Arm came around the desk and leaned over Hood’s shoulder. Her warmth, her closeness were comforting. He concentrated on reading the translation as the message played.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” said the announcer. “We interrupt the supper club troubador to report about further developments in the explosion of the yacht tonight in La Concha Bay. A few minutes ago, a tape recording was delivered to our studio. It was brought by a man who represented himself as a member of the First People of Spain. This recording is reportedly of a conversation which took place onboard the yacht, identified as the Veridico, moments before it blew up. With the delivery of this tape, the FPS claims responsibility for the attack. They also declare Spain as the province of Spaniards, not of the elite of Catalonia. We will play the recording in its entirety.” A parenthetical comment from Herbert read: The FPS is a group of Castilian pure-bloods. They ‘we been publishing broadsides and recruiting members for two years.
They’ve also claimed responsibility for two acts of terrorism against Catalonian and Andalusian targets. Their size and the identity of their leaderggs) is unknown.
His jaw tightening. Hood continued reading the transcript as the recording began to play. He listened to the cool, quiet voice of Esteban Ramirez as he spoke about the Catalonian plans for Spain and boasted about the involvement of his group in the murder of Martha Mackall. His group-with the help of Congressional Deputy Isidro Serrador.
“Lord Jesus,” Hood said through his teeth.
“Bobis this possible?” “Not only is it possible,” Herbert said, “but it explains Serrador’s unwillingness to continue the talks with Darrell and Aideen. That son of a bitch set us up, Paul.” Hood looked at Arm. He’d seen many of her darker moods during their nearly two years together but he’d never seen anything like the way she looked now.
The compassion had faded completely from her face.
Her lips were pressed tightly together and he could hear her breathing through her nostrils. Her eyes were hard and her cheeks were flushed.
“What do you want to do, Paul?” Herbert asked Hood. ” “And before you answer, keep in mind that the Spanish courts are not going to throw the book at a leading political figure because of an illegal tape recording made by someone whose hands are probably as dirty if not dirtier than Serrador’s. They’ll have a long, tough talk with him and investigate the hell out of him. But if he’s got friends-and I’m sure he has- they’re going to say he was framed. They’ll do everything they can to stall the machinery of justice.” “I know,” Hood said.
“I know you know,” Herbert replied. “But they could let him plea-bargain, just to keep his constituents happy. Or they may let him off. Or they may let him ‘escape” the country when no one’s looking. What I’m saying is, we may have to take this matter into our own hands. If Serrador turns out to be a terrorist sponsor, we should fight fire with fire.” “I hear you,” Hood said. He thought for a moment.
“I want the bastard, and if I can’t have him legally at least I want him dead-to-rights.” So much for higher morality.
Hood told himself. He thought for a moment more. He didn’t want Serrador to slip away.
Unfortunately, he had only two HUMBLEANT resources on the scene, Darrell and Aideen. And he didn’t know if they were up to keeping tabs on him until Striker or some third party group could get in and have a heart-to-heart talk with the bastard. He’d have to talk to Darrell about that. In the meantime, he needed more intelligence.
“Bob,” Hood said, “I want you to set up whatever electronic recon you can on the deputy.” “It’s already done,” Herbert said. “We’re getting on top of his office and home phones, fax lines, modem, and mail.” “Good.” “What do you plan on doing with Darrell and Aideen?” Herbert asked.
“I’m going to talk to Darrell and then leave the decision in his hands. He’s onsite; it should be his call. But before I do I want to talk to Carol banning, see if State can give us the big picture of what’s really going on in Spain.” ” ‘What do you think is going on?”‘” Arm asked.
“Unless I miss my guess,” Hood said, “the death of Martha and her killers probably weren’t just warning shots.” “What were they?” she asked.
Hood looked at her as he rose. ” “I believe they were the opening salvos of a civil war.”
Monday, 11:30 p.m. Madrid, Spain
During the months that Congress was in session, Deputy Isidro Serrador lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the very fashionable Parque del Retiro section of Madrid. His small seventh-floor rooms overlooked the spectacular boating lake and beautiful gardens. If one leaned out the window and glanced toward the southwest, Europe’s only public statue of the devil was visible. Sculpted in 1880, the statue commemorated the only place where eighteenth-century Spanish ladies were permitted-by tradition, not by law-to defend their own honor in duels. Very few women had ever done so, of course. Only men were vain enough to risk their lives in order to reply to an insult.
Serrador was sitting in a divan and looking out the window at the lamplit park. He had come home after working on congressional business for the rest of the day, content in the knowledge that things had gone exactly as planned. Then he had taken a hot bath and briefly fallen asleep in the tub. When he got out, he turned on the oven to heat the dinner left for him by his housekeeper. He enjoyed a brandy while his pork shoulder, boiled potatoes, and chickpeas warmed.
While he ate, on the hour, he would watch television and see how the news channel interpreted the shooting of the American “tourist.” Then he would check his answering machine for calls and return them if it wasn’t too late. He just didn’t feel like dealing with people right now. He simply wanted to savor his triumph.
Watching the news, he thought, will be very amusing.
The experts would talk about the impact of the shooting on tourism without having any idea what was truly going on-or what was going to happen over the next few weeks. It was astonishing how little political and economic forecasters ever really knew. For everyone who said this, someone else said that.
It was all just an exercise, a game.
His back was settled comfortably in the thick pillows and his bare feet lay crossed on the coffee table in front of him. The last of the brandy was settled comfortably in the back of his throat and reflections of the day’s developments were resting comfortably in his head.
The plan was ingenious. Two minorities, the Basques and the Catalonians, would unite to take over Spain. The Basques would contribute their arms, muscle, and experience at terrorist tactics. The Catalonians would use their influence over the economy, winning political converts by threatening a massive depression. Once control over the nation was established, the Catalonians would grant autonomy to the Basque country, allowing those-like Serrador-who wanted self-rule to have it. And the wealthy Catalonians would con 128 OP-CENTER tinue to run Spain, keeping the other nonautonomous groups in check by controlling commerce.
It was ingenious-and foolproof.
The telephone rang a moment before there was a knock on the door. Serrador started as his reverie was interrupted-on two fronts, no less.
Grumbling unhappily, the politician slid his feet into his slippers and rose. As he shuffled toward the telephone he shouted roughly for whoever was at the door to wait a minute. No one could come upstairs without being announced by the concierge.
So he wondered which of the neighbors wanted a favor at this hour. Was it the owner of the grocery chain who needed to expand his stores? Or the Castilian bicycle manufacturer who wanted to ship more units to Morocco, the bastard. At least the grocer paid for favors. The bicycle maker asked for them just because he happened to live on the same floor.
Serrador helped them because he didn’t want to make an enemy. One never knew when the neighbors might see or hear something that could be compromising.
Serrador wondered why he was never visited by one of the beautiful concubines who lived here. There were at least three that he knew of, kept by government ministers who went home to their wives each night.
The antique telephone sat on a small drop-leaf table in the carpeted foyer. Serrador finished tying the red sash of his smoking jacket and picked up the receiver. Let them wait at the door another minute, whoever it was. He’d had a long and exhausting day.
His “Si?”‘” he said.
The pounding on the door grew more insistent.
Someone outside was calling his name but he didn’t recognize the voice.