The small, anonymous caravan drove slowly along Calle de Bailén and then came to a stop. The driver had a brief conversation with a guard and then the trucks moved on. María leaned forward and a guard warned her back. But she had already seen what she wanted to see. The trucks had arrived at the Palacio Real, the Royal Palace.
The palace had been erected in 1762, constructed on the site of a ninth-century Moorish fortress. When the Moors were expelled, the fortress was destroyed and a glorious castle was built here. It burned down on Christmas Eve, 1734, and the new palace was built on the site. More than any place in Spain, this ground — considered holy, to some Spaniards — symbolized the destruction of the invader and the birth of modern Spain. The location of Nuestra Señora de la Almudena, the Cathedral of the Almudena, just south of the palace completed the symbolic consecration of the ground.
Four stories tall and built of white-trimmed granite from the Sierra de Guadarrama, the sprawling edifice sits on the “balcony of Madrid,” a cliff that slopes majestically toward the Manzanares River. From here, the views to the north and west are sweeping and spectacular.
General Amadori was setting himself up in style. This wasn’t the king’s residence. His Highness lived in the Palacio de la Zarzuela, at El Pardo on the northern outskirts of the city. She wondered if the king was there and what he had to say about all of this. She had a sharp sense of déjà vu as she thought of the monarch and his young family locked in a room of the castle — or worse. How many times in how many nations had this scenario been acted out? Whether the kings were tyrants or constitutional monarchs, whether their heads were taken or just their crowns, this was the oldest story in civilization.
She was sickened by it. And just once she’d like to see the story end with a twist.
They were driven around the corner to the Plaza de la Armería. Instead of the usual early-morning lines of tourists, the vast courtyard was filled with soldiers. Some were drilling and some were already on duty, guarding the nearly two dozen entrances to the palace itself. The trucks stopped beside a pair of double doors set beneath a narrow balcony. The prisoners were led from the trucks into the palace. They shambled down a long hallway and stopped just beyond the grand staircase, in the center of the palace. A door opened; María was standing near the front of the line and looked in.
Of course, she thought. They were at the magnificent Hall of the Halberdiers. The axlike weapons had been removed from the walls and racks, and the room had been turned into a detention center. A dozen or so guards stood along the far wall and at least three hundred people sat on the parquet floor. María noticed several women and children among them. Beyond this chamber was the heart of the Royal Palace: the throne room. There were two additional guards, one on either side of the grand doorway. María did not doubt for a moment that behind the closed door was where General Amadori had established his headquarters. María was also convinced that more than vanity had brought him to this spot. No outside force could attack the general without coming through the prisoners. The detainees formed a thick and very effective human shield.
A sergeant stepped from the room. He shouted for the new group to enter. The line began to move. When María reached the door, she stopped and turned to the sergeant.
“I must see the general at once,” she said. “I have important information for him.”
“You’ll get your turn to tell us what you know,” the gaunt soldier said. He grinned lasciviously. “And maybe we’ll get a turn to thank you.”
He grabbed her left arm just above the elbow and pushed her. María took a step forward to regain her balance. At the same time she turned slightly and slapped her right hand hard on the backs of the fingers that were holding her. The shock of the slap caused the sergeant’s grip to loosen momentarily. That was all the time Maria needed. Grabbing the fingers in her fist, she spun around so that she was facing the soldier. At the same time she turned his hand palm up, bent the fingertips back toward his elbow, and snapped all four fingers at the knuckles. As he shrieked with pain, María’s left hand snaked down. She snatched the 9mm pistol from his holster. Then she released his broken fingers, grabbed his hair, and yanked him toward her. She put the barrel of the pistol under his right ear. His forehead was against her chin and his legs were shaking visibly.
The entire maneuver had taken less than three seconds. A pair of soldiers who were standing just inside the hall started toward her. But she backed against the doorjamb, her body shielded by the sergeant. There was no way to get at her without killing the sergeant.
“Stop!” she snapped at the soldiers.
They did.
The prisoners who had been shuffling along behind Maria froze. Juan was among them. Several prisoners cheered. Juan appeared confused.
“Now,” Maria said to the sergeant, “you can listen carefully or I’ll clean your ears for you.”
“I–I’ll listen,” he replied.
“Good,” Maria said. “I want to see someone on the general’s staff.” She didn’t really. She wanted to see the general. But if she demanded that right away she’d never get it. She had to give someone more information than they could handle so that she was moved along the chain of command.
A door opened a short way down the wide corridor. A young captain with curly brown hair stepped from a room on the other side of the detention area. As he emerged, his expression quickly shaded from puzzlement to annoyance to anger. He began walking toward her. He wore a.38 on his hip.
María looked at him. His green eyes held hers. She decided not to say anything to him; not yet. Hostage negotiations were the opposite of chess: whoever made the first move was always at a disadvantage. They gave up information, even if it was just their tone of voice telling an opponent their level of confidence in a situation. Quite often that information was enough to let you know whether they were ready to kill you, ready to negotiate, or hoping to delay things until they could decide their next step.
The officer’s tan uniform was extremely neat and clean. His black boots shone and the fresh soles clicked sharply on the tile floor. His hair was perfectly combed and his square jaw was closely shaved. He was definitely a desk officer. If he had any field experience, even in war games, she would be surprised. That could work in her favor: he wasn’t likely to make an important decision unless he checked with a superior officer.
“So,” he said. “Someone does not wish to cooperate.”
His voice was very strong. María watched his hand. She didn’t think he was going to reach for his gun. Not if he were a desk officer who’d never had to look into someone’s eyes while he pulled the trigger. On the other hand, he might want to impress his soldiers and the prisoners by making an object lesson of her. If he did, she’d shoot him and head toward the staircase.
“To the contrary, Captain,” María replied.
“Explain,” he snapped. He was less than three yards from her.
“I’m with Interpol,” she said. “My ID is in my pocket. I was working undercover and was accidentally rounded up with the rest of this familia.”
“Working undercover with whom?” he asked.
“With Adolfo Alcazar,” she said. “The man who destroyed the yacht. He was murdered this morning. I was on the trail of his killers when I was apprehended.”
That much was true, of course. She didn’t say she was looking for information about Amadori.