Balance of Power o-5 Read online

  “That’s only because we haven’t even tried to take another vacation,” Sharon said. “What I was going to say is, my coming back to Washington depends on whether I want to watch the kids get disappointed over and over again — or whether I want to put a stop to it altogether.”

  “That’s what you want,” Hood said. He had raised his voice and lowered it quickly. “Have you asked them what they want? Does that matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” she said. “They want their father. And so do I. But if we can’t have him, then maybe we ought to settle that now instead of letting this drag on.”

  Herbert turned back toward the office. His lips were pursed and his eyebrows were raised. Whatever he had was important. As Herbert turned back around, Hood found himself wishing that he could start everything over again. The day, the year, his entire life.

  “Don’t go up there,” Hood said. “Please. We’ll figure something out as soon as the situation is under control.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” Sharon replied. Her voice wasn’t hard, just final. “If you want to figure it out, Paul, you know where we’ll be. I love you — and I’ll talk to you, okay?”

  She hung up. Hood was still looking out the door at the backs of the heads of his subordinates. He had always regarded Bob and Mike and Darrell in particular as a special kind of family. Now, suddenly, they were his only family. And it wasn’t enough.

  He hung up the phone. Bob heard it and turned. He wheeled in followed by the others. His eyes were on Hood.

  “Everything okay?” Herbert asked.

  It suddenly hit him. His wife had just left their home and taken the kids with her. He half had it in mind to send someone to the airport to stop them. But Sharon would never forgive him for muscling her. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to forgive himself.

  “We’ll talk later,” Hood said. “What’ve you got?”

  “A major crapstorm, as they say back in my home-town of Philadelphia, Mississippi. I’ve just got to make sure you still want Darrell and Aideen in the middle of it.”

  “Paul,” Ann said, tapping her notebook in her open hand, “if I could just steal a minute I can be out of here.”

  Hood looked at Herbert.

  The intelligence chief nodded. “Okay if I stay?”

  Ann nodded.

  “Okay,” Hood said to Ann.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Hood’s eyes dropped briefly to Ann’s fine-boned fingers under the notepad. The long, red fingernails seemed very feminine. He looked away. He was angry at Sharon and was drawn to Ann, who wanted him. He hated feeling that way but he didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I’ve just had a call from the BBC,” Ann said. “They obtained a tourist’s videotape of the scene around the Congress of Deputies in Madrid. It shows Martha’s body being removed—”

  “Freakin’ ghouls,” Herbert complained.

  “They’re newspeople,” Ann countered, “and whether we like it or not, this is news.”

  “Then they’re ghoulish newspeople,” Herbert said.

  “Let it go, Bob,” Hood said. He wasn’t in the mood for another family squabble. “What’s the bottom line, Ann?”

  She glanced at her notes. “They pulled an image of Martha’s face,” she continued, “ran it through their data base, and came up with a picture of Martha when she met with Nelson Mandela’s Zulu rival Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi in Johannesburg in ninety-four. Jimmy George at the Washington Post says he’s got to run with what he knows tomorrow before the BBC story gets out.”

  Hood pressed his palms into his eyes and rubbed. “Does anyone know about Aideen being there with her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you recommend?” Hood asked.

  “Lie,” Herbert offered.

  “If we try and fudge this,” Ann replied with a hint of annoyance, “if we say something like, ‘She was a diplomatic troubleshooter but she was really there on vacation,’ no one’ll believe us. They’ll keep on digging. So I suggest we give them the bare bones truth.”

  “How bare bones?” Hood asked.

  “Let’s say that she was there to lend her experience to Spanish congressional deputies. They were concerned about rising ethnic tension and she’s had experience in that area. True, end of story.”

  “You can’t tell the press that much,” Herbert pointed out.

  “I have to,” Ann said.

  “If you do that,” Herbert said, “they may figure out that she wasn’t there alone. And then the bastards who shot Martha might come back for a second try at Aideen.”

