how pale she looked as well. He had to get help for her.
McCaskey unbuttoned his cuff and ripped off the bottom of his sleeve. He lay the cloth on Luis’s wound.
“You both need medical help,” McCaskey announced. “I’m going to try and get to a telephone — call for an ambulance. As soon as I do that, I’ll look for your friend Juan.”
Maria shook her head. “It may be too late—”
She tried to get up. McCaskey pushed down firmly on her shoulders.
“Maria—”
“Stop it!” she shouted.
“Maria,
“I don’t believe in luck,” Maria said. She used her free hand to push aside his arms. “I believe in the lousiness of people. And so far I’ve never been disappointed. Amadori may execute his prisoners just to keep them from talking about what he’s been doing—”
Maria stopped. She glanced past McCaskey. As she did, her eyes widened.
“What is it?” McCaskey asked, turning around.
“I
McCaskey gazed into the courtyard. The priest was hurrying toward them. He slowed as he neared. He obviously recognized her as well.
“Maria,” the priest said as he reached the arch.
“Father Norberto,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”
“It was strange fortune brought me,” he said. He squatted and touched her head comfortingly. Then he looked at her wound. “My poor girl.”
“I’ll live,” she said.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Norberto said. He glanced at Luis. “So has this man. Has a doctor been summoned?”
“I’m going now,” McCaskey said.
“No!” Maria shouted.
“It’s all right,” Norberto said, “I’ll stay with you.”
“It isn’t that,” Maria said. “There’s a prisoner — he must be helped!”
“Where?” Norberto asked.
“He’s in a room over there,” she said. She pointed toward the doorway along the palace wall. “I’m afraid they’ll kill him.”
Norberto took her hand. He patted it as he rose. “I will go to him, Maria,” he said. “You stay here and try not to move.”
Maria looked from the priest to McCaskey. The concern McCaskey had seen in the woman’s eyes was gone, replaced by contempt. His heart shattered, McCaskey left without a word. He was followed closely by Father Norberto.
The men entered the doorway together, McCaskey going in first. He’d left the gun with Maria in case the soldiers had a change of heart. He hoped he wouldn’t need it here. The gunfire was louder, of course. But it was still far enough away so that McCaskey didn’t think they’d get caught in a firefight. He looked at the old wooden cross hanging on the priest’s chest. McCaskey’s tired eyes lingered for a moment as he asked God to help his comrades who might be in the middle of the fighting.
There were eight doors along the short corridor. They were all shut. McCaskey stopped and turned to the priest.
Speaking in a very low whisper, he asked, “Do you speak English?”
“Some,” Norberto replied.
“Okay,” McCaskey said. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”
“I’m never alone,” Father Norberto replied, gently touching the cross.
“I know that. I mean — unprotected.”
“But the wounded ones—”
“There may be a telephone in one of these rooms,” McCaskey told him. “If there is, I’ll make the call and stay with you. We’ll find Maria’s friend and take him out together.”
Norberto nodded as McCaskey turned the first doorknob. The door opened into a dark study. After being out in the bright sun it took a moment for McCaskey’s eyes to adjust. When they did he saw a desk at the far end of the chamber. There was a telephone in the near corner.
“That’s a break,” McCaskey said.
“You go,” the priest said. “I’ll continue searching for the woman’s companion.”
“All right,” McCaskey said. “I’ll join you as soon as I’m finished.”
Norberto nodded and went to the next door.
Shutting the door, McCaskey went to the telephone. He lifted up the receiver and swore; there was no dial tone. He’d been afraid of that. Amadori’s people must have shut down access to all outside lines. In case any of the prisoners got away they wouldn’t be able to get intelligence out of here.
Returning to the corridor, McCaskey moved on to the next room. The door was opened and he looked in. It was a music room. It smelled faintly of smoke and then he noticed the ashes on the floor. This must have been where the fire alarm went off. Father Norberto was in the corner with a prisoner, whom McCaskey assumed was Juan.
“Father — how is he?” McCaskey asked.
Norberto didn’t turn around. His shoulders slumping, he just shook his head gravely.
McCaskey turned. The only way he was going to be able to get help was if he found Striker. They could call Interpol and ask for medical assistance. Even if the strike force hadn’t succeeded in killing Amadori, the general was going to have to allow medical assistance into the palace. His own people had been injured in the fighting.
McCaskey took a deep breath and started down the corridor.
FORTY-TWO
The music room of the palace was dark. However, there was enough light coming in from the corridor to allow Father Norberto to see the man slouched in the corner on the floor. He was gravely wounded. There were splashes of blood on him, on his clothes, and on the wall behind him. Fresh blood continued to pour from gashes on his cheek, forehead, and mouth. There were several raw, bloody wounds in his legs and chest.
Father Norberto could literally feel the presence of Death — just as he had when he knelt like this beside his brother. The sensation was always the same, whether Father Norberto was ministering to the terminally ill or holding the hand of someone who had been fatally injured. Death had a sweet, vaguely metallic scent that filled the nostrils and poisoned the stomach. The priest could almost feel Death’s touch. It was like a cool, invisible smoke chilling the air and seeping into his flesh, his bones, his soul.
Death had come for this man. As Norberto’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see what a miracle it was that the man still lived. The monsters who had imprisoned him in this room had shot, beaten, and burned him without mercy or restraint.
Whatever the reason, it couldn’t justify this. And in a Catholic nation, a nation that purportedly lived by the Decalogue and by the teachings of Jesus Christ, what his captors had done was a mortal sin. For their crimes they would live outside of God’s grace for eternity.
Not that that would help this poor man. Father Norberto lowered himself to his knees beside the dying prisoner. He pushed the man’s sweat-dampened hair from his forehead and touched his bloody cheek.
The prisoner opened his eyes. There was no sparkle in them; only confusion and pain. They drifted down the priest’s robe and then returned to his eyes. He tried to lift his arm. Father Norberto caught his trembling hand and
