by Tom Clancy
“You figured right,” Jacobs replied without looking up. “Bill, who’s the best guy at Justice to get in on this?”
“Remember the guy who headed the savings-and-loan thing? He’s a whiz for following money from place to place. Marty something,” Shaw said. “Young guy. He has a real nose for it. I think Dan ought to be involved also.”
Jacobs looked up. “Well?”
“Fine with me. Shame we can’t get a commission on what we seize. We’re going to want to move fast on this. The first inkling they have ...”
“That might not matter,” Jacobs mused. “But there’s no reason to drag our feet. This sort of loss will sting them pretty good. And with the other things we’re ... excuse me. Right, Dan, let’s set this up to move fast. Any complications on the piracy case?”
“No, sir. The physical evidence is enough for a conviction. The U.S. Attorney tossed the confession entirely when the defense lawyer started grumbling about how it had been obtained. Says he smiled when he did it. Told the other guy no deals of any kind, that he had enough evidence to fry them, which is exactly what he plans to do. He’s pressing for an early trial date, going to try the case himself. The whole thing.”
“Sounds like we have a budding political career on our hands,” Jacobs observed. “How much show and how much substance?”
“He’s been pretty good to us down in Mobile, sir,” Bright said.
“You can never have too many friends on The Hill,” Jacobs agreed. “You’re fully satisfied with the case?”
“Yes, sir. It’s solid. What’s spun off of it can stand pretty much on its own.”
“Why was there so much money on the boat if they just planned to kill him?” Murray asked.
“Bait,” Agent Bright answered. “According to the confession that we trashed, they were actually supposed to deliver it to a contact in the Bahamas. As you can see from this document, the victim occasionally handled large cash transactions himself. That’s probably the reason he bought the yacht in the first place.”
Jacobs nodded. “Fair enough. Dan, you did tell that captain—”
“Yes, sir. He learned his lesson.”
“Fine. Back to the money. Dan, you coordinate with Justice and keep me informed through Bill. I want a target date to start the seizures—give you three days for that. Agent Bright and the Mobile Field Office are to get full credit for turning this one—but, this one is code-word until we’re ready to move.” Code-word meant that the case would be classified right up with CIA operations. It wasn’t all that unusual for the Bureau, which ran most of America’s counterintelligence operations. “Mark, pick a code-word.”
“Tarpon. Dad always has been crazy about chasing after them, and they’re good fighters.”
“I’m going to have to go down there and see. I’ve never caught anything bigger than a pike.” Jacobs was quiet for a moment. He was thinking about something, Murray thought, wondering what it was. Whatever it was, it gave Emil a very crafty look. “The timing couldn’t be better. Shame I can’t tell you why. Mark, say hi to your dad for me.” The Director stood, ending the meeting.
Mrs. Wolfe noted that everyone was smiling when they came out of the room. Shaw even gave her a wink. Ten minutes later she’d opened a new file in the secure cabinet, an empty folder with the name TARPON typed on the paper label. It went in the drug section, and Jacobs told her that further documentation would follow in a few days.
Murray and Shaw walked Agent Bright down to his car and saw him off.
“What’s with Moira?” Dan asked as the car pulled out.
“They think she’s got a boyfriend.”
“About time.”
At 4:45, Moira Wolfe placed the plastic cover over her computer keyboard and another over her typewriter. Before leaving the office, she checked her makeup one last time and then walked out with a spring in her step. The oddest thing was that she didn’t realize that everyone else in the office was rooting for her. The other secretaries and executive assistants, even the Director’s security detail, had avoided comment for fear of making her self-conscious. But tonight had to be a date. The signs were clear, even though Moira thought that she was concealing it all.
As a senior executive secretary, Mrs. Wolfe rated a reserved parking space, one of many things that made her life easier. She drove out a few minutes later onto 10th Street, Northwest, then turned right onto Constitution Avenue. Instead of her normal southward course toward Alexandria and home, she headed west across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into Arlington. It seemed as though the rush-hour traffic was parting before her, and twenty-five minutes later she pulled up to a small Italian restaurant in Seven Corners. Before going in she checked her makeup again in the rearview mirror. Her children would be getting dinner from McDonald’s tonight, but they understood. She told them that she’d be working very late, and she was sure that they believed her, though she ought to have known that they saw through her lies as easily as she had once seen through theirs.
“Excuse me,” she said to the hostess upon entering.
“You must be Mrs. Wolfe,” the young lady replied at once. “Please come with me. Mr. Díaz is waiting for you.”
Félix Cortez—Juan Diaz—was sitting in a corner booth at the rear of the restaurant. Moira was sure that he’d picked the dark place for privacy, and that he had his back to the wall so that he could see her coming. She was partially correct on both counts. Cortez was wary of being in this area. CIA headquarters was less than five miles away, thousands of FBI personnel lived in this area, and who could say whether a senior counterintelligence officer might also like this restaurant? He didn’t think that anyone there knew what he looked like, but intelligence officers do not live to collect their pensions by assuming anything. His nervousness was not entirely feigned. On the other hand, he was unarmed. Cortez was in a business where firearms caused far more problems than they solved, public perceptions to the contrary.
