October's Ghost

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “Because they knew about the missile,” Healy revealed.

  “How?” Bud and Drummond asked simultaneously.

  “I can’t tell you exactly how,” the DDO said, the word “can’t” obviously translatable to “won’t.” “But Anthony received word soon after Portero came over that he had a story about the missile, and some sort of proof. A month later the person who informed Anthony about this was told to develop amnesia about the entire affair.”

  “And you cured that, correct?”

  Healy didn’t respond right away. “Something like that.”

  “Bud, we suspected from some of the wiretap transcripts that Anthony might have known, but we didn’t know how,” Drummond said. “Now we do.”

  “So the CFS learned about Portero from Garrity.”

  “And they must have contacted him,” the DDI finished the NSA’s thought.

  “And believed him,” Bud added further. “And now we’re about to put a group of corrupt scum in charge of an entire country.”

  “With a nuclear weapon,” Healy said.

  “Not once we’re through with it.” The NSA’s words were like a wall of determination, impossible to breach. “That was obviously what they thought, but they can forget it.”

  “Gordy, with what we have right now, who can we nail?” the DDI asked.

  “Just who you have. That’s it.”

  “But we can’t let those guys take power in Cuba! The rebellion is going to succeed, probably within twenty-four hours, from what the reports tell us.”

  “Greg, it isn’t as easy as that,” Bud said. “These men have been given the tacit approval of the United States government to assume power in their country. By your boss, by the Congress, by the President. If we toy and prevent that without an absolute certainty of being able to prove their involvement in this, we will all be out of a job.”

  “A fucking job, Bud?” Drummond practically yelled. “We’re talking about the leadership of a country!”

  “Not the same one, Greg. I’m talking about our own. Possibly others,” Bud said. A strong American government sometimes meant a stronger government somewhere else—like Moscow. “If we arbitrarily stop Alvarez from assuming power and can’t justify it, the whole thing will point first at your boss, then at you and everyone at Langley, then at Jim Coventry for helping broker the arrangements, then at me for not knowing, then, my friend, the finger will point right at the President for approving the fiasco in the first place.”

  “So, what, we just let things happen as planned?” Drummond said with mild sarcasm.

  “No,” Bud countered. “But we have to do it right We have to be able to nail something criminal on them. If we can do that, we can stop this thing and deflect a good deal of the criticism that will follow in any case right on your boss, where it belongs.”

  “The President will still feel the heat,” Healy said.

  “He can handle it if he can show that he took immediate steps once evidence of illegal activities was discovered. Otherwise,” Bud went on, “nothing he does will matter. The press will crucify him. And so will everyone else, right or wrong.”

  “We have to get Anthony out, too,” Healy said.

  “Has he done anything other than make a bad decision?” Jones inquired.

  “Legally, no,” Drummond answered. “He hasn’t violated any security rules either.”

  “Greg!”

  “Mike, what do we have?”

  “So the CFS goes and Anthony stays?” Healy could be heard falling back in his chair.

  “Now wait. Anthony is secondary right now.” Bud knew his observation, though right, would not find favor with the DDO. “We have to—”

  A few rapid knocks at the NSA’s door preceded its opening. “Bud, there’s—”

  “Nick,” Bud said, one hand covering the phone and his eyes asking what the interruption was for.

  “Sorry, but there’s a call from an Agent Jefferson,” the deputy NSA said. “He said he couldn’t get through to the director. Then he got a hold of Ellis, and Ellis said you’d want this right away. Jefferson said to tell you he has another tape.”

  “Another tape of what?”

  Beney shrugged. “Your flashing line. Do you want it?”

  Bud drew in a short breath. All the unknowns were coming together, and instead of making the situation clearer, they were complicating it. Now this, whatever “this” was. “I’ll take it.” Bud removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “The three of you hold on for a minute.” He put them on hold and pressed the flashing line. “This is DiContino.”

