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"I know you are," she said softly. "But you're not as sorry as I am. Goodbye, Paul. I do love you."

She hung up and Paul spun toward the computer monitor on the adjoining stand. He didn't want to think about what had just happened. About how his family was slipping away and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. What rankled him most was Sharon seemed to believe that having him none of the time was better than having him some of the time. That made no sense.

Unless she's trying to pressure me, he thought.

He resented that. But then, what other weapon did Sharon have? And she was right: he had screwed up, and more than once. He'd abandoned them on day one of their vacation in California. He'd forgotten birthdays and anniversaries and school concerts. He'd neglected to ask about report cards and doctor's appointments and God knows what else.

Hood picked up the interoffice line as the black-and-white satellite photo was downloaded. This was not the time to beat himself up. Tens of thousands of lives were at risk. He still had responsibilities, however distasteful Sharon had managed to make the word sound.

"Mike, I'm here," Hood said. "What am I looking at?"

"The Royal Palace in Madrid," he said. "The effective view is from twenty-five feet up looking down from about two o'clock. That's the main courtyard of the palace."

"I don't suppose those are tourist vans," Hood said.

"No," Rodgers said. "Here's how we got there. After the attack on the Ramirez factory, Steve Viens had an NRO satellite follow the prisoners. They went from the parking lot to the airport in Bilbao to the airport in Madrid. Then they were bused from there to the palace. We think that woman near the front of the line is María Corneja."

Hood enlarged the figure in the center. The computer automatically cleaned up the image for him. He hadn't known María well and he wasn't sure he'd recognize her if she hadn't been pointed out. But it certainly could be her, and it was the only woman in view.

The screen cleared. Other photographs began to appear.

"These are higher level views," Rodgers said. "Fifty feet, one hundred feet, two hundred feet. From the number of soldiers there and the top-level brass who are coming and going we think that that's where Amadori may be. But there's a problem."

"I see it," Hood said as the higher views appeared. "A square building with a courtyard in the center and nothing higher around it. Infiltration during the day is going to be a problem."

"Bingo," Rodgers said. "And waiting twelve hours until dark may not be acceptable."

"What about Spanish uniforms?" Hood asked. "Can't Striker wear those to get inside?"

"In theory, maybe," Rodgers said. "The problem is it doesn't look like any of the soldiers who bring prisoners to the palace or patrol the grounds are actually going inside. That's another reason we think General Amadori's there. He's probably got an elite guard inside, patroling the halls and taking care of security. They're the only ones who'll have access."

"Are there any underground passageways?"

"We're looking into that now," Rodgers said. "Even if there are, coming up inside those big sunlit corridors is going to be risky."

Hood's eyes burned and his mind was whirling. Part of him wished he could just bomb the palace, fly up to Connecticut, and collect his family. Maybe stay there and open a fish-and-chips stand on the seashore.

"So we wait?" Hood asked.

"No one here or in Madrid's in favor of that," Rodgers said. "But Aideen just arrived at the Interpol office. She and Darrell are talking the situation over with Brett and members of the Interpol team, adapting their playbook for the palace. There's a team of Interpol spotters on the roof of the Teatro Real, the opera house, on the other side of the avenue. They're scanning the entire palace with an LDE trying to pick out Amadori's voice."

The LDE-The Long Distance Ear-was a funnellike dish that collected all the sounds from a narrow