smoke was still too thick for her to see that far, but she knew that reinforcements were on the way. The Strikers would have to release more grenades to deal with them. If the soldiers had been alerted by security cameras or by a call from the throne room, they might very well be wearing gas masks. If that were the case, the Strikers would have their hands full just getting out of there. And Colonel August would abort if he felt that the mission had been too severely compromised. In the meantime Amadori might get away.
Someone had to stay with the general, Remote Surveillance System or not. If Aideen kept her distance, Amadori might not spot her. Chances were he’d be watching the cameras ahead of him, not behind him. And keeping her distance until she had a clear shot at the general was doable. There was blood on the floor from the bullet wound in Amadori’s leg. It would provide a trail she could follow easily. And if he stopped to bandage it, that was fine too. Perhaps Aideen would be able to get to him then.
Aideen looked back. The Spanish soldiers were wearing gas masks. August motioned his team back while he and Scott fired and drove the onrushing soldiers running for cover.
Aideen swore. Colonel August was going to call the mission off. But she wasn’t a Striker. She didn’t have to abort anything. This whole thing started when someone was encouraged to shoot at her and Martha Mackall. That seemed a fitting way to end it.
Aideen took a deep breath to still her trembling legs. The air tasted like charcoal through the mask, but she was getting used to that. Rolling off the jamb, she ran into the smoke-filled hallway, and followed the corridor to the east.
THIRTY-NINE
Sitting back in his wheelchair, Bob Herbert reflected on the fact that there was nothing quite like this feeling. Waiting in Paul Hood’s office with Hood, Mike Rodgers, and Op-Center’s international legal expert, Lowell Coffey II, Herbert contemplated the mood that settles onto a room in which officials are waiting for news of a covert operation.
They’re very much aware of the world going on around them, as usual. And they’re envious of the people in that world, where the problems don’t usually involve life and death and the fate of millions. They’re also slightly condescending toward those people.
Then there’s the personal side of the situation. There’s extreme tension over the fate of people everyone works with and cares about. It’s not unlike waiting for a loved one to come out of life-threatening surgery. But it is worse in one key way. This is something
Add to that the possibility that those heroic souls might have to be disavowed if captured, left to twist in the wind. That was good for a healthy helping of guilt. And there was more guilt over the fact that while their butts were on the firing line, yours was safe and secure. There was also envy — ironically for the same reason. There’s no high quite like risking your life. Throw exhaustion into the mix, with eyes that fight to shut and minds too tired to process thoughts or emotions, and the mood was unlike any other.
Yet Herbert cherished that mood every time it came around. He cherished it without gloom and without pessimism. Occasionally their worst fears were realized. Occasionally there was death. A Bass Moore like in North Korea or a Lt. Col. Charlie Squires. But because of everything that was at risk in operations like these, Herbert never felt more alive.
Hood obviously didn’t share his feelings. He had been extremely down since before the operation began, something Herbert had never seen before. Of all of them, Hood was usually the most even-keeled, always ready with an encouraging word or smile. This morning there was none of that. He had also become uncharacteristically angry when he learned that Darrell McCaskey had choppered over to the palace. And even worse, that McCaskey had taken Luis Garcia de la Vega with him. Unlike Striker, McCaskey could easily be traced to Op-Center. Through Luis, Op-Center’s involvement with Interpol on this mission could be ascertained. With all of the nations connected to Interpol — a few of which were not exactly America’s best friends — the political mess could be horrendous. It was Hood, not By-the-Book Rodgers, who had thought out loud about disciplinary action against McCaskey. It was the usually skittish Coffey who had pointed out that it might not be as bad as Hood thought. Since Maria Corneja was a prisoner at the palace, a rescue attempt might be entirely justified under Interpol’s charter. Hood calmed down upon hearing that. The mood in the room returned to being merely apprehensive.
And through it all, through the heavy silence and gnawing concern, there wasn’t a word from Spain or Interpol. Not until 4:30, when they got a call from a groggy Ann Farris at home. She told them to turn on the television and have a look at CNN.
Coffey hopped from the sofa and walked to the back of the room. While he opened the TV cabinet in the back of the office, Hood pulled the remote control from his desk. As everyone turned around, he punched the television on. At the top of the news on the half-hour was a report on a shootout at the Royal Palace in Madrid. An amateur videotape had captured the Interpol helicopter leaving the courtyard south of the palace while gunfire was heard in the distance. Then the report cut live to a camera crew on the scene in a helicopter. There were faint traces of yellow smoke rising from several windows.
“That’s Striker’s IA,” Herbert said, referring to the irritant agent.
Rodgers was sitting in the armchair next to Hood’s desk. He reached for the small color map that had been downloaded from the Interpol computer. Herbert rolled his chair over.
“That smoke on TV looks awfully close to the courtyard, doesn’t it?” Rodgers asked.
“Right where the throne room should be,” Herbert said.
“So the Strikers are definitely in there,” Hood said. He looked at the clock on his computer. “And on time.”
Herbert turned back to the TV and leaned an ear toward the screen. The onsite announcer had nothing to offer but dire superlatives about the event. The usual drone. There was no information about the cause or the nature of the struggle. But that wasn’t what he was listening for.
“I’m hearing gunfire,” Herbert said cautiously. “Muted — like it’s not coming from the courtyard.”
“Is that surprising?” Hood asked. “We knew that if the Strikers succeeded in getting Amadori there’d almost certainly be pursuit.”
“Pursuit,” Rodgers said. “Not resistance. The IA should have prevented that.”
“Unless the gunfire’s coming at ‘em blindly,” Herbert said. “People can do some weird stuff when they’re choking.”
“Could those shots be coming from the firing squad we were told about?” Coffey asked.
Rodgers shook his head. “This is individual fire and much too sporadic.”
“The good news,” Herbert said, “is if the Strikers had been caught, there wouldn’t be any shooting at all.”
The men were silent for a moment. Hood looked at the computer clock. “They were supposed to signal Luis’s office once they got back into the dungeon.” He looked at the phone.
“Chief,” Herbert said, “it’s an open line from here to there and my people are monitoring it. They’ll let us know as soon as they hear anything.”
Hood nodded. He looked back at the television. “I don’t know where the Strikers get it,” he said. “The courage to do these things. I don’t know where any of you gets it. In Vietnam, Beirut—”
“It comes from a lot of places,” Rodgers said. “Duty, love, fear—”
“Necessity,” Herbert added. “That’s a big one. When you don’t have a choice.”
“It’s a combination of all of those,” Rodgers said.
“Mike,” Herbert said, “you know all about famous quotes. Who was it that said you can’t fail if you screw your courage up — or words to that effect.”
Rodgers looked at him. “I think the quote you’re looking for is, ‘But screw your courage to the sticking-place and we’ll not fail.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Herbert said. “Who said that? Sounds like Winston Churchill.”
