white than gray. That was common among U.S. presidents, though it wasn’t just the pressures of the office which aged them tremendously — it was the fact that lives were deeply and permanently affected by every decision they made. It was also the steady flow of early morning and late night crises, the exhausting travel abroad, and what Liz Gordon once described as “the posterity effect”: the pressure of wanting to secure a positive review in the history books while pleasing the people you were elected to serve. That was a tremendous emotional and intellectual burden that very few people had to deal with.
The President thanked everyone for coming and sat down. As he poured himself coffee, he offered his con- pain in the ass as politics was, and as long as the hours were, and even though privacy was nonexistent, I gave up something where I felt I was making a difference.” His voice was tense. He was angrier about that than he’d thought. ”So I quit politics and I got caught up in long hours all over again. Do you know why? Because once again I’m making a difference. Hopefully making things better for people. I like that, Sharon. I like the challenge. The responsibility. The sense of satisfaction.”
“You know, I liked what I did too before I became a mother,” Sharon said. “But I had to cut way back on that for the sake of the kids. For our family. At least you don’t have to do anything that extreme. But you also can’t micromanage, Paul. You have backups. Let them help you so that you can give us what we need to remain a family.”
“You mean by your definition—”
“No. We need you. That’s a fact.”
“You
“Not enough,” Sharon shot back. Her voice was clipped and firm. Here they were again, in the roles they always assumed when well-meaning discussions degenerated into unpleasant debates. Paul Hood playing the angry offense, his wife playing the cool defense.
“Jesus,” Hood said. He wanted to lay the phone aside and scream. He settled for squeezing the receiver. “I’ve promised to quit, I’ve got a crisis here, and I can’t sleep without thinking about all of you. And you tell me all the things I’m doing wrong while you’re up there holding the kids hostage.”
“I’m not holding them hostage,” Sharon said curtly. “We’re yours whenever you want us.”
“Sure,” Hood said. “On your terms.”
“These are
The interoffice line beeped. Hood looked at the LCD: it was Mike Rodgers.
“Sharon, please,” Hood said. “Hold on a sec.” He put her on mute and picked up the other phone. “Yes, Mike?”
“Paul, I’m here with Bob Herbert. Check the computer. I’m sending over a picture from the NRO. We need to talk, now.”
“All right,” Hood said. “I’ll be right with you.” He returned to Sharon. “Hon, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” she said softly. “But you’re not as sorry as I am. Goodbye, Paul. I do love you.”
She hung up and Paul spun toward the computer monitor on the adjoining stand. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened. About how his family was slipping away and there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. What rankled him most was Sharon seemed to believe that having him none of the time was better than having him some of the time. That made no sense.
He resented that. But then, what other weapon did Sharon have? And she was right: he had screwed up, and more than once. He’d abandoned them on day one of their vacation in California. He’d forgotten birthdays and anniversaries and school concerts. He’d neglected to ask about report cards and doctor’s appointments and God knows what else.
Hood picked up the interoffice line as the black-and-white satellite photo was downloaded. This was not the time to beat himself up. Tens of thousands of lives were at risk. He still had responsibilities, however distasteful Sharon had managed to make the word sound.
“Mike, I’m here,” Hood said. “What am I looking at?”
“The Royal Palace in Madrid,” he said. “The effective view is from twenty-five feet up looking down from about two o’clock. That’s the main courtyard of the palace.”
“I don’t suppose those are tourist vans,” Hood said.
“No,” Rodgers said. “Here’s how we got there. After the attack on the Ramirez factory, Steve Viens had an NRO satellite follow the prisoners. They went from the parking lot to the airport in Bilbao to the airport in Madrid. Then they were bused from there to the palace. We think that woman near the front of the line is Maria Corneja.”
Hood enlarged the figure in the center. The computer automatically cleaned up the image for him. He hadn’t known Maria well and he wasn’t sure he’d recognize her if she hadn’t been pointed out. But it certainly could be her, and it was the only woman in view.
The screen cleared. Other photographs began to appear.
“These are higher level views,” Rodgers said. “Fifty feet, one hundred feet, two hundred feet. From the number of soldiers there and the top-level brass who are coming and going we think that that’s where Amadori may be. But there’s a problem.”
“I see it,” Hood said as the higher views appeared. “A square building with a courtyard in the center and nothing higher around it. Infiltration during the day is going to be a problem.”
“Bingo,” Rodgers said. “And waiting twelve hours until dark may not be acceptable.”
“What about Spanish uniforms?” Hood asked. “Can’t Striker wear those to get inside?”
“In theory, maybe,” Rodgers said. “The problem is it doesn’t look like any of the soldiers who bring prisoners to the palace or patrol the grounds are actually going inside. That’s another reason we think General Amadori’s there. He’s probably got an elite guard inside, patroling the halls and taking care of security. They’re the only ones who’ll have access.”
“Are there any underground passageways?”
“We’re looking into that now,” Rodgers said. “Even if there are, coming up inside those big sunlit corridors is going to be risky.”
Hood’s eyes burned and his mind was whirling. Part of him wished he could just bomb the palace, fly up to Connecticut, and collect his family. Maybe stay there and open a fish-and-chips stand on the seashore.
“So we wait?” Hood asked.
“No one here or in Madrid’s in favor of that,” Rodgers said. “But Aideen just arrived at the Interpol office. She and Darrell are talking the situation over with Brett and members of the Interpol team, adapting their playbook for the palace. There’s a team of Interpol spotters on the roof of the Teatro Real, the opera house, on the other side of the avenue. They’re scanning the entire palace with an LDE trying to pick out Amadori’s voice.”
The LDE — the Long Distance Ear — was a funnel-like dish that collected all the sounds from a narrow area and keyed in on those of a specific decibel range. In the case of a room inside a castle, it would automatically filter out external sounds such as cars, birds, and pedestrians. It would only “hear” very low intensity sounds inside walls. It would then compare the sounds to whatever was digitally stored in its memory — in this case, Amadori’s voice.
“How long will it take them to scan the entire castle?” Hood asked.
“Until about four o’clock,” Rodgers said.
Hood looked at the computer clock. “That’s nearly two hours from now.”
“I don’t like the idea of Striker sitting around and getting stale either,” Rodgers said, “but it’s the best they can do.”
“How far is the palace from the Interpol office?” Hood asked.
“I’m checking a map now,” Rodgers said. “It looks to be about fifteen minutes by car — if there’s no traffic or military checkpoints.”
“Which means that if they sit and wait for the LDE findings they’re as much as two hours and fifteen minutes away,” Hood said. “If Amadori decided to leave the area before we pinpoint him, we’d have a problem.”
“True,” Rodgers said. “But even if the Strikers were at the palace, there’s nothing they can do. They can’t choose a game plan without knowing exactly where he is. Besides, if Amadori isn’t there we may be sending them
