Castro's Daughter

by David Hagberg

  “I think I threw the general a curve,” Martínez said, looking over Otto’s shoulder.

  “Just like Mac said they would take it. But it won’t last long. We’ll have to be out of here by morning.”

  “So far, so good—but we’re going to need him here long before then, because there’s no way in hell the general or anyone else is going to do much more talking other than order us to get out.”

  Otto looked up from his computer. “Contact your unit leaders and let them know we need to hunker down for now. Meanwhile, I’ll try to reach Mac.”

  The crowd had been roughly divided into a half dozen sections, and Martínez had picked six lieutenants in Miami to ride herd on them. He phoned them now and brought them up to date.

  “It’s party time, but nobody even thinks about getting anywhere near the fence line or even looking like they’re thinking about it.”

  “How long do we need to hold them here?” all of them wanted to know.

  “Until first light, and no matter what’s happened or not happened by then, we’re going home.”

  “A lot of these gente aren’t going to like it, Raúl. They’ve come a long way on a promise, and the road home is going to be ten times as long as it was getting here.”

  “It’s not over for us even if we go home empty-handed,” Martínez said. “This is just the start. And remind everybody that the road home leads not just to Miami, but all the way to La Habana.”

  Within five minutes, Martínez could hear the chant rolling through the crowd, echoing off the depository building: “Viva la liberación! Viva la liberación!”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  The president had moved his staff into the situation room down the hall from the Oval Office, where it was easier to monitor the two developing situations—the one he’d expected in Texas and the other, at Fort Knox, which had blindsided them all.

  Audio and visual feeds were displayed split screen, on the flat-panel monitors, and actually seeing the two crowds, listening to them chant and sing, did nothing to dispel Langdon’s sour mood even though there was apparently no violence.

  “Unless this is handled with a delicate touch, and not a sledgehammer, the situation could go south in a blink of the eye,” McGarvey had warned. But that was for Texas; he’d not mentioned Kentucky. And just now he was missing.

  In Langdon’s estimation, Raúl Castro’s speech had been short and to the point, effective. And yet the crowd on Fort Bliss had made no move to disperse. They seemed to be waiting—watching the two big screens blank now atop the twin mounds, waiting for someone to tell them exactly what they were supposed to do.

  Shapiro picked up an incoming on one of the phone lines, had a short conversation, and then caught Langdon’s attention. “Mr. President, we have General Bogan.” The general was in overall command of all army units at Fort Knox, including Godman Army Airfield.

  “Put him on the speakerphone,” Langdon said. When the call was switched, there was a lot of background noise. “General Bogan, Joseph Langdon. What’s your situation?”

  “Good evening, Mr. President, but I’m sorry to report that I don’t really know except that I have about five thousand civilians who’ve surrounded the depository and are demanding their share of some Spanish treasure that was supposedly moved here in the sixties from Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico. My people checked, and apparently there was such a cache out there—or at least there were legends about it, but nothing concrete.”

  Langdon’s anger began to rise. McGarvey had lied to him. “Did these people identify themselves, do they have a spokesman?”

  “They claim to be Cuban exiles, and one of them somehow managed to hack into my tactical comms system. Said they were mostly from Miami, and they were here because some of the gold belonged to them.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “No, sir,” the general said. “But he claimed theirs was a peaceful demonstration. Told me he didn’t want another Tiananmen Square. I can remove them, but people are bound to get hurt, and I certainly don’t want to open fire unless they actually try to storm the depository. Their spokesman said that they were unarmed, but I have no way of verifying it.”

  “Can you contain them, can you keep them there for the time being?”

  “We’re in control of the perimeter, but by morning the situation will almost certainly began to deteriorate. Unless they brought their own food and water, it’s bound to get a little dicey around here. At the very least, there are no sanitary facilities.”

  “Stand by, General,” Langdon said, and Shapiro put the speakerphone on mute.

  “If they can’t get out of there, we need to set up portable toilets and water stations,” John McKevitt, the president’s chief of staff, who’d come out from Cincinnati after the campaign, said. “Bad PR otherwise.”

  “Has the media become involved?”

  “Not yet, but they’re all over it in Texas.”

  “McGarvey lied to me.”

  “I think he might have felt that it was necessary, Mr. President,” the CIA’s director Walter Page said, and Langdon glared at him.

  “Care to explain that to me, in one easy sentence, Walt?”

  “A dialogue has finally been opened between us and Cuba. I think that counts for something.”

  Langdon held back a sharp retort because in his gut he had a feeling that Page might be right. But presidents were not to be manipulated. “What about this nonsense with the Spanish treasure?”

  “I don’t think it matters if it ever did exist outside of legends, local folktales,” Page said.

  “Get me McGarvey,” the president said, and he motioned for Shapiro to unmute the sound. “Are you still there, General?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re to open fire only in self-defense or if an attack that seems to have some chance of success is made on the depository. In the meantime, I want portable comfort stations and drinking water delivered.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” General Bogan said with only the briefest of hesitations.

  “I’ll have further orders for you before the night is over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Langdon nodded and Shapiro tried to reach McGarvey in Texas.

