Balance Of Power (1998) Read online

  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 Isla 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 grand-parents 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 '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 middle-man 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 happened?"

  "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 enthusi
astically. 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.

  "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, Banquero 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 Fernandez 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 departmen
t 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. After all, it wasn't the same as in Tijuana two years earlier when her friend Odin Gutierrez Rico had literally been blasted to death by four gunmen with assault rifles. Rico was the director of criminal trials in Baja California. He was a public figure who had regularly received death threats and had continued to defy the nation's drug traffickers. His death was a tragic loss but not a surprise. It was a very public statement that the prosecution of drug dealers would not be tolerated by the underworld.