“It’s the same with me. In fact, lately I was serving on a committee with DOE. We were working on the Strategic Oil Reserve.”
She shook her head. “That’s way above my pay grade.” They chatted for a few moments, but it was obvious the only thing they had in common was a random mugging. They laughed about that, and Stuart stood to leave.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said.
She handed him his overcoat. “It’s too miserable out there to drive.”
Stuart ignored the offer to stay. “Well, I’ve got to get going.” They shook hands, and he left. Once he was outside, he regretted not staying. Get a grip, he told himself. You don’t need to get involved. He reached his car and fumbled with the keys. But before he could get the door open, a man stepped out of the shadows and barreled into him, smashing him against the car.
“Gimme the fuckin’ keys,” he growled.
“Oh, shit!” Stuart moaned. “Not again!” The man drove his fist into Stuart’s stomach. But there was no strength behind the blow, and Stuart’s heavy overcoat helped protect him.
“Don’t fuck wid me!” his assailant shouted. “I cut you fucking throat.” He reached into his pocket.
Stuart’s basic instincts took over, and he stomped on the man’s foot. The man grunted. Stuart stepped back and kicked him in the knee as hard as he could. The man collapsed to the sidewalk in pain as he jerked his hand out of his pocket. He was holding a switchblade knife. The click of the blade opening was like a cannon shot. But he fumbled in the bitter cold, and the knife fell to the ground. He scrambled to pick it up. Stuart stomped on the man’s hand. He felt the bones give as the man screamed. Then he kicked the knife into the gutter. “Big mistake,” he muttered. He climbed into his car and started the motor. Should he call the police? “Freeze, asshole,” he said. He pulled away from the curb.
The same brief feeling of elation he felt when he’d made safe harbor in Cuba captured him. But this time it stayed.
The revelation hit him like a bolt of lightning, jangling his nerves and setting him on fire. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. He shook his head. It couldn’t be. He found another parking space and ran for Jean McCormick’s apartment entrance. She answered on the first buzz and let him in. The elevator door was open, and he raced for it. It seemed as if it took an eternity for the elevator to reach her floor. When the doors opened, she was waiting for him. “I’m glad you came back,” she murmured.
“Your coffee table, the book—” He fumbled for the right words.
She looked confused and led him inside. Stuart shed his overcoat in an easy motion and reached under the glass top of the coffee table. He carefully extracted the top book from the pedestal. “You got this at work?”
“Companies send them out.”
He quickly thumbed through the book, finding the pages he wanted. It was the same ship as on the cover. “Do you know what kind of ship this is?”
“It’s a special-built ship used for offshore oil exploration. It has to be very wide because it trails as many as twelve streamers of geophones in the water. Each streamer can be up to eight thousand meters long.”
“The geophones—seismic reflection?”
“That’s correct.”
For a moment he was speechless. A name flashed in front of him. “Dr. Emil Steiner?”
“That’s classified information and I can’t talk about it.”
“That’s okay. One more thing: In your work, do you deal with oil companies?”
“All the time.”
He felt like kissing her. He closed the book. “Can I keep this?” She nodded. “Thanks. I can’t tell you what this means.”
A tentative smile. “Maybe you can try.”
“I’ll call you. Dinner?”
“I’d like that.” They said good-bye and he ran for his car.
I’m not paranoid! he shouted to himself.
Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler thumbed through the book. “So you’re telling me that this is the ship you saw in Cuba.”
“The same, or one like it,” Stuart said.
“And there’s a connection between this survey ship, Steiner’s Seismic Double Reflection, and the mugger who attacked you and Mrs. McCormick?”
“Correct,” Stuart replied. “And when he failed, they sabotaged the brakes on my car. But there’s a kicker: Seismic Double Reflection is a fraud, a total con. When I first looked at it, all I saw was the elegance of the mathematical logic behind it. But on examination it’s totally fallacious. Here, let me show you.” He jotted down the critical part of Steiner’s matrix and started to work the problem.
“Don’t even try,” Butler said. “It’s totally beyond me. Okay, let’s assume what you say is true. Given that, why should you and Miss McCormick be targets?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to see if Stuart was on the same wavelength.
“Because someone discovered a major oil field and wanted to keep it a secret, since U.S. companies can’t do business with Cuba. The government would step on them hard.”
Butler shook his head. “There’s one problem. Steiner contacted us about his new seismic technique.”
Stuart felt as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. “True,” he admitted. “Besides, Jean McCormick and I are too low on the feeding chain to be worth messing with.”
