Castro's Daughter (35 page)

“We have a developing issue that I think you need to know about,” Bambridge said. He and Shapiro were not on a first-name basis, but they knew each other from a number of security briefing sessions here in the West Wing at which the DDO had made presentations.

“Walt Page send you?”

“No.”

Shapiro looked at him for a moment, but then nodded. “Close the door,” he said, and he phoned his secretary to tell her he was not to be disturbed for the next few minutes.

“I’m not going behind anyone’s back. But it’s a situation involving Kirk McGarvey for which I—the agency—could use a little guidance.”

“He’s been of some service to the CIA and to this country. The president has a great deal of respect for him.”

It’s not the reaction Bambridge had expected, and he nodded. “Perhaps it would be better if I fully briefed the director.”

Shapiro waved him off. “You’ve come this far—tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I’m not sure this is the correct time.”

“I am,” Shapiro said coolly.

“There’ve been five shooting deaths—one in Georgetown last night, three in Miami the night before last, and one of a museum curator in Mexico City—all of them involving McGarvey and Colonel María León, who heads the Cuban intelligence services Directorate of Operations.”

Shapiro was definitely interested. “This have anything to do with the kidnapping of the wife of one your officers?”

“We’ve learned that it was ordered by the DI in order to force her husband, our Special Projects officer Otto Rencke, to fly to Cuba with the State Department delegation that attended Castro’s funeral.”

“Jesus Christ, why weren’t we briefed?”

“We didn’t know all of the details ourselves until yesterday, and then there was a shooting last night in Georgetown. The victim has been tentatively identified as a Cuban national who we think works for a DI cell here in Washington.”

“Precisely how is McGarvey involved?”

“By his own admission, he’s actually working with Colonel León. In fact, he flew clandestinely to Cuba to rescue Mr. Rencke, where he met with the colonel, who apparently arranged for the two of them to escape.”

Shapiro shook his head. “Do you realize just how crazy this sounds?”

“Yes, but it’s even worse.”

“Page knows all of this?”

“Yes, he and I were briefed by McGarvey and Rencke yesterday.”

“And?”

“The director gave them forty-eight hours to finish what they’d started,” Bambridge said. “But since the incident last night, I don’t think we can afford to wait.”

“What did McGarvey have to say about it?”

“He and the colonel plus Mr. Rencke and his wife have disappeared. Again.”

“Okay, Martin, tell me the worst.”

And he did, leaving nothing out, including everything that was said in the meeting with Page after McGarvey and Rencke returned from Spain.

Shapiro was silent for several beats, until he shook his head. “If McGarvey wasn’t involved, I would have to say that you’re talking utter rubbish. But why did he want the forty-eight-hour delay before he talked to the Bureau?”

“He expected the DI to trace Colonel León to Washington, and I think that he wanted to see what they would do.”

“They tried to kill her, which you think validates her story in McGarvey’s mind?”

“Exactly, as does the fact that he and the others disappeared sometime before the police showed up to investigate the shooting.”

“How do you know McGarvey was in the middle of it? Were there witnesses?”

“No, but a SUV was involved, probably as a distraction, and we traced it to Louise Rencke. From there we gained entrance to a brownstone across the street from where the DI shooter’s body was found. The place was filled with sophisticated computer and countersurveillance equipment. A lot of it CIA gear. Along with some personal effects belonging to Rencke and his wife. We think it’s where they were hiding the colonel. Somehow the DI found out and apparently tried to smoke them out by cutting the electrical power to the house.”

Shapiro was thoughtful. “So now what?”

“I think that McGarvey means to help Colonel León find the treasure and somehow get at least some of it to Cuba.”

“That makes the least sense of all. McGarvey may be many things, some of them contrary and certainly not pleasant, but he’s never betrayed his country, at least not in the long run.”

“I’d like to ask him to explain himself, but as I said, he’s disappeared again.”

“That would be up to your people,” Shapiro said. “But you did the right thing coming to see me.”

“What would you like me to say to the director?”

Shapiro smiled. “That’s up to you, Martin.”

