The Trojan Sea (41 page)

“Have you ever heard of RICO? We’ll start by impounding your bank accounts.”

“Interesting. I wonder what the Commonwealth of the Bahamas will have to say about that?” She punched at her intercom and called her comptroller. “Marcia, please give Tom—he’s the handsome young man from DOJ—access to all our bank records in the Bahamas. Of course, don’t reveal the account numbers.” She listened for a moment. “Yes, that’s right, the same records we provide to the IRS.” She broke the connection and smiled at him. “As you are aware, there is no requirement for us to bank in the United States. Is there anything else I can do for you?” She handed him a box of miniature microphones and video cameras her security crews had found in her corporate offices. “I believe your people left these behind last time. See, we are trying to cooperate with your investigation.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to shut you down.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she replied. He stormed out of her office. L.J. sighed and buzzed for her chief legal counsel to come in. He was there in less than thirty seconds.

“Did you record all that?” she asked. The lawyer nodded. “What do you think?”

“Cut your losses and give them Lloyd.”

Her eyes flared with anger. “I can’t—I won’t do that. Besides, they can’t touch him where he is.”

“Your call,” the lawyer said. “But this guy was a lightweight. The next time won’t be so easy. They can close us down anytime they want. Unless you give them a reason not to.”

“If they close us down, can we protect our stockholders?” she asked.

“Only to the extent our assets are held offshore.” They talked for a few more moments before he left.

L.J. began to pace again, wearing a path in the Persian rug the shah of Iran had given her father years before. “Oh, Lloyd,” she breathed. “I screwed this one up.” She collapsed on the couch and closed her eyes.

A voice reached out from a hidden niche deep in her memory. “Save yourself.” It was Marsten, and they were in Eritrea. It was all back—the horror of their captivity—and he was lying on the dirt floor of the small tent, near death after being tortured and emasculated by the local warlord who had taken them all hostage.

“We’re not leaving you,” she promised.

A shallow breath. “I’m dying. Go.”

She stood up, and the seven men looked at her. “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” she announced.

“What good will that do?” one of the men moaned.

“I intend to find out.”

She marched out of the hut and into the team’s big tent, which the warlord had taken over as his headquarters. The tall, bearded man laughed when she demanded their freedom. “Why should I do this?” he asked. His second in command translated into Tigre for the other men in the tent.

“Because the Koran ordains mercy, justice, and tolerance. We have done nothing contrary to your law.”

“I am an educated man, so tell me why I should listen to a woman who is unclean?”

“And if I am clean, will you listen to me?”

He decided to play with her. “Perhaps.”

“Then how do I prove I’m clean?”

The man laughed and said something in Tigre. Then they all laughed uproariously as the warlord searched through the small library of books L.J. had brought with her. He found a copy of the Bible and threw it on the floor. “What does this tell you to do? Read where Allah wills it to open.”

She picked it up and read from the Book of Judges. “‘Then Jael Heber’s wife—’” She stopped, unable to go on.

The man laughed. “Do you know what Jael means? It means ‘the wild she-goat.’ How can a wild she-goat ever be clean?”

“Try me,” she challenged.

“Now I will do as my book commands me!” He uttered one word and she blanched, her knees weak. He sneered, “Clitoridectomy is the right word, yes?” She nodded. “Do you still wish to be cleansed?” Again the low drone of the translator’s voice filled the background. The tent echoed with shouts and laughter.

She raised her head. “There must be one man among you,” she said, taunting them. “Show me how a true man pleasures a woman.” She slowly undressed. The tent was silent as she shed the last of her clothes. The rumors of Western women and their wanton ways were part of their folklore, and, to a man, their faces filled with lust.

The warlord grabbed her hair. “Stay inside,” he ordered the others as he dragged her outside.

When it was over, L. J lay on the rough ground. She had used every trick she knew and done things she didn’t think she could to wear the warlord down. It had worked, and he was snoring peacefully. She slowly came to her knees and searched around her, finding a rock that fit her hand. Then she crawled to the next tent and worked one of the tent pegs free. She came to her feet and padded back to the sleeping man. She bent over him, her long hair dangling down, and drove the tent peg into his temple. The snoring stopped.

