October's Ghost (20 page)

“Not really,” Aguirre responded, the subject bringing an unpleasant past to her mind again. “ ’Cause he’d never admit that his problem saved his life. He doesn’t have a problem, remember.”

Art pushed the glowing “down” arrow at the twin elevators. “They never do, partner. Never do.”

*  *  *

Sullivan’s eyes were fixed on the off-white wallpaper as his hosts left, trying to pick out the tiniest specks of discoloration. The exercise hurt his already throbbing eyes tremendously, but he had to focus on something. Something to occupy his mind. Just anything that would not allow the thoughts to get in, just to keep them out. Out! Out!
Out! OUT!

His fist balled up tight and came down on the table hard. The impact sent his Styrofoam cup of coffee tumbling to the floor.

“Dammit,” he whimpered softly, asking whatever supreme being there was just why these things had happened to him. Why me? It was a question he found himself asking more frequently these days, usually when he was...

No, that’s not it. That’s not it.
If other people couldn’t handle their booze, too bad, but there was nothing wrong with his drinking. It was just something he enjoyed, something he had done for so long that it seemed second nature, something he...needed!

No! NO!
What the hell did Sturgess know anyway? He was just like that Fields asshole in New York.
“You need help, George.”
What a line! It was easy to cast stones at others when you had your own problems. That was the real thing behind this, he knew.
They
needed a punching bag, someone to throw their shit at. A convenient target. Why not George? It was that simple and that clear.

Well, he could show them. He could prove that what they thought was a problem had no bearing on his life. It was just a... a thing. A thing he did, like lots of people. Right. If they thought he couldn’t do his job, then he’d just prove to them he could do it better than anybody.

Sullivan stood quickly from the table, putting his blazer on and eyeing the coffeemaker with disgust. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. There was no one around. He didn’t know why until the time on the wall clock caught his attention.
That late?
No wonder there was no one there. He walked slowly to the elevator, aware that he really wasn’t supposed to leave, but what could they do—
make
him stay?

He walked out the front of the building into the stuffy air of early evening, walking down the block with a crowd before a cab came into view. Hailing a taxi in L.A. was nowhere near as easy as doing so in New York. Sullivan slid into the backseat.

“Where to?”

He thought for a moment. There was a lot to do. So much. He had to get started, but he really needed... wanted to relax first. “Freddy’s up on Sunset.”

“That a bar, fella?”

For some reason Sullivan couldn’t bring himself to answer. He simply nodded to the cabbie in the rearview mirror.

*  *  *

“Just hang back,” Jorge instructed, instinctively looking over his left shoulder as Tomás pulled into traffic.

“We should have taken him when he came out.” Tomás stepped on the accelerator hard, cutting in front of a stretch black limo that looked so out of place, it wasn’t even funny.

“In front of the FBI? Good plan, Sherlock.”

Fuck you
, Tomás thought, as he kept their blue Chevy Lumina a half-block back from the bright yellow cab.

*  *  *

“I was surprised they saved it all,” Dan Jacobs admitted. “Usually don’t get it all.”

He dropped the cassette into a sophisticated triple Record/Play deck in the TS lab. He, Art, and Frankie were alone in the room, which was packed with millions of dollars’ worth of equipment, enough to give a professional sound engineer wet dreams.

“I thought you were into bullets and tire prints, Dan,” Art said with intended good humor. “Not this high-tech stuff.”

“Yeah, well, I always wanted to be a rock star. Never told you that, huh?” Jacobs plugged a trio of headsets, each with one earphone, into a splitter jack on the unit. “While I was in college and working, I used to play in a band.”

“No shit,” Art exclaimed, putting on the headset and trying to picture the straight-laced forensics agent as a long-haired musician.

Jacobs laughed, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Good old CCR and Doors kind of stuff. We mostly played frat parties, and we weren’t very good. But”—he let out a wistful breath—“I got into recording gear. This stuff, right here, is my passionate closet hobby. My wife loves me when I crank it up.”

