Conspiracy (35 page)

At eight-thirty that evening, Elliott Strether stepped behind a speaker’s lectern at the American Embassy and squinted behind his wire-rimmed glasses into the TV lights. He read a brief statement that deplored violence and praised rational thinking.

Then the reporters in the room began with their questions.

After about three minutes of finding it impossible to say with certainty that any Spanish agency was behind the attempted killings, and not knowing whether the American government would launch an investigation of its own on Spanish soil, Strether said, “Last question.” He pointed to a man from the New York Post.

“Once again, we Americans are getting kicked around,” the reporter said, his tone sarcastic. “Once again it looks as if the administration intends only to turn the other cheek. When are we going to do something that people will respect?”

Strether cleared his throat amid scattered applause. “We deplore the grave injury suffered by our countrymen in Seville,” he said, “and I can assure you that the United States will not stand idly by.”

Having made that point, he nodded at them and clicked off his microphone.

5

A quarter moon hung pale yellow in the night sky over the ruins. Two thousand years ago, Groves reflected, this had been a half-size replica of the Colosseum in Rome. Here were the rows of chiseled stone seats, now pitted and darkened with corrosion. Here were the tunnels that led to the outside of the structure, where the crowds of Romans who helped rule the outpost of the Empire had once moved. Here in the center of the field was the pit where they had kept wild beasts, and the sloping ramp from the pit up to ground level, where the beasts had charged at their human prey when the gate was lifted.

Groves took his time, seeing it all in the moonlight. He had a half hour before Helen was due to arrive, and another half hour before Raul would come—if Raul was coming. The other guard had emptied two rifle clips into that terrace window after seeing Groves fire his warning shot. No way to tell whether Raul had been hit behind that curtain. And Groves had not wanted to stay around to get the full report. Even assuming that the security officials were willing to tell what had happened when they rushed that tenth-floor apartment, Groves did not want to be there listening. Too much would go wrong if Raul told his real name.

Having thrown his uniform away, changed clothes, and disposed of Raul’s papers, Groves was now in no danger from the police. Raul knew neither Groves’s name nor that his home was in Marbella. The little Basque could tell everything he knew, for all Groves cared.

In fact, if he spoke of the Cobor, that would fit in with Groves’s plan very nicely.

Groves was thinking of the call he would make to Madrid, when he saw Helen. The white of her dress caught the moonlight. Against the darkened stone of the arena she was unmistakable. He watched from the opposite end of the ancient field as she climbed the stone steps and took a seat on one of the pitted stone slabs. He supposed the white handbag she carried held Raul’s money—which she had promised Groves— and a weapon of some kind, in case there was trouble with Raul. That meant he would have to catch her off guard.

He walked across the field, his knife a comforting weight in his pocket. When he knew she saw him, he waved. He came to a stop at the edge of the field and looked up to where she sat, feeling as though he were a gladiator or a matador. A shame to kill her, he thought, but it had to be.

“Early for the game,” he said, and grinned up at her.

“Two thousand years late,” she replied, smiling. “I think the moon is such a turn-on. Especially in a place like this. It makes me think of emperors.”

Groves hoisted himself up over the stone wall and crouched beside the first row of seats. As he dusted off his trousers, he palmed the knife. His fingers touched a button and the long blade slid noiselessly out of the handle.

“Well, we’ve got about forty-five minutes,” he said as he stood up and set himself to throw.

He was about to ask her if he looked like an emperor in the moonlight when he noticed a round dark hole suddenly appear in the white handbag on her lap, and felt a hammer-blow catch him in the teeth. The bullet expanded as it traveled through the back of his head, taking with it the lower portions of his brain.

Groves was dead instantly.

His body staggered back one step and fell over the stone wall, landing crumpled on the moonlit field. 

Helen’s face remained expressionless as she saw the knife he had carried fall from his hand.

Taking no chances that he might still be alive, she glanced at the opening in his skull before she left the ancient stadium. Earlier that evening she had learned that Raul was dead. Now only three people knew about the Cobor. Soon there would be only two.