  “I thought the killers were all at the bottom of the sea,” Ann said.

  “Maybe they are,” said Hood. “What if Bob’s right? What if they’re not?”

  “I don’t know,” Ann admitted. “But if I lie, Paul, then that could be deadly too.”

  “How?” Hood asked.

  “The press’ll find out that Martha was there with a ‘Señorita Temblón,’ and they’ll try to track her down. It won’t take them long to figure out that there is no Señorita Temblón. Then they’ll try to find the mystery woman themselves. They’ll also try to figure out how she got into the country and where she’s staying. Their search could help lead the killers right to her.”

  “That’s a good point,” Herbert had to admit.

  “Thanks,” Ann said. “Paul, nothing is optimal. But if I give out this much, at least the press’ll be able to verify that what we’re giving them is the truth. I’ll admit there was someone else and I’ll tell them that because of security considerations her associate left the country quietly. They’ll buy that.”

  “You’re sure?” Hood said.

  Ann nodded. “The press doesn’t always tell everything. They like the feeling of being in on something secret. Makes them feel important at cocktail parties, part of the inner workings.”

  “I was wrong,” Herbert said. “They’re not just ghouls. They’re shallow freakin’ ghouls.”

  “Everybody’s something,” Ann said.

  Herbert scrunched his brow at that but Hood understood. His own integrity had taken a few good hits over the last few hours.

  “All right,” Hood said. “Go with it. But contain it, Ann. I don’t want the whereabouts of Darrell or Aideen found out. Tell the press that they’re being brought back here under very tight security.”

  “I will,” she said. “What do I say about a successor to Martha? Someone’s bound to ask.”

  “Tell them that Ronald Plummer is Acting Political and Economics Officer,” Hood said without hesitation.

  Plummer thanked him with his eyes. Acknowledging that in an official statement, without attaching another name to the office, was a vote of confidence in Plummer. The job was his to lose.

  Ann thanked Hood and left. He didn’t watch her go. He turned to Herbert.

  “So what’s your crapstorm?” he asked.

  “Riots,” Herbert said. “They’re bustin’ out everywhere.” He hesitated. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look faraway.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, Bob. What’s the overview?”

  Herbert gave him a you-ain‘t-foolin’-me look and moved on. “The riots are no longer contained in the Avila, Segovia, and Soria corridor of Castile,” Herbert said. “Ron, you’ve got the latest.”

  “This just came via fax from the U.S. consulate in the city,” Plummer said, “though I’m sure several news services must be on it by now. Word of the Barcelona soccer cancellation got out — not surprising when the German players quietly tried to skip town. Angry fans actually blockaded the motorway with their cars as the bus headed to the El Prat airport. The policía nacional, Spain’s state troopers, came to try and rescue them. When the policía were hit with rocks, the Mossos d’Escuadra were called to help them.”

  “They’re the autonomous police of Catalonia,” Herbert said. “They’re mostly responsible for government buildings and have a take-no-p
risoners attitude.”

  “Except that prisoners were taken,” Plummer said. “Over twenty. When the Mossos d’Escuadra contingent brought them in, the police station was attacked by a mob. Martial law is about to be declared in the city, which is where we’re at right now.”

  “Now, Barcelona’s about two hundred miles from San Sebastián,” Herbert said, “and it’s an urban center as opposed to a resort. I’m not worried that the rioting is going to spread there quickly.” He hunched forward and folded his hands. “But I am worried, Paul, that when martial law is declared it’s going to have a very, very strong impact on the collective Spanish conscience.”

  “How so?” Hood asked.

  “One word,” Herbert replied. “Franco. There are strong and bitter memories of his militant, fascist Falange party. The first time government sponsored militancy surfaces in nearly a quarter of a century, you can bet there’s going to be very fierce resistance.”

  “The irony,” said Plummer, “is that the Germans helped Franco win the Spanish Civil War. Having Germans as a flashpoint here is going to make the resentment even tougher to put down.”

