The subsequent events seemed to gather their own terrible momentum. At the very same moment that Lawrence Danielle marched up to the seventh floor to inform the DCI of the event, flight 451 rolled to a stop on the far side of the terminal at José Marti International Airport. Within seconds the plane was surrounded by a dozen military vehicles from which emerged more than a hundred soldiers and civil police officers, all armed, all at the ready.
It was like a dream after that, Maria Gonzales, the first-class stew, told investigators. The forward hatch of the aircraft was opened, boarding stairs brought up, and she clearly remembered the thick, damp odors of the warm, tropical day, intermingled with the harsher odor of burnt jet fuel. The hijacker who had stationed himself in the aft galley hurried forward, the big automatic in his left hand raised so that everyone would be sure to see it and therefore try nothing silly. He was met in the first-class compartment by the hijacker who had issued the orders from the flight deck.
There was a bit of confusion at this point. Maria Gonzales told investigators that the hijacker who had been aft pointed his gun at the two Americans—Senors Jules and Asher—and motioned for them to get to their feet, which they did without a fuss. Janice Asher, who had been hysterical all through the incident, nevertheless gave her version in which her husband had leaped up in an attempt to disarm the hijacker, who struck her husband in the head with the weapon. Asher had to be helped off the aircraft. Bernice Jules, on the other hand, told authorities that the hijacker who had emerged from the flight deck had pointed his gun directly at her, right between her eyes from a distance of less than fifteen feet, and motioned for her husband to get to his feet, which he naturally did. She could not remember if Ted Asher had gotten up or not. Of course, he had to have, because he was shot down on the tarmac.
From that point on, the consensus from the passengers and crew was that the two hijackers and the two Americans got off the plane, started away, and at some point one or all of them were seen making a dash for one of the civilian cars that had pulled up, followed by several seconds of intense gunfire in which all four were killed.
It sounded like corn popping in another room, Marjory Dillard said. She did not actually see the shooting, but those passengers on the port side of the aircraft who were able to witness the terrifying event recoiled in horror. About that she was quite clear.
Within the hour the bodies had been taken away in four ambulances, and the Cuban authorities came aboard to begin their preliminary questioning. The wives of the two slain Americans went crazy. They wanted to be with their husbands. The crew only got them calmed down after a long time, Maria Gonzales said. She and first officer Hernando Prañdo managed to administer Valium from the aircraft’s first aid locker, and when they got back to the States the next day they were placed in Miami’s Mt. Sinai Hospital. The following day they were flown to George Washington University Hospital, and by that evening they were home with their families: Bernice in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and Janice in Georgetown, away from the press so that an agency psychologist, Charles Ruff, could have the time and the privacy for a proper debriefing.
Each of the other passengers was questioned by the authorities through the following two days. They all stayed at the Miami Airport Hilton at Aeromexico’s expense but under FBI supervision.
Everyone agreed that the Cuban authorities had treated them with the utmost kindness and understanding during their twenty-four-hour stay at a nearby hotel. The questions were routine, the food passable, and their hosts polite.
Now back in Miami, the DC-10 was literally stripped in an effort to find out how the weapons were brought on board. The crew was thoroughly questioned, and in Washington files on every single person aboard (so far as such files were available) were gone through with a fine-toothed comb. It wasn’t until the beginning of the second week, however, that it was discovered how Manuel Lopez, the Aeromexico maintenance employee, had brought the weapons onto the plane. But by then he was long gone. It was theorized that the very evening of the hijacking he had made his way to Cuba. Someone thought they recognized him in Havana, but it was another dead end. One of many for Trotter’s team, such as the origin of the Soviet assassination devices both men carried.
By this time the hijacking was old news. Mines had been placed in the Strait of Hormuz, the Israelis were talking seriously about going back into Lebanon to stop, once and for all, terrorist strikes on their settlements. And there were new rounds of talks with the Russians about the Star Wars defensive measures which Reagan was asking Congress to support with billions in research funds.
