The Successor (35 page)

“It took me a while to get back in touch with Ms. Graham.”

“What did you find out?”

“The government guys got Christian back. Graham called Dorsey. He confirmed that Christian’s safe.”

“Thank God.”

“Yeah, safe for now. Dorsey wouldn’t tell her anything else.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. Frankly I’m surprised he’d even tell her that.” Quentin glanced out at the ocean. They’d been sitting on the beach. There’d been nothing else to do. “I didn’t think Dorsey was going to tell Graham where Christian was meeting with people in Cuba,” he said glumly. He’d assumed that was what Allison was going to try. “I thought that was a long shot, Ally.”

“I didn’t need to ask her that. I already know. I just wanted to make sure Christian was safe before you went to Cuba.”

Quentin sat up in the chair. “What? How do you know where the meeting is?”

“When Graham told me to watch Christian, I took her seriously. I snuck into his office one night, and I found a file,” she explained triumphantly.

Something clicked in Quentin’s brain. The file Dex Kelly had given Christian at Camp David.

“He almost caught me that night,” Allison explained. “I’d made a copy of it, and I was putting it back in his desk when he showed up. I had to hide in his closet until he left. I read it when I got home. I figured it had to do with what Graham had told me, about the trip he was supposedly taking. It made me believe she really knew what she was talking about. But I never showed it to her, and I never told her I’d found it.”

Good girl, Quentin thought to himself. “It has the location, doesn’t it? Where he’s supposed to be meeting with the Six?”

“It does.” She hesitated. “You really think you can get down there?”

CHRISTIAN KNELT
in the high grass and cattails as the helicopter settled down through the darkness onto the lit, makeshift pad the men had constructed close to the camp. The aircraft couldn’t actually set down—the ground was too soft and it would have sunk into the mire—so it hovered a few inches off the area they’d cleared of brush.

“Let’s go!” Barrado yelled above the
thud-thud-thud
of the whirling rotor and the scream of the engine, grabbing Christian’s arm.

Christian rose up and jogged forward through the hurricane and the mud, bent over at the waist, helped along by Barrado. As he made it alongside the chopper, arms reached out to pull him and Barrado inside. Moments later they were up in the air, speeding through the night toward a ship in the Gulf.

20

THE MARINE TRANSPORT HELICOPTER
sped along at low altitude through the darkness, skimming just above the calm ocean. It was two in the morning, the weather was clear, and they were close. Christian could see a few faded lights well off to the east—the very outskirts of Havana. Around him in the troop area were eight men. Eight Army Rangers in full combat gear, right down to the green, black, and brown camouflage paint on their grim faces. Brandishing what looked like nasty weapons. He’d never felt so exhilarated in his life.

One of the men—the lieutenant in charge of the mission—tapped Christian on the shoulder, then handed him a helmet, pushing it roughly against his stomach.

“Put it on!”

Christian nodded. The guy was only a foot away, but he could barely hear him it was so loud. They’d given him fatigues and boots back on board ship—the suit and leather loafers he’d worn to meet Padilla in Naples weren’t going to cut it in the jungle.

“Three minutes!” the lieutenant yelled as the helicopter climbed quickly above tree level, then raced over the breakers rolling up onto the beach. “We’ll be near the ground for less than five seconds. You gotta jump as soon as I tell you.”

Once again Christian nodded.

“We start taking any fire, you stick right with me!”

Christian touched the grip of the Beretta 9 mm they’d given him after he’d climbed into the chopper, as it was lifting off the deck of the ship. The gun was in the holster on his belt. “Don’t worry, I will.” The lieutenant hadn’t needed to tell him that. If they started taking fire, as far as Christian was concerned, the lieutenant was going to have a Siamese twin.

He felt the chopper slowing, then it settled down into a clearing. Moments later it was only a few feet above the grass and the lieutenant was in his face shouting at him,
“Move, move, move.”
Suddenly they were on the ground, tearing for the tree line, and just that quickly the deafening sound of the helicopter was gone, replaced by the peeping of frogs in the trees.

“Count off,” the lieutenant hissed when they’d reached cover.

Christian heard each number in rapid succession. Then they were moving again, hustling through the jungle. He was glad he wasn’t carrying all the equipment each of the Rangers was—fifty pounds for this mission. Even without that extra weight it was all he could do to keep up. They were good. Strange to feel this now because they were in hostile territory, but he felt remarkably safe. As if these men could take on an entire Cuban brigade and probably hold their own.

When they’d gone half a mile, the lieutenant signaled for the squad to halt. During the last few minutes, they’d climbed a ridge, and now they could see back to the clearing where they’d landed. Well, the two men with night-vision binoculars could. Christian watched as each man trained his field glasses on the spot.

