzlement to annoyance to anger. He began walking toward her. He wore a.38 on his hip.

Maria looked at him. His green eyes held hers. She decided not to say anything to him; not yet. Hostage negotiations were the opposite of chess: whoever made the first move was always at a disadvantage. They gave up