She smeared a little of his blood between her legs and walked into the big tent, still naked and holding the rock. The men were silent as she stood there. “You speak English,” she said, pointing to the man who had translated earlier. “As Allah wills, be my interpreter.” The man nodded, bewitched by the apparition in front of him. She picked up the Bible that was still lying on the ground and found the passage from the book of Judges. She read, “‘Then, Jael Heber’s wife took a nail of the tent, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground; for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.’” The man translated as they stared at the blood between her legs, the mark of a virgin. She held up her blood-covered hand, still holding the rock. “This is my hammer! Come!” She led them outside and pointed to the body. An eerie light played on the corpse. “He commanded me to do as my book said, and you saw how the choice was made. It was the will of Allah. Now I command you to be compassionate and merciful or fear the wrath of Allah, for I am clean!”

She blinked her eyes as Marsten’s voice echoed in her memory, this time much louder and surer. “It’s business and not personal. Optimize your options and do what you must.”

“But it
is
personal,” she said aloud.

“Never mix the two,” Marsten’s voice answered.

But she knew how the Department of Justice worked, and it was only a question of who got RayTex—the government or British Petroleum. It wasn’t really a choice. She grabbed a pen and signed the agreement Felix Campbell had sent by special messenger. She stared out the window, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Lloyd. Please forgive me.” Then she picked up the phone and buzzed her lawyer. “Cut a deal,” she said. “I’ll deliver Lloyd in exchange for immunity.” She broke the connection and called Shugy. Please call ARA. I need to speak to our case manager.” She waited while Shugy made the connection. A man’s voice came on the line. “I need to get a message to Lloyd Marsten in Cuba,” she said.

“We can do that,” the man assured her.

“Can you arrange transportation out?”

“I’ll look into it,” he said. “There have been some flights evacuating diplomats and stranded tourists.”

“Please see what you can do.” She hung up and leaned back in her chair.
I hope the FBI was listening,
she thought.

They were.

Cienfuegos

Stuart sat under a tree at Playa Rancho Luna outside town and eyed the small sailboat pulled up on the deserted beach.
It’s a possibility,
he thought. He discarded the idea.
No passport. So how did I get here?
The answer was so simple, he smiled. He was a tourist stranded by the chaos sweeping Cuba, and his passport had been taken at a roadblock. The more he thought about it, the better it worked. But he would have to be a very cautious tourist. He took a long swig of water from the bottle the woman had given him. When he put it down, he saw the two little girls watching him. They were obviously hungry but too shy to approach him. He reached into his bag and held out the small package of food the woman had given him earlier.

The oldest of the two darted up and grabbed the food. “You’re welcome,” Stuart said as they ran away. He lay back on the ground and waited for the sun to set. What had Hank said? Monitor channel 123.4 thirty minutes after sunset. He slept.

“Señor,”
a voice said, waking him. He opened his eyes. The sun had set. A young woman was standing on the sand holding the hands of the two girls. “
Muchas gracias.
My daughters forgot their manners.”

He smiled. “Look at me. Can you blame them?”

“It was very kind of you.”

“It was nothing,” he said. The woman nodded gravely and walked away with the two little girls. “She could use a good meal herself,” Stuart said under his breath. He reached into his bag and pulled out the radio. He dialed in 123.4 and adjusted the squelch. “Please be there.” He lay back and waited. Again he dozed.

“Hey, good buddy, are you up?” It was Hank transmitting as promised.

Stuart grabbed the radio and hit the transmit button. “I got the info. Ready to copy?”

“I was getting worried about you. Go ahead.”

“The ship was the
Laser Explorer,
owned by Laser Exploration out of New Orleans. It was chartered by RayTex of Dallas. Call General Butler in Washington and tell him. He’ll know what to do.” He rattled off the phone number.

“Copy all,” Hank said. “So where do I pick you up?”