  “Sir, Director Jones’s secretary would not put me through because he’s on a call,” Art explained.

  “With me. What’s this about another tape?”

  “Of Francisco Portero discussing the missile.”

  “With who?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I know I’ve heard the voice before, at a speech.”

  “Who, Jefferson?”

  “I think it’s the director of Central Intelligence, Anthony Merriweather.”

  A momentary void of silence greeted the FBI agent’s disclosure. “Discussing the missile?”

  “Yes. It sounds like Portero recorded a phone conversation with Merriweather.”

  Bud thought quickly. This might be what was needed to do what mere suspicion could not. “Any warning beeps?”

  “None,” Art answered. In order for phone conversations to be legally recorded without a wiretap warrant, both parties had to be knowledgeable of and agree to its being done. In addition, a distinct beep had to sound every fifteen seconds as a reminder that the conversation was being recorded.

  It was just a shot. Merriweather would never have allowed himself to be recorded talking to Portero. And a surreptitious recording without a warrant was blatantly inadmissible as evidence. But as evidence of what? Even this wasn’t illegal. Borderline improper and damned stupid without a doubt, but that wasn’t enough. Bud wanted Merriweather gone as much as Mike Healy. His remaining in the picture while the CFS was being accused—and telling all, no doubt, to bring down anyone else with them— would point to the President harboring the man responsible for their recruitment. He had to go, but how? Recordings or not, there wasn’t enough on him to force him out. Or on the CFS, Bud reminded himself. With all the technology and all the manpower they had at their disposal, time was the one obstacle he could not see them being able to surmount. Merriweather and the CFS had to be dealt with before the time came for the changing of the guard in Cuba, or not at all.

  “I appreciate you letting me know, Jefferson, but you know as well as I that you’re describing an illegal recording.”

  “I know, but...he’s the director of the CIA. Are you saying that he can just talk about a potential national-security issue over an open phone line, and no one is gonna care?”

  “I don’t care if he’s God, Jefferson. We can’t use it, even if it is him and he’s discussing something he shouldn’t.” Bud knew that even this wasn’t beyond the bounds of legal, though it would certainly take Anthony down if it could be admitted as evidence in a case against one of the others. “If he had been warned he was being recorded, then that...” A thought occurred instantly, and Bud seized it before going on. “...that would have been different.” Very different.

  “So this means nothing?” Art asked with irritation.

  Bud didn’t notice the tone. The thought he had had a second before had become an idea, which was playing over and over in his mind. After a few seconds the idea became a plan, with both a beginning and an end. And with participants.

  “Maybe not,” Bud said. He checked the time. It would have to happen fast, preferably before Delta’s operation was over. And it would have to be quiet. Beyond even hushed. Entirely because half of what he was envisioning was more unethical than anything Anthony had done. But Bud was willing to step over that line for this. In fact, he looked forward to it. For this the circle could not expand, meaning he would h
ave to use people already in the loop to tighten it around the necks of two different men. “Jefferson, your partner knows about this, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hang on.” Bud gave the same direction to the other three still waiting and dialed the NMCC. “This is NSA DiContino. Give me the secretary.”

  “Bud.”

  “Drew, I need a fast plane for two in the Los Angeles area, pronto.”

  “What? Bud, we’re kind of busy here,” Meyerson said. “Delta is on their way, the Russians have their ABM system on alert, and you’ve got us crossing wires like some telephone-switching crew.”

  “Christ, Drew!” Bud drew back and cooled down. “Look, I don’t have time to explain. Not now. Please. Something fast that can get across the country.”

  “Just a minute.” The minute was only thirty seconds, thanks to the ability of the National Military Command Center to almost instantly locate a piece of hardware any where on the globe. “All right. I’ve got a VC-Twenty-one at Los Alamitos. It’s CINCPAC’s plane. He’s on a visit, and he’s not gonna be happy with you taking it.”

