by Galen Winter
Llewellyn Keating endeared himself to Rosenow by apologizing for the inconvenience and promising to get out of his hair as soon as he could. Then he explained his mission. A man traveling under a Jordanian passport had been killed in the apartment of a Tucson attorney. The dead man was a terrorist and the attorney was G. G. Grant, a woman who once was a CIA operative in Syria.
After swearing Rosenow to secrecy, Keating told him Grant was a part of a covert scheme to uncover terrorist cells within the United States.
In Syria, a story had been planted. G. G. Grant, it claimed, had been fired and her reputation ruined when she was used as a scapegoat to cover up Langley incompetence. According to the rumor, Grant hated the CIA, wanted revenge and was willing to get it by working with terrorist organizations. Of course, none of it was true. The woman, Keating explained, had been set up by the CIA as an attorney.
In time, Keating confided, Grant was contacted by the enemy and she agreed to provide terrorists with a safe house after they were smuggled into Arizona from Mexico. There the terrorists waited to form new cells or move to cells already established in other parts of the country. When they left the Tucson safe house, the terrorists didn’t know they were being followed. They didn’t know they and the cells they visited were being identified and watched.
Keating suggested close cooperation between the FBI and the CIA was essential. Rosenow told him he didn’t have to put too fine a point on it. He would be happy to “fully cooperate”. Keating smiled and went on with his narrative. He told Rosenow something was wrong when the recently killed Jordanian terrorist arrived in Arizona. He meant to kill G. G. Grant. He must have been tipped off.
After a failed attempt at her office, the Jordanian entered Grant’s apartment and tried to murder her. Luckily, two CIA agents had been assigned as Grant’s back up. They were in her bedroom where they usually operated the hidden television and recording instruments. They were the ones who killed the terrorist.
One of the men took the terrorist’s car from the scene. The other drove the attorney to California. Grant was no longer an Agency asset. It wouldn’t take long for Al Queda and its various terrorist associates to find out Grant was a CIA plant. They would kill her if they could find her. She would soon have another identity and enter into the CIA’s version of the FBI Witness Program. She probably would never return to Tucson.
Keating again emphasized the absolute necessity of keeping the entire story concealed. Two imported terrorists had already been taken into custody. The men in the cells they visited may not know they have been compromised. Keating told Rosenow it was particularly important that they didn’t learn it from “a newspaper, a TV news program, a radio talk show, a blogger, or from any other conceivable source.” Rosenow smiled as Keating ran down the list. He told him he got the idea and promised he would keep his mouth shut.
Then Keating asked Rosenow to perform a function for him. The Tucson police were investigating the murder of the Jordanian. They had to be called off, but they couldn’t be told the real reason for terminating their investigation. Rosenow was asked to use his good offices to provide cover for Grant and the sting operation.
He was asked to contact the Tucson police and convince them to drop the matter. Keating proposed a method of reaching that objective and Rosenow suggested a few amendments to the plan. The CIA picked up the tab for their cordial early lunch and Tom drove his new friend, Lew, to the Sky Harbor airport where he boarded an Air West flight to Mazatlán.
The next day, Rosenow drove to Tucson. He visited the Chief of Police and convinced him the death of the Jordanian was drug related. He told him the dead man was an important element in an ongoing federal investigation of an international drug ring. It transported Afghanistan’s heroin through the Near East to Europe and America. Any publicity or local investigation might unwittingly damage the work of the FBI and the DEA.
That same day, the Chief called one of his detectives into his office. He removed him from the investigation of the murder of the Jordanian. He told him the case was closed and reassigned him to a shooting that took place in a cantina in a heavily Mexican section of the city.
The Chief also told him the case was in federal hands and suggested the detective might keep his mouth shut about anything he ever knew about the killing of the Jordanian - unless he wanted to be thrown off the force and lose his pension.
