Castro's Daughter km-16

by David Hagberg

  “Your teams were not detected?” Fuentes asked to mask his own uncertainty.

  “The two women gave no sign of it. Ms. Horn drove directly over to what turned out to be a brownstone here in Georgetown owned by a French medical doctor. We’re still looking for more information — telephone numbers, ISPs, utility records.”

  “You have someone watching the house?”

  “Of course.”

  It bothered Fuentes that Ortega-Cowan had not given him the same information. “What else did the major tell you?”

  “That Señors McGarvey and Rencke will arrive at Andrews from Gibraltar on another military VIP jet within the next two hours.”

  It was another strike at his ego, and he had to wonder what sort of game Ortega-Cowan was playing at. The man was Colonel León’s chief of staff, but he knew too much; he’d had the combination to her safe, he hadn’t seemed at all surprised by the possibility that the colonel was El Comandante’s daughter, he knew that she’d flown up from Miami apparently on a military jet, just as he knew that McGarvey and Rencke had gone to Spain and for whatever reason were returning to Andrews from Gibraltar.

  López was watching him. “What exactly is your mission here, Captain?”

  “To find the colonel.”

  “You’ve found her, now what? Do you mean to assassinate her?” López was filled with animosity, and it showed. “As you say, my station’s mission is too important to jeopardize over a defecting government official, even one so highly placed as Colonel León. Unless there is more to the situation than Major Ortega-Cowan was willing to share with me.”

  And it suddenly came to Fuentes that Ortega-Cowan didn’t really give a damn about some fabled treasure supposedly buried in New Mexico. His only goal was to take over the DI’s Operations Directorate, and to do so, he wanted her out of the way and branded a traitor, with Fuentes taking the blame of aiding in her escape. For the moment, López was the key.

  “Colonel León is El Comandante’s illegitimate daughter.”

  “So what? His other illegitimate daughter defected to Spain and has even published a book. No one cares. And Uncle Fidel is dead.”

  “Before he died, her father gave her a deathbed wish.”

  “To kidnap a CIA officer?” López asked disparagingly.

  “That’s part of it. But the main reason the woman was kidnapped was to force her husband, Otto Rencke — who is the CIA’s leading computer expert — to meet with Colonel León in Havana.”

  “I know the name — everybody does. But what in God’s name did she think she was doing, pulling a crazy stunt like that?”

  “Señor Rencke’s presence was required to lure Kirk McGarvey to Havana.”

  “And he actually went down there? And you were a part of it?”

  “Only at the edges.”

  “Well, let me tell you something about Señor McGarvey. If you go up against him, you will die. And that’s not a guess, that’s fact.”

  “The coronel did, and she not only survived the encounter, she made her way here and, as you say, she was picked up by the woman she ordered kidnapped, and McGarvey and Rencke are on their way as well.”

  “What does the major want?”

  “He wants her brought down so that he can take over the directorate.”

  “And you, Captain?”

  “I want what Colonel León wants, the reason she lured Rencke and McGarvey here, and why they apparently agreed to help.”

  “You’re not here to arrest or assassinate a traitor?”

  “Not unless I am given no other choice. But I’ll need your station’s help getting close enough to her and her new friends to find out what their next moves will be.”

  “And all of this has to do with Uncle Fidel’s deathbed wish to his daughter? Including the apparent duel between you and Major Ortega-Cowan?”

  “Sí.”

  “Tell me,” López said.

  And Fuentes did just that, leaving out only the possible size and location of the treasure.

  “If what you’re saying is true, it will be a coup for you.”

  “And anyone who helps me.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Carleton Patterson was waiting in the backseat of an armored Cadillac limousine when McGarvey and Rencke showed up at Andrews Air Force Base, and his driver, a beefy man in a baggy suit coat, opened the rear door for them. The CIA’s general counsel was on a cell phone.

  “They just arrived. We’ll be about a half hour.”

  “Surprised to see you here, Carleton,” McGarvey said as he and Otto climbed in and the driver shut the door.

  “Page would like to have a word with you. Marty wanted to send someone from security, but considering what’s been happening over the past few days, we thought you might have more need of a lawyer than a couple of extra guns.”

  “Anyway, I’d be more cooperative with you,” McGarvey said.

  “Something like that.”

  They were waved through the main gate and got directly on I-495, the Beltway, weekday afternoon traffic heavy.

  “Let me guess, there’s a warrant for my arrest for the murder of a museum curator in Mexico City, and Interpol in Spain was asked to cooperate.”

  “It was your pistol, registered as an Air Marshal weapon on your flight to Mexico City.”

  McGarvey explained how he had come to lose his weapon, because he hadn’t counted on the DI being so quick on the uptake. But it was the timing of the thing that bothered him.

  “There weren’t warrants for our arrests until after we’d gotten out of Dodge through Gibraltar,” Otto said, giving voice to McGarvey’s thought. “Seems like the Mexican federales wanted us to get back here.”

  “You met this Dr. Diaz?” Patterson asked.

  “It’s why we went to Mexico City.”

  “And Seville?”

