What’s going on? Marsten thought. It’s not a mechanical problem, because we’re only going to be on the ground for a few minutes. Instinctively he worked the problem. The plane was full of diplomats and consular officials, and maybe someone important needed to get off. Another thought came to him. Or be taken off. He removed his belt and separated the seal, splitting it apart. He still had half the gold Krugerrands left. He emptied them into a handkerchief. Then he pulled off his left shoe and twisted the heel back. It was hard to do, and he broke a fingernail in the process. He dumped those coins with the others and quickly tied the handkerchief into a neat bundle. He dropped it into Amelia’s handbag, redid his belt, and donned the shoe. Then he lay back and waited.
The engines were still running when the steward made the announcement. “Will Mr. Lloyd Marsten please come forward?”
Marsten held Amelia’s hand. “I put something in your purse that you’ll have to declare when you go through customs.” He smiled to reassure her. “I’ll be all right. You can contact me through my company, RayTex, in Dallas. Speak to L.J. Ellis and tell her that I asked for her to help you. She’ll understand.” She lifted her head to kiss him, but he drew back and touched her lips with his fingertips. He stood and walked forward.
Two federal marshals were waiting for him. “Mr. Lloyd Marsten,” one said. “You’re under arrest for murder, conspiracy to assassinate the president of the United States, and colluding with a foreign power to incite a revolution. Anything you say—”
Marsten tuned him out and looked back into the cabin, hoping to catch a last glance of Amelia. But all he could see was the top of her head.
The Old Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.
Ann Silton found her way to an open seat in the conference room on the third floor and sat down. It was the first time she had attended a meeting with the nation’s power elite, and she smiled nervously. The last person to enter was a shaggy bear of a man wearing a rumpled brown plaid suit. “Good afternoon, Patrick,” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton, the national security adviser, said. Every eye turned and looked at the latecomer. They all knew that Patrick Flannery Shaw was the president’s special assistant, although no one knew exactly for what. He was a legend and, by documented fact, had direct access to the president at any time and any place. By default, that made him the third or fourth most powerful person in the constellation that ruled the Imperial City.
The director of Central Intelligence shot a hard look at the director of the FBI and for a moment seriously considered walking out in protest. A quick head shake from the FBI chief convinced him not to do it. Shaw looked around the room and took the only open seat, next to Ann Silton.
“G’afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled. Shaw was infamous for his attraction to members of the opposite sex, and for an instant Ann panicked, certain he was going to ask her to dinner.
Lieutenant General Butler shifted mental gears. If Shaw was at the meeting, he was speaking for the president.
“Well,” Mazie began, “exactly where are we?”
The director of the FBI stood up. “We’re now certain the Puerto Ricans who tried to assassinate the president were acting alone and not linked to Cuba in any way.”
“But what about the James woman?” Mazie asked.
“She was employed by RayTex Oil,” the director replied, “to penetrate the cell after they blew up RTX Farming Supplies, a subsidiary of RayTex. We’re still working the contours of that relationship, but we think that to gain access to the Puerto Ricans, James killed an informant.”
A voice asked, “So she’s going to jail?”
“Yes,” the director said, “but not for that. Lloyd Marsten, the CEO of RayTex, used the hysteria surrounding the assassination attempt to start a revolution in Cuba.”
“Why would he do that?” another voice asked.
“Because RayTex thought they had discovered a huge offshore oil deposit in Cuba’s territorial waters and wanted the concession. To get it, they had to get rid of Castro.”
It was Butler’s time to speak. “There’s a huge irony here, sir. That so-called oil discovery is based on a process called Seismic Double Reflection, which, it turns out, is totally bogus.”
Ann Silton couldn’t contain herself. “So the three ships RayTex chartered are out there drilling for nothing?” It was the first time her voice had been heard at the executive level, and it felt good. She wanted more.
“That’s correct,” Butler replied.
