Thriller (6 page)

the island. He’s been flying humanitarian missions to spot rafters

lost at sea.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He’s just a client. Met him on a pro bono immigration case I

did ten years ago. Look, you probably know more than I do. Are

you sure it was him?”

“I think you can confirm that much for us with the air traffic

control recordings.” He pulled a CD from inside his pocket, then

said, “It’s been edited down to compress the time frame of the

engagement, but it’s still highly informative.”

Jack was as curious as anyone to know if his client was involved—if he was alive or dead. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

Matta inserted the CD into the player on Jack’s credenza.

There were several seconds of dead air. Finally a voice crackled

over the speakers:
“This is approach control, U.S. Naval Air Sta-

tion, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Unidentified aircraft heading one-

eight-five at one-five knots, identify yourself.”

Another stretch of silence followed. The control tower repeated its transmission. Finally, a man replied, his voice barely

audible, but his Creole accent was still detectable.
“Copy that.”

Jack said, “That’s Jean.”

45

The recorded voice of the controller continued,
“You are en-

tering unauthorized airspace. Please identify.”

No response.

“Fighter planes have been dispatched. Please identify.”

Jack moved closer to hear. It sounded as though his client was

having trouble breathing.

The controller’s voice took on a certain urgency.
“Unidentified

aircraft, your transponder is emitting code seven-seven-hundred.

Do you have an emergency?”

Again there was silence, and then a new voice emerged.
“Yeah,

Guantanamo, this is Mustang.”

Matta leaned across the desk and paused the CD just long

enough to explain, “That’s the navy fighter pilot.”

The recording continued: “
We have a visual. White Cessna one-

eighty-two with blue stripes. N-number—November two six Golf

Mike. One pilot aboard. No passengers.”

The controller said,
“November two six Golf Mike, please con-

firm the code seven-seven-hundred. Are you in distress?”

“Affirmative.”

“Identify yourself.”

“Jean Saint Preux.”

“What is the nature of your distress?”

“I…I think I’m having a heart attack.”

The controller said,
“Mustang, do you still have a visual?”

“Affirmative. The pilot appears to be slumped over the yoke. He’s

flying on automatic.”

“November two six Golf Mike, you have entered unauthorized air-

space. Do you read?”

He did not reply.

“This is Mustang. MiGs on the way. Got a pair of them ap-

proaching at two-hundred-forty degrees, west-northwest.”

Matta looked at Jack and said, “Those are the Cuban jets.

They don’t take kindly to private craft in Cuban airspace.”

The recorded voice of the controller said,
“November two six

Golf Mike, do you request permission to land?”

46

“Yes
,” he said, his voice straining.
“Can’t go back.”

The next voice was in Spanish, and the words gave Jack chills.

“Attention. You have breached the sovereign airspace of the Repub-

lic of Cuba. This will be your only warning. Reverse course imme-

diately, or you will be fired upon as hostile aircraft.”

The controller said,
“November two six Golf Mike, you must

alter course to two-twenty, south-southwest. Exit Cuban airspace

and enter the U.S. corridor. Do you read?”

Matta paused the recording and said, “There’s a narrow corridor that U.S. planes can use to come and go from the base. He’s

trying to get Saint Preux into the safety zone.”

The recording continued,
“November two six Golf Mike, do

you read?”

Before Saint Preux could reply, the Cubans issued another

warning in Spanish.
“Reverse course immediately, or you will be

fired upon as hostile aircraft.”

“November two six Golf Mike, do you read?”

“He’s hand signaling
,” said Mustang.
“I think he’s unable to talk.
”

The controller said,
“November two six Golf Mike, steer two-

twenty, south-southwest. Align yourself with the lead navy F-16 and

you will be escorted to landing. Permission to land at Guantanamo

Bay has been granted.”

Jack’s gaze drifted off toward the window, the drama in the

Cuban skies playing out in his mind.

“Mustang, what’s your status?”
asked the controller.

“We’re in the corridor. Target is back on automatic pilot.”

“Do you have the craft in sight?”

“Yes. I’m on his wing now. That maneuver away from the MiGs

really took it out of him. Pilot looks to be barely conscious. Dan-

gerous situation here.”

“November two six Golf Mike, please hand signal our pilot if you

are conscious and able to hear this transmission.”

After a long stretch of silence, Mustang said,
“Got it. He just

signaled.”

The controller said,
“Permission has been granted to land on run-

47

way one. You are surrounded by four F-16s, and they are authorized

to fire immediately upon any deviation from the proper course. Do

you read?”

There was silence, then a response from Mustang.
“He’s got it.”

“Roger. Mustang, lead the way.”

After thirty seconds of dead air, the controller returned.
“Mus
-

tang, what’s your unaided visibility?”

“Our friend should be seeing fine. Approaching the south end of

the main base.”

Matta used another stretch of silence to explain, saying, “The

main base is to the east of the landing strip. They have to pass

over the main base, and then fly across the bay in order to land.”

“Whoa!”
shouted Mustang.
“Target is in a nosedive!”

“November two six Golf Mike, pull up!”

“Still in a nosedive,”
shouted Mustang, his voice racing.

“Pull up immediately!”

“No change,”
said Mustang.

“November two six Golf Mike, final warning. Regain control of

your craft or you will be fired upon.”

“He’s headed straight for Camp Delta.”

“Fire at will!”

A shrill, screeching noise came over the speakers. Then silence.

Matta hit the STOP button. “That’s it,” he said in a matter-offact tone. Slowly, he walked around the desk and returned to his

seat in the wing chair.