  “To see the curator of the Archivo General de Indias,” McGarvey said, and he handed over the copy of the agreement he’d signed with Dr. Virgílio.

  “Good heavens,” the normally unflappable Patterson said. He quickly read through the five pages, went back to reread a couple of sections, and when he looked up he seemed puzzled. “This is not a standard finder’s agreement under any stretch of the imagination. In any event, it would have been in Spanish. So whoever put it together was pulling your leg. But Spanish treasure in the New World? What are you up to this time, and what’s it got to do with Cuban intelligence?”

  “It’s got to do with why Louise was kidnapped and why I went to Havana,” Otto said. “And why Mac came to fetch me.”

  “Louise sent one of our VIP aircraft to pick up you guys in Gibraltar, but she also sent a plane to Florida to pick up Raúl Martínez and an unidentified female, whom Louise met at Andrews a couple of hours ago. Is there any connection? It’s important, because of course, both of them have disappeared.”

  “The woman is Colonel María León.”

  “Well, three people who worked for Raúl have been gunned down, and little Havana is all but in armed revolt, worse than April 2000, when the boy Elián González was kidnapped by INS agents and returned to his father in Cuba. What’s going on, Mac?”

  “Plenty, but I’ll save it for Page and Marty because you guys won’t believe me and I don’t want to explain more than once.”

  Patterson gave both of them the oddest look. “No one’s ever had trouble believing either of you; it’s the accepting part that’s sometimes a little tough.”

  * * *

  At the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building, they parked in the underground ramp and took the VIP elevator direct to the seventh floor. As always over the past few years, it seemed strange to McGarvey to be back. He felt out of place, and yet he’d spent the majority of his adult life working for and sometimes with the people here. He knew the tone of the place, he could feel the energy, and very often the uncertainties that could and did eat people alive.

  McGarvey, along with Otto and Patterson, was ushered into the director’s large offic
e, where Page and Marty Bambridge were waiting for them.

  “You two have been busy,” Bambridge said, by way of greeting. “Anything you’d care to share with us?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” McGarvey said.

  “Coffee?” Page asked.

  “We had plenty on the way over. And we’re not staying long — there’s a lot more yet to be done. But I think you deserve an explanation.”

  “Please,” Page said, and when they were settled, McGarvey took them through the entire story, beginning from his arrival in Cuba to the discussions with María León, their escape, and the meeting in Mexico City with Dr. Diaz.

  “Who was found shot to death with your Air Marshal weapon,” Bambridge said. “The Mexican authorities issued a warrant for your arrest, as has Interpol in Spain.”

  “After we had safely reached Gibraltar and were already over the Atlantic.”

  “But you can’t be serious about the business with a treasure in Spanish gold,” Bambridge said, and for the moment, Page seemed content to let his DDO take the lead. “Sounds like the ravings of a senile old man. Someone with dementia.”

  “The DI took it seriously enough to send someone to Mexico City to murder Dr. Diaz, and to get the cooperation of some police authority in Spain to keep the pressure on us.”

  “To do what?”

  “To find the gold,” McGarvey said. “The same reason Colonel León left Cuba and showed up in Miami.”

  “Unbelievable,” Bambridge blustered. “Then it was her, or people under her direction who killed three of our people?”

  “Not her. It’s a power struggle inside the DI. Whoever’s behind it wanted to get rid of her once she no longer had her father’s protection. But then when they realized that there might just be something to this business with the treasure, they changed tactics. Now they’re trying to herd us, while giving us enough room to actually succeed.”

  Bambridge started to bluster again, but this time Page held him off.

  “What do you think?” the DCI asked.

  What did he think? McGarvey asked himself. “Until we met with Dr. Diaz, who was convinced that a treasure did in fact exist, I thought that it probably was nothing more than a fairy tale. As Marty said, the ravings of a senile old man on his deathbed. But in Seville, we met with the curator of their national museum and document repository dedicated to the Spanish empire in the New World who said that she had personally spoken with Diaz, who urged her to help us. But that was after he’d been killed, so she was lying. In any event, Diaz told us that he was persona non grata at the museum for some past indiscretion.”

  “But she believed in the existence of this New World treasure?”

  “We presented ourselves as treasure hunters, and she had us sign a finder’s agreement,” McGarvey said.

  “I looked at it,” Patterson said. “It’s a phony, couldn’t possibly hold up in any court of law, so this woman apparently has her own agenda, or possibly a deal with the DI.”

  “And now?” Page prompted.

  “I think that there’s a very real possibility that something’s buried out there, and Castro’s daughter has put her life on the line looking for it,” McGarvey said.

  “Otto?”

  “I have to agree with Mac, Mr. Director, although I didn’t at first. Not until Spain, and not until we found out that the colonel not only left Cuba and showed up in Miami but also insisted on coming here to talk to us.”

  Bambridge sat forward. “Good Lord, she’s here in Washington?”

  “Yes,” McGarvey said.

  “Well, let’s have her, at least for ordering a murder and kidnapping.”

  “Not yet. Not until we find out why she took the chance of skipping out, and the even bigger risk of showing up in Miami.”

