Balance of Power

SIX

Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert was in a gray frame of mind as he arrived in Paul Hood’s bright, windowless basement office. In contrast to the warm fluorescence of the overhead lights, the gloomy mood was much too familiar. Not long ago they’d mourned the deaths of Striker team members Bass Moore, killed in North Korea, and Lt. Col. Charles Squires, who died in Siberia preventing a second Russian Revolution.

For Herbert, the psychological resources he needed to deal with death were highly refined. Whenever he learned of the demise of enemies of his country — or when it had been necessary, early in his intelligence career, to participate in some of those killings — he never had any problems. The life and security of his country came before any other considerations. As Herbert had put it so many times, “The deeds are dirty but my conscience is clean.”

But this was different.

Although Herbert’s wife, Yvonne, had been killed nearly sixteen years ago in the terrorist bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, he was still mourning her death. The loss still seemed fresh. Too fresh, he thought almost every night since the attack. Restaurants, movie theaters, and even a park bench they had frequented became shrines to him. Each night he lay in bed gazing at her photograph on his night table. Some nights the framed picture was moonlit, some nights it was just a dark shape. But bright or dark, seen or remembered, for better or for worse, Yvonne never left his bedside. And she never left his thoughts. Herbert had long ago adjusted to having lost his legs in the Beirut explosion. Actually, he’d more than adjusted. His wheelchair and all its electronic conveniences now seemed an integral part of his body. But he had never adjusted to losing Yvonne.

Yvonne had been a fellow CIA agent — a formidable enemy, a devoted friend, and the wittiest person he’d ever known. She had been his life and his lover. When they were together, even on the job, the physical boundaries of the universe seemed very small. It was defined by her eyes and by the curve of her neck, by the warmth of her fingers and the playfulness of her toes. But what a rich and full universe that had been. So rich that there were still mornings when, half-awake, Herbert would reach his hand under her pillow and search for hers. Not finding it, he’d squeeze her lumpy pillow in his empty fingers and silently curse the killers who’d taken her from him. Killers who had gone unpunished. Who were still permitted to enjoy their own lives, their own loves.

Now Herbert had to mourn the loss of Martha Mackall. He felt guilty. Part of him was pleased that he wasn’t the only one grieving now. Mourning could be an oppressively lonely place to be. Less guiltily, Herbert also wasn’t willing to laud the dead just because they were dead, and he was going to have to listen to plenty of that over the next few days and weeks. Some of the praise would be valid. But only some of it.

Martha had been one of Op-Center’s keystones since the organization’s inception. Regardless of her motivation, Martha had never given less than her utmost. Herbert was going to miss her intelligence, her insights, and her justified self-confidence. In government, it didn’t always matter whether a person was right or wrong. What mattered was that they led, that they roused passions. From the day she arrived in Washington Martha certainly did that.

Yet in the nearly two years that he had known Martha Mackall, Herbert had found her to be abrasive and condescending. She often took credit for work done by her staff — a common enough sin in Washington, though a rare occurrence at Op-Center. But then, Martha wasn’t devoted solely to Op-Center. Since he’d first encountered her when she worked at State, she had always applied herself to the advancement of the cause that seemed most important to her: Martha Mackall. For at least the last five or six months she’d had her eyes on several ambassadorial positions and had made no secret of the fact that her position at Op-Center was simply a stepping stone.

On the other hand, Herbert thought, when patriotism isn’t enough to drive you to do your best, ambition is a workable substitute. As long as the job got done, Herbert wasn’t one to throw stones.

Herbert’s cynicism burned off quickly, though, as he crossed the threshold into Hood’s small, wood-paneled office. “Pope” Paul had that effect on people. Hood believed in the goodness of humankind and his conviction as well as his even temper could be contagious.

