Balance of Power

EIGHTEEN

The helicopter set María and Aideen down south of the city. It landed atop a hillock along a deserted twist in the Rio Urumea, the river that ran through the city. A rental car, reserved by a local police officer who worked with Interpol, was waiting for them near the road. So was the police officer, thick-mustachioed Jorge Sorel.

During the helicopter trip, María had studied a map she’d brought with her. She knew the route to the radio station and Aideen could tell that she was anxious to get there. Unfortunately, as María lit a cigarette, Jorge told her there was no reason to go.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Someone attacked the staff a little over an hour ago,” he said.

“Someone?” María said. “Who?”

“We don’t know yet,” admitted the officer.

“Professionals?” she said impatiently.

“Very possibly,” he acknowledged. “The attackers seemed to know exactly what they were doing. There were numerous broken limbs and everyone had a broken jaw.”

“What did they want?” María asked.

Jorge shook his head. “Again, we can’t even begin to speculate. The only reason we went up there was because the station suddenly went off the air.”

María swore angrily. “This is maravilloso,” she said. “Marvelous. Are there any leads?”

Jorge was still shaking his head. “The victims were unable to speak and now the doctors have them sedated. We assume the attackers were looking for whoever provided them with the audiotape.”

“The idiots,” María snarled. “Didn’t they anticipate that? Didn’t they take precautions?”

“Yes,” said Jorge. “The irony is they were very well prepared. The station has always been a target for malcontents. Their politics, you know — very antigovernment. The facility is surrounded with barbed wire and is constructed like a bunker. It even has a metal door. The employees keep guns inside. But deterrents only sway the timid hearted. And these attackers were not timid.”

“Constable,” Aideen said patiently, “do you have any idea who it was that provided the tape?”

Jorge snuck an uncomfortable look at María. “I’m afraid the answer is once again no,” he said. “We have two patrols going through the surrounding villages. They’re looking for groups of people who may be searching for the person or persons who provided the tape. But we came to this relatively late. So far, we’ve found no one.”

“The attackers would probably separate once they left here,” María said. “They wouldn’t want to risk everyone getting caught. They also wouldn’t stay together after they found whoever they were looking for,” María said. She drew on her cigarette and exhaled through her nose. She regarded Jorge intently. “Are you sure that’s all you can tell us?”

“I’m sure,” he replied. His gaze was equally intent.

“What are the chances that the person who had the tape was from this area?” Aideen asked.

“Very good,” said María. “Whoever planned this would have wanted someone who knew the waters where the yacht was destroyed. Someone who knew the town and the people at the station.” She looked at Jorge. “Give me a place to start looking.”

Jorge shrugged. “The town is small. Everyone knows it. For someone who knows the waters, talk to the fishermen.”

María looked at her watch. “They’ll be going out in about an hour. We can talk to them at the docks.” She pulled hard on her cigarette. “Who blesses the waters for the fishermen?”

“That would be Father Norberto Alcazar,” Jorge said. “He will only do it for the old families, not the companies.”

“Where is he?”

“You will probably find him at the Jesuit church in the hills south of Cuesta de Aldapeta,” Jorge said. “That’s on the west side of the river just outside of San Sebastián.”

María thanked him. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then she dropped it and crushed it hard under her heel. She let out the smoke as she walked toward the car. Aideen followed her.

“Father Alcazar is a very pleasant man,” Jorge said after them. “But he may not be forthcoming about his flock. He is very protective of them.”

“Let’s hope that he wants to protect one of them from being murdered,” María said.

“You have a point,” Jorge said. “Call on your cell phone when you are ready. The helicopter will come back for you here. The airport is small and has been reserved for military business — as a precaution.”

María acknowledged brusquely as she got behind the wheel of the car and started it up. Dirt and clods of grass spit behind them as the car tore away from the foot of the hillock.

“You’re not happy,” Aideen said as she took the map from her backpack and unfolded it. She also had a loaded.38 in the backpack which María had given her during the flight.

“I wanted to kick him,” María grumbled. “They only went up there because the station went off the air. The police should have known that someone would go after the radio crew.”

