Ochoa paced the office, waiting for Castro to return. He was staring out at the Plaza de Revolution when the door opened. Raúl entered, and took the seat behind the ornate desk.
‘‘Find the vessel, Prophecy, and sink her.’’
At CIA headquarters, Claire Cousins was nervous. ‘‘Listen, Herb, we tracked the Cuban’s fast patrol boat, Faul II, out about 80 miles off the western tip of Cuba.’’
‘‘What are they doing?’’
‘‘We didn’t get it all on the satellite pass, but for now, they’re holding in place.’’
‘‘Maybe they have mechanical problems?’’
‘‘Are you sure you worked for the CIA, Herb?’’
‘‘I have the scars to prove it. Are they in communication with Havana?’’
‘‘Yes, but it’s scrambled. We’re working on it.’’
‘‘Anything new on the Americans?’’
‘‘No,’’ Claire said. ‘‘They’ve disappeared.’’
‘‘Now you’re making me nervous.’’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Claire Cousins sat in her cubicle at CIA headquarters, reviewing reams of reports. Each day that passed without sighting the missing Americans left her more uneasy. She’d charged all their intelligence sources—electronic and human—for information about Ryan and Nicole. They were doing extensive background checks for any information that might hint at their mission.
‘‘Have we developed profiles on Ryan and Nicole?’’ Herb asked.
‘‘We’re working on them. Thus far, my only concern is with Ryan. He’s been bullied, and never quite dealt with it. He’s been ineffectual and resentful of those in authority. Our people think that he falls somewhere in the category of a dependent personality disorder, perhaps unmasked by his father’s death.’’ She paused and studied Herb. ‘‘Yes, Herb, under the right circumstance, he could explode with violence.’’
Herb shook his head. ‘‘That’s reassuring. What’s happening with the Cuban patrol boat? Are they still standing on station?’’
‘‘No, they’ve moved further out to sea and in a more northeasterly direction.’’
‘‘Toward Florida?’’
‘‘Yes, but it looks more like a search pattern. The Cubans put a couple of MiG-29s up over the area, too. They appear to know something that we don’t. That makes me nervous.’’
‘‘What doesn’t make you nervous, these days?’’
‘‘I’m sending up a couple of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) to see what’s going on.’’
‘‘Drones?’’
‘‘Whatever the Cubans are looking for, maybe we can find it, first.’’
In Cuba, Raúl Castro had Ochoa on the line. ‘‘Have they found the American boat, yet?’’
‘‘I’ll call you at once, Mr. President, but I don’t know how long we can cruise the area with the patrol boat, and especially with the MiGs, without drawing the United States Coast Guard’s attention. That’s the trouble with having our good friends so close to Cuba.’’
‘‘We’re in a difficult position, Colonel. If we can’t find them soon, Fidel wants us to notify the Department of Homeland Security, and tell them all we know. Cuba can’t take the blame for any American casualties.’’
‘‘What do you want us to do with Jorge Lopez and his associates, Mr. President?’’
‘‘Put them on trial. They can join the many foreign agents and disloyal Cubans in our prisons.’’
In Miami, the Cuban Exile Foundation met regularly in a small restaurant in Miami’s Little Havana. It was an eclectic group of Castro-haters, hardliners, the remnants of Omega-7 and Alpha-66, and younger activists, no less militant than those in their sixties and seventies. The group even had a scattering of moderates, former Cuba American National Foundation members.
Regardless of affiliation, after 53 years, the Miami Cubans had assimilated into the city’s culture. Many were successful businessmen, entrepreneurs, and professionals.
Due to the GOP’s strong stance against Fidel Castro, the organization was staunchly Republican.
Miguel Garcia, 68, was the current President of CEF. His aide was 30 year old Alberto Perez.
‘‘What have you heard?’’ Alberto asked.
‘‘My CIA contact doesn’t know much, except they have Jorge Lopez, probably an Al-Qaeda agent, at Combinado Del Este prison. Ochoa’s engaged in an attempt to extract information from the man. So far, they’ve failed.’’