Hood finished pouring himself a glass of tap water from a carafe on his desk. Then he rose and walked toward the door. Herbert had been the first to arrive, and Hood greeted him with a handshake and tight-lipped solemnity. Herbert wasn’t surprised to see the director’s dark eyes lacking their usual spirit and vigor. It was one thing to get bad news about an operative on a covert mission. Reports like that were statistical inevitabilities and a part of you was always braced for that kind of loss. Each time the private phone or fax line beeped, you half-expected a coded communique with a heart-stopping phrase like “The stock market is down one” or “Lost a charge card — cancel account.”

But to hear about the death of a team member who was on a quiet diplomatic mission to a friendly nation during peacetime — that was another matter. It was disturbing regardless of what you thought about the person.

Hood sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “What’s the latest from Spain?”

“You read my e-mail about the explosion off the coast of San Sebastián, up north?”

Hood nodded.

“That’s the last thing I have,” Herbert replied. “The local police are still pulling body parts and pieces of yacht from the bay and trying to ID the people. No one has claimed responsibility for the attack. We’re also monitoring commercial and private broadcasts in case the perps have something to say.”

“You wrote that the yacht blew up midship,” Hood said.

“That’s what two eyewitnesses onshore said,” Herbert replied. “There hasn’t been any official word yet.”

“And there isn’t likely to be,” Hood said. “Spain doesn’t like to share its internal matters. Does the midship location mean anything?”

Herbert nodded. “The blast was nowhere near the engines, which means we’re almost certainly looking at sabotage. The timing may also be significant. The explosion occurred soon after Martha was shot.”

“So the two events could be related,” Hood said.

“We’re looking into it,” Herbert replied.

“Starting where?”

Hood was pushing more than usual, but that wasn’t surprising. Herbert had felt that way after Beirut. Apart from wanting the killer found and punished, it was important to keep one’s mind active. The only other option was to stop, mourn, and have to deal with the guilt.

“The attack on Martha does adhere to the modus operandi of the Homeland and Freedom group,” Herbert said. “In February of 1997 they killed a Spanish Supreme Court judge, Justice Emperador. Shot him in the head at the front door of his building.”

“How does that tie in to Martha?”

“Judge Emperador heard labor law cases,” Herbert said. “He had nothing to do with terrorists or political activism.”

“I don’t follow.”

Herbert folded his hands on his waist and answered patiently. “In Spain, as in many countries, judges involved in terrorist matters are given bodyguards. Real bodyguards, not just for show. So Homeland and Freedom typically goes after friends and associates in order to make a point to the principals. That’s been their pattern in a half-dozen shootings since 1995, when they tried to murder King Juan Carlos, Crown Prince Felipe, and Prime Minister Aznar. The failure of that operation had a chilling effect.”

“No more direct frontal assaults,” Hood said.

“Right. And no more prime targets. Just attacks on the secondaries to rattle the support structure.”

Two other people had arrived as Herbert was speaking.

“We’ll talk about all this in a minute,” Hood said. He took a swallow of water and rose as staff psychologist Liz Gordon and somber-looking press officer Ann Farris walked in. Herbert saw Ann’s eyes catch Hood’s for a moment. It was an open secret along the executive corridors of Op-Center that the young divorcee was more than fond of her married boss. Because Hood was so unreadable — a talent he had apparently developed as mayor of Los Angeles — no one was quite sure how Hood felt about Ann. However, it was known that the long hours he spent at Op-Center had put a strain on his relationship with his wife, Sharon. And Ann was attractive and attentive.

Martha’s shell-shocked number-two man, Ron Plummer, arrived a moment later with Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II and Deputy Assistant Secretary of State Carol Lanning. The slim, gray-haired, sixty-four-year-old Lanning had been a very close friend and mentor to Martha. Officially, however, that wasn’t the reason she was here. Hood had asked Lanning to come to Op-Center because an American “tourist” had been shot abroad. It was now a matter for her division of the State Department, the Security and Counselor Affairs — the nuts and bolts group which dealt with everything from passport fraud to Americans imprisoned abroad. It was the job of Lanning and her staff to work as liaisons with foreign police departments to investigate attacks on American citizens. Like Hood, Lanning was temperate by nature and an optimist. As she sat down beside Herbert, the intelligence chief found it extremely unsettling to see Lanning’s bright eyes bloodshot and her thin, straight mouth pulled into a deep frown.

