Balance of Power

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.

Steve Burkow was already there. So were the imposing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Kenneth VanZandt, Carol Lanning — sitting in for Secretary of State Av Lincoln, who was in Japan — and CIA Director Marius Fox. Fox was a man in his late forties. He was of medium height and build, with close-cropped brown hair and well-tailored suits. There was always a brightly colored handkerchief in his breast pocket, though it never managed to outshine his brown eyes. He was a man who truly enjoyed his work.

But he’s new at the job, Hood thought cynically. It would be interesting to see how long it took for the bureaucracy and the pressures of the job to wear him down.

There was a long, rectangular mahogany table in the center of the brightly lit room. An STU-3 secure telephone and a computer monitor were positioned at each of the ten stations, with slide-out keyboards underneath the table. The computer setup was self-contained. Software from outside, even from the Department of Defense or State Department, was debugged before it was allowed into the system. On the ivory-colored walls were detailed color maps showing the location of U.S. and foreign troops, as well as flags denoting trouble spots. Red flags for ongoing problems and green for latent. There were no flags in Spain and a single green one offshore. Apparently, the change in Administration policy did not include sending American land troops to the region. The offshore marker was most likely for a carrier to airlift U.S. officials if it became necessary.

No one had had a chance to do more than say hello to Hood before the President arrived.

President Michael Lawrence stood a broad-shouldered six-foot-four. He both looked and sounded presidential. Whatever combination of the three Cs — charisma, charm, and calm — created that impression, Lawrence had them. His longish silver hair was swept back dramatically and his voice still resonated as though he were Mark Antony on the steps of the Roman Senate. But President Lawrence also looked a great deal wearier than he had when he took office. The eyes were puffier, the cheeks more drawn. The hair looked silver because it was more white than gray. That was common among U.S. presidents, though it wasn’t just the pressures of the office which aged them tremendously — it was the fact that lives were deeply and permanently affected by every decision they made. It was also the steady flow of early morning and late night crises, the exhausting travel abroad, and what Liz Gordon once described as “the posterity effect”: the pressure of wanting to secure a positive review in the history books while pleasing the people you were elected to serve. That was a tremendous emotional and intellectual burden that very few people had to deal with.

The President thanked everyone for coming and sat down. As he poured himself coffee, he offered his condolences to Hood on the death of Martha Mackall. The President commented on the loss of a young and talented diplomat, and said that he had already assigned someone the job of organizing a quiet memorial tribute to her. Hood thanked him. President Lawrence was very good and also very sincere when it came to human touches like that.

Then he turned abruptly to the business at hand. The President was also very good when it came to shifting gears.

“I just got off the phone with the Vice-President and with the Spanish ambassador, Señor García Abril,” the President said. He took a sip of the black coffee. “As some of you know, the situation in Spain is very confused from a military standpoint. The police have been putting down some riots while ignoring others. Carol, you want to quickly address that?”

Lanning nodded. She consulted her notes. “The police and the army have been ignoring riots by Castilians against other groups,” she said. “Churches all across the nation are being forced to cope with literally thousands of people coming to them for sanctuary.”

“Are they providing it?” Burkow asked.

“They were,” she replied, rifling through her papers, “until the crowds became too great in some locations — like Parroquia María Reina in Barcelona and Iglesia del Señor in Seville. Now they’ve literally locked the doors and are refusing to admit anyone else. In a few cases the local police have been called in to remove people from churches — a move, I should add, which is being privatelydenounced by the Vatican although they’re going to urge ‘restraint and compassion’ in a public statement later today.”

“Thank you,” the President said. “There seem to be three entirely separate factions running Spain at the moment. According to Ambassador Abril — who has always been very frank with me — the representatives in parliament are working their districts very hard, asking them to stay out of the fighting and to continue doing their jobs. They’re promising the people anything in exchange for their support after the crisis. They’re hoping to come out of this with blocs of voters to use as leverage in forming a new government.”

“You mean, forming a new government within the present system?” Lanning asked. “Or are they talking about creating a new government with a different system?”

“I’m getting to that,” the President said. “The prime minister has virtually no support — in the parliament or among the people. He’s expected to resign within a day or two. Abril says that the king, who is at his residence in Barcelona, will be able to count on the support of the church and most of the population apart from the Castilians.”

“Which is somewhat less than a majority,” Burkow pointed out.