The director of Central Intelligence spoke in a low voice. “How did you discover that this Seismic Double Reflection was a con and tie RayTex into all this?”
“An Air Force lieutenant colonel named Mike Stuart,” Butler explained, “was working on a committee for me and got caught up in it. He put it all together.” He decided to save the details for later. That was all they needed to know for now.
“What are you going to do about RayTex Oil?” This from Ann Silton.
“We’ve cut a deal with RayTex so we can indict Marsten,” the attorney general said.
“So that means,” Ann said, “that big business can start revolutions in other countries and get away with it?”
“Renege on the deal,” Shaw growled. Everyone looked at him.
“Why?” the attorney general asked. “Getting rid of Castro was a good thing—for us, for the Cubans.”
Shaw heaved his bulk out of the chair and ambled to the door. He was surprisingly light on his feet and walked with a rolling gait. He stopped. “No oil, no deal.”
Ann was incensed. “Does that mean oil is the final arbiter of what’s right?”
Shaw shook his head in disbelief. “Yes, ma’am, in this case it certainly does.” He disappeared out the door, leaving silence in his wake.
The meeting was over, and Mazie asked the DCI and Butler to join her in her office. When they walked in, Patrick Shaw was waiting for them. Mazie came right to the point. “Mike Stuart did good work for us. What happened to him?”
“The last I heard,” Butler replied, “he’s still in Cuba.”
“Get him out,” Shaw said.
“We’ll look for him,” the DCI said, “but we’re resource-limited outside Havana.”
Near Camagüey, Cuba
It was time for his Spanish lesson, and Stuart pretended to be asleep when the two boys climbed into the bus seat in front of him. He cracked an eyelid. Their two faces were grinning at him over the back of the seat. “Go away,” he moaned in Spanish. “I’m sleeping.” More grins.
“It is time for your lesson,” the oldest boy replied in English.
“Let me wake up first,” Stuart said in Spanish. He had been on the bus eight days as it made its haphazard way down the island. At first it had been easy going when they were on the Ocho Vías Autopista, the eight-lane highway to the eastern end of the island. But the pavement had ended at Sancti Spíritus and the construction at Ciego de Avila. From then on it had been stop and go as they bumped along dirt roads, breaking down, spending nights in rural villages, the passengers taking up collections when the bus needed gas. The passengers had come to accept Stuart as a stranded tourist, and the two boys had befriended him, as much to practice their English as to talk about baseball. The bus ground to a stop, and Stuart looked up, now fully awake. It was another roadblock. “Army or Guardians?” he asked.
One of the boys darted up to the driver and was back in a moment. “Guardians this time. Go back to sleep.” It was a well-rehearsed drill, and Stuart slumped in his seat and pulled his straw hat down over his face. One of the boys uncorked a bottle and spilled a little rum on his shirt. Two rough-looking men climbed on board the bus, both carrying AK-47s. They spoke to the driver and, not liking his answer, dragged him off the bus. The two boys watched, their eyes wide. “Something is wrong,” one said. “I don’t know who they are.”
Stuart chanced a glance. “Bandoleros,” he said. Bandits. More shouting from outside. “What are they saying?” Stuart asked, this time in English.
“They want money.”
“Take up a collection,” he said, handing them a U.S. twenty-dollar bill. It had happened before at the army roadblocks, but never at the ones manned by the Guardians. The older boy grabbed it and ran forward, collecting money, mostly pesos, from the passengers. Stuart folded together a few pesos and four U.S. dollar bills, two hundreds and two twenties and stuffed them in his shirt pocket along with his bus ticket before handing the boy his wallet. “Hide this, por favor.” He uncorked the bottle of rum, took a long pull, and fell back into his seat, still holding the bottle and pretending to be drunk.
