The trick was not so much convincing Sharon of that. She was a smart, smart lady. The trick was convincing her that his sacrifice mattered.
He couldn’t let it rest. Against his better judgment Hood picked up the phone and called home.
THIRTEEN Tuesday, 12:24 a.m. Madrid, Spain Isidro Serrador’s small eyes were like stones as he watched the men walk into the room.
The congressional deputy was nervous and wary. He was unsure why he had been brought to the police station and had no idea what to expect. Had they somehow connected him with the death of the American diplomat?
The only ones who knew were Esteban Ramirez and his comrades. And if they betrayed him he’d betray them right back. There was no point to that.
Serrador didn’t recognize these men. He knew from the chevrons on the sleeves of the sharp brown uniforms that one was an army general and the other was a major general. He knew from the general’s swarthy coloring, dark hair, flat black eyes, and lithe build that he was of Castilian ancestry.
The major general stopped several paces away.
When the general was finally near enough so that Serrador could read the white letters on the small black name-tag attached to his breast pocket he knew his name: amadori.
Amadori raised a white-gloved hand. Without turn ing, he motioned crisply toward the major general. The officer set an audiotape player on the table. Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Serrador looked up at Amadori. He couldn’t read anything in the general’s face. It was set perfectly and inexpressively. All formal lines like the creases in his uniform.
“Am I under arrest?” Serrador finally asked, quietly.
“You are not.” Amadori’s voice and manner were rigid-just like his lean face, like his unwrinkled uniform, like the taut, creaking leather of his new boots and twin holsters.
“Then what’s going on?” Serrador demanded, feeling bolder now. ” “What is an army officer doing at the police station? And what is this?” He flicked a fat finger disdainfully at the tape recorder. “Am I being interrogated for something? Do you expect me to say something important?” “No,” Amadori answered. “I expect you to listen.” “To what?” “To a recording that was broadcast on the radio a short time ago.” Amadori stepped closer to the table. “When you’re finished, you will have the choice of walking out of here or using this.” He removed the Llama M-82 DA pistol, a 9 X 19mm Parabellum. He tossed it casually to Serrador, who caught it automatically, noted that there was no clip in it, and set it on the table between them.
There was a sudden queasiness in Serrador’s groin.
“Use that?” he said. “Are you insane?” “Listen to the tape,” Amadori said. “And when you do, keep in mind that the men you hear have joined the American diplomat in the abode of the blessed. You are apparently a dangerous man to know. Deputy Serrador.” Amadori stepped closer and smiled for the first time. He leaned toward Serrador and spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Keep this in mind as well. Your attempt to capture the government of Spain has failed. Mine will not.” “Yours,” Serrador said warily.
Amadori’s thin smile broadened. “A Castilian plan.” “Let me join you,” Serrador said urgently.
“I am Basque. Those other men, the Catalonians-they never wanted me to be part of their plan. I was convenient because of my position.
I was an expediter, not an equal. Let me work with you.” “There is no place for you,” Amadori said coldly.
“There must be. I’m well connected. Powerful.” Amadori straightened and tugged down the hem of his jacket. He nodded toward the tape player. “You were,” he said.
Serrador looked at the machine. Perspiration collected under his arms and along his upper lip. He jabbed a thick finger at the play button.
“What of the driver in Madrid?” he heard someone say. It sounded like Carlos Saura, head of Banco Modemo.
“Is he leaving Spain as well?” ” “No. The driver works for Deputy Serrador.”” That was Esteban Ramirez, the bastard. Serrador listened for a few moments more as the men on the tape talked about the car and about the deputy being a Basque.
An ambitious Basque and willing to do anything to further the cause and himself.
The stupid, careless bastard, Serrador thought. He stopped the machine and folded his hands. He looked up at Amadori. “This is nothing,” Serrador said. “Don’t you see? This is designed to discredit me because of my heritage. It’s blackmail.” “The men did not know they were being taped,” Amadori informed him. ” “And your driver has already confessed to his part in exchange for immunity from prosecution.” “Then he lies,” Serrador said dismissively.