‘‘Al-Qaeda,’’ Alberto said, ‘‘I wouldn’t put it past Castro to have an association with them. We have sympathizers at all levels of the Cuban government and the CDR. I’m asking them to find out what’s going on. Fidel or Raúl wouldn’t be so stupid as to involve themselves with Al-Qaeda or its ilk, would they?’’
‘‘I doubt it. Above all, behind the rhetoric, Fidel is a sly, but practical man.’’
At the Tropical Prediction Center, they moved into high gear as Agnes’ winds reached 50 knots. Peter Blaire stood over Sandy Howard as she pulled up the latest images. Peter pointed to the winds aloft data. ‘‘If Agnes continues to intensify, it will reach category 1 status in hours.’’
Sandy typed in a set of commands. ‘‘I’m running a series of track and intensity computer models to see what we’ll be up against.’’
Peter smiled. ‘‘Which ones will you use?’’
She smiled back. ‘‘The ones agreeing with your predictions, of course.’’
‘‘You’re really pushing for that Ph.D., aren’t you?’’
‘‘I think it’s time to post hurricane warnings from Belize to Cancún and to the western tip of Cuba.’’
‘‘Right, again,’’ Peter said.
An hour later, they studied the track information.
‘‘Take your choice, Sandy. The storm’s definitely going to move directly across the Yucatan Peninsula, or it’s definitely going into the Gulf of Mexico, or it will definitely curve right across Cuba.’’
Sandy pointed to the screen. ‘‘Most tracks show the storm rounding the western tip of Cuba, and heading for Florida’s west coast. This may be Hurricane Hattie, all over again.’’
Chapter Thirty-Six
When the switchboard of the Tropical Prediction Center reached its saturation point, Peter Blaire knew they’d done their job.
The media was encouraged by the memory of Hurricane Hattie, and its devastating effects, and had latched onto Agnes, now a category one hurricane with winds up to 87 knots.
Sandy pointed at the most recent satellite view. ‘‘Look at that damn thing. It’s building, and the intensity models suggest that this storm is going all the way to category 4, and possibly 5.’’
Peter shook his head in dismay. ‘‘It’s going to pass into the open sea between Cancún and Cuba, where it will continue to build. I think it’s heading somewhere between the Florida Keys and the Ft. Myers area.’’
‘‘When should we order an evacuation?’’
‘‘I hate to do it, but it’s moving over the ocean at 7 knots. That puts it at the Dry Tortugas, or the Keys, in two or three days. That’s too close to wait. I’ll recommend evacuation.’’
While Ochoa remained unconcerned about Agnes, he was obsessed with finding Prophecy. He started at the knock on his office door. His aide entered. ‘‘President Castro is on line one.’’
Ochoa felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He was used to action, not waiting.
‘‘Good afternoon, Presidente.’’
‘‘I hope you have news for me, Colonel.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but we haven’t found Prophecy, yet. I don’t believe that it will be too much longer.’’
‘‘I’m putting Cuba on alert. We can’t afford to wait any longer.’’
‘‘Please, Presidente, I’d strongly advise against it.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Spies from the exile community and our resident foreign intelligence agents will see the alert at once, and report back to the
CIA. They’ll be concerned, of course, but when they discover it’s in response to the terrorist threat, they’ll see it as… what do the lawyers say… consciousness of guilt.’’
‘‘Okay, Colonel, but if we don’t have something in the next 24 hours, I’m going to notify the DHS, and put Cuba on alert.’’
At the CIA’s Latin-American Section, the lights burned bright; in fact, lights were on in most sections since 9-11.
Claire Cousins was reading her way through a stack of reports by their best Latin-American analysts. The documents were long on words, but short on information.
One of her analysts rushed to her desk. ‘‘I think we have something.’’
‘‘Please.’’
‘‘I’m not sure, but we have an encrypted email sent from somewhere near Santiago de Cuba the day before the Cuban authorities arrested Jorge Lopez.’’