The two men stormed back onto the bus, waving the twenty-dollar bill, demanding to know where it came from. “Tell them,” Stuart muttered under his breath. The younger boy was frightened but did as he was told. He jumped out of the seat and pointed to Stuart. Then he ran past the armed men, crying in fear. The two men marched down the aisle, and one jammed the muzzle of his submachine gun against Stuart’s neck. He snorted in disgust at the smell and slapped him. Hard. The man swung his AK-47 onto his back and used both hands to pull Stuart to his feet. The thug searched him with rough hands and quickly found the few bills and bus ticket in his shirt pocket.
“He’s a drunk American,” an old woman said, confirming what they saw. The man threw Stuart back into his seat and swung his AK-47 around. He thumbed the selector lever to single and shot Stuart in the right thigh. The sound echoed through the bus, leaving a strained, tension-filled silence in its wake.
“So much for drunk Yankees,” the thug growled. He walked back down the aisle, glaring at each passenger.
“For the love of God,” the old woman said, “leave him his ticket.” The man shot her in the stomach. He laughed as he got off the bus. The bus driver climbed into his seat and started the engine. He mashed the gears and pulled away.
“We’re close to Camagüey,” the driver shouted.
A woman bent over Stuart and pressed a rag against his wound, trying to stop the flow of blood. Sweat bathed his face, and he gave her a grateful look. Then he passed out.
The smell of rum assaulted his nostrils, bringing him around. “The woman they shot?” he asked. No answer. The bus slowed as they came to another roadblock on the outskirts of town. Stuart turned his head to see, sweat pouring off him. He felt dizzy from the effort.
“They’re Guardians!” the driver shouted as Stuart again passed out.
Stuart came awake at the pain. For a moment he lay there, panting. Slowly the spasm yielded, and he was able to focus. He was in a comfortable bed in a well-lighted room. Another spasm racked his leg. It was the worst pain he had ever experienced, and a bolt of fear shot through him. Amputation! Had they cut it off? He struggled upright to see if it was true. He fell back into the bed, relieved to see he still had two legs. He breathed deeply, drenched in perspiration. A woman came by the open door and saw him. “Doctor,” she called, “the American is awake.”
A young man, his face prematurely aged by all the injury, disease, and pain he could not treat for lack of supplies, walked in. “Good morning.”
“Where am I?”
“My home in Camagüey. It serves as my clinic. I am Dr. Roberto Silva. May I have your name?”
“Michael Stuart. The old lady, the one they shot, did she—”
Silva shook his head, despair in his eyes. “No. I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
“Are we safe here?”
Dr. Silva gave him a very Cuban look. “It is chaos in the countryside. Many of the farmers support Castro, while the towns support the Guardians. The situation is confused because there are many bandits and thugs who are murdering and stealing. But for now you are safe.” He stood up. “You have two visitors.” He called out, and the two boys from the bus bounced into the room. For a moment they stood there, not sure what to say. Then one handed him his wallet. “I hid it in my baseball glove,” he said.
Stuart took out half the money he had left and handed it to the boys. “Give this to your parents,” he said.
Silva nodded. “You’re a good man, Michael Stuart.”
The Pentagon
The secure phone buzzed as Butler walked out the door of his basement office late Wednesday evening. He picked it up as he fumbled for the encryption key. “Yeah,” he grunted, not bothering to identify himself. It was the director of Central Intelligence. He listened for a moment and inserted the key in the phone. When the DCI was ready, they turned their respective keys to scramble the conversation.
“We found Stuart,” the DCI said. “NSA monitored a phone call from a doctor’s office in Camagüey.” NSA, the national security agency, had Cuba wired for sound. It was an easy task because of the proximity to the U.S. mainland and because there were so few phones. “He’s been shot in the leg and is in the doctor’s clinic. It was an AK-47, not good.”
“Can you get him out?” Butler asked.
“No resources in that area.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Butler allowed.
“Speak to Congress,” the DCI replied. “They’re the ones who cut us off. The Boys got anything available?” “The Boys” were the Boys in the Basement.
“We’ve got the same problem.”