  “What does this have to do with our people?” Hood asked. “Are you saying they should lay low until we see what happens?”

  Herbert shook his head. “I’m saying that you should get them out, recall Striker, and urge the President to evacuate all nonessential American personnel. Those who stay in Spain should button up tight.”

  Hood regarded him for a long moment. Herbert was not a man prone to overreaction. “How bad do you think it’s going to get?” Hood asked.

  “Bad,” Herbert said. “Some major political fault lines have been activated here. I think we may be looking at the next Soviet Union or Yugoslavia.”

  Hood looked at Plummer. “Ron?”

  Plummer folded the fax and creased it sharply with his fingertips. “I’m afraid I’m with Bob on this one, Paul,” he said. “The nation of Spain is probably going to come apart.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Tuesday, 3:27 A.M. San Sebastián, Spain

  Adolfo Alcazar was exhausted when he got into bed.

  He slept on a small, flat mattress in a corner of the one-room apartment. The sagging mattress rested on a metal frame not far from the stove; still lit and glowing dimly, the stove provided the only light in the small room. The old frame was rusted from the sea breeze that blew through the window.

  He smiled. The mattress was the same one he’d bounced on when he was a boy. It occurred to him now as he lay down, naked, how pure an act that had been — to bounce on the bed. It was an activity that didn’t give a damn about what went before or what was coming next. It was a complete, self-contained expression of freedom and joy.

  He remembered having to stop when he grew a little and made more noise. The people who lived downstairs complained. It had been a harsh thing for a child to learn, that he wasn’t free. And that was only the first lesson in his lack of liberty. Until he met the General his life had been a series of surrenders and retreats that made others happy or rich. As he lay down in bed, in the bed that used to make him feel so free, Adolfo felt a taste of what it was like to be free again. Free of government regulations that told him what he could fish and fishing magnates who told him when and where he could fish so as not to interfere with them and recreational boats clogging his harbor because the boating industry had more influence in Madrid than small fishermen had. With the help of the General he would be free to make a living in a nation that once again belonged to the people. To his people. The General didn’t care if you were Castilian like Adolfo or Catalonian or Basque or Galician or whatever. If you wanted to be free from Madrid, if you wanted self-rule for your people, you followed him. If you wanted to maintain the status quo or profit from the sweat of others, you were removed.

  Lying on his back, staring into the darkness, Adolfo finally shut his eyes. He had done well today. The General would be pleased.

  The door flew inward with a crack, startling him. Four men rushed toward him before he was fully awake. As one man shut the door the others pulled him facedown on the floor. His arms were stretched out from his sides and his palms were pressed down on the floor. They pinned him in that position with their knees and with their hands.

  “Are you Adolfo Alcazar?” one of them demanded.

  Adolfo said nothing. He was looking toward the left, toward the stove. He felt the middle finger of his right hand pulled back slowly until it broke with a single, flashing snap.

  “Yes!” he shrieked. Then he moaned.

  “You killed many men today,” one of them said.

  Adolfo’s head was cloudy with thought but clear with pain. Before he could clear his mind his right index finger was pulled back and broken. He screamed as the pain raced up to his elbow and back again. He felt something — one of his socks — stuffed roughly between his teeth.

  “You killed the head of our familia,” the man said.

  His ring finger was drawn back until it popped. They released it and the three broken fingers sat side by side, bloated but numb. His hand was trembling as they twisted back the pinky finger. It flopped down, shattered like the others. Then he felt something hard and cold on his thumb. His head was forced around and he saw a crowbar, held vertically. The curved end was resting on top of his thumb. It was raised straight up and brought down hard. The thumb burned as the skin ripped and bone cracked. The crowbar went up again and then came down, this time on the wrist joint. It came down once in the center, once on the left, and once on the right. Each blow sent a swift, hot wave of pain up his arm to his shoulder and along his neck. When it passed there was only a deep throbbing weight on his forearm, like an anvil was sitting on it.