And Bambridge smiled inwardly, because he had gotten exactly what he wanted. A friend in the White House who would help bring McGarvey down off his high horse. It was a first step.

*   *   *

When Bambridge was gone, Shapiro walked down to the Oval Office, where President Joseph Langdon standing behind his desk was talking with John McKevitt, his chief of staff, and Howard Pursley, his chief speechwriter.

“I need a couple minutes whenever you have the time,” Shapiro said.

“Anything earth shattering?” the president asked. The press had dubbed him the Dapper Dan when he ran successfully for the Colorado governorship ten years earlier, because he habitually wore three-piece suits, the ties always proper, the bottom buttons of the vests always undone, the same as this morning.

“No, sir, but interesting.”

“Okay, let’s take this up later,” he told his speechwriter. “Anything John needs to stay for?”

Shapiro shrugged. “That’s up to you, Mr. President.” It was a code that he wanted some one-on-one time.

“Give us a couple of minutes,” Langdon said, and his chief of staff and speechwriter left, closing the door behind them.

“We have a developing situation involving Kirk McGarvey and the colonel in the Cuban DI that frankly beats the hell out of me,” Shapiro said.

“John said that he saw Marty Bambridge entering your office.”

“Yes, sir. He came to talk to me without Walt Page’s knowledge.”

Langdon’s expression darkened. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, Mr. President. But you might want to know what he told me. At the very least it’s interesting.”

“And at the very worst?”

“Could very well either solve the Cuban problem once and for all, or escalate it almost to the point of another Bay of Pigs.”

Langdon sighed in resignation. “What are the bastards up to now?”

And Shapiro recapped everything that the CIA’s Deputy of Operations had told him, including the apparent fact that McGarvey and Otto Rencke had disappeared with the colonel.

Langdon took just a moment to come to his decision. “First of all, we’re not sure that any of it is true. So the first order of business is to find McGarvey. But quietly. I’m told that he’s a man who does not like to be sneaked up upon.”

“I’ll have Nick put someone on it,” Shapiro said. Nicholas Wheeler was director of the U.S. Secret Service. They worked directly for the president and would make a lot less noise in such an investigation than would the FBI.

“When you find him, find the colonel and take her into custody. She ordered the kidnapping. Let’s hear what she has to say for herself, after which I might telephone Raúl Castro to find out what he thinks he’s up to.”

“You might want to hold off before making that call,” Shapiro said. “Because there is the matter of a possible Spanish treasure buried somewhere in southern New Mexico.”

“I’ve read some of those stories, which hold about as much weight as alien abductions, or the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Yes, Mr. President, but this time there may be some validity to the claim. The colonel is an illegitimate daughter of Fidel, who on his death made her promise to find the treasure and bring it back to Cuba, where he felt it rightly belonged.”

Langdon laughed without humor. “If there is such a treasure—which you admit is more than far-fetched—it won’t be going anywhere except Fort Knox. And just maybe Castro’s daughter will be shot to death trying to escape.”

“I’ll see what should and can be done,” Shapiro said.

“Yes, do that,” the president said.

SIXTY-TWO

A half hour later, an aide ushered Kirk McGarvey into Walt Page’s office on the seventh floor of the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building, where the DCI was waiting with Gavin Litwiller, the director of the FBI.

“From what I gather reading the overnights, you’ve already struck a nerve, if that was you,” Page said.

“It was me,” McGarvey said. “We set a trap and they took it.”

“You know Gavin, I’m sure,” Page said.

Litwiller was a tall, senatorial-looking man in his late sixties with white hair and wide, expressive eyes that made it seem as if he was seeing absolutely everything for exactly what it was. Actually, it was a skill he had perfected as a lawyer in military intelligence, from where he’d been elected to the bench in Denver. The president had picked him to head the Bureau three years ago, and by all accounts he’d done an outstanding job. He and McGarvey shook hands.

“Only by reputation,” McGarvey said.

Litwiller smiled faintly. “I’d have to say the same,” he said. “Walt told me that you wanted this meeting, just the three of us, and here I am. My people still want to interview you about the kidnapping of Louise Horn, and then of course this business last night in Georgetown. And you have our attention because we’ve tentatively identified the dead man as DI. Makes us curious about what’s going on between you and Cuban intelligence.”