Mike Rodgers was the last to arrive. He strode through the door quickly, his eyes alert and his chest expanded. His uniform was smartly pressed, as always, and his shoes were brightly polished.

God in Heaven bless the general, Herbert thought. Outwardly, at least, Rodgers was the only one who seemed to have any fight in him. Herbert was pleased to see that Rodgers had regained some of the grit he had lost in Lebanon. The rest of them would need to draw upon that if they were going to carry on here and revitalize Darrell McCaskey and Aideen Marley in Spain.

Hood went back to his desk and sat down. Everyone else took seats except for Rodgers. The general folded his arms, squared his shoulders, and stood behind Carol Lanning’s chair.

“As you all know,” Hood began, “Martha Mackall was murdered in Madrid at approximately six P.M. local time.”

Although Hood was addressing everyone in the room, he was looking down at the desk. Herbert understood. Eye contact could do him in. And he had to get through this.

“The shooting happened as Martha and Aideen Marley were standing at a guard booth outside the Palacio de las Cortes in Madrid,” Hood went on. “The lone gunman fired several shots from the street and then escaped in a waiting car. Martha died at the scene. Aideen was not hurt. Darrell met her at the palace. They headed back to their hotel with a police escort.”

Hood stopped and swallowed hard.

“The police escort was made of handpicked operatives attached to Interpol,” Herbert continued for him, “and Interpol will continue to look over their shoulders for as long as they remain in Spain. The laxness of palace security has got us wondering if at least some of the guards weren’t in on the plot — which is why we turned to Darrell’s friends at Interpol for security, rather than relying on government-appointed police. We’ve got a lot of background data on the Interpol crew, due to the time agent María Corneja spent working with Darrell here in Washington,” Herbert added. “We’re very comfortable with how Darrell and Aideen will be looked after from this point forward.”

“Thank you, Bob,” Hood said. He looked up. His eyes were glistening. “Martha’s body is en route to the embassy. It will be flown back as soon as possible. At the moment, we have a service scheduled at the Baptist Evangelical Church in Arlington for Wednesday morning, ten A.M.”

Carol Lanning looked away and shut her eyes. Herbert’s hands were still folded on his waist and he glanced down at his thumbs. Before Herbert had attended Op-Center’s annual sensitivity training seminar, he would have thought nothing about leaning over and putting his arms around the Deputy Assistant Secretary of State. Now if he wanted to comfort her, all he was supposed to do was ask if she wanted anything.

Hood beat him to it. “Ms. Lanning,” he asked, “would you care for some water?”

The woman opened her eyes. “No, thank you. I’ll be all right. I want to get on with this.”

There was a surprising edge in her voice. Herbert snuck a glance at her. Carol’s lips were straight now, her eyes narrow. To him, it didn’t look like she wanted water. What Carol Lanning seemed to crave was blood. Herbert knew exactly how she felt. After the Beirut embassy bombing, he would have had no trouble nuking the entire city just to get the bastards who killed his wife. Grief was not a merciful emotion.

Hood looked at his watch. He sat back in his chair. “Darrell will be calling in five minutes.” He looked at Plummer. “Ron, what do we do about the mission? Is Aideen qualified to continue?”

Plummer leaned forward and Herbert looked at him. Plummer was a short man with thinning brown hair and wide eyes. He wore thick, black-framed glasses on a large hooked nose. He had on a dark gray suit badly in need of dry cleaning and scuffed black shoes. The tops of his socks were falling over his ankles. Herbert hadn’t had many dealings with the former CIA intelligence analyst for Western Europe. But Plummer had to be good. No one who dressed so carelessly could get by on anything but talent. Besides, Herbert had had a look at the psych workup Liz Gordon had done of Plummer before he was hired. Herbert and Plummer had both detested the CIA director Plummer had worked under. That was enough of a character endorsement for Herbert.

