by Glen Carter
“But you lost a man in the process. That’s something I am interested in.”
“Yes,” Jack said sombrely. Detective Manteez had been spoken to, again. He was told everything about Roberto Sevier. An uncommon collaboration was in the works between Manteez and Steve Lacy in Miami. “The investigation is ongoing,” Jack said to Wolff.
A man came into the room. No crew cut and no concealed weapon. He had slicked-back hair and wore gold spectacles. He had on a wrinkled working suit, and carried a beaten down leather briefcase. An agency man, Jack decided. He and Wolff huddled on the other side of the room, speaking in hushed voices. A moment later, Wolff took his seat again.
“Your deceased friend has apparently left the country,” Wolff said.
“Malloy is gone?”
“That’s right. Repatriated,” Wolff said. “Seems a crew showed up in a private jet. The FBI director’s no less. Flight plan to Panama City. A guy named Buck Kelly was on the other end. You know anything about that?”
“Not a thing.”
Wolff looked pissed. “Our people would have appreciated an opportunity to examine the body.”
“That’s too bad. Can we get him back?”
“Funny boy,” Wolff replied. “Do you know what obstruction of justice is?”
“Five to ten?”
Wolff wasn’t laughing.
As usual, Mesner had outdone himself. Jack checked his watch. This wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been straight with Wolff, not on everything, but enough. He’d done his duty.
A radio suddenly crackled. Something about “Razor” wanting to call it a night.
Wolff got up to leave. “Stay out of trouble, Doyle,” he said.
That was it? Not by a long shot, Jack decided. Wolff was alarmingly cool. Time to step it up a notch. Jack looked at him squarely. “When Kaitlin O’Rourke goes to air again in the morning, she’ll have all of this. Our meeting, too.”
Wolff suddenly stopped. “Are you threatening the Secret Service, Mister Doyle?”
“Not a threat. A heads up. Consider it professional courtesy.”
Wolff drilled in on him. Eyes like lasers. “I could have you tossed out of the country,” he said. “Or a nice Cuban jail. It would take a week before anyone figured out where you were.”
Jack forced a grin. “Jailing a member of the free press while here to nurture a fledgling democracy. That would get a lot of attention.”
A moment passed. Then a wave of Wolff’s hand cleared the room. All except Mister Spectacles. Wolff sat down again. “What I’m about to tell you is classified,” he said. “All off the record. Agreed?”
“What choice do I have?”
Wolff nodded at Mister Spectacles, who spoke for the first time. “Vasily Rusakova was known to us.”
“Known how?”
“We availed of his services. Occasionally.”
Jack knew there was more. “Why hire a freelancer when you’ve got your own talent?”
“Arms-length deniability,” Mister Spectacles responded immediately. “Also, he never let us down. Never. Even in the most situationally-challenged environments.”
The CIA kept strange company. Old news. “Is he still on the payroll?” What a ball breaker that would be.
Mister Spectacles looked at Wolff.
Wolff shrugged.
“No,” he said curtly.
“Why?”
“He let us down.”
How far could he could push? “Let you down, how?”
After a pause, Mister Spectacles replied. “He took an outside job that was contrary to our national interests, from a contractor we definitely have a problem with. We didn’t like the company he was keeping.”
“So you fired him.”
“Sort of.” Mister Spectacles said. After a moment, he removed a folder from his briefcase and extracted a photograph. “Very classified,” he said. “I’ll see you do time if you screw us over.”
The photograph showed a blackened body on a morgue table.
Mister Spectacles looked him straight in the eye. “Vasily Rusakova was killed in an air strike in Afghanistan.”
Jack studied the picture. “That can’t be,” he replied.
Mister Spectacles smiled. “I issued the launch order.”
54
Poole didn’t enjoy killing a beautiful woman, especially not with a knife, but the hermit’s daughter hadn’t suffered. Still, he had experienced something. Maybe regret. It didn’t matter. It disappeared as soon as she was tossed aboard the van, to be discovered when Poole was long gone.
