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“I … have,” he stammered. “Who are you?”
“You may call me the Regent,” the voice replied. “I represent your brethren, the members of the church that you have faithfully attended for the past two years. Your skills and loyalty have not gone unnoticed, Admiral. We would now like to give you the opportunity to serve a higher purpose. His Holiness has proposed for you a series of missions … tasks sent to you by God.”
Ávila was now fully awake, his palms sweating.
“The money we gave you is an advance on your first mission,” the voice continued. “If you choose to carry out the mission, consider it an opportunity to prove yourself worthy of taking a place within our highest ranks.” He paused. “There exists a powerful hierarchy in our church that is invisible to the world. We believe you would be an asset at the top of our organization.”
Although excited by the prospect of advancement, Ávila felt wary. “What is the mission? And what if I choose not to carry it out?”
“You will not be judged in any way, and you may keep the money in return for your secrecy. Does that sound reasonable?”
“It sounds quite generous.”
“We like you. We want to help you. And out of fairness to you, I want to warn you that the pope’s mission is a difficult one.” He paused. “It may involve violence.”
Ávila’s body went rigid. Violence?
“Admiral, the forces of evil are growing stronger every day. God is at war, and wars entail casualties.”
Ávila flashed on the horror of the bomb that had killed his family. Shivering, he banished the dark memories. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can accept a violent mission—”
“The pope handpicked you, Admiral,” the Regent whispered. “The man you will target in this mission … is the man who murdered your family.”
CHAPTER 67
LOCATED ON THE ground floor of Madrid’s Royal Palace, the armory is an elegantly vaulted chamber whose high crimson walls are adorned with magnificent tapestries depicting famous battles in Spain’s history. Encircling the room is a priceless collection of more than a hundred suits of handcrafted armor, including the battle garb and “tools” of many past kings. Seven life-size horse mannequins stand in the center of the room, posed in full battle gear.
This is where they decide to keep me prisoner? Garza wondered, looking out at the implements of war that surrounded him. Admittedly, the armory was one of the most secure rooms in the palace, but Garza suspected his captors had chosen this elegant holding cell in hopes of intimidating him. This is the very room in which I was hired.
Nearly two decades ago, Garza had been ushered into this imposing chamber, where he had been interviewed, cross-examined, and interrogated before finally being offered the job of head of the Royal Guard.
Now Garza’s own agents had arrested him. I’m being charged with plotting an assassination? And for framing the bishop? The logic behind the allegations was so twisted that Garza couldn’t begin to untangle it.
When it came to the Royal Guard, Garza was the highest-ranking official in the palace, meaning the order to arrest him could have come from only one man … Prince Julián himself.
Valdespino poisoned the prince’s mind against me, Garza realized. The bishop had always been a political survivor, and tonight he was apparently desperate enough to attempt this audacious media stunt—a bold ploy to clear his own reputation by smearing Garza’s. And now they’ve locked me in the armory so I can’t speak for myself.
If Julián and Valdespino had joined forces, Garza knew he was lost, entirely outmaneuvered. At this point, the only person on earth with power enough to help Garza was an old man who was living out his final days in a hospital bed in his private residence at Palacio de la Zarzuela.
The king of Spain.
Then again, Garza realized, the king will never help me if doing so means crossing Bishop Valdespino or his own son.
He could hear the crowds outside chanting louder now, and it sounded like things might take a violent turn. When Garza realized what they were chanting, he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Where does Spain come from?!” they shouted. “Where is Spain going?!”
The protesters, it appeared, had seized upon Kirsch’s two provocative questions as an opportunity to rant about the political future of Spain’s monarchy.
Where do we come from? Where are we going?
Condemning the oppression of the past, Spain’s younger generation was constantly calling for faster change—urging their country to “join the civilized world” as a full democracy and to abolish its monarchy. France, Germany, Russia, Austria, Poland, and more than fifty other countries had abandoned their crowns in the last century. Even in England there was a push for a referendum on ending the monarchy after the current queen died.
Tonight, unfortunately, Madrid’s Royal Palace was in a state of disarray, so it was not surprising to hear this age-old battle cry being raised again.
Just what Prince Julián needs, Garza thought, as he prepares for ascension to the throne.
The door at the far end of the armory suddenly clicked open and one of Garza’s Guardia agents peered in.
Garza shouted to him, “I want an attorney!”
“And I want a statement for the press,” the familiar voice of Mónica Martín shouted back as the palace’s PR coordinator manuevered around the guard and marched into the room. “Commander Garza, why did you collude with the killers of Edmond Kirsch?”
