“No. She had an appointment with one of our guests.” The manager handed Mather a business card.
Mather read the card. “‘Heather. Specialized Associates.’ What exactly does Specialized Associates do?”
“She was—or is, I believe—what you might refer to as a ‘call girl.’ A very expensive one, I might add. The going price for a girl like her normally starts at twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Adrenaline shot through Mather. If this lead checked out, he might have made a breakthrough. “I’ll need the details,” he said, jotting down notes.
The manager led the way into his office and checked his log. “She arrived at ten twenty-five P.M. by taxi—I didn’t get the number—on Tuesday, the fifteenth of October, last year. She left at two-ten in the morning.”
“And her client?”
“A Mr. Lloyd Marsten, representing RayTex Oil out of Dallas, Texas.”
Mather felt the adrenaline crash. Sophia James was just out making a buck, or in this case a lot of bucks. He closed his notebook. “And he wore a big silver belt buckle, no doubt.”
The manager was incensed to think someone like that would stay at his hotel. “As a matter of fact,” he said huffily, “Mr. Marsten is quite the gentleman. English, I believe.”
A warning signal tickled the back of Mather’s mind. If he hadn’t been so tired, it would have been a Klaxon at full alert. “Anything else you can think of?”
“Well, the time she was here, less than four hours, was very unusual. Normally the girls stay the night.” He checked his log. “Also, the phone was in constant use.”
“Phone sex, no doubt.”
“I doubt it. I can provide you with a printout of the phone calls, if you wish.”
“I wish. Anything else?”
The manager typed a command into his computer, and the printer whirred. “I also saved the tape from the surveillance monitor.” He pulled a videocassette out of his desk and inserted it in the TV. The image was not the normal one seen on TV of a thug holding up a convenience store late at night but a high-quality color image.
Mather sucked in his breath. “My God!”
“Very beautiful, yes?” The manager handed Mather the tape and the computer printout of Marsten’s phone calls.
The agent scanned the printout. “Over two hours on one call. Any idea who they were calling?”
The night manager drew himself up at the suggestion that he would eavesdrop on a guest. But this was the FBI, and they would soon know. “I believe,” he replied, “that they were creating a Web site called ‘All about you dot com.’”
Mather finally heard the Klaxon. “Thank you very much. We’ll be in contact.” He ran from the hotel and called for his car, his wife totally forgotten.
The Pentagon
Stuart stopped at the security checkpoint on the main concourse and signed in. “I forgot my badge,” he said, showing his ID. The civilian guard shoved a temporary pass at him and went back to reading the Saturday newspaper. Even on a weekend the Pentagon was a busy place, and Stuart joined the line of people filing through the checkpoint. He walked briskly to his old office complex and tried the main door. As expected, it was unlocked. Sleep safe, America, he thought. He closed the door and locked it. No need to take chances. He turned on the light in his cubicle and sat down at his old desk, still unoccupied. He placed his hands flat on the green blotter and took a deep breath as Samuel B. Broad’s advice kept ringing in his ears: “Follow the money trail.” So far he hadn’t done anything wrong. But that was about to change, since this was the only money trail he could think of. It was time to cross the line.
He tried the top drawer of the file cabinet. Locked. He turned his attention to the four-drawer safe where he had stored all the classified files from the committee working on the Strategic Oil Reserve. If Ramjet or Peggy Redman had moved the files, he might as well go home. He spun his old three-number combination into the lock. Nothing. Peggy had probably changed the combination. He thought for a moment. “Got it,” he mumbled. Like many people who worked around classified material, Peggy gave each safe a name. And that was the clue. So what did she name this one? “Stuart,” he said aloud. He looked at the number pad on the telephone sitting on the desk. The letter S in his name equaled the number 7 and T equaled 8. He had a first number, 78. He rapidly decoded the U and A to 82, and the R and T to 78. He spun the three numbers into the lock and heard a satisfying click. That left the file cabinet.
