October's Ghost

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  Their options were limited. The agents, both of whom held Top Secret security clearance from their work on previous cases with national-security aspects, knew they couldn’t just call the cops in L.A. and tell them they had a hit about to go down.

  “I say it’s important enough to send it through the channel,” Testra proposed. “The director is supposed to get our stuff directly. Why not this?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Good.” Testra was relieved. The thing would be off his conscience now, but not out of mind. He was too smart a cop to think that. “Hey. Did that name sound familiar to you?”

  “What, ‘Portero’?” Sanz asked. “Yeah. There’s about ten thousand of them on my block.”

  “Smartass,” Testra commented, the name still sticking in his head but not setting off any alarm bells. He went back to his dinner, cursing the extra paperwork this would require, plus the inevitable court appearances if the L.A. cops got the word and nailed the yahoos who were dense enough to do their business over the phone. What they lacked in honor, Testra thought, criminals made up for in predictable stupidity.

  * * *

  “They blew it,” the contact said in Spanish.

  “How?” The voice on the other end was demanding.

  “Some reporter who was cozying up to Portero got picked up by the police. Our guys were supposed to check his house and get rid of him, but they screwed it up.”

  “Wonderful. And now?”

  “They’ve got the reporter under surveillance. They will verify if he has it this time.”

  “Good. And them?”

  “I said I would send someone for the tape they did get off Portero.”

  “That is a wise move. Of course, there is no reason for them to remain in our employ after that.”

  “I’ve arranged it.”

  “Very good. We must assume that Portero hid the tape then. Somewhere it would not be easily found. Otherwise we would have known by now.”

  “Right. We would have known, but it’s been quiet up North.”

  “Silence is golden.”

  The contact smiled and switched off the phone, his temper having subsided after the talk with his employer. Employer. That was a different way to think of it, but very professional, and very necessary. They were walking on a very narrow ledge, and he knew it, but things were now going to slow down. Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about the idiots on the coast, and they would soon have nothing to worry about either.

  * * *

  “We have more information, Colonel.”

  Ojeda was sitting on an empty fuel can, slicing pieces of pork jerky with a large knife and sliding them into his mouth. Paredes handed him the report just received over the satellite manpack that was his, and their, link to Langley. The four-page summary of maps and descriptions of unit movements and locations was not of the quality available from the stationary satellite terminals. That they could receive facsimile transmissions at all had been a surprise to the colonel, who had expected only verbal reports. So much the better, Antonio knew. Trust was a two-way street here, and the fact that Langley was giving this the premier treatment had established a sort of invisible chain of respect in which Paredes was the strongest link.

  “Something is wrong,” Ojeda said matter-of-factly, his jaw moving slowly as it pulverized the hard, spicy meat.

  “What is wrong?” Antonio asked, but Ojeda waved off his concern, motioning instead for Captain Manchon to come over. “Look at this.”

  Manchon studied the report, particularly the description of unit movements. “This makes no sense.”

  “Colonel, if there is some problem with the intelligence, I can contact my superiors for clarification,” Antonio offered.

  “No, Papa Tony, the intelligence as presented is adequate.” Ojeda swallowed a mouthful of jerky. “It is what it shows.”

  “Did we underestimate their strength in this area?” Antonio asked, concerned that the level of quality he had worked hard to ensure was somehow suffering.

  “No. No.” Manchon pointed to the map diagram. “These units are pulling back toward Cienfuegos. It appears they are leaving only a token force to delay us.”

  “A retreat to the city,” the CIA officer said, wondering if the situation was truly that desperate for the loyalist forces.

  “No, not to the city,” Ojeda corrected him. “They are moving too many men west, to the opposite side of the Bahia de Cienfuegos. The city itself is on the northeast shore of the bay.”

  Antonio studied the map, matching it to the one Manchon carried at all times. He wasn’t a military tactician, but the move, if it was happening, had no logic to it. The positions they appeared to be heading for at Guilermo Moncada, just fifteen miles north of his family’s former home at Juragua, were backed against several natural obstacles. The bay was one. To the south and west the swamps of the delta would block any tactical movement. In essence they were backing into a bottleneck.

  “Very peculiar, Colonel,” the captain commented, a hand rubbing his stubbled chin.

  “These are the bulk of the loyalist forces in the center of the country,” Paredes observed, checking the report for any other appreciable opposition in the area. There was none. “We have them, Colonel. It is almost over.”

  “We have always had them, Papa.” Ojeda took the map from Manchon. “Captain, is the road between here and Aguada de Pasajeros open?”

  “It is ours, sir,” the captain reported happily.

  Ojeda thought for a moment, more concern on his face than Antonio thought warranted, considering the evidence that victory would soon be theirs. “Captain, I want one battalion to continue the move south toward Cienfuegos. I want them to press hard. Make it Captain Cresada’s battalion. The rest of the force we will move west to Aguada de Pasajeros, then swing east to attack from the position we should not be in.”

  Manchon pondered it for a moment. “It is bold, and it carries risks. Many risks.”

  Antonio decided to add his own cautionary tone to the analysis. “The battle is yours, Colonel Ojeda. The war is almost won. To risk delaying the outcome, is that necessary?”

