Dead Silence (7 page)

He was talking about the kidnapping. Anywhere outside the United States was off the reservation.

I said, “The only rule is, there are no rules,” quoting one of the organization’s own maxims. But he was right. I couldn’t think of an exception.

“Besides, do you really think I would’ve okayed anything involving an exemption? How long have we known each other?”

An exemption was a noncombatant minor.
Exceptions are exempt
—another rule of a black ops team that had no rules.

I wanted to believe him. Harrington had a daughter. Like me, he had lived through a kidnapping. Plus, the man had changed in a way I’d yet to quantify. In our meetings, he’d been personable, not cold. He’d admitted past mistakes and made comments that were introspective, even philosophical—totally out of character. Maybe years of accumulated guilt had snapped some internal guy wire.

It happens. It has happened to stronger, smarter men than me, which is why I focus on the present, not the past. I am aware of the dangers of exploring murky demarcations between principles and morals, obligations and duty. I prefer sunnier places, like the Amazon.

A more compelling reason to believe Harrington was what Choirboy had told me while we were in the water. My second question was:
Why kidnap the senator?

Choirboy’s answer had implicated a group of religious crazies. But even if he spoke the truth, it didn’t guarantee he knew the truth.

I said to Harrington, “If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I be your first suspect?”

He replied, “You’re right about the timing. Yes, I understand. But this is a business call, not social. Do you mind?”

Someone could be listening.
A warning in his tone. I sighed, preparing myself for a code protocol that was outdated but still part of the game.

Harrington said, “I think what happened tonight has to do with the library collection we discussed. Are you with me?”

He gave me a moment to translate:
Castro Files.

“I want that collection. Sure. At least, take a look. But I’m not the only one. There are people all over the world who want it. And powerful organizations. A library that extensive? No telling what it’s worth on the open market.”

I said, “I know, I know. People are dying to get their hands on it.”

“I’m not that desperate. Not yet. Move too fast, I overpay. But moving too slow could be even worse—for both of us. That’s another reason I called. I’m counting on you to keep me updated. That shouldn’t be hard. Same hotel, right?”

He was referring to Barbara.

“It’s like you’re a mind reader.”

“Odd, that you should make that reference. I enjoyed your friend’s lecture. It was interesting. Maybe you should consult him on the matter.”

He had heard Tomlinson speak on psychic surveillance? The new, open-minded Harrington.

I listened to him say, “The people who screwed up your dinner plans tonight are making a bid on the collection. That’s what happened.”

“A theory?”

“If your girlfriend’s people haven’t heard, they soon will. The info’s coming in right now. Hold on.” The phone went silent. I guessed he was reading a bulletin on the SIGINT web, a high-clearance intelligence source. “The party crashers don’t want the entire library. They want four volumes.”

Harrington was telling me the kidnappers had made contact with a ransom demand. I looked at the door, wondering if Barbara knew.

“The same volumes we want?”
We
wasn’t used editorially. It was possible that a carton labeled C/CN-103 contained information on an illegal organization. Harrington was still involved. I was once a member. It was the Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group—the Negotiators. Information about the organization could be filed under C for
Castro
and CN for
Clandestine
.

If there was such a file, it contained the last documents anywhere that proved the Negotiators existed—or so Harrington had promised me.

Harrington said, “Different volumes. There’s proof, if you need it. What they’re after wouldn’t interest you or me. Feel better?”

I asked about the boy, saying, “Do they still have something to trade?”

Harrington said, “Looks like they might—there’s a photo. I’m reading their offer right now.” There was another long pause before he said, “Do me a favor, stick by the phone, okay?”

He hung up.

 

 

 

More than just files and property had been seized. Harrington had finally told me the whole story after our meeting with the Alpha 66 militant.

Cuba was not a peaceful place, despite the death of the man Cubans once called the Maximum Leader, or the Bearded One.