“Maybe the police wanted the station to be attacked,” Aideen said. “It’s the same way with gang wars. The authorities stand back and let the bad guys kill each other.”

“It’s more likely that they were told to stay out of it,” María said. “The men who were killed on the yacht were influential businessmen. They headed devoted familias—employees who will do anything for them, including murder. The police are paid to stay out of such things.”

“Do you think the constable—”

“I don’t know,” María admitted. “But I can’t be sure. One can never be sure in Spain.”

Aideen thought back to what Martha had said about the police in Madrid cooperating with the street extortionists. That might be diplomacy, she thought, but it stinks. She was forced to wonder if even the government police in Madrid were giving the investigation of Martha’s assassination their all.

“That’s one of the reasons I left Interpol,” María went on as she headed north along the river. “Dealing with these people is more frustrating than it’s worth.”

“But you came back,” Aideen said. “For Luis?”

“No,” María replied. “I came back for the same reason I left. Because there is so much corruption the rest of us can’t afford to give up. Even to manage my small theater in Barcelona, I had to pay fees to the police, to the sanitation workers, to everyone but the postal workers. I had to pay them to make sure that they did the jobs they were already paid to do.”

“So the government workers have their cushion and the industrial workers belong to families,” Aideen said. “Independent workers end up paying extortion to one or fighting the strength of the other.”

María nodded. “And that is why I’m here. It’s like love,” she said. “You can’t give up because it doesn’t work the first time. You learn the rules, you learn about yourself, and you get back in the arena for another run at the bull.”

The first pale red light of dawn began to brighten the skies. The hilltops started to take shape against the lighter sky. As she glanced eastward, Aideen thought how funny it was that she liked and admired María. The woman was no less confident and aggressive than Martha had been. But except for when she’d had to face Darrell back at the airport, there was something selfless about María. And Aideen could hardly blame María for throwing a little attitude Darrell’s way. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, seeing him again had to be rough.

They reached the outskirts of San Sebastián in less than thirty minutes and crossed the bridge at María Cristina. Then they headed southwest toward the church. They stopped to ask a shepherd for directions and were at the church just as the rim of the sun flared over the hill.

The small stone church was open. There were two parishioners inside, a pair of fishermen, but not the priest.

“Sometimes he goes to the bay with his brother,” one of the fishermen told the women. The men told them where Adolfo lived and the route Father Alcazar usually took to get there. They got back in the car and headed north, María opening the window, lighting another cigarette, and puffing on it furiously.

“I hope this doesn’t bother you,” María said of the cigarette. “They say that the smoke is bad for others but I can assure you that it saves lives.”

“How do you figure that?” Aideen asked.

“It keeps me from getting too angry,” María replied. She did not appear to be joking.

They found Calle Okendo and drove two blocks to the southeast. The street was narrow; when they reached the two-story apartment building María had to park half on the sidewalk. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been room for another vehicle to get by. Aideen put her.38 into the pocket of her windbreaker before she slid from the car. María tossed her cigarette away and slid her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans.

The downstairs door did not have a lock on it and they entered. The dark stairwell smelled of a century of fishermen and dust, which tickled Aideen’s nose. The steps creaked like dry old trees in a wind and listed toward the dirty white wall. There were two apartments on the second floor. The door to one of them was slightly ajar. María gave it a push with her toe. It groaned as it opened.

They found Father Alcazar. He was kneeling beside the naked body of a man and weeping openly. His back was toward them. María stepped in and Aideen followed. If the priest heard them he made no indication of it.

“Father Alcazar?” María said softly.

The priest turned his head around. His red eyes were startling against his pale pink face. His collar was dark where it was stained with tears. He turned back to the body and then rose slowly. Backlit by the sharp morning light his black robe looked flat, like a silhouette. He walked toward them as though he were in a trance. Then he removed a jacket from a hook behind the door, went back to the dead man, and laid it across his body.

As he did, Aideen had a chance to study the body. The victim had been tortured, though not out of vengeance. There were no burn or knife marks on his torso. His eyes, ears, breast, and groin appeared to be intact; only his limbs had been worked over. He’d been tortured for information. And his windpipe had been smashed; to kill him slowly, as opposed to a blow to the head. Aideen had seen this before, in Mexico. It wasn’t pretty, but it was prettier than what the drug lords did to people they tortured for betraying them. Strangely enough, it never stopped other people from betraying the Mexican señoríos, as they called them. The dead men and women always believed that they were the ones who would never be caught.

