“For a very short stay,” Ramirez replied. “When Senor Sanchez arrives I will go on deck and pay him.” He patted his vest pocket, where he had an envelope stuffed with international currency.
“He will not see anyone else so there is no way he can ever betray you.” “Why would he?” asked the man.
“Extortion, Alfonso,” Ramirez explained.
“Men like Sanchez, former soldiers who have come into money, tend to live lavishly, only for the day.
When they run out of money, sometimes they come back and ask for more.” “And if he does?” asked Alfonso. “How will you protect yourself?” Ramirez smiled. “One of my men was present with a video camera. If Sanchez betrays me, the tape will find its way into the hands of the police. But enough of what could be. Here is what will be. After Sanchez has been paid he will be escorted back to the airport and will leave the country until the investigation has been closed, as agreed.” “What of the driver in Madrid?” asked another of the men. “Is he leaving Spain as well?” “No,” said Ramirez. “The driver works for Deputy Serrador. He wants very much to rise so he will be silent. And the car used by the killers has already been left at a garage for dismantling.” Ramirez drew contentedly on his cigar. “Trust me, my dear Miguel. Everything has been thought out very carefully. This action will not be traced to us.” “I trust you,” sniffed the man. “But I’m still not certain we can trust Serrador. He is a Basque.” “The killer is also a Basque and he did as he was instructed,” said Ramirez. “Deputy Serrador will also do as he was told, Carlos. He is ambitious.” “Then he is an ambitious Basque. But he is still a Basque.” Ramirez smiled again. “Deputy Serrador does not wish to be a spokesman for the fishermen, shepherds, and miners forever. He wants to lead them.” “He can lead them over the Pyrenees into France,” said Carlos. “I won’t miss any of them.” “I wouldn’t either,” said Ramirez, “but then who, would fish, herd, and mine? The bank managers and accountants who work for you, Carlos? The reporters who work for Rodrigo’s newspapers or Alfonso’s television stations? The pilots who work for Miguel’s airline?” The other men smiled, shrugged, or nodded. Carlos flushed and acceded with a gracious nod of his head.
“That’s enough about our curious bedfellow,” said Ramirez. “The important thing is that America’s emissary has been slain. The United States will have no idea who did it or why, but they will be extremely wary about becoming involved in local politics. Deputy Serrador will caution them further when he meets with the rest of the contingent later this evening. He’ll assure them that the police are doing everything they can to apprehend the killer, but that the prevention of further incidents cannot be guaranteed. Not in such troubled times.” Carlos nodded. He turned to Miguel. “And how is your part going?” “Very well,” said the portly, silver-haired airline executive. “The discount air fares from the United States to Portugal, Italy, France, and Greece have proven extremely popular.
Travel to Madrid and Barcelona is down eleven and eight percent respectively from the levels of last year. Hotels, restaurants, and car services are feeling the loss. The ripple effect has hurt many local businesses.” “And revenues will fall even further,” Ramirez said, ” ‘when the American public is told that the slain woman was a tourist and that this was a random shooting.” Ramirez drew on his cigar and smiled. He was particularly proud of that part of the plan. The United States government could never expose the identity of the dead woman. She had come from an intelligence and crisis management center, not from the State Department. Nor could the United States reveal the fact that she had gone to Madrid to meet with a powerful deputy who feared a new civil war. If Europe ever learned that an American representative of this type had been scheduled to meet with Serrador, America would be suspected of trying to position the players to its own advantage. Which was exactly why Serrador had asked for her. With one shooting, Ramirez and his group had managed to gain control of both the White House and Spanish tourism.
“As for the next step,” Ramirez said, “how is that coming, Carlos?” The black-haired young banker leaned forward. He placed his cigar in the ashtray and folded his hands on the table. “As you know, the lower and middle classes have been hurt very seriously by the recent employment cutbacks. In the past six months, Ban quero Cedro has restricted loans so that our partners in this operation”-he indicated the other men at the table-“as well as other businesspeople, have been forced to raise consumer prices nearly seven percent. At the same time they’ve cut back production so that there has been an eight-percent drop in trade of Spanish goods throughout Europe.
The workers have been hit hard although, thus far, we haven’t curtailed their credit. We’ve been extraordinarily generous, in fact. We’ve been extending credit to repay old debts. Of course, only some of that money goes to relieve debt. People make new purchases, assuming that credit will be available to them again. As a result, interest on loans has compounded to levels eighteen percent higher than they were at this time last year.” Ramirez smiled. “In conjunction with a fall in tourism, the financial blow will be severe when that credit is not made available.” “It will be extremely severe,” said Carlos. “The people will be so deeply in debt they will agree to anything to be out of it.” “But the blow is one you’re certain you can control,” said Alfonso.
“Absolutely,” Carlos replied. “Thanks to cash reserves and credit with the World Bank and other institutions, the money supply at my bank and at most others will remain sound. The economy will be relatively unaffected at the top.” He grinned. “It’s like the plague of blood which befell Egypt in the Old Testament. It did not affect those who had been forewarned and had filled their jugs and cisterns with fresh water.” Ramirez sat back. He drew long and contentedly on his cigar. “This is excellent, gentlemen. And once everything is in place, our task is simply to maintain the pressure until the middle and lower classes buckle.
Until the Basques and the Castilians, the Andalusians and the Galicians acknowledge that Spain belongs to the people of Catalonia. And when they do, when the prime minister is forced to call for new elections, we will be ready.” His small, dark eyes moved from face to face before settling on the leather binder before him. “Ready with our new constitution-ready for a new Spain.” The other men nodded their approval. Miguel and Rodrigo applauded lightly. Ramirez felt the weight of history past and history yet to come on his shoulders, and it felt good.
He was unaware of a disheveled man who sat an eighth of a mile away with a different sense of history on his shoulders-and a much different weapon at his disposal.
FOUR
Monday, 7:15 p.m. Madrid, Spain
Aideen was still sitting in the leather couch when Comisario Diego Femandez arrived. He was a man of medium height and build. He was clean-shaven with a ruddy complexion and carefully trimmed goatee.
His black hair was longish but neat and he peered out carefully from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore black leather gloves, black suede shoes, and a black trenchcoat. Beneath the open coat was a dark gray business suit.
An aide shut the door behind him. When it had clicked shut, the inspector bowed politely to Aideen.
“Our deepest sympathy and apologies for your loss,” he said. His voice was deep, the English accent thick. “If there’s anything I or my department can do to help you, please ask.” ” “Thank you. Inspector,”” Aideen said.
“Be assured that the resources of the entire Madrid metropolitan police department as well as other government offices will be applied to finding whoever was responsible for this atrocious act.” Aideen looked up at the police inspector.
He couldn’t be talking to her. The police department couldn’t be looking for the killer of someone she knew.
The TV announcements and newspaper headlines wouldn’t be about a person she had been dressing with in a hotel room just an hour before. Though she had lived through the killing and seen Martha’s body on the street, the experience didn’t seem real.
Aideen was so accustomed to changing things-rewinding a tape to see something she’d missed or erasing computer data she didn’t need-that the irreversibility of this seemed impossible.
But in her brain Aideen knew that it had happened. And that it was irreversible. After being brought here, she’d called the hotel and briefed Darrell McCaskey. McCaskey had said he would inform Op-Center. He’d seemed surprisingly unshocked-or maybe Darrell was always that collected. Aideen didn’t know him well enough to say. Then she’d sat here trying to tell herself that the shooting was a random act of terrorism and not a hit.