information, even if it was just their tone of voice telling an opponent their level of confidence in a situation. Quite often that information was enough to let you know whether they were ready to kill you, ready to negotiate, or hoping to delay things until they could decide their next step.
The officer’s tan uniform was extremely neat and clean. His black boots shone and the fresh soles clicked sharply on the tile floor. His hair was perfectly combed and his square jaw was closely shaved. He was definitely a desk officer. If he had any field experience, even in war games, she would be surprised. That could work in her favor: he wasn’t likely to make an important decision unless he checked with a superior officer.
“So,” he said. “Someone does not wish to cooperate.”
His voice was very strong. Maria watched his hand. She didn’t think he was going to reach for his gun. Not if he were a desk officer who’d never had to look into someone’s eyes while he pulled the trigger. On the other hand, he might want to impress his soldiers and the prisoners by making an object lesson of her. If he did, she’d shoot him and head toward the staircase.
“To the contrary, Captain,” Maria replied.
“Explain,” he snapped. He was less than three yards from her.
“I’m with Interpol,” she said. “My ID is in my pocket. I was working undercover and was accidentally rounded up with the rest of this
“Working undercover with whom?” he asked.
“With Adolfo Alcazar,” she said. “The man who destroyed the yacht. He was murdered this morning. I was on the trail of his killers when I was apprehended.”
That much was true, of course. She didn’t say she was looking for information about Amadori.
Maria had spoken loudly and, as she’d planned, Juan had overheard.
The captain motioned to a soldier, who struck Juan in the small of the back with his truncheon. Juan groaned and arched painfully but Maria didn’t react. The captain had been watching her.
“You know who committed the crime?” the captain asked.
“I know more than that,” Maria replied.
The captain stopped just a few feet from Maria. He studied her for a long moment.
“Sir,” she said. “I’m going to release the sergeant and turn over his weapon. Then I have a request to make.”
Maria didn’t give the officer time to think. She lowered the gun, pushed the sergeant away, then handed the pistol grip first to the captain. He motioned for the sergeant to accept it. The man took the gun and hesitated before returning it to his holster.
The captain’s eyes were still on Maria. “Come with me,” he said.
He’d bought it. He turned and Maria followed him toward his office. She’d moved up the ladder. They entered the Hall of Columns, which was exactly that. Desks, chairs, telephones, and computers were being moved in. The large room was being turned into a command center. As soon as they were inside, the captain turned to Maria.
“What you did out there was very bold,” he said.
“My mission demanded it,” she replied. “I can’t afford to be stopped.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Maria Corneja,” she replied.
“I had heard that the bomber was dead, Maria,” the captain said. “Who killed him?”
“Members of the
“What do you mean?”
“They are being supported by the United States,” she said. “I have names and I have details of what they’re planning next.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“I will tell you,” Maria said, “at the same time that I tell the general.”
The captain sneered. “Don’t haggle with me. I could turn you over to my interrogation group and have the information myself.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But you’d be losing a valuable ally. And besides, Captain, are you so sure you’d get the information in time?”
The sneer remained on his face as he considered what she’d just said. Suddenly, he motioned to a soldier who was carrying in a pair of chairs. He set them down, ran over, and saluted.
“Stay with her,” the captain said.
“Yes, sir,” the young soldier replied.
The captain left the room. Maria lit a cigarette and offered the soldier one. He declined, respectfully. As she inhaled, Maria considered what she’d do if the captain said the general wouldn’t see her. She’d have to try to get away. Let Luis know somehow where the madman-who-would-be-king was hiding. Then hope that someone could get in here and dethrone him.
She wondered what her chances would be of getting the captain’s gun, making her way through the detention room, forcing herself into the throne room, and putting a bullet in Amadori’s forehead.
Probably not very good. Not with twenty or so soldiers between here and there. Somehow, she had to get in there legitimately and talk to the general. Tell him something that would slow him down. Then get back to Luis and help figure out some way of toppling the bastard.
The captain returned before Maria had finished her cigarette. He strode through the doorway of the Hall of Columns and stopped. He smiled sweetly and she knew then she’d won.
“Come with me, Maria,” he said. “You have your audience.”
Maria thanked him — always thank the messengers in case you need a favor later — and lifted her shoe. She extinguished the cigarette on her sole. As she walked toward the captain she slipped the cigarette back in the pack. He gave her a curious look.
“It’s a habit I picked up in the field,” she said.
“Don’t waste your resources?” he asked. “Or don’t risk starting a fire, which can attract attention?”
“Neither,” she replied. “Don’t leave a trail. You never know who’s going to come after you.”
“Ah,” the captain smiled knowingly.
Maria smiled back, though for a different reason. She’d just tested the officer with a heads-up and he’d failed. She’d hinted that she was schooled at infiltration, that she knew more than he did, and the captain had let it go. He didn’t stop and take a second look at her. He was leading her right to the general.
Perhaps Amadori had made a few other mistakes in getting his coup underway. With any luck, Maria would be able to find them.
And then somehow, some way, get out to report them.
TWENTY-SIX
The C-141B transport set down heavily on the long runway at the Zaragoza Airbase, NATO’s largest field in Spain. The four twenty-one-thousand-pound Pratt & Whitney turbofans howled as the aircraft rolled to a stop. The plane had made a refueling stop at the NATO base in Iceland before completing the eight-hour trip against daunting headwinds.
During the flight Colonel August and his Striker team had received regular updates from Mike Rodgers, including a complete rundown on the White House meeting. Rodgers said that Striker’s orders vis-a-vis General Amadori would be given to them by Darrell McCaskey. Receiving them face-to-face wasn’t so much a security issue as an old tradition among elite forces: if you were sending a team on a hazardous mission, it was customary to look
