Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

  "No thanks. I'm really tired now."

  "Okay. I'll make up your bed." He took the cushions off the couch, and Elise helped him pull out the sleeper. He stepped back, noticed how she shifted her glance from him to the bed, then back again. "Something wrong?"

  "Got any sheets?"

  "Oh, yeah." He walked over to the linen closet and returned with sheets and a light blanket.

  "How long have you lived here?" she asked as they made the bed.

  "Since my ex-wife and I split up. I'm divorced, like you."

  She didn't say anything, and he watched her as she tucked the sheet in the corner. He wondered what she looked like naked, and what it would be like in bed with her, and he wondered if she was thinking similar thoughts. But when she spoke he realized that there was something else on her mind.

  "I bet you checked the court records," she said. "What else did you find out?"

  "You instigated the divorce."

  Elise straightened the sheet at the bottom of the bed, then stood up. "We were going in different directions."

  "I know what you mean. My marriage went sour when I quit the travel agency."

  "You get along now?"

  Pierce shrugged, feeling uneasy at the mention of his old life and his present relationship with Tina. "Sort of. You ever see Steve?"

  "No, never, and I don't want to see him, either." She dropped her bag on the edge of the bed and unzipped it.

  Then why, he wondered, had she blurted that he might be in the house when they arrived from jai alai? And why had the old lady across the street said she saw him visit her regularly? It was time he looked up Steve Simms, he decided. "I'll put some fresh towels in the bathroom for you."

  A few minutes later, he said good night and retired to the bedroom. He lay in bed, listening to the sounds of another person in the apartment. He heard the toilet flush, the water running in the sink. Footsteps in the hallway. The sleeper creaking.

  Why had she lied to him about her ex-husband, and what else was she lying about? Then he remembered "Monica." She was a lie. And he recalled something else from the court records. Steve spent a lot of time in the gym. A fanatic. He wondered if he also had a scar on his jaw.

  He was too tired to think any more about it. He closed his eyes and dozed off with Elise and Monica juxtaposed in his mind like twin sisters. Sisters of suspicion.

  Subdued morning light filtered into Pierce's westward-facing bedroom window. He blinked his eyes open, focusing on the pale blue wall of the bedroom. He'd heard something.

  Now he heard it again. A voice. He sat up, confused. What the hell? He sniffed, smelling the aroma of coffee.

  Elise. He'd forgotten. But who was she talking to? He leaned forward, listening. She said something about eleven o'clock, then he heard a click. The phone.

  "Morning," he called out, his voice hoarse with sleep. "You're awake. Can I open the door?"

  "Sure." He tugged the sheet around his waist.

  The door swung open, and Elise was holding a steaming coffee mug. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that reached to the middle of her thighs. Her hair was mussed, falling across her forehead. She raised the mug. "Hope you don't mind. I've been up awhile and couldn't wait."

  "Not at all."

  He noticed the light sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks as she smiled. No makeup on, and she looked great. He cleared his throat.

  She made a face and looked apologetic. "Sorry if I woke you."

  "No, it was just odd to hear someone else in the apartment. How about going out to breakfast?"

  "Fine with me," she answered, and turned away. "But I have to be home by eleven. I just made an appointment with my cleaning service. I've got a big job for them."

  It was nearly nine by the time they pulled up to the Edison. "You ever eat breakfast here?" Pierce asked as they stepped out of the car in the alley behind the hotel.

  "No, but then I don't have a parking spot here with my name on it, either."

  Pierce led the way to the entrance, and they were seated at his usual table. "Must be nice to have your office right above a good restaurant and across the street from the beach."

  "I guess I take it too much for granted."

  The waitress appeared with menus. "Dolly, this is Elise."

  "Nice to meet you."

  "Dolly used to work at the Fontainebleu back in its glory days."

  "Really?" Elise said.

  Dolly waved a hand at her. "You should have seen it. All the big stars—Sinatra, Gleason, Rooney, Martin."

  She fixed a hand on her hip, and Pierce knew she was about to tell a story.

