Diaz had told them that because of a past indiscretion here, he was all but persona non grata. “And he spoke highly of you, Doctor,” McGarvey said. “Did you work with him during your time in Mexico?”
“Yes, we were very close.”
“Then you know why we came to visit the Archives?” Otto asked.
“Yes, of course. You’re treasure hunters.”
“Jornada del Muerto,” Otto said. “Two military expeditions were sent to what is now New Mexico, one in the late 1700s, the other in 1836.”
“Actually the first was in 1787, under the orders of King Charles III; and the second began in 1835, under the orders of Queen Isabella. The records of the first are scanty because the soldiers never returned. All that remains are copies of their orders, and lists of their personnel, equipment, and provisions, their intended route. But two men from the 1835 trip did make it back: one of them a private, the other a sergeant.”
“They brought back the expedition’s maps and journals,” Otto said. “You have them here?”
“Yes.”
“What were they looking for?” McGarvey asked.
Dr. Vergílio smiled faintly. “Why, the same as you. Gold and silver. Hundreds of metric tonnes of it, extremely valuable in itself if it were to be melted down, but of inestimable worth as objects of history. Museums across the world, including ours, would pay just about anything to get their hands on even a part of it.”
“But that’s not the real issue,” McGarvey said. “The gold belongs to Spain.”
“Of course.”
“But the Catholic Church, whose monks buried it, might consider they, too, had a claim.”
“They stole the gold,” Dr.Vergílio said sharply.
“As the Spaniards did from the natives all across Central America and the Caribbean.”
“But there are no organizations that represent those people.”
“The Church might want to take you to court if the treasure were to be found and recovered,” McGarvey said. “And so might Cuba,” he added, looking for a reaction.
She pursed her lips slightly, and nodded. “They might try. But I doubt they would get far.”
“But we’re ahead of ourselves,” Otto said. “First we need to find the treasure.”
“For which you have an idea you think has merit—otherwise, you would not have come this far to see me.”
“It’s in New Mexico, most likely on White Sands Missile Range, maybe some of it even as far north as Trinity, the site of the first atomic bomb test.”
“You’re talking about the Seven Cities of Gold codices supposedly found in the desert. And subsequently lost there.”
“We think that the gold removed from Victorio Peak on Holloman Air Force Base was only one of seven caches.”
“Your company has access to the Missile Range?”
“We have a limited-time permit,” McGarvey said.
Dr. Vergílio started to say something, but then she sat back. “What do you want from me?”
“The records from the two military expeditions,” Otto said.
“And then what?”
“We find the gold.”
“I meant after that.”
“To begin with, we would naturally have a claim,” Otto said. “Along with Spain’s. After that, your government might be tied up in the courts.”
“As you and your company would certainly be,” Dr. Vergílio said. “Unless we had first come to an agreement. And we certainly would not consider allowing you to keep half, considering the legal embroglio we would likely find ourselves in.”
“One third would be fair,” Otto said. “We, too, would face property rights problems with the state of New Mexico and certainly with our federal government.”
“Your field work would have to be kept out of the media. Too many complications.”
“Of course,” Otto said.
Dr. Vergílio handed a five-page document held together with a red ribbon across the desk to McGarvey. “This is an Archives standard finder’s agreement in English,” she said. “If you sign it, you will be given copies of the expeditions’ documents, including the maps and journals.”
This was all wrong. In reality, they could have been given permission to view the records and take all the notes they wanted, or ask for copies. Neither the Spanish government nor the Archives would have offered such a document. In fact, no action would have been taken until after a treasure had been found and it origins verified, in which case, there would have been protests, some through diplomatic channels, and finally a court case.
Otto was about to say something, but McGarvey cut him off. “Of course,” he said. He untied the document, took a pen from a holder on the director’s desk and signed and dated the last page.
“Are you going to read it?” she asked.
“No need, Doctor,” he said, handing it back “If we were going to cheat each other, this wouldn’t make much difference.”
“That’s what I told … Dr. Diaz. But he suggested this would be for the best.”
They got up and went into the anteroom, where the same young man who had escorted them from the lobby was there with a thick accordion file folder, held shut with a brown string.
“I’ve included a copy of the agreement signed by me,” Dr. Vergílio said. “If you have any questions, please call me. And I’d like very much to hear of your progress.”
“Naturally,” McGarvey said, and he and Otto started to leave, but McGarvey turned back. “When did you and Dr. Diaz speak about us?”
“Yesterday,” she said. “Actually last night. Because of the time difference, he reached me at my home.”
“It must have been a fascinating conversation,” Otto said.
“Oh, it was,” Dr. Vergílio said. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”
* * *
“What was that all about?” Otto asked when they reached the car and headed south out of the city on the A4.
“She sure as hell didn’t talk to Dr. Diaz,” McGarvey said. “We’ve been set up.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know yet. But a few billion dollars or more makes for some strange bedfellows.”
