“You didn’t tell him… “
“No,” Norm interrupted me. “He seems happy, so I let it go.” He finished his coffee. “You had breakfast with Tita?”
“Yeah.” I added three sugars to my con leche and took a sip.
“Should I ask?”
“She took the job in Boston.”
“You knew that before she left.”
“There’s knowing and then there’s knowing.”
“Wishing isn’t knowing,” he said and stood up. “You should’ve married that girl when you had the chance.”
“We’re gonna talk about that in December.” I left money for the bill on the counter.
Norm smiled as we left the restaurant. “’Bout time, hoss.”
“What are we doing?” We walked slowly along
Caroline Street, the Sunday morning traffic crawling by as if it had a hangover.
“We need to talk in private.”
The Coffee Plantation had customers inside drinking iced coffees and teas as we sat on the steps, watching tourists stroll along sun-swept Margaret and Caroline streets. Tourists rambled the streets without a care.
“Talk,” I said.
“We have lunch today with the French.”
“Good. At Schooner, right?”
“Yeah. There’s a few things you need to know and I suggest you listen this time.”
“When haven’t I listened to you?”
“With the CIA people, for one,” he said. “And when were you going to tell me about the Russians trying to grab you?”
“They didn’t succeed.”
“But they tried and you should take that seriously.”
“I do. Now, what about the French?”
He kept the frown and shook his head. “Okay, there are three of ‘em. Frenchy, is the most pro-American. So, work with that. He’s always wanted to be recruited by the CIA and likes anything American, even French fries.”
“The other two?”
“I need to tell you again, if you look on these men as jokes, old washed-up agents, you’re making a mistake. The fact that they’re old should tell you that they’re also successful. Not many get to retire in their business.”
“The other two successes?”
“Cold, methodical and won’t believe anything you say. They know how to kill someone slowly and if the rumors over the years are only slightly true, they enjoy their work.”
“They responsible for the diamonds?”
“They were involved,” he said. “They took it the hardest because France was struggling during the Cold War and the country had just got back on its feet when this happened.”
“Should I go with the Cuban story?”
“I’d tell them the truth about what you think and then suggest if it were you, you’d be on a beach in Cuba,” he said. “That might convince them you’re telling some truth.”
“So, tell them a lie to convince them I’m telling the truth.”
“Works for me,” he said with a smirk. “Now, stick to the plan and don’t be an asshole.”
“I’ll try my best,” I said. “Tell me something. How do you know them? I thought you were a Latin American guy.”
He got a laugh out of that. “Look it, a long time ago, when I was a young, I spent time in Europe. Seems being fluent in Spanish qualified me for an assignment in Germany. I knew these guys when I was that raw recruit, but it’s a small fraternity and some of them passed through Central and South America.”
“Cuba?”
“I would guess that they’ve all been assigned to Cuba, at one time or another,” he said. “Are you getting my drift, Mick?”
“Stop playing around and be serious,” I said.
“Yeah, and remember this, as long as you’re an asset, they won’t kill you.”
Chapter 44
The city commission recently voted to repeal the city’s Blue Law that kept liquor from being sold before noon on Sunday but even so people sat around the bar at Schooner Wharf anxious as grey hounds waiting for the release of the electronic rabbit.
I pointed to one of the large thatch-roofed tables in the pea-rock patio. We would be meeting the French halfway between the stage and boardwalk, and on the path the wait staff used to pick up food orders. It would be loud, with music, noisy tourists and busy servers.
“Is there a reason you chose this table?” Norm looked around as he shook his head.
“I like this one, close to everything.”
“And I am sure there’s a reason you wanna be close to everything.” He sat down.
“Yeah.” I sat across from him. “The French have a rep for being food snobs, so these Frenchmen I want uncomfortable.”
“Mick, you don’t know these Frenchmen,” Norm said, emphasizing these, and moved his seat so he had a good view between the boardwalk and Lazy Way. “Frenchy will love it, but the other two won’t.”
“My point,” I said and looked to see if Gretchen or Alexis were working.
“You think they’re here for the food or drink? Jesus, Mick, don’t be stupid. Right or wrong, they think you can lead them to more than twenty million in diamonds and that should worry you because you can’t. The only ones that believe you are me and Richard.”
“I’m not sure about Richard,” I said trying to keep the conversation from going where I knew it was headed. “We’ve got two different perspectives, Norm. I’ve talked to Walsh and believe him to be who he and the marshals say he is. He’s not a rogue Cold War spy. He may know where Whitey Bulger’s money is hidden, but he doesn’t have anything to do with diamonds—unless Whitey was fencing them.”
“Mick.” Norm grinned as he shook his head. “There you go again, letting facts get in the way. None of ‘em cares about facts or opinions because they don’t believe you. So that eliminates the truth, no matter what it is. What’s left? I’ll tell you what, give ‘em a little truth mixed with speculations and lies and maybe they’ll leave you alone and follow through on your Cuba idea. How about thinking he really is in Cuba? Be positive, it’s a good theory.”
“I’m beginning to believe you,” I said. “Who else besides this Frenchy?”
