by Wil Mara
“What do I do now?”
“Set it between your lips and draw.”
Following these instructions, he took in a lungful of smoke before succumbing to a coughing jag that almost brought him to his knees.
Ripping the cigarette from his mouth, he said severely, “People really do this to themselves?”
“Every day.”
“You know what? I think I’ll just hold it. At least that’ll make it look like I’m smoking.”
“Good idea.” For her own part, Sheila was not only drawing on hers but finding the experience disturbingly pleasurable.
It took almost a half hour—two more worrisome smokes for her, one more loathsome prop for him—before the door opened again. A man and a woman emerged, the former in his midfifties, the latter about ten years younger. They both wore glasses, were smartly dressed, and carried themselves with an air of self-importance. As they took note of the two strangers standing there, the man’s eyes went straight for their IDs. Hammond, meanwhile, had abruptly shifted the conversation they were having about Sheila’s own knowledge about the assassination to something with a more casual tone.
“. . . been rough for them the last few seasons, but I have a feeling the Nationals will pull it together this year. Their roster’s starting to gel. I see them breaking .500 with no problem.”
Sheila was astonished by how utterly convincing he sounded; she nearly believed it herself. Her heart, meanwhile, was trip-hammering with such force it felt like it might explode.
The pair that had exited the building reached the bottom of the steps and turned toward the parking lot. They bought it, Sheila thought. Wow!
But just as Hammond slipped his foot in front of the door to prevent it from closing, the man stopped and turned back. “Excuse me.” His tone was demanding and unfriendly. Whoever he was, he was used to giving orders. “Sir? Excuse me?”
Hammond glanced at him, maintaining a perfect aura of calm. “Yes?”
Following a brief pause that constituted the longest few seconds of Sheila’s life, the man said, “Their relief pitching still stinks, and they can’t hit the long ball to save their lives.”
Hammond sniffed out a laugh. “No, but they can still pile up the singles and doubles, plus they can draw walks like nobody’s business.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“I disagree, and I stand by my prediction.” Then, with the most disarming smile Sheila had ever seen, Hammond added, “Care to put a fiver on it?”
His new friend snapped his fingers and pointed. “You got it.”
“Okay then.”
And with that, the man returned to his original course and was gone.
As they slipped inside, she said, “How on earth do you do that?”
Hammond rapidly took stock of his surroundings—a zigzag set of fire stairs painted the same flat gray as the door, enclosed in a column of echoey cinder-block walls.
“Do what?”
“Act so . . . normal in that kind of situation.”
He chuckled as he started up the steps. “I guess I’m just good at hiding it.”
“Hiding what?”
“How terrified I am on the inside.”
Sheila smiled. “That makes me feel better.”
“I’m so glad.”
When they reached the door, he consulted a diagram of the building’s floor plan, which had been helpfully posted on the wall by order of the local fire marshal. The computers were one story farther up. As they reached that door, Hammond said quietly, “Stay behind me and remember to act casual. Big Brother will not only be watching; he’ll probably be listening, too. That said, please keep your own eyes and ears wide open. You have to watch my back while I dig through the dirty laundry.”
Sheila took a deep breath. “Sure, no problem.”
The door opened into a short hallway. This led to a brightly lit room with several rows of cubicles, each with its own computer terminal. On the far side was a panoramic window covered by hanging blinds. Beyond the computer area was a long run of freestanding bookshelves, and behind those stood another set of stairs. The decor was spare and somewhat predictable—agency citations and awards along with framed photos of notable figures both past and present. Hammond recognized all the presidents and vice presidents plus some agency heads, but other faces were unfamiliar. He also noted with some relief that there weren’t too many other visitors around.
He sat at the terminal closest to the little hallway and shook the mouse, which cleared the floating CIA logo. Next was a search screen—an empty bar in the center with the phrase Search Words on the left and another CIA logo above it. Hammond set his fingers on the keyboard, then paused. It occurred to him that typing Galeno Clemente might pop a red flag somewhere in the system. He guessed that Clemente was about as deeply classified as it was possible for someone to be. I need to find him by digging around him, Hammond realized.
He started with the three words Clemente, soldier, and missing. This produced 462 results. Based on the information given in the first few snippets, however, none seemed to have anything to do with his subject. He then tried Clemente and 1963, but that also produced nothing of value. He did note one interesting citation that had to do with baseball great Roberto Clemente and his stint with the Marine Corps Reserve but reminded himself that this wasn’t the time to indulge random curiosities.
After several other dead-end combos, he hit pay dirt with Clemente, Cuba, and military. This led not only to two mentions of Galeno—although the snippet blocks were covered by an arresting red moiré with the words “Authorized Access Only” stamped over it at an angle—but three others that mentioned a brother, Olivero.
“Whoa,” Hammond whispered. “What have we here?”
Keeping her eyes on everyone and everything in their vicinity, Sheila said, “Find something?”
“Maybe. . . .”