Through all of this Trotter became a very dissatisfied man. He did not like loose ends, and although he was forced by the press of other important business to order most of his investigative team to stand down from the hijacking and to spend more and more of his own time on an ever-increasing work load, hardly an hour went by when he did not give serious thought to Lawrence Danielle and what his old friend had not told him. Jules and Asher were agency operatives on their way to assignment in Mexico City. That much Danielle would verify. But beyond that there was nothing as to the nature of their assignment, or if they were killed because of it. Trotter was enough of an old hand to know when to stand down, when not to poke his nose into areas closed to the bureau, but it galled him nevertheless that he had been used to take all the heat away from Langley. His career hadn’t really suffered for not having brought the hijackers’ real motives to light, but there was a blemish on his record. And if there was anything Trotter despised, it was lack of precision.
The last of the hijacking business, at least as far as concerned the bureau, came late on Friday, November 15, a full thirty-three days after the hijacking, in the form of a meeting of the minds, in a manner of speaking. It was a meeting that nevertheless was on an informal basis and was therefore never recorded. Lawrence Danielle, who had become quite aloof from the FBI’s investigation after the first few days’ flush of information and speculation, showed up at the Alexandria home of an angry Trotter who was willing, able, and just about ready to bring pressure to bear on the agency through Justice Department channels.
“I resent being toyed with like this, Lawrence,” he cried at the beginning. “You of all people surely understand that to be a policeman … an effective policeman … one needs adequate information. No source must be sacred.”
It had been a rather constant theme of his, almost from the first, when he began to realize that there was more to this business than met the eye. (Actually from the moment the woman’s photographs had revealed the type of weapons the hijackers carried.)
A Mahler symphony was playing softly on the stereo in the large, pleasant living room. Trotter had fixed them each a drink, and they sat by the fireplace. It was nearing Thanksgiving and was quite chilly. Danielle had thrown his overcoat carelessly over the back of a chair and had taken up a position on a corner of the couch. His actions and manner were irritating just then.
“There’s nothing we can do, publicly, that would help us,” Danielle began. His voice was soft. Hoarse. He sounded worn out. “In fact there are certain … shall we say, delicate matters on the burner now.”
“Christ, their shooters were signatures chiseled in stone on the cave walls for the entire world to see,” Trotter shouted. His blood pressure was rising. He could feel it. His face was flushed. “Someone is bound to make the connection.”
“That is certainly possible,” Danielle said.
“Then what do you expect of me?” Trotter said. Much later he recalled that at that moment he felt as if he were rushing headlong down a narrow, darkly blind alley. At the far end was danger. He knew it. Could feel it. Yet he could not stop himself.
“We don’t expect anything more of you than what you’ve already done, John. Just your very best effort. It is appreciated.”
Trotter rolled his eyes. He could not believe his old friend had said that. “Save that for the virgins. Just save it for the kids.”
Danielle,
who at fifty-five was ten years Trotter’s senior, sat forward, his drink cradled in his small, delicate hands. “The agency is out of this investigation as of now.”
“I’m left holding the bag. Is that what you’ve come all the way out here to tell me?”
“Let this business run its natural course—”
“Unnatural, if you ask me,” Trotter interrupted.
“The hijackers are dead, the maintenance man who supplied the weapons is gone, and the two fine Americans killed in the heat of the moment have been buried. Passions were high. Havana has apologized. Leave it at that.”
“State is pressing.”
“Let them press, John. It will pass.”
“Herbert Danson was by today, actually came by my office, sat me down like a schoolchild, and gave me my ABCs.” It still rankled. “The New York Times is pressing them for more information. It somehow leaked that there were photographs.”
Apparently unperturbed by this news, Danielle nodded. “I know,” he said. “Donald asked me to stop by tonight to have a little chat with you.”
This was the payoff then, Trotter thought. They were bloody well trying to buy him off. Christ. “Then have your chat and get the hell out of here.”
Danielle looked genuinely pained.
“I have an investigation petering out here with holes in it large enough for a Mack truck. Meanwhile, you sit over there in your palace with all the answers. At least point me in the right direction.”
