Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (7 page)

'–
or
,
by forcing him to suggest an alternate route,' Mark said, reinforcing what
Mooney had told him earlier.

'Trouble is, only other way to
Tarrona
is a dangerous drive along the western mountains.'

'Dangerous, because that region
is insurgent territory.'

'Precisely. Hell, Joe should
have known that. You don't know my nephew, Mr. Neal. Kid fancies himself some
sort of vigilante in these parts. Thinks he can take all those guerilla
fighters on single -handedly.'

Mark thought back to his
earlier appraisal of McFadden's character and had to agree with the
Ambassador's assessment.

He studied Mooney's expression
a moment longer before pressing on. 'So, once you suspected something was
amiss, you tried to reach Joe at home.'

'That's right. But try as I
might, I couldn't reach the kid. Not at home, not at the Mission. Later I come
to find out he’d spent the night boozing it up with Miss Kane back at her
hotel.'

Mark began to pace back and
forth across the checkerboard of the linoleum floor. 'You suspect there was
something romantic going on between them?'

'An affair?
I don't know. There was talk. Nobody knew for sure. Everyone says Miss Kane is
quite a looker, and – if you haven't heard –' he added with an
unnecessary hint of pride, 'my nephew's a bit of a ladies' man.'

Mark thought of Ana's
penetrating black stare and imagined the spell she could cast. He paused
momentarily,
then
summed up the action.
'So there was speculation of an affair between Joe and Ana, but no
proof.
The records from the Embassy jeep pool show Joe signed out a
vehicle and a driver at six forty-five on the morning of his and Ana's
disappearance.

'That afternoon around five,
the hospital administrator from
Tarrona
, frustrated
Ana had failed to show for their appointment, telephoned Ana's project office
downtown. The office's senior consultant tried the hotel, the contracts office,
then finally got in touch with you here.'

'That's right, but by the time
I got the call it was almost seven. Sun was going down. Local authorities
wouldn’t do a damn thing without official signs of distress.'

'But you did call Washington.'
Mark returned to the sticky warmth of his chair.

'Called our backstop office at
State. But, dammit all, no one was willing to take this thing seriously. Joe
has a name in Washington. His disappearance with the young Miss Kane raised
more eyebrows than questions. 'Give it forty-eight hours, ' they said, 'and
buzz us back if the kids don't resurface.'

Mooney's perspiration seemed to
pick up new vigor. The pleats of his sheer, pink shirt were soaked. He wiped
his sweaty palms on his pants legs then shuffled some papers on his desk.

'Here's a copy of the
communiqué Joe received. Don't know what good it will do you, but thought you
might want to have it.'

Mark folded the rumpled sheet
of paper and tucked it in his breast pocket.

Mooney placed both hands on his
desk. 'Cromwell says you're the best. Do you think you can find them?'

'If you’ll excuse my language,
sir,' Mark said, slowly rising to his feet. 'I’m going to damn well try.'

Mooney gave him a steady look.
'I imagine you will.'

'Ambassador, I thank you for
your time. If you think of anything else, anything at all, I'd appreciate a
call at my hotel.'

Mark was halfway out the door
when Mooney stopped him with a question.

'How's old George holding up?'

Mark turned slowly on his
heels. The phrasing of this inquiry seemed odd, unprofessional.

'Mr. Cromwell's fine,' he said,
deliberating.

Mooney rose and shifted slightly
on his feet. 'Good. When you talk to him, you tell him we've got everything
under control down here.'

Mark suddenly remembered it was
Mooney who had contacted Cromwell about the abductions.
'Yes,
sir.
Will do. You two go back a long way?'

Mooney hesitated a few seconds.
'Served together in the Caribbean.'


'That's right,' Mark pretended.
'The War.'

The Ambassador took Mark’s
hand.
'Thank you coming, Mr. Neal.
Give me a call as
soon as you know anything.'


Mark accepted
Moony’s
gesture. 'Will do, sir. I’ll tell Mr. Cromwell you
send your regards.'

