Balance of Power o-5 Read online

  “We’ll be able to check this out more thoroughly after we find out who else was on the yacht,” Herbert said confidently.

  Hood nodded and turned back to the computer monitor. “In addition to the Basques, Castilians, and Catalonians, we’ve got the Andalusians. They comprise roughly twelve percent of the population and they’ll side with any group in power because of their financial dependency. The Galicians are roughly eight percent of the population. They’re an agricultural people — very Spanish, traditionally independent, and likely to stay out of any fray that might erupt.”

  “So,” Lanning said, “they’ve got a complex situation over there. And given the volatile history of the interrelations I can understand them wanting to keep the disputes quiet. What I don’t understand is something Mr. Herbert said — why this Deputy Serrador wanted to see Martha specifically.”

  “Deputy Serrador seemed comfortable with her due to her familiarity with Spain and the language,” Hood said. “He also liked the fact that she was a woman who belonged to a racial minority. He said he could count on her to be both discreet and sympathetic.”

  “Sure,” Herbert said. “But I’ve been sitting here thinking that she also happened to be the perfect victim for one of those ethnic groups.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “What do you mean?” Hood asked.

  “To put it bluntly,” Herbert said, “the Catalonians are male-supremacists who hate black Africans. It’s an animosity that goes back about nine hundred years, to the wars with the Moors of Africa. If someone wanted to get the Catalonians on their side — and who wouldn’t want the folks with the money in their camp? — they’d pick a black woman as a victim.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “That’s a bit of a reach, don’t you think?” Lanning asked.

  “Not really,” the intelligence chief replied. “I’ve seen longer shots pay off. The sad truth is, whenever I go looking for muddy footprints in the gutter of human nature, I’m rarely disappointed.”

  “What ethnic group does Serrador belong to?” Mike Rodgers asked.

  “He’s Basque, General,” McCaskey’s voice came from the speakerphone, “with absolutely no record of antinationalist activity. We checked him out. To the contrary. He’s voted against every kind of separatist legislation.”

  “He could be a mole,” Lanning said. “The most damaging Soviet spy we ever had at State was raised in whitebread Darien, Connecticut, and voted for Barry Goldwater.”

  “You’re catching on,” Herbert said, grinning. He had a feeling what was coming: there was no one more passionate than a convert.

  Lanning regarded Hood. “The more I think about what Mr. Herbert just said, the more troubled I am by all of this. We’ve had situations before where we’ve been set up by foreign interests. Let’s assume for the moment that that’s what happened. That Martha was lured to Spain to be assassinated, for whatever reason. The only way we’ll ever find that out is if we have access to all aspects of the investigation. Do we have that, Mr. McCaskey?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” McCaskey replied. “Serrador said he’s going to look into it, but Aideen and I were both shuttled off to our hotel rooms and we haven’t heard anything since.”

  “Yeah, the Spanish government isn’t always very forthcoming about their private activities,” Herbert said. “During World War II, this supposedly neutral nation rode shotgun on train- and truckloads of Nazi booty sent from Switzerland to Portugal. They did it in exchange for future favors, which, luckily, they never got to collect on.”

  “That was Francisco Franco,” Ron Plummer said. “Professional courtesy, dictator-to-dictator. It doesn’t mean that Spanish people are that way.”

  “True,” Herbert said, “but the Spanish leaders are still at it. In the 1980s the defense minister hired drug smugglers as mercenaries to kill Basque separatists. The government purchased guns for the team in South Africa. They let them keep the weapons afterward, too. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t count on any Spanish government to help the United States with anything.”

  Hood held up both hands. “We’re getting off the subject here. Darrell, for the moment I’m not concerned about Serrador, his motives, or his intelligence needs. I want to find out who killed Martha and why. Mike,” Hood looked at Rodgers—“you recruited Aideen. What’s she made of?”

  Rodgers was still standing behind Carol Lanning. He unfolded his arms and shifted his weight. “She stood up to some pretty tough dealers in the drug trade in Mexico City. She’s got iron in her back.”