  “Thank you, Drew. I’ll call you back in a minute with a flight plan for it.” He brought Jefferson back up. “Okay, you and your partner get out to Los Alamitos, and fast. I don’t care how.”

  “Sir, my partner was just involved in a—”

  “I don’t give a damn what he was involved in, just—”

  “She, sir,” Art said loudly. “Her name is Frankie Aguirre, and she just shot three bad guys dead. Okay?”

  Bud knew he had to come down from the high his mind had put him in. “I’m sorry, Jefferson. But this is very, very important, and we can’t let anyone else in on it. You and your partner are already in, and what needs to be done is a nonevent.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Bud explained it briefly. “Do you have a problem doing this?”

  Art remembered what he had done to protect Bill Sturgess from a legal system that could not comprehend his anguish. Now he would have to lie again, actually just not tell, about a similar act, though this time a quite opposite goal was the motivation. “I can do it.”

  “And your partner?”

  “No problem.”

  “Good. You’ll get more instructions in the air.” Bud went back to his conference call. “Sorry, but it was well worth the interruption.”

  “What was it?” Jones asked.

  “A couple of your agents in L.A. got a recording from Portero’s killers that has Anthony listening to Portero tell the story of the missile. Problem is, it’s an illegal recording.”

  “Christ!” Healy swore. “Why are we tiptoeing around this? Legal, illegal. I know we have to follow basic principles, but Anthony is the highest intelligence officer in the land, and he’s fucked things up royally. God knows what his backdoor shit is going to cost us in the long run, and I mean lives, not dollars!”

  “Mike...”

  “Greg, he’s right,” Bud said. “Gordy, the agents who handled the wiretap—can we use them for something?”

  “For what?”

  Bud told him without attempting any justification of his plan. “I’m leaving out what follows.”

  The director of the FBI wasn’t a rocket scientist, but then he didn’t have to be to take the NSA’s thought process to a conclusion. “You know that’s a crime.”

  “I haven’t said anything,” Bud pointed out correctly. “The part your agents will play is completely legal. What comes next—”

  “I’ll handle,” Greg Drummond said, jumping in. It was also clear to him, and it would be a pleasure.

  “I suggest you do not know the rest, Gordy.”

  Jones was a lifelong Bureau man, sworn to uphold the law. He had a particular dislike of those in government who used their positions to skirt the rules of society that John and Jane Q. Public were bound to follow. And he was a pragmatist above all else. He also could not forget that he had once run interference for a colleague who’d taken too much of a liking to the tables in Atlantic City while involved in an undercover operation. Looking the other way was infinitely easier than bearing false witness, but no less challenging for the soul. “I’ll inform the agents down South personally,” the director said, hanging up immediately.

  “I can do this, Greg,” Bud offered.

  “Right. With that missile still there and the Russians on the edge.”

  He was right. Bud’s place was in D.C., with the man who would be making decisions, not running off to involve himself in something that he should be physically removed from. “You’ll have to face him down, Greg.”

  “Bud, I’ve been in this town a long time. Longer than you, even. If there is one person out of all the shitheads that I am not afraid to tangle with, it’s Anthony Merriweather. I think I’ll even enjoy it.”

  Bud wondered if any man could enjoy destroying another at the moment of its happening. He was also suddenly glad that it wasn’t going to be him doing it.

  “If this all works, then we have a new problem,” the DDO pointed out. “Who is going to take the reins in Cuba?”

  “I’ll talk to Jim,” Bud said. “He brokered the original agreement. Maybe he has some idea on this. And you, Mike, you need to get in touch with your man in Cuba.”

  “I guess they will want to know there’s been a change.” Healy considered something for a second. “It might be good if Jim and I do the talking together.”

  “Good idea.” Bud took another look at the time. “You better get a move on, Greg. We need you in position to coordinate.”

  “On my way.”

  Both CIA men hung up together. Bud kept the phone in his hand and rang the office of the chief of staff. “Ellis, listen. I need to see the Boss again.”

  “You just left him.”