“I can’t answer for Aideen’s state of mind,” Plummer said, with a nod to Liz Gordon. “But apart from that I’d say that Aideen is very capable of continuing the mission.”

“According to her file,” Carol said, “she hasn’t had a great deal of diplomatic experience.”

“That’s very true,” Plummer said. “Ms. Marley’s methods are rather less diplomatic than Martha’s were. But you know what? That just may be what’s needed now.”

“I like the sound of that,” Herbert said. He looked at Paul. “Have you decided to continue the mission?”

“I won’t decide that until I talk to Darrell,” Hood said. “But my inclination is to keep them over there.”

“Why?” Liz Gordon asked.

Herbert couldn’t decide whether it was a question or a challenge. Liz’s manner could be intimidating.

“Because we may not have a choice,” Hood said. “If the shooting was random — and we can’t dismiss that possibility, since Aideen is alive and a Madrid postal worker was the other victim — then the killing was tragic but not directed at the discussions. If that’s the case, there’s no reason not to keep the talks on-line. But even if the shooting was directed at us we can’t afford to back down.”

“Not back down,” Liz said, “but wouldn’t it be wise to step back until we’re sure?”

“American foreign policy is determined by the Administration, not by the barrel of a gun,” Lanning said. “I agree with Mr. Hood.”

“Darrell can arrange for security with his people at Interpol,” Hood said. “This won’t happen again.”

“Paul,” Liz pressed, “the reason I mention this has nothing to do with logistics. There’s one thing you need to consider before deciding whether Aideen should be a part of this process.”

“What’s that?” asked Hood.

“Right about now she’s probably coming out of the first stage of alarm reaction, which is shock,” Liz told him. “That’s going to be followed almost immediately by countershock, a quick increase in the adrenocortical hormones — steroid hormones. She’s going to be pumped.”

“That’s good, no?” Herbert asked.

“No, it isn’t,” Liz replied. “After countershock, a resistance phase settles in. Emotional recuperation. Aideen’s going to be looking for someplace to turn that energy loose. If she was not too diplomatic before, she may become an unguided missile now. But even that’s not the worst of it.”

“How so?” Hood asked.

Liz rolled her broad shoulders forward. She leaned toward the group, her elbows on her knees. “Aideen survived a shooting in which her partner died. A lot of guilt comes along with that. Guilt and a responsibility to see the job through at any cost. She won’t sleep and she probably won’t eat. A person can’t maintain those countershock and resistance levels for long.”

“What’s ‘long’?” Herbert asked.

“Two or three days, depending on the person,” Liz said. “After that, the person enters a state of clinical exhaustion. That brings on a mental and physical breakdown. If countershock is left untreated for that long, there’s a good chance our girl’s in for a long, long stay in a very quiet rest home.”

“How good a chance?” Herbert asked.

“I’d say sixty-forty in favor of a crash,” Liz said.

Hood’s phone beeped as Liz was speaking. As soon as she was finished Hood picked it up. His executive assistant, “Bugs” Benet, said that Darrell McCaskey was on the line. Hood put McCaskey on the speakerphone.

Herbert settled back into his wheelchair. Until recently, a call like this wouldn’t have been possible over an unsecured line. But Matt Stoll, Op-Center’s Operations Support Officer and resident computer genius, had designed a digital scrambler that plugged into the data port of public telephones. Anyone listening in over the line would hear only static. A small speaker attached to the scrambler on McCaskey’s end filtered out the noise and enabled him to hear the conversation clearly.

“Darrell, good evening,” Hood said softly. “I’ve got you on speaker.”

“Who’s there?” he asked.

