Farfel said, “You’re an expert? In Florida, a convict buried a rich man’s daughter. This was years ago. A fan for air, some water. She was buried four days. The rich man delivered the cash. The FBI helped him deliver the cash. They concentrated on saving the girl. Not searching for the kidnappers. Understand the concept? We put the victim’s life in their hands. They’ll be so busy, they won’t waste time looking for us.”
“Did the daughter live?”
Farfel took a deep breath, his expression asking Why do I bother?
Hump answered, “Yes, the girl lived,” speaking in his simpleminded way, sounding disappointed.
For five weeks, the foreigners had delayed, insisting on more time. Even the New Yorker, who’d started it all, appearing in Farfel’s shop one morning, then pressing a note in his hand instead of a tip.
Reading the note, Farfel had felt like a man again. He’d told Hump, “I don’t care if it is a trap,” as they walked to their first meeting.
It wasn’t a trap.
Castro’s personal possessions, files included, had been stolen by the Americans and shipped to Maryland in industrial cartons. Four cartons to a container, thousands of items and documents that had been grouped, not cataloged. Collectively, the Americans were calling them the Castro Files.
A carton labeled C/C-103 (1976-’96) contained details of experiments the Soviets had conducted on American POWs in Vietnam, then Angola, Panama and Grenada. Administrators of the study, working as private contractors, had continued the experiments in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pain and fear: What were the human limits? The study ended in 1998 when the last POW from Vietnam finally gave-up and died.
The Cuban Program. The Soviets called it that because Castro had provided three unusual interrogators with special skills. The men were scientists, in their way, and were so determined, so exacting, that they soon usurped control from their Russian bosses.
One of the interrogators was a small, fastidious man named René Soyinka Navárro. He was the son of a Russian mother and a Cuban KGB officer.
In Afghanistan and Iraq, Navárro had been hired by Al-Qaeda as a expert contractor, an interrogator who could obtain information from even the most determined prisoners. To those countries, he had brought along an apprentice, the son of a fellow interrogator named Angel Yanguez, Jr.
From his late father, Yanguez had inherited a genetic deformity—Seborrheic keratosis—in the form of a cutaneous horn just beginning to grow. He’d also inherited the nickname Hump, which he didn’t mind, unlike Navárro who despised his nickname, Farfel. It had shadowed him since Hoa Lo Prison in Vietnam, where POWs had named him for the Nestlé’s Quik TV puppet that clicked his wooden teeth shut at the end of every sentence. Navárro, who wore dentures, made a similar sound when he wanted to emphasize a point.
In Vietnam, prisoners had referred to the Cubans, collectively, as the Malvados—fiends.
The New Yorker’s note had read: “Americans once begged for your mercy. Are you willing to beg for theirs?”
How could the New Yorker know the truth about Navárro if the documents didn’t exist?
The New Yorker and Venezuelan weren’t partners. They were working for someone. Farfel had overheard them whisper a name in English. The name sounded like Tenth Man. Possibly Tenman.
The Venezuelan was a twenty-three-year-old maricon, his face smooth, like an angel’s. He was a Communist, a young fool with ideals. The New Yorker was a Muslim who used whores and marijuana but not alcohol. They had no interest in the Cuban Program. Carton C/C-103 contained something else their employer wanted. Something worth only money, Farfel believed, if they weren’t willing to kill for it.
Didn’t matter.
The grave will be dug.
Since the Soviet collapse, Farfel and Hump had been in government protection, living like peons in Havana. False identities, menial jobs. Humiliating after living like gods in Vietnam, Panama and Iraq.
Now, though, they were working again. Professionals with unusual skills.
1
THE EXPLORERS CLUB, 70TH STREET, NEW YORK CITY SIX DAYS LATER
On a snowy January evening in Manhattan, I was in the Trophy Room of the Explorers Club when I saw, through frosted windows, men abducting a woman as she exited her limousine.
It wouldn’t have made a difference, but I knew the woman. She was Barbara Hayes-Sorrento—Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento—a first-term power-house from the west who had won the office once held by her late husband.
