The stupid, careless bastard, Serrador thought. He stopped the machine and folded his hands. He looked up at Amadori. “This is nothing,” Serrador said. “Don’t you see? This is designed to discredit me because of my heritage. It’s blackmail.”
“The men did not know they were being taped,” Amadori informed him. “And your driver has already confessed to his part in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
“Then he lies,” Serrador said dismissively. A plug of something caught in his throat. He swallowed it. “I still have a strong and loyal constituency. I’ll beat this.”
Amadori’s smile returned. “No, you won’t.”
“You unremarkable pig!” Serrador flushed as fear shaded to indignation. “Who are you?” It was a slur, not a question. “You bring me here late at night and you force me to listen to a tape recording of questionable merit. Then you call me a traitor. I will fight for my life and for my honor. You won’t win this.”
Amadori smirked. “But I already have won.” He stepped back, drew his own gun, and held his arm out straight. The pistol was pointed down at Serrador’s forehead.
“What are you talking about?” Serrador demanded. His stomach was liquid. Sweat glistened across his forehead now.
“You took the gun from me,” Amadori said. “You threatened me with it.”
“What?” Serrador looked at the gun. And then he realized what had happened, why he had been brought here.
Serrador was right. He could very well have argued that the Catalonians had set him up. That they’d bribed his driver to testify against him. Had he been allowed to defend himself he might have persuaded people that he wasn’t involved in the death of the American. With the help of a clever attorney he might have convinced a court that he was being framed. That this was an attempt to turn people against him and his Basque supporters. After all, Ramirez and the others were dead. They couldn’t defend themselves.
But that wasn’t what Amadori wanted. He needed Serrador to be what he really was: a Basque who had joined with the Catalonians to overthrow the government of Spain. Amadori needed a Basque traitor for his plans.
“Wait a minute — please,” Serrador said.
The deputy’s frightened eyes turned toward the gun on the table. He had touched it. That was something else the general had needed. His fingerprints on the damn—
The general pulled the trigger. The slightly turned head of Deputy Isidro Serrador snapped back as the bullet pierced his temple. He was dead before his brain could process the pain, before the sound of the blast reached his ears.
The force of the impact knocked Serrador backward onto the floor. Even before the sound of the shot had died, Amadori had picked up the gun from the table, inserted a full clip, and placed it on the floor beside Serrador. He stood for a moment and watched as Serrador’s dark blood formed a red halo under his head.
A moment later the general’s aides and police officers crowded into the small room. A beefy police inspector stood behind him.
“What happened?” the inspector demanded.
Amadori holstered his pistol. “The deputy grabbed my gun,” he said calmly, pointing to the weapon on the floor. “I was afraid that he might try to take hostages or escape.”
The police inspector looked from the body to Amadori. “Sir, this matter will have to be investigated.”
Amadori’s face was impassive.
“Where will you be — for questioning?” the inspector asked.
“Here,” Amadori replied. “In Madrid. With my command.”
The inspector turned to the men behind him. “Sergeant Blanco? Telephone the commissioner and let him know what has happened. Tell him I await further instructions. Let his office handle the press. Sergeant Sebares? Notify the coroner. Have him come to handle the body.”
Both men saluted and left the room. Amadori turned and walked slowly after them. He was followed by the major general.
He was also followed by the stares of men who clearly feared him, whether they believed his story or not. Men who apparently sensed that they had just witnessed a purge. Men who had watched a military general take the first, bold steps to becoming a military dictator.
FOURTEEN
María Corneja was already waiting in a dark, grassy corner of the airfield when Aideen, Luis García de la Vega, and Darrell McCaskey arrived in an unmarked Interpol car. The helicopter that would ferry them north was idling some two hundred yards away on the tarmac.
Air traffic was extremely light. In his speech to the nation in six hours, the prime minister would announce that flights to and from Madrid were going to be cut by sixty-five percent in order to ensure the security of planes leaving the airport. But foreign governments had been informed of the plan shortly after midnight and flights were already being canceled or rerouted.
Aideen had gone back to her hotel room and pulled together some clothes and tourist accoutrements — including her camera and Walkman tape recorder, both of which could be used for reconnaissance. Then she went to Interpol headquarters with Luis while McCaskey phoned Paul Hood. Luis reviewed maps of the region in addition to briefing her on the character of the people up north and providing her with up-to-the-minute intelligence. Then they went back to the hotel, collected McCaskey — who had obtained an okay from Hood for Aideen’s participation in the mission — and drove out to the airport.
Aideen didn’t know what to expect from Maria. Little had been said about her, apart from the brief exchange in the hotel room. She didn’t know whether she’d be welcomed or whether being an American and a woman would work for her or against her.
Maria had been sitting astride her ten-speed bicycle, smoking. Flicking the cigarette onto the asphalt, she dropped the kickstand of the bicycle. She walked over slowly, with an athlete’s easy grace. She stood about five-foot-seven but seemed taller because of the way she held her square jaw high: high and set. Her long brown hair hung down her neck, the fine strands stirred by the wind. The top two buttons of her denim shirt were open over her green wool sweater and the bottoms of her tight jeans were tucked into well-worn cowboy boots. Her blue eyes swept past Luis and Aideen and came to rest on McCaskey.
“Buenas noches, ” she said to him in a husky voice.
Aideen didn’t know whether that was intended as a greeting or a dismissal. Obviously McCaskey wasn’t sure either. He stood stiffly beside the car, his expression blank. Luis hadn’t wanted him to come to the airport, but he insisted that it was his duty to see Aideen off.
They watched Maria as she approached. Her eyes didn’t flinch or soften. Luis put his hand around Aideen’s arm. He stepped toward María, drawing Aideen with him.
“María, this is Aideen Marley. She works with Op-Center and was present at the shooting.”
María’s deep-set eyes shifted to Aideen but only for a moment. She walked past her and stopped in front of Darrell.
Luis called after her. “María, Aideen will be accompanying you to San Sebastian.”
The thirty-eight-year-old woman nodded. But she didn’t take her eyes off McCaskey. Their faces were only, inches apart.
“Hello, María,” McCaskey said.
Maria was breathing slowly. Her thick eyebrows formed a hard, rigid line like a bulwark. Her pale, sensuously arched lips formed another. “I prayed that I would never see you again,” she said. Her accent, like her voice, was thick and deep.
McCaskey’s own expression hardened. “I guess you didn’t pray hard enough.”
“Maybe not,” she replied. “I was too busy crying.”
This time McCaskey did not respond.