Chapter 29
It is not uncommon for North Americans to retire in Costa Rica. Many of them are businessmen who have spent their lives living abroad while representing the international interests of United States corporations. During their offshore careers, these people lose their connections with their homeland. Their families have grown up and scattered. They have neither homes nor close friends in the country of their birth.
For many of them, Costa Rica is an appealing place for retirement. It’s a quiet county. The crime rate is insignificant. The health facilities are acceptable. The climate is wonderful and the cost of living is attractive. The expatriates comfortably fit in with other Americans who already share their experience of, in effect, having become displaced from their United States homeland.
When Gigi and Den returned to Mazatlán, they decided to begin their exile in San José, Costa Rica. They would destroy their Adams identities and adopt the one Ferdie Robbins created in his second set of bogus documents. In San José, they would become a part of the North American colony.
The Libertad was a ship of Panamanian registry. It was launched after the end of the Second World War and had been built to carry military supplies and personnel to the South Pacific Theater of Operations. After a decade of virtual inactivity, it began more active use as a tramp steamer.
The Libertad sailed from California to Panama on an irregular schedule. It moved up and down the coasts of Mexico and Central America with cargoes of industrial goods and returned to California carrying Panamanian, Costa Rican and Mexican products. As was the custom with tramp steamers, a few compartments were set aside for passenger usage. The shipping company optimistically called them staterooms.
The tramp steamer business became less attractive when air, railway and trucking carriers took more and more business from them. The Libertad became no more than a marginally profitable operation. It was sold at a bargain price to a group of men whose business experience consisted of inheriting large amounts of money.
They planned to refurbish the Libertad and enter the tourist cruise business. Their business plan proved to be ill-advised when the investors began to understand the costs of refurbishing and fitting the Libertad for cruise work. The ship again changed hands at an even lower price.
If the Libertad’s chain of ownership were traced through complicated offshore corporate and partnership records, some of its major present day owners would be recognized as figures involved in organized crime. The Libertad still sails between California and Panama but, in addition to legitimate cargoes of industrial products and bananas, the Libertad now often carries stolen automobiles and products used in the drug trade.
Den did not identify himself when he talked to the Mazatlán Freight Agent who was suspected on importing shipments of stolen automobiles from California and exporting shipments of Mexican marijuana back to that State. Den saw an advantage in working with people involved with organized crime. They were conditioned to keeping their mouths shut.
In the world of organized crime, if a man had any plans for longevity, there was more than ample reason for him to remain silent. You could ask one of them: “What time is it?” You might very well receive the answer: “I don’t know. I’m not from around here.”
Den’s interview with the Freight Agent was satisfactory. The Agent and the Captain of the Libertad didn’t require identification from Den or Gigi. They not only agreed to provide them with a passage, they promised there would be no record of their departure from Mazatlán. Neither would there be a record of their arrival in Panama City.
In Mazatlán, the Libertad was unlo
ading its cargo. It would embark for Panama at midnight. Den made the final arrangements with the Freight Agent who insisted on payment in American dollars. He wasn’t asked to give a receipt. He and the Captain split the fare. They would be doubly interested in keeping everyone, including their New Jersey bosses, from knowing two unidentified gringos boarded the Libertad while it was in Mazatlán.
Understandably, the passenger accommodations aboard the Libertad were somewhat primitive. Gigi suspected the cuisine might not reach up to the standards of the Royal Caribbean Line. She went to a Mazatlán abaceria and laid in a substantial supply of crackers, cheese, bottled water, canned sardines (Den liked them), chocolates (she liked them) and snacks. The foodstuffs requiring refrigeration were limited to two rings of baloney sausage. She was well prepared for the voyage.
It would take about a week for the freighter to arrive in Panama. From Panama City, Gigi and Den planned to use bus transportation to travel north following the Pan American Highway, first to the city of David and then on to San José. They would travel separately in order to insure their tracks would be well covered.