  “I see where you’re going, Paul,” Liz said, “and I want to caution you. Aideen’s under a lot of emotional stress. Throw her into a covert police action right now and the pressure could break her.”

  “It could also be just what she needs,” Herbert said.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Liz replied. “Everyone is different. Only the question isn’t just what Aideen needs. If she goes undercover and cracks, she could be the nail that cost the horse that cost the kingdom.”

  “Besides,” Herbert said to Hood, “if we send someone else over to follow the muddy footprints, we lose time.”

  “Darrell,” Hood asked, “did you hear that?”

  “I heard.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think a couple of things,” McCaskey said. “Mike’s right. The lady’s got backbone to spare. She wasn’t afraid to get right in Serrador’s face. And my gut tells me the same thing as Bob’s: I’m inclined to let her loose on the Spaniards. But Liz has also got a solid point. So if it’s okay with you, let me talk to Aideen first. I’ll know pretty quick whether she’s up to it.”

  Hood’s eyes shifted to the staff psychologist. “Liz, if we decide to go ahead with something and Aideen’s involved, what should Darrell look for? Any physical signs?”

  “Extreme restlessness,” Liz replied. “Rapid speech, foot tapping, cracking the knuckles, heavy sighing, that sort of thing. She’s got to be able to focus. If her mind wanders into guilt and loss, she’s going to drop down a hole and not be able to get out.”

  “Any questions, Darrell?” Hood asked.

  “None,” McCaskey said.

  “Very good,” Hood said. “Darrell, I’m going to have Bob and his team look over any new intelligence that’s come in. If there’s anything useful, they’ll get it over to you.”

  “I’m also going to make a few calls over here,” McCaskey said. “There are some people at Interpol who might be able to help us.”

  “Excellent,” Hood said. “Anyone else?”

  “Mr. Hood,” Carol Lanning said, “this is not my area of expertise but I do have a question.”

  “Go ahead,” Hood said. “And please — it’s Paul.”

  She nodded and cleared her throat. “Might I ask if you’re looking to gather intelligence to turn over to the Spanish authorities or—” She hesitated.

  “Or what?”

  “Or are you looking for revenge?”

  Hood thought for a moment. “Frankly, Ms. Lanning, I want both.”

  “Good,” she said. Rising, she smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. “I hoped I wasn’t the only one.”

  SEVEN

  Monday, 10:56 P.M. San Sebastián, Spain

  No one had survived the explosion of the Ramirez yacht.

  Adolfo hadn’t expected anyone to be left alive. The blast had flipped the ship onto its side before anyone could get out. The men who weren’t killed in the explosion itself were drowned when the yacht capsized. Only the pilot of the runabout had escaped. Adolfo knew about the man. He was Juan Martinez, a leader of the Ramirez familia. He had a reputation for being resourceful and devoted to his boss. But Adolfo wasn’t worried about Martinez — or any other Ramirez thugs. Very soon the familia would no longer exist as an adversarial force. And with their demise other familias would stay out of the General’s way. It was funny how power didn’t matter so much when one’s survival was threatened.
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  The fisherman and two other late-night trawlers had waited at the scene to provide police with eyewitness accounts of the explosion. When two young officers with the harbor patrol boarded Adolfo’s boat, he acted as though he were very upset by the evening’s events. The officers told Adolfo to calm down, which he did— but only slightly. He informed them that he had been looking toward the harbor when the ship exploded. Adolfo said that all he saw was the dying fireball and then the wreckage showering down, the shards sizzling and steaming as they hit the water. He said that he had sailed for it immediately. One of the investigators wrote rapidly, taking notes, while the other asked questions. They both seemed excited to have something so dramatic occur in their harbor.

  The police officers took Adolfo’s name, address, and telephone number and allowed him to leave. By that time Adolfo had pretended to calm enough to wish them well on the investigation. Then he went to the wheelhouse of his fishing boat and throttled up. The engine chugged deeply as Adolfo turned the old vessel toward the harbor.