  “Get him back to the Oval Office,” Bud mildly demanded.

  Gonzales realized he shouldn’t argue, considering the way the “request” was delivered. “It’s done. Is this about Jefferson’s call?”

  “What call?” Bud asked, his tone hinting at the answer he expected.

  “Oh.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FORCES

  “The advance scouts are turning south toward Juragua,” the radioman reported as he walked, the heavy radio and its whip antennae bouncing with each quick step.

  Colonel Ojeda, a third of the way back in the twin columns that totaled three hundred men, considered the situation and his mission briefly before responding. “Order them to cross the highway to the east and prepare an ambush. In one hour they are to spring the trap and set up a defense to draw the loyalists to them.”

  A defense? Antonio thought, the unfamiliar rifle suddenly feeling very present in his hands. With twenty-five men?

  “They know, Papa Tony,” Ojeda answered, the look on the CIA officer’s face asking the question he had heard many times. Those for whom command was an unknown often expressed horror at the thought of their fellow men used in a sacrificial maneuver. Leaders of warriors, however, lived with the horror of having to do so.

  Antonio switched the rifle from hand to hand and cinched the straps that held his satellite manpack snug against his back. He looked away from the colonel, focusing on the rutted dirt track ahead and trying to think of something other than the scouts. Twenty-five men four miles ahead, all about to give their lives. A hundred more immediately in front of him and twice that number behind. He found himself wondering how many would survive what was to come, and whether he would be among the living. Or would he join his father as yet another casualty in the struggle to free his homeland?

  A staccato burst of fire from the front ended Antonio’s questioning. Ojeda reached out and pushed him down to the right. He fell on his side, consciously protecting the satellite radio from impact damage. Looking up, he could see the lead element of the column running left into the cane fields and right for the edge of the marsh. A half-dozen men had fallen by Antonio’s count before any fire was returned. Ojeda
’s men were disciplined and knew the value of ammunition when far from their supply lines.

  “Papa, get up and follow me,” Ojeda said. He led off into the marsh, the setting sun at their rear coloring the edges of the sharp grass rising from the water with a fiery brightness. Two squads of men, twenty in all, were ten yards in front of the colonel and his five-man headquarters detail.

  “Jeez!” Antonio said, cringing as several bullets ripped through the thick grass above his head. The water was waist-high, already lapping at the weatherproof radio on his back. Short bursts of return fire from the two squads sounded to his front. Then more in return, and more from another direction, and all the while Antonio was moving, following the colonel, instinctively crouching into the soggy marsh as much as he could and having no idea in hell what he was supposed to do.

  Ojeda’s hand came up just in front of Antonio. He followed the colonel’s lead, stopping and sinking deeper into the water until just his nose and eyes were exposed. The taste of thick, dirty water seeped through his lips, filling his mouth. He continued breathing through his nose, smelling the staleness of the marsh and the decay that was an ever-present part of its ecosystem. They stayed still, almost fully submerged, for several minutes, Antonio’s heart beating faster with every passing second.

  CLICK.

  The sound came from Antonio’s right. He turned his head easily to look, then back at the colonel, who was staring intently toward the direction in which his men had moved. Then back to the right.

  CLICK.

  Antonio ran his fingers along the body of the submerged Kalashnikov until he found the safety. Remembering the colonel’s brief instructions he moved it up one notch, to single shot, and started to bring the weapon to his eye level. He turned the rest of his body slowly right, disturbing as little of the coarse vegetation as possible as he did, causing just a few crackles as the sharp-edged blades of grass rubbed against each other, and stopping when he was facing the direction of the sound. The distinctive top of the Kalashnikov broached the surface of the water. Antonio’s eyes looked past the sights into the gently moving forest of light green blades. His eyes moved, searching, his body still except for the soft up-and-down caress his finger was giving the trigger. He watched, expecting to see someone not unlike him staring back from behind another AK-74. But there was none. No movement, no sound.