Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [144]
"Paul," Rodgers said, "the Spanish government probably doesn't even know about Darrell's role in the action. They probably assume that Striker got in and out as planned."
"They didn't bother to ask."
"And if they did, nothing would be different," Rodgers said. "Nothing could be different. The government can't give us time to figure something out because they can't afford to give the rebels time."
Hood took his coffee back to the desk.
"I've faced these things before," Herbert said. "They suck. But Darrell isn't green. He'll probably pick up on what's happening. Maybe he'll be able to get himself and the others to safety until the shooting's over."
"I also informed Interpol about the situation," Rodgers said. "I didn't tell them about Darrell's actions. That can come out later, when-with luck-we'll have him back here."
"Yeah," Herbert said. "Then we can at least have some fun denying that he was ever even there."
"I told them where Darrell, María, and Luis are," Rodgers continued, "and that they need medical attention. Hopefully, the message will make its way through the bureaucracy."
Hood sat. "Probably, maybe, and hopefully. I guess there are worse words."
"A whole lot of them," Herbert said. "Like never, impossible, and dead."
Hood looked at him and then at the others. He was going to miss these people when he submitted his resignation-these good patriots and dedicated professionals. But he wasn't going to miss the waiting and the grief. There had been enough of that to last him a lifetime.
He also wouldn't miss the loneliness and the guilt. Wanting Nancy Bosworth in Germany and Ann Farris in Washington. That kind of empty flirtation was never what he'd wanted his life to be about.
Hood found himself hoping that Sharon had had a change of heart-that maybe she'd decided to come back. And he had to admit that Herbert was right. Hope was a lot more satisfying than never.
* * *
FORTY-NINE
Tuesday, 12:57 p.m.
Madrid, Spain
Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor, Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, "The alternative is not breathing and that ain't better." Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn't stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or-depending upon the caliber and proximity of firing-from causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself. He was worried about María. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori's uniform. But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn't speak Spanish. A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two-not worth the effort.
Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general's radio. McCaskey figured they didn't have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn't answering.
More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard. McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailén-and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once María left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she'd be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn't know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they'd be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they'd witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.
McCaskey decided that he was going to have to try to get to María and cover her as she left. As he was about to ask Ferdinand for his help, the Spaniard said something and offered McCaskey his hand.
"Is he planning to leave us?" McCaskey asked.
"He is," replied Norberto.
"Hold on," McCaskey said. He refused to take Ferdinand's hand. "Tell him that I need his help getting to María. He can't go."
Norberto translated for McCaskey. Ferdinand answered, shaking his head while he did.