Jack was stone silent. He wasn’t particularly close to Saint

Preux, but it was still unnerving to think of what had just happened to him.

Matta said, “Did Mr. Saint Preux have heart trouble?”

“Not to my knowledge. But he had pancreatic cancer. The doc tors gave him only a few months to live.”

“Did he ever talk of suicide?”

“Not to me.”

“Was he depressed, angry?”

“Who wouldn’t be? The guy was only sixty-three years old.

48

But that doesn’t mean he deliberately crashed his plane into

Camp Delta.”

Matta said, “Do you know of any reason he might have to hate

the U.S. government?”

Jack hesitated.

Matta said, “Look, I understand that you’re his lawyer and you

have confidentiality issues. But your client’s dead, and so are six

U.S. Marines, not to mention scores of detainees. We need to understand what happened.”

“All I can tell you is that he wasn’t happy about the way the

government treats refugees from Haiti. Thinks we have a double standard for people of color. I’m not trying to slap a Jesse Jackson rhyme on you, but as the saying goes—If you’re black, you

go back.”

“Was he unhappy enough to blow up a naval base?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know,” said Matta, his voice taking on an edge.

He was suddenly invading Jack’s space, getting right in his face.

“I believe that the heart attack was a ruse. I think this was a

planned and deliberate suicide attack by a man who had less than

six months to live. And I suspect the logistical support and financial backing for an organization that only you can help us

identify.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jack.

“Are you going to sit there and pretend that he didn’t mention

any plans to you, any organizations?”

Jack was about to tell him that he couldn’t answer that even

if he’d wanted to, that conversations with his client—even a

dead client—were privileged and confidential. But one thing did

come to mind, and it wasn’t privileged. Jean had said it in front

of Jack, in front of Theo and in front of about a half-dozen other

drunks at Theo’s tavern. Jack could share it freely.

“He mentioned something called Operation Northwoods.”

Matta went ash-white. He turned, walked into the next room,

and was immediately talking on his encrypted cell phone.

49

7:40 p.m., Two Weeks Later

Sparky’s Tavern was on U.S. 1 south of Homestead, one of the

last watering holes before a landscape that still bore the scars of a

direct hit from Hurricane Andrew in 1992 gave way to the splendor of the Florida Keys. It was a converted old gas station with floors

so stained from tipped drinks that not even the Environmental Protection Agency could have determined if more flammable liquids

had spilled before or after the conversion. The grease pit was gone

but the garage doors were still in place. There was a long, wooden

bar, a TV permanently tuned to ESPN, and a never-ending stack of

quarters on the pool table. Beer was served in cans, and the empties were crushed in true Sparky’s style at the old tire vise that still

sat on the workbench. It was the kind of dive that Jack would have

visited if it were in his own neighborhood, but he made the fortyminute trip for one reason only: the bartender was Theo Knight.

“Another one, buddy?”

He was serving Jack shots of tequila. “No thanks,” said Jack.

“Come on. Try just one
without
training wheels,” he said as

he cleared the lemons and saltshaker from the bar top.

Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere. “I met with a former military guy

today,” said Jack. “Says he knows all about Operation Northwoods.”

“Does he also know all about the tooth fairy and the Easter

Bunny?”

“He worked in the Pentagon under the Kennedy administration.”

Theo poured another shot, but Jack didn’t touch it. “Talk to

me,” said Theo.

“He showed me a memo that was top secret for years. It was

declassified a few years ago, but somehow it never got much

press, even though it was titled ‘Justification for U.S. Military Intervention in Cuba.’ The Joint Chiefs of Staff submitted it to the

Defense Department a few months after the Bay of Pigs invasion.

No one denies that the memo existed, though former Secretary

of Defense McNamara has gone on record saying he never saw

it. Anyway, it outlines a plan called Operation Northwoods.”

50

“So there really was an Operation Northwoods? Pope Paul

wasn’t just high on painkillers?”

“His name was Saint Preux, moron. And it was just a memo,

not an actual operation. The idea was for the U.S. military to

stage terrorist activities at Guantanamo and blame them on

Cuba, which would draw the United States into war with Cuba.”

“Get out.”

“Seriously. The first wave was to have friendly Cubans dressed

in Cuban military uniforms start riots at the base, blow up ammunition at the base, start fires, burn aircraft, sabotage a ship in

the harbor and sink a ship near the harbor entrance.”

“Sounds like a plot for a bad movie.”

“It gets better—or worse, depending on your perspective.

They talked about having a ‘Remember the
Maine
’ incident where

the U.S. would blow up one of its own ships in Guantanamo Bay

and blame Cuba.”

“But how could they do that without hurting their own men?”

“They couldn’t. And this was actually in the memo—I couldn’t

believe what I was reading. It said, ‘Casualty lists in U.S. newspapers would cause a healthy wave of national indignation.’”

Theo winced, but it might have been the tequila. “They didn’t

actually do any of this shit, did they?”

“Nah. Somebody in the Pentagon came to their senses. But

still, it makes you wonder if Jean was trying to tell us something

about a twenty-first-century Operation Northwoods.”

Theo nodded, seeming to follow his logic. “A plane crash on

the base, a few U.S. casualties, and
voilà!
The burning question

of what to do with six hundred terrorists is finally resolved.

Could never happen, right?”

“Nah. Could never—” Jack stopped himself. President Lincoln

Howe was on television. “Turn that up, buddy.”

Theo climbed atop a bar stool and adjusted the volume. On

screen, President Lincoln Howe was delivering a prime-time

message with his broad shoulders squared to the microphone,