Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [21]
"Deputy Serrador thinks that there isn't much we can do without cooperation on this end," McCaskey said.
"Does he," Aideen said bitterly.
"We may be able to surprise him."
"It might also be necessary to surprise him," Aideen said.
"That's true," McCaskey said. He looked at Aideen. "Anything else before I call the boss?"
Aideen shook her head, though that wasn't entirely true. There was a great deal she wanted to say. One thing Aideen's experiences in Mexico had taught her was to recognize when things weren't right. And something wasn't right here. The thing that had pushed her buttons back in the deputy's office wasn't just the emotional aftermath of Martha's death. It was Serrador's rapid retreat from cooperation to what amounted to obstruction. If Martha's death were an assassination-and her gut told her that it was-was Serrador afraid that they'd target him next? If so, why didn't he take on extra security? Why were the halls leading to his office so empty? And why did he assume-as clearly he did-that simply by calling off the talks word would get back to whoever did this? How could he be so certain that the information would get leaked?
McCaskey rose and went to the phone, which was outside the pulse-radius. As Aideen listened to the quiet hum of the Egg, she looked through the twelfth-floor window at the streetlights off in the distance. Her spirit was too depleted, her emotions too raw for her to try to explore the matter right now. But she was certain of one thing. Though these might be the rules by which the Spanish leaders operated, they'd crossed the line into three of her own rules. First, you don't shoot people who are here to help you. Second, if shooting them is designed to help you, then you're going to run into rule number three: Americans-especially this American-shoot back.
* * *
FIVE
Monday, 8:21 p.m.
San Sebastián, Spain
The hull of the small fishing boat was freshly painted. The smell of the paint permeated the cramped, dimly lighted hold. It overpowered the bite of the handrolled cigarette Adolfo Alcazar was smoking as well as the strong, distinctive, damp-rubber odor of the wetsuit that hung on a hook behind the closed door. The paint job was an extravagance the fisherman couldn't really afford but it had been necessary. There might be other missions, and he couldn't afford to be in drydock, replacing rotted boards. When he'd agreed to work with the General, Adolfo knew that the old boat would have to last them for as long as this affair took. And if anything went wrong, that could be a while. One didn't undermine one takeover and orchestrate a counterrevolution in a single night-or with a single strike. Not even with a big strike, which this one would be.
Although the General is going to try, Adolfo thought with deep and heartfelt admiration. And if anyone could pull it off, a one-day coup against a major world government, it was the General.
There was a click. The short, muscular man stopped staring into space. He looked down at the tape recorder on the wooden table beside him. He lay his cigarette in a rusted tin ashtray and sat back down into the folding wooden chair. He pushed PLAY and listened through the earphones, just to make sure the remote had picked up the sounds. The General's technical officer from Pamplona, the man who had given him the equipment, had said the equipment was extremely precise. If properly calibrated, it would record the voices over the slosh of the ocean and the growl of the fishing boat's engine.
He was correct.
After nearly a minute of silence Adolfo Alcazar heard a mechanical-sounding but clear voice utter, "It is accomplished." The voice was followed by what sounded like crackling.
No, Adolfo realized as he listened more closely. The noise wasn't static. It was applause. The men in the yacht were clapping.
Adolfo smiled. For all their wealth, for all their planning, for all their experience at managing their bloodthirsty familias, these men were unsuspecting fools.