“Father Norberto, we need you,” said a young woman in the first row.
“Dear Isabella,” Norberto said, “it is not my desire to go. It is the General Superior’s wish.”
“But my brother works at the factory,” Isabella continued, “and we have not heard from him. I’m frightened.”
Norberto walked toward the woman. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes as he approached. He forced himself to smile.
“Isabella, I know what you are feeling,” he said. “I know because I lost a brother today.”
The young woman’s eyes registered shock. “Father—”
Norberto’s smile remained firm, reassuring. “My dear Adolfo was killed this morning. It is my hope that by going to Madrid I can help the General Superior end whatever is happening in Spain. I want no more brothers to die, no more fathers or sons or husbands.” He touched Isabella’s cheek. “Can you — will you — be strong for me?”
Isabella touched his hand. Her fingers were trembling and there were tears in her eyes. “I–I did not know about Dolfo,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. I will try to be strong.”
“Try to be strong for yourself, not for me,” Norberto said. He looked up at the fearful eyes of the young and old. “I need all of you to be strong, to help one another.” Then he turned to Grandfather José, who was standing in the crowd along the wall. He asked the old sailor if he would remain at the church as a “caretaker priest” until his return, reading from the Bible and talking to people about their fears. He had come up with the term on the spot and José liked it. Grandfather José bowed his head and accepted gratefully and humbly. Norberto thanked him and then turned to his beloved congregation.
“We face difficult times,” he said to the people. “But wherever I may be, whether in San Sebastían or in Madrid, we’ll face them together — with faith, hope, and courage.”
“Amen, Father,” Isabella said in a strong voice.
The congregation echoed her words, as though one great voice were filling the church. Though Norberto was still smiling, tears spilled from his eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness but of pride. Here before him was something the generals and politicians would never obtain, however much blood they spilled: the trust and love of good people. Looking at their faces, Norberto told himself that Adolfo had not died in vain. His death had helped to bring the congregation together, to give the people strength.
Norberto left the church amidst the good wishes and prayers of the parishioners. As he stepped into the warm daylight and headed toward the rectory, he could not help but think how amused Adolfo would have been by what had just happened. That it had been he, a disbeliever, and not Norberto who had inspired and unified a frightened congregation.
Norberto wondered if God had provided this sanctifying grace as a means for Adolfo to overcome his mortal sin. The priest had no reason to believe that, no theological precedent. But as this morning had proved, hope was a powerful beacon.
Perhaps, he thought, that’s because sometimes hope is the only beacon.
TWENTY-FIVE
Once the soldiers had secured the Ramirez boat factory, they lined up the three dozen surviving employees and checked their IDs. As she watched the soldiers pick out people, María realized that all of the core leaders of the familia were still alive. The factory guard and other informants must have kept careful records, including photographs. Amadori would have the cream of the familia for show-trials. He could show the nation, the world, that ordinary Spaniards were plotting against other Spaniards. That he had brought order to impending chaos. The people who were gunned down were probably not guilty of anything. In life, they could have insisted that they were not members of the familia. In death, they could be whatever Amadori wanted them to be. The care with which he had planned even this relatively small, remote action was chilling.
Those factory workers whose names were on the army’s list were brought to the rooftop. One of the helicopters was used to ferry prisoners to the small airport outside of Bilbao. There, fifteen workers plus María were held inside a hangar at gunpoint.
Juan and Ferdinand were among the captives. They were tightly bound. Neither man spoke and neither man looked at her. She hoped they didn’t suspect her of having set them up.
María couldn’t address that right now. Time and deeds, not protests, would clear her. She was just glad to be here. When she’d surrendered, Maria still had no idea whether prisoners were being taken at all. She had approached the factory with her arms raised, hoping that the soldiers would hold their fire because she was a woman. María may have had a rocky history where relationships were concerned, but she’d never gone wrong betting on the pride of Spanish men. As soon as she was spotted — halfway across the parking lot — she was ordered to stay where she was. Two soldiers came rushing from inside. One of them frisked her with enthusiasm until she informed them that she had something to tell General Amadori. She wasn’t sure what she had to tell him, but she’d think of something. The fact that she knew the general’s name seemed to catch the men off guard. They didn’t treat her gently after that, but they refrained from abusing her.
The prisoners stood in a bunch quietly, some of them smoking, some of them nursing lacerations, waiting to see whether they were being taken away or whether someone was coming. When a prop plane arrived from Madrid, the group was led onboard.
The flight to Madrid took just under fifty minutes. Though the prisoners’ wounds were dressed, none of the captives spoke and none of the soldiers addressed them. As she sat in the twenty-four-seater, staring out at the bright patchwork of farms and cities, María played scenarios out in her mind. She would talk to no one but Amadori, who would see her — she hoped — because she could tell him how much the world intelligence fraternity knew about his crimes. Perhaps an arrangement could be reached wherein he would restrict his ambitions to becoming part of a new government.
She also imagined the general not caring what anyone knew or thought. Whether he wanted to rule an independent Castile or all of Spain, he had the guns and he had the momentum. He also had familia members not just to interrogate but to hold as hostages if he wished.
There was another consideration. The very real possibility that simply by talking to Amadori María might fuel his ambition. The hint of a threat, of a challenge, could cause him to become defensive, even more aggressive. After all, he too was a proud Spanish man.
The airplane taxied to a deserted corner of the airport — ironically, to a spot not far from where she had departed earlier in the day. Two large canvas-backed trucks were waiting to meet the plane. In the distance, María could see busy pockets of jeeps, helicopters, and soldiers. Since she and Aideen had left here seven hours before, portions of Barajas Airport seemed to have been turned into a staging area for other raids. That made tactical sense. From here, every part of Spain was less than an hour away.
María had a sick feeling deep in her belly. A feeling that whatever had been set in motion could not be stopped. Not without shutting down the brain behind it. In that case, the question María had to ask was Could General Amadori be stopped? And if so, how?
The eight prisoners sat in facing rows of benches and the trucks headed into the heart of the city. Four guards watched over them, two at each end of the truck. They were armed with pistols and truncheons. Traffic was unusually light on the highway, though the nearer they got to the center of Madrid the thicker the military activity became. María could see the trucks and jeeps through the front window. As they entered the city proper the traffic was heaviest near key government buildings and communications centers. María wondered if the soldiers were there to keep people out or to keep them in.