Danielle nodded sadly, finished his drink, and set the glass down.
“Another?” Trotter asked, but Danielle shook his head. He seemed to be weighing his words with care.
“Norma will have dinner waiting.” He stood up and got his overcoat.
Trotter got to his feet. He felt very frustrated, yet here was an old friend whom he had wounded. “Listen, Larry, I’m sorry.”
Danielle waved off the apology. “No need for that, John, I understand. Believe me, I do.”
Trotter nodded.
Danielle was staring at him. “If there was one question …” he said.
“What?”
“If there was one question for which you had an answer, our very best answer mind you … would that help?”
Trotter would forever retain the impression that he was being manipulated at that moment by a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had known all along that their meeting would come exactly to this point. But he could not help himself. The offer was too tempting.
“They carried Soviet weapons. Where did they come from? Who supplied them with the hardware?”
“CESTA.”
The word meant nothing to Trotter, though he had a visceral feeling he knew what was coming next. “KGB?”
“More than that. The Soviets have their networks in the Caribbean. Banco de Sur, El Rodeo. But CESTA is more than that.” Danielle spoke very slowly, precisely, each word measured carefully, a rare and precious substance to be handled with the utmost respect. “CESTA is composed of the intelligence-gathering systems of all the Warsaw Pact nations, sharing responsibilities as well as product.”
“Based in Mexico City.”
Danielle nodded.
“And who runs this super organization? Who is the man in charge? The brains?”
At this Danielle shook his head. “That’s all, John. As it is, I’ve overstepped my charter.”
The symphony on the stereo was over. The silence held an ominous note.“Then let’s go after them, Larry. You and I.”
“Stay out of it, John. As one friend to another, I’m telling you to stay clear. There’ll be a lot of fallout in the months to come. The man with the clean hands and clear conscience will come out on top.”
Before Danielle turned and walked out of the room, Trotter suddenly realized that there was something about his old friend just then that he had never seen before. The way the older man held himself, the set of his shoulders, the hooded expression in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw. It took a moment, though, before Trotter recognized just what it was he had seen, and the effect on him was profound, deeper than any mere words could adequately describe. But forever afterward Trotter would swear that at that moment in time he had seen fear written all over the deputy director of Central Intelligence Agency operations.
That very night, Donald Suthland Powers stood alone at the window in his office on the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Langley complex, trying to see into the future. He was short, somewhat stoop shouldered and slight of build, with a squarish, scholarly face, thick eyebrows, and absolutely the most penetrating, intelligent blue eyes that had ever peered across the DCI’s desk. At fifty-six he wasn’t so terribly old that he had slowed down, yet he was of the age when he could begin looking back at his youth, to a time when the future was a bright penny still untarnished. Since the president had appointed him DCI a year ago, his goals had seemed very clear. At least they had until this night. Terrible goals in the sense that he was a general waging a war in which casualties were being incurred, but exciting in that the endeavor was right: his president and his nation were behind him.
He had spent most of his life in service to his government in one capacity or another, but never from such an awesome position of responsibility and never with such a strong, clearly defined mandate. For the first time, though, the future wasn’t clear to him.
“Perhaps you should speak with Trotter,” Danielle had suggested. “He’ll stand down. He’ll give us the room.”
Powers was frightened. He needed time. Use the considerable Powers charm, he counseled himself. The power of this office, of your experience and charisma. There would be a lot of fallout. Jules and Asher were only the first. They had been lost in the opening salvo. There would be more, many more. Could he stand it?
God knew he had tried to get out of the agency after his father died. For a year in Hartford, operating the Political Action Think Tank, he had very nearly succeeded. But when the president called him back to arms, he had not been surprised or very saddened. Here was where he would wage his battles. From this very fortress was where he would expiate the sins of deadly competition, nuclear confrontation, and, on a smaller but much more intensely personal scale, the murders of Jules and Asher. They would be the cry to arms. The point around which all of them would rally.