Mark folded his damp trousers
neatly in thirds,
then
tossed the remainder of his
sweat-drenched clothes in a heap on the bed. He stepped into his swim trunks,
summing up his meeting with Mooney. Ana’s abduction had gone according to plan.
But whose plan?
That was the question he pondered as
he walked down the hall to the outdoor veranda.

Mark dove into the water, the
crystal cavern of the pool sucking the heat from his skin. He considered Ana's
mouth, a toasty cinnamon, and felt a rush of excitement fill his loins as he
surged forcefully through the water. Ana Kane was a looker, so Mooney said. Yes
and no, thought Mark, carrying
himself
onward with
slow, steady arms. Ana wasn't pretty in a conventional way, but she had
something. Something powerful. It was there in her eyes.

Mark started to slacken his
pace, but turned at the wall instead, pushing himself off from the side of the
pool with new vigor. He liked the water, for though it was bigger than
he,
it always yielded to his control. He could command his
body,
predict the roll of the timid waves. The ocean was
more of a challenge to swim in, but still he could navigate its tumultuous
hurdles with uncanny ease. The sea creatures never bothered him. It was the
two-legged land ones he seemed to have trouble with. The demented ones with the
psychopathic mind set. Those perverted bastards with nothing better to do than
detonate barracks loaded with two hundred and forty-three sleeping men.

Beirut had been a close call.
Too close.
He could just as well have been in those
barracks. It was not the threat of death that frightened him, but the idea of
dying without knowing. He’d been tipped off, led to believe there were some
answers.

Somebody
somewhere who knew something.
The missing link to
Heathrow that had clanked through his clumsy fingers.

Mark reached the far side of
the pool, spun gamely then headed back again. His breathing was in steady
rhythm – stroke, stroke,
turn
. Stroke, stroke,
turn
.

After the blast, nothing made
sense any more. The ones that were taken were the ones that mattered, soldiers
with families who gave a damn. He’d had the dubious honor of informing the
spouses.
Spouses lucky enough to get stationed nearby.
'I’m sorry to tell you there’s been an explosion...'

And he, having no one, had
lived.

Mark kicked off from the pool
wall another time, finally losing count of his laps. He’d resigned his
commission the following Tuesday. He was tired. Tired of the rigmarole, tired
of living beneath the capricious sway of his commander’s whim. It hit him that
he was powerless. Rightly or wrongly, it had been his designation, his duty, to
respond to other people’s policy.
Sometimes imperfect
policy. Imperfect policy set by imperfect men. Not that Mark was such a
pinnacle of perfection himself. But at least he’d been in the trenches. He
understood firsthand the sacrifices required when someone at the Pentagon
ruthlessly waved a pen. And it wasn’t only the Pentagon, it was those other
places as well: the State Department, the NSC, the entire JCS and the
ubiquitous hands that fed them – DIA, DEA, CIA, to name a few. All those
little initials in charge of so many little things impacted enormously on
foreign policy. And the
cream of the crop among them were
the analysts, intelligence gatherers who could read and disseminate the threat
of war and a cornucopia of other menaces besides. The experts in their field
were men and women top commanders turned to when timing was tight and stakes
were high.

Mark finished his final lap and
paused at the edge of the pool catching his wind. He remembered the driving
sensation, the tingling urge that had told him when and where he had to go. It
was time to be on the other side of things for a change. He was too
young,
too green for senior military service just about
everywhere, but not too old to get started on a civilian career in Washington.

Mark could hear the persistent
ringing of a phone down the hall as he approached his room, an acrid mixture of
chlorine and sweat. He hurried to unlock the door and lunged for the receiver.

'Taylor.'

'Sir, it's Pete.'

'Hello,
Jarvis.
How are things in our great nation's capital?' he asked,
stalling for time as he jostled through his briefcase for his scrambler. He
dropped it expertly into the mouthpiece of the phone.

'Man, took me over an hour to
get through to you. There must be only two phone lines in the whole country.'

Mark could hear static on the
line and knew Jarvis was fine-tuning his decoder.