Fidel Castro’s secret retreat had been uncovered on a tiny island off the southern coast of Cuba, Playa Giron. The island had been declared a military zone in 1962 but, in fact, Castro owned the island. Used it for vacations, then as his home in later years, finally as a sanctuary when he became ill.

After officially transferring control of Cuba to his brother, Raul, Fidel had spent his last year on Playa Giron
,
writing his memoirs, almost a hermit except for medical attendants, visiting physicians and a few friends. His most valued possessions were brought to him—a common request for a dying man but Fidel Castro was anything but common. He ordered his valuables hidden, anticipating that his regime might have to live in exile for years before returning to power.

He was at least partly right. The Castro regime collapsed soon after his death in December, although not as soon as some expected, and the main players had fled to a sympathetic Venezuela, either unaware of what the Maximum Leader had left behind or where the valuables were hidden.

When the U.S. military discovered the cache, Castro’s assets—Playa Giron included—were declared to be without legal provenance and so were confiscated. The collection now filled an entire warehouse at a secret facility in Maryland, not Langley, Virginia.

Fifty years of secrets, tens of thousands of documents censored to protect only Castro, plus a hidden cache of Fidel’s personal possessions. Because the Senate and the CIA had been in a tug-of-war, courts had sealed the containers soon after they were grouped and before most were cataloged or analyzed.

There was worldwide political interest because of the files, but there was also a treasure trove of valuables—literally.

Two decades before his death, Castro started a government-funded salvage company, Carisub. Several dozen Spanish treasure galleons had sunk in Cuban waters, and Carisub’s mission was simple: Find the treasure and notify Fidel, who was an avid diver.

Carisub used four boats and employed sixty divers, who were trained in archaeology, epigraphy and numismatics. They were an elite team, all loyal members of the Cuban Communist Party.

Cuba is a treasure diver’s dream, and Carisub’s pros found a lot of wrecks and salvaged a fortune in Spanish gold, silver, coins, emeralds, rubies and jewelry.

It was known that the Cuban dictator had invested in small rarities to shield his own wealth and also to give him a quick out. Fifty million in gold was fifty kilos of trouble. But fifty million in rare stamps and gems could be hidden in a hatband and converted into cash anywhere in the world.

To the world’s clandestine organizations, though, the cache of private papers were more valuable. Unknown facts about the Cuban Missile Crisis, President Kennedy’s assassination, the Soviet collapse, funding of anti-Western terrorist organizations, the truth about Angola and Granada—surprising data might surface.

The same groups were worried that other secrets might surface, too. Appointed as cochair of a Senate intelligence subcommittee, Barbara had been at the center of the political firestorm that followed. Fidel’s private papers and files were a small part of what had been seized, but their contents might have a big impact in terms of national security or intelligence. Barbara Hayes-Sorrento, backed by the powerful Cuban-American lobby, wanted the papers to be made public.

Harrington and I did not want them made public, not until we knew what the files contained anyway, something I hadn’t told the senator.

My friendship with Barbara Hayes-Sorrento was coincidental but was now potentially useful. It put me in a helluva tough position. My standards of morality change with border crossings. But never in my life have I set up a friend or allowed anyone to use me as bait to harm a friend.

That’s exactly what Harrington had been asking me to do. But it was different now—in my mind anyway—because the kidnapping gave me a legitimate reason to stay in close contact with Barbara. I had been there when it happened. I was the one who had told the teenager to stay in the car—the worst possible advice, it turned out.

I wanted an active role in tracking the bastards and catching them. When Harrington finally called back, I tried to make that clear.

I said, “I’m more of a hands-on sort of person. We should get together and discuss the next step.” He had confirmed the kidnappers had made contact before returning to the subject of Castro’s files and Senator Hayes-Sorrento.

“More questions?”

“A request, really.”

Harrington said, “I’m all ears.”

“I want an application.”

“A job, you mean. A real job . . . with us.”

“That’s right.”

“No need to apply. The answer is yes.”