He walked down to Peggy’s desk and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. At the very back was a plastic cup with odds and ends, including three spare keys. He tried each of the keys in her locked file cabinet. The third key worked. Then he found the key ring he was looking for at the back of the top drawer. He walked quickly back to his cubicle and unlocked the file cabinet. He returned to Peggy’s desk and made sure everything was exactly as he’d found it. He turned on the copying machine to let it warm up.
Back at his desk he took another deep breath and opened the top drawer of the safe. All the files were there, just as he’d left them. Next he went to the file cabinet and quickly opened every drawer. Again everything was there. Now to go to work.
Stuart had always been a conscientious staff officer, working diligently on whatever project he was assigned, and he spent the next three hours going through each file with a fine-tooth comb, looking for anything that could possibly be linked to a money trail. Finally he collapsed back in his chair and rubbed is eyes. Where is it? he raged to himself.
Okay, start at the beginning. What’s the first step in making money from oil? Striking oil. Wrong. Exploration. His eyes snapped wide open. “No way,” he muttered. He heard a faint click and came even more alert. Someone was unlocking the outer door. He turned off his light and tried not to breathe. The door opened, and he heard the click of hard heels on the floor tiles. The overhead lights came on. It had to be Ramjet! He hoped not, but who else wore shoes with such hard heels? He waited, afraid to move. I left the copying machine on! Suddenly he felt an overpowering urge to urinate. He crossed his legs, but that didn’t help. The person was walking again. Now he stopped. Go into your office! Stuart urged.
Ramjet was moving again, coming down the narrow passageway. Stuart closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to think of a good lie to explain what he was doing. Be creative, he told himself. Tell the truth. The clicking grew louder, then stopped. He opened his eyes and looked directly into the face of Peggy Redman. His eyes glanced down at her shoes. They were brand-new with narrow high heels, the latest fashion rage. For a moment the two of them stared at each other. Then she turned and, without a word, walked back to her desk. Stuart waited, fully expecting to hear her call for security. He heard a desk drawer open then close. More clicking heels. He was so keyed that he felt the slight change in air pressure when she opened the outer door. He could sense her pause.
“Mike, turn off the Xerox machine when you leave.” The door closed behind her.
Stuart picked up a file and raced down to the copier. His hands flew as he fed the pages into the machine. But it seemed to take forever. Finally he was done. He turned off the machine and hurried back to his office. He made himself slow down as he replaced all the files, making sure everything appeared undisturbed. He wasn’t worried about leaving fingerprints, as he had worked on all the files before Ramjet relieved him of duty. But just to be sure, he wiped down the file cabinet, safe, telephone, and desk with his handkerchief. Satisfied all was in order, he turned off the light and walked out of the office carrying his copy of the file labeled “Steiner” in his briefcase.
Havana
Marsten broke out of the sweating crowd packing into José Martí International Airport and breathed the cool night air in relief. He made his way to the taxi stand and waved down an empty cab. The driver gave him a gesture of dismissal and sped away empty. “Impertinent bugger,” Marsten mumbled. He tried again, with the same results. Taxis were streaming into the airport and depositing tour
ists anxious to leave the country. But none were waiting for a return fare to the city. That made sense, as aircraft were arriving almost empty. Behind Marsten a loudspeaker blared something about invasion and Yankee imperialism. “Of course,” he said to no one. The real money was at the major resort hotels, where worried tourists would pay exorbitant amounts in hard currency to reach the airport. Fidel Castro’s version of a socialist society was breaking down under stress, and the age-old principles of supply and demand were reasserting themselves with a vengeance.
It was a phenomenon he understood perfectly, and the gold Krugerrands hidden in his belt and shoes had quadrupled in value. When four taxis arrived at once and a group of German tourists piled out, Marsten stepped under a streetlight and held up a hundred-dollar bill. The first taxi slammed to a halt and he got in. “Casa Salandro,” he said. “Near the Hotel Nacional.” It was exactly where the driver wanted to go.
“English?” the driver asked. Marsten confirmed his guess. “This is a bad time to come to Havana, señor. The damn Yankees are going to start a war.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Marsten said, deliberately urging him to talk.