Art couldn’t believe it. It reinforced his belief that it was damn near impossible to paint someone with a broad brush, because you inevitably missed some of the more porous areas of their character.

“We’re set,” Jacobs announced. “Frankie, I’m going to have you speak into this microphone. It’s hooked up to this second deck. That way we’ll have a preliminary translation on tape. We can get a real detailed one tomorrow.”

“I’m ready, but remember I was raised with barrio Spanish, so this may be rough.”

“Confidence in you, partner.” Art took out his notebook and pen. “Hit it, Dan.”

There were a few seconds of alternating static and silence before the meat of the tape began. Frankie translated the words as they were spoken.

“The date is October twenty-eighth, 1962. Tape one, reel one, Alejandro Cortez is the... the interpreter.”

There was an obvious stop in the recording after the verbal date stamp, a common practice in official recordings.

“Portero was Cortez’s assistant,” Art told Jacobs, recalling the fax from State.

“Good evening, Premier Khrushchev.”
Frankie’s eyes went wide, a second voice converting the words into another language—Russian, she thought. A response in Russian came quickly.

“Good evening, nothing! You are a thief, Castro! A thief!”

There was laughing from the Spanish speaker, the one referred to as...Castro?
“You spoke to my brother, I gather. A thief, you call me? Then I shall call you a coward. You let the Americans walk all over you. You come here—”

“You cannot—”

“No! You will listen to me. Premier Khrushchev! I have heard enough of your boasts, and your promises, and your lies.”
Frankie could imagine him gesturing grandly
. “You came here to thumb your nose at the Americans, and as soon as that pig Kennedy stands up to you, you crumble. Like a brittle piece of glass. The smallest amount of pressure made you break.”

“You have no right to challenge the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics this way! No right on this earth!”

“I have every right, just as every person in my country has a right to expect protection when it has been promised. Promised by you. By YOU!”

“This will not be tolerated, Castro. You cannot expect to come away from this with what you have taken, or with your life.”

“Then take it back. Come take your precious missile back!”

“What!” Art said aloud, his eyes finding those of the other two agents. They were as huge as his.

“I am waiting, Premier Khrushchev. I am waiting.... Come take it. Let the world see that not only can the United States of America make you bow, but let them see that a small country—an ally, no less—can make you kneel. Let the world see this.”

There was a long pause, time enough for the agents’ imaginations to shift into high gear. The scenarios envisioned were all equally frightening.

“President Castro—”

“Do not think that because you suddenly use my title that you can stroke me like a lover. No, no, no.”

“What do you want? What will make you return our property?”

“It is no longer your property. It is ours. It will remain ours.”

“You cannot keep it. I cannot—”

“You can, and you will have to. It is all very easy to explain to your government, Premier Khrushchev. When my soldiers captured the missile, they killed all the crew, and the security troops, of course. Tragic, yes, but necessary. And there was a devastating explosion of the fueling trucks very soon after. It consumed everything. You see, Premier Khrushchev, there is nothing to send back. It is very convenient for you. I will obviously not reveal anything. The only reason anyone would ever know of our acquisition would be if I must use the weapon to defend the Revolution.”

“But... But... President Castro, it is an atomic weapon. How can I. . .”

“You have no choice. None. If you go to war over this, you will lose. How will your other allies see their benevolent protector if you crush a small country such as my own? You know what they will do. You will have revolt along your borders. Is it worth this, Premier Khrushchev? Is it?”

“I must...”

“Your Politburo will not understand. This secret is yours, and it is mine.”

“It will remain as such?”

“It will. We can even send you the bodies of your soldiers who died so tragically. They can be transported from La Isabela with their associated units. A fine funeral for the heroes will placate your Politburo.”

“No. No. There must be no hint of bodies. I suggest that they were consumed in the fire. Dispose of them as you wish.”

“They were soldiers, following orders. They will receive a fine burial.”