“Don’t even try. It’s chaos here, and we were unbelievably lucky the first time. I’m playing stranded tourist and headed for Guantánamo Bay.”

“Good luck,” Hank said.

“Thanks, Hank. I owe you.”

“Roger that.”

Stuart turned off the radio and took stock. If he was an innocent tourist, he definitely did not want to be caught with the radio. He dug a hole in the sand and buried it, along with his military ID card. Then he stood up and walked back to the main road. The young woman was waiting for him, this time without her daughters. She had on a pretty dress and her hair was combed out and fell over her shoulders. “
Señor,
perhaps…”

Was she offering herself to him? He didn’t know. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket. It was the same one the port captain had refused. “For your daughters,” he said in a low voice.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “How can I thank you?”

“Just remember there are still a few good Yanks around.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure. Guantánamo Bay. But it’s a long way away.”

“Take the bus,” she told him.

He couldn’t believe it. Even in the midst of the killing, starvation, and chaos, people were getting on with their lives and jobs—like the port captain. She walked with him to the bus stop, over two miles away. As they talked, he realized that small kindnesses still made the difference with the Cubans. It was a lesson he would always remember.

Confinement Facility, Andrews Air Force Base

The two prosecutors from DOJ were in the interview room when the security policewoman brought in Sophia James. She clutched the light gray shapeless dress around her as she sat down and hunched over. “You wanted to see us?” the lead prosecutor said.

“I want a deal.”

Neither man was surprised. She had been held for twenty-three days, since February 17, and the reality of prison life had finally kicked in. “What have you got?”

“What do you need?”

The two men stood up to leave. “What we need, Miss James, is the truth.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s not that much.”

They sat down. “Let’s hear it. Then we can talk deals.”

“I was hired by Lloyd Marsten to penetrate the Group.”

“We know that.”

Sophia panicked. Any chance she had of getting a reduced sentence was rapidly evaporating. “It was a separate deal that had nothing to do with ARA.”

The two men looked at her, their faces blank. “Why?” the younger man asked.

“Marsten wanted to use them, and there was no way ARA would go along with it.”

“Use them for what?”

“He wanted them to blow up a drilling rig. Insurance, I suppose.”

“Then neither you nor Marsten knew about the plot to assassinate the president?”

She shook her head. “I figured it out when they were holding me hostage, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. They had taken my clothes and I was watched, constantly.”

That checked with what they already knew. “What can you tell us about the waiter from Café Martí in Little Havana?”

She was ready with an answer in case they made that connection. “Luis killed him. They had an affair, and after they broke up, he was afraid the waiter would sell him out.”

The lead prosecutor checked his notes. “As a matter of fact, he did. But he didn’t tell us about the homosexual activity.”

“I don’t think he would,” Sophia said. “That’s everything. Have we got a deal?”

The men stood up. “If this all checks out, who knows? Maybe five years with time off for good behavior.”

Relief flooded over her face. She would be thirty-two years old when she got out and still have a life in front of her. “I’m always on my good behavior.” She smiled at them as they left.

Outside, the two men climbed into a staff car and headed for the main gate. “Do you believe her?” the younger man asked. The senior prosecutor shrugged in answer. “So are you gonna cut her a deal?”

“Hell no,” the older man answered. “Too much money was changing hands. I figure she probably killed the waiter to make her bones with the Group.”

“We’ll never prove it.”

“We’re not even going to try. We’ll go with what we got, and she’ll be an old lady when she gets out.”

The junior prosecutor shook his head. “Too bad. She’s a beautiful woman.” They drove in silence as he considered what they knew. “Will we ever figure it all out?”

“Oh, yeah,” the older man replied. “Proving it is another matter.”

Varadero

Most of the men guarding the roads leading into town recognized the burly truck driver and waved him past. But the teenager at the checkpoint leading into Avenida Primera demanded to see his identification and thoroughly searched his truck. Besides the normal tools all he found was a compact satellite-communications radio. He held the radio in one hand as he played with the controls, but all he could get was a loud hissing sound. He glanced at the driver, who was holding two hundred-dollar bills in his right hand. “For your family,” he murmured, taking the radio and pressing the money into the teenager’s hands. The boy hesitated. “I am one of you,” the driver said in a low voice.