“We want to see if any unfriendlies show up so we know whether or not they saw us coming in,” the lieutenant explained. “We’ll be here for an hour. Unless the unfriendlies show up,” he added ominously.

QUENTIN CLIMBED INTO
the cargo area of the helicopter, then turned to shake hands with his old friend Jack Haley, now a colonel in the Rangers. “You’re the man, Jack!” he shouted over the roar of the rotor. Haley had informed him belowdecks that Christian had taken off from this same deck only two hours ago. “Thanks again.”

“No problem, pal. Godspeed.”

The chopper lifted off and Quentin gave Haley a quick wave. Then the ship quickly grew smaller and smaller as they gained altitude. It was just him, the pilot, and one other man in the helicopter. ETA to the clearing where Christian and the squad had landed was forty-two minutes. Quentin hadn’t needed Allison’s directions after all. The Rangers had been only too happy to get him to Christian, happy to help an alumnus. It was nice to have old friends, he thought to himself, turning away from the open door. Loyal friends.

“Sorry, sir!”

Quentin glanced up into the haunted eyes of the young man who had been ordered to accompany him to Christian. “What the—” Suddenly he felt an awful, searing pain as the bullet tore through his chest, followed quickly by the sense of being pushed out of the aircraft and falling through the darkness. Then he hit the water. He saw the lights of the chopper turn and head back toward the ship, then he sank beneath the surface.

AFTER WAITING AN HOUR
on the ridge to make sure no one showed, they’d hiked through the woods another hour toward the rendezvous point—what Christian understood was a cattle ranch. Now they were just inside a tree line, watching the ranch’s main house. It was four o’clock in the morning and it didn’t look as if anyone was awake. The house was pitch-black—no lights at all. It didn’t look as if anyone was even
here.

The lieutenant jabbed in the air toward two of his men, then jabbed toward the barn that was fifty yards from the house, off to the left. The men he’d signaled to nodded and threw off their packs, then took off across the open ground in the moonlight, quickly disappearing around a corner of the barn. Less than four minutes later they were back, talking in hushed voices to the lieutenant. After a few moments he moved to where Christian was.

“Everything’s ready. They’re going to take you in,” he whispered, gesturing toward the men who had just raced to the barn and back. “But there’s one hiccup,” he growled. “Seems like there always is, damn it.”

“What’s the problem?” Christian asked.

“There’s only five of them in the room in the barn. Supposed to be six, right?”

Christian nodded.

“Well, the men waiting for you wouldn’t tell my guys what happened,” the lieutenant explained. “Wouldn’t say what happened to the sixth guy. Said they wanted to tell you first. Sounds suspicious.” He hesitated. “You still want to go in? I can get you out of here if you want. We got choppers up in the air off the coast round the clock at this point.”

They’d come this far. There was no turning back. “Is the doctor in there?”

The lieutenant waved to the two men who had gone in. They were beside Christian and him almost instantly. “Ask them,” the lieutenant ordered.

“Is the doctor in there?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Padilla. He’s waiting for you.”

Christian glanced at the lieutenant. “Let’s do it.”

“All right.” The lieutenant waved to the others. “Give ’em cover, boys,” he hissed to the rest of the squad.

Moments later the three of them raced across the yard toward the barn, then around the corner and inside. The strong scent of manure hit Christian’s nostrils as they moved down a straw-covered corridor between a long row of stalls filled with black-and-white cows.

“There, sir,” one of the Rangers said, pointing with his weapon.

Christian knocked on the door. Two hard raps.

“Come in.”

Christian recognized Padilla’s voice and burst through the door. The five men were sitting around a makeshift table—the room was lit by a single candle, and a blanket was over the lone window near the ceiling. Christian didn’t know why—it was instinct more than anything—but he strode right to Padilla, the only one standing, and hugged the man strongly. The return hug was even tighter, impressive for a man of such small physical stature.

“My friend,” Padilla said softly, pulling back. “You’ve come to free my country.”

Christian saw mist well up in the doctor’s eyes. As if a tsunami of relief had just washed over him. As if he hadn’t been confident that Christian would actually show up, even when the two Rangers had burst into the room a few minutes ago. As if the only thing that would make him believe that it was real was the sight of Christian in front of him. “I told you I would.”

“A man’s word is one thing,” Padilla murmured. “His actions are quite another. Now I see that you are a man of action.”

“It’s going to be all right, Doctor,” Christian said soothingly. “I promise.” He glanced around. The other four men were staring at him expectantly. “We will support you,” he said to them firmly. “This won’t be like 1961.” They nodded respectfully, understanding the terrible risk he was taking. “The banker’s not here.” He’d studied the files diligently. He recognized right away which one was missing. “Why?”

“He was a spy,” Padilla explained. “But he never got a chance to tell his story.”

Christian gestured at the two Rangers. “Secure the entrances. I’ll be out in a while.”