“About forty-five percent of the people,” the President said. “Which puts the king in a very shaky position. We’re told that his palace in Madrid is thick with soldiers, though no one’s sure whether the troops are there to protect the place or to keep him from coming back.”

“Or both,” Lanning remarked. “Just like the Winter Palace when Czar Nicholas was forced to abdicate.”

“Quite possibly,” the President said. “But it gets worse. Paul — Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers have sent over the latest data on the military. You want to address that?”

Hood folded his hands on the table. “There’s a general who appears to be running this show — Rafael Amadori. According to our intelligence, he orchestrated the destruction of the yacht in the Bay of Biscay, which killed several leading businessmen who were also planning to bring down the government. He also appears to have been responsible for the death of Deputy Serrador. That’s the man who my political chief Martha Mackall was on her way to see when she was killed this morning.” Hood’s voice dropped along with his eyes. “We have reason to believe that Serrador set her up with the help of the party on the yacht.”

“Bob Herbert said he’s working to confirm that,” the President said. “The problem is, even if we found out that part of the government was involved in a conspiracy, the rest of the lawfully elected government may not be around to hear our complaint. Now the policy of the United States, and of this Administration, has always been not to interfere in the internal affairs of a nation. The exceptions, like Panama, like Grenada, involved issues of national security. The problem here, and what General VanZandt is especially concerned about, is that Spain is a NATO ally. The outcome of the current strife will probably cause a reshaping of the government — but we can’t afford to have a tyrant running the nation. We left Franco alone because he didn’t have designs on other nations.”

“That’s only because he saw from the sidelines what we did to Mussolini and Hitler,” Burkow pointed out.

“Whatever the reasons, he stayed put,” the President said. “That may not be the case here. General VanZandt?”

The tall, distinguished African-American officer opened a folder in front of him. “I have here a printout on the man’s career. He signed up with the army thirty-two years ago and worked his way through the ranks. He was on the right side — or rather the left side — of the right-wing coup which attempted to overthrow the king in 1981. He was wounded in action and received a medal for bravery. After that he rose quickly. Interestingly, he never opposed NATO but he didn’t participate in joint maneuvers. In letters to superior officers he advocated a strong national defense which didn’t rely on outside help—“interference,” he called it. He did, however, spend a lot of time entertaining and being entertained by Soviet troops during the 1980s. CIA intelligence puts him in Afghanistan in 1982 as an observer.”

“No doubt he was observing how to oppress people,” Carol Lanning suggested.

“It’s very possible,” VanZandt replied. “During this time Amadori was also heavily involved in Spanish military intelligence and appears to have used his trips abroad to establish contacts there. His name came up in at least two CIA debriefings of captured Soviet spies.”

“In what context?” Hood asked.

VanZandt looked down at the printout. “In one case as a man whom the spy had seen at a meeting with a Soviet officer — Amadori was wearing his nameplate — and in the second case as someone to whom intelligence was to be reported in a matter involving a West German businessman who was trying to buy a Spanish newspaper.”

“So,” the President said, “what we’re dealing with here is someone who’s familiar with a failed coup in his own country and with antirebel tactics in other nations. He also has a lifetime of contacts, intelligence gathering capability, and virtual control of the Spanish military. Ambassador Abril fears, and not without some justification, that both Portugal and France are at risk. Running Spain as a military state, Amadori would be ideally positioned to undermine both governments over time and move troops in.”

“Over NATO’s dead body,” VanZandt said.

“You forget, General,” the President replied. “Amadori appears to have engineered this takeover as a progovernment action. He allowed a conspiracy to get going and then crushed it. It’s a brilliant strategy: let an enemy show itself then crush it. And while you’re crushing it, make the government look corrupt and crush them too.”

“Whether he runs France or Portugal personally or puts in a puppet regime,” Lanning said thoughtfully, “he still calls the shots.”

“Exactly,” said the President. “What came out of my conversation with Abril and the Vice-President is that there’s going to be a new government in Spain. There’s no dispute about that. But we also agreed that whoever comes to power in Spain, it mustn’t be Amadori. So the first question is, do we have the time and sufficient manpower to turn anyone there against him? And if not, is there any way that we can get to him ourselves?”

VanZandt shook his head and sat back. “This is a rotten business, Mr. President,” he said. “A dirty, rotten business.”

“I think so too, General,” the President replied. He sounded surprisingly contrite. “But unless anyone’s got any ideas, I don’t see any way around it.”

“How about waiting?” CIA Director Fox asked. “This Amadori may self-destruct. Or the people may not buy him.”