Hood told him.

“I’ve gotta tell you,” McCaskey said, choking, “you can’t imagine what it means to have a team like you back there. Thanks.”

“We’re in this together,” Hood said.

Hood rolled his lips together. It was the closest Herbert had seen the boss come to losing it.

Hood collected himself quickly. “How are you both? Do you need anything?”

The compassion was real. Herbert had always said that when it came to sincerity in government Hood was in a category all by himself.

“We’re still pretty shaken up,” McCaskey answered, “as I’m sure you are. But I guess we’ll be all right. As a matter of fact, Aideen seems to be in a pretty combative mood.”

Liz nodded knowingly. “Countershock,” she said softly.

“How so?” Hood asked.

“Well, she kind of took Deputy Serrador apart for getting cold feet,” McCaskey said. “I called her on the carpet for it but I have to say I was actually pretty proud of her. He had it coming.”

“Darrell,” Hood asked, “is Aideen there?”

“No, she isn’t,” said McCaskey. “I left her in her room with Deputy Ambassador Gawal from the American embassy. They’re on the phone with my friend Luis at Interpol, discussing security measures if you decide to keep us here. Like I said, she’s pretty worked up and I wanted her to have time to settle down a little. But I also didn’t want her to feel left out of the process.”

“Good thinking,” Hood said. “Darrell, are you sure you feel up to talking now?”

“It’s got to be done,” McCaskey said, “and I’d rather do it now. I’m sure I’ll feel a lot lower when all of this sinks in.”

Liz gave Hood a thumbs-up.

Herbert nodded. He knew the feeling.

“Very good,” Hood said. “Darrell, we were just discussing the idea of you two staying. How do you feel about that — and what’s the problem with Deputy Serrador?”

“Frankly,” McCaskey said, “I’d feel fine about staying. Only the problem isn’t me. Aideen and I just came from Serrador’s office. He’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want to continue.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“Cold feet,” Herbert suggested.

“No, Bob, I don’t think it’s that,” McCaskey said. “Deputy Serrador told us that he wants to talk to the investigators and to his colleagues before he decides whether to proceed with our talks. But it seemed to me — and this is only a former G-man’s hunch — that that was bull. Aideen had the same feeling. I think he wanted to shut us down.”

“Darrell, this is Ron Plummer. Deputy Serrador was the one who initiated these exploratory talks through Ambassador Neville. What does he possibly gain by terminating them?”

“Terminating them?” Herbert muttered. “The son of a bitch didn’t even start them!”

Hood motioned the intelligence chief to silence.

“I’m not sure what he gains, Ron,” McCaskey replied. “But I think that what Bob just said — that was you grumbling, Bob, wasn’t it?”

“Who else?”

“I think that what he said is significant,” McCaskey said. “From the time Av Lincoln first put Serrador in touch with Martha — at Serrador’s request, remember — the deputy has insisted that he only wanted to talk with Martha. She’s murdered and now Serrador doesn’t want to talk. One conclusion, the obvious conclusion, is that someone who has access to Serrador’s political agenda — as well as his calendar — killed her to intimidate him.”

“Not just to intimidate him,” Plummer pointed out, “but to shut down everyone who’s a member of his pronationalism team.”

“That’s right,” said McCaskey. “Also, by attacking Martha, they send a message to our diplomats to stay out of this matter. But I still feel that those are the things we’re supposed to think. I don’t believe that they’re the real reason behind the killing.”

“Mr. McCaskey, this is Carol Lanning with State.” Her voice was composed, though just barely. “I’m coming in a little late on all of this. What else is going on here? What does somebody want our diplomats to stay out of?”

“I’ll take this one, Darrell,” Hood said. He fixed his eyes on Lanning. “As you know, Ms. Lanning, Spain has been going through some serious upheavals over the last few months.”

“I’ve seen the daily situation reports,” Lanning replied. “But it’s mostly separatist Basques attacking antiseparatist Basques.”