She walked quickly to her car, parked between two gnarled olive trees. She disconnected the bomb she had rigged against an attempt by Groves to leave her stranded. Then she looked at her watch. 

Nine-fifteen. An hour to drive to the airport before her plane departed for Madrid.

6

“I would not call it hopeless, Miss Quinn,” said the surgeon outside Alec Conroy’s hospital room in Seville. His dark eyes showed sympathy, however, and his somber formality belied the verbal message. “There have been recoveries from similar wounds. It is still too early to tell how much damage the spinal cord has suffered. Daily manipulation can help retain the muscle tone, even if he never walks again. And perhaps there are surgeons in the United States—”

Rachel shuddered, not really listening anymore. She was remembering the way Alec had clung to her, the fear in his voice as he had repeated her name and begged her not to leave him, ever, ever.

And now this doctor was saying he would need daily nursing care. That he would never walk again.

“I can’t handle it,” she whispered to herself.

“You said something, Miss Quinn?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just scared.”

“It is normal. Why don’t you go home and rest? Mr. Conroy is under sedation and there is nothing you can do for him now. You can return in the morning if you wish.”

She opened the door and saw him: a mass of white, immobilized by bandages and drugs so that he could not turn in his sleep and do his spine further injury.

He had screamed at her in the ambulance. “Don’t touch me I can’t feel my legs don’t leave me! I don’t want to die!”

Now he breathed noisily, mouth open, a tube protruding from his nose.

“I really can’t handle it,” Rachel whispered again.

Outside the hospital, she got into a cab. “Take me to the airport,” she told the driver.

She arrived in time to catch the ten-fifteen flight to Madrid.

7

In Madrid at about ten-thirty, Yuri Zadiev was informed that the press had begun calling about Katya Romanova. He cursed softly under his breath and immediately canceled plans for the evening. Instead he took a taxi to the Hotel Lope de Vega. He went directly to the room that Katya shared with Tamara Filatova.

There Yuri told the two ladies of the vicious slander spread by the UBC newscaster. Obviously, he said, the remark had been timed to affect world perception of tomorrow’s game, and to disturb Katya’s brother Sergei emotionally, to prevent him from playing well. The Americans had used the same tactic earlier in the tournament, he pointed out, against a British player, by slandering the man’s wife. And against the British, the ploy had worked. It was up to the Russians to show they were not so foolhardy.

To counter the American lies, they would change plans somewhat, he told them. Katya would remain in the hotel until an hour before the game tomorrow, refusing to see any reporters. Tamara would ensure that Katya reached Bernabeau Stadium without being badgered by the press. 

Then, in order to show the world that Katya was filled with natural and patriotic affection for her country, they would make what Yuri termed a “media gesture.” Katya would watch the game, not from the stands, but directly from the Soviet bench. She would sit between Tamara and Yuri himself, where the TV cameras could get a good view of her. 

And she would hold her head high.

Tamara’s heart leaped with enthusiasm at the prospect of being on the field with the players to see the game. She felt emboldened to offer an idea of her own. 

“But we shall need to make a stronger statement than that, surely,” she said. “A public denial, medical tests and records—”

“After the game,” Yuri said firmly. “When we have returned to Moscow. Until then, we shall not dignify their lies with a rebuttal.”

That much established, Yuri left Katya to brood on her betrayal by the capitalist scandal-mongers, and on the impossibility of escape. He went downstairs one flight to the room of Sergei Romanova, where he repeated the same information and instructions in a private conversation with that robust young man.

Sergei’s eyes danced with anger, eager for combat. His slow grin revealed three missing teeth. “Okay if I tell the others?” he asked Yuri. “If they know why Katya’s on the bench with us, they may want to fight harder.”

Yuri thought that information would do no harm, so he gave his consent. However, to guard against the possibility of Katya’s suddenly getting the urge to confess all to her brother, he asked Sergei. to show his confidence in Katya by leaving her undisturbed until after the game.