“That attempt to kill Turner. All a CIA plot to give the Yankees an excuse to invade. But we will resist and drive them into the sea, just like the Bay of Pigs.” It was exactly what Marsten wanted to hear. The driver ranted and waved his hands as he drove, cursing the United States until he reached the street corner nearest the Salandros’ house. The car jerked to a stop. “Another hundred dollars, señor.” Marsten laughed and paid him. The cab roared away, leaving behind a strange silence. Marsten walked down the darkened street until he reached the heavy barred door of Casa Salandro. He pulled on the doorbell and waited. Nothing. He pulled again. Still no response.
“Damn,” he cursed. Then the door cracked, and a shadow materialized on the other side. “I’m Lloyd Marsten. You’re expecting me.” The door slammed shut. What now? he wondered. He picked up his bag and hurried for the Nacional, three blocks away. He felt his skin grow prickly as he walked, a sure sign of danger. He turned and looked down the deserted street. Nothing. He kept walking and turned the corner. Ahead of him he could see the luxuriant foliage surrounding the Nacional. Behind the trees the mass of the hotel rose in darkness, all its lights out. He never slowed his pace. Suddenly he heard footsteps. Again he turned and looked. Nothing. He walked faster. A patrol car turned the corner, and its headlights flashed down the street. Marsten breathed a sigh of relief and stepped to the curb to be seen. The car stopped, and two soldiers jumped out, their weapons drawn.
The older was all of eighteen years old and looked like a boy playing at war with a helmet two sizes too large. “Your papers!” he barked in Spanish. It sounded so ridiculous that at any other time or place Marsten would have laughed. But not now. He fumbled for his passport while the boys twitched. He handed it over. The older boy thumbed through it. He spat something in Spanish, much too fast for Marsten to understand.
“CIA!” the younger of the two shouted.
“Don’t be silly,” Marsten replied. “I’m English.” The boy shoved Marsten’s passport into his shirt pocket. “That belongs to me,” Marsten protested. The other boy clubbed him to the ground with his pistol butt. He took a step forward and jammed the muzzle against Marsten’s head.
All at once a burst of submachine gun fire echoed over Marsten, and the boy collapsed, his blood washing Marsten’s face. Another burst of gunfire and the second soldier crumpled to the ground. Marsten was afraid to move and played dead as running footsteps surrounded him. “Are you hurt?” a woman’s voice asked. He looked up into the muzzle of a submachine gun. Was he next? Rosalinda Salandro extended her hand and pulled him to his feet. “You knocked at the wrong door.”
“Lovely,” he muttered, feeling the back of his head.
He flinched when Rosalinda dabbed iodine over the cut on his head. “What did you do with the bodies?”
“We’ll bury them.” Her fingers gently probed the wound. “The bleeding has stopped.”
“And the patrol car?”
“It’s being salvaged for parts. The blood has been scrubbed off the sidewalk, so there is no trace of what happened. The army will treat them as deserters.”
“But someone must have heard the gunfire and looked out a window. Won’t they talk?”
Rosalinda taped a bandage across his head. “During times like this it is better to know nothing.” She handed him some old clothes and a worn pair of sandals. “Put these on.” She turned away while he changed clothes and didn’t see him hide his shoes with the Krugerrands concealed in the heels. It was one of the paradoxes of Cuba. In the brothel where he had made contact with the Guardians, she had never blushed at being naked. But here, in the home of her parents, she became the modest daughter any father would be proud of. The tan dungarees and short-sleeve print shirt were well worn and patched, yet they were freshly laundered and very comfortable. “Don’t tuck the shirt in,” she told him. He cinched the belt, holding the rest of the Krugerrands, and slipped on the sandals. Like the shirt and pants, they had been mended many times. He looked at himself in the mirror. The image staring back at him had changed. He had become Cuban.
She gave him a battered straw hat to cover the bandage. “Try not to show your teeth. They are too perfect.”
“They are mine, you know.”
