Balance of Power

sleek white yacht Veridico lolled in the moonlit waters. The forty-five-foot vessel carried a complement of four. Dressed entirely in black, one crewman stood watch on deck while another had the helm. A third man was taking his dinner in the curving dining area beside the galley and the fourth was asleep in the forward cabin.

There were also five passengers, all of whom were gathered in the very private midcabin. The door was shut and the heavy drapes were drawn over the two portholes. The passengers, all men, were seated around a large, ivory-colored table. There was a thick, oversized leather binder in the center of the table and a bottle of vintage Madeira beside it. The dinner plates had all been cleared away and only the near-empty wineglasses remained.

The men were dressed in expensive pastel-colored blazers and large, loose-fitting slacks. They wore jeweled rings and gold or silver necklaces. Their socks were silk and their shoes were handmade and brightly polished. Their haircuts were fresh and short. Their cigars were Cuban and four of them had been burning for quite some time; there were more in a humidor in the center of the table. The men’s hands were soft and their expressions were relaxed. When they spoke their voices were soft and warm.

The owner of the Veridico, Senor Esteban Ramirez, was also the founder of the Ramirez Boat Company, the firm that had built the yacht. Unlike the other men, he did not smoke. It wasn’t because he did not want to but because it was not yet time to celebrate. Nor did he reminisce about how their Catalonian grand-parents had raised sheep or grapes or grain in the fertile fields of Leon. As important as his heritage was, he couldn’t think about such things right now. His mind and soul were preoccupied with what should have happened by now. His imagination was consumed with everything that was at stake — much as it had been during the years of dreaming, the months of planning, and the hours of execution.

What was keeping the man?

Ramirez reflected quietly on how, in years gone by, he used to sit in this very room of the yacht and wait for calls from the men he worked with at the American CIA. Or wait to hear from the members of his ’familia, ” a very close and trusted group comprised of his most devoted employees. Sometimes the familia henchmen were on a mission to deliver packages or to pick up money or to break the bones of people who didn’t see the sense of cooperating with him. Some of those unfortunate people had worked for one or two of the men who sat at this table. But that was in the past, before they were united by a common goal.

Part of Ramirez yearned for those more relaxed days. Days when he was simply an apolitical middle-man making a profit from smuggling guns or personnel or learning about covert activities by the Russians or Moslem fundamentalists. Days when he used familia muscle to obtain loans that the banks didn’t want to give him, or to get trucks to carry goods when no trucks were available.

Things were different now. So very, very different.

Ramirez did not speak until his cellular phone rang. At the beep, he moved unhurriedly and slipped the telephone from the rightside pocket of his blazer. His small, thick fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the mouthpiece. He placed the telephone to his ear. After speaking his name he said nothing. He simply listened as he sat looking at the others.

When the caller had finished, Ramirez closed the telephone gingerly and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked down at the clean ashtray in front of him. He selected a cigar from the humidor and smelled the black wrapper. Only then did a smile break the flat smoothness of his soft, round face.

One of the other men took the cigar from his mouth. “What is it, Esteban?” he asked. “What has happened?”

“It is accomplished,” he said proudly. “One of the targets, the primary target, has been eliminated.”

The tips of the other cigars glowed richly as the four men drew on them. Smiles lit up as well and hands came together in polite but heartfelt applause. Now Ramirez clipped the tip of his cigar into the ashtray. He toasted the tip with a generous flame from the antique butane gas lighter in the center of the table. After rolling the cigar back and forth until the edges glowed red he puffed enthusiastically. Ramirez allowed the smoke to caress his tongue. Then he rolled it around his mouth and exhaled.

“Senor Sanchez is now at the airport in Madrid,” Ramirez said. He was using the name the killer had assumed for this mission. “He will reach Bilbao in one hour. I will ring the factory and have one of my familia drivers meet him there. And then, as planned, he will be brought out to the yacht.”

“For a short stay, I trust,” one of the men said anxiously.

“For a very short stay,” Ramirez replied. “When Senor Sanchez arrives I will go on deck and pay him.” He patted his vest pocket, where he had an envelope stuffed with international currency. “He will not see anyone else so there is no way he can ever betray you.”

“Why would he?” asked the man.

“Extortion, Alfonso,” Ramirez explained. “Men like Sanchez, former soldiers who have come into money, tend to live lavishly, only for the day. When they run out of money, sometimes they come back and ask for more.”

“And if he does?” asked Alfonso. “How will you protect yourself?”

Ramirez smiled. “One of my men was present with a video camera. If Sanchez betrays me, the tape will find its way into the hands of the police. But enough of what could be. Here is what will be. After Sanchez has been paid he will be escorted back to the airport and will leave the country until the investigation has been closed, as agreed.”

“What of the driver in Madrid?” asked another of the men. “Is he leaving Spain as well?”

“No,” said Ramirez. “The driver works for Deputy Serrador. He wants very much to rise so he will be silent. And the car used by the killers has already been left at a garage for dismantling.” Ramirez drew contentedly on his cigar. “Trust me, my dear Miguel. Everything has been thought out very carefully. This action will not be traced to us.”

“I trust you,” sniffed the man. “But I’m still not certain we can trust Serrador. He is a Basque.”

“The killer is also a Basque and he did as he was instructed,” said Ramirez. “Deputy Serrador will also do as he was told, Carlos. He is ambitious.”

“Then he is an ambitious Basque. But he is still a Basque.”

Ramirez smiled again. “Deputy Serrador does not wish to be a spokesman for the fishermen, shepherds, and miners forever. He wants to lead them.”

“He can lead them over the Pyrenees into France,” said Carlos. “I won’t miss any of them.”

“I wouldn’t either,” said Ramirez, “but then who would fish, herd, and mine? The bank managers and accountants who work for you, Carlos? The reporters who work for Rodrigo’s newspapers or Alfonso’s television stations? The pilots who work for Miguel’s airline?”

The other men smiled, shrugged, or nodded. Carlos flushed and acceded with a gracious nod of his head.

“That’s enough about our curious bedfellow,” said Ramirez. “The important thing is that America’s emissary has been slain. The United States will have no idea who did it or why, but they will be extremely wary about becoming involved in local politics. Deputy Serrador will caution them further when he meets with the rest of the contingent later this evening. He’ll assure them that the police are doing everything they can to apprehend the killer, but that the prevention of further incidents cannot be guaranteed. Not in such troubled times.”

Carlos nodded. He turned to Miguel. “And how is your part going?”

“Very well,” said the portly, silver-haired airline executive. “The discount air fares from the United States to Portugal, Italy, France, and Greece have proven extremely popular. Travel to Madrid and Barcelona is down eleven and eight percent respectively from the levels of last year. Hotels, restaurants, and car services are feeling the loss. The ripple effect has hurt many local businesses.”

“And revenues will fall even further,” Ramirez said, “when the American public is told that the slain woman was a tourist and that this was a random shooting.”

Ramirez drew on his cigar and smiled. He was particularly proud of that part of the plan. The United States government could never expose the identity of the dead woman. She had come from an intelligence and crisis management center, not from the State Department. Nor could the United States reveal the fact that she had gone to Madrid to meet with a powerful deputy who feared a new civil war. If Europe ever learned that an American representative of this type had been scheduled to meet with Serrador, America would be suspected of trying to