  "One morning I was carrying two cups of coffee and who do I bump into but Jerry Lewis. I dropped them both, and you know what he did? He went right into the kitchen. I thought he was going to get me fired." She shook her head. Pierce had heard the story several times, but she talked as if it had happened yesterday. "You know what he did? He came out with a mop and cleaned up the whole mess. Jerry Lewis mopping our floor. I couldn't believe it."

  "That must have been something," Elise said politely. "Those were some times. I'll get you guys your coffee, then take your order."

  "The local character," Elise remarked when Dolly left. "You come here often and you'll hear all her stories. Keep coming and you'll hear them all again."

  After Dolly returned with their coffee and they'd ordered, Elise asked Pierce what his plans were for the day. He was going to see Andrews, but decided that evasiveness was the best tactic. "I've got a meeting in the Grove at noon. So I can drop you off at home and bum around the Grove for an hour. Unless you'd like me to help with the clean up."

  She shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll let the cleaning crew handle it." She stirred cream into her coffee. "Let me guess. You're going to see Andrews at his office in Grove Plaza."

  He sipped from his cup, watching her over the rim. "You seem to know quite a bit about him."

  "More than you, I think."

  He doubted it. "Tell me something else."

  "He owns Grove Plaza."

  Pierce wasn't impressed. "He's the major investor. Tell me something I don't know.

  "Okay. He founded Noster Mundus."

  "What's that?"

  "A secret society. The name is Latin. It means Our World."

  "Never heard of it," Pierce said.

  "That's not surprising. They don't seek publicity."

  "Tell me more."

  "It involves a select group of influential people from this country, Europe, Latin America, Asia, and the Mideast. Their goal is to shape world events for their own purposes."

  Elise Simms, he decided, was carrying her share of bombshells. Last night it had been her father and his relationship with Ray Andrews. Today it was a secret society. "Sounds ominous."

  "Not necessarily. You could compare them to other secret societies like the Knights of Malta, Opus Dei, or the Moral Re-Armament. They're religious-oriented and dedicated to the idea that a small group of people can have a great impact on the world. Quite a few well-known statesmen and industrialists are in their ranks. Lee Iacocca and Alexander Haig, for instance, are members of the Knights of Malta. So are William F. Buckley and Senator Jeremiah Denton."

  "And Andrews's group is similar?"

  "I'm getting to that."

  Dolly arrived with breakfast. "Boy, we're busy this morning. I'll get you refills as soon as I can."

  Pierce nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on Elise. As soon as Dolly moved on, he waited for her to continue.

  Elise ate a few bites of scrambled eggs. "Noster Mundus is a latter-day version. It's only about ten years old. It's like the others, yet it's not."

  Pierce listened as she explained that in some ways the organization more closely resembled a turn-of-the-century secret society called the Golden Dawn.

  "How is the Golden Dawn different from the others?"

  Dolly stopped by with the coffeepot and refilled their cups. They both ate in silence until s
he was gone. "The Knights and the others are basically international good-old-boy networks," she explained. "The more international connections members create, the greater the opportunity to mold the world the way they want it. The Golden Dawn and Noster Mundus, on the other hand, are founded on the principle that change in the world is created through change in the individual."

  She took a bite of toast, chewed it. "You see, they look at human willpower as a real force that can be trained and put to use to create whatever you want."

  He wanted to find out everything he could about the group, and he wanted an independent source. But first he would see what else she had to say. "What do they want?"

  "From what I can tell, their intent is to become a major force that governments will look to for direction on global matters."

  "You think this Noster Mundus has anything to do with the crystal skull?"

  Elise smiled, stabbed her home fries with her fork, and took a couple more bites. "Dad says they use the crystal skull in their emblem."

  Chapter 13

  The parking garage below Grove Plaza looked like a salesroom for exotic luxury cars. Among the Mercedes, BMWs, Volvos, Peugeots, and Porsches were a Lamborghini, a Bentley, and a Rolls. Pierce walked past at least half of the cars before he reached the stairway in the corner.

