The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  Cove Road turned out to be a crushed-shell-and-hard-sand lane near the center of the village. He guessed and turned right, saw that the number sequence was right and crept through several tight curves in a loblolly pine grove until he reached a white three-story cottage with a screened porch on three sides. A white Jeep with a blue hood and broken left headlight was parked nose out under a flat-roofed carport. A metal basket was welded to a small platform on the grille and several metal surf-rod holders were attached to the basket, the same rig used by surf fishermen along the Texas Gulf Coast.

  Valentine touched the hood of the Jeep with the palm of his hand. Cold, and no fresh tracks under the lip of the carport. Either the driver of the Jeep had been there a long time or this was a permanent beach car. He stepped onto the porch. There was no lock on the door; the floor was bare gray wood in desperate need of paint. Rattan carpets were rolled against the inner walls and encased in plastic; wooden deck chairs of several hues were stacked on top of each other. Inside was a generous foyer and a tall, narrow hall; surf fishing rods were mounted vertically on a floor-to-ceiling rack, the dowels covered with green felt; the rods and stainless steel reels were dust-covered.

  At the end of the hall there was a splash of gray-white light, and there he found a huge den with two-story-high windows and a massive fireplace. He dropped his duffel and moved toward the kitchen area at one end. There were two six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. He opened a can.

  Several magazines were stacked on the table in the den. The top one was a four-year-old edition of the American Journal of Legal History. One article was marked with a black paper clip: “The Procedure for the Trial of a Pirate.” He skimmed the piece, then put the magazine down. There were paper clips in all the magazines. A scholar who likes to fish, he decided. Arizona? Maybe. He had been a brilliant law professor before joining the OSS. There was no sign of the man. Had he misread the code? But a few seconds later he heard footsteps on the porch and Arizona shuffled into view. He was wearing a Washington Senators baseball cap, a new, stiff denim jacket, faded jeans and scuffed brown cowboy boots. He was heavier than Valentine remembered and there were red veins in his cheeks. He looked tired and needed a shave.

  “Beginning to think you’d stood me up,” Valentine said.

  “Pain in the ass to get down here. My sister’s place. I parked one road over and moseyed through the woods.” He nodded his head southeast. “Always wonder if there’s snakes in there, so I took it slow. My sister always says, ‘No snakes on Ocracoke.’ I must have been here fifty times before I learned the place is crawling with cottonmouths and rattlers. They’re supposed to be hibernating this time of year, but a body can’t be too careful.” He reached out and shook his old friend’s hand vigorously. “Remembered the code?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Man never forgets that sort of thing. Like riding a bike or pokin’ your best girl’s sweet-meat. Pockets of memories and skills in the brain. Soon as you need something, you get it back, slam-bam. We’ve got shrinks studying how it works. Seems to be some correlation with language ability—left-brain, right-brain stuff. Read anything on it?”

  Valentine shook his head.

  Arizona opened a beer for himself, pulled the cover off a rattan chair, sat down and waved a hand at the window. “You know anything about Ocracoke?”

  “Well, it’s a long way from anywhere.”

  Arizona grinned. “Pirate hangout. Blackbeard. Tough bastard.” He pointed to the bookcase. “Books about pirates. My brother-in-law teaches history at William and Mary. World’s foremost expert on Blackbeard.”

  “That’s why I’m here? A history lesson?”

  Arizona took a long pull on his beer. “We’ve got a problem in your old stomping ground.”

  “Louisiana?”

  Arizona smiled. “Yugoslavia, buckeroo. We had a man in Belgrade.”

  “Had?”

  “Now you see him, now you don’t. Disappeared.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nada, amigo, which makes you the ideal choice.”

  Valentine watched several seabirds circle over the pines. “You’re movin’ a little fast.”

  Arizona shook his head, took a pack of cigarettes out of his denim jacket and lit one with a wooden match. The smell of sulfur hung in the room while he inhaled deeply. “I need help.”

  I, not we, Valentine noted. “Company’s a big operation with beaucoup assets.”

  “This ain’t your average bear,” Arizona said, blowing a perfect smoke ring that glided upward. “Yugoslavia’s a special situation, a crossroad between East and West, spy heaven, the ultimate maze in several dimensions, a listening post on the bubble. One of my people was running a very special asset, and now my man’s gone—and presumably his asset as well. I’m not talking about some slob checking the skid marks on a second-level bureaucrat’s drawers. This is a most righteous, music-making asset. From others we get notes, a few bars. This guy has given us an opera.”

  “As I said, you’ve got lots of options.”

  “If I had options you’d still be sitting in Galveston with a hangover,” Arizona said softly. He looked directly at his old colleague. “I need help, Beau.”

  Valentine walked to a window and stared out for several seconds. “I don’t know. I’ve been out of that shit for a long time, and I’ve got a pretty good idea that it’s a lot more complicated now than in the old days.”

  “It is a hell of a lot more complicated now, a war of smoke and mirrors. Cold War, partner, but you can burn your ass on dry ice.”

  “And I’m a dinosaur.”