“Those are the very public disputes,” Hood confirmed. “What you may not know is how concerned some of Spain’s leaders are about other recent events involving violent attacks on members of the country’s largest ethnic groups. The government has conspired to keep these very, very quiet. Ann, you’ve got some intel on this.”

The slender, attractive, brown-haired press liaison nodded professionally but her rust-colored eyes smiled at Hood. Herbert noticed; he wondered if “Pope” Paul did.

“The Spanish government has been working very hard with journalists to keep the news out of the press and off the air,” Ann Farris said.

“Really?” Herbert said. “How? Those ambulance chasers are even worse than the Washington press corps.”

“Frankly, they’re paid off,” Ann said. “1 know of three incidents in particular that were hushed. A Catalonian book publisher’s office was burned after distributing a new novel that seriously bashed the Castilians. An Andalusian wedding party was attacked leaving a church in Segovia in Castile. And a Basque antiseparatist — a leading activist — was killed by Basque separatists while he was a patient in the hospital.”

“Sounds like a lot of brushfires,” Plummer said.

“They are,” Hood agreed. “But if those fires should ever join up they could consume Spain.”

“Which is why local reporters have been bribed to bury these stories,” Ann went on, “while foreign reporters have been kept away from crime scenes altogether. UPI, ABC, the New York Times, and the Washington Post have all filed complaints with the government but to no effect. That’s been going on for a little over a month now.”

“Our own hands-on involvement in Spain began just about three weeks ago,” Hood continued. “Deputy Serrador met secretly with Ambassador Neville in Madrid. It was a very quiet backdoor get-together at the U.S. Embassy. Serrador told the ambassador that a committee had been formed, with himself as the chair, to investigate this growing tension between Spain’s five major ethnic groups. He said that during the previous four months, in addition to the crimes Ann mentioned, over a dozen ethnic leaders had been murdered or kidnapped. Serrador wanted help obtaining intelligence on several of the groups. Neville contacted Av Lincoln, who brought the matter to us, and to Martha.”

Hood’s eyes lowered slowly.

“And if you remember correctly,” Herbert said quickly, “as soon as Deputy Serrador had a look at our diplomatic roster he asked for Martha specifically. And she couldn’t wait to get her arms around this situation and make it hers. So don’t even think about second-guessing what you did.”

“Hear, hear,” Ann Farris said quietly.

Hood looked up. He thanked them both with his eyes then looked at Carol Lanning. “Anyway,” he said, “that was the start of our involvement.”

“What do these groups want?” Lanning asked. “Independence?”

“Some do,” Hood said. He turned to his computer screen and accessed the file on Spain. “According to Deputy Serrador, there are two major problems. The first is between the two factions of Basques. The Basques comprise just two percent of the population and are already battling among themselves. The bulk of the Basques are staunch antiseparatists who want to remain part of Spain. A very small number of them, less than ten percent, are separatists.”

“That’s point two percent of the population of Spain,” Lanning said. “Not a very considerable number.”

“Right,” Hood said. “Meanwhile, there’s also a long-simmering problem with the Castilians of central and northern Spain. The Castilians make up sixty-two percent of the population of Spain. They’ve always believed that they are Spain and that everyone else in the country isn’t.”

“The other groups are regarded as squatters,” Herbert said.

“Exactly. Serrador tells us that the Castilians have been trying to arm the separatist factions of the Basques to begin the process of tearing the Spanish minorities apart. First the Basques, then the Galicians, the Catalonians, and the Andalusians. As a result, Serrador had intelligence that some of the other groups might be talking about joining together for a political or military move against the Castilians. A preemptive strike.”

“And it isn’t just a national issue,” McCaskey said. “My Interpol sources tell me that the French are supporting the antiseparatist Basques. They’re afraid that if the separatist Basques get too much power, the French Basques will act to form their own country as well.”

“Is there a real danger of that?” Herbert asked.

