“A low-flying aircraft with a directed electromagnetic burst could do it,” Herbert said, “but it would take time.” Rodgers hit the mute button and stood.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s unlikely we’ll be able to do anything in time.” “Explain,” Hood said.
“Interpol informed the prime minister of Striker’s success,” Rodgers said. “The ambassador has just informed me that they want to move the police in now, before the rebel forces have a chance to regroup.” Herbert swore.
“What are their orders if the soldiers take hostages?” Hood asked.
Rodgers shook his head. “There aren’t going to be any hostages,” Rodgers said. “The Spanish government doesn’t want to give the rebels-which is how they’re describing them-a forum that will keep them center stage.” “Can’t blame them for that,” Herbert said.
“I can when one of my people is still in the compound,” Hood said angrily. “We did a goddamn job for them-was “And now they’re marching down the road we paved for them,” Rodgers said, “acting in the best interests of their nation. The job we were asked to do by the President of the United States was to help give Spain back to its elected officials. There weren’t any guarantees, Paul, about how those officials were going to behave afterward.” Hood pushed his chair back from the desk and stood.
He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, then went to the shelf near the TV and got himself a cup of coffee.
Rodgers was right. Chances were good that the Spanish prime minister and possibly even the king wouldn’t survive this debacle. They weren’t acting in their own self-interest. They were trying to preserve Spain. And in the long run, that helped Europe and the United States. There wasn’t a polarized nation on earth that would benefit if yet another country collapsed into smaller republics.
Yet it wasn’t their actions that bothered him. It was their we’lltake-it-from-here attitude, now that the difficult work had been done. What about the lives that had been sacrificed to correct what had occurred during their watch?
“Paul,” Rodgers said, “the Spanish government probably doesn’t even know about Darrell’s role in the action. They probably assume that Striker got in and out as planned.” “They didn’t bother to ask.” “And if they did, nothing would be different,” Rodgers said. “Nothing could be different. The government can’t give us time to figure something out because they can’t afford to give the rebels time.” Hood took his coffee back to the desk.
“I’ve faced these things before,” Herbert said. “They suck. But Darrell isn’t green. He’ll probably pick up on what’s happening. Maybe he’ll be able to get himself and the others to safety until the shooting’s over.” “I also informed Interpol about the situation,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t tell them about Darrell’s actions. That can come out later, when-with luck- we’ll have him back here.” “Yeah,” Herbert said. “Then we can at least have some fun denying that he was ever even there.” “I told them where Darrell, Maria, and Luis are,” Rodgers continued, “and that they need medical attention. Hopefully, the message will make its way through the bureaucracy.” Hood sat. His “Probably, maybe, and hopefully.
I guess there are worse words.” “A whole lot of them,” Herbert said.
“Like never, impossible, and dead.”” Hood looked at him and then at the others. He was going to miss these people when he submitted his resignation-these good patriots and dedicated professionals. But he wasn’t going to miss the waiting and the grief. There had been enough of that to last him a lifetime.
He also wouldn’t miss the loneliness and the guilt.
Wanting Nancy Bosworth in Germany and Arm Farris in Washington. That kind of empty flirtation was never what he’d wanted his life to be about.
Hood found himself hoping that Sharon had had a change of heart-that maybe she’d decided to come back. And he had to admit that Herbert was right.
Hope was a lot more satisfying than never.
Tuesday, 12:57 p.m. Madrid, Spain
Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor.
Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, ” ‘The alternative is not breathing and that ain’t better.” Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn’t stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or-depending upon the caliber and proximity of firingfrom causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself.
He was worried about Maria. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori’s uniform.
But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn’t speak Spanish.
A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two-not worth the effort.
Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general’s radio.
McCaskey figured they didn’t have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn’t answering.
More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard.
McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailen-and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once Maria left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she’d be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn’t know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they’d be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they’d witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.
McCaskey decided that he was going to have to try to get to Maria and cover her as she left. As he was about to ask Ferdinand for his help, the Spaniard said something and offered McCaskey his hand.
“Is he planning to leave us?” McCaskey asked.
“He is,” replied Norberto.
“Hold on,” McCaskey said. He refused to take Ferdinand’s hand. “Tell him that I need his help getting to Maria. He can’t go.” Norberto translated for McCaskey. Ferdinand answered, shaking his head while he did.
“He says he’s sorry,” Norberto informed McKaskey, “but hisfamilia needs him.” “I need him too!” McCaskey snapped.
“I’ve got to reach Luis and Maria-get them out of here.” Ferdinand turned to go.
“Dammit,” McCaskey shouted, “I need someone to cover me!” “Let him go,” Norberto said flatly. “We’ll both go to your friends. They won’t shoot us.” “They will when they realize that their leaders are dead.” There were loud footsteps down the hall. They were followed by gunshots. Ferdinand screamed.
“Shit!” McCaskey yelled. “Let’s go.” Father Norberto’s face was impassive but he hesitated.
“You can’t help him,” McCaskey said and started toward the door. “Come on.” Norberto went with him. McCaskey moved as fast as he could, each step bringing sharp pain along both sides. He tried to raise his left arm; a blinding flash stabbed his lungs and arched his spine.
He switched his gun to his other hand. He wasn’t as good lefthanded, but he’d made up his mind that he was going to get to Maria-crawling if necessary, but he was going to reach her.
The two men stepped outside with Father Norberto between McCaskey and the soldiers. McCaskey stumbled from the lingering pain of having tried to lift his arm. The priest grabbed his left arm. McCaskey leaned on him gratefully. As he did. Father Norberto took the gun from him.
“What are you doing?!” McCaskey shouted.
The priest held the gun butt-up. Then he bent and laid it on the courtyard. “I am giving them one reason less to shoot at us.” “Or one more!” McCaskey cried as they continued walking.
He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about the soldiers shouting at them in Spanish. Maria was watching them from behind the base of the arch, her gun in sight.
There was a shot and a loud chink roughly a yard from Father Norberto. Stone chips flew toward them.
One of them struck the priest in the thigh. He winced but continued walking.
Maria returned fire. One of the soldiers shot at her and drove her back.
The soldiers fired again. This time the bullet hit closer, just inches from the priest. It kicked up a fresh spray of stone. Norberto jerked toward McCaskey as several shards struck him in the side.
“Are you all right?” McCaskey asked.
Norberto nodded once. But his lips were pressed together and his brow was creased. He was hurting.
Suddenly, there was shouting behind them. It was coming from the direction of the palace.
His “El general estd muerto!”” someone shouted.
McCaskey didn’t need Father Norberto to translate for him. The general was dead-and in a moment they would be, too.
“Come on!” he said, urging the priest forward.
But even as he did so, McCaskey knew they were never going to make it. Other soldiers picked up the cry. There were shouts of rage and disbelief. , Just then there was another sound. The sound of helicopters. McCaskey stopped. He looked to his left, toward the palace. The soldiers also looked over. A moment later six choppers flew over the southern wall. They hovered over the courtyard, blocking the sun and sending out an ear-splitting roar.