“You knew it was coming. That’s why we’re leaving from Gibraltar and not Madrid.”
“I want to get out of Spain without complications.”
“Do you think the colonel knows what’s going on?”
“I think we should ask her.”
* * *
Two hours later, they parked the car on the busy street in front of the condo towers right on the bay in the town of La Línea, within fifty yards of the border crossing to Gibraltar.
“Were we followed?” Otto asked as they got out.
“Not unless the Guardia Civil is a lot better than I think they are,” McGarvey said, and carrying only the file folder, they walked to the line at the pedestrian crossing and when it was their turn they showed their passports to the bored officer on the Spanish side and were allowed to pass through the building to the British side.
A Brit in civilian clothes was waiting for them. “Welcome to Gibraltar, gentlemen,” she said. “Your aircraft arrived early this morning, I’ll take you there.”
FIFTY
The CIA jet was an older Gulfstream IV, this one on loan from VR-48, the Marine Air Support Detachment at Andrews. So far as María knew, the Cuban government never had anything quite so nice, not even to transport El Comandante, and she told Martínez as much to cover her nervousness.
They’d boarded in an empty hangar at Homestead AFB just south of Miami. The only crew were the marine pilot, copilot, and an efficient staff sergeant named Anderson, who’d offered them Bloody Marys once they took off, even though it was only a little after eight in the morning.
After the shooting at the motel, Martínez had moved her to a private apartment downtown, and although he didn’t say she suspected it was his, though she’d resisted the urge to poke around and find out when he’d gone out several times over the
last twenty-four hours.
“We have a fairly sophisticated operation in the Washington area,” she said after they’d reached altitude out over the Atlantic. “Captain Fuentes will put them on alert to watch for me.”
“It’s a big city, lots of places to go to ground,” Martínez said. Since the hotel, he’d looked at her differently, his anger gone, replaced by a hunger as if he were a jungle animal getting ready to pounce. But when he spoke to her, he sounded indifferent.
“It won’t do after all of this for them to find me before I can talk to McGarvey.”
“I’m not taking you to the Campus or down to the Farm, if that’s what you’re talking about. But you’ll be reasonably safe for the time being, at least from your own people.”
“Well, give me a pistol so that I can defend myself if need be.”
“You’re not worth it,” Martínez said with supreme contempt. “As far as I’m concerned, the best possible outcome would be for someone to walk up behind you and put a bullet at point-blank range in the back of your head. Frankly, I’d like to have the job myself.”
María refused to look away. “I had a job to do. Just like you. My hands aren’t clean, but neither are yours nor McGarvey’s.”
“We don’t kill innocent people.”
“Tell that to the Iraqi citizens your army and the contractors you hire have gunned down.”
“They were reacting to the threat of suicide bombers.”
He was right, of course, though plenty of mistakes had been made. By everyone, including her own government. She knew the arguments against the revolución and the excesses over the past fifty-plus years. Sometimes alone at night, she would awaken from a sound sleep, thinking about things they’d done—the things she’d personally ordered—and wondered how she’d found the justification.
Martínez read something of that from the expression on her face. “You’re afraid of a bloodbath when the government fails?” he asked. “You should be. Me and a lot of other people outside of Cuba as well as millions inside are going to rise up, and job one will be opening every prison in the country.”
“At lot of them killers, even mass murderers.”
“Just like the ones you sent to us during the Mariel boatlift,” Martínez said viciously. “Only this time, they’re staying inside Cuba and we’ll arm them. Who better to do some of the work for us?”
“Insanity,” María mumbled, but she could see it happening and she could understand the why of it. The real problem would be the anarchy during the aftermath. Could very well be that the United States would send troops to help stabilize the new government.
Martínez threw his head back and laughed out loud.
But for the moment, it was less about Raúl’s government, because he had relaxed many of El Comandante’s restrictions, and more about money to feed the people, especially the five hundred thousand who’d been laid off from their government sinecure jobs.
The fortune in gold was for the people, not for Raúl, she kept reminding herself since reading her father’s journals and especially his letters to her. But that pipe dream seemed even more utterly unobtainable now than ever before.
* * *
María was turning over in her mind what she would have to say and do to convince McGarvey that she was sincere when they landed at Andrews Air Force Base and immediately taxied over to a hangar marked only with a number.
“Where will I be staying?” she asked.
“With a friend, someplace so secure, even the Company doesn’t know about it,” Martínez said.
Inside the hangar, the engines spooled down and the attendant opened the front hatch. María gathered her purse and overnight bag, and got up.
“I want to read your father’s journals,” Martínez said.
“As long as they’re not out of my sight.”
“I could take them.”
“Yes, you could,” María said.
Martínez nodded after a moment. “Have you read them all?”
“I just glanced through some of them. But so far as I can tell, he was pretty diligent with his entries and we’re talking about more than fifty years.”
“What about your file?”
“Mostly letters to me that he never posted.”
“Your ride is here, sir,” Sergeant Anderson said.
