Jacobs laughed, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Good old CCR and Doors kind of stuff. We mostly played frat parties, and we weren’t very good. But”—he let out a wistful breath—“I got into recording gear. This stuff, right here, is my passionate closet hobby. My wife loves me when I crank it up.”
Art couldn’t believe it. It reinforced his belief that it was damn near impossible to paint someone with a broad brush, because you inevitably missed some of the more porous areas of their character.
“We’re set,” Jacobs announced. “Frankie, I’m going to have you speak into this microphone. It’s hooked up to this second deck. That way we’ll have a preliminary translation on tape. We can get a real detailed one tomorrow.”
“I’m ready, but remember I was raised with barrio Spanish, so this may be rough.”
“Confidence in you, partner.” Art took out his notebook and pen. “Hit it, Dan.”
There were a few seconds of alternating static and silence before the meat of the tape began. Frankie translated the words as they were spoken.
“The date is October twenty-eighth, 1962. Tape one, reel one, Alejandro Cortez is the... the interpreter.”
There was an obvious stop in the recording after the verbal date stamp, a common practice in official recordings.
“Portero was Cortez’s assistant,” Art told Jacobs, recalling the fax from State.
“Good evening, Premier Khrushchev.” Frankie’s eyes went wide, a second voice converting the words into another language—Russian, she thought. A response in Russian came quickly.
“Good evening, nothing! You are a thief, Castro! A thief!”
There was laughing from the Spanish speaker, the one referred to as...Castro? “You spoke to my brother, I gather. A thief, you call me? Then I shall call you a coward. You let the Americans walk all over you. You come here—”
“You cannot—”
“No! You will listen to me. Premier Khrushchev! I have heard enough of your boasts, and your promises, and your lies.” Frankie could imagine him gesturing grandly. “You came here to thumb your nose at the Americans, and as soon as that pig Kennedy stands up to you, you crumble. Like a brittle piece of glass. The smallest amount of pressure made you break.”
“You have no right to challenge the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics this way! No right on this earth!”
“I have every right, just as every person in my country has a right to expect protection when it has been promised. Promised by you. By YOU!”
“This will not be tolerated, Castro. You cannot expect to come away from this with what you have taken, or with your life.”
“Then take it back. Come take your precious missile back!”
“What!” Art said aloud, his eyes finding those of the other two agents. They were as huge as his.
“I am waiting, Premier Khrushchev. I am waiting.... Come take it. Let the world see that not only can the United States of America make you bow, but let them see that a small country—an ally, no less—can make you kneel. Let the world see this.”
There was a long pause, time enough for the agents’ imaginations to shift into high gear. The scenarios envisioned were all equally frightening.
“President Castro—”
“Do not think that because you suddenly use my title that you can stroke me like a lover. No, no, no.”
“What do you want? What will make you return our property?”
“It is no longer your property. It is ours. It will remain ours.”
“You cannot keep it. I cannot—”
“You can, and you will have to. It is all very easy to explain to your government, Premier Khrushchev. When my soldiers captured the missile, they killed all the crew, and the security troops, of course. Tragic, yes, but necessary. And there was a devastating explosion of the fueling trucks very soon after. It consumed everything. You see, Premier Khrushchev, there is nothing to send back. It is very convenient for you. I will obviously not reveal anything. The only reason anyone would ever know of our acquisition would be if I must use the weapon to defend the Revolution.”
“But... But... President Castro, it is an atomic weapon. How can I. . .”
“You have no choice. None. If you go to war over this, you will lose. How will your other allies see their benevolent protector if you crush a small country such as my own? You know what they will do. You will have revolt along your borders. Is it worth this, Premier Khrushchev? Is it?”
“I must...”
“Your Politburo will not understand. This secret is yours, and it is mine.”
“It will remain as such?”
“It will. We can even send you the bodies of your soldiers who died so tragically. They can be transported from La Isabela with their associated units. A fine funeral for the heroes will placate your Politburo.”
“No. No. There must be no hint of bodies. I suggest that they were consumed in the fire. Dispose of them as you wish.”
“They were soldiers, following orders. They will receive a fine burial.”
Again there was silence on the tape, but none of the agents spoke. What was there to say, other than a few choice expletives that could scarcely express the gravity of what they had just heard?
“Yes, I hope that they... that they will. I hope that...”
“It is done, then, Premier Khrushchev. Done.”
“Yes. Yes. It must be.”
“It is. Good-bye.”
The sound of the connection being broken clicked loudly.
“Lock the tape away, Alejandro. The good premier is not to be trusted. His memory of what transpired here may need to be refreshed someday.”
“Yes, Presidente.”
A shift from static to total nothingness signaled the end of the recording. Jacobs slid his headset off and stopped both tape decks, hitting the Rewind button next. Frankie and Art pulled theirs off a second later.
“Oh, my God,” Frankie said, summing up the collective feelings completely.
“Can this really be true?” Jacobs asked, wondering just who could answer the question.