While he was at the hotel, Yuri stopped by to see his own brother, substitute forward Dimitri Zadiev, who shared a room with his first-string counterpart, Anton Volnikov. He learned that in the game with Argentina, the roles were likely to be reversed; because of the stress fracture in Volnikov’s foot, young Zadiev would probably see action throughout the entire game. Yuri wished both men good luck. 

Before he left, he happened to mention the decadent capitalist attempt to upset their teammate Sergei by defaming the honor of his sister. He told them of Sergei’s patriotic response. Both men appeared moved.

Yuri then returned to his office. There, using his private phone, he made additional security arrangements that would prevent any last-minute UBC maneuvers to help Katya escape to the West.

8

Flying on the same plane with Rachel Quinn and Helen Bates, Keith and Sharon sat side by side on their way back to Madrid to see tomorrow’s final. Unlike Rachel and Helen, they rode in the coach section. Both of them were paying for their tickets. Keith had passed up the team plane to travel with Sharon; Sharon, of course, was no longer on a UBC expense account. Since they were now engaged and on a budget, they had decided not to splurge on first-class seats.

During the flight they debated what Keith should do. He was determined to tell his story to the press, and to return the third-place World Cup ring he had been given. Winning with drugs, he said, was just as illegal whether you knew you had taken them or not.

Sharon countered with a number of objections. Her most basic argument was that right at the moment Keith wasn’t up to par. If Farber had been telling the truth, Keith would be suffering from the after effects of cocaine: fatigue and depression. So he would not be able to think as clearly as he should. Sharon believed he was being too hard on himself.

When the plane landed, Keith remained set in his plans to tell all. He was willing, however, to go back to Sharon’s room and spend some time in bed before making any final decision.

9

The parking lot outside the uplink antenna building was nearly deserted at 3:30 a.m. Helen Bates stopped her car near the entrance. She remained inside.

From the passenger’s seat, she lifted the cover to a small videotape recording unit. Its built-in monitor screen came on when she pushed the power button, showing the UBC signal that was being broadcast from inside the nearby building.

Helen watched until the image of Elliott Strether, behind his speaker’s podium, came on. Then she pushed the “record” button.

Five minutes later, when Strether’s image had switched off the mike and turned away from the camera, Helen pushed the “stop” button. She rewound the tape. Then she reached into the back seat, retrieved a small transmitter, and connected it to the VTR unit with two vinyl-coated patching cables.

She extended the antenna of the transmitter, directing it at the uplink antenna budding. Pressing the “play” button of the VTR, she held the transmitter antenna in place for thirty seconds. The VTR monitor showed Strether behind his podium, beginning his prepared statement.

Slightly more than a half hour later, Helen parked on the street near Bernabeau Stadium. Once again she pushed the VTR “play” button as she remained inside her car. This time, however, she used a different transmitter. A larger unit, this one had a multiple-frequency dial and broadcast through the rooftop antenna of Helen’s car radio.

She watched the VTR’s digital clock as the tape of Strether began to roll. Every eight seconds, as exactly as she could manage, she rotated the multiple-frequency dial of the transmitter another notch. There were thirty-five grenade detonators to program, and five minutes of tape. Eight seconds of signal allowed her a small margin for error.

About four minutes into the tape she saw that she was falling behind, so she began to give each remaining detonator a shorter signal. She finished the lot of them with three seconds to spare.

10

Dr. Ricardo Ardies rubbed the side of his nose with the side of his forefinger and regarded Wayne Taggart with only a hint of interest. Ardies, President of IFFA, had been given the huge conference room of the Palacio Congresos building for use as a temporary office this morning. Seated at one end of the long oval-shaped ebony table with Taggart and Ross Cantrell, the slender, gray-haired Ardies appeared to wish the two Americans would take their problems elsewhere.

“I understand you have already discussed this anonymous female caller of yours with security personnel,” he said to Taggart.