Castro's Daughter (36 page)

“We’re leaving Washington tonight, or no later than tomorrow morning.”

“The first places they’ll stake out are the airports and train stations.”

“But not Andrews,” McGarvey said. “We’re flying out on a CIA aircraft. Miami first, then Mexico City, and finally Holloman Air Force Base.”

“New Mexico,” Litwiller said. “To the treasure.”

“You’ll have one of the jets, but first I’ll have to know what you’re up to,” Page said.

“I know where the gold is buried, or at least I have a pretty good idea, and I have an idea how get to it so that no one innocent should get hurt.”

“You don’t seriously believe that if such a treasure exists—on U.S. soil—and if you find it, that any of it will actually be sent to Cuba,” Litwiller said.

“The Cubans could make a pretty good case based on historical facts that one third of it belongs to them, but not one ounce of it will ever make it to Havana. And that I’m willing to guarantee.”

“Okay, you’ve got the aircraft and crew,” Page said. “But you have to tell us how you’re going to pull this off and, even more important, why. After all, it was nothing more than the deathbed request from a dictator to his daughter, herself a spymaster who’s been responsible for dozens of deaths, probably hundreds or more in her career. Why are you helping her?”

“First the how, and then the why,” McGarvey said. And he told them.

SIXTY-THREE

Just before noon, Román Ortega-Cowan was admitted into the office of the President of Cuba, where he stopped directly in front of the desk and raised a crisp salute. Raúl Castro—seated behind his wide desk strewn this morning with dozens of files, documents, international newspapers, and magazines—finished jotting something on a notepad before he looked up, his eyes narrow, the expression on his face not pleasant.

The room, not changed much since Fidel had turned over the government to his brother, felt more like the study of a college professor with a lot of books on built-in shelves than a government office: a studious place of intellectual work.

“I received two disturbing reports this morning,” Raúl said. “One from Washington and the other from Miami that should have come to me directly from your office. Can you tell me why I had to go to the effort to find out for myself what you should have brought to my personal attention?”

Ortega-Cowan lowered his salute, knowing exactly what two reports the president was talking about, though he had no idea who’d sent them over. “I’m sorry, sir, but routine operational reports aren’t usually sent to you—otherwise, it would be necessary for you to spend every waking hour reading them.”

“Don’t toy with me, Major,” Raúl warned. “You know what I’m talking about, unless the department you are presently overseeing is even more inept and inefficient than I’m coming to believe it is.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, I’m at a loss—”

“Miami is in an uproar. The traitors there are close to a revolution, which has caught the attention of Washington.”

“There is always some sort of trouble in the Calle Ocho.”

“Not like this, or truly has your intelligence apparatus there not made a report?”

Ortega-Cowan really was at a loss, and worried that something else was going on that he didn’t know about, something involving the funneling of information like this directly to the president’s office. “There was a disturbance a few days ago, perhaps three deaths that may have involved the dissidents’ crude intelligence apparatus.”

“Were you also not aware that Colonel León was traced to Washington, and that a DI operation to arrest her last night not only failed but resulted in the death of one of our people as well, and focused attention on our intelligence-gathering unit?”

“One of my overnight staff received a brief call from Carlos López, who heads our Washington operation, that a minor disturbance may have taken place, and that as soon as he had all the facts, he would send me a report.”

“I’ve read it,” Raúl said. He picked up a file and handed it across the desk to Ortega-Cowan. “Both incidents are there. And can you guess who the two common denominators are?”

“I’m assuming Colonel León and Captain Fuentes, who was sent to Mexico City to find her. He traced her to Miami and yesterday to Washington. His orders—my orders—were to bring her home, where she could be charged with espionage and high treason. It’s possible that his and the colonel’s presence in both cities created the problems you speak of.”

“Indeed,” Raúl said.

Ortega-Cowan had learned early in his career that when a lie was necessary, make it a very large lie that was laced with just enough verifiable truth to make the entire thing believable, at least in the short run.

