“Luis,” McCaskey asked thickly, “what about the police chopper?”
“It’s still there—”
“I know. But can you get permission for it to go in?”
Luis lifted his hands helplessly. “Even if I could, I doubt they’d go. The soldiers might suspect a familia ruse.”
A strong military offensive and paranoia. It was a combination that caused leaders to shut themselves off from all but their closest advisors. It was also a mix that could turn soldiers into indiscriminate executioners. McCaskey wished that Striker were here instead of over the Atlantic, hours away.
No one spoke for a long moment. McCaskey continued to regard Luis. There were three options. The women could stay where they were; they could try to get out; or they could attempt to surrender. If they tried to sneak away and were spotted, they’d probably be cut down. If they attempted to surrender they might also be shot. The safest course seemed to be to stay where they were and use their fake IDs if they were discovered. McCaskey wondered if Luis were going to make the call for them. The Interpol officer was big on taking responsibility for his people’s actions and then taking any heat those actions generated. But this wasn’t about blame or credit. This was about lives.
“María,” Luis said into the speaker, “what do you want to do?”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” María said. “I don’t know what the attackers are after. We’re seeing prisoners coming out now. Dozens of them. But we have no idea where they’re going to be taken. Possibly to be interrogated. I wonder—”
“What do you wonder?” Luis asked.
There was muted conversation on María’s end. Then silence except for faint gunfire.
“María?” Luis said.
The conversation stopped. There was only gunfire.
“María!” Luis repeated.
After a moment Aideen came on. “She’s not here.”
“Where is she?” Luis asked.
“On her way to the factory with her hands raised,” Aideen replied. “She’s going to try to surrender.”
TWENTY-THREE
The phone call from National Security Chief Steve Burkow was brief and surprising.
“The President is considering a radical shift in Administration policy toward Spain,” Burkow informed Paul Hood. “Be at the White House situation room at eleven-thirty tonight. And would you please have the latest intelligence on the military situation sent over?”
It was less than an hour since the conference call with U.N. Secretary-General Manni. It had been decided, then, that the status quo was going to be maintained. Hood had been able to lie down and take a short nap. He wondered what could have changed since the call.
Hood said he’d be there, of course. Then he went into the small private washroom in the back of his office. He shut the door. There was a speakerphone set in the wall under the light switch. After splashing water on his face he called Bob Herbert. Herbert’s assistant said that he was talking to Darrell McCaskey and asked if this were a priority call. Hood said it wasn’t and asked for Herbert to call back when he got off.
Hood had already finished washing his face and straightening his tie when the internal line beeped. Hood was glad to hear it. Like a scavenger drawn to carrion, his tired mind had padded back to Sharon and the kids. He didn’t know why — to punish himself, he wondered? — but he didn’t want to think about them now. When a crisis was pending, it was not the best time to reassess one’s life and goals.
Hood hit the telephone speaker button and leaned on the stainless steel sink. “Hood,” he said.
“Paul, it’s Bob,” Herbert said. “I was going to call you anyway.”
“What’s Darrell’s news?”
“It’s pretty grim,” Herbert said. “NRO intelligence has confirmed that four helicopters, apparently sent by General Amadori, attacked the Ramirez factory at 5:20 A.M., local time. Aideen Marley and María Corneja were in the parking lot, hunkered down in their car, during the attack. The Spanish troops gunned down about twenty people before taking control of the factory and rounding up others. According to Aideen — who’s still in the car and in contact with Darrell — María surrendered to the soldiers. Her hope is that she can find out where Amadori is headquartered and get that information back to us.”
“Is Aideen in any immediate danger?”
“We don’t think so,” Herbert said. “The troops aren’t making a sweep of the parking lot. It looks to her like they want to finish rounding up a few people and get the hell out.”
“What about María?” Hood asked. “Will she try to stop Amadori?” He knew that the White House would have some of this information. That was probably one of the reasons for the hastily called meeting. He also knew that the President would ask the same question.
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “As soon as I hang up I’m going to ask Liz for the psychological workup she did when María was working here. Maybe that’ll tell us something.”
“What does Darrell think?” Hood asked impatiently. “If anyone would know María Corneja, he’s the man.” Hood didn’t put much trust in psychoanalytical profiles. Cold, paint-by-number studies were less valuable to him than human feelings and intuition.
“What man knows any woman?” Herbert asked.
Hood was about to tell Herbert to spare him the philosophy when his mind flashed to Sharon. Hood said nothing. Herbert was right.
“But to answer your question,” Herbert continued, “Darrell says he wouldn’t put it past her to kill him. She can be single-minded and very, very focused. He says she could find a handy pen or paperclip and rip a hole in his femoral artery. He also says he could see her hating his barbarity but also applauding his courage and strength.”
“Meaning?”
“She could think too much or too long,” Herbert said. “Hesitate and miss an opportunity.”
“Would she ever join him?” Hood asked.
“Darrell says no. Emphatically no,” Herbert added.
Hood wasn’t so sure, but he’d go with Darrell on this one. Herbert didn’t have any additional information on Serrador’s death or outside confimation of his involvement with Martha’s murder. But he said he’d keep working on both. Hood thanked Herbert and asked him to send all of the latest data to the President. Then he headed out to the White House.
The drive was relaxed at this hour and he made the trip in just under a half hour. Hood turned off Constitution Avenue, turned onto 17th Street, and made a right onto the one way E Street. He made a left and stopped at the Southwest Appointment Gate. He was passed and, after parking, he entered the White House through the West Wing. He walked down the spacious corridors.
Whatever his state of mind, whatever the crisis, whatever his levels of cynicism, Hood never failed to be moved and awed by the power and history of the White House. It was a nexus for the past and future. Two of the Founding Fathers had lived here. Lincoln had preserved and solidified the nation from here. World War II had been won from here. The decision to conquer the moon was made here. Given the right mix of wisdom, courage, and savvy, this pulpit could drive the nation — and thus, the world — to accomplish anything. When he was here, it was difficult for Hood to dwell on the failings of any of our nation’s leaders. There was only the fire of hope fueled by the mighty bellows of power.
Hood rode the main access elevator down to the situation room on the first sublevel. Beneath this level were three other subbasements. These included a war room, a medical room, a safe room for the first family and staff, and a galley. Hood was greeted by a sharp young guard who checked his palm print on a horizontal laser scanner. When the device chimed, Hood was allowed to pass through the metal detector. A Presidential aide greeted him and took him to the wood-paneled situation room.