Balance of Power

held it between his own hands.

“My son,” said Norberto. “I am Father Norberto.”

The man looked up. “Father — what… is happening?”

“You’ve been hurt,” Norberto said. “Just rest quietly.”

“Hurt? How badly?”

“Be still,” Norberto said softly. He squeezed the man’s hand and smiled down at him. “What is your name?”

“I am Juan… Martinez.”

“I am Father Norberto. Do you wish to make a confession?”

Juan looked around. His eyes were darting and afraid. “Father… am I… dying?”

Norberto did not reply. He only held Juan’s hand tighter.

“But how can this… be?” Juan asked. “There is no pain.”

“God is merciful,” Norberto said.

Juan clutched the priest’s fingers. His eyes shut slowly. “Father — if God is merciful, then I pray… He will forgive my sins.”

“He will forgive only if you repent sincerely,” Norberto replied. In the distance he heard guns popping with less frequency. There would be many others who needed God’s comfort — and His forgiveness. Pressing his cross to the lips of the wounded man, Norberto asked, “Are you truly sorry for having offended God with all the sins of your past life?”

Juan kissed the cross. “I am truly sorry,” he said contritely and with great effort. “I have killed… many men. Some at a radio station. Another in a room — a fisherman.”

Norberto felt Death turn and laugh at him. He had never experienced anything so cruel or punishing as this moment — the realization that the hand nestled in his was the hand that had slain his brother.

Norberto’s eyes were points of rage in a sea of ice. They burned into the man before him as though he were the Devil himself. Father Norberto wanted desperately to throw the man’s hand aside and watch him slide into eternal damnation, unconfessed and unsaved.

This man murdered my brother—

“The killings had to be,” Juan choked. His hand was shaking and he clutched Norberto’s fingers harder. “But… I am truly sorry for them.”

Norberto shut his eyes. His teeth were locked and trembling, his hand unresponsive to Juan’s touch. Yet he fought the urge to drop this hand that had snuffed out Adolfo’s life. As much as he was a grieving brother he was also a father ordained in the sight of God.

“Father—” Juan coughed. “Help… me to say… the words.”

Norberto drew air through his teeth. It is not necessary that I forgive him. Forgiveness is the province of God.

The priest opened his eyes and glared down at the bruised face and broken body sprawled before him. “Father, forgive me my transgressions,” Norberto said coldly, “for which I am truly repentant.”

“I… repent,” Juan rasped. “I… repent… truly.” Juan shut his eyes. His breath came in short gasps.

“Sins forgiven are removed from the soul, restoring the sinner to a state of sanctifying grace,” Norberto said. “May God forgive you your trespasses and deliver you unto salvation.”

Juan’s lips parted slowly. There was a short sigh. Then there was nothing more.

Norberto continued to stare down at the dead man. Juan’s hand was cold. Blood continued to trickle from his chest and cheek.

Norberto could not justify or forgive what this man had done. But Adolfo had gone fishing in a sea where the prey fight back. If Juan had not slain his brother then someone else would have. Tears filled Norberto’s eyes. He should have stopped it with Adolfo.

If only he had known about his brother’s other life. If only he’d been less harsh then perhaps Adolfo wouldn’t have been afraid to come to him. Why did he let him go out that night? Why didn’t he stay with him when he went to deliver that audiotape, the tape that helped to start all of this. Why didn’t I act when there was still time? And the worst punishment of all was that he had not been able to save his brother’s soul — only that of his killer.

“Oh, God,” Norberto said, letting his head roll back and tears fall freely. He set Juan’s hand down beside his body and covered his own eyes.

As Father Norberto knelt there he felt Death leave — though it did not go very far. The priest forced himself to stop crying. This was not the time to mourn Adolfo or to damn his own failings. There were others who needed comfort or absolution — others who may have acted arrogantly in the bloom of life, only to find humility in the face of eternal damnation.

Father Norberto rose. He made the sign of the cross above Juan Martinez. “May God forgive you,” he said softly.

And may God forgive me, Father Norberto thought as he turned and left the room. He hated the man who had just died. But in his heart, in the deepest and truest part of him, he hoped that God had heard his repentance.

There had been enough damnation for one day.

FORTY-THREE

Tuesday, 12:12 P.M. Madrid, Spain

It was the policy of all American elite forces to leave nothing usable behind. In some cases, where the mission was covert-red — meaning that no one could know the forces had even been there — even shell casings were collected. In a covert-green raid like this one it was only necessary that the identities of the operatives never be revealed.

Colonel August was aware that Aideen Marley had peeled off from the group. She had no orders to do so, but he couldn’t fault her initiative. As it stood, if she failed to get General Amadori the mission would be considered a partial success. Striker would have succeeded in flushing out the officer before he was ready. The firefight would force the municipal police and other officials to enter the palace. They’d find the prisoners and learn how they were forced to come here. Amadori might still be in a position to seize power, but this would make it a little more difficult. Certainly he’d find it tough to get support throughout Europe when news of his atrocities got out.

Still—

Colonel August didn’t like partial successes. Aideen had gone off to the southern wing of the palace in pursuit of Amadori. If Striker could keep the army off her back long enough, and if Amadori’s wound kept his mind on escape instead of security, she might be able to finish the job they set out to do. If she succeeded, they could still spare Spain the months of violent conflict and ruthless purges that would ensue if Amadori survived.

There were approximately three hundred feet between the Strikers and the oncoming Spanish soldiers. Though Amadori’s troops were wearing gas masks, the thick yellow smoke from the grenades had prevented them from proceeding more than a few yards every minute. Striker, meanwhile, had been able to keep up a steady retreat. They’d even helped several of the prisoners get out, those who had been kept in the Hall of the Halberdiers and had managed to make their way through the dissipating gas.

Striker was nearing the grand staircase of the palace. Behind it was the stairway to the dungeon. To the south was the corridor Amadori and Aideen had taken. Sidling up to Corporal Prementine, Colonel August instructed him to select one soldier to cover the retreat. Prementine was then to lead the other Strikers out of the palace.

“Sir,” Prementine said, “one soldier won’t be enough to do the job. I’d like to remain behind as well.”

“Negative,” August said. “That would make three of us.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll be here as well,” August said.

“Sir—”

“Do it, Corporal,” August said.