The Trojan Sea (34 page)

“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.

“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.”

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 compliance 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.”