  “Your hand will never again be raised against us,” the man said.

  With that, they released Adolfo and turned him over. He tried to control his right arm but it flopped as though it were asleep. He caught a glimpse of blood as it trickled down his forearm. He didn’t feel it until it reached his elbow.

  Struggling weakly, Adolfo was dragged several feet and then they pinned him again, on his back. The sock was still jammed in his mouth. It was dark and tears of pain filled Adolfo’s eyes. He could not see the faces of his captors. He fought to get free again but his efforts were like the wriggling of a fish in one of his nets.

  “Save your strength,” the man said. “You’re not going anywhere — except to hell if you don’t tell us what we wish to know. Do you understand?”

  Adolfo looked up at the dark face. He tried to spit out the sock, not to respond but in defiance.

  The man grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Adolfo’s head toward him. “Do you understand?”

  Adolfo didn’t answer. A moment later the man nodded to someone kneeling on Adolfo’s knee. A moment after that he felt his right leg being lifted. Every part of him screamed as his bare foot was placed into the open grate of the oven, above the dying fire. He came violently alive and screamed into the sock and tried to withdraw. But the men held him there.

  “Do you understand?” the man above him repeated calmly.

  Adolfo nodded vigorously as he kicked and rocked and tried to get away. The man turned toward the others. They withdrew his foot and set it back down. The flesh screamed and he was viciously awake. But the pain focused his mind. He was panting through the sock and squirming under their grip. He looked up wide-eyed at the one dark face.

  The man removed the sock and held it over Adolfo’s mouth. “Who do you work with?” he asked. Adolfo was panting heavily. His foot felt icy-hot, like ocean spray on a bad sunburn.

  He felt them lift up the other leg.

  “Who do you work with?”

  “A general,” Adolfo gasped. “An Air Force general named Pintos. Roberto Pintos.”

  “Where is he stationed?”

  Adolfo didn’t answer. It was time to wait a little before lying again. The one time Adolfo had met General Amadori — the real general, not this imaginary Gen
eral Pintos — was at a meeting of nonmilitary aides in an airplane hangar in Burgos. There, the General had warned everyone that this day might come. That they might be found out and interrogated. He said that once the war had begun, it wouldn’t matter what they said. But he cautioned them to hold out as long as possible for their own sense of honor.

  Most men can be broken, he had said. The trick is not to be broken without confusing the enemy. If you are captured, there is nothing you can do to prevent being tortured. What you must do is talk. Tell the enemy lies. Keep on lying as long as you can. Lie until the enemy cannot tell the true from the false, the good information from the bad.

  “Where is General Pintos stationed?” the torturer continued.

  Adolfo shook his head. The sock was crushed back into his mouth and he felt himself jerked forward on the left and his foot placed into the ferocious heat. His struggles were as frantic as before. But while the pain was awful and it drew sweat from every inch of him, there was one thing comforting. The pain in his right foot was not so blinding anymore. He held on to that thought until the pain in his left foot tore it from his mind and sent sheets of anguish up and down his entire body. Except for his right hand. He felt nothing there. Nothing at all, not even pain — and that scared him. It made him feel a little dead.

  They pulled his foot from the fire and dropped it back down. They pinned him again. The dark face came close to him again. The tears in Adolfo’s eyes smeared the black shape.

  “Where is Pintos stationed?”

  The sheets of pain had become a constant burning, but it was less intense. Adolfo knew that he could hold out until the next round — whatever the next round was. He was proud of himself. In a strange way he felt free. Free to suffer, free to resist. But it was his choice.

  “Ba — Barcelona,” Adolfo moaned.

  “You’re lying,” the torturer replied.

  “N-no!”

  “How old is he?”

  “F-fifty-two.”

  “What color is his hair?”

  “Brown.”

  The torturer smacked Adolfo. “You’re lying!”