“That’s a lie,” a new voice said.
Now he had to drive it home and plant fear in their hearts and minds. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth or not. It’s what they believe is the truth. And they believe this.” Rosalinda translated, and he could tell from her tone that she believed him. “You need to act now, or Madeline Turner will pick the next rulers of Cuba.”
Marsten paced back and forth, wearing a path in the flagstones surrounding the fountain in the Salandros’ small courtyard. He came alert at the sound of gunfire and gave Rosalinda’s mother, Amelia Salandro, a worried look. “When will Rosalinda return?” he asked. An expressive shrug answered him. More pacing. But at least there was no more gunfire. He glanced at his watch and did a quick mental conversion. It was seven o’clock Sunday evening in Havana—6:00 P.M. in Dallas. He needed to call L.J. and tell her he was okay. Now a new sound echoed over the courtyard. A heavy vehicle with a diesel engine lumbered by.
“An armored personnel carrier,” Amelia Salandro told him.
“What’s going on?” Marsten asked. No answer. He continued to pace as the minutes dragged, slowly ticking away. It was after midnight when Rosalinda returned. She was wearing dark clothes, and her face was haggard.
“Where is Ernesto?” Amelia asked, worried about her only son.
Rosalinda didn’t answer. Instead, “Castro has declared martial law and ordered a twenty-four-hour curfew.”
A cold, hard panic held Marsten tight. “Why?” he blurted.
“He says it is because the Yankees are going to invade. But he fears a revolution.”
“Why should he fear a revolution?” Amelia asked.
“Because Ernesto told them about the Guardians,” Rosalinda shouted.
Amelia collapsed to the floor. “My son, an informant?”
Rosalinda crouched beside her mother and pulled her head to her breast. Together they rocked back and forth, tears streaking their faces. Finally Rosalinda helped her mother to stand and led her inside. Marsten felt his heart turn in pity at what Amelia was going through. After what seemed an eternity, Rosalinda came back. “I’m so sorry,” Marsten said.
“It is not your concern,” Rosalinda said, her voice cold and flat.
“I need to make a telephone call,” Marsten said.
“The phones are out,” she replied.
“I have a satellite telephone. It was in my briefcase, but I can’t find it.”
Rosalinda disappeared into the house and returned a few moments later carrying the handheld global satellite telephone. She studied it carefully. “You can talk to anyone in the world?”
“If they have one or subscribe to a service that links them into the system.”
“You can tell them the revolution has started. Tell them a new government will rule Cuba by Wednesday, or we will all be as dead as Ernesto.”
“Ernesto, dead?”
She stared at him. “Sí.” There was a finality in her voice he had never heard before.
“Are you sure?”
Nothing in her voice changed. “I killed him.” She threw the phone to the ground, venting her anger. “He was alive until you came.” She kicked the phone, and it skidded across the flagstones to Marsten, breaking off the antenna.
He held out his hands in supplication. “It’s not my fault.”
She jerked her head yes, accepting the truth of it. “Do not leave the house,” she ordered. “It’s too dangerous.”
28
Dallas
Vivaldi normally helped.
L.J. turned up the music and gave herself over to “The Four Sea sons.” That didn’t work. The buoyant, rushing virtuosity of violins announcing the arrival of spring carried a sense of rebirth that grated on her nerves. Maybe Beethoven’s Pastoral? She thought. She slipped the CD into the player, turned up the volume, and lay back in her chair. Nothing. “Where are you, Lloyd?” she said to no one, deeply worried. She glanced at her calendar. It was Monday morning, and he should have been out of Cuba twelve hours ago.
A knock at the door of her office gave her an excuse to turn the volume down. “Come on in,” she called. Shugy Jenkins wheeled a tea cart through the door. “Shugy, how nice of you,” L.J. said.
The secretary poured her a cup of tea. “I know you’re worried about Mr. Marsten.”
“He should have called by now.” She touched the satellite phone on her desk. Shugy handed her the teacup. “Thank you. I hate the waiting, you know.”
