“What’s happening?” August asked.
“Maria Cornejas has been taken outside, into the courtyard,” he said. “It looks like she’s bleeding.”
“Those shots we heard—?”
“Very possibly,” Luis agreed. “The problem is, it doesn’t look like those will be the last ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks as if one of the officers is selecting men for a firing squad,” Luis told him.
“Where?” August asked.
“Outside the chapel,” he said.
August snapped his fingers at Sondra and pointed to the map. She immediately brought it closer and turned the flashlight on it. He indicated for her to turn it over to the blueprint of the palace.
“I’m looking at the map now,” August said. “What’s the most direct route to the—”
“Negative,” Luis replied.
“Sir?”
“This update is
“I understand,” August said, and he did. The mission objective was crucial. But the colonel felt the same nauseating kick in the gut he’d experienced in 1970 when his battle-weary company engaged a vastly superior North Vietnamese force outside of Hau Bon on the Song Ba River in Vietnam. August needed to cover the company’s retreat and selected two men to stay behind with a pair of standoff rifles and hold the road as long as possible. He knew he would probably never see those two soldiers again, but the life of the company depended upon them. He also knew he would never forget the crooked half-smile one of the men gave him as he looked back at the company. It was a boy’s smile — a boy who was struggling very hard to be a man.
“As soon as you’re in position under the Hall of Tapestries,” Luis said, “Darrell wants you to get into gear. He expects to give you the go command within the next ten to fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll be ready,” August replied.
He briefed the team succinctly and then ordered them forward. There was no extraneous conversation. The Strikers reached their target in just over two minutes, after which Colonel August ordered them to remove their outer clothes. Beneath their damp jeans and jackets were kevlar-lined black jumpsuits. Reaching into their grips, the Strikers traded their Nikes and sandals for black “grippers,” high-top sneakers with deeply ridged hard-rubber soles. The customized soles were designed to keep the wearer from slipping on slick surfaces and to enable them to stop suddenly and with precision. They were backed with kevlar to help prevent anyone from shooting up through a floor to bring the soldiers down.
The Strikers also strapped black leather sheaths around their thighs; the sheaths contained eight-inch-long serrated knives. A loop around the other thigh contained a pencil-thin flashlight. They tucked Uzis under their arms and pulled black ski masks over their heads. When they were ready, August moved them from the catacombs to the dungeon. Six of the Strikers went ahead two at a time, the middle group of two leapfrogging over the first pair and the last pair moving up to take their place. Aideen was teamed with Ishi Honda. This allowed the two stationary pairs to cover the front and rear, respectively. They reached the dungeon in slightly over three minutes. It looked exactly like it had in the photographs they’d seen back at Interpol.
The one exit from the dungeon was an old wooden door at the top of the long and very narrow staircase. The only light came from Sondra’s flashlight and from the imperfect fit of the door. August motioned for Privates Pupshaw and George to check the door. August was prepared to blow it if they had to, though he’d prefer to enter with a little less thunder.
After a minute, Pupshaw came running back. “The hinges are rusted all to hell,” he whispered into August’s ear, “and the MD’s giving me a reading of some kind of lock on the handle on the outside.”
The MD was the metal detector. Slightly larger than a fountain pen, the MD was primarily used to find and define landmines. However, it could also “see” through wood.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to go through the door, Colonel,” Pupshaw said.
August nodded. “Set it up.”
Pupshaw saluted and ran back upstairs. Prementine joined them. Together, the men rigged a thumbnail-sized amount of C-4 around the handle and around each hinge. They stuck a remote-control detonator, about the size of a needle, into each wad.
As they were working, August received word from Luis. Maria was being interrogated by an outside wall and a firing squad had been assembled. It was time to move out.
Luis thanked them again and wished them luck. August promised to contact Luis when it was all over. Then he disconnected the microphone and stowed it in his grip. The action must not be broadcast, even to Interpol. The United States could not be connected with what was about to transpire and even an inadvertent recording or misrouting of the signal would be disastrous.
Like the other Strikers, August slipped the grip on his back. It was flat and lined with kevlar; the bulletproof material provided extra cover for the soldiers. Joining the others, August gave Pupshaw the order to proceed. Once the door was opened they’d proceed in serpentine fashion, Sondra still at point, Prementine at the rear. The object was to get to the throne room as quickly as possible. They were authorized to shoot — arms and legs if possible, torso if necessary.
The Strikers stood at the foot of the steps and covered their ears as Pupshaw twisted the top of what looked like an elongated thimble. The three small charges erupted with a bang like a popped paper bag. Door planks flew apart in jagged fragments, carried in all directions by three thick, gray, lumpy clouds.
“Go!” August shouted even before the echo of the blast had died.
Without hesitation Private Sondra DeVonne bolted up the stairs, followed in a tight line by the rest.
THIRTY-FIVE
McCaskey had one thing in common with Paul Hood. The two men were among the very few Op-Center executive officers who had never served in the military.
No one held that against McCaskey. He’d joined the New York City Police Academy straight out of high school and spent five years in Midtown South. During that time he did whatever was necessary to protect the citizens of the city he served. Sometimes that meant repeat felons would “trip” down the concrete steps of the precinct house when they were being booked. Other times it meant working with “old school” mobsters to help keep the rough new gangs from Vietnam and Armenia out of Times Square.
McCaskey received several commendations for bravery during his tenure and was noticed by an FBI recruiter based in Manhattan. He joined the agency and after spending four years in New York was moved to FBI headquarters in Washington. His specialty was foreign gangs and terrorists. He spent a great deal of time overseas, making friends in foreign law enforcement agencies and contacts in the underbellies of other nations.
He met Maria Corneja on a trip to Spain and fell in love with her before the week was out. She was smart and independent, attractive and poised, desirable and hungry. After so many years undercover — pretending to be hookers and school teachers and countless flower delivery women — and even more years competing with men on the police force, she welcomed McCaskey’s genuine interest in her thoughts and feelings. Through Luis, she arranged to come to the U.S. to study FBI investigative techniques. She had a hotel room in Washington for three days before she moved in with McCaskey.
McCaskey hadn’t wanted the relationship to end. God, how he had not. But McCaskey made the rules in the relationship, just as he did in the street. And he tried to enforce them. Like his street rules, they were designed to be beneficial. But whether he was trying to get Maria to stop smoking or to accept less dangerous assignments, he stifled the character, the recklessness that helped make her so extraordinary. Only when she left him and returned