He clicked on the first result and learned that Olivero Clemente was born in the El Cano section of Havana in May of 1942 and that he served in the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces from April of 1960 until January of 1964. The second result outlined his attendance at the University of Havana following his military service, with a major in civil engineering and a minor in unspecified foreign languages. The third and final result, a PDF of a brief report that appeared to have been hastily written by a low-level operative just two years earlier, read like some kind of “Whatever Happened To . . . ?” featurette in People magazine. Although built mostly from assumptions culled through secondhand information, the report did provide a singular nugget of information that made Hammond’s heart jump—Olivero’s current whereabouts were believed to be “the Old Havana section of the city, possibly somewhere on the north side.”
Another search, this time using Olivero Clemente directly, merely produced the same three results Hammond had just read. He then backed up a page to the previous list. Those three were still demoted under the tantalizing two where Galeno’s name was visibly nestled inside a larger paragraph whose full contents remained maddeningly out of view.
“Okay, keep your eyes peeled.”
“I have been.”
“Good.”
He clicked on the first one, which took him to a flashing screen with two blank bars—one marked “User Name” and the other “Authorization Code.” He hadn’t expected anything less and figured he had nothing to lose if he hit such a wall. Then he saw something else—beneath the log-on area was a digital timer, rapidly counting backward:
:10
:09
:08
:07
“I think perhaps it’s time we hit the road,” he said, rising slowly and keeping his voice low.
“Huh? Why?”
:03
:02
:01
“Because I think I just goofed.”
:00
The screen didn’t just go blank—the monitor turned off. Then Hammond saw them: two men in suits and ties coming up the steps beyond the bookcases. They weren’
t wearing sunglasses like the CIA guys in the movies, but they were rugged, rough-hewn types who, he suspected, probably possessed the authority to use deadly force whenever they pleased.
“Time to be on our merry way,” he said, guiding Sheila firmly toward the fire door. Just before it shut, he turned back and saw their pursuers—the one in the lead was white, his partner black—break into a run.
“Go! Quick!” His voice echoed throughout the corridor. He did not follow her down, however. On the side of the fire alarm box was a small steel hammer, which served the sole function of breaking the glass so the alarm’s handle could be pulled. What interested Hammond most was the long chain that dissuaded people from stealing it.
Sheila didn’t realize he was still up there until she reached the first landing.
“Jason!”
“In a sec—”
“What are you doing?”
He snatched the hammer from its hook with trembling hands, wrapped it around the door’s access bar as many times as the chain would allow, and inserted the head through one of the links. “Saw that in a movie once. I think it might slow them down,” he said as he took off again.
They were already past the first landing when the agents tried to get through. There was a pause as confusion took hold following this first attempt. The second was more forceful but still cautious. The third, a hard kick, snapped the chain and sent the door slamming against the wall. Broken links jingled along the polished floor.
Sheila reached the bottom first and went out.
“To the back!” Hammond said. “Where the trees are. Hurry!”
She raced down the steps and turned while Hammond stopped again, this time to move the cigarette receptacle from the corner of the landing to the first step. It was filled with sand and weighed considerably more than he expected, causing him to groan when he lifted it.
Once beyond the tree-lined border, he stopped and waited. The door swung open and the two agents, in their haste, failed to see the receptacle. As the white one tried to halt himself, the black one plowed into him. This propelled them both forward, where they engaged in an ungraceful swan dive that terminated in a painful crash on the pavement below.
“Sorry, guys,” Hammond mumbled. Then, more audibly, “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
26
RYDELL SAT behind his desk in downtown D.C., working through one more insipid report, his hands paused on the keyboard as he tried to recall the correct spelling of the word rhythm. In spite of his vast intelligence, he, like everyone else, had blind spots, and this was one of them.
“Two h’s and two y’s?” he mumbled, then tried it—rhythym. It didn’t look right.
“Just one h, then,” he said, typing again—rhytym. That wasn’t right either.
When he tried it a third way, his aging fingers accidentally inserted a u and then a g—rhuytgym—and when he went to delete these, he inadvertently eliminated several of the correct letters as well. He cursed and smacked the keys with his balled fist.
It’s getting harder, he realized. Harder to maintain the pretense of normalcy, the facade of all being well and good in his increasingly nebulous world. His anger toward Birk was becoming impossible to contain. He found himself checking his cell phone frequently, on the off chance he hadn’t felt the vibrations or had somehow, accidentally, turned the ringer volume all the way down. But neither of these things ever really happened, of course, and he knew that.
Birk’s lack of progress was infuriating. “Find them—kill them” were the last orders Rydell had given him, delivered in a tone that left no room for interpretation. “I don’t care how.” It was true that Birk had successfully tracked down their previous location and that his investigative methodology had been impressive. He had determined that they had given the hotel false names, that the staff swore to seeing only two guests during their stay even though four had been registered, that they had suddenly vacated the rooms without formally checking out, and that there had been hair samples found on each of the pillows that, Rydell was certain, would be a spot-on match if he bothered to run the necessary tests. But this was all after-the-fact information.
