“Smells kinda sweet,” Austin said.
Then his eyes widened in surprise and pain. He tried to get his breath, but his chest, diaphragm, and stomach muscles convulsed simultaneously with a sudden violence that seemed to tear his tongue from its very roots. The spasm induced by the gas then triggered the voluntary muscles. Austin’s arms and legs went rigid; his hands balled helplessly into fists; his jaw clamped down on his outthrust tongue, biting it through.
He pitched forward, dead.
Groves held his breath for a full minute, shuddering. No choice, he repeated over and over in his mind, like a litany. No choice.
Two minutes later, hidden from traffic by Austin’s car, he had dressed himself in Austin’s shirt, tie, slacks, and shoes. A good omen, he told himself, that the shoes fit well. He had known that the clothes would be the right size when Austin first stepped out of his car in the parking lot, just as he had known that the man’s sandy hair and facial features were similar enough to his own to confuse his pursuers, if only temporarily.
Groves put the Cobor canister back into the case with the others, pulled up the torn canvas top of the jeep, and clamped the latch on to the windshield hook as best he could. Then, sheltered by the jeep top from the view of passing drivers, he lifted Austin’s body into the jeep and wrestled it into place behind the steering wheel. From a distance the body, dressed in Groves’s army fatigues and uniform cap, would appear to be waiting for a roadside meeting, or resting.
Choosing a moment when no traffic was visible on either side of the highway, Groves hurriedly removed the case of Cobor grenades from the jeep and put it carefully into Austin’s trunk alongside several cartons of drug samples. He slammed down the lid, retrieved Austin’s jack from the roadside, got into Austin’s car, and drove off slowly, along the shoulder. When he had driven far enough so that he could no longer see the jeep in the rearview mirror, Groves stopped and changed the tire.
15
Maria looked desperately unhappy. Her dark eyes, wide like a frightened deer’s, were red with crying, her softly rounded cheeks smudged with tears. As she talked, her hands went nervously to pat her long black hair, braided into a tight bun at the back of her head. “Please, Miss Foster,” she begged Sharon. “We are both Basques, my husband and I. If you report me to the agency, the government will dismiss my husband too. Neither of us will be able to work in Madrid again.”
The two women were alone in the control truck. Sharon was still at her console, where she had been working on schedules and assignments for the next few days. Maria was sitting in Taggart’s chair. “That doesn’t sound fair to me,” Sharon said. “Why should the government do that to your husband?”
“Raul is a security guard here at the stadium. He and everyone in his immediate family must have a clear record, no exceptions. Especially during El Copa Mundial .”
“They’d fire him, even though all you took was one ticket?”
Maria gave a short, bitter laugh.-“It seems unreasonable to you? That is because you are not Spanish, and not Basque either. The government has a great mistrust of all Basques. Even though many of us do not want separation from Spain and do not support the terrorists, Spanish officials mistrust those of us who work here. They would rejoice at the excuse to send us away.”
“But if you knew that, why did you take the ticket?”
She shook her head, her fingertips dislodging wisps of black hair from her braids. “I was foolish,” she said, after a long moment. “I thought Senõr Taggart would not miss only one. He was fanning them out in his hand like playing cards, asking me which people of influence in Madrid would want a ticket and what sort of favor he would be able to get from each one in return.”
“The quid pro quo,” Sharon said, knowing the “favor” Taggart would likely have
Then his eyes widened in surprise and pain. He tried to get his breath, but his chest, diaphragm, and stomach muscles convulsed simultaneously with a sudden violence that seemed to tear his tongue from its very roots. The spasm induced by the gas then triggered the voluntary muscles. Austin’s arms and legs went rigid; his hands balled helplessly into fists; his jaw clamped down on his outthrust tongue, biting it through.
He pitched forward, dead.
Groves held his breath for a full minute, shuddering. No choice, he repeated over and over in his mind, like a litany. No choice.
Two minutes later, hidden from traffic by Austin’s car, he had dressed himself in Austin’s shirt, tie, slacks, and shoes. A good omen, he told himself, that the shoes fit well. He had known that the clothes would be the right size when Austin first stepped out of his car in the parking lot, just as he had known that the man’s sandy hair and facial features were similar enough to his own to confuse his pursuers, if only temporarily.
Groves put the Cobor canister back into the case with the others, pulled up the torn canvas top of the jeep, and clamped the latch on to the windshield hook as best he could. Then, sheltered by the jeep top from the view of passing drivers, he lifted Austin’s body into the jeep and wrestled it into place behind the steering wheel. From a distance the body, dressed in Groves’s army fatigues and uniform cap, would appear to be waiting for a roadside meeting, or resting.
Choosing a moment when no traffic was visible on either side of the highway, Groves hurriedly removed the case of Cobor grenades from the jeep and put it carefully into Austin’s trunk alongside several cartons of drug samples. He slammed down the lid, retrieved Austin’s jack from the roadside, got into Austin’s car, and drove off slowly, along the shoulder. When he had driven far enough so that he could no longer see the jeep in the rearview mirror, Groves stopped and changed the tire.
15
Maria looked desperately unhappy. Her dark eyes, wide like a frightened deer’s, were red with crying, her softly rounded cheeks smudged with tears. As she talked, her hands went nervously to pat her long black hair, braided into a tight bun at the back of her head. “Please, Miss Foster,” she begged Sharon. “We are both Basques, my husband and I. If you report me to the agency, the government will dismiss my husband too. Neither of us will be able to work in Madrid again.”
The two women were alone in the control truck. Sharon was still at her console, where she had been working on schedules and assignments for the next few days. Maria was sitting in Taggart’s chair. “That doesn’t sound fair to me,” Sharon said. “Why should the government do that to your husband?”
“Raul is a security guard here at the stadium. He and everyone in his immediate family must have a clear record, no exceptions. Especially during El Copa Mundial .”
“They’d fire him, even though all you took was one ticket?”
Maria gave a short, bitter laugh.-“It seems unreasonable to you? That is because you are not Spanish, and not Basque either. The government has a great mistrust of all Basques. Even though many of us do not want separation from Spain and do not support the terrorists, Spanish officials mistrust those of us who work here. They would rejoice at the excuse to send us away.”
“But if you knew that, why did you take the ticket?”
She shook her head, her fingertips dislodging wisps of black hair from her braids. “I was foolish,” she said, after a long moment. “I thought Senõr Taggart would not miss only one. He was fanning them out in his hand like playing cards, asking me which people of influence in Madrid would want a ticket and what sort of favor he would be able to get from each one in return.”
“The quid pro quo,” Sharon said, knowing the “favor” Taggart would likely have
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