"I'm sorry, but I have to be honest. Miró has been a very busy man. He holds up banks, blows up cars, murders people—"

"He's not a murderer. He's a patriot. He's fighting for his rights."

"Okay, okay. He's my hero too. What do you want me to do?"

"Save him."

"Megan, we're such good friends that I'm going to tell you the absolute truth. Jesus Christ himself couldn't save him.

You're looking for a miracle that—"

"I believe in miracles. Will you help me?"

He studied her a moment. "What the hell. What are friends for? Have you tried the pate? I hear they make it kosher."

The Fax message from Madrid read: "Have spoken to half a dozen top European lawyers. They refuse to represent Miró.

Tried to have myself admitted to trial as amicus curiae.

Court ruled against me. Wish I could pull off that miracle for you, friend, but Jesus hasn't risen yet. Am on my way home. You owe me a lunch. Mike."

The trial was set to begin the seventeenth of September.

"Cancel my appointments," Megan told her assistant. "I have some business to take care of in Madrid."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know."

Megan planned her strategy on the plane flying over the

Atlantic. There has to be a way, she thought. I have money and I have power. The prime minister is the key. I have to get to him before the trial starts. After that, it will be too late.

Megan had an appointment with Prime Minister Leopoldo

Martinez twenty-four hours after she arrived in Madrid. He invited her to Moncloa Palace for lunch.

"Thank you for seeing me so promptly," Megan said. "I know what a busy man you are."

He raised a hand in deprecation. "My dear Miss Scott, when the head of an organization as important as Scott Industries flies to my country to see me, I can only be honored. Please tell me how I can assist you."

"I really came here to assist you," Megan said. "It occurred to me that while we have a few factories in Spain,

we're not using nearly enough of the potential that your country has to offer."

He was listening closely now, his eyes shining. "Yes?"

"Scott Industries is thinking about opening a huge electronics plant. It should employ somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred people. If it is as successful as we think it will be, we'll open satellite factories."

"And you have not decided in which country you wish to open this plant?"

"That's right. I'm personally in favor of Spain, but quite frankly, Your Excellency, some of my executives are not too happy with your civil rights record."

"Really?"

"Yes. They feel that those who object to some of the policies of the state are treated too harshly."

"Do you have anyone in particular in mind?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Jaime Miró."

He sat there staring at her. "I see. And if we were to be lenient with Jaime Miró, we would get the electronics factory and—"

"And a lot more," Megan assured him. "Our factories will raise the standard of living in every community they're in."

The prime minister frowned. "I'm afraid there is one small problem."

"What? We can negotiate further."

"This is something that cannot be negotiated, Miss Scott.

Spain's honor is not for sale. You cannot bribe us or buy us or threaten us."

"Believe me, I'm not—"

"You come here with your handouts and expect us to run our courts to please you? Think again, Miss Scott. We don't need your factories."

I've made it worse, Megan thought, despairingly.

The trial lasted six weeks in a heavily guarded courtroom that was closed to the public.

Megan remained in Madrid, following the news reports of the trial each day. From time to time, Mike Rosen telephoned her.

"I know what you're going through, friend. I think you should come home."

"I can't, Mike."

She tried to see Jaime.

"Absolutely no visitors."

The last day of the trial, Megan stood outside the courtroom, lost in a crowd of people. Reporters came streaming out of the building, and Megan stopped one of them.

"What happened?"

"They found him guilty on all counts. He's going to get the garrote."

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

At five A.M. on the morning scheduled for the execution of

Jaime Miró, crowds began to gather outside the central prison in Madrid. Barricades set up by the Guardia Civil kept the swelling mob of onlookers across the wide street, away from the front entrance to the prison. Armed troops and tanks blocked the iron prison gates.

Inside the prison, in the office of Warden Gomez de la

Fuente, an extraordinary meeting was taking place. In the room were Prime Minister Leopoldo Martinez, Alonzo Sebastian,

the new head of the GOE, and the warden's executive deputies,

Juanito Molinas and Pedros Arrango. Warden de la Fuente was a heavyset, grim-faced middle-aged man who had passionately devoted his life to disciplining the miscreants that the government had placed in his charge. Molinas and Arrango, his hard-bitten assistants, had served with de la Fuente for the past twenty years.

 Prime Minister Martinez was speaking. "I would like to know what arrangements you have made to ensure that there will be no trouble in carrying out Mir у's execution."

Warden de la Fuente replied, "We have prepared for every possible contingency, Your Excellency. As Your Excellency observed when you arrived, a full company of armed soldiers is stationed around the prison. It would take an army to break in."

"And inside the prison itself?"

"The precautions are even more stringent. Jaime Miró is locked in a double security cell on the second floor. The other prisoners on that floor have been temporarily transferred. Two guards are stationed in front of Miró's cell and two guards are at each end of the cell block. I have ordered a general lock-down, so that all prisoners will remain in their cells until after the execution."

"What time will that take place?"

"At noon, Your Excellency. I have postponed mess hall until one o'clock. That will give us enough time to get

Miró's body out of here."

"What plans have you made for disposing of it?"

"I am following your suggestion, Excellency. His burial in

Spain could cause the government embarrassment if the Basques should turn his grave into some kind of shrine. We have been in touch with his aunt in France. She lives in a small village outside Bayonne. She has agreed to bury him there."

The prime minister rose. "Excellent." He sighed. "I still think a hanging in the public square would have been more appropriate."

"Yes, Your Excellency. But in that case, I could no longer have been responsible for controlling the mob outside."

"I suppose you're right. There's no point in stirring up any more excitement than is necessary. The garrote is more painful and slower. And if any man deserves the garrote, it is Jaime Miró."

Warden de la Fuente said, "Excuse me, Your Excellency, but

I understand that a commission of judges is meeting to consider a last-minute appeal from Miró's attorneys. If it should come through, what should I—?"

The prime minister interrupted. "It won't. The execution will proceed as scheduled."

The meeting was over.

At seven-thirty A.M., a bread truck arrived in front of the prison gate.

"Delivery."

One of the prison guards stationed at the entrance looked in at the driver. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Where's Julio?"

"He's sick in bed today."

"Why don't you go join him, amigo?"

"What?"

"No deliveries this morning. Come back this afternoon."

"But every morning—"

"Nothing goes in, and only one thing is going out. Now,