“Does the music help?” L.J. shook her head in answer. “May I?” the prim secretary asked. L.J. nodded. Shugy turned to the elaborate sound system and dialed an FM station. The sounds of country-western music filled the room. “Give it a moment,” she said. She pushed the tea cart out of the office and closed the door behind her.
Much to L.J.’s surprise, the blatant emotionalism of the lyrics and simple melody touched her in a way she had not expected. Her father’s words from a time long past came back. “You can never have enough country-western bands in Dallas.” Why did I send Lloyd? she thought. The demon in her answered. She could no more stop herself than refrain from breathing, it was that elemental. Kenny Rogers’s “The Gambler” came on, and for a moment the demon was grinning at her. She forced it away. Her intercom buzzed. “Were you expecting Dr. Steiner?” Shugy asked.
L.J. stiffened at the mention of the French scientist. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Please schedule an appointment if I’m free tomorrow.” There was no doubt that Shugy would have him out of the building in a few minutes.
“He says it’s very important and can’t wait. It’s about Mr. Marsten’s trip to Cuba.”
L.J. cursed to herself. How did he know about that? “I’ll see him.” She reached to turn the music off. She changed her mind and turned it down. The door opened, and the dumpy little scientist walked in wearing a very smug look. “What can I do for you?”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I learned about Marsten’s trip to Cuba?”
“No.”
A little smile flicked across his lips. “Always in control. I appreciate that.” He sat down and glanced at his watch. “I asked Ann to call you at this time.”
“Ann Silton?” L.J. asked.
Another glance at his watch. “We have many areas of mutual interest.”
The intercom buzzed. “The Department of Energy is on line one,” Shugy announced.
“I’ll take it,” L.J. said. A look of triumph flashed across Steiner’s face when she punched at the button connecting her to the caller. A voice told her to please hold for the undersecretary. “No,” L.J. replied and hung up. “A pity,” she said, “that might have been an interesting call.” She smiled sweetly. “Is there anything else?” Before Steiner could answer, the phone rang again. “Yes, Shugy.”
“Miss Silton is on line one.”
“Much better. Thank you.” She casually shifted the receiver to her other hand and glanced at Steiner. “Would you like to hear this?” Steiner’s nod was a little too eager. She punched the monitor on. “Good morning, Ann. How are you?”
Ann’s voice filled the room. “Don’t ever hang up on my secretary again.”
“I’m afraid we made a bad connection,” L.J. replied. “By the way, Professor Steiner is listening with me and is most interested in this call.”
“I take it you’ve heard the news coming from Cuba?”
“They do seem to be having a few problems down there,” L.J. replied.
“After talking to Dr. Steiner, I spoke to the secretary of state. He apprised me of the situation there, and I, of course, explained your interest in Cuba.”
“Based on what Emil told you no doubt.”
“Of course.”
“He is under contract to RayTex, you know. I do hope that DOE is not interfering in that relationship.”
“Not at all,” Ann replied. “But I did want to tell you that we have enjoined all offshore drilling rigs and ships from drilling until they are certified to be in complianc
e with all applicable directives governing the environment.”
“Enjoined? You make this sound so legal, Ann. May I ask who signed the directive enjoining us?”
“I did, of course. It’s totally within my purview to do so.”
“I see. Well, thank you for calling. I appreciate the personal touch. It does inspire confidence in our government.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Ann said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“No doubt,” L.J. replied. She broke the connection and turned on Steiner. “Was this why you came here?”
He giggled. “I wanted to see the expression on your face. I told them everything. They know why you’re interested in Cuba and why you’ve chartered the drilling ships.”
“Pure conjecture,” she said. He stood up to leave, his face flushed with triumph. “Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Oh, yes.” Then he was gone.
“A very bad mistake,” she muttered. When it came to revenge, she was an extremely patient woman. Without thinking, she ran her hand along the first rack of CDs and plucked Richard Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung from its slot. She dropped the disk in and cycled the forward button to the third act of Die Walküre. She turned up the volume as the heavy strains of the Ride of the Valkeries filled her office. This time the music worked perfectly.