“Tell the driver to join us, would you?” Martínez said.
The door to the cockpit was open and the pilot was staring at them; he nodded and the sergeant went down the stairs.
“I’ll need a ride back to Homestead, if that’s possible,” Martínez said.
“When?”
“I’ll let you know in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said, and he turned and began talking on his radio.
“You’re leaving me here?” María asked.
“You’ll be safe for the time being,” Martínez said. “And Mac is already on his way, so you’d best have your story straight, because he’s a man who doesn’t take kindly to bullshit.”
“I know,” María said, and she told herself that she was looking forward to seeing him again and yet afraid of failing because she had no idea what would come next for her. Returning empty-handed to Cuba would mean a death sentence, yet the longer she was away, the greater the chances that Fuentes would find her again and this time kill her. He was a devious bastard, and if he and Ortega-Cowan had formed an alliance, which she was pretty certain they had, the resources of the entire DI would be at their disposal.
“Your coming to Miami the way you did has created a lot of problems. By now, too many people know that I’m helping you and they want to know why. Especially why I didn’t kill you myself after three of my people were gunned down, one of them not twenty feet away while I was sitting having a glass of wine with you. Half of Little Havana wants to hold an inquisition for me, while the other half is on the verge of rioting.”
“I understand,” María said.
“No, you don’t, puta,” Martínez said, keeping a measured tone, though it was obviously difficult. “Because they’re right, and it was you and people like you—just following orders—who’ve created this mess. We want to go home, we’re tired of being here, of waiting for a day that a lot of people are beginning to believe will never come.”
María didn’t know what to say, but she refused to look away or lower her eyes. The situation was what it was.
“Do you know what we did in Miami while your father’s funeral was taking place?”
“Celebrate, I imagine.”
Martínez glared at her, a deep, deep hatred in his dark eyes. “We were dancing in the streets. All day long, that night and into the next day. The monster was finally dead, finally there was hope, something worth dancing for.”
The sergeant came back aboard followed by a tall, slender woman, whom María immediately recognized, and all the air seemed to leave the cabin.
Martínez looked up and managed to smile. “Hi,” he said.
“Mrs. Rencke,” María said, barely able to get her voice.
“Actually I use my maiden name, Louise Horn. And I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, and spending some time together.”
“Do you want me to stay with you till Mac and Otto get back?” Martínez asked.
Louise shook her head. “You’ve got fires to put out in Miami. And besides, I’d like to get to know her better. Girl talk, you know.” And she smiled, but it was vicious. “We’ll be fine.”
FIFTY-ONE
Carlos López was a nondescript man of fifty, with black hair that was prematurely gray, wire-rimmed glasses, and a round, pleasant face that pegged him as anything but the Chief of Station for DI activities in Washington. He’d been dead set against the operation to kidnap Otto Rencke’s wife, and he was not afraid to repeat himself to Fuentes.
Operations was housed in the upstairs rooms of a well-established Chinese restaurant on M Street not far from Georgetown Park, the Potomac just a couple of blocks south. A half doze
n officers worked here, including a couple of communications technicians, but most of the DI’s personnel worked under nonofficial cover—as cabdrivers, gardeners, a tailor, and even a Catholic priest who had taught at Georgetown University for the past eighteen years—and they communicated only in code via encrypted telephone, or for more secure operations via letter drops.
“Don’t push him,” Ortega-Cowan had warned. “He’s independent as hell, but he knows how to get things done. Tell him what you want and then step back and let him do his job.”
But he’d not been happy when Fuentes had shown up without warning last night and explained what he wanted. Nor was he happy now, perched on the edge of his worktable in the front room, looking down on the busy street.
“D.C. Metro and the Bureau were all over the place for three days after the kidnapping, but all of a sudden it was as if someone had pulled the pin, and it was business as usual,” López said. He was speaking Spanish, but his expressions were irritatingly American.
“I explained all of that,” Fuentes said. “Once Señor Rencke and then Señor McGarvey showed up in Havana, the CIA ordered the search called off. All that was left for the police was an apparent drive-by shooting at the day care center.”
“Which was still another colossal blunder. If I had been asked to mount the operation, the murder of an innocent woman would not have happened.”
“Ortega-Cowan felt, as did the coronel, that your overall mission here was too important to jeopardize it by a one-task operation.”
“Instead, you sent three idiots from Miami, none of whom had ever been to Washington, to do the job.”
“It was a success,” Fuentes flared.
López shook his head. “The death of this schoolteacher means nothing to you?”
Fuentes waved it off. “Collateral damage.”
“Take care, Captain, that someday you do not become collateral damage yourself.”
Technically, the station chief outranked Fuentes, but he was nothing more than a field officer. He’d never served at headquarters in Havana, and he certainly had never enjoyed the trust of El Comandante. Fuentes was about to tell him something of this when López handed him a Post-it note with an address in Georgetown written on it.
Castro's Daughter Page 23
