unless the priests of Spain preached his views and advocated his conservative political candidates and collected onerous donations from the parish, none of the wealth and support he attracted found its way to them. Norberto believed that General Superior Gonzalez was interested in extending the power and influence more of Orlando Gonzalez than of the Spanish Jesuits.
Gonzalez was the General Superior and Norberto would never defy him or criticize him openly. But standing in his presence, in an old and magnificent church, Norberto didn’t feel the soul-warming piety he wanted to feel — that he
After three or four minutes of silent prayer, Gonzalez turned suddenly and faced the priests. They crossed themselves as he offered a benediction. Then he walked toward them slowly, his long, dark patrician face with its pale eyes turned toward the heavens.
“Forgive us, O Lord,” he said, “for this day was the first day in over one thousand years that the doors of this cathedral have been barred from the inside.” He regarded the priests. “In just a moment I am going to open those doors. I must leave, but Father Francisco will assign each of you to a different section of the cathedral. I ask you to talk to the people in turn, assuring them that this is not their struggle. That God will take care of them to trust in the leaders of Spain to restore peace.” He stopped when he reached Father Francisco’s side. “I thank every one of you for coming,” he continued. “The people of Madrid need spiritual guidance and reassurance. They need to know that in this time of turmoil they have not been abandoned. Once Madrid has been quieted, its faith restored, we can move outward and bring peace to the rest of Spain.”
General Superior Gonzalez moved past the priests. His black robe swung heavily from side to side as he walked toward the door. His step was confident and unhurried, as though everything was under control.
As Norberto watched the General Superior go, he realized with sudden horror that perhaps it was. That maybe this mission was not about ministering to the frightened or needy — not for their sake, anyway. He looked around him. Could it be that the most serene and devoted, the most
Father Norberto was scared. He also felt dirty. General Superior Gonzalez was not looking to gain favor with the leaders of this revolution. Norberto suspected that the General Superior was already part of this process to secure a new government for the nation.
A new government for Spain with himself as its spiritual head.
THIRTY-ONE
Maria was convinced that General Amadori was, in fact, in the throne room of the Royal Palace. However, she did not go there directly after escaping from the soldiers. She needed a uniform and she needed an ally.
The uniform had to come first.
Maria got it in a stall in the men’s latrine. The latrine was formerly — and formally—
The large white room had marble cornices and appointments. It was located in the southeastern sector of the palace, not far from the king’s bedchamber. Maria reached it by moving cautiously from doorway to doorway. Most of the rooms along the way were unoccupied; those that were, she skipped. If an alarm of any kind had been raised about her escape, the search was confined to the area around the music room and the throne room. It was an appropriate use of manpower. They knew she had to try to get to Amadori eventually. The trick was to make sure they didn’t notice her.
The uniform came to her courtesy of a young sergeant. He had entered the changing room with two other men. When he opened the door, Maria was crouched on the toilet with both pistols pointed toward him.
“Come in and lock the door,” she snarled in a low voice. The hum of the ceiling fan prevented her voice from carrying outside the stall.
There’s a moment when most people who are confronted with a gun will freeze. During that brief time, the individual holding the weapon must give an instruction. If the command is given immediately and emphatically it will usually be obeyed. If it isn’t, if the target panics, then the decision must be made whether to withdraw or fire.
Maria had already decided that she’d shoot to disable everyone in the room before allowing herself to be caught. Fortunately, the wide-eyed soldier did as he’d been ordered.
As soon as the door had been locked, Maria motioned the soldier over with one of the guns. She held the other one pointed up, toward his forehead.
“Lock your fingers behind your head,” she said. “Then turn around and back toward me.”
He clasped his fingers tightly behind his cap. Maria reached behind her without taking her eyes from him. She put one of her guns on the toilet tank, relieved him of his pistol, and tucked it in her belt, behind her. Then she retrieved the gun she’d put on the toilet.
Maria stepped back on the seat.
“Drop these.” She poked his butt with the gun. “Sit on the edge on your hands.”
The soldier obeyed.
“When your friends leave,” she whispered in his ear, “tell them to go without you. Otherwise, you all die.”
Maria and the sergeant — his nameplate said Garcia — waited. She swore she could hear his heartbeat. He did as he was instructed when the others called to him, and when they were gone Maria told him to rise. Still facing front, he was told to take off his uniform.
He did. Maria then turned him around so he was facing the toilet. She told him to kneel in front of it.
“Please don’t shoot me,” he said. “Please.”
“I won’t,” she said, “if you do as you’re told.”
There were two things she could do. One was to stuff his mouth with toilet paper, break his fingers so he couldn’t take it out, then tie him to the heavy tank lid. But that would take time. Instead, she executed a tight front-kick to the back of his head. That drove his forehead into the ceramic tank and knocked him out. He’d probably suffered a concussion, but there was no way to avoid injuries in this situation. Grabbing the uniform and guns, she changed quickly in the adjoining stall. The uniform was baggy, but it would have to do. Tucking her hair into the snug pillbox cap, she holstered the sergeant’s gun and hid the extra pistols under the front of her shirt.
She stuffed her clothes into the wastebasket — everything except the shoes. She rubbed the soles on her cheeks to give herself “stubble.” When she was finished, she threw the shoes out as well. Then she went to the mirror to give herself a final check. As she did, two other sergeants entered. They were in a hurry.
“You’re late, Garcia!” one of them barked. He walked past Maria, following the other man toward the urinal. “The lieutenant gave each group five minutes to get in and—”
The sergeant stopped and turned. Maria didn’t wait for him to act. She faced him and placed her right knee behind his left knee. Then she hooked her right arm, locked it around his neck, and threw him over her leg. He fell in front of her, lengthwise. Because her weight was on her right leg, she was able to lift her left leg. She stomped hard on his chest, breaking ribs and knocking the wind from him. His companion was facing the urinal. He turned but Maria had already stepped over the sergeant and was moving toward him. Lifting her right leg without breaking her stride, she drove her right knee hard into the small of his back. He was slammed against the urinal and fell back. As the soldier hit the tiled floor Maria kicked him in the temple with her heel. He went out immediately. The other man was still moaning so Maria pivoted gracefully and kicked him squarely in the side of the head. He, too, fell unconscious.
Maria stumbled back. She had marshaled the energy she’d needed for the attack, but the effort had drained her. The blows she’d suffered in the music room ached wickedly and this activity hadn’t helped. But there was still a
