Balance of Power o-5 Read online

  The two men had come to Ma Ma Buddha after spending the morning discussing a proposed new International Strike Force Division for Op-Center. The idea for the group had been conceived by Rodgers and Paul Hood. Unlike the elite, covert Striker, the ISFD unit would be a small black-ops unit comprised of U.S. commanders and foreign operatives. Personnel such as Falah Shibli of the Sayeret Ha’Druzim, Israel’s Druze Reconnaissance unit, who had helped Striker rescue the Regional OpCenter and its crew in the Bekaa Valley. The ISFD would be designed to undertake covert missions in potential international trouble spots. General Rodgers had been quiet but attentive for most of the meeting, which was also attended by Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert, his colleagues Naval Intelligence Chief Donald Breen and Army Intelligence head Phil Prince, and August’s friend Air Force Intelligence legend Pete Robinson.

  Now Rodgers was simply quiet. He was poking his chopsticks at a plate of salt-fried string beans. His rugged face was drawn beneath the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and his eyes were downturned. Both men had recently returned from Lebanon. Rodgers and a small party of soldiers and civilians had been field testing the new Regional Op-Center when they were captured and tortured by Kurdish extremists. With the help of an Israeli operative, August and Striker were able to go into the Bekaa Valley and get them out. When their ordeal was over and an attempt to start a war between Turkey and Syria had been averted, General Rodgers had drawn his pistol and executed the Kurdish leader out of hand. On the flight back to the United States, August had prevented a distraught General Rodgers from turning the handgun on himself.

  August was using a fork to twirl up his pork lo mein. After watching the prison guards eat while he starved in Vietnam, if he never saw a chopstick again it would be too soon. As he ate, his blue eyes were on his companion. August understood the effects of combat and captivity, and he knew only too well what torture could do to the mind, let alone the body. He didn’t expect Rodgers to recover quickly. Some people never recovered at all. When the depth of their dehumanization became apparent — both in terms of what had been done to them and what they may have been forced to do — many former hostages took their own lives. Liz Gordon had put it very well in a paper she’d published in the International Amnesty Journal: A hostage is someone who has gone from walking to crawling. To walk again, to face even simple risks or routine authority figures, is often more difficult than lying down and giving up.

  August picked up the metal teapot. “Want some?”

  “Yes, please.”

  August kept an eye on his friend as he turned the two cups rightside up. He filled them and then set the pot down. Then he stirred a half packet of sugar into his own cup, raised it, and sipped. He continued to stare at Rodgers through the steam. The general didn’t look up.

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is no good.”

  Rodgers raised his eyes. “What? The lo mein?”

  August was caught off guard. He grinned. “Well, that’s a start. First joke you’ve made since — when? The twelfth grade?”

  “Something like that,” Rodgers said sullenly. He idly picked up his cup and took a sip of tea. He held the cup by his lips and stared down into it. “What’s there been to laugh about since then?”

  “Plenty, I’d say.”

  “Like what?”

  “How about weekend passes with the few friends you’ve managed to hold on to. A couple of jazz clubs you told me about in New Orleans, New York, Chicago. Some damn fine movies. More than a few nice ladies. You’ve had some real nice things in your life.”

  Rodgers put the cup down and shifted his body painfully. The burns he’d suffered during torture at the hands of the Kurds in the Bekaa were a long way from healing, though not so long as the emotional wounds. But he refused to lie on his sofa and rust.

  “Those things are all diversions, Brett. I love’em, but they’re solace. Recreation.”

  “Since when are solace and recreation bad things?”

  “Since they’ve become a reason for living instead of the reward for a job well done,” Rodgers said.

  “Uh oh,” August said.

  “Uh oh is right,” Rodgers replied.

  August had sunk a hose into a cesspool and Rodgers had obviously decided to let some of the raw sewage out.

  “You want to know why I can’t relax?” Rodgers said. “Because we’ve become a society that lives for the weekend, for vacations, for running away from responsibility. We’re proud of how much liquor we can hold, of how many women we can charm our way into bed with, of how well our sports teams are doing.”

  “You used to like a lot of those things,” August pointed out. “Especially the women.”