  “I think I might have an idea who’s at Fort Knox,” Page said.

  “Who?”

  “The general said someone hacked into his tactical communications system, could be Otto Rencke.”

  “Your computer expert and a close personal friend of McGarvey’s,” the president said.

  “Yes, sir. And if it is him, it means McGarvey probably had this planned from the beginning. Texas was just a diversion mostly to get Castro to cooperate. It also means that the spokesman for the Cuban exiles at Fort Knox will be Raúl Martínez, who runs our counter-DI operations in Miami.”

  “Another friend of McGarvey’s?” Langdon asked. And he was beginning to boil. Presidents definitely did not like to be manipulated.

  “Yes, sir,” Page said.

  Shapiro was holding the phone. “Still can’t reach McGarvey.”

  Page gave him another number. “Try this one.”

  Langdon nodded, and Shapiro made the call, which Otto answered on the first ring.

  “Oh, wow, you’re calling from the White House situation room. Is that you, Mr. President?”

  “Mr. Rencke, I presume?” Langdon said.

  “Yes, sir,” Otto said.

  “Is Mr. McGarvey with you?”

  “No, he’s still in Texas, but one of our aircraft is standing by at Fort Bliss and I expect him to show up here sometime tonight.”

  Langdon looked at his advisers, who seemed just as mystified as he was, just not as angry. “Then I want you to explain what the hell is going on. Because I spoke with the commanding general, who has you surrounded and is ready to disperse you by force if he’s given the slightest provocation. And I gave my authorization to do so.”

  “Believe me, Mr. President, this is a peaceful demonstration
.”

  “I hope for your sake that it remains so.”

  “You’ve been briefed about the Spanish gold in New Mexico, sir?”

  “Yes. It was supposedly found at a place called Victorio Peak on Holloman Air Force Base. But it was either never there or it was looted a long time ago.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, excavated by the air force, possibly by presidential order, and transported in secret here to Fort Knox, where it’s been stored in either vault B or C.”

  “I have no knowledge of any such thing.”

  “I’ve found pretty convincing evidence, sir.”

  “For the sake of argument, then, let’s say that you’re right and the gold is there, and the demonstration in Texas was just a diversion to force Raúl Castro to speak to his people—what are five thousand Cuban exiles doing at Fort Knox? What do they hope to accomplish? Do they actually believe that we’ll open the vault and let them stuff their pockets?”

  “No, sir. What Mac wanted to accomplish was to get Raúl Castro to make a public statement, and to give the Cuban exiles here the possibility of eventually getting a share of something they believe was stolen from them.”

  “McGarvey has turned them into treasure hunters. To what end?”

  “If a court can be convinced to release even a small amount of the treasure, and if it could be converted to U.S. dollars and if the money could find its way into the hands of ordinary people in Cuba, it’s very possible the regime could change. Solve our problem.”

  “You’re talking about a long court battle, because I’m sure that Spain and Mexico will make their claims.”

  “A few hundred million dollars would do it, Mr. President. And it wouldn’t cost us one cent.”

  “Far-fetched,” Langdon said. “Exactly what do you and McGarvey want?”

  “Nothing more than confirmation that the treasure actually exists.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then the people will return to their homes and wait for the courts to decide,” Rencke said. “What it will give them is hope, Mr. President.”

  “How did they find out that the gold might be there?”

  “Mac and I told them.”

  “As soon as McGarvey shows up, I want to talk to him,” Langdon said. “And whatever happens, no violence there. Not even a hint of it.”

  “I can guarantee it,” Otto said.

  But then everyone in the situation room heard the gunfire, a few shots at first, and then what sounded like controlled bursts from automatic weapons, and the call was terminated.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  At the bottom of the first trench, which was about two hundred feet back into the hill and about thirty feet below the level of the field where the mob was spread out, only dimly illuminated from the lights outside, Fuentes grabbed the collar of McGarvey’s jacket and pulled him up short. Two men, armed with U.S.-made Ingram MAC 10 ultra-compact submachine guns slung over their shoulders, were just coming out of the intersecting trench to the right—and they, too, pulled up short.

  “What did you find?” Fuentes asked in Spanish.

  McGarvey understood only a couple of the words, but the meaning was clear.

  “Nada,” the taller of the two said. “What’s going on out there? It sounded like El Presidente.”

  “It’s nothing,” Fuentes said. “Just a recording that Colonel León brought with her.”

  The DI operatives were skeptical.

  “Where is the gold?” Fuentes demanded in English, jamming the muzzle of his weapon in McGarvey’s neck.

  “It’s not here.”

  “Bastardo!” Fuentes raged, and he slammed the handle of his weapon into McGarvey’s skull.

  Bright stars flashed in front of McGarvey’s eyes as he was driven to a knee. His head cleared almost immediately, but he stayed down as if he were still out of it.

  Fuentes kicked him in the ribs, and he went with the blow, rolling over on his side.

  “Where is it?”

  McGarvey didn’t respond.

  “Pick him up! Get him to his feet!”