  One level up, the courtyard was decorated in ornate bronze sculptures, a bubbling fountain, and lush tropical vegetation. The place bustled with well-heeled shoppers, people with time and money. It was as if no one needed to work anymore; their jobs were simply to find ways to spend their excess money.

  He walked around the fountain where Andrews was supposed to meet him. Surrounding the courtyard were two levels of glitzy shops and galleries with swirled stucco walls and stained-glass windows. There were a couple of restaurants, a nightclub, a private club, a health spa. Above the shops was a level of offices, then two levels of condominiums.

  Coconut Grove had once been a picturesque village of quaint, tree-shrouded cottages and homey storefront shops, a Bohemian haven. Now, thanks to developers like Ray Andrews, it catered to the chic and trendy. The new Grove thrived on wall-to-wall consumerism and high-rise, high-ill cost living. You could buy a half-dozen brands of designer ice cream on the central streets of the village, but you'd have to look hard to find a loaf of bread or a hammer. Struggling painters, sculptors, and performing artists now struggled elsewhere.

  Andrews was nowhere in sight, so he walked into a clothing store and casually priced some of the items. Two-ten for a shirt, ninety-five for a tie. In a couple of years, a thrift shop could use the same price tags on the item just by changing the dollars to cents. He wandered over to a rack of socks marked at forty dollars a pair. No basement bargains here. Nearby was a kid, about ten or eleven, who was coveting a pair of designer pants.

  "They're only a hundred and fifty, Mom."

  "You just got a pair last week, Avery."

  The kid threw his head back in a nonchalant gesture. "I'll put it on my card."

  Wonderful, Pierce thought as he turned and headed for the door. As he did, he spotted a familiar face, which quickly disappeared from sight. He was sure it was Neil Bellinger, but by the time he stepped through the doorway, the not-so-plainclothes cop was nowhere in sight. Scared off by the prices, maybe.

  He didn't have much time to think about it, because Andrews was standing with K.J. by the fountain. He walked over and greeted them.

  "What do you think of the place?" Andrews asked as K.J. stepped back from the two men.

  "Pretty impressive. Now I know what they mean when the press says you're one of those responsible for turning the Grove into a yuppie theme park."

  He said it as a joke, but Andrews didn't laugh. He gave him a once-over, taking in his casual khaki pants and cotton pullover. He adjusted his yellow tie and smiled. "All that hippy-dippy shit is history, Nicholas. The Grove is upscale living."

  Profitable, too, I bet, he thought. "Well, looks like business is flourishing."

  "I won't deny that. The square footage rental cost is at the top of the scale for commercial property, and we've had full occupancy since the second month of operation. I've got an office here myself."

  "You've got the Midas touch, Ray."

  Andrews nodded. "It's a shame when myths are adopted for commercial use, isn't it? You can't mention Midas or the Wheel of Fortune without a modem-day image imposing on the myth." Then he turned to Pierce, smiled, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You see, I've got concerns about protecting the past as well as improving on the present."

  He gestured across the plaza toward a gleaming brass-and-glass elevator. "C'mon, let's have some lunch."

  A chill nipped at Pierce's lower back as they moved toward the cage. It was the sensation he always felt when he considered riding in an elevator. "I think I'll take the stairs and meet you."

  Andrews looked nonplussed. "Wait a minute. You mean, you still don't ride elevators?"

  "I like the exercise," Pierce hedged, and glanced at K.J., who was staring suspiciously at him.

  "Oh, c'mon, Nicholas. It's a roomy glass elevator. You've got to experience it. And I promise we won't get stuck. Christ, we're only going up one floor."

  Pierce stared at it. One floor. It can't be that bad for just one lousy floor, he thought. "Okay, let's go."

  "I'd forgotten about that time in the library," Andrews said as they stepped into the elevator.

  Pierce barely heard him. He watched the doors whisper shut and stared straight ahead. He tried not to think about the incident Andrews had referred to, but the memories marched through him with impunity.