In the outer office Shugy Jenkins looked up, overwhelmed by the sound. “Oh, dear Lord!”
Reston, Virginia
Stuart turned up the long drive that led to a house set well back from the road. “Someone’s got money,” he said to himself. He seriously doubted he had the right address, but there was only one Mather listed in the book. He parked in an area obviously meant for guests and walked up to the front door. What OSI agent could afford this place? he thought. He rang the doorbell. A handsome Mexican-American woman in her late fifties came to the door. “Excuse me, I’m looking for an Antonia Moreno-Mather. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Mike Stuart, U.S. Air Force.” The woman studied him for a moment, and he could see a definite resemblance to Special Agent Toni Moreno-Mather.
Without a word the woman held the door open. He followed her inside. “Very nice,” he murmured. The woman ushered him into a sun-room off the family lounge, where a very pregnant Toni was propped up on a couch. The woman spoke in Spanish. “It’s okay, Mom. I know him.” She gave her mother a warm smile. The woman murmured a few words and retreated back into the family room, leaving them alone. “Mom’s here taking care of me,” Toni explained.
“I had a heck of a time finding you,” he said. “Are you on maternity leave?”
“No. I started having trouble carrying the baby, and Brent, my husband, said it was time to quit. So here I am.” She gestured at their surroundings and said something about “his family” that Stuart didn’t quite catch, but it was obvious that their money had bought the house. She struggled to an upright position. “Mom flew in from California to take care of me when the FBI sent Brent on a special assignment to Florida. Something to do with the attempted assassination at the memorial.” She pushed pillows around until she was comfortable. “Another month to go. So what brings you here?”
“The investigation,” he said. “But I thought you were still on it.” She shook her head, telling him the obvious. “Do you know who’s handling it now?” he asked.
“I seriously doubt the Air Force will stay involved,” she told him.
He looked so forlorn, that she wanted to hug and comfort him. “I know it sounds stupid,” he said, “but I think somebody’s out to get me.”
“Why do you think that?”
He told her about everything that had happened to him and Jane. He concluded, “That accident on the boat was meant for me, not Jane.”
“But why?” she asked, coming to the heart of the matter.
Stuart carefully considered his answer. “That’s what I need to find out.”
“So that’s why you came looking for me?” He nodded. “I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said. A heavy silence came down. “There is one thing: I never had a chance to interview a Miss Jean McCormick. She was the one lead I didn’t check out.”
Stuart shook his head. “I never heard of her.”
“The guy who assaulted you was killed attempting to rob her at an ATM.”
Stuart’s head came up. “Do you think there might be a connection?”
“That’s what investigations are all about. I need to check my notes. Mom!” she called. Her mother immediately reappeared. “Upstairs in my office is a white cardboard file box in the far corner next to the bookshelves. My notebooks are in it. Would you bring it down, please?” The woman turned and left. Toni made small talk while they waited. “Are you related to the Colonel Stuart who saved the president at the memorial?”
“He’s my father.”
“I thought I saw a resemblance.” She rearranged her body and groaned. Her face paled.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be. My doctor says he doubts I’ll go full term.” She took a few deep breaths, but it was obvious the pain wasn’t going away. Her mother returned carrying the file box. Toni gave her a wan smile. “You better call Lois, Mom. I think we need to go to the hospital.” Her mother dropped the box and ran for the telephone. “Mom doesn’t drive, and Lois is my next-door neighbor who’s helping.”
Her mother rushed back into the room, obviously panicked. “Lois has gone shopping.”
“Call a taxi,” Toni said. She bent over in pain, gasping for breath.