“It has to do with a deathbed request by Fidel Castro that could involve a substantial dollar amount in a Spanish treasure from the sixteenth, seventeen, and eighteenth centuries buried somewhere in New Mexico. The Cuban government wants a piece of it, but a DI colonel who’s apparently defected claims she wants the money for the people.”

“Good Lord,” Litwiller said. “That’s quite story to swallow in one bite. Who is the colonel, and where is she?”

“María León, and she’s right here in Washington. In fact, it was she who the DI came for last night. And it was to her that Castro made his deathbed request.”

“The obvious question is why her?”

“She’s one of his illegitimate children.”

Litwiller and Page exchanged a glance.

“As my oldest son used to say when he was a teenager, this is rad, or fringe, or something like that,” the FBI director said. “Do you believe her?”

“We’ve established that a cache or caches of gold and silver and perhaps other things of historical value might have been buried in southern New Mexico. Some of it could still be there—we haven’t established all of that yet.”

“Yes, but do you believe her motivations? Or has she merely involved you in some elaborate scheme to get your help?”

McGarvey shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, or least I’m not sure. The DI had traced her to Miami, where they killed three people and very nearly got to her. Then they traced her here to Georgetown, where they nearly got to her again. But it was she who took down the DI officer whose body you found on the roof across from where we were staying.”

“Rather convenient of them to have traced her so easily,” Litwiller said. “Any chance she was leaving a trail of bread crumbs?”

“It would have been easy for her to do in Miami, but here in D.C., it would have been tough.”

“But not out of the question?”

Louise had picked her up from Andrews, and the two of them had been alone together for most of the day. “Not out of the question.”

“From what I understand, the DI managed to cut the power to the house. How many of them were there, besides the one on the roof who we took to be a sniper?”

“Four, maybe five,” McGarvey said.

“And they just turned around and cleared out when you took down one of their people?”

“I created a diversion on the street in front of the house and went over the back wall, where I managed to come up behind the guy I took to be their point man and told him he had two choices: go or die.”

“So you let them go,” Litwiller said.

“I wanted at least one of them to report back to Havana that the Spanish treasure did exist in New Mexico and that the colonel and I knew where it was.”

“Do you honestly think that once whoever came here to arrest or kill this colonel of yours gets back to Havana and tells their bosses about the treasure, the DI will actually mount an operation to grab it?”

“It’s going to get a little more complicated than that, Mr. Director, but yes, that’s essentially what I think will happen.”

Litwilller sat back and eyed McGarvey for a long beat. “I received a call from Nick Wheeler in my car on the way over here. He’s director of the Secret Service. The White House had just asked him to find you and this Cuban colonel. I won’t say who made the suggestion, but they thought it wouldn’t be a bad thing if the colonel were shot to death trying to escape.”

This one took McGarvey by surprise, and he turned to Page. “Did you give the president or anyone from his staff the heads-up on what Otto and I discussed after we got back from Spain?”

“No,” the DCI said. He went to the phone on his desk and asked his secretary to reach Mr. Bambridge. After a moment, he thanked her and hung up.

“He’s at the White House?” McGarvey asked.

“On his way back,” Page said. “But my secretary didn’t know from where. So where does it leave us, Mac?”

“I want the Cubans to go after the treasure in New Mexico, and I want our government to cooperate.”

Litwiller almost laughed. “You’re talking about an invasion?”

“Yes, but if you’ll let me explain at least that part of it, we just might be able to put a big dent in two of the problems we have down there.”

“Which are?”

“The massive amounts of drug smuggling across the border, and the drug cartel violence in northern Mexico.”

Again, Litwiller held his peace for a beat or two, until finally he shook his head. “I knew that coming here to meet with you this morning was going to prove interesting at the very least, but just not this sensational. And I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask that you and Colonel León voluntarily submit to interviews, under the Bureau’s protection. The Secret Service is quite good at everything it does. If they have a White House directive to find you and the colonel, someone might get hurt in the process.”