Félix rose as she approached. The hostess departed as soon as she realized the nature of this “business dinner,” leaving the two lovers—she thought it was kind of cute—to grab each other’s hands and exchange kisses that were oddly passionate despite their being restrained for so public a place. Cortez seated his lady, pouring her a glass of white wine before resuming his place opposite her. His first words were delivered with sheepish embarrassment.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Moira asked. There were a half-dozen stubbed-out cigarettes in the ashtray.
“Almost an hour,” he answered with a funny look. Clearly he was amused at himself, she thought.
“But I’m early.”
“I know.” This time he laughed. “You make me a fool, Moira. I do not act in such a way at home.”
She misread what he was trying to say. “I’m sorry, Juan, I didn’t mean—”
A perfect response, Cortez’s mind reported. Exactly right. He took her hand across the table and his eyes sparkled. “Do not trouble yourself. Sometimes it is good for a man to be a fool. Forgive me for calling you so abruptly. A small business problem. I had to fly to Detroit on short notice, and since I was in the neighborhood, as you say, I wanted to see you before I went home.”
“Problem ... ?”
“A change in the design for a carburetor. Something to do with fuel economy, and I must change some tools in my factories.” He waved his hand. “The problem is solved. These things are not uncommon—and, it gave me an excuse to make an extra trip here. Perhaps I should thank your EPA, or whatever government office complains about air pollution.”
“I will write the letter myself, if you wish.”
His voice changed. “It is so good to see you again, Moira.”
“I was afraid that—”
The emotion on his face was manifest. “No, Moira, it was I who was afraid. I am a foreigner. I come here so seldom, and surely there must be many men who—”
“Juan, where are you staying?�
�� Mrs. Wolfe asked.
“At the Sheraton.”
“Do they have room service?”
“Yes, but why—”
“I won’t be hungry for about two hours,” she told him, and finished off her wine. “Can we leave now?”
Félix dropped a pair of twenties on the table and led her out. The hostess was reminded of a song from The King and I. They were in the lobby of the Sheraton in less than six minutes. Both walked quickly to the elevators, and both looked warily about, both hoping that they wouldn’t be spotted, but for different reasons. His tenth-floor room was actually an expensive suite. Moira scarcely noticed on entering, and for the next hour knew of nothing but a man whose name she mistakenly thought was Juan Diaz.
“So wonderful a thing,” he said at last.
“What’s that?”
“So wonderful a thing that there was a problem with the new carburetor.”
“Juan!”
“I must now create quality-control problems so that they call me every week to Detroit,” he suggested lightly, stroking her arm as he did so.
“Why not build a factory here?”
“The labor costs are too high,” he said seriously. “Of course, drugs would be less of a problem.”
“There, too?”
“Yes. They call it basuco, filthy stuff, not good enough for export, and too many of my workers indulge.” He stopped talking for a moment. “Moira, I try to make a joke, and you force me to speak of business. Have you lost interest in me?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I need to return to Venezuela while I can still walk.”
Her fingers did some exploring. “I think you will recover soon.”
“That is good to know.” He turned his head to kiss her, and let his eyes linger, examining her body in the rays of the setting sun that spilled through the windows. She noticed his stares and reached for the sheet. He stopped her.
“I am no longer young,” she said.
“Every child in all the world looks upon his mother and sees the most beautiful woman in the world, even though many mothers are not beautiful. Do you know why this is so? The child looks with love, and sees love returned. Love is what makes beauty, Moira. And, truly, you are beautiful to me.”
And there it was. The word was finally out in the open. He watched her eyes go somewhat wider, her mouth move, and her breaths deepen for a moment. For the second time, Cortez felt shame. He shrugged it off. Or tried to. He’d done this sort of thing before, of course. But always with young women, young, single ones with an eye for adventure and a taste for excitement. This one was different in so many ways. Different or not, he reminded himself, there was work to be done.
“Forgive me. Do I embarrass you?”
“No,” she answered softly. “Not now.”
He smiled down at her. “And now, are you ready for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That is good.”
Cortez rose and got the bathrobes from the back of the bathroom door. Service was good. Half an hour later, Moira stayed in the bedroom while the dinner cart was rolled into the sitting room. He opened the connecting door as soon as the waiter left.
“You make of me a dishonest man. The look he gave me!”
She laughed. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had to hide in the other room?”
“And you didn’t order enough. How can you live on this tiny salad?”
“If I grow fat, you will not come back to me.”
“Where I come from, we do not count a woman’s ribs,” Cortez said. “When I see someone who grows too thin, I think it is the basuco again. Where I live, they are the ones who forget even to eat.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Do you know what basuco is?”
“Cocaine, according to the reports I see.”
“Poor quality, not good enough for the criminals to send to the norteamericanos, and mixed with chemicals that poison the brain. It is becoming the curse of my homeland.”
“It’s pretty bad here,” Moira said. She could see that it was something that really worried her lover. Just like it was with the Director, she thought.