“Where do you get this kind of money?”

“Don’t ask,” the driver said, climbing back into the driver’s seat. He drove away.

The teenager immediately found his sergeant and showed him the money. “That was Rogelio,” the sergeant said, taking the money. “You want to be his friend.” The boy nodded in understanding.

Rogelio drove down Avenida Primera. A surprising number of tourists were in the bars and cafés, and pretty
jineteras,
some younger than usual, walked the streets marketing their wares. Nothing had really changed. He drove up to the luxury hotel Sol Palmeras and ran into a barricade and heavily armed men. The acting captain recognized him and escorted him to a parking place. Again a large amount of money changed hands. Rogelio gestured at the hotel. “The trial?”

“Sí,”
the captain said. “He’s been talking for two days.”

“What are they going to do with him?”

An expressive shrug. “Who knows? I’m betting they’ll execute him.”

“Firing squad?”

“That would give him dignity,” the captain replied. He wrote out a pass. “Who do you want to see?”

“The Englishman,” Rogelio answered.

“Which one? Many reporters are here for the trial.”

“The one called Marsten.”

Rogelio pushed his way through the swarm of people pressing into the main ballroom where the trial was being held. He had to present his pass four times and was searched twice before he saw Marsten. The Englishman was sitting in a back row with the woman who had become his constant companion. Again money exchanged hands as Rogelio bought the seat next to him. “Señor Marsten,” Rogelio muttered. “I have a message.” A guard walking the aisle motioned him to silence as the seven judges took the stand. Then the defendant was brought out. He was wearing a fresh set of his trademark fatigues, and his beard was freshly trimmed. He held his head up and stared at the judges, challenging them. The chief judge called the court to order and said a few words. The defendant came to attention and started to talk, presenting his defense. His words echoed over the ballroom.

The truck driver listened attentively. It was the same rhetoric he had heard all his adult life. “Has he said anything new?” The woman with Marsten shook her head, and a guard again gestured for him to be quiet. He waited patiently for two hours as the defendant spoke. It was a long, rambling discourse on the morality and goals of the
revolución
. Finally the chief judge called a recess, and the defendant was led back to his makeshift cell in the basement of the hotel.

“What’s your message?” Marsten asked.

“L.J. says she needs you. Transportation has been arranged. A diplomatic flight to Montreal.”

“I’m not leaving without Amelia.”

“That can be arranged,” Rogelio answered.

“And I want to stay until the trial is over.”

“Why?” Rogelio asked. “The judges will find him guilty but cancel his sentence.”

Marsten stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”

Rogelio snorted. “Your Spanish is not good enough to hear it. He has—what do the Americans call it?” He searched for the right word.

“It is called Alzheimer’s,” Amelia said.

A look of relief spread across Rogelio’s face. “That’s the word.”

Rogelio left Varadero and drove west along the coast road for sixteen miles before turning inland toward Juan Gualberto Gómez Airport. For Marsten it was sixteen miles of hell, as Rogelio drove around the burned-out hulks of cars and trucks. It grew worse as they neared the turnoff to the airport, and Marsten counted four dead bodies lying beside the road. “The fighting is over here,” Rogelio assured them. “But there is still fighting in many cities. Santa Clara, Camagüey, and Holguín are the worst.”

“What about Havana?” Marsten asked.

“The Guardians hold Havana for now. But there is much hunger, and the people are waiting for someone to feed them.”

Marsten felt sick to his stomach. No matter how he rationalized, he was partly responsible for the killing and destruction surrounding them. He kept asking himself if it was worth it. He looked at Amelia sitting beside him and felt tears well up in his eyes. Because of him she had lost her husband and only son. Amelia saw his tears and held his hand. “It’s not your fault,” she told him.

For those simple four words, he would always love her.

Rogelio turned into the airport, where a single plane was parked on the ramp. The distinctive red maple leaf of Canada was painted on its tail.