Dead Silence (2 page)

Ten minutes later, Heller was in the water, trying to say, “Let’s talk about this.
Seriously,
” but there was a rag stuffed in his mouth.

He tried to say, “My goddamn elbow’s busted!,” knowing what it felt like because of that game in Green Bay when he got blindsided by one of the Frozen Chosen. But not as cold then as now, with water sloshing in his ears, his wrists tie-wrapped, floating on his back as the weirdo biologist towed him, kicking with fins.

Bern tried to wrestle free but inhaled water up his nose. Tried again, panicking, and felt the ammonia sting of salt water.

He screamed,
“Please,”
but made only a mewing noise because of the gag. The sound—a helpless-kitten sound—scared him. It was familiar. Thinking about it, Bern stopped struggling. When he remembered, his muscles went slack.

Ford continued swimming from the lights of the marina, kicking harder, using his right arm to pull.

He had a plane to catch.

At 6:45 a.m., Ford was aboard Delta’s direct to Newark, sitting starboard side, first class, reading the
Miami Herald
. A story about Cuba. Secret documents were surfacing, now that Castro was gone.

Disturbing.

Ford had worked in Cuba. He had also worked in Central America, South America, Asia and Africa.

Ford had told Bern the truth. His skills were rusty.

As the plane banked over the Gulf of Mexico, he folded the
Herald
and cleaned his glasses. Below, wind glittered on water a mile from shore, where Ford had untied Bern Heller, then pushed him overboard, yelling,
“Swim!”

At 3:30 a.m., the lights of Sanibel Island were bright.

By five, Ford had returned to his home and lab on Dinkin’s Bay, secured his boat, was showered and packed. He’d also stowed cash from Heller’s safe and the Rolex in a hidden floor compartment.

Thinking about it now, Heller’s voice—
“Don’t leave. I’m begging you!”—
Ford felt an unfocused anxiety that startled him. A sinking sadness—a dense, unlighted space beneath his heart.

It passed.

An emotional response? No . . . a paralimbic reaction. The distinction was interesting—but unimportant.

Ford was working again.

Below, green water became granite as the jetliner ascended.

They’ll think Heller fell overboard, escaping to Mexico . . . if the cops find him
.

They might not.

That orange ankle monitor looked heavy.

F
arfel told the Venezuelan, “More than a month ago, I warned you. Now it’s too late. The U.S. government has Castro’s files.” He exhaled through his nose, touching a finger to his glasses:
Amateurs.

The young Venezuelan, his face lathered, sat reading the
Miami Herald,
Spanish edition. Farfel, the hotel barber, could see over his shoulder.

There was a photo. A good-looking woman, weight of breasts beneath her charcoal blouse. A powerful man with teeth. Cochairs of an intelligence subcommittee, they’d been bickering about the files for months, mostly with the world political community, but also with the CIA.

“Five weeks ago. What did I tell you?”

The Venezuelan had a partner, an aloof New Yorker. What Farfel had told them was, “You want the files? Bury one of the politicians alive. Bury them with oxygen, a little water. Enough for a couple of days. It’ll work, I read about it in a book. The Americans will give you anything you want.”

They’d thought he was joking.

Now, because Farfel had a razor in his hand, the Venezuelan closed the newspaper. He sat straighter, thinking,
He has cut men’s throats. I wouldn’t be the first.

True.

Farfel began stropping the razor fast—a rare display of emotion for the precise little man with silver hair, mustache and glittering silver eyes. They were alone in the shop with Koken chairs, mirrors, combs in blue disinfectant, the smell of powder and cigars, a calendar on the wall showing Havana’s skyline.

“The article means nothing,” the young Venezuelan said. He was worried the barber would be insulted if he stood and wiped lather from his face but was thinking it over as he added, “I have good news.”

“Save your breath. No more excuses.”

“At least listen.”

“Why bother? I should be looking for a way to disappear. They will hunt me the way Jews hunt Nazis. A boat, maybe.”

The Venezuelan stood and found a towel.
To hell with etiquette.
He gave it a moment for effect, but also to move closer to the door. “Yesterday it was decided,” he said, “the grave will be dug.”