The priest turned back toward the women. “I am Father Alcazar,” he said.

María stepped toward him. “My name is María,” she said. “I’m with Interpol.”

Aideen wasn’t surprised that María had told him who she really was. The killings were escalating. This wasn’t the time to go undercover.

“Did you know this man?” María asked.

The priest nodded. “He was my brother.”

“I see,” María said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten here sooner.”

Norberto Alcazar gestured weakly behind him as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “I tried to help him. I should have tried harder. But Adolfo — he knew what he had gotten himself into.”

María stepped up to the priest. She stood as tall as he did and looked flush into his bloodshot eyes. “Father, please — help us. What had Adolfo gotten himself into?”

“I don’t know,” the priest said. “When I arrived here he was hurt and talking wildly.”

“He was still alive?” María asked. “You’ve got to try to remember, Father, what he said! Words, names, places — anything.”

“Something about the city,” Norberto said. “About a church. He said a place or a name — Amadori.”

María’s eyes burned into his. “General Amadori?”

“It could be,” Norberto said. “He… he did say something about a general. I don’t know. It was difficult to understand.”

“Of course,” María said. “Father, I know this is difficult. But it’s important. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

He shook his head. “Adolfo was going to the radio station last night,” he sobbed. “That is all I know. I do not know what business he had there other than to deliver a tape recording. I came back this morning on my way to bless the waters. I wanted to see if he was all right. I found him like this.”

“You saw no one coming or leaving?”

“No one.”

María regarded him for a moment longer. Her brow was deeply knit, her eyes smouldering. “One question more, Father. Can you tell us where to find the Ramirez boatworks?”

“Ramirez,” the priest said. He took a long tremulous breath. “Dolfo mentioned him. My brother said that Ramirez and his friends were responsible for killing an American.”

“Yes,” said María. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “They killed this woman’s partner.”

“Oh — I’m so sorry,” Norberto said to Aideen. His eyes returned to María. “But Ramirez is dead. My brother — saw to that.”

“I know,” María said.

“What do you want with his people?”

“To talk to them,” María said. “To see if they were involved in this.” She nodded toward Adolfo. “To see if we can prevent more murders, stop the fighting from escalating.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

“If we get to them in time,” María said. “If we learn what they know about Amadori and his people. But please, Father. We must hurry. Do you know where the factory is?”

Norberto took another deep breath. “It’s northeast along the shore. Let me come with you.”

“No,” said María.

“This is my parish—”

“That’s right,” she said, “and your parish desperately needs your help. I don’t. If the people panic, if their fear frightens away tourists, think what will happen to the region.”

Norberto bowed his forehead into his hand.

“This is a lot to ask of you now, I know,” María said. “But you have to do this. I’m going to go to the factory to talk with the workers. If what I think is happening is happening, then I know who the enemy is. And maybe it’s not too late to stop him.”

Norberto looked up. He pointed behind him without turning. “Dolfo thought he knew who the enemy was. He paid for that belief with his life. Perhaps with his soul.”

María locked her eyes on his and held them. “Thousands of others may join him if I don’t hurry. I’ll phone the local police from the car. They’ll take care of your brother.”

“I’ll stay with him until then.”

“Of course,” María said, turning toward Aideen.

“And I will pray for you both.”

“Thank you,” María said. She stopped and turned back. “While you’re at it, Father, pray for the one who needs it most. Pray for Spain.”

Less than two minutes later they were back in the car and heading northeast across the river.

“Are you really just going to talk to the factory workers?” Aideen asked.

María nodded once. “Do me a favor?” she said. “Call Luis. Autodial star-seven. Ask him to locate General Rafael Amadori. Tell him why.”

“No encryption?”

María shook her head. “If Amadori is listening somehow and comes after us, so much the better. It’ll save us the trouble of finding him.”

Aideen punched in the code. Luis’s cellular beeped and he answered at once. Aideen passed along María’s request and told him about Adolfo. Luis promised to get right on it and call them back. Aideen folded away the phone.

