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The smile wavered. She shut the door and stood in the dark hall, her arms folded around her. She was angry at Paul and she missed him terribly. She felt safe here, but she didn't feel at home here. How could she? Home wasn't where her possessions were. Home was where Paul was.

Sharon walked slowly back to her old bedroom.

Marriage, career, children, emotion, sex, stubbornness, conflict, jealousy-was it hope or arrogance that possessed two people and convinced them that all of those things could be melded into a working life?

Neither, she told herself. It was love. And the bottom line, however she got to it, was that as much as her husband frustrated her more than any man had or could, as much as he wasn't there as much as she or the kids wanted or needed, as much as she was angry at him almost as much as she felt affection for him, she still loved him.

Deeply.

Alone now in the small, quiet hours of the morning, Sharon felt that she may have come down too hard on Paul. Leaving Washington with the kids, snapping at him on the phone-why the hell wasn't she willing to cut him any slack? Was it because she was angry that he could take all the time he wanted for his career and she couldn't? Very possibly. Was it also because she keenly remembered missing her father during the summer busy season and when he had to hold a night job? Probably. She didn't want her kids to experience the same thing.

Sharon didn't feel that what she'd said to Paul was wrong. He should spend more time with his family and less time at work. His job required a greater commitment than nine-to-five, but Op-Center would continue to function if he came home for dinner some nights if he went on vacation with them once in a while. But how Sharon had spoken to him-that was a different matter. She was frustrated and instead of talking to him she'd taken it out on him. After taking his kids away, that had to leave him feeling very much alone.

The woman took off her robe and lay down on the twin bed. The pillow was cold with her sweat and the branch was still scratching. She looked over. As she did, she saw her cellular phone on the night table. The black plastic glowed in the moonlight.

Rolling onto her side, Sharon picked up the phone. flipped it open, and began punching in Paul's private number. She stopped after the area code. She discontinued the call and set the phone aside.

She had a better idea. Instead of giving him a call-where even a small thing, like getting voice mail or hearing the wrong word could trigger a relapse-she'd give him an olive branch. Feeling guilty and forgiving at the same time, Sharon lay back, shut her eyes, and dropped almost at once into a contented sleep.

* * *

FORTY-ONE

Tuesday, 11:50 a.m.

Madrid, Spain

When the soldiers in the courtyard suddenly withdrew, Darrell McCaskey silently thanked Brett August. The Strikers had to be the reason for the abrupt pullback.

After the helicopter took off, the soldiers on the rooftop kept McCaskey and María pinned down. At the same time the scattered soldiers around the perimeter regrouped. It appeared as if they were organizing for an assault. But the attack never came. Everyone seemed riveted by loud pops from inside the palace.

"It's begun," McCaskey said to María.

Yellow smoke filtered through several of the windows along the wall beside the arches. There were shouted commands at the far end of the courtyard, near the western side of the palace. Though it was difficult to see because of the high, bright sun and deep shadows, the bulk of the soldiers seemed to disappear. Not long after that, McCaskey heard gunfire behind the ornate white walls.

"What's going on?" María asked. She was leaning against the inside of the arch closest to the palace wall. Her legs were stretched in front of her. McCaskey had placed his handkerchief across the gunshot wound in her side and was holding it in place.

"It's the countercoup," he replied. He didn't want to say much