Farfel folded the razor slowly.

“We were going to tell you.”

“The coffin, too?” The barber’s dentures made a clacking
snap
sound.

“Yes, as you ordered. A wooden box with an oxygen bottle. A container for water—a
canteen,
I think it is called.”

“Where?”

The Venezuelan said, “Only two people know.” Said it in a way that implied the New Yorker knew but the Venezuelan didn’t. He lobbed the newspaper in the trash, his confidence returning. “There’s something else. We also have the senator’s schedule.”

He was talking about the good-looking woman in the charcoal blouse. Farfel had told them, “Abduct the female. Snap photos with the coffin open, the woman staring up. The FBI will soil their pants, do whatever we want. Old files in exchange for the life of a senator? Force the Americans to
react,
not
act
.”

Farfel’s former assistant, Hump, the son of a dead friend, had made a cinematic gesture, framing the scene. “I like photos,” he said in his simple way. “I own a camera.”

The Venezuelan ignored the man. His deformity was unsettling.

This was back in December, Hump and Farfel, former members of the Cuban Socialist Party, talking with the young Venezuelan and the New Yorker on a seawall where the Gulf Stream swept close to Havana, a river of green on a purple sea.

“Maximum leverage without killing. You told me no one can be killed.”

“But burying a woman—”

“You’re asking me to imagine—”

“To imagine the worst way to die. People will say fire. They will say falling from the sky in a plane. Cancer . . . a few will speak of disease.”

Hump and Farfel had exchanged looks, as if old pros on the subject of torture and death. They were.

“To understand fear, listen to your spine, not your brain.”

The idea had floated in silence.
Buried alive.

Even the New Yorker, a cold one, had grimaced.

“When FBI agents get the assignment, they’ll feel like
they’re
suffocating. If we tell them to shit, they’ll ask what color.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Hump had said to the Venezuelan, “We do,” as he removed his cap, looking at the man’s face for a reaction.

He got it.

The Venezuelan swallowed and turned away. “I’m not criticizing. But as a practical approach—”

Farfel said, “You’re an expert? In Florida, a convict buried a rich man’s daughter. This was years ago. A fan for air, some water. She was buried four days. The rich man delivered the cash. The FBI
helped
him deliver the cash. They concentrated on saving the girl. Not searching for the kidnappers. Understand the concept? We put the victim’s life in their hands. They’ll be so busy, they won’t waste time looking for us.”

“Did the daughter live?”

Farfel took a deep breath, his expression asking
Why do I bother?

Hump answered, “Yes, the girl lived,” speaking in his simpleminded way, sounding disappointed.

For five weeks, the foreigners had delayed, insisting on more time. Even the New Yorker, who’d started it all, appearing in Farfel’s shop one morning, then pressing a note in his hand instead of a tip.

Reading the note, Farfel had felt like a man again. He’d told Hump, “I don’t care if it is a trap,” as they walked to their first meeting.

It wasn’t a trap.

Castro’s personal possessions, files included, had been stolen by the Americans and shipped to Maryland in industrial cartons. Four cartons to a container, thousands of items and documents that had been grouped, not cataloged. Collectively, the Americans were calling them the
Castro Files.

A carton labeled C/C-103 (1976-’96) contained details of experiments the Soviets had conducted on American POWs in Vietnam, then Angola, Panama and Grenada. Administrators of the study, working as private contractors, had continued the experiments in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pain and fear: What were the human limits? The study ended in 1998 when the last POW from Vietnam finally gave-up and died.

The Cuban Program. The Soviets called it that because Castro had provided three unusual interrogators with special skills. The men were scientists, in their way, and were so determined, so exacting, that they soon usurped control from their Russian bosses.

One of the interrogators was a small, fastidious man named René Soyinka Navárro. He was the son of a Russian mother and a Cuban KGB officer.

In Afghanistan and Iraq, Navárro had been hired by Al-Qaeda as a expert contractor, an interrogator who could obtain information from even the most determined prisoners. To those countries, he had brought along an apprentice, the son of a fellow interrogator named Angel Yanguez, Jr.