“I’ll take you,” Stuart said. “Let’s go.” He helped Toni to her feet while her mother ran ahead to gather up their coats and open doors. Within moments Toni was in the backseat and they were moving down the long drive. It was starting to snow. Stuart handed Toni his cell phone. “Call the hospital and tell them we’re coming. Then dial the police for me.” Toni did as he commanded, and when she was connected to the police, handed the phone to Stuart. He explained the situation and asked for an escort. When the dispatcher questioned the need, Stuart’s voice hardened and filled with command. “I’ve got an emergency here, it’s starting to snow hard, and I need backup. Are you going to do your job or not?” He listened for a moment. “Thank you.” He broke the connection and dropped the phone in his lap. “Help’s on the way.”
Stuart was sitting in the waiting room with Toni’s mother when the doctor came out. “Congratulations, Mr. Mather. You have a son, and your wife is fine. You got them here just in time.”
“I’m a friend, not the father,” Stuart explained. “This is Mrs. Moreno, Toni’s mother.”
“Your grandson is premature, but he’ll be fine,” the doctor said. “Would you like to see them?” Mrs. Moreno nodded and followed the doctor inside. Stuart waited until she returned to drive her home. When he saw her, the smile on her face told him all was well.
“Toni says thank you. She also said to show you the…” She fumbled for the right word.
“Notebooks?” Stuart said.
Toni’s writing was small and cramped but easily understood. She was very thorough, he thought. He read her notes from their first interview and the follow-up phone call to the police detective about the name of his assailant’s second victim at the ATM. He had found what he had come for and committed the name of Jean McCormick and her phone number to memory. He was about to drop the notebook back into the box and leave when on impulse he flipped to the next page. It was the interview with Ramjet. I shouldn’t be reading this, he told himself. He read it anyway. He swore eloquently when he saw Ramjet’s statement about not knowing exactly who’d told him about the police investigation of the car accident that killed Jenny’s lover. I told the son of a bitch! Then he laughed when he saw Toni’s note, “Lying asshole.”
He flipped to the next page and froze. It was her interview with Lieutenant General Butler. “My, God,” he whispered. He ripped out a few blank pages and furiously copied her notes. He shook his head when he saw the same comment about “Lying asshole
.” She doesn’t cut anyone slack, he told himself. “Not a bad idea,” he said aloud.
Havana
Sweat streamed down Marsten’s face as he sat at the table by the window. He was sweltering in the noonday sun, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed the light and clear access to the sky to uplink. He worked carefully as he reattached the antenna to his satellite telephone. Unfortunately he didn’t have much to work with and had used a set of fingernail clippers from his shaving kit to strip copper wiring from a lamp cord. Lacking a soldering gun, he resorted to chewing gum to hold the fragile wiring together. Outside, the street was empty, and it had been over three hours since he’d last heard gunfire. The only disturbance was when the woman who commanded the neighborhood Committee for the Defense of the Revolution walked the street pounding on doors to summon the faithful to guard duty. But no one answered her, and she stomped off in frustration.
He meticulously wiped the sweat off his face and dried his hands. It was now or never. A low rumbling sound reverberated down the street. He ignored it as he punched in the number to L.J.’s satellite phone. Come on! he urged. The sound outside grew louder.
“Lloyd!” L.J. said, her voice clear and strong. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry, I’ll explain later.” He took for granted that they were being monitored, and he had to be cautious. “Suffice it to say, this has not turned into the ideal vacation. Things here have become very interesting, and I’m trying to get out. But I was wondering about our last conversation. I assume the three doctors you hired are ready to move to their new location.”
In her preoccupation with Marsten’s safety, L.J. missed the message. “We can worry about all that later. After you’re back.”
“Dr. Steiner, Silton, and Drill may not be available if we delay,” he replied, trying once more. The noise coming from the street turned into the deep-throated sound of a diesel engine with the unmistakable clanking of steel tracks. It had to be a tank. But even that did not prepare him for the sight of the old Soviet-built T-62 main battle tank grinding and jerking as it turned the corner. Nothing in his experience—movies, TV, books, nothing—had prepared him for the reality of the steel monster coming his way, and raw fear shot through him. “What’s that noise?” L.J. asked.
The Trojan Sea Page 33