“You’re safe again,” the old Georgian said. “As far as your enemies are concerned, you’re as dead as she is, as those two apes.” He laughed. “Think about the diversion they’ll cause. What a strange threesome.”
Poole stood straight as lumber at the window of Asatiani’s house and stared at the darkness creeping slowly through his little garden. The sniper felt a familiar exhilaration. He ran a hand across the front of his fatigues, checking the buttons and the fit. He pulled the regulation beret tight to his head. It was good to be in uniform again, even if it was a Cuban uniform.
Vasily Rusakova, once a soldier, was dead. Killed in Afghanistan. The Taliban opium could not be resisted. So he’d opted for the bigger, better deal. It was nothing personal, but when the agency started to lose ‘assets’ in the Afghan government, they came looking. They had tracked him to a village in Helmand province. The air strike obliterated his bunker and killed the only man Rusakova trusted. Kirill had once worn the same uniform as Rusakova. Bore the same regimental tattoo. When the American helicopters landed afterwards, his blackened body was the only thing they took. A trophy. Those sons of whores had murdered his friend, had tried to kill him. They had made it personal. They would pay for that in away they could never imagine.
Rusakova saluted stiffly the memory of Sergeant Kirill Gorlovka and then turned to see Asatiani staring at him.
“We must leave, Colonel,” the old Georgian said. “There isn’t much time.”
55
“Your deal. What’s your game?”
“Five card draw. Nothing wild.”
The cards were shuffled and appeared one after another before the three players.
“Your bet,” Braithwaite said.
Ortega lifted his cards and after a moment threw some chips down.
Denton looked at his hand, giving nothing away. He tossed more chips into the pot and then added a couple. “Raise you,” he said.
Ortega obliged.
Braithwaite looked at both faces. “That’s six to me.” A small stack was pushed to the centre of the table. “Cards?”
They were in a private room once used by Batista to entertain his mafia chums. Heavy dank curtains covered the windows, a tapestry of sugarcane fields and muscled mulatto farm workers. A couch and armchairs were still stained with hair oil. Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano had sat at the table where they were playing. Swept their murderous hands across its green velvet and Brazilian cherry wood. No doubt playing for a bigger pot than they were.
It was good to have the day over. It had been a blur of meetings and photo ops. Several agreements had already been signed. The next day, both presidents would appear at Revolution Square, where their signatures would set everything in motion. Later, when the American entourage was gone, Pilious Ortega would declare a new constitution, guaranteeing rights and freedoms for all.
Denton threw down a pair of cards. Ortega followed. Braithwaite, looking smug, held his hand.
A pair of Secret Service agents stood quietly near the game.
Braithwaite resumed the deal.
Denton wasn’t concentrating on the cards. How could he? The real gamble was outside the room. In the Cuban communities of south Florida where deep scars had been ripped open and would likely not heal. The anger had spawned riots. Neighbourhoods were destroyed. Many people had been killed. Thankfully, there were voices of calm, without which more would die and the fires would stil
l be burning. The loss of support was nearly too deep to measure. Still, Denton had pushed ahead, hoping that history would vindicate him, if not voters.
A pair of cards was dealt to him. Quietly, Denton picked them up.
The betting resumed.
Braithwaite stared at him. “Your bet,” he said, checking his watch. “Last hand, gentlemen.”
For a moment, Denton reflected over everything he’d invested. Wisely or not. The hand had been dealt and now he’d have to play it.
“I’m all in,” he said, realizing too late how ominous it sounded.
56
They stood in lines that stretched forever.They were the lucky ones who were chosen at random by computers specially programmed to red flag criminals,mental cases, and the troublemakers. Screening was carried out in stages at gateways to the massive square. Bags and pockets were emptied. Metal detectors beeped and screeched, meaning the search then got much more personal. There was pushing and shoving which caused tempers to flare. Some traded punches, always to be whisked away as though they had never existed.