Well, not much difference. The senator was my dinner date for the evening. No romantic sparks, but I liked the lady.
It was six p.m., already dark outside. The Trophy Room was a cozy place. Fireplace framed by elephant tusks, maps of the Amazon scattered around, a mug of rum-laced tea within easy reach. I was the guest of an explorer who was also a British spy: Sir James Montbard. Friends called him Hooker because of the steel prosthetic that had replaced his left hand.
Hooker was a secondary reason for visiting New York. The primary reason was the hope of a new assignment from my old boss, a U.S. intelligence chief. Clandestine work sometimes requires a cover story. Friends sometimes provide it.
It was no coincidence that Barbara Hayes-Sorrento was free for dinner, or that my neighbor, Tomlinson, had been in the city until the day before, lecturing on “psychic surveillance” at an international symposium.
I had kept my social calendar high-profile, and I’d stayed busy.
Hooker and I had been planning a trip to Central America. He believed that warrior monks had sailed west in the 1300s, escaping with plunder from the Crusades. He said it explained why, two centuries later, the Maya believed in a blond, blue-eyed god, Quetzalcoatl, and so made a fatal mistake by welcoming the murderous Conquistadors.
I wasn’t convinced. But renewing contacts in Latin America was important now, so I’d agreed to join his expedition. This was our third night at the Explorers Club using its superb library.
When Hooker excused himself to freshen his whiskey, I stood, stretched and strolled to the window because it was snowing—a rare opportunity for a man from the tropics. I had an unobstructed view of the street below. It was 70th Street, a quiet one-way, two blocks from Central Park. It connects Park Avenue and Madison.
I could see Barbara Hayes-Sorrento as she got out of her car. She wore a charcoal coat, stockings and high heels. Her briefcase looked darker for the confetti swirl of snowflakes
The woman was leaning into a limo, saying good-bye to a fellow passenger, when a taxi rear-ended the limo. Not hard.
I knew that the passenger was a teenager she had mentioned earlier on the phone, a kid who’d won an essay contest and an escorted trip around the city. Something to do with the United Nations. Barbara had volunteered to meet him at the airport.
When Barbara jumped back, surprised, a man wearing coveralls and an odd pointed cap stepped to the driver’s door, blocking it. A smaller man grabbed Barbara’s shoulder. Her reaction was a warning glare.
The woman’s expression changed when the man didn’t let go. Barbara swung her briefcase but missed. It tumbled into the slush. Barbara tried kicking. One sensible black shoe went flying.
I was turning toward the stairs as the man began pushing her toward a taxi that had stopped in front of the limo. The woman’s lips formed a cartoon O of shock. Her mouth widened into a scream.
It was a silent scream. The building that houses the Explorers Club is one of the brick-and-marble tall ships from a previous century. Neither car horns nor a lady’s scream could pierce that elegant armor.
The club’s stairs are wooden. They creaked beneath my weight as I charged down the steps.
On the street, the few pedestrians watching probably thought Hollywood was filming a movie. But I’d noted the careful choreography that is the signature of a professional hit.
Taxi A blocks the narrow street. Taxi B rear-ends the limo but gently, sandwiching it. Things appear normal when men in coveralls rush to inspect the da
mage. But the men are not city employees. They are bagmen. Bag, as in bagging game.
The unfolding scene had registered on a subconscious level that is ever alert—me, the eager student of other professionals. I knew before I knew that a well-planned kidnapping was taking place.
As I charged down the steps, I calculated how many operators it would take to snatch a U.S. senator. Both taxi drivers, of course, plus a support crew. There also might be a shooter stationed atop a nearby building. Possibly atop the Explorers Club—it had six floors. And possibly more than one shooter, if it was a bag-and-tag operation.
Tag, as in coroner’s tag.
So there were at least four men, but maybe eight, presumably all armed.
On the bottom floor of the Explorers Club, near the stairs, is a world globe, museum-sized. On a nearby wall, I’d noticed a climbing ax from some Himalayan expedition. An ice ax, spiked at one end, a blade on the other.
