“I remember them,” Ann said. “And the truth is, a lot of people still practice them.”
“Not enough,” Hood said. “When I was mayor of L.A. I had a feud with Governor Essex. Lord Essex, we called him. He didn’t like what he called my unorthodox way of doing things. He said he couldn’t trust me.” Hood shook his head. “The truth is, I cared about the quality of life in Los Angeles while he dreamed of being President. Those two goals didn’t mix. So he stopped talking to me. We had to communicate through Lieutenant Governor Whiteshire. The joke is, L.A. didn’t get the money it needed and Essex didn’t get reelected as governor. Freakin’ baby. Politicians don’t communicate, sometimes families don’t communicate, and then we’re surprised when things come apart. I’m sorry, Ann. I congratulate you for talking to Mr. George.”
Ann walked over and leaned across the desk. She reached out her right hand and touched the back of Hood’s hand with her fingertips. They felt gentle and very, very feminine. “Paul, I know how you feel.”
“I know that,” Hood said softly. “If anyone does, you do.”
“But you’ve got to believe that no one could have anticipated this,” Ann said.
“There you’re wrong,” Hood replied. He withdrew his hand from under hers. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”
“Nobody screwed up,” she said. “This was unforeseeable.”
“No,” he replied. “It was just unforeseen. We have combat simulations, terrorist simulations, and even assassination simulations. I can push a button on this computer and it’ll show us ten different ways to capture or kill the warlord-of-the-month. But the process of anticipating simple security problems wasn’t built into our system and Martha is dead as a result.”
Ann shook her head. “Even if we’d had security people watching her, Paul, this couldn’t have been prevented. They couldn’t have moved in in time. You know that as well as I do.”
“At least they might have gotten the killer.”
“Maybe,” Ann said. “And Martha would still be dead.”
Hood wasn’t convinced, though he would know more when his own cleanup analysis was completed. “Is there anything else we have to take care of, press-wise?” he asked as his phone beeped twice. That meant it was an internal call. Hood glanced at the caller code. It was Bob Herbert.
“Not a thing,” Ann said. She rolled her lips together as though she wanted to say more, but she didn’t.
So much for communication, Hood thought cynically as he picked up the phone. “Yes, Bob?”
“Paul,” he said urgently, “we’ve got something.”
“Go ahead.”
“We picked this recording up from a small commercial radio station in Tolosa. I’m sending it over on the Vee-Bee. We haven’t been able to verify the authenticity of the tape you’re about to hear, though we’ll be able to do that in about an hour. We’re getting sound bites of the speaker from a Spanish television station here in order to compare the voices. My gut tells me they’re real but we’ll know for sure in an hour or so.
“The first voice you’re going to hear is the local radio announcer introducing the tape,” Herbert went on. “The second voice is from the tape itself. I’m e-mailing the translation over as well.”
Hood acknowledged as he closed the Serrador file and brought up Herbert’s e-mail. Then he hit the Vee-Bee key on the keyboard. The Vee-Bee, or Voice Box, was the equivalent of audio e-mail. The sounds were digitally scanned and cleaned by one of “Miracle” Matt Stoll’s computer programs. The audio delivered by the Vee-Bee simulator was as close to real life as possible. Thanks to the digital encoding, the listener could even isolate background or foreground sounds and play them separately.
Ann came around the desk and leaned over Hood’s shoulder. Her warmth, her closeness were comforting. He concentrated on reading the translation as the message played.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” said the announcer. “We interrupt the supper club troubador to report about further developments in the explosion of the yacht tonight in La Concha Bay. A few minutes ago, a tape recording was delivered to our studio. It was brought by a man who represented himself as a member of the First People of Spain. This recording is reportedly of a conversation which took place onboard the yacht, identified as the Verídico, moments before it blew up. With the delivery of this tape, the FPS claims responsibility for the attack. They also declare Spain as the province of Spaniards, not of the elite of Catalonia. We will play the recording in its entirety.”
A parenthetical comment from Herbert read: The FPS is a group of Castilian pure-bloods. They’ve been publishing broadsides and recruiting members for two years. They’ve also claimed responsibility for two acts of terrorism against Catalonian and Andalusian targets. Their size and the identity of their leader(s) is unknown.
His jaw tightening, Hood continued reading the transcript as the recording began to play. He listened to the cool, quiet voice of Esteban Ramirez as he spoke about the Catalonian plans for Spain and boasted about the involvement of his group in the murder of Martha Mackall. His group — with the help of Congressional Deputy Isidro Serrador.
“Lord Jesus,” Hood said through his teeth. “Bob — is this possible?”
“Not only is it possible,” Herbert said, “but it explains Serrador’s unwillingness to continue the talks with Darrell and Aideen. That son of a bitch set us up, Paul.”
Hood looked at Ann. He’d seen many of her darker moods during their nearly two years together but he’d never seen anything like the way she looked now. The compassion had faded completely from her face. Her lips were pressed tightly together and he could hear her breathing through her nostrils. Her eyes were hard and her cheeks were flushed.
“What do you want to do, Paul?” Herbert asked Hood. “And before you answer, keep in mind that the Spanish courts are not going to throw the book at a leading political figure because of an illegal tape recording made by someone whose hands are probably as dirty if not dirtier than Serrador’s. They’ll have a long, tough talk with him and investigate the hell out of him. But if he’s got friends — and I’m sure he has — they’re going to say he was framed. They’ll do everything they can to stall the machinery of justice.”
“I know,” Hood said.
“I know you know,” Herbert replied. “But they could let him plea-bargain, just to keep his constituents happy. Or they may let him off. Or they may let him ‘escape’ the country when no one’s looking. What I’m saying is, we may have to take this matter into our own hands. If Serrador turns out to be a terrorist sponsor, we should fight fire with fire.”
“I hear you,” Hood said. He thought for a moment. “I want the bastard, and if I can’t have him legally at least I want him dead-to-rights.”
So much for higher morality, Hood told himself. He thought for a moment more. He didn’t want Serrador to slip away. Unfortunately, he had only two HUMINT resources on the scene, Darrell and Aideen. And he didn’t know if they were up to keeping tabs on him until Striker or some third party group could get in and have a heart-to-heart talk with the bastard. He’d have to talk to Darrell about that. In the meantime, he needed more intelligence.
“Bob,” Hood said, “I want you to set up whatever electronic recon you can on the deputy.”
“It’s already done,” Herbert said. “We’re getting on top of his office and home phones, fax lines, modem, and mail.”
“Good.”
“What do you plan on doing with Darrell and Aideen?” Herbert asked.