Linking their arms, a line of police officers was finally able to get between the bus and the crowd. Father Francisco came from the church and used a megaphone to implore the group to be patient. As he did, he motioned for the forty-four priests to come inside. They moved slowly, crowded into a tight, single-file line by the surging mob. They reminded Father Norberto of the hungry masses he had once helped feed in Rwanda and the homeless he’d served in Nicaragua. It was astonishing the power the weak could have en masse.
When all the priests were inside, the doors were shut behind them. After the plane ride and the grinding of the gears and the shouts of the crowd, the heavy silence was welcome.
But it isn’t real, Norberto reminded himself. The fear and pain outside—that was real and it was growing. It needed to be addressed very soon.
General Superior González was already in the apse of the cathedral, praying silently. As the group filed down the nave the only sound was the scraping of shoes and the rustling of robes. Father Francisco was at the head of the line. When they reached the transept, he turned and held both hands toward them. They stopped. Father Fernandez walked forward alone.
Norberto was not a great admirer of General Superior González. Some argued that the fifty-seven-year-old Jesuit leader was good for the order because he courted the favor of the Vatican and the attention of the world. But unless the priests of Spain preached his views and advocated his conservative political candidates and collected onerous donations from the parish, none of the wealth and support he attracted found its way to them. Norberto believed that General Superior González was interested in extending the power and influence more of Orlando González than of the Spanish Jesuits.
González was the General Superior and Norberto would never defy him or criticize him openly. But standing in his presence, in an old and magnificent church, Norberto didn’t feel the soul-warming piety he wanted to feel — that he needed to feel. He was still anguished and cynical and now he was also suspicious. Was González concerned for the people? Was he worried that the revolution would weaken his power? Or did General Superior González hope that a new leader would turn to him to help win the support of the nation’s Jesuits?
After three or four minutes of silent prayer, González turned suddenly and faced the priests. They crossed themselves as he offered a benediction. Then he walked toward them slowly, his long, dark patrician face with its pale eyes turned toward the heavens.
“Forgive us, O Lord,” he said, “for this day was the first day in over one thousand years that the doors of this cathedral have been barred from the inside.” He regarded the priests. “In just a moment I am going to open those doors. I must leave, but Father Francisco will assign each of you to a different section of the cathedral. I ask you to talk to the people in turn, assuring them that this is not their struggle. That God will take care of them to trust in the leaders of Spain to restore peace.” He stopped when he reached Father Francisco’s side. “I thank every one of you for coming,” he continued. “The people of Madrid need spiritual guidance and reassurance. They need to know that in this time of turmoil they have not been abandoned. Once Madrid has been quieted, its faith restored, we can move outward and bring peace to the rest of Spain.”
General Superior González moved past the priests. His black robe swung heavily from side to side as he walked toward the door. His step was confident and unhurried, as though everything was under control.
As Norberto watched the General Superior go, he realized with sudden horror that perhaps it was. That maybe this mission was not about ministering to the frightened or needy — not for their sake, anyway. He looked around him. Could it be that the most serene and devoted, the most trusted of the nation’s priests had been brought here for one purpose only — crowd control? Create a demand for comfort, whip it to a frenzy by keeping the doors locked, and then dispense it generously?
Father Norberto was scared. He also felt dirty. General Superior González was not looking to gain favor with the leaders of this revolution. Norberto suspected that the General Superior was already part of this process to secure a new government for the nation.
A new government for Spain with himself as its spiritual head.
THIRTY-ONE
María was convinced that General Amadori was, in fact, in the throne room of the Royal Palace. However, she did not go there directly after escaping from the soldiers. She needed a uniform and she needed an ally.
The uniform had to come first.
María got it in a stall in the men’s latrine. The latrine was formerly — and formally—el carto de cambiar por los attendientes del rey—the changing room for the attendants of the king. Now soldiers were tramping in and out with disregard for its history or status. María was not a royalist but she was a Spaniard and this place had played a large part in the history of Spain. It deserved more respect.
The large white room had marble cornices and appointments. It was located in the southeastern sector of the palace, not far from the king’s bedchamber. María reached it by moving cautiously from doorway to doorway. Most of the rooms along the way were unoccupied; those that were, she skipped. If an alarm of any kind had been raised about her escape, the search was confined to the area around the music room and the throne room. It was an appropriate use of manpower. They knew she had to try to get to Amadori eventually. The trick was to make sure they didn’t notice her.
The uniform came to her courtesy of a young sergeant. He had entered the changing room with two other men. When he opened the door, María was crouched on the toilet with both pistols pointed toward him.
“Come in and lock the door,” she snarled in a low voice. The hum of the ceiling fan prevented her voice from carrying outside the stall.
There’s a moment when most people who are confronted with a gun will freeze. During that brief time, the individual holding the weapon must give an instruction. If the command is given immediately and emphatically it will usually be obeyed. If it isn’t, if the target panics, then the decision must be made whether to withdraw or fire.
María had already decided that she’d shoot to disable everyone in the room before allowing herself to be caught. Fortunately, the wide-eyed soldier did as he’d been ordered.
As soon as the door had been locked, María motioned the soldier over with one of the guns. She held the other one pointed up, toward his forehead.
“Lock your fingers behind your head,” she said. “Then turn around and back toward me.”
He clasped his fingers tightly behind his cap. María reached behind her without taking her eyes from him. She put one of her guns on the toilet tank, relieved him of his pistol, and tucked it in her belt, behind her. Then she retrieved the gun she’d put on the toilet.
María stepped back on the seat.
“Drop these.” She poked his butt with the gun. “Sit on the edge on your hands.”
The soldier obeyed.
“When your friends leave,” she whispered in his ear, “tell them to go without you. Otherwise, you all die.”
María and the sergeant — his nameplate said García — waited. She swore she could hear his heartbeat. He did as he was instructed when the others called to him, and when they were gone María told him to rise. Still facing front, he was told to take off his uniform.
He did. María then turned him around so he was facing the toilet. She told him to kneel in front of it.
“Please don’t shoot me,” he said. “Please.”