I yelled to the desk attendant, “Where’s Sir James?,” as I pulled the ax from its mount, stumbled and nearly fell over the globe.
The attendant stared at me like I was insane. She pointed toward the rest-room, her lips moving to tell me, “Sir James is . . . unavailable.”
I told the woman to call 911. A United States senator was being abducted.
2
As I exited the Explorers Club, the kid Barbara had met at the airport was stepping out of the limo, a cowboy hat pulled low, boots ankle-deep in slush.
The essay winner? It was a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He looked like a bull rider, all shoulders and legs.
I yelled, “Kid! Get back in the car!”
The kid looked at me, his expression surly. “Huh?” Maybe he was masking confusion.
I hollered, “Back in the car—now!,” aware that the man with the pointed cap was watching the boy, maybe thinking about grabbing him.
The teen yelled to me, “Kid? . . . A goat ever kicked your ass, mister?,” as I turned toward taxi A, parked in front of the limo.
An unusual vocabulary for a high school scholar.
The taxi’s rear door was open, exhaust condensing in the cold. Hands from inside pulled at Barbara’s coat while the guy in coveralls wrestled her legs into the car.
Barbara was getting in some shots, panty hose showing, as she hammered with her feet. But she was losing.
I could have thrown the ax but risked hitting her. Instead, I yelled, “Stop—I’ll shoot!,” imitating a television cop. Disciplined, but eager to squeeze the trigger.
It earned me a couple of seconds. The guy in coveralls straightened. His head pivoted. I saw a choirboy face, Mediterranean, maybe Spanish, which could mean anywhere. His dark eyes met mine as I raised the ax, running hard.
I don’t care who you are, an ax is unnerving.
I saw his eyes widen, and gained another second, ten yards separating us now. Close enough to lower a shoulder and use my momentum to hit him so hard we’d spring the door off its hinges.
Instead, I changed my mind at the last second—always a mistake. Ask any football coach. Decided I could use the ice ax to scare all three men, so why disable just one?
Sensible. But when I tried to stop, I hit a patch of ice and my feet went flying. I landed hard on my back, momentum unchecked, and ass-sledded into a tangle of legs, then under the taxi, Choirboy atop me, Senator Hayes-Sorrento in the slush nearby.
Barbara called, “Ford?,” as if reluctant to believe I was her bungling rescuer.
“Run! Get out of the street!” I was worried about a shooter, high above, watching through a rifle scope.
Several things then happened at once: The taxi driver panicked, and hit the gas. The spinning tires somehow kicked Choirboy free. The vehicle began a slow-motion doughnut that would have crushed my head if the ax hadn’t snagged the doorframe.
I grabbed the handle with both hands and levered my body away from the tires. I was half under the car, rotating with it. Let go, I’d be run over.
The car straightened, then slowly gained speed in the fresh snow, dragging me down the street.
I got my right hand higher on the ax handle. I lifted my butt off the pavement to reduce drag. Using the ax as a fulcrum, I was powering my legs from beneath the chassis when the guy in the backseat started kicking at the ax.
Because I had no other option, I made a wild lunge for the door. I got lucky. I caught the man’s ankle—but only for a moment before he yanked his foot free.
The additional lift was enough. I swung clear, expecting the bumper to clip me when I let go of the ax. It didn’t. I skidded through slush until I banged against the tire of a parked motorcycle. The ax clanked to a stop nearby.
I stood. Anticipated my legs buckling if something was broken. They didn’t. I used the motorcycle to steady myself and watched the taxi continue down the street.
A hand appeared from the backseat and pulled the door closed. The driver accelerated.
Dazed and cold, I turned, hoping to see Barbara. Instead, I saw her limo speeding toward me, its headlights blinding. It was a Lincoln Town Car. Black. The driver was silhouetted by the lights of the vehicle behind it, taxi B.
I knelt and grabbed the ax, assuming the taxi was chasing the limo. Maybe I could smash the windshield if I timed it right. So I stood my ground—until the limo veered to hit me.
I dove for the curb and felt the fender brush close. Taxi B tried next. Its right bumper smacked the motorcycle, knocking it onto the sidewalk.