Where were they now?
Since their exit from the Royal Crowne, they had fallen off the radar screen—and that made Rydell very nervous indeed. Hammond wasn’t the type of person you wanted running around loose. And the Baker woman was becoming irritatingly resourceful in her own right. There had been no sightings on any of the security cameras in the Dallas area, no further media reports, and no electronic contact—phone, text, or e-mail—with any of the people in their lives. This included several other Kennedy experts under Rydell’s surveillance, members of Baker’s extended family, her many business contacts, and the handful of friends he knew about.
They’ve fallen off the face of the earth.
But he knew better than that. The intuitive touch of genius that had carried him to the greatest heights of his profession while enabling him to become a master criminal could feel them out there, closing in. He began to wonder what needed to change in the equation to tilt the numbers back in his favor.
He was about to check his phone again when a small flashing alert appeared in the corner of the monitor. His eyebrows rose as he read the text. Then he clicked on a movie player application and watched a grainy fish-eye video of Hammond and Baker as they fled from their computer terminal at the CIA library. He took note of the time stamp and realized the incident had occurred less than two hours ago. Fear branched through him, and his hand seemed to reach for the cell phone on its own. Stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door, he got Birk on the first ring.
“I need you here, immediately,” he said, making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady.
There was a pause on the other end. “And where is that?” Birk asked.
Rydell’s stomach began to churn as he realized his mistake. In all the years he had dealt with the many Birks in his employ, he had never, not even once, revealed any details about his identity. The need for anonymity was paramount; the problems that could stem from a compromise were too numerous to contemplate.
Rydell caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror over the sink. The man who stared back was haggard and worn, an adaptation of himself he had never seen before. It was someone on the losing side of whatever battle he was fighting—also unfamiliar. You’ve got to get yourself under control, the survivalist part of him said firmly. Right now.
He cleared his throat. “Chicago. You need to come to Chicago. Get a flight into O’Hare and call me when you land. You’ll receive further instructions at that time.”
“I understand,” Birk replied. His tone was flat, obedient. But Rydell detected something else, something just below the surface. Was it doubt? Had Birk also sensed the error?
It doesn’t matter, Rydell told himself. Soon, none of this will be relevant.
He ended the call and replaced the phone in his pocket. He would call back in twenty minutes and say the destination had been changed to D.C. instead. That should take care of the gaffe. No problem.
He took one last look at himself before going back out.
Events following their escape from the CIA library unfolded at breakneck speed. Beyond the tree-lined border, they found themselves in the grimy rear driveway of an Italian restaurant. Running past a reeking, fly-clouded Dumpster, they reached the next street over and slowed to a stroll so as not to attract attention. The sidewalk teemed with moving bodies. Hammond flagged down a taxi and told the driver to go to the National Zoo, then shut the partition between them.
When Sheila questioned this choice of destination, Hammond said he needed a moment to think. He googled what he felt was an appropriate hotel on his cell phone and was about to call Noah to arrange the reservation when Sheila pointed out that most local hotels were likely to have security cameras that could be accessed by intelligence authorities. She suggested they seek a bed-and-breakfast in one of the outlying suburbs instead, as most
of these were privatized and less likely to feature any high-tech gadgetry. Hammond found this an excellent suggestion and, after another brief Google search, apologetically gave the driver new instructions.
The Rosewood Inn turned out to be a well-kept antebellum set on a shaded street in Gaithersburg. The woman behind the desk, a spinsterish old thing with yellowing hair and a tiny mouth, sized up her latest visitors with unabashed disapproval. Sheila could almost read her mind—young, attractive, no wedding rings . . . I wonder if his wife knows about her. Hammond requested a menu, then ordered two meals and asked that they be brought to the room as soon as possible.
The room in question—called “The Plover’s Nest,” which Sheila found a little kitschy—was actually a spare, modest efficiency that included a kitchen, deck, washer-dryer combo, and full bath. Hammond sat down at the round table in the main living area and returned to the Internet. Sheila watched with mild envy from the chair across from him. She still could not risk using her own phone, which now held 129 text messages, 47 e-mails, and 26 voice-mail messages. Hammond apologized again for the inconvenience and promised to think of some way of resolving the problem. Then their food arrived, wheeled in by a tiny man of considerable age. He transferred the meals—broiled filet of sole for him, a chicken Caesar salad for her—onto the table without a word. When Hammond tipped him, he took the folded bill without glancing at it and bowed before withdrawing. Twenty minutes later, Hammond called home.
“What’s going on?” Noah asked through the speaker. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“We’re in a B and B on the outskirts of Washington.”
“Did you make it to the CIA library?”
“We did.”
“And?”
Hammond retold the story from beginning to end, leaving out nothing. When he was finished, Noah said sharply, “You’re going to get yourself killed, Jason. Either that or incarcerated. Sheila, too.”
“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what needs to happen next, and I keep arriving at the same conclusion—I have to go to Cuba and find Olivero Clemente.”