Richard Wolff stood ramrod straight inside one of those gateways, a belly full of coffee and a headache already rooting itself at the base of his skull. He watched the screeners closely, amazed by the lack of professionalism. A young female was searched so inappropriately, the man with her took an angry swing.He was dealt with.Then the Cuban soldier simply continued the pat down. Old habits never die, thought Wolff.
Still, the gate people were being processed smoothly and, at this early hour, thousands were already inside the fence, hunkered down against a blistering sun.
In the next couple of hours,Wolff would check every gate and attend to a hundred other things that had to be done. He cuffed his ear. The radio chatter was constant. Everything was ramping up. Like the tension. Wolff brought a pair of binoculars to his face and focused on the rooftops.The counter-sniper teams were all in place, scanning for threats.Wolff surveyed the sea of people in the square below with their mats and makeshift shade. He was worried. It went with the job.Though, no disasters. Yet. Meaning,Wolff had earned the right to take a long easy breath. He would not. Air Force One would be wheels up and headed home before he allowed himself that luxury.
57
All of the networks went to air with their anchors smiling warmly from their glass enclosures overlooking Revolution Square.The hot lights melted their makeup and soaked them in sweat, making them uncomfortable and foul tempered, though their audiences would never see it.
“Good morning on this historic day from Havana, Cuba.”
Each news presenter promised the best coverage of the day’s events.There would be analysts and politicos, and no end to the trail of experts.They would be brought in, drained of their insight, and then shuffled out. Each moment was choreographed for maximum impact. When the anchors began to lose steam, pre-produced backgrounders and sidebar stories were rolled, during which the anchors would have their makeup reapplied, their hair reconstructed.
CNS anchor Tim McCoy had just introduced a story on Cuban cuisine and some gut filler invented by slaves, when he bellowed for more hairspray. A makeup artist sprang from her position off camera while McCoy was introduced to his next guest.
McCoy coughed out the excess hair product.“What did you say your name was?”
“Sister Anna Thomas. I run a health clinic in the Sierra Maestra.”
McCoy looked at her vacantly. “Is that a village somewhere?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Which is it, sister?”
“It’s a mountainous region of Cuba.The tallest. I work in a small village there.” Sister Thomas stopped to allow McCoy to write it down.He didn’t. She continued. “We’re facing a crisis. Children are dying.There is no medicine.Maybe we could speak about that.”
McCoy stared past her to the floor director. “I need water,” he said.
“In thirty,” the floor director shouted, placing a fresh bottle in front of McCoy, and one for his guest.
Then. “We’re back in twenty seconds.”
“Change of plans,” McCoy suddenly announced. “Let’s go to O’Rourke first. Find out what’s happening down in the square.Then we’ll do the nun.”
“Tim,” his earpiece buzzed, “stay with the lineup.”
“My call,”McCoy shot back. “We’re going to O’Rourke.”
“Back to us,” the floor director shouted. “Ten seconds.”
McCoy leaned into the camera. “Welcome back to Havana, Cuba, where we are still awaiting the arrival of President Frederick Denton and his old friend, Pilious Ortega, the Cuban president, on this day for the history books.” McCoy placed a hand over his ear. “Right now though, we’re going to check in with Kaitlin O’Rourke who is roaming the crowd.”
Kaitlin appeared on camera.
“Kaitlin, it’s looking like a darn refugee camp down there.”
What the hell was he doing?With no time to prepare, Kaitlin struggled to find words. She paused a second before speaking and when she did, her voice sounded squeaky and strained.The crowd chanted loudly, all but drowning out McCoy. Did he actually say “refugee camp?” Kaitlin decided he had.
“Tim, these people are bracing for changes,” she reported.“The likes of which most here have never experienced before.They have been arriving all morning, the young and old, from all over this proud but impoverished nation.They have come to Revolution Square to witness first hand the beginning of a new era. And when they leave today, and for a much longer time after, they’ll tell their children and their grandchildren that they were here, beneath the statue of Cuba’s greatest revolutionary, Jose Marti.This however has been a peaceful revolution, giving birth to a new democracy and a new way of–”
“Kaitlin,”McCoy interrupted.