“There is,” said McCaskey. “From the late 1960s through the middle 1970s, the quarter-million Basques in France helped the two million Basques in Spain fight the repression of Francisco Franco. The camraderie between the French Basques and the Spanish separatist Basques is so strong that the Basques — Spanish and French alike — simply refer to the region as the northern and southern Basque country, respectively.”

“The Basques and the Castilians are the two groups Serrador wanted us to investigate immediately,” Hood said. “But in addition to them, there are the Catalonians, also of central and northern Spain, who make up sixteen percent of the population. They’re extremely rich and influential. A large portion of the Catalonians’ taxes go to supporting the other minorities, especially the Andalusians in the south. They would be just as happy to see the other groups disappear.”

“How happy would they be?” Lanning asked. “Happy enough to make that happen?”

“As in genocide?” Hood asked.

Lanning shrugged. “It doesn’t take more than a few loud men to fan suspicion and hate to those levels.”

“The men on the yacht were Catalonian,” McCaskey said.

“And the Catalonians have always been separatists,” Lanning said. “They were a key force in spurring on the Spanish Civil War sixty years ago.”

“That’s true,” Ron Plummer said. “But the Catalonians also have a bunker mentality regarding other races. Genocide is usually the result of an already dominant force looking to turn widespread public anger against a specific target. That’s not what we have here.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Ron,” Hood said. “It probably would have been easier for the Catalonians to exert financial pressure on the nation than to resort to genocide.”

“We’ll be able to check this out more thoroughly after we find out who else was on the yacht,” Herbert said confidently.

Hood nodded and turned back to the computer monitor. “In addition to the Basques, Castilians, and Catalonians, we’ve got the Andalusians. They comprise roughly twelve percent of the population and they’ll side with any group in power because of their financial dependency. The Galicians are roughly eight percent of the population. They’re an agricultural people — very Spanish, traditionally independent, and likely to stay out of any fray that might erupt.”

“So,” Lanning said, “they’ve got a complex situation over there. And given the volatile history of the interrelations I can understand them wanting to keep the disputes quiet. What I don’t understand is something Mr. Herbert said — why this Deputy Serrador wanted to see Martha specifically.”

“Deputy Serrador seemed comfortable with her due to her familiarity with Spain and the language,” Hood said. “He also liked the fact that she was a woman who belonged to a racial minority. He said he could count on her to be both discreet and sympathetic.”

“Sure,” Herbert said. “But I’ve been sitting here thinking that she also happened to be the perfect victim for one of those ethnic groups.”

Everyone looked at him.

“What do you mean?” Hood asked.

“To put it bluntly,” Herbert said, “the Catalonians are male-supremacists who hate black Africans. It’s an animosity that goes back about nine hundred years, to the wars with the Moors of Africa. If someone wanted to get the Catalonians on their side — and who wouldn’t want the folks with the money in their camp? — they’d pick a black woman as a victim.”

There was silence for a moment.

“That’s a bit of a reach, don’t you think?” Lanning asked.

“Not really,” the intelligence chief replied. “I’ve seen longer shots pay off. The sad truth is, whenever I go looking for muddy footprints in the gutter of human nature, I’m rarely disappointed.”

“What ethnic group does Serrador belong to?” Mike Rodgers asked.

“He’s Basque, General,” McCaskey’s voice came from the speakerphone, “with absolutely no record of antinationalist activity. We checked him out. To the contrary. He’s voted against every kind of separatist legislation.”

“He could be a mole,” Lanning said. “The most damaging Soviet spy we ever had at State was raised in whitebread Darien, Connecticut, and voted for Barry Goldwater.”

“You’re catching on,” Herbert said, grinning. He had a feeling what was coming: there was no one more passionate than a convert.