A plug of something caught in his throat. He swallowed it. “I still have a strong and loyal constituency. I’ll beat this.” Amadori’s smile returned. “No, you won’t.” “You unremarkable pig!” Serrador flushed as fear shaded to indignation. “Who are you?” It was a slur, not a question. “You bring me here late at night and you force me to listen to a tape recording of questionable merit. Then you call me a traitor. I will fight for my life and for my honor. You won’t win this.” Amadori smirked. “But I already have won.” He stepped back, drew his own gun, and held his arm out straight. The pistol was pointed down at Serrador’s forehead.
“What are you talking about?” Serrador demanded. His stomach was liquid. Sweat glistened across his forehead now.
“You took the gun from me,” Amadori said. “You threatened me with it.” “What?” Serrador looked at the gun. And then he realized what had happened, why he had been brought here.
Serrador was right. He could very well have argued that the Catalonians had set him up. That they’d bribed his driver to testify against him. Had he been allowed to defend himself he might have persuaded people that he wasn’t involved in the death of the American. With the help of a clever attorney he might have convinced a court that he was being framed. That this was an attempt to turn people against him and his Basque supporters.
After all, Ramirez and the others were dead. They couldn’t defend themselves.
But that wasn’t what Amadori wanted.
He needed Serrador to be what he really was: a Basque who had joined with the Catalonians to overthrow the government of Spain. Amadori needed a Basque traitor for his plans.
“Wait a minute-please,” Serrador said.
The deputy’s frightened eyes turned toward the gun on the table. He had touched it. That was something else the general had needed. His fingerprints on the damn- The general pulled the trigger. The slightly turned head of Deputy Isidro Serrador snapped back as the bullet pierced his temple. He was dead before his brain could process the pain, before the sound of the blast reached his ears.
The force of the impact knocked Serrador backward onto the floor. Even before the sound of the shot had died, Amadori had picked up the gun from the table, inserted a full clip, and placed it on the floor beside Serrador. He stood for a moment and watched as Serrador’s dark blood formed a red halo under his head.
A moment later the general’s aides and police officers crowded into the small room. A beefy police inspector stood behind him.
” “What happened?”‘” the inspector demanded.
Amadori bolstered his pistol. “The deputy grabbed my gun,” he said calmly, pointing to the weapon on the floor. “I was afraid that he might try to take hostages or escape.” The police inspector looked from the body to Amadori. “Sir, this matter will have to be investigated.” Amadori’s face was impassive.
“Where will you be-for questioning?” the inspector asked.
“Here,” Amadori replied. “In Madrid. With my command.” The inspector turned to the men behind him. “Sergeant Blanco? Telephone the commissioner and let him know what has happened. Tell him I await further instructions. Let his office handle the press.
Sergeant Sebares? Notify the coroner. Have him come to handle the body.” Both men saluted and left the room. Amadori turned and walked slowly after them. He was followed by the major general.
He was also followed by the stares of men who clearly feared him, whether they believed his story or not. Men who apparently sensed that they had just witnessed a purge. Men who had watched a military general take the first, bold steps to becoming a military dictator.
FOURTEEN Tuesday, 2:00 a.m. Madrid, Spain Maria Comeja was already waiting in a dark, grassy corner of the airfield when Aideen, Luis Garcia de la Vega, and Darrell McCaskey arrived in an unmarked Interpol car. The helicopter that would ferry them north was idling some two hundred yards away on the tarmac.
Air traffic was extremely light. In his speech to the nation in six hours, the prime minister would announce that flights to and from Madrid were going to be cut by sixty-five percent in order to ensure the security of planes leaving the airport. But foreign governments had been informed of the plan shortly after midnight and flights were already being canceled or rerouted.