  “Well, maybe I’m tired of it,” Rodgers said. “I don’t want to live like that any more. I want to do things.”

  “You always have done things,” August said. “And you still found time to enjoy life.”

  “I guess I didn’t realize what a mess the country was becoming,” Rodgers said. “You face an enemy like world Communism. You put everything into that fight. Then suddenly you don’t have them anymore and you finally take a good look around. You see that everything else has gone to hell while you fought your battle. Values, initiative, compassion, everything. Now I’ve decided I want to work harder kicking the asses of those who don’t take pride in what they do.”

  “All of which is very heartfelt,” August said. “It’s also beside the point, Mike. You like classical music, right?”

  Rodgers nodded. “So?”

  “I forget which writer it was who said that life should be like a Beethoven symphony. The loud parts of the music represent our public deeds. The soft passages suggest our private reflection. I think that most people have found a good and honest balance between the two.”

  Rodgers looked down at his tea. “I don’t believe that. If it were true, we’d be doing better.”

  “We’ve survived a couple of world wars and a nuclear cold war,” August replied. “For a bunch of territorial carnivores not far removed from the caves, that ain’t bad.” He took a long, slow sip of tea. “Besides, forget about recreation and weekends. What started this all was you making a joke and me approving of it. Humor ain’t weakness, pal, and don’t start coming down on yourself for it. It’s a deterrent, Mike, a necessary counterbalance. When I was a guest of Ho Chi Minh, I stayed relatively sane by telling myself every bad joke I could remember. Knock-knocks. Good news, bad news. Skeleton jokes. You know: ‘A skeleton walks into a bar and orders a gin and tonic… and a mop.’ ”

  Rodgers didn’t laugh.

  “Well,” August said, “it’s amazing how funny that seems when you’re strung up by your bleeding goddamn wrists in a mosquito-covered swamp. The point is, it’s a bootstrap deal, Mike. You’ve got to lift yourself out of the muck.”

  “That’s you,” Rodgers said. “I get angry. Bitter. I brood.”

  “I know. And you let it sit in your gut. You’ve come up with a third kind of symphonic music: loud passages that you keep inside. You can’t possibly think that’s good.”

  “Good or not,” Rodgers said, “it comes naturally to me. That’s my fuel. It gives me the drive to fix systems that are broken and to get rid of the people who spoil it for the rest of us.”

  “And when you can’t fix the system or get back at the bad guys?” August asked. “Where does all that high octane go?”

  “Nowhere,” Rodgers said. “I store it. That’s the beauty of it. It’s the far eastern idea of chi—inner energy. When you need it for the next battle it’s right there, ready to tap.”

  “Or ready to explode. What do you do when there’s so much that you can’t keep it in anymore?”

  “You burn some of it off,” Rodgers said. “That’s where recreation comes in. You turn it into physical exertion. You exercise or play squash or call a lady-friend. There are ways.”

  “Pretty lonely ones.”

  “They work for me,” Rodgers said. “Bes
ides, as long as you keep striking out with the ladies I’ve got you to dump on.”

  “Striking out?” August grinned. At least Rodgers was talking and it was about something other than misery and the fall of civilization. “After my long weekend with Barb Mathias I had to take a sabbatical.”

  Rodgers smiled. “I thought I was doing you a favor,” he said. “She loved you when we were kids.”

  “Yeah, but now she’s forty-four and all she wants is sex and security.” August twirled noodles around his fork and slid them into his mouth. “Unfortunately, I’m only rich in one of those.”

  Rodgers was still smiling when his pager beeped. He twisted to look at it then winced as his bandages pulled at the side.

  “Those pagers are made to slip right off your belt,” August said helpfully.

  “Thanks,” Rodgers said. “That’s how I lost the last one.” He glanced down at the number.

  “Who wants you?” August asked.

  “Bob Herbert,” Rodgers said. His brow knit as he took his napkin from his lap. He rose very slowly and dropped it on the chair. “I’ll call him from the car.”

  August leaned back. “I’ll stay right here,” he said. “I’m told that there are three women to every man in Washington. Maybe one of them will want your plate of cold-growing string beans.”

  “Good luck,” Rodgers told him as he moved quickly through the small, crowded restaurant.

