August watched as the three men came forward. There was no doubt that the Strikers could take Amadori.
The question was the pricetag for both sides. In situations like these, the decision was up to the commanding officer. For August, the question was the same as it was in chess: whether an exchange of high ranked pieces was worth it. For him, the answer had always been no.
Depending upon who was sharper and better prepared, it was better to keep the game going and wait for the other player to make a mistake.
August held out his right hand, palm down. That meant to do nothing unless provoked. Outside the door, Scott passed the signal to the other Strikers.
Scott wriggled back as Amadori approached.
He didn’t take his gun off him. As he stepped through the doorway into the Hall of the Halberdiers, the other Strikers also took aim at the general. The exception was Corporal Prementine, who was helping Private DeVonne.
The gas in the throne room was beginning to wear off.
At August’s signal, Scott threw another grenade to cover their retreat. They rose and exited after the general. Scott walked with his back pressed to August’s back. The private was facing into the throne room, watching to make sure that none of the choking soldiers attempted to get off a shot.
None did.
August couldn’t afford to feel frustrated as Amadori walked toward the corridor. The general had had a gas filter with him: that was a reasonable precaution. The President of the United States had one in the Oval Office. They were kept in most rooms at 10 Downing Street. Boris Yeltsin had one in his desk and one in each of his cars. The surprise was that Amadori had had a hostage. The killing or even wounding of a hostage was always unfortunate; the killing or wounding of a Roman Catholic priest in Spain would be a disaster.
August considered the situation carefully. If they let Amadori out into the open, the general’s army would be better able to protect him. And if he got away, this attack could make him a hero in the eyes of his people. But that wasn’t the biggest problem.
August had no idea if and when reinforcements might arrive. And if they did show up, they might also be equipped with gas masks.
My chess game be damned, August decided. He was going to have to go for the king.
He couldn’t get his head or torso, but he had a clear shot at his legs and could bring him to the ground.
Even if the general or the major general turned on him, that would give the other Strikers a chance to take them out.
He raised his index finger once and then again.
Number one was going after number one.
August and Scott were still standing back-to-back.
August half-turned and whispered to the private as they walked toward the hallway.
“When I move, dive to your left.” Scott nodded.
An instant later, August fired.
THIRTYSEVE-RO Tuesday, 11:19 a.m. Madrid, Spain Father Norberto had heard the unmistakable sound of the helicopter flying low over the palace courtyard. It was followed soon after by the equally unmistakable crack of gunfire. He listened with one ear as he continued reading from Matthew 26 to the small group of people seated around him. It wasn’t until one of the parishioners went out to check, then came running back, that the congregation learned that something dire was going on.
“There is gunfire outside,” the man shouted into the church. “Soldiers are shooting at people in the courtyard.” The church was silent for a long moment after that. Then Father Francisco rose from the group he was counseling in the front of the nave. He raised his arms as though offering a blessing.
“Please remain calm,” Francisco said, smiling. “No harm will come to the church.” “What about the General Superior?” someone shouted.
“Is he safe?” “The General Superior is at the palace,” Francisco replied calmly, “hoping to secure a role for the mother church in the new Spain. I’m sure that God is looking out for him.” Father Norberto found something very unnerving about Francisco’s composure. Faith in God alone would not inspire such confidence. The feeling that Norberto had had earlier, that General Superior Gonzaiez was involved in the upheaval-that might be enough to give Francisco comfort. Especially if he had foreknowledge that there would be gunfire. But for what?
There was only one thing Norberto could think of.
Executions.
The man ran back outside. The priests resumed counseling the people who sat before them, leading them in prayer or offering words of comfort. A few minutes later the man came back.
“There is yellow smoke coming from windows of the palace,” the man yelled. “And gunfire inside!” This time. Father Francisco was not so composed. He left without a word, walking hurriedly toward the door behind the ambulatory, which opened into the courtyard of the Royal Palace.
Father Norberto watched him go. The silence of the church was even deeper now. Around them he could hear the crack of guns. Norberto looked down at the text then back toward the anxious faces before him.
They needed him. But then he thought of Adolfo and of his dying need for absolution. Beyond these walls were times of trial and acts of sin. His place was with those who required the sacrament of penance, not comfort.
Norberto put his hand on the shoulder of a young woman who had come in with her two little girls. He smiled at the mother and asked if, for a while, she would not mind reading in his place. He said that he wanted to see if Father Francisco required any assistance.
Walking quickly down the aisle. Father Norberto made his way to the ambulatory and out the large door into the courtyard.
THIRTY-EIGHT Tuesday, 11:23 a.m. Madrid, Spain Colonel August had leaned to his left in order to get a clear shot at Amadori’s leg. All he managed to get was the top of the general’s foot, but it was enough. Amadori howled through his gas mask and fell against the major general. As he did, the general’s gun discharged. The automatic was still poking out from under the priest’s arm and it pumped several shots in August’s direction. They traced a straight vertical line as the general stumbled back. But the colonel had already jumped to the left while Scott dove to the right. Screaming and covering his ears, the priest had fallen to his knees and remained there with his face between his legs. The bullets pinged off the marble wall but no one was hit.
The two Strikers hit the ground in perfect diving roll-outs, one shoulder connecting with the floor with the head tucked into the chest. The rest of the body followed in a somersault and the men ended up standing, facing in the direction of the dive. They turned quickly toward their targets as the other Strikers fanned into the hallway, making sure that the other soldiers were still on the ground. Private DeVonne emerged on her own, though she was stooped over and in obvious pain from the shot she’d taken.
During the time it had taken August and Scott to roll out, the major general had grabbed Amadori around the chest with one arm. Pulling hard, he helped the general stay on his feet. The two men retreated. As they did, they set up a spray of automatic fire that sent the Strikers dropping to the ground and rolling in all directions for cover. There were screams all around them as several of the Spanish soldiers were struck.
Throughout the exchange, Aideen had remained just inside the Hall of the Halberdiers. She didn’t stay there because she was afraid. She stayed there because she didn’t want to get in the way of the Striker game plan. She also wanted to be free to assist any of the Strikers who might go down.
She’d tried to help Sondra into the hallway but the private had insisted that she was all right. For the moment, she probably was. Aideen knew from experience that at least there was one benefit to constant pain, like a broken rib or a nonlethal bullet wound. The mind had the ability to block that pain out, even when it was severe. It was the jab of recurring or steadily increasing pain that was difficult to deal with.
Now, standing beside the jamb, Aideen suddenly had another mission. The wounded Amadori had disappeared around the turn in the corridor to the east. At that moment she was the only team member who was still on her feet. From the western end of the corridor, straight ahead, she heard the distinctive stomp of boots.
The smoke was still too thick for her to see that far, but she knew that reinforcements were on the way. The Strikers would have to release more grenades to deal with them. If the soldiers had been alerted by security cameras or by a call from the throne room, they might very well be wearing gas masks. If that were the case, the Strikers would have their hands full just getting out of there. And Colonel August would abort if he felt that the mission had been too severely compromised. In the meantime Amadori might get away.