  As Adolfo sailed the choppy waters, he plucked one of the handrolled cigarettes from his pants pocket. He lit it and drew deeply, feeling a greater sense of satisfaction than he had ever known. This was not his first mission for the cause. In the past year he had prepared a letter bomb for a newspaper and had rigged a TV reporter’s car to explode when the gas cap was removed. Both of those had been successful. But this was his most important job and it had gone perfectly. Even better, he’d pulled it off alone. The General had asked Adolfo to do it by himself for two reasons. First, if Adolfo had been caught the cause would only have lost one soldier in the region. Second, if Adolfo had failed then the General would know who to blame. That was important. With so many important tasks ahead there was no room for incompetency.

  Adolfo guided the boat swiftly toward shore, his right hand on the wheel and his left hand holding the well-worn string of the old bell that hung outside the wheelhouse. He’d fished these waters since he was a small boy working on his father’s vessel. The low, foggy sound of that bell was one of the two things that brought those days back to him vividly. The other was the smell of the harbor whenever he drew near. The ocean smell intensified the closer Adolfo came to shore. That had always seemed odd to him until he mentioned it to his brother. Norberto explained that the things that cause the smells — the salt, the dead fish, the rotting seaweed — always wash toward the land. That was why beaches smelled more like the sea than the sea did.

  “Father Norberto,” Adolfo sighed. “So learned yet so misguided.” His older brother was a Jesuit priest who had never wanted to be anything else. After his ordination seven years ago he was given the local parish, St. Ignatius, as his ministry. Norberto knew a lot about many things. The members of his parish lovingly called him “the Scholar.” He could tell them why the ocean smelled or why the sun turned orange when it set or why you could see clouds even though they were made of drops of water. What Norberto didn’t know much about was politics. He had once joined a protest march against the Spanish government, which was accused of financing death squads that killed hundreds of people in the middle 1980s. But that wasn’t so much a political crusade as a humanistic one. He also didn’t know about church politics. Norberto hated being away from his parish. Two or three times a year Father General González — the most powerful Jesuit prelate in Spain — held audiences or hosted dinners for church dignitaries in Madrid. Norberto did not go to these functions unless commanded, which he seldom was. Norberto’s disinterest in his own advancement allowed the power and funding in this province to go to Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao.

  Adolfo was the expert in politics, something Norberto didn’t admit. The brothers rarely argued about anything; they had looked out for one another since they were boys. But politics was the one area where they disagreed passionately. Norberto believed in a unified nation. He had once said bitterly, “It is bad enough that Christendom is divided.” He wished for what he called “God’s Spaniards” to live in harmony.

  Unlike Norberto, Adolfo did not believe in either God or Spaniards. If there were a God, he reasoned, the world would be doing better. There wouldn’t be conflict or need. As for that creature called a “Spaniard,” Spain had always been a fragile tapestry of different cultures. That was true before the birth of Christ, when the Basques, Iberians, Celts, Carthaginians, and others were first united under the rule of Rome. It was true in 1469, when Aragon and Castile were joined in an uneasy alliance by the marriage of Ferdinand II to Isabella I. It was true in 1939, when Francisco Franco became El Caudillo, leader of the nation, after the devastating Civil War. It was true today.

  It was also true that within this confederacy the Castilians had always been victimized. They were the largest group and so they were feared. They were always the first to be sent into battle or exploited by the wealthy. The irony was that if there were a “real” Spaniard, the Castilian was it. His nature was industrious and fun-loving. His life was filled with the honest sweat of hard work and passion. His heart was filled with music, love, and laughter. And his home, the land of El Cid, was one of vast plains dotted with windmills and castles beneath an endless blue sky.

  Adolfo savored the pride of his heritage and the blow he’d struck for both of those tonight. But as he entered the harbor, he turned his attention to the boats moored there. The harbor was located behind the enormous nineteenth-century Ayuntamiento, the town hall. Adolfo was glad it was night. He hated coming back when it was light and all the gift shops and restaurants were visible. Catalonian money was responsible for transforming San Sebastián from a fishing village to a tourist spot.

