FIFTY
Though he hadn’t slept much over the past twenty-four hours, Paul Hood felt surprisingly refreshed.
He had spoken with Colonel August and Aideen Marley when they returned to Interpol headquarters. The fate of Darrell McCaskey, Maria Corneja, and Luis Garcia de la Vega hadn’t been known then — although General Manolo de la Vega had assured him that when the time was right, a police assault squad would be going in even if he had to kick each butt in personally.
McCaskey finally called from a field hospital only to say that they were all right. A more detailed report would have to wait until they were on a secure line back at Interpol.
Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, Coffey, and Plummer celebrated with a fresh pot of coffee and congratulations all around. There was a call from Ambassador Abril, who said that the king and the prime minister had been informed and would be addressing Spain at two P.M. local time. Abril could not tell them whether the Royal Palace had been taken from General Amadori’s troops. He said that that information would be provided to the White House when it was available and would have to make its way through channels.
Abril also could not tell them what the future of Spain might be — not only because it would be inappropriate to, but because he truly didn’t know.
“Deputy Serrador and General Amadori both released some very powerful opposing forces,” he said. “Ethnic and cultural differences have been inflamed. I hope — yet am not hopeful — that they can be doused.”
“We’ll all be praying for the best,” Hood said.
The ambassador thanked him.
After Hood hung up, Herbert muttered a few graphic Southern expressions for the ambassador and his secrecy — though Ron Plummer reminded him that Abril was acting according to protocol.
“I remember how upset Jimmy Carter was when the American hostages were released from Tehran,” he said. “The Iranians waited until Ronald Reagan had been sworn in to let them go. When former President Carter telephoned the White House to find out if the Americans were free, he was told that that information was classified. He had to find out about it much later.”
Herbert was not appeased. He picked up the phone on the armrest of his wheelchair and called his office. He asked his assistant to phone Interpol and ask the spotters for an update on the situation at the palace. Less than two minutes later he was informed that the shooting had stopped and, in the few areas of the courtyard they could see, the police seemed to be in control. A call to Stephen Viens and a check with NRO satellites confirmed that soldiers were being disarmed in other parts of the compound and civilians were being led out to a Red Cross facility that was being set up outside the Cathedral of the Almudena.
Herbert grinned triumphantly. “What do you say we inform Abril that ‘diplomatic channels’ include a lot more stations than they used to.”
The call from McCaskey finally came at seven-forty-five. Hood put it on the speakerphone. McCaskey said he was whipped and suffering from three broken ribs and a bruised kidney. Otherwise, he said, he was in good spirits. Maria and Luis were in surgery but both were expected to pull through.
“I’ll be staying here for a while to recover,” McCaskey said. “Hope that isn’t a problem.”
“No problem at all,” Hood said. “Stay until you recover everything you feel you need.”
McCaskey thanked him.
They did not discuss McCaskey’s role in killing General Amadori. That would not be discussed until someone from Op-Center — probably Mike Rodgers — flew over to debrief him. It was understood among intelligence agents that assassination must be treated with an almost ceremonial reverence. Debriefing must be done face to face, like confession. That helped to ensure that killing a leader or spy, while sometimes necessary, would never be taken casually.
“There is one thing I’d like to do as soon as possible,” McCaskey said.
“What’s that?” Hood asked.
“There’s been a lot of religious unrest here,” McCaskey said. “General de la Vega tells me that it appears that General Superior Gonzalez, leader of the Jesuits in Spain, was a strong supporter of General Amadori. The General Superior was overcome with tear gas in Striker’s assault — he’d been meeting with the general in the throne room. There is certain to be a Vatican investigation.”
“That’s going to make a lot of Spaniards very unhappy,” Rodgers said. “Especially if the General Superior denies the charges and loyalties are strained between the Jesuits and other Roman Catholics.”
“It’s all going to help contribute to the collapse of Spain as we knew it,” McCaskey said, “which everyone here believes is imminent. Someone who spoke directly with the prime minister told General de la Vega that a new constitution is already being worked on — one that will allow the different regions virtual autonomy under a very loose central government.”
Herbert folded his powerful arms. “Why don’t we call old Abril up and let him know what’s gonna happen in his own country.”
Hood frowned and motioned him silent.
“The reason I mentioned General Superior Gonzalez,” McCaskey said, “is that there is a Jesuit priest who helped to save our lives. His name is Father Norberto Alcazar.”
“Is he all right?” Hood asked, writing down his name.
“He was hurt getting me safely to Maria’s side — couple of heavy-duty bruises from gunfire chopping up the courtyard. Nothing serious, though. But I want to do something for him. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of priest who’d want to be kicked upstairs or anything like that. Father Norberto was telling me at the field hospital that he lost his brother in this ordeal. He’s had it pretty rough. Perhaps we can do something for his parish. Work it through the Vatican, if the White House can arrange that.”
“We’ll certainly talk to them about that,” Hood said. “We can set up a scholarship somewhere in the brother’s name.”
“Sounds good,” McCaskey said. “Maybe one for Martha too. Maybe from all of this madness a little good will come.”
After the other men in the room wished McCaskey well—“And I don’t mean with just your health,” Herbert added — Hood hung up. Father Norberto’s story reminded him of something that tends to get lost in events like these. It isn’t only a nation whose destiny is changed. The ripples go outward, affecting the world — and the ripples go inward, affecting every citizen. It was not only an awesome metamorphosis to behold. It was damn near overwhelming to have been an integral part of the process. And without having left this office.
It was time to hang that responsibility up.
Hood buzzed Bugs Benet and asked him to call his wife. She was at her parents’ home in Old Say brook, Hood told him.
Herbert looked at Hood. “Sudden trip?” he asked.
Hood shook his head. “Long time in the works.”
Hood swung the computer monitor toward him. He went to his personal file.
Bugs buzzed. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Kent says that Sharon and the kids left early this morning to go back to Washington,” Bugs told him. “They were going to take the eight o’clock flight. Do you want to speak with him?”
“No,” Hood said. He looked at his watch. “Thank him and tell him I’ll call later.”
“Shall I ring Mrs. Hood’s cellular?”
“No, Bugs,” Hood said. “I’ll tell her when I meet her at the airport.”
Hood hung up and finished his coffee. Then he rose.
“You’re going to the airport now?” Herbert asked. “Chief, I’m sure you’re going to have to brief the President.”
Hood looked at Rodgers. “Mike, are you okay to handle that?”
“Sure,” Rodgers said. He patted his bandages. “I got myself rewrapped before I came here.”
“Good,” Hood said. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and put it in a drawer. “I’m going to get
