Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (14 page)

'Don't mention this Denton
thing to Cromwell.'
Mark dropped the phone in its cradle and turned,
surprised to find a slight young man watching him, his back to the door Mark
was sure he had bolted. He spoke in crisp English with a British intonation,
but clearly he was Spanish.

'So, Mr. Neal, the LPP has made
its demands,' he said, his dark eyes fixed with eerie precision.

'Who are you and how did you
get in my room?'

'You may call me any name you
like,' he said, folding his arms in front of him and leaning back into the
door.
'Pedro, Juan, Salvador.
Yes, Salvador should fit
nicely.'

Mark waited.

'After all, any name would be
as irrelevant as yours, Mr. Taylor. Oh, that’s right. It’s Thomas this week,
isn’t it? You really should get more original and move to another part of the
alphabet.'

Whoever he was, he knew too
much.

'You’re obviously not here to
kill me. What are you after – information?'

'Not at all,' he said, licking
his lips. 'I know exactly as much as you do. Perhaps more.'

'A bit awkward,' Mark said,
flipping his briefcase shut and dragging his thumb across the line of gold
numbers. 'Seeing as how we haven’t been formally introduced.'

'Introductions, yes,' the man
said, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward. He extended a lanky arm from
beneath the drape of his loosely cut Armani suit. 'Salvador
Rebelles
,
at your service.'

Mark stayed where he was, not
accepting the gesture
.

'And you’re with?'

'The Government,'
Rebelles
said, with an uncongenial smile.

'Nationals?'


'You didn’t really believe you,
a CIA agent and a past drug informant, could slip into Iberia unnoticed?'

'Unnoticed, no. But –'
Cromwell had assured him this would never reach street level.

'Don’t worry, Mr. Neal. Your
secret’s safe with me.'

'You and who else?' The DOS
placement in Madrid was to grease the way for their arrival. There was to be
limited access and no official cooperation.

'Only those
who need to know.
We are a small, select group, not much different from
your own.'

'Defense?'

'We’re all in the defense
business, are we not? Defense of democracy.'

The man stepped toward him.
Mark looked closely but did not see any evidence of a weapon. Although he was
certain one was there somewhere beneath those perfectly tailored
pin-stripes
.

'What is it you want?'

'What we all want, Mr. Neal.
Assurance that a threat to democracy will not go unchallenged.'


'My mission is not to secure
the monarchy, Mr.
Rebelles
. That charge, it seems, is
yours.'


'You cannot deny American
interest in this agenda or in the objective of eliminating the LPP.'

'I am not here to obliterate
the LPP.'


'No? And next you’re going to
tell me your interest in this venture is purely professional.'


'What else?' Mark said, feeling
the heat at the back of his neck.

'The phrase blood runs thicker
than water translates into all languages, Mr. Neal.'

'State what you have to say in
plain English.'

'How strictly professional
would this operation be if you were to learn of evidence linking one Fidel
Carnova
to a certain bombing over London twenty-three years
ago?'

Mark could feel the veins in
his temples starting to swell. 'You have such proof?'

'The LPP has not only been a
proverbial thorn in the side of the monarchy, Mr. Neal. It is an organization
that has wreaked havoc in the lives of thousands worldwide.'

'It’s more your business to
stop it than mine.'

'Perhaps. But you must
understand an outright attack on the northern territories without overt provocation
would be seen as
a blight
against the Crown by the
Spanish people. To use an American term, the action would not be viewed as
politically correct.'

'It seems to me your government
has had more than enough provocation.'

'Isolated
incidents of terrorism.
Unfortunate occurrences, but not the
precipitation of war.'

'You’re asking the United
States to wage war?'

'Not
precisely.
We understand the covert nature of your operation.'

Mark had a feeling
Rebelles
could be of use to him, but wasn’t willing to pay
his price.

'I have one agenda and one
agenda only,' Mark said, trying to deny the fact that his agenda was changing.
'And that is to ensure the safe return of one critical American
hostage.'


