a police force getting ready to move in. “Where are the coach and his people?”
“The coach is by the doorway at B1,” August said. “The lady and boss are in seats V5, one and three.”
“Very good,” Hood said. “You did your job, slugger. Now go home. We’ll talk when you get there.”
Herbert had rolled his chair to the computer and punched in the map coordinates August had provided. He asked the computer for a satellite update of the spot. Stephen Viens had linked them directly to the NRO download and it came up in fifteen seconds.
“I’ve got visuals on Maria and Luis,” Herbert said. He pulled back so he could see the entire courtyard. “I’ve also got about thirty soldiers getting ready to do something.”
Rodgers updated Burkow and Abril. As he did, Lowell Coffey went to the coffee machine and poured a cup.
“Paul,” Coffey said, “if Amadori’s dead, those soldiers may not kill our people or anyone else. They’ll hold them as hostages. Use them to bargain their way to some kind of amnesty.”
“And they’ll probably get it, too,” Plummer pointed out. “Whoever ends up running the country won’t want to further alienate the ethnic supporters these people may have.”
“So if the authorities don’t attack,” Coffey went on, “we’ll probably get everyone out in time — including Darrell. The soldiers don’t gain anything by killing them.”
“Except McCaskey,” Herbert pointed out. “Colonel August is right. If the soldiers in the compound find out that he’s the one who killed Amadori, they’re going to want his blood. Bad.”
“How will they know he killed the general?” Coffey asked.
“The security cameras,” Herbert said. He brought up the map of the palace. “Look where he is.”
Coffey and Plummer gathered around the computer. Rodgers was still on the telephone with Burkow and the Spanish ambassador.
“There are cameras at both ends of the corridor,” Herbert said. “Darrell may have been taped. When they find the general dead, his soldiers may take the time to watch and see who did it.”
“Any chance of erasing the tape with some kind of electronic interference?” Coffey asked.
“A low-flying aircraft with a directed electromagnetic burst could do it,” Herbert said, “but it would take time.”
Rodgers hit the mute button and stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s unlikely we’ll be able to do anything in time.”
“Explain,” Hood said.
“Interpol informed the prime minister of Striker’s success,” Rodgers said. “The ambassador has just informed me that they want to move the police in now, before the rebel forces have a chance to regroup.”
Herbert swore.
“What are their orders if the soldiers take hostages?” Hood asked.
Rodgers shook his head. “There aren’t going to be any hostages,” Rodgers said. “The Spanish government doesn’t want to give the rebels — which is how they’re describing them — a forum that will keep them center stage.”
“Can’t blame them for that,” Herbert said.
“I can when one of my people is still in the compound,” Hood said angrily. “We did a goddamn job for them —”
“And now they’re marching down the road we paved for them,” Rodgers said, “acting in the best interests of their nation. The job we were asked to do by the President of the United States was to help give Spain back to its elected officials. There weren’t any guarantees, Paul, about how those officials were going to behave afterward.”
Hood pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, then went to the shelf near the TV and got himself a cup of coffee.
Rodgers was right. Chances were good that the Spanish prime minister and possibly even the king wouldn’t survive this debacle. They weren’t acting in their own self-interest. They were trying to preserve Spain. And in the long run, that helped Europe and the United States. There wasn’t a polarized nation on earth that would benefit if yet another country collapsed into smaller republics.
Yet it wasn’t their actions that bothered him. It was their we’ll-take-it-from-here attitude, now that the difficult work had been done. What about the lives that had been sacrificed to correct what had occurred during their watch?
“Paul,” Rodgers said, “the Spanish government probably doesn’t even know about Darrell’s role in the action. They probably assume that Striker got in and out as planned.”
“They didn’t bother to ask.”
“And if they did, nothing would be different,” Rodgers said. “Nothing
Hood took his coffee back to the desk.
“I’ve faced these things before,” Herbert said. “They suck. But Darrell isn’t green. He’ll probably pick up on what’s happening. Maybe he’ll be able to get himself and the others to safety until the shooting’s over.”
“I also informed Interpol about the situation,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t tell them about Darrell’s actions. That can come out later, when — with luck — we’ll have him back here.”
“Yeah,” Herbert said. “Then we can at least have some fun denying that he was ever even there.”
“I told them where Darrell, Maria, and Luis are,” Rodgers continued, “and that they need medical attention. Hopefully, the message will make its way through the bureaucracy.”
Hood sat.
“A whole lot of them,” Herbert said. “Like
Hood looked at him and then at the others. He was going to miss these people when he submitted his resignation — these good patriots and dedicated professionals. But he wasn’t going to miss the waiting and the grief. There had been enough of that to last him a lifetime.
He also wouldn’t miss the loneliness and the guilt. Wanting Nancy Bosworth in Germany and Ann Farris in Washington. That kind of empty flirtation was never what he’d wanted his life to be about.
Hood found himself hoping that Sharon had had a change of heart — that maybe she’d decided to come back. And he had to admit that Herbert was right.
FORTY-NINE
Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor, Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, “The alternative is not breathing and that ain’t better.” Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn’t stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or — depending upon the caliber and proximity of firing — from causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself. He was worried about Maria. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori’s uniform. But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn’t speak Spanish. A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two — not worth the effort.
Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general’s radio. McCaskey figured they didn’t have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn’t answering.
More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard. McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailen — and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once Maria left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she’d be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn’t know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they’d be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they’d witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.
