Ferdinand ran past them to the priest. Father Norberto was standing just inside the doorway, staring down at the body of General Amadori. He knelt and began to say a prayer over the dead man.
“Father, he doesn’t deserve your blessing,” Ferdinand said. “Come. We must go.” Norberto finished praying. Only when he made the sign of the cross over the general did he rise. He looked at Ferdinand. ” “Where are we going?”‘” “Away,” Ferdinand said. “The soldiers-was “He’s right. Father,” Aideen said. “We don’t know what they’re going to do. But we should be somewhere else when they do it.” McCaskey held onto Aideen’s shoulder while he drew several painful breaths. “We’ve also got to let the boss know what’s going on as soon as possible,” he said. “Where’s the team?” ” “They encountered some resistance after the flushout,” she said. “They withdrew.” “Can you get to them?” Aideen nodded. “Can you walk?” “Yes, but I’m not going with you,” McCaskey said.
“I can’t leave Maria.” “Darrell, you heard what Amadori said,” Aideen declared. “More soldiers are on the way.” “I know,” McCaskey said. He smiled faintly. “All the more reason I can’t leave her.” “He won’t be alone,” Father Norberto told her. “I’ll stay with him.” Aideen regarded them both through her mask. “There isn’t time to argue. I’ll get the word out. You three take care.” McCaskey thanked her. As she turned and ran toward the grand staircase, McCaskey hobbled toward the priest.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said in English, pointing to Amadori’s body. “It was necessary.” Norberto said nothing.
Ferdinand put his gun in his waistband. “I’m going to look for my friend Juan,” he said. He regarded McCaskey. ” ‘Thank you, sir, for ridding Spain of this would-be caudillo.”” McCaskey wasn’t exactly sure what Ferdinand had said, but he got the gist of it.
“jDe nodal” he said. “You’re welcome.” Father Norberto suddenly put his hand around Ferdinand’s neck. He squeezed hard.
“Padre?” Ferdinand said, confused.
“Your friend is in there,” Norberto said. There were tears in his eyes as he pointed toward the music room. “He’s dead.” “Juan dead? Are you certain?” “I am certain,” Norberto said. “I was with him when he died. I was with him when he confessed his sins.
He died absolved of them.” Ferdinand shut his eyes.
Norberto squeezed harder. “Everyone has the right to absolution, my son, whether they have slain one or they have slain millions.” The priest released Ferdinand and turned away. He walked toward McCaskey, who had limped past them and was peering cautiously out the door.
McCaskey didn’t know what the exchange had been about, but it didn’t sound pleasant.
“What should we do?” Norberto asked.
“I’m not sure,” McCaskey admitted.
He watched the soldiers as they watched him. The reinforcements were just arriving from an entrance further along the courtyard. It looked to McCaskey as if they were carrying gas niters. They must have been part of the group that went after Striker.
Once again McCaskey felt helpless. The Interpol spotters might not realize that Amadori was dead, that a show of force from local police units might be enough to shut the heart of the revolution down. Especially if it came before the soldiers could rally behind a new leader.
“What if I go and speak with them,” Norberto asked. “Tell them that there is no longer any reason to fight.” “I don’t think they’d listen,” McCaskey said.
“You may put some fear in some of them-but not all. Not enough to save us.” “I’ve got to try,” Norberto said.
He stepped around McCaskey and walked out the door. McCaskey didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t believe the soldiers would hurt the priest.
And if he could buy them an extra minute or two, it was worth a try. At this point, he was willing to try anything.
McCaskey had no idea what was going to happen to the movement with Amadori dead. But from the way the three dozen or so soldiers were massing along the southern side of the courtyard, he had a good idea what was going to happen to him and Maria and all the prisoners who were being kept here.
They would become pawns in one of the most significant and dangerous hostage dramas of this century.
FORTY-EIGHT Tuesday, 6:50 a.m. Washington, D.c.
“Incoming from Striker,” Bob Herbert said.