'Ah, yes,'
Rebelles
said, bowing slightly and backing out of the room. 'In that case, we’ll make
every effort not to stand in your way.'

Mark was hurrying out his door
when he ran smack into Denton, McFadden barking at his heels.

'And where exactly were you?'
Mark asked.

'Don't give me your superior
bullshit, Neal. I've got something.'

'It better be good,' McFadden
said from behind him.

'We'll find out tonight at the
Plaza Mayor,' Denton said, sounding a little too smug for Mark's comfort.

'You found someone who knows
something?' Mark asked
,
hating to think Cromwell had
been right to send Denton along after all.

'I've got some people asking
around.'

'People?'

'People who
roam.
People who know the roads less traveled and the unscrupulous
travelers who take them.'

The gypsies were all over
southern Europe, but a particularly large number of these migrant groups had
taken a liking to Spain. Their presence was especially notable, Scott
remembered, in the south. Although Madrid was popular too, mostly because of
the tourists who couldn’t resist a fresh bouquet of roses or the pitiful
outstretched hand of a small brown
child.

Because
los
gitanos
were highly mobile groups, they were hard to
pin down and even harder to convict for transgressions real or imagined. They
were slippery eels
who
lived by the edge of the waters
and slid their way discreetly in and out of society.
La
gitana
was the perfect companion to the Spanish underground, and being the eager
entrepreneur she was, she often worked both sides of the fence.

The side Scott was familiar
with ran against the law. In some ways, he was surprised to find so many of
those old channels still in place. In others, he wasn’t. This was Spain, and
change came slowly to a country with such a rich, dark history. Besides, the
Spaniards were famous for living by their own version of the 'if it ain’t
broke, don’t fix it' maxim. Have another
copa
and
enjoy the view:
'
salud
,
amor
,
dinero
, y el
tiempo
para
gozarlos
'.
'Health,
love, and money, and the time to enjoy them,' went the popular toast. Spain was
not about progression, Scott realized; it was about savoring the moment. And
with so many people savoring, nobody ever went anywhere.

Except the
gypsies.
And they saw everything – what was usual and what was not
so usual. They never got involved, but for a price they would tell on others who
had.

Mark spent the afternoon linked
up with Jarvis in Washington, updating his files on the LPP. He’d hoped to pick
up a clue as to where the kidnappers had taken Ana, but so far he was coming up
dry.

The fact the cable had come
from northern Spain was not in itself significant. The LPP had its headquarters
there. Ana could be anywhere on this vast peninsula, Mark thought, studying the
map he’d brought along.

His discussion with the man in
the park had proved futile. Mark knew he’d been sent as a messenger. What kind,
he hadn’t been willing to wait and find out. Not with a pistol drawn at his
back.

Mark knew firsthand the three
of them were in danger.
Carnova’s
men were on to them
and weren’t too pleased with interference from American Intelligence. The
Spaniards, on the other hand, were thrilled. They were happy to step back and
let Mark’s group contend with their threat to the north. But without the
full-throttle support of American Defense that Mark’s operation was unlikely to
get,
Rebelles
’ plan was an impossible scheme.

And what of
Rebelles
’
allusion to
Carnova’s
participation in the Heathrow
bombing? Was a link really possible? This was the first Mark had heard of the
LPP’s potential involvement. Up until now, the 'unofficial' blame assigned by
US Government had fallen squarely on the IRA. But because there was no hard
proof – only speculation – nothing had ever been done about it.
This was either one of Spanish Intelligence’s best-kept little secrets or one
of its biggest lies. It was plausible, but then what would the LPP
have
stood to gain?
Terror for terror’s
sake, a strike against America?
Or perhaps even a specific enemy on the
plane?

Mark picked up the phone and
had the operator ring Washington. Jarvis was still at his desk.

'Pete, I want you to look into
something for me.'