Lanning regarded Hood. “The more I think about what Mr. Herbert just said, the more troubled I am by all of this. We’ve had situations before where we’ve been set up by foreign interests. Let’s assume for the moment that that’s what happened. That Martha was lured to Spain to be assassinated, for whatever reason. The only way we’ll ever find that out is if we have access to all aspects of the investigation. Do we have that, Mr. McCaskey?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” McCaskey replied. “Serrador said he’s going to look into it, but Aideen and I were both shuttled off to our hotel rooms and we haven’t heard anything since.”

“Yeah, the Spanish government isn’t always very forthcoming about their private activities,” Herbert said. “During World War II, this supposedly neutral nation rode shotgun on train- and truckloads of Nazi booty sent from Switzerland to Portugal. They did it in exchange for future favors, which, luckily, they never got to collect on.”

“That was Francisco Franco,” Ron Plummer said. “Professional courtesy, dictator-to-dictator. It doesn’t mean that Spanish people are that way.”

“True,” Herbert said, “but the Spanish leaders are still at it. In the 1980s the defense minister hired drug smugglers as mercenaries to kill Basque separatists. The government purchased guns for the team in South Africa. They let them keep the weapons afterward, too. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t count on any Spanish government to help the United States with anything.”

Hood held up both hands. “We’re getting off the subject here. Darrell, for the moment I’m not concerned about Serrador, his motives, or his intelligence needs. I want to find out who killed Martha and why. Mike,” Hood looked at Rodgers—“you recruited Aideen. What’s she made of?”

Rodgers was still standing behind Carol Lanning. He unfolded his arms and shifted his weight. “She stood up to some pretty tough dealers in the drug trade in Mexico City. She’s got iron in her back.”

“I see where you’re going, Paul,” Liz said, “and I want to caution you. Aideen’s under a lot of emotional stress. Throw her into a covert police action right now and the pressure could break her.”

“It could also be just what she needs,” Herbert said.

“You’re absolutely right,” Liz replied. “Everyone is different. Only the question isn’t just what Aideen needs. If she goes undercover and cracks, she could be the nail that cost the horse that cost the kingdom.”

“Besides,” Herbert said to Hood, “if we send someone else over to follow the muddy footprints, we lose time.”

“Darrell,” Hood asked, “did you hear that?”

“I heard.”

“What do you think?”

“I think a couple of things,” McCaskey said. “Mike’s right. The lady’s got backbone to spare. She wasn’t afraid to get right in Serrador’s face. And my gut tells me the same thing as Bob’s: I’m inclined to let her loose on the Spaniards. But Liz has also got a solid point. So if it’s okay with you, let me talk to Aideen first. I’ll know pretty quick whether she’s up to it.”

Hood’s eyes shifted to the staff psychologist. “Liz, if we decide to go ahead with something and Aideen’s involved, what should Darrell look for? Any physical signs?”

“Extreme restlessness,” Liz replied. “Rapid speech, foot tapping, cracking the knuckles, heavy sighing, that sort of thing. She’s got to be able to focus. If her mind wanders into guilt and loss, she’s going to drop down a hole and not be able to get out.”

“Any questions, Darrell?” Hood asked.

“None,” McCaskey said.

“Very good,” Hood said. “Darrell, I’m going to have Bob and his team look over any new intelligence that’s come in. If there’s anything useful, they’ll get it over to you.”

“I’m also going to make a few calls over here,” McCaskey said. “There are some people at Interpol who might be able to help us.”

“Excellent,” Hood said. “Anyone else?”

“Mr. Hood,” Carol Lanning said, “this is not my area of expertise but I do have a question.”

“Go ahead,” Hood said. “And please — it’s Paul.”

She nodded and cleared her throat. “Might I ask if you’re looking to gather intelligence to turn over to the Spanish authorities or—” She hesitated.

“Or what?”

“Or are you looking for revenge?”

Hood thought for a moment. “Frankly, Ms. Lanning, I want both.”

“Good,” she said. Rising, she smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. “I hoped I wasn’t the only one.”