“Jean-Pierre, the oldest and toughest,” Norm said. “Gérard, not someone you want to deal with on anything. They’ve spent their lives in the French Secret Service, the DCRI.”
“Be honest with them and then throw in the Cuba scenario, right?”
“I would.”
“What happens then? I’ve gotta explain the whole thing over to the Limeys, the Israelis and who else?” If it wasn’t affecting my life and the few days I had remaining with Tita, it would’ve been humorous.
“Your Russian friends, they want you too.”
“Why don’t they just agree to a meeting like everyone else?”
“The Russian KGB is… I don’t know how to explain it. They’re brutal and it has always worked for them in the past. They blame the politicians for breaking up the Soviet Union, its empire. Putin is a good example. His presidential term was up and he couldn’t run again, so he becomes prime minister and no one is fooled on who has the real power.”
“It’s not the KGB any longer.”
“No. It’s FSB. A snake is a snake even after shedding its skin, it still slithers,” he said. “They won’t give up on grabbing you, and now that they’ve been embarrassed they’ll be more careful and more brutal. You’re lucky they need you alive.”
“Yeah,” I answered with a shallow laugh. “Why can’t I have the million-to-one-odds luck it takes to win the lotto? No, not me, I get the million-to-one it’s gonna turn into a shit-storm luck.”
Norm grinned. “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all,” he sang out of tune. “A country song.”
Gretchen came by and we asked for menus and two Kaliks and waited for the Frenchmen.
Chapter 45
Norm and I nursed our beers. I looked around and wondered if any of Pauly’s friends were keeping an eye on me. Then I got ner
vous because I thought what if the Russians had people there too.
“Don’t look so nervous,” Norm said, misreading my reaction when I thought of the Russians. “They’re playing games. That’s what this whole thing is about, who plays the best game, who blinks first.”
“The French?”
“All of them, so don’t show a reaction to anything they say or do,” he said. “Stay focused on your story, be cool and follow whatever lead I give you.”
I nodded and checked the menu. “What are you going to order?”
“Fish and chips.”
“The fish tacos are good.”
“So order them.”
“What will they want?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Frenchy will order a hamburger and fries.”
When Norm stood, I knew the Frenchmen had arrived. I looked around and saw three men scanning the bar as they came in slowly from the boardwalk. He went to them, shook hands and pointed toward me. I stayed sitting.
“Mick, this is Frenchy,” Norm said, beginning introductions. “Jean-Pierre and Gérard.”
Frenchy was five-ten, his hair a dyed black and he wore shorts and a T-shirt from Duval Street. There was no mistaking him for anything but a tourist. Jean-Pierre stood six-feet, balding on top, wore jeans and a loose-fitting tropical shirt. Gérard was taller than Frenchy, but shorter than Jean-Pierre, with a crop of salt-and-pepper hair and he was dressed identically to Jean-Pierre. Long pants, even jeans with a tropical shirt, indicated they didn’t belong in the tropics. Gérard had a hooked nose that had been broken and from the look of it more than once. It was an ugly nose and it made him ugly. We didn’t shake hands, we nodded and they sat down.
Frenchy picked up the menu. The other two looked around the sparse courtyard and frowned. One o’clock on a sunny afternoon and the tables were filling up with a collection of colorfully dressed tourists, most looking hung-over. The woman or man that wasn’t hung-over looked upset with their partner who was. The bar hid locals in its shadows and people walking by on the boardwalk shouted in delight when they saw the tarpon swimming in the harbor.
“The hamburger is very good,” I said to Frenchy.
“That’s what I will have,” he said and smiled. “And a Budweiser.”
“Nothing goes better with a Bud.”
Gérard said something in French and to my surprise, Norm answered him. Someday I would stop being surprised at what Norm was capable of.
“Excuse me,” I said in the middle of their conversation. “Not everyone at this table speaks French.”
“I am sorry,” Gérard said. “I assumed you did.”
“No, no French, some Spanish if you prefer.”
“We were discussing the menu,” Jean-Pierre said. “We have never seen anything quite like it.”
“Tourist town,” I said. “Everyone is in a hurry, so the food is simple and easy.”
“Norm recommends the fish and chips.”
“Big pieces of dolphin.”
The two Frenchmen looked at each other and spoke quickly in French.
“Is something wrong?”
“I have never seen dolphin on a fish menu,” Gérard said. “The dolphin is a mammal, why is it in fish and chips?”
I laughed, and maybe it was too much because Norm gave me one of his stares.
“I’m sorry,” I said and tried to sound polite. “It’s not the mammal, not Flipper. Dolphin is a local fish that, unfortunately, shares the name.”
They didn’t look convinced.
“Mahi-mahi, many of the restaurants call it so people aren’t confused.” I smiled.
Norm smiled too, but the Frenchmen didn’t look satisfied with my answer.
Gretchen came and took our orders. Frenchy had his Bud and the other two surprised me by ordering Mexican beer. When the beer order came, Norm and I had fresh Kaliks.
The two Frenchmen looked at the plastic cups and finally poured beer into them. Frenchy drank from the bottle.
Norm proposed a toast. “To American-French relations.”