  The two DI officers came over, grabbed McGarvey by the upper arms, and dragged him to his feet, but at the last second, McGarvey lurched to the left, pulling them momentarily off balance.

  It was time enough for him to draw his pistol from the holster at the small of his back beneath his jacket, get off one shot into the side of the head of the officer to his left then pull the other man around as a shield, jamming the muzzle of his pistol in the back of the officer’s head.

  “No one else needs to get hurt here tonight,” McGarvey said.

  Fuentes had his silenced MAC 10 pointed directly at his own officer. He was breathing hard and his weapon hand shook badly. Any moment, he was going to open fire.

  “You don’t have to go back to Havana,” McGarvey said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Something can be worked out.”

  “I want my gold. Just one bar. Anything to bring back.”

  “It’s not your gold.”

  “Don’t tell me that!” Fuentes screamed. “Don’t lie to me, you bastard!” He was waving his gun all over the place.

  “Captain, you don’t want to die here tonight,” McGarvey said, trying to calm the man down.

  “Listen to him, Captain,” the officer McGarvey was holding at gunpoint said. “We can go home.”

  “Not without proof.”

  “It isn’t here,” McGarvey said.

  “One third of it belongs to Cuba!” Fuentes screamed. “Colonel León promised. So did Román.”

  “You may be right,” McGarvey said. “But the gold is not here.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Fort Knox, in Kentucky, and the Cuban people are there right now, making their claim.”

  Fuentes digested this thing slowly as if he had been fed something strange and totally inedible, and yet something that he knew he was going to have to digest. And when the taste of it finally hit him, he was physically rocked back on his heels and he went ballistic, lurching forward and opening fire, the 9 mm slugs slamming into the body of the DI officer.

  McGarvey shoved the man away as he feinted to the left and fired one shot on the move, catching the captain high in his left cheekbone, just below his eye.

  Fuentes fell back, dead before he hit the ground.

  Two more DI officers came around the corner in a run, their silenced MAC 10s in hand, and they pulled up short.

  McGarvey let the pistol fall from his hand, no way possible for him to outshoot a pair of submachine guns. “This is as far as it goes tonight.”

  They looked like professionals, not so excitable as Fuentes had been. “What has happened here?” one of them demanded in heavily accented English.

  “There is no gold.”

  “Yes, we know that. What happened?”

  “Captain Fuentes did not believe me, so he opened fire, killing one of his own men, and I was forced to shoot him.”

  “What about Lieutenant Jiménez?”

  “The situation is what it is. I was defending myself.”

  One of them said something in Spanish to the other, which McGarvey didn’t catch.

  “What about the colonel?”

  “If we can resolve this situation, I’m going to offer her amnesty. She can’t return to Cuba now.”

  “And us? Will you have us arrested?”

  “The crowd is going to disperse sometime tonight. You’re free to go back across the border with them. No one will be stopped.”

  “There are soldiers out there.”

  “You’re on a military reservation, but they have been instructed not to interfere with anyone so long as the demonstration remains peaceful.”

  Both men looked pointedly at the three bodies.

  “Leave your weapons and get out of here,” McGarvey said. “Go home.”

  The men exchanged a glance, then slowly laid their weapons on the ground and disappeared back down the trench to the north side.

>   McGarvey picked up his pistol and holstered it, then speed-dialed Otto’s cell phone, which wasn’t answered until three rings.

  “We’ve got big trouble here, Mac!” Otto shouted, all out of breath.

  And in the background, McGarvey could hear the sounds of sporadic gunfire. “I’m on my way!” he said, his gut tied in a knot, but the connection was terminated. And when he tried to call again, he could not get through.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  María had brought a subcompact Glock 36 Slimline .45 Auto across the border this afternoon. It held only a six-shot magazine, but even with the silencer attached, it was very small and deadly at close range. Walking away from the crowd in the darkness, she checked the action by feel, then took out her DI credentials booklet as she approached an unmarked Ford Taurus with plain hubcaps and government plates about one hundred yards out.

  A slender young man in a business suit was leaning against the car, and when he spotted her coming out of the darkness, holding up her credentials, he straightened up and tossed his cigarette away.

  “Federal District Chihuahua Police,” she said from ten feet away, and the cop—she took him to probably be FBI—relaxed.

  “Looks like it’s about over.”

  “FBI?”

  “Don Schmidt from Albuquerque,” he said, and he reached for his credentials.

  María brought the pistol round from behind her right hip, and before the agent could react, she pointed the pistol at his head. “Throw your gun to the ground, along with your cell phone and your badge, and walk away or I will shoot you.”

  No one from the crowd still gathered in front of the two mounds waiting for something to happen, maybe someone else to talk to them from the big screens, could see what was happening here, and as far as she could tell, the nearest Fort Bliss soldiers were at least one hundred yards away in the opposite direction, and the cops had stopped at the military reservation limits. Only a few FBI agents had come in closer. No one wanted to spook the crowd.

  “Who the hell are you?” the agent demanded, but he was nervous.

  María motioned toward the crowd that was already beginning to head back to the highway. “You’re going to join them.”