Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [45]
The door was shut and locked. Serrador sat in one of the four wooden chairs.
He phoned his attorney, Antonio, but he was not in. Probably out with one of his young women, as a wealthy bachelor should be. He didn't leave a message. He didn't want Antonio coming home and some talkative nymph overhearing the message. There hadn't been any press waiting outside so at least this was being done quietly.
Unless they were at the front of my apartment? he thought suddenly. Maybe that was why the police had taken him out through the garage door. Maybe that was what the concierge had meant: These men I had to let up. The press often tried to get to people who lived in the building, and the staff was good about insulating celebrity tenants from reporters. And his telephone number was changed regularly so they wouldn't be able to bother him.
But the caller had had it. He still wondered who that was and what he had tried to warn him about. No one could have known that he was involved with the people who had killed the American. Only Esteban Ramirez knew that and he wouldn't have told anyone.
It occurred to him then to telephone the answering machine in his office. It also occurred to him that this telephone might be bugged, but that was a chance he was willing to take. He didn't have much of a choice.
But before he could place the call, the door opened and two men walked in.
They were not police.
* * *
TEN
Tuesday, 12:04 a.m.
Madrid, Spain
The International Crime Police Organization-popularly referred to as Interpol-was established in Vienna in 1923. It was designed to serve as a worldwide clearinghouse for police information. After the Second World War, the organization was expanded and rechartered to focus on smuggling, narcotics, counterfeiting, and kidnapping. Today, one hundred seventy-seven nations provide information to the organization, which has offices in most of the major cities of the world. In the United States, Interpol liaises with the United States National Central Bureau. The USNCB reports to the Undersecretary for Enforcement of the U.S. Treasury Department.
During his years with the FBI, Darrell McCaskey had worked extensively with dozens of Interpol officers. He had worked especially closely with two of them in Spain. One was the remarkable María Corneja, a lone wolf special operations officer who had lived with McCaskey in America for seven months while studying FBI methods. The other was Luis García de la Vega, the commander of Interpol's office in Madrid.
Luis was a dark-skinned, black-haired, bear-large, two-fisted Andalusian Gypsy who taught flamenco dancing in his spare time. Like the dance style, the thirty-seven-year-old Luis was spontaneous, dramatic, and spirited. He ran one of the toughest and best-informed Interpol bureaus in Europe. Their efficiency and effectiveness had earned him both the jealous loathing and deep respect of local police forces.
Luis had intended to come to the hotel right after the shooting, but the events in San Sebastían had caused him to delay his visit. He arrived shortly after eleven-thirty p.m., as McCaskey and Aideen were finishing dinner.
Darrell greeted his old friend with a long embrace.
"I'm sorry about what has happened," Luis said in husky, accent-tinged English.
"Thank you," McCaskey said.
"I'm also sorry to be so late," Luis said, finally breaking the hug. "I see that you have adapted the Spanish way of dining. Eat very late at night and then sleep well."
"Actually," said McCaskey, "this is the first chance we've had to order room service. And I'm not sure either of us will be able to sleep tonight, however much we eat."
"I understand," Luis remarked. He squeezed his friend's shoulders. "A terrible day. Again, I'm very sorry."
"Would you care for something, Luis?" McCaskey asked.