Before he could fire, a bullet struck him in the left shoulder. He twisted as he fell, his arms flying outward. His gun went spinning along the floor toward the hallway. The captain picked it up as he stalked toward them. The man who had fired, the other soldier standing guard at the throne room, came forward.
“Stay at your post!” the captain yelled.
The crowd of prisoners began to murmur loudly and the guards unholstered their weapons. Suddenly, the throne room door opened. General Amadori’s personal aide, Major General Antonio Aguirre, stepped out. He was holding a 9mm automatic, which looked only slightly less intimidating than his scowl. The tall, lean, broad shouldered man took a moment to look around the room.
“Is there a problem, Captain Infiesta?” he asked.
“No, sir,” the captain replied. “Not any longer.”
“Who is he?” Aguirre asked, pointing the gun toward the man he’d shot.
He pointed to María. “Her accomplice,” he said.
Aguirre’s dark eyes settled on the woman. “Who is she?”
“I believe she’s a spy,” the captain informed him.
María stood unsteadily. “I am not… a spy, Major General,” she insisted. She was clutching her side just below her ribs and leaning into the wound. It was bloody and it throbbed hotly. “I am Maria Corneja from Interpol. I came here with information for the general. Instead of listening to me, this man had me beaten.” She raised a hand weakly and gestured toward the captain.
“I will listen to you,” said the major general. “Talk.”
“No,” María said. “Not here—”
“Here and now,” Aguirre said curtly.
María shut her eyes for a moment. “I’m dizzy,” she said truthfully. “Can I sit down somewhere?”
“Certainly,” Aguirre said. His scowl remained fixed. “Captain — take her and her accomplice outside. Let her talk and then conclude your business with her.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said.
María turned. “Sir!” she shouted and started limping through the crowd, toward the major general. She was still thinking that if she could get into the throne room there might be something she could do—
She felt herself yanked back by the hair.
“You’ll come outside as you’ve been ordered,” the captain said as he tugged her from the crowd.
Maria was too weak to argue. She stumbled and nearly fell as she was pulled toward the hallway door.
“Bring him as well,” the captain commanded, pointing to Juan.
Two of the guards came forward and grabbed Juan under the armpits. The Ramirez familia member grimaced with pain as they hoisted him to his feet and dragged him forward.
Behind them, the major general returned quietly to the throne room. He shut the door.
The click of the latch was the only sound in the otherwise silent hall. To María it was a noise as loud as the closing of a tomb door. It not only marked the end of her efforts to get inside the throne room, very possibly it marked the end of Spain itself. She was angry at herself for having blown the mission. For having gotten so damn close and screwing up.
The captain turned María around. Still holding her by the hair, he walked her toward the door. She went painfully, each step sending a lance of pain up her left side from heel to jaw.
“What — what are you going to do?” María demanded.
“We’re going to take you outside to see what you know.”
“Why outside?” María asked.
The captain didn’t answer, and that in itself was an answer. They were being taken outside because that was where the plain, unadorned walls were.
The walls which condemned prisoners were put against to be shot.
THIRTY-FOUR
As soon as he heard gunshots inside the palace, Colonel August casually removed his cellular phone from his deep pants pocket. He punched in Luis’s office number but kept his face turned toward the warm sun as it crept over the buildings — soaking it up like any young vacationer. Behind him, except for Private Pupshaw, the other Strikers were pretending to study a tour book. Pupshaw was down the street, tying his shoe on the fender of a car. One of the aglets at the end of his shoelace contained a highly compressed irritant agent, primarily Chloroacetophenone — a mild but smoky form of tear gas. The other aglet contained a tiny heating coil that was activated when removed from the shoelace. It would cause the gas to be released two minutes after being placed inside the other aglet.
“This is Slugger,” August said. “We’ve just heard from three of the players in the stadium.” That meant he’d heard three shots in the palace. “Sound like they’re pretty close to the spot where we want to go.”
“Could be our teammate warming things up,” Luis said. The line was quiet for a moment. Then Luis came back on. “Coach says to go to second base and put on your uniforms. He’ll call the upper deck to see what they know.”
Second base was the dungeon directly below the Hall of Tapestries. The upper deck was the spotters.
“Excellent,” August said. “We’re on our way.” He turned the phone from ring to vibrate and returned it to his pocket. He told the other Strikers to follow him and then he raised his arm for Pupshaw to see. August crossed his second and third fingers.
The young private extended two crossed fingers and waved back. The two crossed fingers meant to put the aglets together.
August led his team quickly toward the sewer on the northwest corner of the Plaza de Oriente. They had videotaped the manhole cover when they’d first arrived and studied the playback as they stood around. Corporal Prementine and Privates David George and Jason Scott had their Walkman headsets in hand, ready to slide into the holes in the cover and lift it up. The headsets were actually made of titanium and would be able to handle the weight of the iron lid.
August put his arm around Sondra DeVonne as though she were his traveling companion. The two laughed as they walked. But when August looked at her he was actually looking past her at the traffic. It was virtually nonexistent due to all the military activity in the area. When Sondra looked at August she was keeping an eye on pedestrians. Like the streets, the sidewalks were relatively deserted.
They reached the corner and waited. Pupshaw had run over and caught up to them. No sooner had he arrived than the middle of the street erupted into a bright billowing cloud of orange smoke.
The wind blew the smoke toward them, which was why they had selected that site. Before it arrived, George, Scott, and Prementine had walked into the middle of the street. They stopped and knelt and pointed toward the smoke with their right hands. As they did, they lowered one end of the headphones into the manhole cover holes. A few seconds before the smoke reached them, they hoisted it up and moved it aside. Sondra whipped a palm-sized flashlight from the pocket of her windbreaker and shined it down. The light was not only for illumination: once the operation was underway, hand signals and on/off signals from flashlights would be their normal form of communication.
As the Interpol street plans had indicated, there was a ladder just inside. She went down quickly, followed by August, Aideen, and Ishi Honda. The other four men went down next, the burly Pupshaw waiting on the ladder to pull the lid back over the hole.
The entire operation took less than fifteen seconds.
The sewer was approximately ten feet tall and it was easy to walk through it. The system was flushed at noon and one A.M., and refuse was slightly more than knee-deep. But the relief of being inside and on the way compensated for the discomfort of the viscous liquid and its stench. They followed Sondra’s flashlight to the west and the catacombs.
As they walked, August put in his EAR plug — Extended Audio Range. This device looked like a hearing aid and allowed secure audio reception within a two hundred mile range. A Q-tip-shaped microphone taped to his chest allowed him to communicate with Interpol headquarters.