  August finished his lo mein, drained his cup, and poured more tea. He drank it slowly as he looked around the dark restaurant. This state of mind Rodgers was in would not be easy to dispel. August had always been the more optimistic of the two. It was true, he couldn’t glance at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial or flip past a cable documentary about the war or even pass a Vietnamese restaurant. Not without his eyes tearing or his belly burning or his fists tensing with the desire to hit something. August was usually upbeat and hopeful but he was not entirely forgiving. Still, he didn’t hold on to bitterness and disappointment the way Mike did. And the problem here was not so much that society had let Mike down but that Mike had let himself down. He wasn’t about to let that go without a serious struggle.

  When Rodgers returned, August knew at once that something was wrong. The bandages and pain notwithstanding, the general moved assertively through the crowded restaurant, weaving around waiters and customers instead of waiting for them to move. He did not rush, however. The men were in uniform and both foreign agents and journalists paid close attention to military personnel. If they were called away in a hurry, that told observers which branch and usually which group within that branch was involved in a breaking event.

  August rose calmly before Rodgers arrived. He stretched for show and took a last swallow of tea. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and moved out to greet Rodgers. The men didn’t speak until they were outside. The mid-fall air was biting as they walked slowly down the street to the car.

  “Tell me more about the good things in life,” Rodgers said bitterly. “Martha Mackall was assassinated about a half hour ago.”

  August felt the tea come back into his throat. “It happened outside the Palacio de las Cortes in Madrid,” Rodgers went on. His voice was clipped and low, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Even though the enemy was still faceless, Rodgers had found a place to put his anger. “The status of your team is unchanged until we know more,” Rodgers went on. “Martha’s assistant Aideen Marley is talking to the police. Darrell was in Madrid with her and is heading over to the palace now. He’s going to call Paul at fourteen hundred hours with an update.”

  August’s expression hadn’t changed, though he felt tea and bile fill his throat. “Any idea who’s responsible?”

  “None,” Rodgers said. “She was traveling incognito. Only a few people even knew she was there.”

  They got into Rodgers’s new Camry. August drove. He started the ignition and nosed into traffic. The men were silent for a moment. August hadn’t known Martha very well, but he knew that she was no one’s favorite person at Op-Center. She was pushy and arrogant. A bully. She was also damned effective. The team would be much poorer for her loss.

  August looked out the windshield at the overcast sky. Upon reaching Op-Center headquarters, Rodgers would go to the executive offices in the basement level while August would be helicoptered over to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, where Striker was stationed. Striker’s status at the moment was neutral. But there were still two Op-Center personnel in Spain. If things got out of hand there they might be called upon to leave in a hurry. Rodgers hadn’t told him what Martha was doing in Spain because he obviously didn’t want to risk being overheard. Bugging and electronic surveillance of cars belonging to military personnel was not uncommon. But August knew about the tense political situation in Spain. He also knew about Martha’s involvement in ethnic issues. And he assumed that she was probably involved in diplomatic efforts to keep the nation’s many political and cultural entities from fraying, from becoming involved in a catastrophic and far-reaching power struggle.

  He also knew one thing more. Whoever had killed her was probably aware of why she was there. Which raised another question that transcended the shock of the moment: whether this was the first or the last shot in the possible destruction of Spain.

  THREE

  Monday, 6:45 P.M San Sebastián, Spain

  Countless pieces of moonglow glittered atop the dark waters of La Concha Bay. The luminous shards were shattered into shimmering dust as the waves struck loudly at Playa de la Concha, the expansive, sensuously curving beach that bordered the elegant, cosmopolitan city. Just over a half mile to the east, fishing vessels and recreational boats rocked in the crowded harbor of Parte Vieja, the “old section.” Their masts creaked in the firm southerly wind as small waves gently tapped at the hulls. A few stragglers, still hoping for a late-day catch, were only now returning to anchor. Seabirds, active by the score during the day, roosted silently beneath aged wharfs or on the high crags of the towering Isla de Santa Clara near the mouth of the bay.

  Beyond the nesting birds and the idle boats, slightly more than a half mile north of the coast of Spain, the sleek white yacht Verídico 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 Verídico, Señor 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 León. 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.