‘‘You think it’s from him?’’
‘‘I don’t know, but we rarely see encrypted messages from Cubans. They prefer normal language with hidden meanings.’’
‘‘What does it say?’’
‘‘We don’t know, yet. Our cryptographers tell me the message is public key encrypted.’’
‘‘That’s sophisticated stuff,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Without the private key, we’re screwed. How long will it take for our supercomputers to decode the message?’’
‘‘Days to weeks,’’ the analyst said. ‘‘We have one other possibility.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Can we trust the Israelis?’’
‘‘On terrorist-related activities, you bet.’’
‘‘Send the email to the Weizman Institute of Science in Rehovot, Israel. They’ve developed a new series of algorithms for decoding messages like this one.’’
‘‘Do it,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Now.’’
In Waziristan, wind and dust blew through the terrorist camp as two Al-Qaeda officials entered Kamal’s laboratory.
‘‘We have good news for you, Mujahid.’’
Kamal looked up. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘We’ve received an email from our agent in Cuba. Our friends are on their way to Miami to deliver the wrath of Allah upon the infidel. That should please you.’’
‘‘Inshallah,’’ Kamal said. ‘‘When will they arrive?’’
‘‘We think about the first week in June. We can’t wait to take our revenge on the tyrants and the oppressors.’’
Kamal returned home that evening in a somber mood. ‘‘We will deliver our present to the Americans by the first week in June.’’
Sabeen fixed him in her gaze. ‘‘Where’s your enthusiasm?’’
‘‘I take joy in nothing, since they killed our son. I must do my job. It’s all I have left.’’
‘‘The word ‘job’ makes it sound like you’re avoiding responsibility. That didn’t work for Slobodan Milosevic when he used Serbian troops to murder 200,000 Muslims. It’s not going to work for you, either.’’
Kamal rose, and slapped his wife sharply across her face. ‘‘You go too far, woman. How dare you compare me to those murderers?’’
Sabeen’s face was fixed in fury. She stared at her husband, and refused to show any sign of fear. ‘‘Once, you were a good man caught in a web of someone else’s creation. Look what has become of you. Biological weapons are awful enough. Perhaps there’s moral justification for their use against the American government, its military, its supporters, and spies, but killing women and children abases Islamic law against murdering the innocent. Maybe you want to be a hero for the cause, or maybe it’s simply revenge for our son’s death, but this repulsive act will cast you as nothing but a murderer.’’
‘‘The American people are not innocent.’’
‘‘I see the images of women and their children in the playgrounds of Miami. They are not our enemy.’’ Sabeen wept.
When Kamal moved toward her, she raised her hand to stop him. She stood, and as she left the room, said, ‘‘Our son died with honor, fighting for his country. You disgust me!’’
At the CEF offices in Little Havana, Alberto entered Miguel Garcia’s office. ‘‘I came right over. What do you have?’’
‘‘Have a seat,’’ Miguel Garcia said as he pulled out a Montecritso Robusto cigar, and began his ritual preparation before lighting up.
Alberto squirmed with anticipation in the chair in front of Miguel’s desk. ‘‘What is it?’’
Miguel took a deep puff, exhaled, and smiled. ‘‘Nothing like the real thing.’’ The President of the CEF picked up a page of notes. ‘‘I’m not sure what’s going on in Cuba, but the prisoner’s name is Jorge Lopez, as our contacts told us. He met with two young Americans, who had traveled from Trinidad to Cuba. They’ve disappeared.’’
‘‘Terrorists… homegrown, American terrorists?’’
‘‘I think so. Lopez met with them, but we don’t know why.’’
‘‘What do we know about Lopez?’’
He’s a jihadist sympathizer, at least, or, more likely, Al-Qaeda. He’s in custody with his associates. They’re also investigating the murder of a Dr. Baños, a known associate of Lopez.’’
‘‘It sounds like a conspiracy of some kind. Can we get more from our contacts?’’
