Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [87]
"What would Ms. Corneja do if she had the support of a team like Striker?" the President asked.
"I'm not sure," Hood answered honestly. "I'm not sure it would even make a difference. She's tough and pretty independent."
"Find out, Paul," the President said. "But do it quietly. I want this to stay at Op-Center from now until it's finished."
"I understand," Hood said. His voice was a low monotone. His spirits were even lower. No one else had even offered to jump in with him.
He wasn't a boy. He knew that there might come a time when it would be necessary to stage a black-ops action like this-the use of Striker or one of his people to target and take out an enemy. Now that it was here he didn't like it. Not the job and not the fact that Op-Center was on its own. If they succeeded, a man was dead. If they failed, this would be on their consciences for the rest of their lives. There was no clean way out of it.
Carol Lanning must have understood that. She and Hood remained seated at the table, side by side, as the President and the others left. The men all said goodnight to Hood but nothing more. What could they say? Good luck? Break a leg? Shoot him once for me?
When the room was empty, Carol put her hand on Hood's.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's no fun being disavowed."
"Or set up," Hood said.
"Hmmm," she replied. "You don't think anyone else knew what the President was planning?"
Hood shook his head. "And when they leave here, they'll forget he ever suggested it. Like he said, this is Op-Center's play." He shook his head again. "The damn thing is it's not even retribution. The men who killed Martha are dead."
"I know," Carol said. "Nobody ever said this business was fair."
"No, they didn't." Hood wanted to get up. But he was too damn tired and way too disgusted to even think about moving.
"If I can do anything for you, unofficially, let me know," she said. She squeezed his hand again and rose. "Paul-it's a job. You can't afford to look at it any other way."
"Thanks," Hood said. "But if I do that I can't see how I'll be any different than Amadori."
She smiled. "Oh, you will be, Paul. You'll never try to convince yourself that what you're doing is right. Only necessary."
Hood didn't really see the distinction, but this wasn't the time to try to find it. Because, like it or not, he did have a job to do. And he was going to have to help Striker and Aideen Marley and Darrell McCaskey do their jobs as well.
He rose slowly and left with Carol. It was ironic. He once thought that running Los Angeles was difficult: angering special interests with everything you did and living in the public eye. Now he was working undercover and feeling as alone-personally and professionally-as a person could be.
He didn't remember who had said that in order to lead men you had to turn your back on them. But they were right, which was why Michael Lawrence was President and he wasn't. That was why someone like Michael Lawrence had to be President.
Hood would do this job because he had to. After that, he vowed, he would do no more. Here in the White House-which had awed him less than an hour before-he vowed that however this ended he would leave Op-Center and get his family back.
* * *
TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 6:50 a.m.
San Sebastián, Spain
Sleepy San Sebastián had been roughly awakened by the sounds of gunfire at the factory.
Father Norberto had remained at his brother's apartment long after the police had come for his body. He had stayed there, kneeling on the hardwood floor, to pray for Adolfo's soul. But when Father Norberto heard the gunfire, followed by the cries of people in the street and shouts of "la fábrica!"-"the factory!"-he headed directly back to the church.
As Norberto neared St. Ignatius he looked across the long, low field. He could see the helicopters hovering over the factory in the distance. But there was no time to wonder about them. The church was already filling with mothers and young children as well