  Andrews had used one of the conference rooms in Columbia University's library as a meeting place when his Latin American suppliers were in town. While they'd bargained about the cost and number of shipments, Pierce had studied at a desk outside the room and kept an eye out for anyone approaching the door or acting suspicious. On this particular Sunday night, the negotiations had lasted until a few minutes before the library closed.

  Pierce signaled Andrews, tapping his watch. The Colombians left by the stairs, while he and Andrews took an elevator on the other side of the building. When it stopped between floors, there was no one around to help.

  Pierce vaguely remembered sitting on the floor, listening to Andrews boast about his deal as they waited for someone to show up. The new scheme involved transporting the twenty or thirty kilos of marijuana a week by boat from Santa Marta to Cartagena, where they were loaded in suitcases aboard a cruise ship that stopped for several hours to fill its water tanks. When the ship docked in New York, crew members slipped the extra suitcases through customs, which at the time was lax. No one, after all, suspected that tourists spending a few hours in Cartagena would make drug deals. The cargo was then sent by truck to a warehouse and distributed to a network of dealers.

  Andrews, who never touched the pot or made direct payments, told Pierce that he was no longer needed to convey messages. Instead, he wanted him to deliver cash to a contact in Bogota. He could make one trip a month and he'd make enough so he could quit his part-time job and live better than most students. But Pierce just wanted out; smuggling was a dead end, and he sensed trouble. He didn't care how easy Andrews told him it would be. If it was so easy, he could do it himself, and he told him so.

  They'd argued—but that was all he could remember. He didn't even recall how they'd gotten out of the elevator; all he knew was that since then he'd never been comfortable in one. But at least Andrews had never asked him to go to Colombia again.

  The glass box whispered to a stop and they stepped out. "There, that wasn't so tough, was it?"

  Pierce's breath caught in his throat, his legs were rubbery, and he felt as though he'd been in suspended animation while shifting from one time frame to another. But he hadn't let the panic take over, and he hadn't passed out. He could still breathe. On top of it, Andrews had been with him. Maybe that was all he needed, maybe now his fear of elevators had been vanqu
ished forever.

  At the entrance of the restaurant, the host greeted Andrews by name. Even though several people were waiting to be seated, they were immediately ushered to a corner table; Andrews was at home in his kingdom.

  Twice during the meal, a waiter handed King Raymond a fresh linen napkin and removed the old one, which still looked clean to Pierce. At one point, the tine of Andrews's fork touched the tablecloth and he asked for a replacement. Before allowing the waiter to pour his wine, he held up the Waterford crystal glass and carefully inspected it for water stains. He did the same with his water glass.

  Pierce still vividly remembered Andrews's pickiness and his fanatic concern about cleanliness during their year as roommates. He'd changed his bed sheets daily, put name tags on his towels, washed his hands a couple of dozen times a day. He'd even told Pierce that when he was wealthy he'd put on new underwear every day, wear it once and once only, and throw it away.

  Andrews chatted throughout the meal, talking about an office building he'd bought in London, a banquet he'd attended in Paris. Pierce nodded, offered a few comments, and across the table K.J. listened to it all, eating his meal and watching. He wondered if there were any women in Andrews's life. He considered asking, but decided against it. If there were, they obviously weren't a big part of it. Something else occurred to him. He recalled what Elise had said about the man's apparent interest in time, and he was curious about what he would say about the topic. When there was a lull in the conversation, he commented on Andrews's watch, an expensive Rolex.

  Andrews looked down at his wrist and shrugged. "I've had this one for a few years now. Let me tell you a secret, Nicholas. When you have enough money that you can have anything, you tend to lose your desire for personal material things."

  If that was true, Pierce thought, why the hell had he offered three million dollars for a crystal skull? Pierce could see it: the skull on a shelf next to Andrews's clocks, a maid dusting it twice a week. On second thought, maybe Andrews saw the skull as something other than a material possession. "I noticed you had a lot of clocks in your apartment."