  Ojeda took the concerns not as an insult to his leadership or tactical decisions, but as questions from those not versed as he in the rigidity and predictability of the comrade commanders he now faced in battle. “Their moves are not logical, nor are they smart. They are not by the book.” He saw Manchon nod slightly. “That worries me. Papa Tony, when is a wounded animal most dangerous?”

  “When it is cornered, of course.” Antonio still didn’t grasp the totality of the colonel’s thought.

  “Correct.” Ojeda slid the knife into its sheath on his belt and stood, pulling his green fatigue cap on. “Unless it is a possum playing dead.”

  It was now clear to the CIA officer. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now it is time to kill this beast before it wakes from its false slumber.”

  * * *

  He rated a non-assigned space in the employee lot on the north side of Langley’s two-hundred-acre complex. That was rarely a problem, as the hour he arrived at work was long past the time when the rest of the Agency’s workforce had left for their suburban Maryland and Virginia homes. Those nice, big brick things that he had driven past many times and dreamed. Just dreamed. Fifteen years, and he still could only dream.

  And he worked like a dog. But that wasn’t good enough. No. They had to move him to the graveyard shift to fill the space that some long timer had retired from to spend his time with some stupid powerboat he always crooned about. Now he couldn’t even spend the night with his wife. Twelve years of marriage, and he had to spend it away from her. That wasn’t right. They didn’t even ask him if he wanted to change shifts. No. Just did it. And still for the same damn money thanks to the damn shift differential being yanked because of the budget mess. Wonderful. They spend their money like idiots, and who has to pay?

  But that was just the reality of it. Only the big shots got the frosting on
the cake. Not the real workers. His head shook with disgust enough for ten men.

  So, he had sought his own remuneration for the years he had been underpaid and the recent times when he had gotten the shaft. He was now a big shot. What he did mattered to someone, and that someone was willing to pay for it. Just another way to reap the benefits of government service, he thought, pushing his hands deep in his coat pockets as he walked through the chilly night air toward the workers’ entrance.

  His name was Sam Garrity. He was, in simple terms, a spy. He was also a janitor.

  The laughability of it all was enough to make him smile wide as he passed through the first security checkpoint on his way to the seventh floor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PARRY AND THRUST

  “You’re going over when, Thursday next week?” Bud asked.

  “Leaving late Wednesday,” Secretary of State James Coventry answered. He lifted his briefcase onto the coffee table in the NSA’s office and opened it. Pieces of furniture meant for more congenial purposes had been warped into usage as map tables, surrogate desks during crises, and, most commonly, as feeding troughs for the assorted visiting non-dignitaries. Bud’s dark cherry model was piled with stacks of briefing and position papers on the proposed retargeting agreements. “Here,” Coventry said, unloading another stack for the wide-eyed NSA.

  “Thanks,” Bud said, running his hand over his head to the back of his neck, where he pressed tightly on the muscles. A quick neck rotation completed the attempt at relief.

  “This is everything I have on the British side of this. There’s some interesting stuff going back to parliamentary discussions about the initial Polaris deployment.” Coventry was well known for his level of preparedness, a process he seemingly accomplished with ease. Bud knew better. The man worked his ass off, rarely relying solely on his staff to research important matters. As such, he expected that everyone else would be as prepared. It was motivating, and, at times, maddening.

  “You want me to look it over?” It was an unnecessary question, Bud knew. But at least he could hope.

  “If you could. Let me know if there’s anything you think should be—”

  The NSA’s phone buzzed. He stood from the small couch and went around the desk, sitting before picking it up. “DiContino.”

  “Bud, it’s Gordy. I’ve got a call you better take.” FBI Director Gordon Jones sounded out of breath.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “One of my agents in Los Angeles has something you had better hear. His name’s Art Jefferson.”

  Jefferson. Yeah. Bud remembered from the debriefing conferences after the Flight 422 hijacking. He was the guy in L.A. who found the person who helped the assassins and... Had a heart attack after his partner was shot. Went back to street duty. Supposed to be a pit bull when it came to investigations. “Yeah, I remember him.” Bud checked his watch. It was already after ten on the East Coast, nearing the end of another nineteen-hour day. “Urgent?”

  “I’m afraid so, Bud.” Jones went very quiet. “We may have big trouble in Cuba.”

  Cuba? Bud looked at the phone. The call had come in on a secure line. “What the hell is going on?”

  Coventry perked up and was waved over by Bud. The NSA reached into his desk drawer and retrieved a plug-in headset for the phone. He attached it and handed it to the secretary.

  “Jefferson’s on another line. I’m going to put him through.”

  “Okay. I’ve got Jim Coventry here on the extension.”

  “What’s up?” Coventry asked.

  Cuba, Bud mouthed, for which he got an appropriate Oh, shit in response.

  “Hello?”

  “Jefferson? This is Bud DiContino. How is the connection?”

  “Fine, sir. I’m in the Los Angeles field off—”

  “Director Jones told me where you are. What is going on?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  Five minutes later, after a call to the White House Library to soothe his doubts, Bud had no choice but to believe that which he would rather have dreamed.