He was manning the phone in Hood’s office while Hood and Rodgers were on a conference call with National Security head Burkow and Spanish ambassador Garcfa Abril in Washington.
Attorney Lowell Coffey and Ron Plummer were also in the office.
The ambassador informed Washington that the Spanish prime minister and King had relieved General Amadori of his command. His forces were being turned over to General Garcia Somoza, who was being flown in from Barcelona. In the meantime, the local police forces-which included the elite Guardia Real from the Palacio de la Zarzuela-were being organized for a counterattack to take back the palace.
Hood took the Striker call at once, patched through from Interpol headquarters. He put it on the speaker. The radio silence had been nerve-wracking, especially since the spotters and satellite reconnaissance had reported shots and tear gas from different parts of the palace compound. He was also afraid the police would move in before Striker could move out.
“Home run,” August said as soon as Hood was on.
“We’re out of the dugout and back in the street.” There were smiles around the room and fists raised in triumph. Rodgers informed Burkow and Ambassador Abril.
“Excellent,” Hood said enthusiastically. Since Striker was out in the open, August would be forced to give his report in the baseball code they’d arranged. “Injuries?” “A minor sprain,” said August. “But we have a problem. The coach went in to get his lady. The lady’s boss went with him. The coach is all right but the others are hurt. They should really see a doctor.” “Understood,” Hood said. McCaskey was the coach. August was telling him that he and Luis had gone in to get Maria and that the condition of Luis and Maria was possibly life-threatening.
“One more thing,” August said. “When we tried to pick off their ace player we got caught in a pickle. Coach was the one who ended up nailing him.” Hood and Rodgers exchanged looks.
McCaskey was the one who had ended up getting to Amadori. That hadn’t been the game plan. But if there was one thing Hood had discovered about his team-Herbert, Rodgers, and McCaskey in particular-they were very good at improvising.
“It’s our feeling,” August continued, “that the coach probably shouldn’t stay in the stadium for any length of time. We don’t really want the other team talking to him. Do you want us to try and get them out?” “Negative,” Hood said. Good as Striker was, he refused to send them back in without a rest- especially with a police force getting ready to move in.
“Where are the coach and his people?” “The coach is by the doorway at Bl,” August said. “The lady and boss are in seats V5, one and three.” “Very good,” Hood said. “You did your job, slugger. Now go home. We’ll talk when you get there.” Herbert had rolled his chair to the computer and punched in the map coordinates August had provided.
He asked the computer for a satellite update of the spot. Stephen Viens had linked them directly to the NRO download and it came up in fifteen seconds.
“I’ve got visuals on Maria and Luis,” Herbert said. He pulled back so he could see the entire courtyard. “I’ve also got about thirty soldiers getting ready to do something.” Rodgers updated Burkow and Abril. As he did, Lowell Coffey went to the coffee machine and poured a cup.
“Paul,” Coffey said, “ifAmadori’s dead, those soldiers may not kill our people or anyone else. They’ll hold them as hostages. Use them to bargain their way to some kind of amnesty.” “And they’ll probably get it, too,” Plummer pointed out. “Whoever ends up running the country won’t want to further alienate the ethnic supporters these people may have.” “So if the authorities don’t attack,” Coffey went on, “we’ll probably get everyone out in time-including Darrell. The soldiers don’t gain anything by killing them.” “Except McCaskey,” Herbert pointed out.
“Colonel August is right. If the soldiers in the compound find out that he’s the one who killed Amadori, they’re going to want his blood.
Bad.” “How will they know he killed the general?” Coffey asked.
“The security cameras,” Herbert said. He brought up the map of the palace. “Look where he is.” Coffey and Plummer gathered around the computer.
Rodgers was still on the telephone with Burkow and the Spanish ambassador.
“There are cameras at both ends of the corridor,” Herbert said. “Darrell may have been taped. When they find the general dead, his soldiers may take the time to watch and see who did it.” “Any chance of erasing the tape with some kind of electronic interference?” Coffey asked.