She shook her head. “This is Cuba. Come, it’s daylight. We can walk. Remember, Cubans are macho, so walk like a man. Do not slouch like an American or march like a German. Don’t be afraid to look at a woman, especially if she is alone.”
“Where are we going?”
“Mass. It’s Sunday.” Another contradiction. They stepped outside, and she took his arm.
It was a long walk, almost two miles. At first the streets were deserted, ghostly quiet, as if Havana were holding its collective breath. But as they neared the Plaza de la Catedral, the street filled with people. Rosalinda held his arm tightly and brushed against his shoulder in a way that suggested she was not an attentive daughter. A man murmured a few words under his breath as they passed. “Did he say what I think he said?” Marsten said.
“It was a compliment.” She laughed, enchanting him. “He said you must be hung like a donkey to be with me. A very big donkey.” They joined the people streaming into the cathedral and found seats near the front. The memories came surging back, and he was young again, a Catholic boy in a Protestant town in England. Near the end he looked at Rosalinda, struck by her beauty. A black mantilla framed her face as she prayed, reminding him of a Madonna. But this Madonna had killed two men less than twelve hours before and worked as a prostitute in an expensive bordello.
When the Mass ended, they joined the crowd filing out. But she pulled him aside into the southern transept. A man was waiting for them and led them to a small wooden door. He unlocked the door and handed her a flashlight. Rosalinda clicked on the light and led the way down a spiral stone staircase that descended into the crypt. The door closed behind them, and Marsten heard the key turn, locking them in. “What’s going on?” he asked. She didn’t answer. A musty smell assaulted him as they passed through piers reaching into the darkness over their heads. Ahead of them he saw light streaming through a small opening at street level. Dust drifted aimlessly through the narrow shaft of sunlight and made him think of all the lost souls who had lost their way. A man stepped out of the shadows. “Señor Marsten?” It was the Guardian he had met and bargained with in the bordello while Rosalinda sat naked on his lap.
The man pulled Rosalinda aside, and they spoke for a few moments. Then they were back. “This is dangerous,” the man said. “Very dangerous.”
“It’s also very important,” Marsten said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
The man spun around and retreated into the shadows. Rosalinda gently guided Marsten after him and, after a few steps, pulled him to a halt. Marsten couldn’t see a thing but had the feeling he was surrounded by living,
breathing bodies. “What is so important?” an unfamiliar voice said from the shadows.
Every nerve in Marsten was on edge, and in the darkness his senses came alive. A slight odor caught his attention. Then it was gone. What was it? Then it came to him—gun oil. Rosalinda pressed his hand, and there was no doubt he was on trial for his life. And Rosalinda’s. “It’s about the assassins who tried to kill Turner,” he said in English. Rosalinda translated for him. Silence. “There is evidence linking them to Cuba.”
“Cubans would not have failed,” a voice said from the darkness.
“It’s a plot by the CIA,” a woman’s voice said. “The Yankees want an excuse to start a war.”
“I have a highly placed contact in the government,” Marsten said.
“Who?” the man asked.
Rosalinda’s hand pressed his more tightly. A warning. Thankfully, it was a question he had expected, and he had carefully framed an answer. But it had to be just right, technical enough to convince them it was authentic and at the same time reinforce their version of reality. Another question loomed large in his mind. How sophisticated are they? “My contact is the FBI’s RAC in Dallas.”
“Rack?” another voice asked. “What is rack?” It sounded like Ernesto, Rosalinda’s brother.
But Marsten couldn’t be sure. “RAC stands for ‘resident agent in charge.’ The FBI knows how the CIA operates, and my source tells me the FBI is not treating it like a CIA plot.” More whispering in the shadows, and Rosalinda’s hand relaxed.
“Why should this RAC tell you this?” another voice asked.
Marsten held up his left hand and rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, the age-old sign for money. Could they see it? “I’m a businessman. How do you think I stay in business?” From the tone of the low murmuring, they believed him. “There’s more. He tells me a witness has come out of hiding with evidence, very hard evidence, that Castro was behind the assassination of JFK.” An audible gasp in the darkness.
The Trojan Sea Page 32