‘‘Perhaps, but for now, that’s all we know.’’
Alberto grinned. ‘‘Wouldn’t the CIA love to hear about a Cuban-Al-Qaeda link?’’
‘‘I’m not telling the CIA a damned thing until we’re sure about what’s going on. Our credibility with them stinks. They’re sick of the crap rumors and gossip we’ve been giving them from the CDR.’’
‘‘If we can nail down an Al-Qaeda connection with Cuba, I can see the headlines in the Miami papers: Castro conspires with Al-Qaeda. That will undermine liberals forever in their attempt to normalize relations with Cuba.’’
In Waziristan, Sabeen Yamin received a call from her father that her mother was sick. This was a perfect excuse. ‘‘I’m going to Islamabad for a flight to Damascus.’’
Kamal stared at her. ‘‘Is that necessary?’’
‘‘Of course. What’s the matter with you?’’
‘‘Things are not the same between us since we had that email.’’
‘‘What can I say that I haven’t said before? You know how I feel. I’ve held back nothing.’’
‘‘We were so close, and now…’’
‘‘After Karim’s death, we’re different; we had to change. I don’t like what’s become of you, as you know well enough.’’
‘‘How long will you be gone?’’
‘‘If she doesn’t need surgery, a week. If she does, I’ll be away for several weeks to a month.’’
When Sabeen reached Islamabad, she purchased a burqa. When she slipped it on, she could barely breathe; not from its physical characteristics, but from its oppressive symbolism.
She stood in line at the American Embassy, and when she finally came to the counter, she looked around, and then turned to the agent. ‘‘I have information regarding Kamal Yamin. Give that name to an intelligence official. I’ll wait in the lobby.’’
As Sabeen waited, she felt at once the effect and true meaning of the burqa. In contrast to the meeting of eyes and the smiles she normally enjoyed, now, as men and women walked through the lobby, nobody looked at her, or even acknowledged the impenetrable black void she’d become.
I am invisible, she thought.
After nearly 90 minutes, a young man in a tan suit approached her. ‘‘Please, come with me.’’
Sabeen looked around, but saw nothing. The man took her to a small office with a desk and two chairs. A camera hung from the ceiling.
‘‘We’ll be right with you.’’
When the man left, Sabeen pulled off the burqa, and looked directly into the camera, then turned both ways to give them a good view.
Half an hour later, a middle-aged man with a shirt and tie entered. ‘‘You’re Sabeen Yamin. Call me Mr. Harris.’’
> ‘‘I have information for you. Vital information.’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’
‘‘You must not hint at the source of this information.’’
‘‘I understand.’’
‘‘I abhor everything the United States is doing in the Middle East: the war, the support for oppressive regimes, and your intrusion into the Islamic world.’’
‘‘Are we here to discuss politics?’’
‘‘No. I find terrorist tactics an abomination wherever they practice them. They prostitute their objectives, however noble.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I’m sure you know my husband, Kamal, directs efforts on biological weapons of mass destruction. I’m sure that’s why you decided to see me.’’
‘‘You don’t agree with the use of such weapons?’’
‘‘No, they’re barbaric. My husband, through Al-Qaeda, is involved in a plot to release a deadly virus in Miami. There are agents are on their way by boat. You must stop them before it’s too late.’’
‘‘What virus?’’
‘‘I don’t know, except to say that my husband and those working with him take incredible precautions to avoid these agents, whatever they are.’’
‘‘When is this going to happen?’’
‘‘Sometime soon.’’
‘‘A date, time, or place?’’
‘‘Just Miami.’’ She stood. ‘‘I’m going to Damascus to be with my parents. Please do not contact me. I have nothing more to tell you.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Yamin.’’
She rose and slipped on the burqa. ‘‘Anonymity is the only advantage of this ghastly garment.’’
Afterward, Harris met with the ambassador.
The ambassador studied Harris. ‘‘Do you believe her?’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’
‘‘Get this information to Langley, right away.’’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Deadly Passage Page 15