'Yes sir.
More on
Carnova
?'


That remained to be seen. 'I
want you to do an archive search. Airplane downing. London, 1977.'


'Heathrow? Sir, those files
have been closed.'


Jarvis certainly wasn’t old
enough to remember the bombing but Mark assumed he’d been briefed on it
somewhere. 'Well, then find a way to reopen them. I need the passenger list.'

'Anything else, sir?'

Mark looked down at his watch.
He was due to meet the others in fifteen minutes. 'Tell you what, Jarvis. Do
this old man a favor and do some homework for me.'

'Homework?'

'I’m going to test your
analytical skills. You get your hands on that list and go through it with a
fine-toothed comb.'

'Anything in particular I’m
looking for?'

'Somebody, anybody who could be
seen as an enemy of our friend
Carnova
.'

The sun set late in Spain, so
by the time Denton led McFadden and Mark to the Plaza Mayor, it was just
twilight. After they made their way in through the massive stone porticos, the
threesome discovered a splash of outdoor cafes neatly assembled on the plaza’s
interior courtyard. Mark suggested a strategic corner restaurant offering local
fare and red-checkered tablecloths. Once settled, Denton ordered them a
selection of tapas and McFadden conjured up a pitcher of Sangria.

Mark knew the Plaza from the
brief smattering of history he’d assembled during his drug-tracking days for
the DEA. It was an ominous place, an old king’s court that had witnessed both
the grand and ignoble elements of the Spanish tradition. Mark could almost
envision the eyes of the spectators on the shuttered filigree balconies above
as they took in the glitter and atrocities of the Spanish Golden Age. Fine
ladies veiled in lace peering through shimmering lashes at torch-lighted royal
fetes. Those same charcoal-rimmed eyes opened wide above sweeping fans, gaping
at the sight of skewered bulls or roasting heretics choking out their final
blackened breath.

A sense of dark foreboding
seized Mark around his middle. He tried to shake it off with a swig of his cool
wine punch and turned to Denton. 'We can’t stay here forever.'

McFadden was getting antsy too.
He had that restless tick in his shoulder Mark had first noticed in Costa
Negra
.

McFadden rummaged in his pocket
for some change
.

'I say we hit the
cuevas
.'


Mark was game for anything,
anything but sitting still.

Typically, Denton had to
protest. 'I’m sure if we just sit tight –'


McFadden turned to him. 'How do
you even know your contacts are legit?'

'I know.'

Mark didn’t want them getting
into it. 'Listen, Denton, if your people are good as you say, they’ve got
somebody watching, right?'

Denton shrugged. 'So?'

'So, when they’ve got what we
need, they’ll find us. It’s in their financial interest.'

Denton led them beyond the granite
archways to the darkened alleys adjoining the Plaza’s
back
side
. There, hewn into the rock of the Plaza’s underbelly, lay the
honeycomb of caverns used for centuries as Spanish pubs. They climbed a short
flight of steps to an open door. Candlelight flickered from the depth of the
cave. They made their way through the maze-like rooms, stooping to avoid the
low beams of the ceiling. Spaniards gathered around small tables, sitting on
crude wooden stools.

Mark noted there was not a
woman in the place over thirty.
Only young girls in groups,
students probably, from the university.
The waiters, all male, were
fortyish and quick on their feet, nimbly carrying nests of tiny glasses through
the air above the heads of the crowd. Then there were the old men, sagging
faces dressed in black downing their worries with their wine.

They found a vacant table and
settle d in. McFadden looked at Denton and cocked his head.

'Maybe you should go make
friendly with those kids over there.'

'Give me some time.'

McFadden rolled his eyes. His
shoulder was twitching again.

Mark smiled at the waiter as he
set down their drinks, then waited until he disappeared
.

'Look,
Denton, I know you think you know the game here. Nobody’s disputing that. It’s
just that we’re under a bit of pressure and McFadden and I are in a business
where we’re used to getting things done –'