“I won’t,” she said, “if you do as you’re told.”
There were two things she could do. One was to stuff his mouth with toilet paper, break his fingers so he couldn’t take it out, then tie him to the heavy tank lid. But that would take time. Instead, she executed a tight front-kick to the back of his head. That drove his forehead into the ceramic tank and knocked him out. He’d probably suffered a concussion, but there was no way to avoid injuries in this situation. Grabbing the uniform and guns, she changed quickly in the adjoining stall. The uniform was baggy, but it would have to do. Tucking her hair into the snug pillbox cap, she holstered the sergeant’s gun and hid the extra pistols under the front of her shirt.
She stuffed her clothes into the wastebasket — everything except the shoes. She rubbed the soles on her cheeks to give herself “stubble.” When she was finished, she threw the shoes out as well. Then she went to the mirror to give herself a final check. As she did, two other sergeants entered. They were in a hurry.
“You’re late, García!” one of them barked. He walked past Maria, following the other man toward the urinal. “The lieutenant gave each group five minutes to get in and—”
The sergeant stopped and turned. Maria didn’t wait for him to act. She faced him and placed her right knee behind his left knee. Then she hooked her right arm, locked it around his neck, and threw him over her leg. He fell in front of her, lengthwise. Because her weight was on her right leg, she was able to lift her left leg. She stomped hard on his chest, breaking ribs and knocking the wind from him. His companion was facing the urinal. He turned but Maria had already stepped over the sergeant and was moving toward him. Lifting her right leg without breaking her stride, she drove her right knee hard into the small of his back. He was slammed against the urinal and fell back. As the soldier hit the tiled floor Maria kicked him in the temple with her heel. He went out immediately. The other man was still moaning so Maria pivoted gracefully and kicked him squarely in the side of the head. He, too, fell unconscious.
Maria stumbled back. She had marshaled the energy she’d needed for the attack, but the effort had drained her. The blows she’d suffered in the music room ached wickedly and this activity hadn’t helped. But there was still a mission to complete and María intended to finish it. Staggering to the sink, she cupped water in her hands and drank.
Then she remembered something the man on the floor had said. Soldiers were being allowed to come in here at five-minute intervals. She’d just eaten up nearly two of those. There was no time to delay.
Pulling herself erect, María turned and started toward the door. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the hallway. She turned right and then turned left a few doors down. She was back in the corridor leading to the throne room.
There were soldiers stationed here but she moved quickly, as though she were hurrying somewhere. Whenever she worked undercover María had found that two things were necessary for a successful infiltration. First, you had to act like you belonged wherever you were. If you did, no one questioned you. Second, you had to act as though you had somewhere to go — immediately. If you moved fast and with assurance, no one stopped you. She was certain that those qualities, plus the uniform, would get her back to the Hall of the Halberdiers. They might even get her inside. After that, María would need four things in order to get to Amadori.
The guns, wile — and two special allies.
THIRTY-TWO
Mike Rodgers joined Paul Hood in his office to await word on Striker’s deployment. Shortly after Rodgers arrived, Steve Burkow phoned with news from the White House. Hood hoped the call was only to give him the news. The hawkish National Security chief had a way of using calls like these to push the President’s agenda.
According to Burkow, the king of Spain had phoned from his residence in Barcelona and spoken with the President. Officers loyal to the king had confirmed that General Rafael Amadori, head of military intelligence and one of the most powerful officers in Spain, had relocated his command center to the throne room of the Royal Palace.
Hearing that, Hood and Rodgers exchanged glances. Without a word, Rodgers went to a phone by the couch to inform Luis at Interpol that they had positively located their target. Hood allowed himself a little smile. He was pleased that they’d gotten that one right.
“There’s now no doubt about what this General Amadori is planning,” Burkow continued. “The President has informed the king about the presence of the Striker team in Madrid. His Majesty has given us his approval to take whatever action is necessary.”
“Of course he did,” Hood said. The President’s action was expedient and probably necessary, but it made him uneasy.
“Don’t be so quick to judge the king,” Burkow said. “He has also acknowledged that it probably won’t be possible to hold Spain together. He said that too many long-simmering ethnic demons have been let loose. He also told the President that if the U.N. and NATO will assist in an orderly disassembling of the nation, he will abdicate.”
“What good would that do?” Hood asked. “The king’s powers are only ceremonial.”
“That’s true,” Burkow said. “But he’s prepared to use his abdication as a gesture to the people of Spain. He wants to show them that if they want autonomy, he won’t stand in their way. However, he’s adamant about not handing over power to a tyrant.”
Hood had to admit that even though the king probably had a fortune hidden in foreign banks, there was an admirable if grandstanding logic to what he had proposed. “When will the king be making this gesture?” Hood asked.
“When Amadori is no longer a threat,” Burkow replied. “Speaking of which, what’s the status of your team?”
“We’re awaiting word,” Hood said. “Striker should be arriving at the target any mo—”
“They’re there,” Rodgers said suddenly.
“Hold on, Steve,” Hood said. “Mike, what’ve you got?”
“Darrell just heard from Colonel August,” Rodgers said, the phone still pressed to his ear. “Striker has successfully deployed along the east side of the opera house. They have the palace in view and so far no one has bothered them. The soldiers seem to be concentrating on the palace and nothing more. Colonel August is awaiting further instructions.”
“Thank Darrell for me,” Hood said, and repeated the information to Burkow. As he spoke, he brought up the mission profile McCaskey had filed a half hour before. There was a map of that section of Madrid as well as a detailed map of the Royal Palace, along with various assault and infiltration configurations. According to McCaskey, the estimate from the Interpol spotter put the palace strength at four or five hundred troops. Most of them were clustered outside the southern end, where the throne room was located.
“What would the plan and timing be if they had to go in now?” Burkow asked.
Rodgers had come over to the desk. He looked over Hood’s shoulder. Hood put the phone on speaker.
“There’s a sewer on the northwest corner of the Plaza de Oriente,” Hood said. “It connects to a catacomb which used to be part of an old Moorish fortress. It’s used to store rat poison now.”
“Hold it,” Burkow said. “How do they get into the sewer?”
“They use an old French Resistance trick,” Rodgers replied. “Create a diversion and hit the main target. Nothing lethal — just lots of smoke.”
“I see,” Burkow said.
“The catacomb connects to a palace dungeon, which hasn’t been used for that purpose in over two centuries,” Hood said.
“You mean it’s just sitting there?” Burkow said.