“Captain Fuentes has become something of a problem,” he said. “Since El Comandante’s death, he’s talked about becoming Minister of Foreign Affairs. In my estimation, he’d become expendable, which is why I sent him after Colonel León. I thought at the very least he might flush her out where the dissidents in Miami might kill her, and the same in Washington, where Major López could take her in. Apparently neither happened.”

“Where is Captain Fuentes at this moment?”

“If not still in Washington, where he might have gone to ground, then on his way here.”

“If he shows up here, arrest him,” Raúl ordered. “And tell me what further plans you have to find and arrest Colonel León.”

“That depends on what is in these reports, Mr. President, and what Captain Fuentes will tell us when we have him in custody. Much will depend on why the colonel defected. She was up to something before she escaped, but she wouldn’t share it with me.”

“Something involving the CIA officer or officers whom she allowed to leave from her compound?”

“Presumably,” Ortega-Cowan said.

“I want this matter to be resolved, Major. Soon.”

“Of course Señor Presidente,” Ortega-Cowan said. He saluted, which Raúl returned, then turned and headed for the door.

“Your career depends on this,” Raúl said. “Maybe even your life.”

*   *   *

Over the past few years, Ortega-Cowan had developed the habit of taking a cab up to the Malecón whenever he was bothered and had something to work out in his mind. He would walk along the waterfront and sometimes stop for a coffee in the horribly run-down Hotel Deauville, which still evoked something of the old, grander Havana.

The day was pleasantly warm, the streets comfortably anonymous, and deep in thought about what he would have to do to keep Raúl at bay, he was unaware that he had picked up a tail, until Fuentes came up behind him.

“Good afternoon, Román.”

Ortega-Cowan almost stumbled, but he recovered smoothly. “Your name just came up no more than fifteen minutes ago.”

“Let me guess, in the office of El Presidente, who wants both of our heads on a platter for allowing the colonel to simply fly away like a little bird.”

“Mostly your head for the debacles in Miami and Washington. Apparently, you had her in your sights and you lost her both times.”

“Where’s he getting his information?”

“I don’t know,” Ortega-Cowan said, and he held up the file Raúl had given him. “Only this matters.”

“I have something much better,” Fuentes said.

“I hope for your sake you do, because El Presidente wants you arrested and interrogated vigorously, and I have to agree with him. If you were to be taken down, most of my problems would go away.”

Fuentes stopped and faced the older, much larger man. “Román, what do you want? What’s in your wildest dreams?”

Ortega-Cowan considered Fuentes for a long moment. Castro’s former chief of security seemed more confident than ever before, even excited and happy. “Raúl off my back, and then the directorship of the DI. For starts.”

“Well, you’ll have all of that and more. And I’m going to give it to you.”

“The treasure exists, and you know how to find it,” Ortega-Cowan said, keeping his suddenly raging emotions in check.

“El Comandante’s gold exists, and I know exactly how to find it and bring it back here. But I’ll need your help, and we’ll have to act fast.”

They found a small
paladar
with a few tables on the broken sidewalk a few doors down from the Deauville. After they ordered coffees, Fuentes explained everything that had happened in Miami, and then the operation in Georgetown. “We managed to penetrate the computer freak’s security systems and listen to the conversation they had with the colonel, and it was nothing less than illuminating.”

“Any chance they knew you were snooping?”

“Doesn’t matter, the treasure does exist in southern New Mexico—McGarvey and his pals know exactly where—and the bitch told him how she planned to grab it and get it back here. Only we’re going to beat her to the punch.”

“How?” Ortega-Cowan asked, and after Fuentes explained everything, he began to think that they might just have a chance of pulling off the biggest coup for Cuba since the Bay of Pigs, or even the revolution. But he also came to the realization that he now had all the information he needed; Fuentes was just about superfluous.

“One more thing,” the captain said sitting back, grinning. “I have another piece of information for you. Something I learned from El Comandante’s files. Something I decided not to share with you until the time was right. Until now.”