“Who is Amadori?” she asked.

“A scholar,” she said. “He’s a military general too, but I don’t know much about his career. I only know him as a published author of articles about historic Spain.”

“Obviously, they alarm you.”

“Very much so,” María said. She lit a cigarette. “What do you know about our national folk hero El Cid?”

“Only that he beat back the invading Moors and helped unify Spain around 1100. And there was a movie about him with Charlton Heston.”

“There was also an epic poem and a play written by Corneille,” María said. “I staged it once at my theater. Anyway,” she went on, “you are partly right about El Cid. He was a knight — Rodrigo Díaz of Vivar. From around 1065 to his death in 1099 he helped the Christian king, Sancho II, and then his successor, Alfonso VI, regain the kingdom of Castile from the Moors. The Moors called him el cid—‘the lord.’ ”

“Honored by his enemies,” Aideen said. “Impressive.”

“Actually,” Maria said, “they feared him, which was his intention. When the Moorish stronghold of Valencia surrendered, El Cid violated the peace terms by slaughtering hundreds of people and burning the leader alive. He was not the pure knight that legend has made him — he would do anything to anybody to protect his homeland. It’s also a myth that he fought to unify Spain. He fought for Castile. As long as the other kingdoms remained at peace with Alfonso, as long as they paid him tribute, neither Alfonso nor El Cid cared what happened to them.

“General Amadori is an authority on El Cid,” Maria continued. “But I’ve always detected in his writings the desire to be something more.”

“You mean, to be El Cid,” Aideen said.

María shook her head. “El Cid was a glorified soldier of fortune. There is something more to General Amadori than waging war. If you read his essays in the political journals you’ll find that he is a leading proponent of what he calls ‘benevolent militarism.’ ”

“Sounds like a fancy name for a police state,” Aideen said.

“It is,” María agreed. She took a long drag on her cigarette then flicked it out the window. “But he has given the models of Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia a new-old twist: militarism without conquest. He believes that if a nation is strong, there is no need to conquer other nations. Those nations will come to him to trade, to seek protection, to be aligned with greatness. His power base will grow by accretion, not war.”

“So General Amadori doesn’t want to be like Hitler,” Aideen said. “He wants to be like King Alfonso.”

“Exactly,” María replied. “What we may be seeing is the start of an effort to make Amadori the absolute leader of Castile and to make Castile the military hub of a new Spain. A hub which will dictate to the other regions. And Amadori has chosen this time—”

“Because he can move troops and influence events while appearing to stop a counterrevolution,” Aideen said.

María nodded.

Aideen looked out at the brightening sky. Her eyes lowered and her gaze ranged across the beautiful fishing village. It seemed so peaceful, so desirable, yet it had been corrupted. Here, in less than a day, over a dozen people had already died or been brutally injured. She wondered if there had ever been a time, since people first descended from trees and began despoiling Eden, if manifest destiny had ever come cheaply.

“The price in blood will be very high before Amadori can realize his dream,” María said, as though reading Aideen’s mind. “I am Andalusian. My people and others will fight — not to keep Spain unified but to keep Castile from becoming the heart and soul of a new Spain. It’s a rivalry which dates back to the time of El Cid. And unless we find a way to stop men like Amadori, it will continue long after we’re gone.”

No, Aideen decided. There had never been a time when people graciously accomodated other people and other ways. We were still too close to the trees for that. And among us, there were too many bull-apes who were unhappy with the size and makeup of the tribe.

But then she thought about Father Alcazar. There was a man still trying to do God’s work while in the grip of his own suffering. There were good people among the territorial carnivores. If only they had the power.

But if they did, Aideen asked herself, wouldn’t they wield it like all the rest?

She didn’t know — and after being awake for nearly twenty-four hours this wasn’t the best time to ponder the question. However, as she sat there squinting out at the blue-gold sky, thinking about what María had just said, she was reminded of another question.

Think about it, Martha had said to her when they were still back in the U.S. Think about how you handle someone’s agenda.

Just the way Rodgers had said, Aideen thought: with a better agenda.

The trick now was to come up with one.