Castro's Daughter

by David Hagberg

  “John said that he saw Marty Bambridge entering your office.”

  “Yes, sir. He came to talk to me without Walt Page’s knowledge.”

  Langdon’s expression darkened. “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I, Mr. President. But you might want to know what he told me. At the very least it’s interesting.”

  “And at the very worst?”

  “Could very well either solve the Cuban problem once and for all, or escalate it almost to the point of another Bay of Pigs.”

  Langdon sighed in resignation. “What are the bastards up to now?”

  And Shapiro recapped everything that the CIA’s Deputy of Operations had told him, including the apparent fact that McGarvey and Otto Rencke had disappeared with the colonel.

  Langdon took just a moment to come to his decision. “First of all, we’re not sure that any of it is true. So the first order of business is to find McGarvey. But quietly. I’m told that he’s a man who does not like to be sneaked up upon.”

  “I’ll have Nick put someone on it,” Shapiro said. Nicholas Wheeler was director of the U.S. Secret Service. They worked directly for the president and would make a lot less noise in such an investigation than would the FBI.

  “When you find him, find the colonel and take her into custody. She ordered the kidnapping. Let’s hear what she has to say for herself, after which I might telephone Raúl Castro to find out what he thinks he’s up to.”

  “You might want to hold off before making that call,” Shapiro said. “Because there is the matter of a possible Spanish treasure buried somewhere in southern New Mexico.”

  “I’ve read some of those stories, which hold about as much weight as alien abductions, or the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, but this time there may be some validity to the claim. The colonel is an illegitimate daughter of Fidel, who on his death made her promise to find the treasure and bring it back to Cuba, where he felt it rightly belonged.”

  Langdon laughed without humor. “If there is such a treasure—which you admit is more than far-fetched—it won’t be going anywhere except Fort Knox. And just maybe Castro’s daughter will be shot to death trying to escape.”

  “I’ll see what should and can be done,” Shapiro said.

  “Yes, do that,” the president said.

  SIXTY-TWO

  A half hour later, an aide ushered Kirk McGarvey into Walt Page’s office on the seventh floor of the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building, where the DCI was waiting with Gavin Litwiller, the director of the FBI.

  “From what I gather reading the overnights, you’ve already struck a nerve, if that was you,” Page said.

  “It was me,” McGarvey said. “We set a trap and they took it.”

  “You know Gavin, I’m sure,” Page said.

  Litwiller was a tall, senatorial-looking man in his late sixties with white hair and wide, expressive eyes that made it seem as if he was seeing absolutely everything for exactly what it was. Actually, it was a skill he had perfected as a lawyer in military intelligence, from where he’d been elected to the bench in Denver. The president had picked him to head the Bureau three years ago, and by all accounts he’d done an outstanding job. He and McGarvey shook hands.

  “Only by reputation,” McGarvey said.

  Litwiller smiled faintly. “I’d have to say the same,” he said. “Walt told me that you wanted this meeting, just the three of us, and here I am. My people still want to interview you about the kidnapping of Louise Horn, and then of course this business last night in Georgetown. And you have our attention because we’ve tentatively identified the dead man as DI. Makes us curious about what’s going on between you and Cuban intelligence.”

  “It has to do with a deathbed request by Fidel Castro that could involve a substantial dollar amount in a Spanish treasure from the sixteenth, seventeen, and eighteenth centuries buried somewhere in New Mexico. The Cuban government wants a piece of it, but a DI colonel who’s apparently defected claims she wants the money for the people.”

  “Good Lord,” Litwiller said. “That’s quite story to swallow in one bite. Who is the colonel, and where is she?”

  “María León, and she’s right here in Washington. In fact, it was she who the DI came for last night. And it was to her that Castro made his deathbed request.”

  “The obvious question is why her?”

  “She’s one of his illegitimate children.”

  Litwiller and Page exchanged a glance.

  “As my oldest son used to say when he was a teenager, this is rad, or fringe, or something like that,” the FBI director said. “Do you believe her?”

  “We’ve established that a cache or caches of gold and silver and perhaps other things of historical value might have been buried in southern New Mexico. Some of it could still be there—we haven’t established all of that yet.”

  “Yes, but do you believe her motivations? Or has she merely involved you in some elaborate scheme to get your help?”

  McGarvey shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, or least I’m not sure. The DI had traced her to Miami, where they killed three people and very nearly got to her. Then they traced her here to Georgetown, where they nearly got to her again. But it was she who took down the DI officer whose body you found on the roof across from where we were staying.”

  “Rather convenient of them to have traced her so easily,” Litwiller said. “Any chance she was leaving a trail of bread crumbs?”

  “It would have been easy for her to do in Miami, but here in D.C., it would have been tough.”

  “But not out of the question?”

  Louise had picked her up from Andrews, and the two of them had been alone together for most of the day. “Not out of the question.”

  “From what I understand, the DI managed to cut the power to the house. How many of them were there, besides the one on the roof who we took to be a sniper?”

  “Four, maybe five,” McGarvey said.

  “And they just turned around and cleared out when you took down one of their people?”

  “I created a diversion on the street in front of the house and went over the back wall, where I managed to come up behind the guy I took to be their point man and told him he had two choices: go or die.”

  “So you let them go,” Litwiller said.

  “I wanted at least one of them to report back to Havana that the Spanish treasure did exist in New Mexico and that the colonel and I knew where it was.”

  “Do you honestly think that once whoever came here to arrest or kill this colonel of yours gets back to Havana and tells their bosses about the treasure, the DI will actually mount an operation to grab it?”

  “It’s going to get a little more complicated than that, Mr. Director, but yes, that’s essentially what I think will happen.”

  Litwilller sat back and eyed McGarvey for a long beat. “I received a call from Nick Wheeler in my car on the way over here. He’s director of the Secret Service. The White House had just asked him to find you and this Cuban colonel. I won’t say who made the suggestion, but they thought it wouldn’t be a bad thing if the colonel were shot to death trying to escape.”

  This one took McGarvey by surprise, and he turned to Page. “Did you give the president or anyone from his staff the heads-up on what Otto and I discussed after we got back from Spain?”

  “No,” the DCI said. He went to the phone on his desk and asked his secretary to reach Mr. Bambridge. After a moment, he thanked her and hung up.

  “He’s at the White House?” McGarvey asked.

  “On his way back,” Page said. “But my secretary didn’t know from where. So where does it leave us, Mac?”

  “I want the Cubans to go after the treasure in New Mexico, and I want our government to cooperate.”

  Litwiller almost laughed. “You’re talking about an invasion?”

  “Yes, but if you’ll let me explain at least that part of it, we just might be able to put a big dent in two of the
problems we have down there.”

  “Which are?”

  “The massive amounts of drug smuggling across the border, and the drug cartel violence in northern Mexico.”

  Again, Litwiller held his peace for a beat or two, until finally he shook his head. “I knew that coming here to meet with you this morning was going to prove interesting at the very least, but just not this sensational. And I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask that you and Colonel León voluntarily submit to interviews, under the Bureau’s protection. The Secret Service is quite good at everything it does. If they have a White House directive to find you and the colonel, someone might get hurt in the process.”

  “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.”