Den and Gigi spent the rest of the early afternoon on the beach, perfecting their tans and watching the shorebirds and the Pacific waves. When Gigi had enough sun, she and Den shook the sand from their towels, left the Olas Altas beach and walked toward the Fiesta Hotel. Along the way, Den stopped twice to study store window displays. He was uneasy. Gigi recognized his uncharacteristic behavior.
“What’s up, Den? Are we being followed?”
“I think so, but I can’t find him. He may be back there somewhere. It might be my imagination.” Den’s concern emphasized the possibility, perhaps the probability, of having to abruptly leave a place in order to avoid the real or an imagined danger of being identified.
They detoured into a narrow alleyed grid of streets crammed, cheek to jowl, with shops that sold caps, T-shirts, post cards, sea shells, coffee beans and whatever else an enterprising Mexican thought might attract the gringo dollar. A Coral Princess cruise ship had docked that morning and the souvenir business was brisk.
Gigi and Den lost themselves in the crowds of tourists. They unexpectedly turned corners, they entered shops from one door and left from another and, finally, they hurried down a winding street and returned to the Fiesta Hotel.
By this time, Den knew someone had been following them. He could catch a split second glimpse of him and sometimes see only a disappearing shadow, but he was sure he and Gigi were under surveillance. He believed he had shaken the man in the tourist traps. “Damn it all,” he said to himself. He wondered how someone could find them. How could they find them only a few days after his letter was delivered to Cullen Brewster in Langley?
Den took some comfort from the fortuitous timing. The Libertad would leave Mazatlán before midnight. He and Gigi would leave the Fiesta as soon as possible. They would find a way to board the Libertad without being seen and remain below decks until the Libertad was at sea.
They had to move quickly. They started packing as soon as they returned to the hotel. Den kept the .357 with him. He suspected the man who followed them might have discovered their presence in the Fiesta Hotel. If he was waiting for them, Den was prepared to kill him.
They were packed and ready to leave the room when they heard a knock on the door. Den pulled his revolver from his belt. He shifted his weapon into his left hand and put his still bandaged middle fingers to his lips. He motioned Gigi toward the door and signaled her to jerk it open.
When the door flew open, the man in the hallway, a stranger to them both, had his hand in the air, ready to again knock. Using only the uninjured fingers of his right hand, Den grabbed him by the necktie and roughly hauled him into the room. At the same time, he tripped him and the man fell to the floor.
Gigi locked the door and closed the drapes, shutting out most of the afternoon Pacific sunshine. Den’s knee was on the man’s chest. He still held the necktie, now uncomfortably tight around the man’s neck. The barrel of the .357 magnum was inches away from the man’s unnaturally wide-opened eyes.
“Talk,” Den ordered.
Without moving, the man squeaked out: “I’m Llewellyn Keating. I’m from the Agency. I’d like to talk to you and Gigi. Could you, please, let go of my necktie?”
Den released his grip and stood up. He kept the revolver pointed at the space between the man’s eyes and careful took a position where legs could not kick him. Keating loosened his necktie and took a deep breath. He moved his head in a circle to get the circulation and the neck muscles back in working order.
Keating took a few more deep breaths and got to his feet. He promised Den he would keep his hands stretched out straight above his head. Then he turned around and asked Den to search him. “I’m not carrying a weapon,” he said. “I was told it might be safer if I was unarmed.”
After being searched, Keating made his way to the table. He sat, looked at them both for a second and said: “I had an awful time finding you. The manager of the Fiesta told me you were at the beach. I tried to catch up with you, but I don’t run too fast.” He looked down at his stomach and smiled.
Den disregarded Keating’s attempt to put him at ease. “Talk,” he repeated. Keating showed a small, cautious and almost embarrassed smile. There was a tentative quality about him. He acted more like a clerk who didn’t quite know what he was going to say rather than a man the CIA would send on a mission into Mexico.