“I don’t know,” Art answered, afraid to be more certain. “I’ve heard early tapes of Castro’s speeches. That sounded like him.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed, her head swinging slowly from side to side. “But how could that be... I mean, if it is true, then there could still be...”
“I know.” Art shifted his thoughts from the past to the present, not wanting to deal with the future quite yet. “This puts a more sinister spin on the shooters who hit Portero. You may have been right before—they could be working for the Cubans. There certainly is a motive for the silencing aspect of this now.”
“Jesus.” Frankie had never wanted to get into the counterintelligence stuff the Bureau had to deal with, but now an uglier side of it appeared to be rearing up right in front of her. “If so, then Sullivan could be in more danger than we thought. Much more.”
There was no hesitation in Art’s response. “Get downstairs and sit with him. Don’t let him out of your sight. They’ve already proved they’ll kill for this.”
Frankie needed no more prompting. She was out of the TS lab and hitting the stairs a few seconds later.
“Dan, you say nothing of this. Clear?”
“Hey, who the hell would believe me?” He popped the two cassettes from their respective machines. “Do you want copies?”
“Yeah. Two of each.”
“All right. There’ll be a little degradation, remember. That recording is at least a second-generation copy made from the original reel tapes.”
“Okay. Okay.” Art was thinking fast, trying to plot the proper avenues of action in his head before setting anything in motion. It was quite a foreign manner of operation for him in this type of situation. “I’ve got to get in touch with the director. This has to go to him.”
Dan knew that the special agent in charge, William Killeen, was not keen on having street agents go over his head. “What about Bill?”
>
“Remember the SAC conference.” The Bureau’s SACs were gathering at the academy in Quantico, Virginia, for a so-called budget summit. Everybody was feeling the heat. “You think this can wait with what’s going on down there?”
“Not my call.” Jacobs thought for a moment. “What about Lou? He’s in town.”
Step by step, Art. “You’re right.”
“He can give you the go over the phone. He’d have to.”
Shit. “No, that won’t work. This has got to go over a secure line. He doesn’t have one.” Lou Hidalgo, Art’s boss’s boss, lived in Mission Viejo, a good hour away. Too far. Too long to wait. “I’ve got to do this.”
“Like I said, your call,” Jacobs cautioned.
Frankie burst through the door to the lab. “He’s gone!”
“Gone?” Art stood quickly. “To fucking where?”
“Don’t know,” Frankie answered, her breaths coming fast and hard. “The lobby guard said he saw him leave about ten ago.”
Dammit. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him.” The senior agent let the rush pass, measuring his breathing, just as he was supposed to do. You idiot, Jefferson! “Okay, get a bulletin out. I want a protective warrant issued for Sullivan.” He paused again, straining to regain his composure, knowing he would need it when talking to the man who had authorized his de facto demotion a year before for pushing limits that he shouldn’t have.
Art Jefferson knew this could be construed as similar behavior, but he didn’t really give a damn at the moment. He was doing what he had to...his job.
* * *
“There is a problem.”
General Asunción studied the Russian’s expression. “What problem? It will not work?”
Anatoly Vishkov shook his head. “It will work, but you can not carry out a complete fueling of the booster.” He pointed to the series of valves and gauges that were connected to the underground storage tanks for the fuel and oxidizer three hundred meters distant. “There is contamination in the tanks.”
“What!” It was not a question, for no answer would truly be acceptable. “How?”
Vishkov wiped his hands on a rag, rubbing it nervously. “Water, I believe. But there is more. I will show you.”
Asunción followed the physicist to the mass of gauges and flow meters that would allow the weapon to be fueled.
“The fuel gauge indicates one hundred and eight thousand kilograms of propellant. Here, see?”
“I see. What of it?”
“There are only supposed to be an even one hundred thousand kilos of UDMH,” Vishkov reported, referring to the undimensional dimethyl hydrazine. “A similar reading comes from the NTO tank.” That contained the oxidizer, nitrogen tetroxide. “I suspect that rains of a week ago infiltrated through a rupture in the upper portion of the tanks.”
“So the water makes the fuel useless?” the general asked disgustedly.
“Not the water, so much, as the soil residue that was sure to seep in also.” Vishkov tossed the rag onto the tree of silver pipes and valves. “Filters and traps will remove the water and residue, but the soils here are high in nitrates. It is a process of the swamps to the east and natural fertilization. There was certainly a nitrate infiltration, which can upset the balance of the oxidizer to the fuel. We cannot know how much the ratio has been altered, so fueling the booster would contaminate the internal tanks.” He paused, thinking on the increasing sounds of explosions. “Any attempt to actually fire it would likely fail.”
The general turned away, taking a few steps toward the weapon that had become his life, his friend, and now his nemesis. “What can we do?”
“We need fresh fuel and oxidizer,” he said to Asunción’s back, cursing the stupid decision he had made to not use the storable liquid propellants as they were intended, leaving them in the booster tanks for long periods. But that still would have required occasional draining and flushing, a process made difficult by the lack of trained personnel. No, this had been the right decision, to store them away from the missile, but now the problems associated with his prudence would require remedying. “We will have to pump directly from any trucks that bring them.”