What the hell?
I jumped up, hoping the driver would lose control. He’d almost crushed my legs. I wanted to grab the guy by the neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged like muscat grapes.
But he didn’t lose control. I chased him for a few steps, then stopped, watching the town car. The silhouettes of three people were visible in the rear window. It looked like two men were struggling to control a person sandwiched between them.
Barbara?
Brake lights flashed in tandem, then both vehicles turned right into the fast traffic of Madison Avenue. There were sirens now, squad cars converging from several directions
I pivoted toward the Explorers Club. I’d been dragged about fifty yards. A couple of men were jogging toward me, calling, “You okay?” My Brit friend, Hooker, wasn’t one of them.
Near the entrance was a cluster of people, none obviously female, none the obvious center of attention. U.S. senators are usually the center of attention, whether they welcome it or not. She was gone.
Goddamn it!
On the opposite side of the street, I saw a man walking fast toward Madison Avenue, head down. People who don’t want to be noticed also attract attention. He wasn’t wearing coveralls, but he could’ve trashed them.
I stepped into the street, interested in his reaction. The man glanced, then walked faster.
When he snuck another look, I followed. It was the Spanish-looking guy, Choirboy.
He ran.
I dropped the ax and ran, sirens close now.
I was losing ground until Choirboy fell when he tried to vault a stone wall that bordered Central Park. I was on the other side of Fifth Avenue, lanes of fast traffic separating us.
I got another break when a car actually pulled over for law enforcement vehicles threading their way from uptown, blue strobes pinging off a dome of falling snow. It stopped one lane of traffic and slowed others. I used the hole to juke my way across, ignoring the horns. I almost made it clean.
Almost.
A car locked its brakes and got rear-ended. As drivers swerved, I jumped behind a power pole and watched the chain reaction, cars skidding, spinning and colliding. The soft-metal percussion of fenders traced a firecracker progression.
When it was safe, I stepped back into the street as drivers got out to inspect the damage. Choirboy had disappeared into the park. The smart thing to do, I decided, was flag down a cop. I was cold and needed help. They needed information.
It wasn’t easy. Squad cars were snaking through th
e mess, sirens howling, fixated on getting to the Explorers Club. No time for fender benders. No time for the big tan tourist, alternately waving his arms, then blowing on his hands for warmth.
Then I heard someone yell, “That’s the guy! The stupid sonuvabitch that caused it!” A guy was pointing in my direction. People stared.
It took a moment. Me, the stupid sonuvabitch.
“Dumbass—you. You’re not going anywhere!”
Yes, I was.
I went over the wall, into the park, where the tree canopy was dark above, silver beneath.
The snow was candescent.
In the distance, horses pulled carriages over asphalt trails, and I could see a small building. Some kind of concession. People had gathered there, music playing.
I could also see Choirboy’s snow trail. I jogged and skidded, following his tracks downhill. Soon I got a glimpse of him through the trees. He had resumed the role of innocent stroller. He was walking. It looked like he’d been headed for the music but changed his mind. Not enough people there for him to disappear. So now he was angling north, where it was darker, but also where a white, unlighted space showed, a pond.
He hadn’t spotted me, so I circled uphill, keeping trees between us. I jogged, watching his shadow appear, then disappear. The footing was iffy and my feet were freezing. Also, my right knee was throbbing where my khakis were torn, blood-splattered from road rash.
Adrenaline was losing its kick. I couldn’t outrun him now. I needed to surprise him.
I found a fountain near the pond. The pumps were off. Stone encircled a potage of ice and maple leaves. A footpath curved along the pond where lamps created pools of light that followed the path uphill to the carriage road.
I knelt behind the fountain.
After a couple of minutes, I began to worry the guy had changed directions again. But then he appeared, hands in his pockets, still checking over his shoulder every few seconds. As he neared the fountain, I could see that he wore slacks and a windbreaker.
I crouched—an atavistic reflex incongruous with the Manhattan skyline. I wished now I hadn’t left the ax behind.
Dead Silence Page 2