I stopped by a window. The room was on the eighth floor. Snowflakes convexed skyward on a monoxide thermal, car lights eight stories below. “You’re sure you understand what I’m asking—”

“I offered you two research positions. You nixed both. Finally, we’ve found something that meets your high standards. I’m relieved.”

The sarcasm wasn’t imaginary. I was working on my own terms now. I’d told him I would accept only assignments that meshed with my interests as a biologist or that presented an unusual technical challenge. I was a private contractor, in theory, who had yet to accept my first job.

Harrington had offered me missions in Venezuela and Pakistan. I already had enough enemies in South America. For the Pakistan job, I needed at least six weeks to get in the kind of shape the job required.

I had said no to both.

Going after the teenager, though, was a good fit. Because I had a personal interest, I would have requested the job even if hack amateurs had abducted him. But these people weren’t hacks, they were pros—I’d seen their work. If they kept the boy alive, I had a decent chance of doing a reverse snatch-and-bag. The kidnappers would expect law-abiding cops, not someone like me.

I said, “Then I can pursue the matter.” The kidnappers and boy, I meant. “I’m all for it. But gloves on while you’re on the reservation.”

I said, “Of course,” because it’s what I was required to say. “What else do you know?”

“They want four cartons, two labeled j, two labeled S. Why? I don’t know yet.”

The image of a semi came into my mind, the cartons like oversized blocks, filling the trailer. j for
jewelry
, S for
salvage
.

“They sound like businessmen, not collectors.”

“Or salesmen. Too early to say.”

“A straight trade?”

“With a deadline. Sunday morning at eight.” I was looking at my watch as he added, “A little more than sixty hours. But that’s their guess, so it could be way off. It depends on the battery.”

I didn’t know what that meant. “Maybe we can humor them, get an extension.”

“Not a chance. They don’t have control over the deadline.”

“You just lost me.”

“I’m thinking of your home state. Do you remember the name Mackle? As in
Mackle Brothers
? Think back. You’ll understand the deadline.”

Mackle
—the name had a distant familiarity.

I said, “They were developers. Maybe still are. Are those the—”

“Yes, the same.”

The Mackle Brothers did Florida megaprojects. Marco Island was one. Port Charlotte was another. Turnkey cities. Big money. I said, “One of the brothers had a daughter who was in the news because—” I caught myself because I remembered now. The Mackle girl had been kidnapped. Her abductors had devised an ingenious way to put responsibility for the girl’s life into the hands of law enforcement.

I said carefully, “She was detained.”

“That’s right.”

“In a . . . small room.”

“She might as well have been underground.”

I didn’t remember how long the girl had been buried. “Thirty-six hours?”

“Almost four days. With only the basics: a little water, a battery-powered fan. Very motivational.”

I understood now about the deadline. I whispered, “The sonsuvbitches.” “I hope you can pass the message along personally, Doctor.”

Suddenly, my transportation problems were more urgent. I needed to get home. I had weapons there, and other equipment. A commercial flight home wasn’t good enough.

When I told Harrington, he said, “There are some fairly decent outfitters closer to your hotel. Langley, Beltsville. How about Little Creek?”

If I needed weapons, he was telling me, I could choose from the best armories.

I said, “No need. A quick trip to Florida, down and back. Then anyplace else I need to go.”

Harrington knew what I was requesting. He said check back in a hour, he would see what he could do, then added, “But stay focused on your research. You’re working two jobs now—don’t forget.”

He was referring to Barbara and Castro’s files again. What did the woman know?

T
hey’ve threatened to bury Will alive,” Barbara told me when I returned to her suite. “We have until eight a.m. on Sunday. They mean it. Our driver was found dead, stuffed into the trunk of the car.”

She’d just gotten the news.

The woman gave me an emotional hug, her eyes clear, not red as I’d expected, but she sounded dazed. “I’m sorry I dragged you in to this, Doc. I’m like poison lately. I hurt everyone I touch.”