Asunción looked to his right and nodded to his assistant, signaling that the Russian’s suggestion should be carried out. To secure the needed materials in this situation would be a tremendous undertaking, but it would have to be done. The refinery at Los Guaos would have to come through. “But the other systems are ready?”
“Awaiting only a target,” Vishkov said, letting his suspicions surface for the first time.
The Cuban turned quickly back, signaling with a toss of his thumb to get the Russian back to his maximum security villa at Castillo de Jagua. He would enjoy his life there for but a few more hours, then that would end. One death plus a million, Asunción thought, looking at the tower of destruction standing before him and wondering what deserving population center would be the recipient of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHISPERS
Jorge picked the phone up on the first ring. “Yes.”
“Why did you page me?”
Tomás noticed the discomfort on his partner’s face. Lights from passing cars were distorted as they filtered through the phone booth’s cheap glass, casting unflattering shadows on his already scarred face.
“We have the reporter in sight. He’s in a bar in—”
“What the hell are you doing anywhere near him? Why is he still alive? His house, what did you find?”
The questions came rapid-fire, leaving Jorge little time to flower his answers. “There was nothing at his house; we turned it upside down. For some reason he was at the cops—”
“The WHAT!”
Tomás heard the shout from where he stood, the traffic noise not sufficient to drown out the sound from three thousand miles away. He was glad it was Jorge having to deal with their contact, much preferring the task of watching the bar’s front door down the street.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, okay? Our source at the paper told us the cops had him,” Jorge explained, careful not to mention the FBI. It would only make their contact more volatile. “So we staked it out and waited. At least he turned up, so we can find out once and for all from him if he has the tape.”
“If he had the tape, then the police would have it now, you dumb fuck!”
“Hey!” Jorge turned away from the booth’s opening, looking downward. “You want to come out here and clean this up? We aren’t idiots, man. Do you think the cops would have let him walk out of there if he gave them the tape? He’s a reporter, man. They’ve got that fucked up code of ethics and shit. Never reveal a source or anything. They like talking to cops about as much as I do.”
“All right. All right. Just find out if the guy has it.”
“No problem. When he leaves the bar, we’re gonna take him.”
“Do it right. Where are you staying? The location?”
“Why do you want that? You’re not supposed t—”
“Don’t fucking question me! I’m sending someone out to get the tape you do have. Understand?”
Asshole. Jorge reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the motel key, reading off the address and room number from the tab. “We switched places this morning. Anything else?”
“Don’t page me anymore unless it’s important.” The line went dead.
Jorge stepped from the booth and sat on the car hood, rolling his neck three full times. “They don’t pay us enough, man.”
“Your blood boils too easy, Jorge. Relax.” Tomás checked the bar’s front again. “This guy ain’t got nothing. We pop him, then it’s done with.”
“We make sure he’s got nothing,” Jorge corrected. It was a job, after all, and he’d never blown one yet.
“Then we pop him,” Tomás reiterated, hoping for a clean end to it all.
“Whatever.”
* * *
Testra pulled one earphone off and set the Italian sub down on its paper wrappe
r. “Did that sound like a setup to you?”
“Yep,” Sanz answered, his reply distorted by the mouthful of meatball sandwich. He paged through the phone-activity record they’d received from the phone company, then swallowed. “A good number of calls to L.A. numbers, especially lately.” He looked at the recipient codes, which showed only the type of station called— residence, business, public phone, or cellular. To find out any more, they would need additional warrants. “All phone booths. That’s funny—the only ones not to phone booths are the ones to Panama.”
Testra was looking at his copy of the records. It was as if their subject was operating some kind of switchboard. “They paged him, huh? Clean. These guys he’s dealing with send the phone-booth number to him by pager, then he calls them back. Smooth.” He flipped through the activity log to earlier dates. “Lots to L.A. lately. Some Miami. A lot in D.C., too. All phone booths.”
Sanz recalled the conversation just heard. “Reporter. A setup.” He shook his head. “We come looking for espionage, and what do we find? The same old shit.” Drug hit, he thought. Coseros was mixed up in enough of that to spill over this way. His and his partners’ work on the Coseros case had gotten them onto this one, with the anticipation that the leak and the Panamanian were connected. Slime was everywhere, he figured.
“Smoking gun, but not what we’re looking for,” Testra said.
The agents, both Bureau veterans, knew they had just heard a murder being planned.
“Well, if this goes nowhere else, at least we can pop him on conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Yeah, but until then, what do we do with this?” Their wiretap warrant was issued under a national-security request, effectively sealing everything they heard and recorded from the moment it arrived in room 145.
Sanz thought on that, taking another bite of his dinner. “The same old shit. No variety to this job at all.” They couldn’t just let a murder in the planning stages, possibly close to being carried out, sit under a federal seal. “We gotta go to the SAC.”
“Can’t,” Testra said. “He’s at that get-together in Quantico. Went up a day early.”
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