iron streetlamp between them and the pedestal, the chopper wouldn’t be able to get as close as McCaskey would have liked. He’d have to cross about thirty feet of open courtyard to get to Maria. At least it didn’t look like she was tied up though it did appear as though she might be hurt. There was blood on her left side and she was leaning in that direction. She wasn’t looking up at the helicopter.
The Spanish army officer — he was a captain, McCaskey could tell now — was swinging an arm at them to take off again. As they continued to descend, he unholstered his pistol and motioned more wildly for them to leave.
The soldiers of the firing squad were on Luis’s side. They stopped their approach as the chopper set down. The captain was on McCaskey’s side. McCaskey watched him closely as he stalked toward them. He was shouting but his words were swallowed by the din of the rotor. Behind him, the two soldiers were still holding Maria.
“I’m going to open the door,” McCaskey said to Luis when the captain was about fifteen feet away.
“I’m with you,” Luis said. “Pedro — be ready to lift off again at my command.”
Pedro acknowledged the order. McCaskey put his hand on the latch, pulled, and threw open the door.
McCaskey got exactly what he was expecting. As soon as he placed one foot on the ground the captain lowered his gun without hesitation and fired at the helicopter. The bullet struck the rear of the cabin, just aft of the fuel tank. If it was a warning shot, it was a dangerous one.
McCaskey didn’t have the same reservations as Luis. McCaskey knew that if he shot the captain he would make Luis an accomplice. But they had to defend themselves.
With the cool of a seasoned G-man putting in time at the shooting range, McCaskey swung his Parabellum around, leveled it at the captain’s left leg, and fired two rounds. The leg folded inward, blood spitting from two wounds just above the knee. Ducking low, McCaskey jumped from the cabin and ran forward. Behind him, he heard the distinctive
The soldiers holding Maria released her and ran toward the nearest arch. She dropped to her knees and then onto her hands.
“Stay down!” McCaskey yelled as she tried to rise.
She looked at him defiantly as she turned a shoulder toward the pedestal. Leaning against it, she got her legs beneath her and stood slowly.
The gun had fallen from the captain’s hand. He was attempting to get it back as McCaskey raced past him. He snatched it up and continued ahead. The officer’s cries of rage and pain were quickly drowned by Luis’s voice coming over the megaphone.
McCaskey had had four years of Spanish in high school but he got the gist of what Luis was saying. He was telling the soldiers to get out, that more helicopters were on the way. It was an inspired maneuver that could buy them the little extra time they needed. McCaskey didn’t doubt that the soldiers would resist. If they were ready to execute Spanish prisoners, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack Interpol operatives. But at least they wouldn’t charge recklessly back into the courtyard.
Occasional bursts of fire were met by Luis’s rifle fire. McCaskey didn’t look back but he hoped the chopper wasn’t damaged.
As he came closer to Maria, he saw that her side was thick with blood and that her face was bloody as well. The bastards had beaten her. Reaching her side, he ducked a shoulder under her arm.
“Can you make it back with me?” he asked. He took a moment to look at her. Her left eye was bloody and swollen shut. There were deep cuts on both cheeks and along the hairline. He felt like shooting the bastard captain.
“We can’t go,” she said.
“We can,” he insisted. “A team’s inside hunting for—”
She shook her head. “There’s another prisoner in there.” She pointed toward a doorway some thirty feet away. “Juan. They’ll kill him. I won’t leave without him.”
McCaskey looked back at the chopper. Flashes of fire were increasing as soldiers got inside the palace and took up positions by the windows. Luis was able to drive them back but he wouldn’t be able to hold them for long.
McCaskey picked Maria up. “Let me take you to the chopper,” he said. “Then I’ll go back and get—”
Suddenly, there was a loud report from somewhere directly above them. It was followed by a gurgled cry from the chopper megaphone. A moment later Luis stumbled from the open door on McCaskey’s side. He was holding the rifle in one hand and clutching a wound in his neck with the other. McCaskey looked up. A sharpshooter on top of the arches had managed to get a clear shot through the open door of the helicopter. McCaskey was furious with himself for having anticipated only groundfire. He should have had the goddamn chopper drop him off and then get the hell out of there.
Luis walked forward haltingly. The rifle clattered from his hand and he left it where it fell. His goal was obviously the captain, who was writhing painfully. Luis took two steps more and then fell across him. No one risked shooting at him now.
Pedro looked desperately toward McCaskey, who waved him off. There was nothing else the pilot could do. A couple of bullets
They, unfortunately, were not.
THIRTY-SIX
To reach the throne room from the Hall of Tapestries, it was necessary to exit the long but narrow hall, go around the grand staircase, then pass through the Hall of the Halberdiers. Altogether it was a journey of slightly more than two hundred feet. The Strikers would have to cover the distance quickly, lest the noise of the explosion send General Amadori into hiding.
For the seven soldiers and Aideen, however, it was also a foray against more than two hundred years of American tradition. Although the United States had clandestinely assisted or encouraged assassination attempts against the likes of Fidel Castro and Saddam Hussein, only once in its history had the military targeted a foreign leader for assassination. That was on April 15, 1986, when U.S. warplanes took off from England to bomb the headquarters of Libyan despot Muammar al-Qaddafi. The attack was in retaliation for the terrorist bombing of a West Berlin discotheque frequented by American soldiers. Qaddafi survived that assault and the U.S. lost an F-111 and two airmen. Three hostages were murdered in Lebanon in reprisal for the American air raid.
Col. Brett August was aware of the lonely significance of the mission they were undertaking. In Vietnam, the base “padre,” Father Uxbridge, had a word for it. The priest tried to keep the mood light by giving all his sermon themes a military-style acronym. He called ethical ambiguities like these M.I.S.T.: Moral Issues Sliced Thick. That meant there was so much to chew on that you could think about it forever and never do anything because you could never reach a satisfactory intellectual resolution. The priest’s advice was to do what felt right. August hated bullies — especially bullies who imprisoned and killed those who disagreed with him. This felt right. The irony was that if they succeeded, credit for the deed would go to Spanish patriots loyal to the king, whose identities must be kept secret for security reasons. If they failed, they would be described as rogue operatives who had been hired by the Ramirez clan to avenge his death.
When the dungeon door blew open, the Strikers found themselves behind what was left of a three hundred year old arras. The bottom of the tapestry had been torn off in the explosion and the top was still fluttering as they rushed through. The Strikers’ orders were to disable opponents wherever possible and they were ready for the first