“You don’t have to live this way,” Keating said. The statement got no reaction from Den or Gigi. “Please, sit down, Mr. Clark. Let me bring you up to date.”
Den moved a chair away from the table. He did not want Keating to be able to push it into him. He sat, keeping his left hand on his lap. It still held the revolver. Keating reached toward his breast pocket and when he saw the barrel of Den’s weapon immediate rise and point at his head, he slowly, very slowly, withdrew a package of cigarettes. He shook one out and dropped the pack on the table. “Have one,” he said.
“I don’t smoke,” Den answered. “It’s a dangerous habit.”
Keating carefully took a lighter from his shirt pocket, lit the cigarette and said he had been trying to quit. He again smiled his little boy’s smile and said he was told Den had a number of bad habits. Keating folksy attempt to put Den at ease didn’t work at all. Den showed no reaction to his chatter. His expression didn’t change. He sat without movement, holding the .357 in his lap and looking into Keating’s eyes. He said nothing.
Keating spoke openly and carried no weapon, but Den had no reason to trust him. He could be a part of one of Jake’s intricate schemes that would end in an attempt on his life. Den had no real idea of just who this man was. In spite of his manner and appearance, Den was cautious. He asked Keating how he found them. Keating chuckled and said it would have been difficult if Jacobson had not stumbled upon them in Tucson.
“When Deputy Brewster showed me your letter, I was ready to get to Guadalajara as quickly as possible, but he had a different idea. He said Guadalajara was a red herring. If we wasted time there, you’d move out of Mexico and we’d have a terrible problem trying to find you.
“Jacobson told Deputy Director Brewster you were driving an older pick-up truck with Pennsylvania license plates. That was the thread that allowed us to trace your movements. I looked at the Immigration Service’s video tapes of the cars crossing through their station at Nogales. Those that came close to fitting Jacobson’s description were checked out.
“The home address of the owner of a Chevrolet pick-up with Pennsylvania license plates was found to be in the center of a public park in Germantown. The name of that owner was Ernest Adams.
“From then on, it was just a matter of time,” Keating said. “I put a team of Spanish speaking agents on the phones. They began to call hotels and motels, starting at Nogales and then moving down the highway to Hermosillo and then following it south along the Pacific highway. It didn’t take long for them to learn a Mr. and M
rs. Ernest Adams spent a night in Guaymas and the following night in Mazatlán at the Fiesta Hotel.
“You lost me in those shops today,” Keating admitted. “Please don’t tell anyone about it,” he added, rather sheepishly. “I stopped to buy a T shirt for my wife. She’s a cat person. The T-shirt shows the head of an independent looking animal and the legend: ‘Just what don’t you understand about MEOW’. I just couldn’t resist it.”
“He’s a disarming son of a bitch,” a dubious Den thought.
Keating read Den’s suspicious attitude and divined its reason. “I think I understand why you’re so cautious,” he said. “I don’t believe you know Jake Jacobson is dead.” Involuntarily, Den’s eyes opened a bit widen and he straightened in his chair.
“Yes,” Keating confirmed, “the day after the Deputy Director received your letter, Jacobson was involved in a hit-and-run accident. He was killed. Deputy Brewster identified his body. Incidentally, Jacobson was still wearing Teddy Smith’s Rolex. That was proof positive that Jacobson was not telling the truth when he said you killed Smith. It proved the accuracy of your letter.
“You don’t have to keep running. The Deputy wants you to know you and Miss Grant are safe now. Aegis consisted of only Teddy Smith and Jake Jacobson, and they’re both dead. The Deputy,” Keating explained, “is a very smart man. He thinks you found out about the extent and true purposes of their assassination operations.
“Of course, Smith and Jacobson knew you’d blow the whistle. They decided to kill you before you could tell us about Aegis. Incidentally, the Deputy Director has already decided the Agency will take no further investigations or disciplinary actions against you for anything you may have done. It’s best to allow sleeping dogs to lie, don’t you think?”