Now it was the DCI’s turn. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I need a current Sit Brief on the area,” Butler said.
“It’ll be waiting for you,” the DCI promised. They broke the connection, and Butler extracted his key from the phone. He locked it in his safe and headed for the Ops Center on the mezzanine level of the basement, where he held his hand against the palm reader on the steel door leading into the big vault area. The door clicked open, and he went inside, where the duty officer was waiting for him.
“The Situation Brief is on the screen,” the duty officer said, pointing to a computer in a side office. He joined Butler as they scrolled through the latest intelligence from the Camagüey sector of Cuba. “Hum,” the duty officer grumped. “How do they tell who the players are without a program?”
“They don’t,” Butler allowed. “And that’s part of the problem.” He focused on the Ignacio Agramonte Airport on the northeast side of town. “I didn’t know the Cuban air force had a fighter base there.”
The duty officer checked his order of battle, the detailed listing of Cuba’s military. “Two squadrons. One of MiG-21s, the other MiG-23s. Five or six all told may be operational, if they’re lucky.”
“Are they still loyal?” Butler asked. “Or have they gone over to the Guardians?”
“Which way is the wind blowing today?” the duty officer replied.
Butler scanned the satellite imagery of the area. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to what looked like a long straight stretch of paved highway ten miles southeast of town.
“A highway airstrip for deployment of aircraft in wartime,” the duty officer explained. “The Soviets built it for operations against Guantánamo Bay.” He pointed to what looked like a tourist pavilion on the far end. “This is a parking shelter so our satellites can’t see what’s parked there.” He traced the taxi path that led from the highway strip into the shelter and circled back to the highway. “It’s a drive-through shelter, open on both ends so aircraft can use it as a turnaround.”
“Clever devils, the Russians,” Butler said. “So what’s in the shelter?”
“Nothing.”
Butler thought for a moment. “Call Andrews and lay on an aircraft to Navy Key West.”
37
Navy Key West, Florida
Chalky Seagrave was working in the Gray Eagles’ office early Thursday morning when the nondescript man wearing three stars on his epaulets and carrying a briefcase walked in. The Englishman came to his feet in one easy motion, always the proper RAF officer. “Morning, sir.”
“I’m looking for Colonel William Stuart,” Butler said.
“He’s in the hangar,” Seagrave replied. “This way, please.” He led the way as Butler followed.
“
How’s it going?” Butler asked.
“A bit frustrating. Been here over three weeks and haven’t flown a single mission with the Air Force. Cuban thing got in the way, and it appears that your chaps forgot we were here. We may have to go home early. Pity. The Eagles are rather enjoying it.” It was true. All around them the Gray Eagles were working, re-creating a time from the past when they were young. “There he is. Shanker! You have a guest.”
Shanker crawled out from under the Lightning and stood up. He recognized Butler from the arraignment hearing when the general had vouched for his son. The two men shook hands. “What brings you down here?” Shanker asked.
“Is there someplace we can talk?” Butler asked. “With Commander Seagrave?”
Shanker led the way back into the building, and they found a deserted office. Seagrave closed the door, and Butler came right to the point. “We found your son.”
“I didn’t know he was lost,” Shanker replied.
“Then you haven’t talked to Hank Langston lately?” The two men shook their heads. “Langston,” Butler continued, “flew Mike into Cuba and dropped him off.”
“What the hell for?” Shanker demanded.
“Let’s just say he was there on business.”
Shanker snorted. “Mike doing something like that? Bullshit.”
Butler fixed Shanker with a hard look. He had seen it before. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice even but stern, “parents can’t see their children for what they really are.”
Seagrave understood immediately. “Always a pity.”
“The trouble is,” Butler continued, “he’s wounded, and he can’t get out.”
Shanker froze. Like most fathers, he would rather be hurt himself than see one of his loved ones injured. “How bad?”
The Trojan Sea Page 41