“I have spoken to the police at home. How can my workers do their jobs if their minds are poisoned by this thing? And what do the police do? They shrug and mumble excuses—and people die. They die from the basuco. They die from the guns of the dealers. And no one does anything to stop it.” Cortez made a frustrated gesture. “You know, Moira, I am not merely a capitalist. My factories, they give jobs, they bring money into my country, money for the people to build houses and educate their children. I am rich, yes, but I help to build my country—with these hands, I do it. My workers, they come to me and tell me that their children—ah! I can do nothing. Someday, the dealers, they will come to me and try to take my factory,” he went on. “I will go to the police, and the police will do nothing. I will go to the army, and the army will do nothing. You work for your federales, yes? Is there nothing anyone can do?” Cortez nearly held his breath, wondering what the answer would be.
“You should see the reports I have to type for the Director.”
“Reports,” he snorted. “Anyone can write reports. At home, the police write many reports, and the judges do their investigations—and nothing happens. If I ran my factory in this way, soon I would be living in a hillside shack and begging for money in the street! Do your federales do anything?”
“More than you might think. There are things going on right now that I cannot speak about. What they’re saying around the office is that the rules are changing. But I don’t know what that means. The Director is flying down to Colombia soon to meet with the Attorney General, and—oh! I’m not supposed to tell anybody that. It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“I will tell no one,” Cortez assured her.
“I really don’t know that much anyway,” she went on carefully. “Something new is about to start. I don’t know what. The Director doesn’t like it very much, whatever it is.”
“If it hurts the criminals, why should he not like it?” Cortez asked in a puzzled voice. “You could shoot them all dead in the street, and I would buy your federales dinner afterwards!”
Moira just smiled. “I’ll pass that along. That’s what all the letters say—we get letters from all sorts of people.”
“Your director should listen to them.”
“So does the President.”
“Perhaps he will listen,” Cortez suggested. This is an election year ...
“Maybe he already is. Whatever just changed, it started there.”
“But your director doesn’t like it?” He shook his head. “I do not understand the government in my country. I should not try to understand yours.”
“It is funny, though. This is the first time that I don’t know—well, I couldn’t tell you anyway.” Moira finished her salad. She looked at her empty wineglass. Félix/Juan filled it for her.
“Can you tell me one thing?”
“What?”
“Call me when your director leaves for Colombia,” he said.
“Why?” She was too taken aback to say no.
“For state visits one spends several days, no?”
“Yes, I suppose. I don’t really know.”
“And if your director is away, and you are his secretary, you will have little work to do, no?”
“No, not much.”
“Then I will fly to Washington, of course.” Cortez rose from his chair and took three steps around the table. Moira’s bathrobe hung loosely around her. He took advantage of that. “I must fly home early tomorrow morning. One day with you is no longer enough, my love. Hmm, you are ready, I think.”
“Are you?”
“We will see. There is one thing I will never understand,” he said as he helped her from the chair.
“What is that?”
“Why would any fool use powder for pleasure when he can have a woman?” It was, in fact, something that Cor
tez never would understand. But it wasn’t his job to understand it.
“Any woman?” she said, heading for the door.
Cortez pulled the robe from her. “No, not any woman.”
“My God,” Moira said, half an hour later. Her chest glistened with perspiration, hers and his.
“I was mistaken,” he gasped facedown at her side.
“What?”
“When your director of federales flies to Colombia, do not call me!” He laughed to show that he was kidding. “Moira, I do not know that I can do this for more than one day a month.”
A giggle. “Perhaps you should not work so hard, Juan.”
“How can I not?” He turned to look at her. “I have not felt like this since I was a boy. But I am no longer a boy. How can women stay young when men cannot?” She smiled with amusement at the obvious lie. He had pleased her greatly.
“I cannot call you.”
“What?”
“I do not have your number.” She laughed. Cortez leaped from the bed and pulled the wallet from his coat pocket, then muttered something that sounded profane.
“I have no cards—ah!” He took the pad from the night table and wrote the number. “This is for my office. Usually I am not there—I spend my days on the shop floor.” A grunt. “I spend my nights in the factory. I spend weekends in the factory. Sometimes I sleep in the factory. But Consuela will reach me, wherever I might be.”
“And I must leave,” Moira said.
“Tell your director that he must make it a weekend trip. We will spend two days in the country. I know of a small, quiet place in the mountains, just a few hours from here.”
“Do you think you can survive it?” she asked with a hug.
“I will eat sensibly and exercise,” he promised her. A final kiss, and she left.
Cortez closed the door and walked into the bathroom. He hadn’t learned all that much, but what he had found out might be crucial. “The rules are changing.” Whatever they were changing to, Director Jacobs didn’t like it, but was evidently going along. He was going to Colombia to discuss it with the Attorney General. Jacobs, he remembered, knew the Attorney General quite well. They had been classmates together in college, over thirty years before. The Attorney General had flown to America for the funeral of Mrs. Jacobs. Something with a presidential seal on it, also. Well. Two of Cortez’s associates were in New Orleans to meet with the attorney for the two fools who’d botched the killing on the yacht. The FBI had certainly played a part in that, and whatever had happened there would give him a clue.