We raised our drinks in the air but said nothing before our first swallow.
“He knows why we are here?” Gérard looked at Norm.
“Yes.”
Gérard waited for more but Norm said nothing.
“You will help us?” He turned to me but held up his hand to stop me from answering. “We know that there are others seeking this information. We also know of your background, especially in Northern Ireland. France has historically helped various Irish independence movements, you are aware of this, of course.”
“Yeah, I read the book, Year of the French,” I said. “The French have been very good to the Irish causes.”
“And this is your opportunity to do something for France.”
His words came out slowly, accented but understandable. However, his beat-up nose shifted as his lips formed the English words, adding to its already distorted look, making its ugliness more apparent.
“All I can do is tell the truth,” I said as our food order arrived.
Frenchy loaded his hamburger with catsup and mustard, along with the tomato, onion and pickle and ate happily. His two friends looked at him and frowned. They picked at the large pieces of beer-battered fish with plastic forks, as if looking for shards of glass. Gérard took a piece of the flaky fish from the batter, smelled it and then tasted the small morsel. Jean-Pierre looked on, afraid to touch his food. Gérard ran his fork through the tartar sauce and smelled it before dabbing it on a piece of fish.
Gretchen stood next to me with a surprised look on her face that said it all. She had seen weird behavior before at the bar, but this was one to remember.
“Everything all right, Mick?” she asked and pinched my shoulder. “Will there be anything else?”
“Another Budweiser, please,” Frenchy said as he chewed his burger.
Gérard put his fork down and took a swallow of beer. He was done with lunch.
“You know the CIA has worked hand-in-hand with MI6 to undermine the IRA,” he said. “They were very involved in the Gibraltar assassinations. They might as well have shot Mairead Farrell.”
I knew he was talking about the British Special Air Service’s murder in March 1988 of Mairead, Sean Savage and Dan McCann on Gibraltar. The three unarmed IRA members were shot dead and the SAS got away with another cold-blooded killing.
“And this is important, why?” I said between bites of my fish taco.
“You help them, you are helping the people who kill unarmed Irishmen and women.” Gérard had done a thorough background check on me—he went back to my first years out of college. He also knew I met with the ex-CIA agents.
“The truth then, monsieur,” I said. “I believe you have copies of all documents concerning this man Walsh. The marshal service has had him in its witness protection program since 1995. I believe he is who the marshals say he is. That’s my opinion. However, you and many others see it differently. I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell the CIA.”
Norm and the three Frenchmen listened intently. Even Frenchy put what was left of his burger down and only chewed on his fries.
“I have met with him, once, since his disappearing act. He wanted me to write his life story and it was all about Boston, not Europe.”
“Where did you meet?” Gérard asked.
“On the water,” I said. “And yes, he was on a Jet Ski. However, what no one else knows is I feel he had a boat off in one of the mangrove islands.”
“Why?” Jean-Pierre said.
“Do you know what Jet Skis are?”
“We have them in France,” Frenchy said and finished his burger.
“It is unlikely that anyone could go far on a Jet Ski,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “Outside the reef, the water—especially the Gulf Stream—has four-to-six-foot waves normally and that would make a Jet Ski dangerous and unstable.”
“Did you see the boat?” Gérard said and pushed his paper plate of uneaten fish and fries away.
“No, but he had a phone and he was dry, and that tells me he hadn’t spent hours running around the water.”
“All he talked about was Boston?” Gérard said and then Jean-Pierre spoke French.
I looked at Norm as he listened.
“Jean-Pierre thinks if he told you about Europe you wouldn’t say,” Norm said and the two men stopped talking. “He thinks you and I are after the diamonds.”
“I understand your distrust,” I said and finished my taco, making them wait for me to go on. “But I have no interest in Walsh, or whatever his real name is. He is, I believe, the killer portrayed to me by the marshals. I already told you that. Chasing him for what you’re after is a waste of time and whatever resources you’ll spend.
“He wants me to write his life story, about what went down in Boston and I have no interest in doing it,” I said. “Whitey Bulger has been caught and there will be a dozen such stories by men as ruthless as Walsh. I am not interested in glorifying one more.”
“He needs the money from book sales?” Gérard said, wondering why Walsh wanted to tell his story.
I laughed. “No, not in my opinion. He knows where Bulger’s money is hidden and he’s on the run and after it. The marshals expect him to testify and if he tells where the money is, it’s confiscated. If he’s not a cooperative witness, he can be tried on murder charges.”
“He is after money, lots of money?” Jean-Pierre said and smiled for the first time.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And he has a boat. Where has he gone?” Gérard said and even his thin smile couldn’t hide his ugliness.
“If it were me…” I paused and looked at Norm who nodded slowly. “If I had this planned out, I’d want to be somewhere the marshals and FBI couldn’t get me.”
“Cuba,” Frenchy said and finished his beer. “It’s only ninety miles away.”
“Bingo,” I said and pointed at Frenchy. “If I had the money and time, I’d be lying on a beach in Varadero, where there are a few luxury hotels and no American law.”
“What size boat would he need to make that trip?”
Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery Page 15