  “Right,” Arizona said. “Tyrannosaurus rex, the baddest mother-fucker in the valley. You were the best. A pain in the ass, undisciplined, insubordinate and brutal, but the best damned agent in the OSS. Lots of people had lots of problems with your methods, but not with your results. My man’s name is Frash, Albert Frash. I want you to find him.”

  Valentine thought about his business in Galveston, the long afternoons in a stifling warehouse, and the long line of nut cases buying modified M-1s and surplus fatigues. “If I agree, what happens next?”

  “You go to New York, then to Belgrade.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s your call.”

  “Sounds pretty open-ended. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Nope. It’ll be your ass on the line.” Arizona grinned and sucked on his cigarette. This was not exactly the truth, but the CIA man liked the direction the meeting had taken. Sylvia’s assessment had been correct; Valentine was bored and ready to rejoin the world. That she thought he couldn’t cut it was irrelevant; she had never seen Valentine in action and he had.

  “Do I get more than a name to work with?”

  “Of course,” Arizona said, placing a stack of papers on the table. “Take a load off your feet and let’s get to work.”

  16 SATURDAY, JANUARY 21, 1961, 2:20 P.M.Dinanty Belgium

  The window of Albert Frash’s fourth-floor hotel room looked directly into a yellow window in a turret of a soot-stained cathedral. Hovering above was a medieval citadel on a limestone and granite outcropping that would provide an occupying force with command of the Meuse River. Fixed positions no longer provided defense; you had to keep moving, Frash reminded himself.

  His stop in Paris had been short-lived; the network built up by Myslim seemed to have evaporated, which meant trouble. Was this connected to the assassination of Lumbas? There was still not enough evidence and too many loose ends for him to know. What was clear was that Viliam had tried to set him up, then died as a victim of his own trap. It had been intended as a double takeout, which suggested that the invasion had been a ghost all along. If not real, then what? And why? The goddamned Russians: everything was a chess game, with rules and strategies that only they understood. Europeans with Asian minds, the legacy of four centuries of Mongol occupation and indiscriminate cross-breeding of masters with slaves. The Turks had given a similar leg
acy to Albania.

  There was a restaurant on the ground floor. He had eaten a tasteless fish soup, smoked ham from the Ardennes and freshly baked bread, but tasted none of it while the Walloons around him gorged themselves like there was no tomorrow. Eating was what the Belgians did best, he told himself, which was why it had taken centuries for them to become a nation, and then only as a buffer against the Germans.

  The waitress had shown a more than usual interest in him. She was tall and thin, with a long neck and cascading black hair. He had tried to ignore her, but Ali had been restless and had left her a tip equal to the cost of the meal, setting his room key on the table next to the money. Her smile told him she would soon follow.

  “This is foolish,” he had scolded Ali. For as long as he could remember there had been this conflict inside him, Ali versus Albert, both him, neither him, both real, each wrestling for ultimate and complete control.

  “You’re the celibate; Ali needs something more than his hand.”

  “We can’t take the risk.”

  “No risk,” Ali countered. “A simple transaction, service for a fee, the essence of capitalism, the driving force for the oldest profession.”

  “She’s a waitress, not a whore.”

  “Money tells,” Ali said.

  When the girl came to the door, she quickly pushed her way in and connected the chain lock. “I could lose my job if anyone sees me.” She dropped her clothes in a heap and flopped on the bed, making the springs squeak. “The whole floor will hear our music,” she said in French.

  Albert closed his eyes; Ali got into bed. Several times the girl urged him to hurry so she could get back to her job, but Ali took his time. “I paid,” he said, moving slowly to make it last. By the time he had finished the girl was angry; she stalked into the bathroom, which was separated from the bedroom by a curtain instead of a door.

  Ali took a 9 mm automatic out of his satchel and checked the fit of the silencer.

  “No!” Albert said. He forced Ali’s hand back into the bag and made him release the weapon.

  When the girl reappeared, her eyes were cold. “You owe more,” she said.

  “I paid too much already,” Ali snapped back.

  Albert fought to keep Ali’s hand off the weapon. “How much?”

  “Two hundred francs,” she said. “They’ll give me hell downstairs.”

  Albert paid while Ali seethed.

  “I thought you’d be nice,” she said from the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Albert said.

  “Bitch,” Ali blurted out.

  The girl gave Frash a peculiar look, then slammed the door in his face.

  “You shouldn’t have stopped me.” Ali said.

  “I should have stopped you permanently a long time ago,” Albert answered.

  Someday we’ll find out who stops whom, Ali thought.

  “We have to concentrate on Myslim for now. We can’t allow ourselves to be diverted,” Albert said.

  “Will you stop me when we find him?”

  This was a question Albert couldn’t answer.

  Frash stared across at the church as the stained-glass window turned gold under the sun’s reflection. The Church had money and power and yet it had failed. It had failed him, failed his country, let the Fascists in and then the Communists. It had abandoned Albania because it was poor and turned its attention to richer pastures, even while the Germans had Hitler at the helm. Myslim had set him up, but that was to be expected; Myslim was only a man, and all men were imperfect. It was the Church and its agents like the Kennedys who were the greater failure. The Kennedys were puppets. Mother knew the truth. Neither Albert nor Ali could understand these thoughts. In time, they knew, one of them would understand. “Myslim,” Frash said, watching the sun intensify on the cathedral’s glass.