“Every indication is that he’s getting stronger by the hour,” said the President. “It may be by default: he’s killing the opposition. Am I wrong about that, Paul?”

Hood shook his head. “One of my people was there when he executed factory workers who may—may—have opposed him.”

“When did this happen?” Lanning asked, openly horrified.

“Within the hour,” Hood told her.

“This man has the makings of a genocidal maniac,” she said.

“I don’t know about that,” said Hood, “but he certainly seems determined to seize Spain.”

“And we’re determined to stop him,” the President said.

“How?” asked Burkow. “We can’t do it officially. Paul, Marius — have we got people underground there that we can count on?”

“I’ll have to ask our contact in Madrid,” Fox said. “That kind of work hasn’t been a part of our repertoire for a while.”

Burkow looked at Hood. So did the President. Hood said nothing. With Fox effectively out of the front line, he knew what was coming.

“Paul, your Striker team is en route to Spain,” the President said, “and Darrell McCaskey is already there. You’re also working with an Interpol agent who surrendered to the troops at that factory massacre. What about her, Paul? Can she be counted on?”

“She surrendered to try and get to Amadori,” Hood acknowledged. “But we don’t know what she’ll do if and when she gets to him. Whether she’ll reconnoiter or try and neutralize him.”

Hood hated himself for using that euphemism. They were talking about assassination — the same thing they’d all deplored when it happened to Martha Mackall. And for exactly the same reason: politics. This was, truly, a dirty, stinking business. He wished that he were with his family instead of here.

“What’s this woman’s name?” the President asked.

“María Corneja, Mr. President,” Hood replied. “We have a file on her. She was attached to Op-Center for several months when we were first commissioned. She learned from us and we from her.”

“What would Ms. Corneja do if she had the support of a team like Striker?” the President asked.

“I’m not sure,” Hood answered honestly. “I’m not sure it would even make a difference. She’s tough and pretty independent.”

“Find out, Paul,” the President said. “But do it quietly. I want this to stay at Op-Center from now until it’s finished.”

“I understand,” Hood said. His voice was a low monotone. His spirits were even lower. No one else had even offered to jump in with him.

He wasn’t a boy. He knew that there might come a time when it would be necessary to stage a black-ops action like this — the use of Striker or one of his people to target and take out an enemy. Now that it was here he didn’t like it. Not the job and not the fact that Op-Center was on its own. If they succeeded, a man was dead. If they failed, this would be on their consciences for the rest of their lives. There was no clean way out of it.

Carol Lanning must have understood that. She and Hood remained seated at the table, side by side, as the President and the others left. The men all said good-night to Hood but nothing more. What could they say? Good luck? Break a leg? Shoot him once for me?

When the room was empty, Carol put her hand on Hood’s.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s no fun being disavowed.”

“Or set up,” Hood said.

“Hmmm,” she replied. “You don’t think anyone else knew what the President was planning?”

Hood shook his head. “And when they leave here, they’ll forget he ever suggested it. Like he said, this is Op-Center’s play.” He shook his head again. “The damn thing is it’s not even retribution. The men who killed Martha are dead.”

“I know,” Carol said. “Nobody ever said this business was fair.”

“No, they didn’t.” Hood wanted to get up. But he was too damn tired and way too disgusted to even think about moving.

“If I can do anything for you, unofficially, let me know,” she said. She squeezed his hand again and rose. “Paul — it’s a job. You can’t afford to look at it any other way.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. “But if I do that I can’t see how I’ll be any different than Amadori.”

She smiled. “Oh, you will be, Paul. You’ll never try to convince yourself that what you’re doing is right. Only necessary.”

Hood didn’t really see the distinction, but this wasn’t the time to try to find it. Because, like it or not, he did have a job to do. And he was going to have to help Striker and Aideen Marley and Darrell McCaskey do their jobs as well.

He rose slowly and left with Carol. It was ironic. He once thought that running Los Angeles was difficult: angering special interests with everything you did and living in the public eye. Now he was working undercover and feeling as alone — personally and professionally — as a person could be.

He didn’t remember who had said that in order to lead men you had to turn your back on them. But they were right, which was why Michael Lawrence was President and he wasn’t. That was why someone like Michael Lawrence had to be President.

Hood would do this job because he had to. After that, he vowed, he would do no more. Here in the White House — which had awed him less than an hour before — he vowed that however this ended he would leave Op-Center… and get his family back.