  “If the DI traced her to Miami as you say it did, then it’s likely they’ll trace her here.”

  “I hope so,” McGarvey said.

  “You want us to sit on it?” Bambridge asked. “Just like that?”

  “Just for now.”

  “You have to be kidding,” Bambridge said, but again Page held him off.

  “For now, this has nothing to do with national security, so it’s not in our brief. But blood has been shed in Miami, and Interpol has listed you as a person of interest, so at the very least, the Bureau is interested in having a word with you and Colonel León. But I think I can hold them off for twenty-four hours.”

  “Forty-eight,” McGarvey said. He’d gotten what he wanted: the CIA’s interest and some breathing room.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Page said.

  * * *

  From the CIA, they took a cab into downtown Washington, getting out at Union Station and walking down to the Hotel George, where they had a drink at the bar. McGarvey was nearly 100 percent sure that they had not picked up a tail, but it had always been suspected that the DI as well as a number of other foreign intelligence agencies kept a lookout in the vicinity of the CIA’s main gate, so he had to consider the possibility that he and Otto had been spotted.

  Otto phoned Louise to make sure that she’d run into no problems and that Colonel León was behaving herself, while McGarvey phoned Martínez.

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving up from Homestead. Are you back in Washington?”

  “Yes. Page has agreed to give us a little space — forty-eight hours, does that give you enough time to settle your people down and explain what they need to do?”

  “I can be pretty convincing when it’s necessary. What about Seville?”

  “It was a setup, but the curator seems to think the story is plausible. The next step will be to convince Colonel León for the ruse to have any chance of working,” McGarvey said.

  Martínez laughed. “She came to us this time. I think she’s ready for what you have to tell her. But the DI up there will be on your case, so watch your step.”

  “You, too,” McGarvey said.

  FIFTY-THREE

  María came downstairs to the kitchen from where she’d taken a shower and changed into a pair of jeans and white blouse but nothing on her feet. She’d done her hair up in back, and Louise thought she looked stunning — fresh, pretty in a dark island girl way. But it was just looks, after all; the woman was a killer, or at the very least she’d signed orders for innocent people to be arrested, interrogated, and then executed.

  Louise was leaning against the counter. “You found everything okay?”

  “Yes, thank you,” María said. “Could I have something to drink?”

  “Water, coffee, tea, wine, or beer.”

  “Anything stronger?”

  Louise kept her temper in check. Mac wanted her here in one piece, and it was she who had apparently defected from Cuba and come to them. “We have some cognac, but it’s for Mac when he shows up.”

  “He’s gotten word that I’m here?”

  “He and my husband are on their way.”

  “Can you tell me what they’ve been doing?” María asked.

  Louise just stared at her for a longish moment, trying to find some measure of the woman, trying to find something in her eyes that would indicate what she was, what she’d done. But only a wariness mixed with weariness and a little hesitancy showed.

  María shrugged. “A beer will be fine,” she said.

  Louise motioned for her to have a seat at the counter, and she opened a couple of Red Stripes and got a couple of glasses.

  María raised her glass. “I’m not exactly what you think I am.”

  “What do I think you are?” Louise asked, holding her temper in check. Her fingers were still beat up from trying to remove the screws from the window where she’d been held.

  “A fanatic, a monster.”

  “The men who kidnapped me did so on your orders.”

  “To convince your husband to come to Cuba. It was the only way I could get Mr. McGarvey to come talk to me.”

  “You could have left Cuba and met him on his turf.”
r />   “He’d gone to ground — we knew that much, but not where.”

  Louise wanted to throw the beer bottle at the woman. “Joyce Kilburn was the name of the woman shot to death at the day care center. By your men, operating under your orders.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “If I brought her husband and three children here, what would you say to them? Oops?”

  “I don’t know this word. But I would tell them that I was sorry, and that if it were in my power, I would change everything for them.”

  “Including my kidnapping?” Louise shot back.

  Still María did not look away. “No, that I would not have changed. You were a means to an important end that had to be accomplished as quickly as possible.”

  “They drugged me.”

  The faintest of smiles raised the corner of María’s mouth. “They were idiots. But you gave a good account of yourself. They were finally very glad to be rid of you. Pavorosa, was the word they used. Formidable, dreadful.”

  “Where are they now?”

  María shrugged. “Havana, I suppose. I didn’t have the time to deal with them.”

  “But you let Mac and my husband escape. Why?”

  “It was a little more complicated than that. My house was under attack, and had I been there, the same consideration wouldn’t have been given to me.”

  And there it was, the crux of the matter in Louise’s mind. A constant, almost an axiom, that people of María’s stripe held dear: The United States was expected to play fair, to play by the rules, while everyone else could do whatever they wanted, including 9/11. They could kidnap anyone and cut off their head. But God forbid we grab them and take them to a place like Guantánamo Bay, clothe them, house them, feed them, supply them with Korans, and find out — by sometimes admittedly harsh means — information needed to save American lives.

  Impossible, Louise thought, to argue religion with a believer.

  “My questions stand: Why did you let my husband and Mac get away, and why did you give the order to have me released?”