They would be passing over the northeastern corner of the palace in approximately fifteen seconds. There were no military helicopters in the immediate area though trucks and jeeps were coming and going along Calle de Bailén just below them.
McCaskey was calm now after his initial urgency. Part of that was because he hadn’t slept in over a day. Sitting still allowed a relaxing torpor to wash over him. Though his mind was sharp and his purpose true, the anxious finger-drumming, foot-tapping and cheek-biting that were a part of his impatient nature were missing. Part of his composure was also due to María. Relationships can be problematic and mistakes will be made and hindsight is frustrating. McCaskey didn’t punish himself for being human. But it was rare and comforting to have an opportunity like this to set a wrong right. To tell someone you’re sorry and to show them you care. Whatever it cost, whatever it took, McCaskey was determined to get María out of the courtyard alive.
While McCaskey sat looking out his window, Luis leaned forward and spoke to Pedro. The pilot nodded, Luis squeezed his shoulder appreciatively, and then sat back.
“Are you ready?” Luis asked McCaskey.
McCaskey nodded once.
The helicopter descended and flew low over the eastern wall of the palace. Then it banked to the south and sped toward the courtyard between the Royal Palace and the Cathedral of the Almudena.
There was a megaphone built into both sides of the chopper. Luis slipped on the headset, adjusted the mouthpiece, then lay the rifle across his lap. He looked outside and tapped McCaskey on the leg.
“There!” Luis said.
McCaskey looked over. He saw María being held against a fifteen-foot-tall pedestal, which was supporting four massive columns. The square, grayish pedestal projected about five feet out from the long, unbroken wall to the left. To the right was a short expanse of wall and then a series of arches that swept away from the wall at a right angle. The low, darkly shadowed arches formed the eastern boundary of the courtyard. Beyond them was the eastern wing of the palace which contained the royal bedchamber, the study, and the music room.
There were two soldiers on either side of María, clasping her arms. An officer was standing in front of her. About one hundred fifty feet to the south, a line of military vehicles separated the courtyard from the church. There were no civilians in the courtyard and roughly sixty or seventy soldiers. Six of them were walking toward María in a line.
“We’ll land with those arches on your side,” Luis said. “They may provide you with cover.”
“Right!”
“I’m going to try and focus on the officer in front of María,” Luis said. “If I can control him, maybe I can control the group.”
“Good idea,” McCaskey said. He held the Parabellum in his right hand, pointing upward. He put his left hand on the door handle. Pedro slowed the chopper’s forward motion and they began to descend. They were less than one hundred feet above the courtyard.
The soldiers were looking up now, including the officer in front of María. He wasn’t moving; no one was. As McCaskey had suspected, they weren’t going to shoot at a chopper bearing directly down on them. When they landed, though, he suspected it would be a much different matter. He looked over at Maria. Because there was an iron streetlamp between them and the pedestal, the chopper wouldn’t be able to get as close as McCaskey would have liked. He’d have to cross about thirty feet of open courtyard to get to Maria. At least it didn’t look like she was tied up though it did appear as though she might be hurt. There was blood on her left side and she was leaning in that direction. She wasn’t looking up at the helicopter.
The Spanish army officer — he was a captain, McCaskey could tell now — was swinging an arm at them to take off again. As they continued to descend, he unholstered his pistol and motioned more wildly for them to leave.
The soldiers of the firing squad were on Luis’s side. They stopped their approach as the chopper set down. The captain was on McCaskey’s side. McCaskey watched him closely as he stalked toward them. He was shouting but his words were swallowed by the din of the rotor. Behind him, the two soldiers were still holding María.
“I’m going to open the door,” McCaskey said to Luis when the captain was about fifteen feet away.
“I’m with you,” Luis said. “Pedro — be ready to lift off again at my command.”
Pedro acknowledged the order. McCaskey put his hand on the latch, pulled, and threw open the door.
McCaskey got exactly what he was expecting. As soon as he placed one foot on the ground the captain lowered his gun without hesitation and fired at the helicopter. The bullet struck the rear of the cabin, just aft of the fuel tank. If it was a warning shot, it was a dangerous one.
McCaskey didn’t have the same reservations as Luis. McCaskey knew that if he shot the captain he would make Luis an accomplice. But they had to defend themselves.
With the cool of a seasoned G-man putting in time at the shooting range, McCaskey swung his Parabellum around, leveled it at the captain’s left leg, and fired two rounds. The leg folded inward, blood spitting from two wounds just above the knee. Ducking low, McCaskey jumped from the cabin and ran forward. Behind him, he heard the distinctive phut, phut of the silenced sniper rifle. He didn’t hear any return fire and imagined that the soldiers of the firing squad, as well as the other soldiers in the rear of the courtyard, were doing just as Luis had predicted. They were scattering for cover.
The soldiers holding María released her and ran toward the nearest arch. She dropped to her knees and then onto her hands.
“Stay down!” McCaskey yelled as she tried to rise.
She looked at him defiantly as she turned a shoulder toward the pedestal. Leaning against it, she got her legs beneath her and stood slowly.
Of course she did, he thought. Not because he told her she shouldn’t but because she was María.
The gun had fallen from the captain’s hand. He was attempting to get it back as McCaskey raced past him. He snatched it up and continued ahead. The officer’s cries of rage and pain were quickly drowned by Luis’s voice coming over the megaphone.
“Evacúen la área,” Luis warned them. “Más helicópteros están de tránsito!”
McCaskey had had four years of Spanish in high school but he got the gist of what Luis was saying. He was telling the soldiers to get out, that more helicopters were on the way. It was an inspired maneuver that could buy them the little extra time they needed. McCaskey didn’t doubt that the soldiers would resist. If they were ready to execute Spanish prisoners, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack Interpol operatives. But at least they wouldn’t charge recklessly back into the courtyard.
Occasional bursts of fire were met by Luis’s rifle fire. McCaskey didn’t look back but he hoped the chopper wasn’t damaged.
As he came closer to María, he saw that her side was thick with blood and that her face was bloody as well. The bastards had beaten her. Reaching her side, he ducked a shoulder under her arm.
“Can you make it back with me?” he asked. He took a moment to look at her. Her left eye was bloody and swollen shut. There were deep cuts on both cheeks and along the hairline. He felt like shooting the bastard captain.
“We can’t go,” she said.
“We can,” he insisted. “A team’s inside hunting for—”
She shook her head. “There’s another prisoner in there.” She pointed toward a doorway some thirty feet away. “Juan. They’ll kill him. I won’t leave without him.”