Balance of Power

THIRTY-ONE

María was convinced that General Amadori was, in fact, in the throne room of the Royal Palace. However, she did not go there directly after escaping from the soldiers. She needed a uniform and she needed an ally.

The uniform had to come first.

María got it in a stall in the men’s latrine. The latrine was formerly — and formally—el carto de cambiar por los attendientes del rey—the changing room for the attendants of the king. Now soldiers were tramping in and out with disregard for its history or status. María was not a royalist but she was a Spaniard and this place had played a large part in the history of Spain. It deserved more respect.

The large white room had marble cornices and appointments. It was located in the southeastern sector of the palace, not far from the king’s bedchamber. María reached it by moving cautiously from doorway to doorway. Most of the rooms along the way were unoccupied; those that were, she skipped. If an alarm of any kind had been raised about her escape, the search was confined to the area around the music room and the throne room. It was an appropriate use of manpower. They knew she had to try to get to Amadori eventually. The trick was to make sure they didn’t notice her.

The uniform came to her courtesy of a young sergeant. He had entered the changing room with two other men. When he opened the door, María was crouched on the toilet with both pistols pointed toward him.

“Come in and lock the door,” she snarled in a low voice. The hum of the ceiling fan prevented her voice from carrying outside the stall.

There’s a moment when most people who are confronted with a gun will freeze. During that brief time, the individual holding the weapon must give an instruction. If the command is given immediately and emphatically it will usually be obeyed. If it isn’t, if the target panics, then the decision must be made whether to withdraw or fire.

María had already decided that she’d shoot to disable everyone in the room before allowing herself to be caught. Fortunately, the wide-eyed soldier did as he’d been ordered.

As soon as the door had been locked, María motioned the soldier over with one of the guns. She held the other one pointed up, toward his forehead.

“Lock your fingers behind your head,” she said. “Then turn around and back toward me.”

He clasped his fingers tightly behind his cap. María reached behind her without taking her eyes from him. She put one of her guns on the toilet tank, relieved him of his pistol, and tucked it in her belt, behind her. Then she retrieved the gun she’d put on the toilet.

María stepped back on the seat.

“Drop these.” She poked his butt with the gun. “Sit on the edge on your hands.”

The soldier obeyed.

“When your friends leave,” she whispered in his ear, “tell them to go without you. Otherwise, you all die.”

María and the sergeant — his nameplate said García — waited. She swore she could hear his heartbeat. He did as he was instructed when the others called to him, and when they were gone María told him to rise. Still facing front, he was told to take off his uniform.

He did. María then turned him around so he was facing the toilet. She told him to kneel in front of it.

“Please don’t shoot me,” he said. “Please.”

“I won’t,” she said, “if you do as you’re told.”

There were two things she could do. One was to stuff his mouth with toilet paper, break his fingers so he couldn’t take it out, then tie him to the heavy tank lid. But that would take time. Instead, she executed a tight front-kick to the back of his head. That drove his forehead into the ceramic tank and knocked him out. He’d probably suffered a concussion, but there was no way to avoid injuries in this situation. Grabbing the uniform and guns, she changed quickly in the adjoining stall. The uniform was baggy, but it would have to do. Tucking her hair into the snug pillbox cap, she holstered the sergeant’s gun and hid the extra pistols under the front of her shirt.

She stuffed her clothes into the wastebasket — everything except the shoes. She rubbed the soles on her cheeks to give herself “stubble.” When she was finished, she threw the shoes out as well. Then she went to the mirror to give herself a final check. As she did, two other sergeants entered. They were in a hurry.

“You’re late, García!” one of them barked. He walked past Maria, following the other man toward the urinal. “The lieutenant gave each group five minutes to get in and—”

The sergeant stopped and turned. Maria didn’t wait for him to act. She faced him and placed her right knee behind his left knee. Then she hooked her right arm, locked it around his neck, and threw him over her leg. He fell in front of her, lengthwise. Because her weight was on her right leg, she was able to lift her left leg. She stomped hard on his chest, breaking ribs and knocking the wind from him. His companion was facing the urinal. He turned but Maria had already stepped over the sergeant and was moving toward him. Lifting her right leg without breaking her stride, she drove her right knee hard into the small of his back. He was slammed against the urinal and fell back. As the soldier hit the tiled floor Maria kicked him in the temple with her heel. He went out immediately. The other man was still moaning so Maria pivoted gracefully and kicked him squarely in the side of the head. He, too, fell unconscious.

Maria stumbled back. She had marshaled the energy she’d needed for the attack, but the effort had drained her. The blows she’d suffered in the music room ached wickedly and this activity hadn’t helped. But there was still a mission to complete and María intended to finish it. Staggering to the sink, she cupped water in her hands and drank.

Then she remembered something the man on the floor had said. Soldiers were being allowed to come in here at five-minute intervals. She’d just eaten up nearly two of those. There was no time to delay.

Pulling herself erect, María turned and started toward the door. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the hallway. She turned right and then turned left a few doors down. She was back in the corridor leading to the throne room.

There were soldiers stationed here but she moved quickly, as though she were hurrying somewhere. Whenever she worked undercover María had found that two things were necessary for a successful infiltration. First, you had to act like you belonged wherever you were. If you did, no one questioned you. Second, you had to act as though you had somewhere to go — immediately. If you moved fast and with assurance, no one stopped you. She was certain that those qualities, plus the uniform, would get her back to the Hall of the Halberdiers. They might even get her inside. After that, María would need four things in order to get to Amadori.

The guns, wile — and two special allies.