“Yes, Tim.” She replied, pissed at being cut off. She had no idea where he was about to go and that made her extremely nervous.
“Tell us about real Cubans. Not statues.”
Seth rolled his eyes behind the camera. Kaitlin wanted to, but couldn’t. She struggled for a moment, trying to stay cool, but McCoy was being an absolute jerk. “What we’re seeing here today has always been about ordinary Cubans,” she replied stoically. “They are the ones with the most at stake. Rapprochement will have its biggest impact on the lives of people you see here behind me. Them and millions more. They will have to deal with the tough challenges that change will bring.They will have to adapt and grow with the new realities of life here—everything from voting, to adjusting to a free market economy, to learning how to use their voices without fear of reprisal. Or prison. Tim.” It was McCoy’s cue.
McCoy stared earnestly into the camera. “You make it sound terrible,” he said. “Like they’d be better off sticking with communism. The repression.The gulag mentality.”
Kaitlin’s eyes widened in astonishment. “No, not at all,” she said. “In fact—”
“Debate for another day,” McCoy interrupted, “when we have more time.” He turned to his guest. “Welcome now, Doctor Anna Thomas.”
“Sister Thomas,” she corrected with a smile.
McCoy murdered her with bloodshot eyes. “You run an orphan-age.” “It’s a clinic, actually. In the Sierra Maestra.”
“Yes. A village that has been ravaged by decades of communist rule. No medicine, no food, no hope.”
Sister Thomas bunched her eyebrows. “The embargo sapped our hope,” she said. “Not Fidel Castro, per se. The embargo has long prevented us from getting the drugs we must have.We plead for help now before more children suffer, and die.”
The floor director began a fingered five count. Four, three…
“That may also be a conversation for another day,”McCoy said, turning to the camera with his gleaming anchor smile. “Time for a break.We’ll be back. In just a moment.”
Crowds this enormous were dangerous. If the collective energy got out of control, the results were always catastrophic. Jack had been trampled once before and h
ad made a promise that the next time shit hit the proverbial fan, there’d be a clear path to safety. Feeling none of that security, he pushed deeper into the mass of people,which then closed tightly behind him.
Kaitlin and Seth were nowhere to be seen. The CNS camera location was unmanned. Jack spied the empty tripod and cursed. If Kaitlin was gone it meant someone had cut her loose and she was off gathering video and interviews. No doubt it was McCoy’s decision, leaving the live spotlight to him.
Kaitlin was in the crowd and Jack was nervous.
His cellphone rang. He hunkered down and answered it. It was Dwayne Mesner. “Say again,” Jack yelled.
Mesner shouted back. “I said Rusakova emptied his account, all of it.”
Dead men didn’t empty bank accounts. Jack told Mesner about Rusakova’s death in Afghanistan.
“Seriously,”Mesner roared back. “Screwed the agency, and they blew him away. Nice guys. But here’s the thing.”
Jack cupped the phone at his ear.
“I can tell you a hundred percent that the Russian bank account held by Vasily Rusakova, now deceased, was drained of its funds, wired to a numbered company in Frankfurt, Germany, converted to Euros, and then redirected to an account at Deutche Bank in Florence, not far from that big-assed dome built by Medici in the heart of the city. Need I go on?”
It was nearly impossible to hear. Jack dropped to one knee, pressing the phone tighter to his ear. Was it possible someone else was using the account? More than one person could hold signing authority on an account, right?
“Not this time,”Mesner told him. “Rusakova was the only one. At the Russian end.”
“What do you mean, the Russian end?”
“Jack,” Mesner said. “The money was sent. The money was received. But here’s the deal. Rusakova, the dead man, wasn’t doing the receiving.”
“OK.Who was?”
“A Canadian holds the account.Avery rich man, I might add, as of a short time ago.”
Jack’s synapses were firing. Timing was everything.How short a time? Dwayne was yelling something. “Repeat,” Jack shouted.