  * * *

  Art Jefferson sealed the original cassette in a security pouch and handed it to two agents. “LAX fast. A plane is waiting.”

  The investigation was no longer only the search for the murderers of a federal officer. It was now much more, though only the three agents who had heard the tape and the Deputy A-SAC were privy to what was actually happening. All the others knew was that the Melrose Hit was now something beyond even a priority-one investigation.

  Art turned to the eight teams remaining around his cubicle. The rest had already been dispatched on various assignments. “Okay. We don’t have much time. We have to find the shooters, and we have to find Sullivan. You all have a picture of him, and Frankie passed around the computer sketches of our perps. But the best thing we have on them right now is the car. License is no good, but they had to get it somewhere. If it’s a stolen, there’s probably a report. No one with a new car would not miss it if it was gone this long.”

  “Unless they were quieted, too,” one of the agents surmised.

  “We’ll deal with that if we come to it. If it’s not a stolen, then it probably was a rental. We have a good description, so the rental agencies might give us something on that front. What we need are names. Names.” Art’s stare was motivating and somewhat frightening. “We need to know who these guys are.”

  “What about the van you saw at the hit?”

  “Nothing there,” Frankie answered. “Haven’t been able to locate the R.O. of it. Your thought about a dead owner not saying anything may be true on this one, but we just don’t know.”

  The time was slipping away. Art knew the bureaucrats in D.C. would be playing their games, wasting time before acting, but he was not about to let that happen here. He had heard the tape. It was real to him. Let them debate its authenticity, he thought. He had better things to do. “You have your assignments. Let’s get to it.”

  Within a minute the teams were gone from Art and Frankie’s area. Two would be going directly to Parker Center, headquarters of the LAPD, to begin running computer checks on stolen vehicles that might match the one they were after. The other six would be hitting the phones, contacting every car-rental company in the county and some outside of it.

  Art and his partner had another avenue to follow.

  “Did Bill give it to you?”

  Frankie handed it over. “Quite a list. Sullivan is the consummate bar-hopper.”

  The list was twenty names long, denoting every watering hole or lounge Sullivan was known to frequent by his co-workers. “We won’t make it any shorter by sitting here.” Art took the keys from the desk. “I’ll drive.”

  “Good,” Frankie said. “Not my favorite thing, you know.”

  “Driving?”

  “No. Looking for some drunk at a bar.” Frankie put her coat on. “Did enough of that shit with my ex.”

  “Well, you don’t have to take this one home with you.”

  Thank God for small miracles, Aguirre thought.

  * * *

  “What does he want?” Merriweather asked, noting that it was ten minutes past the time he had planned to leave for his late flight down to Florida to meet with the CFS representatives.

  Greg Drummond sat across the room from his boss, the long fingers of clouds backlit by the moon visible through the DCI’s seventh-floor office window. “He said it was urgent. He can make calls like this.”

  The DCI grunted. He had little time for men like DiContino, and afforded even less to those lower on the political totem pole. His office, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, was a Cold War relic that could be done away with in Merriweather’s estimation.

  “Pete’s back tomorrow?” The DCI inquired. Deputy Director of Central Intelligence Pete Miner, the Agency’s number-two man, was in Seoul to brief the new South Korean president on the elusive, but very real, nuclear weapons program in the North. Miner was th
e occupant of an equally unnecessary position in the DCI’s mind. An agency properly run could do with fewer layers at the top. Oh, well. He still had plenty of time to turn Langley’s 1950s-vintage machinery into a more efficient operation for the turn of the century.

  “A week from tomorrow,” Drummond corrected. So he’s no use to you, either. “He’s stopping off in Japan after Seoul.”

  “Of course.” The intercom buzzed, but it was not to be answered. “He’s here. About time. I asked the desk to give me some warning. Ready for the show?” Merriweather smiled as if he expected the DDI to understand.

  Bud DiContino walked in, his hands empty. He closed the door behind with a forceful shove. Easy, Bud. “Anthony. Greg. Your Cuban operation just walked through my door.”

  “What?” the DCI asked, not really caring what the NSA was about to say, but curious as to what would motivate a desperate display such as this. You weren’t supposed to be a hothead, DiContino.

  Bud took a seat in one of the wing backs next to the DDI. “The Russians may have left Cuba in ‘62 one missile short.”

  “What!” Drummond practically yelled, looking to his boss. The man had an almost bewildered stare on his face.

  “And where did you come upon this information, James?” Merriweather inquired, instinctively jotting notes on his legal pad, his manner still outwardly cool.

  “The FBI in Los Angeles was investigating the murder of one of their agents and of another man—actually more of an elimination—who turned out to be an assistant to Castro’s Russian-language interpreter during the missile crisis. His killers were apparently after a tape he was in possession of, but they didn’t get it. The agents did.”

  “And you believe this man’s assertion of who he was.”

  “I checked it out, Anthony. The library pulled the Officials, Officers, and Contacts for ‘62. Listed as the number-two man for Russian translations was Francisco Portero, now a very dead corpse in the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office. He also had diplomatic status with the UN until a year ago. That was when he defected.”