  Adolfo maneuvered carefully and skillfully around the numerous pleasure boats moored there. The fishermen usually kept their vessels out of the way, near the wharf. It made unloading the fish easier. But the pleasure boats dropped anchor wherever their owners chose. The crews then rowed to shore on dinghies. For Adolfo the pleasure boats were a daily reminder that the needs of working men did not matter to the rich. The requirements of the fishermen didn’t matter to the powerful and wealthy Catalonians, or to the tourism they encouraged to benefit their hotels and restaurants and airlines.

  When Adolfo reached the wharf he tied his boat in the same spot as always. Then, slinging his canvas grip over his shoulder, he made his way through the groups of tourists and locals who had gathered when they heard the explosion. A few people near the wharf, who had watched him come in from the bay, asked what had happened. He just shrugged and shook his head as he walked along the gravel path, through a row of gift shops and past the new aquarium. It was never a good idea to stop and talk to people after completing a job. It was only human to want to lecture or to boast and that could be deadly. Loose lips not only sink ships: they can undo those who sink them.

  Adolfo continued along the path as it turned into Monte Urgull, the local park. Closed to automobile traffic, the park was the site of ancient bastions and abandoned cannon. It was also home to a British cemetery from the duke of Wellington’s 1812 campaign against the French. When he was a boy, Adolfo used to play here — before the ruins were promoted from weed-covered wreckage to protected historical relics. He used to imagine that he was a cavalry soldier. Only he was not fighting the imperious French but the “bastardos from Madrid,” as he knew them. The exporters who drove his father to an early grave. They were men who bought fish by the ton to ship around the world and who encouraged inexperienced fishermen to ply the waters off San Sebastian. The exporters didn’t want to develop a regular team of suppliers. Nor did they care whether they destroyed the ecological balance of the region. Bribes to officials made certain that the government didn’t care either. All they wanted was to fill a new and unprecedented demand for fish as it replaced beef on tables throughout Europe and North America. Five years later, in 1975, the exporters began buying fish from Japan and the opportunists left. The coastal waters were theirs again. But it was too late for his father. The elder Alcazar died a year
later, having struggled long and hard to survive. His mother died just a few months after that. Since then, Norberto was the only family Adolfo had.

  Except, of course, for the General.

  Adolfo left the park after the Museum of San Telmo, a former Dominican monastery. Then he walked briskly along dark, quiet Calle Okendo. The only sounds were the distant waves and muffled voices from television sets coming through open windows.

  Adolfo’s tiny second-floor apartment was located on a small side street two blocks to the southeast. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He entered the one-room apartment cautiously. Had someone been sent by the General or was it the police?

  It was neither. Adolfo relaxed when he saw that it was his brother lying on the bed.

  Norberto closed the book he was reading. It was The Moral Discourses of Epictetus.

  “Good evening, Dolfo,” Norberto said pleasantly. The old bedsprings complained as he sat up. The priest was slightly taller and heavier than his brother. He had sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes behind wire-frame glasses. Because Norberto wasn’t constantly exposed to the sun like his brother, his skin was paler and unwrinkled.

  “Good evening, Norberto,” Adolfo said. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He tossed his threadbare bag on the small kitchen table and pulled off his sweater. The cool air coming through the open window felt good.

  “Well, you know,” Norberto said, “I hadn’t seen you in a while so I decided to walk over.” He looked over at the ticking clock on the kitchen counter. “Eleven-thirty. Isn’t this rather late for you?”

  Adolfo nodded. He dug into his bag and began pulling out dirty clothes. “There was an accident on the bay. An explosion on a yacht. I stopped to assist the police.”

  “Ah,” Norberto said. He stood. “I heard the blast and wondered what it was. Was anyone hurt?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Adolfo said. “Several men were killed.” He said no more. Norberto knew about his brother’s political activism, but he didn’t know anything about his involvement with the General or his group. Adolfo wanted very much to keep it that way.