From his late father, Yanguez had inherited a genetic deformity—
Seborrheic keratosis
—in the form of a cutaneous horn just beginning to grow. He’d also inherited the nickname Hump, which he didn’t mind, unlike Navárro who despised his nickname, Farfel. It had shadowed him since Hoa Lo Prison in Vietnam, where POWs had named him for the Nestlé’s Quik TV puppet that clicked his wooden teeth shut at the end of every sentence. Navárro, who wore dentures, made a similar sound when he wanted to emphasize a point.

In Vietnam, prisoners had referred to the Cubans, collectively, as the
Malvados
—fiends.

The New Yorker’s note had read: “Americans once begged for your mercy. Are you willing to beg for theirs?”

How could the New Yorker know the truth about Navárro if the documents didn’t exist?

The New Yorker and Venezuelan weren’t partners. They were working for someone. Farfel had overheard them whisper a name in English. The name sounded like
Tenth Man.
Possibly
Tenman
.

The Venezuelan was a twenty-three-year-old
maricon
, his face smooth, like an angel’s. He was a Communist, a young fool with ideals. The New Yorker was a Muslim who used whores and marijuana but not alcohol. They had no interest in the Cuban Program. Carton C/C-103 contained something else their employer wanted. Something worth only money, Farfel believed, if they weren’t willing to kill for it.

Didn’t matter.

The grave will be dug
.

Since the Soviet collapse, Farfel and Hump had been in government protection, living like peons in Havana. False identities, menial jobs. Humiliating after living like gods in Vietnam, Panama and Iraq.

Now, though, they were working again. Professionals with unusual skills.

THE EXPLORERS CLUB, 70TH STREET, NEW YORK CITY SIX DAYS LATER

O
n a snowy January evening in Manhattan, I was in the Trophy Room of the Explorers Club when I saw, through frosted windows, men abducting a woman as she exited her limousine.

It wouldn’t have made a difference, but I knew the woman. She was Barbara Hayes-Sorrento
—Senator
Barbara Hayes-Sorrento—a first-term power-house from the west who had won the office once held by her late husband.

Well, not much difference. The senator was my dinner date for the evening. No romantic sparks, but I liked the lady.

It was six p.m., already dark outside. The Trophy Room was a cozy place. Fireplace framed by elephant tusks, maps of the Amazon scattered around, a mug of rum-laced tea within easy reach. I was the guest of an explorer who was also a British spy: Sir James Montbard. Friends called him Hooker because of the steel prosthetic that had replaced his left hand.

Hooker was a secondary reason for visiting New York. The primary reason was the hope of a new assignment from my old boss, a U.S. intelligence chief. Clandestine work sometimes requires a cover story. Friends sometimes provide it.

It was no coincidence that Barbara Hayes-Sorrento was free for dinner, or that my neighbor, Tomlinson, had been in the city until the day before, lecturing on “psychic surveillance” at an international symposium.

I had kept my social calendar high-profile, and I’d stayed busy.

Hooker and I had been planning a trip to Central America. He believed that warrior monks had sailed west in the 1300s, escaping with plunder from the Crusades. He said it explained why, two centuries later, the Maya believed in a blond, blue-eyed god, Quetzalcoatl, and so made a fatal mistake by welcoming the murderous Conquistadors.

I wasn’t convinced. But renewing contacts in Latin America was important now, so I’d agreed to join his expedition. This was our third night at the Explorers Club using its superb library.

When Hooker excused himself to freshen his whiskey, I stood, stretched and strolled to the window because it was snowing—a rare opportunity for a man from the tropics. I had an unobstructed view of the street below. It was 70th Street, a quiet one-way, two blocks from Central Park. It connects Park Avenue and Madison.

I could see Barbara Hayes-Sorrento as she got out of her car. She wore a charcoal coat, stockings and high heels. Her briefcase looked darker for the confetti swirl of snowflakes

The woman was leaning into a limo, saying good-bye to a fellow passenger, when a taxi rear-ended the limo. Not hard.