“But in a crisis,” he said, “where Spain itself is at risk, I trust no one more.”
The room was empty except for the seven Strikers, Aideen, and McCaskey. The Interpol officer walked over to Darrell McCaskey, who was helping Aideen put together her grip. The Strikers had already packed their gear and were marking and examining tourist maps of the city.
“Anything new?” McCaskey tiredly asked Luis.
“Yes,” Luis said as he pulled McCaskey aside. “A fire bell went off at the palace approximately ten minutes ago.”
“Location?”
“A music room in the southern wing of the palace,” Luis said. “The palace called the fire department to say it was a false alarm. But it wasn’t. One of our spotters used heat-goggles and found the hot spot. The fire was extinguished, according to the spotter.”
“Whoever’s running things in the palace took quite a risk,” McCaskey said, “considering all the treasures in there. I don’t assume that’s standard operating procedure.”
“Not at all,” said Luis. “The bastards didn’t want anyone coming in. A half hour before, they also turned away a Civil Guard patrol when it attempted to make its daily inspection of the grounds.”
“If Amadori is there, they won’t turn away Striker,” McCaskey vowed. “Hell, they won’t know what hit them. What does the prime minister’s office have to say about the situation?”
“They’re still not acknowledging, officially, that Amadori has effectively seized power,” Luis replied.
“What about unofficially?”
“Most of the top government officials have already sent their families to France, Morocco, and Tunisia.” Luis frowned. A moment later the frown became a smirk. “You know, Darrell — I’ll bet my family and I could get a table at the best restaurant in town tonight.”
“I’ll bet you could,” McCaskey said, smiling weakly. He walked back to the table where Aideen was checking the equipment Interpol had provided for her. These included a camcorder — which was linked to a receiver in the communications office — a first-aid kit, a cellular phone, and a gun.
Aideen made sure the camcorder battery was fully charged. As she did, McCaskey checked the clip of the 9X19 Parabellum Super Star pistol she’d been issued. Aideen had already inspected it. But she realized that McCaskey was probably anxious and needed to keep busy. After examining the weapon he returned it to her backpack.
As the Strikers pulled on their backpacks, McCaskey studied Aideen to make sure that she looked like a member of a tour group. She wore Nikes, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. In addition to the backpack, she carried a guidebook and bottled water. She felt like a tourist — right down to the jet lag. As McCaskey looked at her, Aideen gazed longingly at the empty table behind him. She’d been able to sleep on the return flight from San Sebastian. But all the nap had done was take the edge off her exhaustion, and she knew it was just a matter of time before she crashed. She glanced behind her at the vending machines and contemplated a Diet Pepsi. She weighed the value of the caffeine against the risk that she’d have to find a bathroom before the mission was completed. That was something she’d learned to take into consideration during long, daytime stakeouts in Mexico City. Two hours could seem very, very long when you couldn’t leave your post.
She decided to forgo the beverage.
McCaskey, on the other hand, looked as though he were ready to crash now. When she’d first briefed him about Martha’s assassination, she remembered thinking how calm he sounded. She realized, now, that it wasn’t calmness: it was focus. She doubted whether he’d shut his eyes since Martha Mackall’s death. She wondered whether this reflected his determination to avenge her death, determination to punish himself, or both.
When McCaskey was finished with Aideen he turned to Colonel August. The officer was chewing gum and wearing a stubble. Sunglasses with Day-Glo green frames and reflective lenses were propped on his forehead. He was dressed in khaki-colored Massimo shorts and a wrinkled, long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just one turn. He looked like a very different man than the quiet, conservative soldier Aideen had met a few times back in Washington. August had a radio disguised as a Walkman to communicate with McCaskey. The volume dial was actually a condensor microphone. The colonel also carried bottled water. If it were poured onto the cassette in the Walkman, the tape — which was coated with diphenylcyanoarsine — would erupt into a cloud of tear gas. The dispenser would remain operational for nearly five minutes.
“All right,” McCaskey said. “You’re going to wait at the east side of the opera house. And if you get chased away?”
“We go to Calle de Arenal to the north,” August replied. “We follow it east around the palace and enter the Campo del Moro. If that’s blocked off, the fallback position is the Museo de Carruajes.”
“If you get shooed from there?”
“We go back to the opera house,” August said. “North side.”
McCaskey nodded. “As soon as I hear from the spotters, I’ll let you know where Amadori is. You’ll consult your map and let me know which page of the playbook you’re on.”
McCaskey was referring to the Striker SITs and SATs “playbook”—Standard Infiltration Tactics and Standard Assault Tactics. Colonel August and Corporal Prementine had adapted these plays for the palace. There were a total of ten options in each category. Which option they selected would depend upon the time they had available as well as the amount and type of resistance they expected. However, one thing was constant in each scenario: not everyone went inside. After the death of Striker leader Lt. Col. Squires, August retooled every play to make certain there was a crew to assist with the exit strategy.
“As you know,” McCaskey went on, “Aideen is going along solely to identify María and assist with her rescue. She won’t be a combatant unless it becomes necessary. We’ve got a chopper on the roof and will be ready to move in with extra police if things get out of hand. Luis tells me that once you’re inside, the only serious security problem you may face is the RSS.”
“Damn,” August said softly. “How does he know Amadori’s got one of those?”
“The king had the system installed in all of the palaces,” McCaskey said. “Bought it from the same American contractor who installed them up and down the Beltway. That’s probably one of the reasons Amadori chose the palace for his headquarters.”
The RSS — Remote Surveillance System — was a goggle-like visor that tapped into the video security system of a building. There was a keypad built into the side of the goggles and a black-and-white liquid-crystal display in the eyepieces. Together, they allowed the wearer to see what any of the security cameras were seeing. Small videocameras mounted to some of the newer units also enabled guards to share audio-visual information.
“Brief your team,” McCaskey warned. “If Amadori gets out of the throne room, pursuit’s going to be very, very risky.”
August acknowledged.
The other six Strikers were lined up behind Colonel August. McCaskey looked at them as he spoke. His eyes settled on Private DeVonne, who was at the end of the line. The African-American woman was wearing tight jeans and a blue windbreaker. It suddenly struck Aideen — as it must have struck McCaskey — how much she looked like a young Martha Mackall.
McCaskey looked down. “You men and women know the mission and you know the risks. Colonel August tells me you also know the legal and moral issues involved. The President has ordered us to remove a frightening despot from power. We are to use any means at our disposal. We do not have his public support. Nor do we have the support of the lawful Spanish government, which is in chaos. If anyone is captured, he or she will not be acknowledged or assisted by either country, except through the traditional diplomatic channels. However, we do have this much: the opportunity as well as the duty to save thousands of lives. I view that as a privilege. I hope you do as well.”