Powers had allowed himself in the years past, rising in the ranks of the agency to deputy director of intelligence before his short-lived retirement, to play the game according to the rules: to honor the status quo. Push a little in Turkey, or Iran or Lebanon, but give a little in Afghanistan, in Poland, and in the Caribbean Basin. But it was over. The honeymoon had ended. The opening shots had been fired in a war that could no longer be denied.
Kennedy had held his Cuban missile crisis. Here now was another crisis. Much subtler, perhaps, but none the less deadly for its obscurity.
Powers turned away from the window. In appearance as well as in intellect, he was reminiscent of William F. Buckley, Jr., with perhaps a bit of William Colby thrown in. He listened now to the ghosts of ten thousand decisions made from this office and wondered if, indeed, he was the right man for the job.
“Baranov,” Powers said softly, no longer able to hold the memory in check. They had done battle before, and it was said he was back in Mexico City. Back at the helm of CESTA. They said he was just an agent runner. A network man, not another Andropov, but Powers knew differently.
He looked again at the window, but this time he focused on his own reflection in the glass. He looked haggard. Worn-out. His daughter Sissy told him he wasn’t eating his Wheaties. But Katy Moss, his secretary, and Lawrence Danielle both knew the trouble … or thought they did. When you’re frightened, push ahead; it’s the only cure. Whoever had said that never sat behind this desk, Powers decided. And through the entire season he would stop at odd moments to think back to this very evening. To the beginning.
2
A frigid winter had given way to a nasty spring in Lausanne,
Switzerland. Kirk Collough McGarvey, an expatriate American in his early forties, lay awake in bed on an early April morning, morosely listening to the hiss of the rain against the windows and the breakfast sounds of Marta Fredricks in the kitchen. Tall, husky, he was the archetypical form of the disgruntled American living overseas: his hair was too long; he wore an unkempt beard; and his clothes always seemed a bit too shabby, ill-fitting, and hastily chosen. In the several years he had lived here he had taken on the manner of a somewhat bemused scholar whose concentration on his studies left little time for the more mundane day-to-day routines of modern life. In his role, he would have fit in well in the intellectual community of any university or exclusive English boarding school for gifted scholars. But it was nothing more than a role, a protective barrier against a world he figured had gone quite mad; a role that was beginning to wear quite thin, however.
Last night he had been cruel again. He and Marta had argued bitterly, and he had said some things he wished he hadn’t, no matter their truth. She had stood her ground and taken every bit of it, which had increased his blind rage.
“Fight back, for Christ’s sake,” he bellowed. “Don’t stand there taking the bullshit.” God, how he despised meek compliance. Namby-pamby subservience. Downtrodden acceptance of whatever any asshole wished to dish out.
Yesterday had been a bitch of a day. It had begun at the bookstore when a haughty Swiss customer pretended that she could not understand his French. He had turned her over to his partner, Dortmund Fuelm, whose French was nearly nonexistent. The woman, confronted with a gentleman of her own nationality, suddenly blossomed like a wilted rose having been given a fresh spray of cool water. The post had come around noon and included a longish, nasty letter from his ex-wife’s lawyer in Washington, D.C., saying that it was once again time for him to increase the amount of his alimony and child-support payments. If need be, the attorney hinted, the matter could be brought into the Swiss courts, which probably would not be effective in jarring loose money, but it would certainly be an embarrassment to him. The between-the-lines message was that the attorney was sleeping with Kathleen and was taking McGarvey’s intransigence personally. He was probably a Washington up-and-comer who deserved Kathleen, though McGarvey wondered if the poor sod understood that he was being used by a woman who was probably the most self-centered bitch in a town devoted to self-service. That very afternoon he had whipped off a particularly scathing letter, but better sense stayed him from posting it until he could calm himself down. He walked over to the Lausanne Palace Hotel for a late lunch on the terrace with its magnificent view. But his peace did not last. Dortmund’s beautiful though bratty twenty-eight-year-old daughter, Liese, had followed him and now barged right up to his table.
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