'Yes, and we're occupying one
of them. What’ve you got?'

'For starters, I've got a line
on the boyfriend. Denton, Scott Denton.'

'They've been an item for
– what? –
nine
years?'

'Right. But, things have taken
an interesting turn on that front.'

'Oh?' Mark laid a dry towel
under him and settled down on the bed.

'Yeah. Seems the boyfriend took
off for the Peace Corps in Guatemala without advising the Kane chick of his
plans.'

Mark frowned. 'This Denton
character just up and walked out on her without so much as a note?'

'Not exactly.
There was a letter of some kind. Denton claims he sent it to her hotel in La
Concha before leaving Washington.'

Mark shook his head, making a
mental note to check with the hotel regarding Ana's belongings
.

'How’d he take the news?'

'Did seem pretty broken up.
Offered to cooperate, help in any way he can.'

'We might just have to take him
up on it.'

'Want us to fly him to Costa
Negra
? He's right at your back door.'

Mark ran his thumb along the
piping on the bedspread, considering his options. 'No, we’re better off
bringing him to Washington. I have a hunch Cromwell will want to see him. Hold
off on those arrangements for now. Let me see what else I can turn up here.'

'Any leads?'

'Just one.' Mark removed the
communiqué from the crumpled shirt on the bed. 'You know, there's something
that sticks in my craw about this missive.'

'Missive? You mean the message
Cromwell referred to?'

'Yes. I got a copy of the cable
from the Ambassador this afternoon. Something about the wording is familiar
– don't know how, but familiar. Can’t shake the feeling I’ve come across
it before.'

'The translation?'

'The style.
Tenses are inverted, not like from Spanish, more like –'

'Basque?'

'Exactly. What makes you say
so?'


'Well, sir, I pulled the back
files you requested. Crosschecked international ties to insurgents in the Costa
Negra
region.'

'And?'

'Your old buddy El
Dedo
has been putting his nasty fingers into some new
pies.'

Mark paused, bringing his hand
to his chin. He’d been tracking El
Dedo
and his
terrorist activity for almost a decade. Luis Vaquero, aka 'El
Dedo
,' had earned his nickname for the left index finger he
lacked. He was a kingpin in Costa
Negra
insurgent
activity and was not, Mark knew, opposed to violence when it suited his means.

'What's El
Dedo
up to now?'

'Seems
Luisito
has taken up some new bedfellows. Our latest data show a decisive link between
El
Dedo's
recent activities and those of a Basque
separatist faction in Spain.'

'Not the LPP?' Mark asked with
disdain.

This terrorist group had tried
for a number of years to overthrow the Spanish monarchy, leaving quite a body
toll in the wake of its unsuccessful efforts.

'When you lie down with dogs,
you get up with fleas,' said, quoting the
old
Spanish
proverb.

'The only problem with these
dogs is their bark is equal to their bite.'

'You think they'll hurt Kane
and McFadden?'

'Not if I can help it,' Mark
said, checking the clock on the nightstand. 'How much cable traffic you got for
me?'

'Somewhere between fifty and
sixty pages of electronic files.'

'You ran updates on the LPP
man?'

'
Carnova
?
Yes, sir, as well as the Central America tie-ins. All set?'

Mark slipped his laptop out
from under the mattress and attached the thin green wire extending from the jack
at the lower corner of the computer screen to the device on the phone. 'That's
a roger
. Fire away.'

Mark had a feeling this
ill-formed alliance between the LPP and Luis Vaquero's local group meant
something. And it wasn't something good.

Scott set down the receiver and
walked to a street-side cafe. He took his black coffee and sat beneath the
outstretched leaf of a palm. She had to have read it. God damn him. It had been
such an easy plan. By the time she’d left, it had already been posted eight days.

Things had not always been worn
like they’d become at the end. In the beginning it had been electric, full of
spice and delicious fire. He’d never known anyone quite like Ana, anyone quite
so pretty, quite so smart. He was drawn to her against his will and the harder
he’d resisted the more firmly entrenched he’d become.