Ortega-Cowan could imagine what Fuentes was talking about, but he felt the first stirrings of unease. “I’m listening.”

“Do you know your mother?”

The question was startling, and Ortega-Cowan almost didn’t answer. But he was intrigued. “She died in a car wreck when I was five, but I remember her telling me that my father had been a hero of the revolution and would one day come for me.”

“But he never did.”

“No.”

“Nor did he ever come for the
coronel
, your half sister.”

SIXTY-FOUR

They had rented a couple of cars, including a plain Ford Taurus and a Chevrolet Impala from Hertz at Dulles, and had taken up residence at a small two-story colonial in McLean that Otto had purchased almost two years ago. The house at the end of a cul-de-sac backed to a stand of trees that would provide cover if they needed to make a run for it. And although the neighborhood was quiet, the four of them kept out of sight so far as it was possible.

After his meeting with Page, McGarvey had spent most of the rest of the day on the phone with a number of contacts, including, and especially, Martínez in Miami, who fed him up-to-the-minute reports on not only what the DI was up to, but also what the mood of the exile community was.

“
Caliente
and growing,” Martínez said.

“And you’re fanning the flames.”

“Of course. But you might have to come here soon and talk with a few key people before they’ll commit as a mob. You understand?”

“Do you have a leak in your organization?”

“There’re DI spooks all over the place. We work around them.”

“The word is out about the treasure?”

“Yes,” Martínez said.

“We’ll be down first thing in the morning.”

“Not sooner? They need to know what this is really all about, and what their chances will be.”

“I still need to make sure of one more thing.”

“The
coronel
?”

“Sí.”

“There, you do speak Spanish.”

“Claro que sí.”
Of course I do, McGarvey said. “Tomorrow. Early.”

*   *   *

By late afternoon, he’d taken his plans about as far as he could from Washington, and he went into the kitchen and opened a Pils Urquell beer and sat at the counter drinking and looking out the window at the woods and darkening evening and thinking that Katy would have liked it here, at this hour with a glass of nice merlot.

“A centavo,” María said at the doorway.

McGarvey looked up. “Actually it’s a penny for your thoughts. Are you ready to leave?”

“Louise and Otto have pinpointed at least one site near Victorio that looks very promising. I assume we’re going to take a look before I go to Ciudad Juárez to start everything in motion.” She looked bright, fresh, even animated.

And naïve despite her hard experiences, McGarvey thought. “First Miami, we need to put out a few fires. Your Captain Fuentes evidently assassinated three key people. The entire Calle Ocho is in an uproar.”

“It’s not part of the operation—”

“It is now, because you’re the cause of it,” McGarvey said coolly. “You’re here, and you’ll do as I tell you to do.
Comprende, Señora Coronel?
”

She turned and stalked down the hall as Louise and Otto came back to the kitchen.

“Tantrums?” Louise asked.

McGarvey laughed. “Just the start, I think. What’d you two find out?”

Louise glanced over her shoulder to make sure María had gone upstairs. “Victorio Peak was all but hollowed out sometime back in the sixties. If there was any treasure buried in the caves, it’s long gone by now.”

“Hollowed out by who?”

“The military, of course. It’s what you expected, wasn’t it?”

“Counted on, actually,” McGarvey said. “She doesn’t know?”

“Probably does, but there’re a dozen conflicting accounts,” Otto said. “Take your pick.”

“What about the topographic maps of the vicinity? Did you find anything promising?”

“Oh, yeah,” Louise said. She’d brought her laptop with her, and she opened it on the counter in front of McGarvey, and pulled up a satellite view of the southern New Mexico desert just northeast of the border. “Fort Bliss Military Reservation land about fifty miles south of Victorio Peak. Looks really promising.”

“We’ll need permission for what we want to do.”

“I spoke to Walt Page fifteen minutes ago,” Otto said. “He’s going to the president with it first thing in the morning.”

McGarvey sat back. “Castro’s gold,” he said. “I would never have believed it actually existed.”