Again there was silence on the tape, but none of the agents spoke. What was there to say, other than a few choice expletives that could scarcely express the gravity of what they had just heard?

“Yes, I hope that they... that they will. I hope that...”

“It is done, then, Premier Khrushchev. Done.”

“Yes. Yes. It must be.”

“It is. Good-bye.”

The sound of the connection being broken clicked loudly.

“Lock the tape away, Alejandro. The good premier is not to be trusted. His memory of what transpired here may need to be refreshed someday.”

“Yes, Presidente.”

A shift from static to total nothingness signaled the end of the recording. Jacobs slid his headset off and stopped both tape decks, hitting the Rewind button next. Frankie and Art pulled theirs off a second later.

“Oh, my God,” Frankie said, summing up the collective feelings completely.

“Can this really be true?” Jacobs asked, wondering just who could answer the question.

“I don’t know,” Art answered, afraid to be more certain. “I’ve heard early tapes of Castro’s speeches. That sounded like him.”

Frankie’s eyes narrowed, her head swinging slowly from side to side. “But how could that be... I mean, if it is true, then there could still be...”

“I know.” Art shifted his thoughts from the past to the present, not wanting to deal with the future quite yet. “This puts a more sinister spin on the shooters who hit Portero. You may have been right before—they could be working for the Cubans. There certainly is a motive for the silencing aspect of this now.”

“Jesus.” Frankie had never wanted to get into the counterintelligence stuff the Bureau had to deal with, but now an uglier side of it appeared to be rearing up right in front of her. “If so, then Sullivan could be in more danger than we thought. Much more.”

There was no hesitation in Art’s response. “Get downstairs and sit with him. Don’t let him out of your sight. They’ve already proved they’ll kill for this.”

Frankie needed no more prompting. She was out of the TS lab and hitting the stairs a few seconds later.

“Dan, you say nothing of this. Clear?”

“Hey, who the hell would believe me?” He popped the two cassettes from their respective machines. “Do you want copies?”

“Yeah. Two of each.”

“All right. There’ll be a little degradation, remember. That recording is at least a second-generation copy made from the original reel tapes.”

“Okay. Okay.” Art was thinking fast, trying to plot the proper avenues of action in his head before setting anything in motion. It was quite a foreign manner of operation for him in this type of situation. “I’ve got to get in touch with the director. This has to go to him.”

Dan knew that the special agent in charge, William Killeen, was not keen on having street agents go over his head. “What about Bill?”

“Remember the SAC conference.” The Bureau’s SACs were gathering at the academy in Quantico, Virginia, for a so-called budget summit. Everybody was feeling the heat. “You think this can wait with what’s going on down there?”

“Not my call.” Jacobs thought for a moment. “What about Lou? He’s in town.”

Step by step, Art
. “You’re right.”

“He can give you the go over the phone. He’d have to.”

Shit.
“No, that won’t work. This has got to go over a secure line. He doesn’t have one.” Lou Hidalgo, Art’s boss’s boss, lived in Mission Viejo, a good hour away. Too far. Too long to wait. “I’ve got to do this.”

“Like I said, your call,” Jacobs cautioned.

Frankie burst through the door to the lab. “He’s gone!”

“Gone?” Art stood quickly. “To fucking where?”

“Don’t know,” Frankie answered, her breaths coming fast and hard. “The lobby guard said he saw him leave about ten ago.”

Dammit
. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him.” The senior agent let the rush pass, measuring his breathing, just as he was supposed to do.
You idiot, Jefferson!
“Okay, get a bulletin out. I want a protective warrant issued for Sullivan.” He paused again, straining to regain his composure, knowing he would need it when talking to the man who had authorized his de facto demotion a year before for pushing limits that he shouldn’t have.

Art Jefferson knew this could be construed as similar behavior, but he didn’t really give a damn at the moment. He was doing what he had to...his job.

*  *  *

“There is a problem.”

General Asunción studied the Russian’s expression. “What problem? It will not work?”