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 Sebastian, 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 Isia 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 Veridico 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 Veridico, Senor 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 grandparents had raised sheep or grapes or grain in the fertile fields of Leon. 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 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 middleman 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 hap” pened?” “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.
“Senor Sanchez is now at the airport in Madrid,” Ramirez said. He was using the name the killer had assumed for this mission. “He will reach Bilbao in one hour. I will ring the factory and have one of my familia drivers meet him there. And then, as planned, he will be brought out to the yacht.” “For a short stay, I trust,” one of the men said anxiously.