  17 SATURDAY, JANUARY 21, 1961, 3:00 P.M.Moscow

  The meeting with the American ambassador had been a delicate dance, and Nikita Sergeievich had thoroughly enjoyed himself. So that there would be virtually no opportunity to communicate with Washington, he had given the American only thirty minutes’ notice of the meeting; Thompson had hurried over with a second secretary named Gleystein in tow, and though the Americans had not had an audience since September, the trim ambassador was calm as if this were part of his daily routine.

  In Stalin’s day they had been forced to watch American westerns; Thompson reminded Khrushchev of a cowboy film hero. He was serious but not pompous, unflappable, certain of his abilities but not arrogant, and dedicated to his country and his leaders even when they made stupid decisions. He favored well-tailored suits and also had an easy sense of humor, a rare quality in a diplomat of any nationality.

  Dobrynin and Kuznetsov also attended the two-hour meeting, not to speak but to listen. Each had dealt with Thompson before, so if there were subtle changes in his positions and responses they would detect them.

  By design Khrushchev began quietly. What Eisenhower had done was done. Kennedy was new and therefore the slate could now be wiped clean, which would be to their countries’ mutual benefit. The world was in too delicate a condition for the two superpowers to be clawing at each other’s throat. When elephants fight it is the grass that suffers, Khrushchev reminded the ambassador, who smiled and nodded.

  They discussed Berlin in broad terms. A reunified Germany was morally and politically unacceptable to the Soviet Union, but Berlin legitimately belonged to the German Democratic Republic, by simple geography if nothing else. This issue was important both to the U.S.S.R. and the East Germans. Laos was a different matter, an internal affair, a revolution from within; Khrushchev assured Ambassador Thompson that the Soviets had not intervened in Laos, which was not true, but until the Americans verified it there was no value in admitting it. Neither man made mention of the Chinese. There were other positive things he pointed to as evidence of improved relations, most notably the nuclear-test moratorium, which was being honored by both sides.

  Thompson was polite and listened carefully but made no attempt to debate because the new president had not yet formulated policies on many issues. Khrushchev understood; until the ambassador had formal instructions he could only listen. Such instructions required time and careful thought; the democratic process in the United States was slow. In time, Thompson said, he expected that they would be ready to talk seriously with the Russians about a wide range of issues, but not now. It was too soon; Kennedy had just taken office.

  It was unfortunate that the summit had been destroyed in Paris last year, Khrushchev said, but Eisenhower had been a shortsighted and stubborn fool. The president should never have taken personal responsibility for the U-2 incursions; he could have—should have—publicly put the blame on the CIA. Here Khrushchev’s emotions temporarily got the better of him. He had fashioned an understanding with Eisenhower, or so he thought until Eisenhower announced that he was personally responsible for the U-2 flights. Why hadn’t the president appreciated his position? Eisenhower had symbolically slapped him in the face, which left the Soviet leader no alternative. This sort of honor was fine for generals, but statesmen required a degree of deniability. His colleagues in the Politburo had openly ridiculed him for Eisenhower’s unexpected stance. Nikita Sergeievich has a friend in the White House, they mocked, but with friends like that who needed enemies? He’d had no choice but to disrupt the Paris summit as a quid pro quo for the president’s insensitivity.

  At this point Khrushchev calmed himself and took a softer tack. “The leaders of our two countries, Mr. Ambassador, must work with each other, trust each other. Such a relationship requires serious discussion, give-and-take, man to man, across a small table, do you understand?”

  Thompson replied that he understood the General Secretary’s perspective and appreciated his candor, but it was premature to discuss such a meeting. Unlike his predecessor, President Kennedy believed that diplomacy should be conducted through traditional channels based on thorough preparation. Privacy was paramount. At a summit ever
ything was public, more a circus than an environment conducive to serious and meaningful discourse.

  Yes, yes, all this was true, but leaders must lead; we have the authority to act on behalf of those who elect us. He reminded Thompson that contrary to the endless distortions in the Western press, Soviet officials were elected, just as American officials were.

  Thompson deflected this misrepresentation adroitly; the difference was that the General Secretary was not newly elected, and certainly not by the narrow margin that had brought the new president to office. Mr. Kennedy needed time to form his government, and then an interval during which he could carefully consider policy. Certainly Mr. Khrushchev could understand the delicacy of the position of a new leader with such a precarious balance of power, this being an allusion to the Soviet leader’s near fall in 1957.

  Khrushchev agreed that this was reasonable, but he wished the ambassador to convey to the new president not only his warmest personal regards, but his fervent hope for the earliest possible meeting so that they could get to know each other.

  At this point the General Secretary unleashed his surprise. There was no need to perpetuate the rancor that had marked the final months with the Eisenhower administration. To this end, he had decided to demonstrate his good intentions: the two Air Force RB-47 crewmen shot down over Soviet territory last July would be released immediately and without strings attached. He hoped President Kennedy and the American people would accept this gesture for what it was.