When they were gone, Christian began the questioning. All the things he needed to ask to test the men. An hour later he realized they were even more competent than he’d hoped. An hour wasn’t much time to decide the fate of a country, but oftentimes the most crucial decisions had to be made on the fly. And this one felt good.

“Thank you for your time,” he said politely. “Thank you for the risks you’ve taken.”

“What’s the verdict?” the attorney asked.

Christian liked that. A bottom-line guy. Blunt, no bullshit. “I’m going to tell President Wood that he should support you. He’s told me he’ll follow my recommendation.”

“Even without the banker?”

Christian smiled. “That’s going to be my job anyway.”

Padilla moved to Christian’s side. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, shaking Christian’s hand warmly. “Now there’s one more person you must meet.”

Christian understood. The general. Zapata. He shook each man’s hand in turn, then followed Padilla out of the room and back down the corridor between the stalls.

Just before they reached the door to the outside, Padilla turned left into a small room. Christian smelled the cigar even before he saw the general. When they were inside the room, Padilla shut the door and Christian noticed a figure move out from behind a stack of hay bales. The only light in the room came from the tip of the cigar, but it was enough.

“Señor Gillette,” the general said, shaking Christian’s hand. “I am Jorge Delgado.”

Christian had never felt a firmer grip. “Señor Delgado. It’s an honor.” As soon as they finished shaking hands, Christian reached up with both hands and pulled the chain from around his neck. He handed it to Delgado. “I believe you needed to see this.”

Delgado chuckled as he held up the cow’s identification tag dangling from the end of the chain. Held it up in the glow of the cigar tip. “You are a good man, Christian Gillette. A very good man.” He closed his fingers tightly around the tag, then stared intently into Christian’s eyes. “Now it all starts.”

“IT’S GOT TO
be quick, sir,” the lieutenant said, holding the satellite phone out for Christian.

“I understand.” Christian took the phone. “Mr. President?”

“Yes, Christian,” the president confirmed, his voice deadly serious. “What’s the verdict?”

“I support them,” Christian said, recognizing Wood’s voice at the other end of the line.

“You sure?”

“
Absolutely
sure.”

MELISSA HART
raced to the first ATM she could find in the Los Angeles airport. The money should be there. She’d held up her end of the bargain. Victoria Graham better have held up hers.

Melissa slipped the card into the slot and nervously punched in the code—one she hadn’t used in a while—waiting breathlessly for it to take. When it did, she selected the
CHECK BALANCE
option, still holding her breath. As the number came up, her shoulders sagged. Fourteen dollars and twelve cents. She’d been screwed. All that risk and she’d been screwed. She felt the tears beginning to flow. No choice now but to go back to her father and beg for forgiveness.

As she trudged through the terminal she glanced at a television monitor. On the screen were stark images of chaos in the streets of a city she didn’t recognize. She squinted to read the words rolling across the bottom of the screen. It was Havana. A coup was breaking out in Cuba.

FROM HIGH ATOP
a ridge Christian watched the Incursion’s initial stage play out. Plumes of smoke rose from different sections of the city, and the sounds of gunshots peppered the early morning.

“Good early reports,” the lieutenant spoke up after signing off from his radio. “Delgado’s basically already in charge of the city. There are pockets of resistance, but ninety percent of his troops supported him. The troops on the east side of the island are putting up a pretty good fight, but Delgado’s command thinks they’ll have everything there secured by tonight.”

“That is good,” Christian murmured. He hadn’t looked over at the lieutenant while the man was speaking, just kept his eyes focused on the city, on the history playing out before his eyes. It was awe-inspiring, making everything else he’d ever done in his life seem trivial. If he’d said no to President Wood, none of this would be happening. But he’d said yes. Slowly, Christian became aware that it was just the lieutenant and him now. The other men of the squad had moved off, down the hill a ways out of sight. “What now?” he asked. “When do we go down there? I want to get started right away.”

“You won’t be going down there, sir.”

Christian glanced over at the lieutenant. “What the—” The Ranger was standing, a pistol in his hand.

“Sorry, sir. You won’t even be going home.”

THE PRESIDENT
of Cuba’s Central Bank hurried to his car. His wife and children were still asleep upstairs. The hell with them. They’d slow him down and whoever was behind the coup wasn’t going to care about them. It was him they’d want. He cursed himself as he reached for the door handle. He should have figured something was up when Alanzo Gomez hadn’t shown up for work.

As he settled in behind the wheel, three men rose up in front of the car and unloaded the clips of their small machine guns into his body, blowing out the windshield and the back window. He was dead instantly, his head almost severed from his body by the withering fire.

Down the street two other men recorded the entire sequence from inside a van.

CHRISTIAN SWALLOWED HARD,
staring down the steel barrel of the pistol. He was ten feet from the lieutenant. No chance at all to rush him.