Butler considered Stuart’s dilemma from his unique perspective. He had been in counterintelligence so long that nothing surprised him, and he was a firm believer that the best way to solve a problem was to attack it at the low end. And Stuart and McCormick were definitely on the low end. “Mike, I don’t believe in coincidence. Let’s assume someone made a major oil find off Cuba.”
“But why would anyone even bother with me?”
“To keep it a secret,” Butler answered. “You have no idea what’s involved in a major oil discovery. Countries start wars for less, much less, and that’s what made you a target.”
“Normal people don’t do things like that.”
“You’re not dealing with normal people, Mike. To survive in the oil business, you’ve got to be a shark. I have no trouble believing that some of the most civilized people you’ve ever met would kill you in a nanosecond if you got in the way of a big oil discovery.”
“So how do I find out who it is?”
“The key is the ship you saw in Cuba. Find out who it belonged to and you’ve found the link.”
Stuart shook his head. “If I’ve learned one thing in all this, it’s that no oil company is going to tell anyone squat-all about where they’ve been surveying or what they’ve found. It’s easier to steal the crown jewels.”
“Keep digging, and I’ll tap my sources. Who knows what may turn up?”
“But where does Steiner fit in all this?”
“That is a conundrum,” Butler allowed.
Stuart knew when he was being given the bureaucratic slow roll. “I’ll see what I can find. Thanks for listening.” He gathered up his notes and left.
Butler pulled into himself, fitting what Stuart had told him into another, much more complicated scenario. The more he thought about it, the more promising it looked. He picked up his secure phone and dialed the Director of Central Intelligence in Langley, Virginia. Butler quickly outlined what Stuart had told him. “It’s one more link to RayTex Oil in Dallas,” he said. “It could be critical. I think we should let him run with it and see where he leads us.”
The Director of Central Intelligence agreed and told him that the investigation into the Puerto Ricans was stalled. They needed to make something happen. The sooner the better.
“I’ll build a fire under Stuart,” Butler said.
32
Dallas
L.J. walked through her ransacked offices with Shugy and her comptroller, Marcia. She was infuriated by what she saw. RayTex’s chief legal counsel trailed behind her, his short legs hard-pressed to keep up with her. “Mizz Ellis,” he protested, “you shouldn’t be here. If they return, they ca
n still search your personal belongings, your briefcase, your purse, and confiscate whatever they want.”
L.J. ignored him. “I can’t believe this!” she raged. “What didn’t they take?”
Marcia took the question very seriously and consulted her clipboard. “The furniture and the supply cabinet.”
The lawyer spoke up. “It was definitely a punitive raid.”
“So what can we do about it?” L.J. demanded. “We can’t do business with all our records confiscated.”
Before the lawyer could answer, Shugy said, “We have backup records.” L.J., Marcia, and the lawyer stared at her in disbelief. The lawyer held up his hand. “I can’t hear this. If the FBI learns about a second set of records, they can confiscate those. Please excuse me.” He scurried away, leaving the three women alone.
“You have a backup?” Marcia asked, still not believing it.
“Well,” Shugy explained, “Mr. Marsten has me make a set of backup records every day before I go home. Everything is so interconnected and date-sensitive that it only takes a few moments to do it.”
“How complete is the backup?” L.J. asked.
Shugy motioned at her new computer, which had been only delivered that morning to replace the one the FBI had taken. “We have everything except what happened yesterday morning—before the FBI came.”
“Computers are a wonderful thing,” L.J. said. “What do you do with the disks?”
“They’re not on a disk. I download to our computer site in the Bahamas.”
“I didn’t know we had an offshore computer site,” L.J. said.
“Oh, yes,” Shugy replied. “It’s part of Mr. Marsten’s security program in case terrorists bomb our office. I need special codes to activate the encryption circuits and open the files. Do you want me to show you?” She sat down at her computer.
L.J. shook her head. She held a finger to her lips, urging them to be silent, and grabbed a notepad. She wrote furiously.
1. Don’t talk. The FBI may have left bugs behind. Write notes and destroy them later.
2. Send everyone home like we’re shut down for business.
Have the staff meet at my house Monday morning.
3. Have Security sweep the office for bugs, then do same for my home.
4. We’re going to war—and those bastards are going to lose.
The two women were seeing a new side of their employer. But Lloyd Marsten would have recognized the L.J. he saw in Eritrea.
Varadero, Cuba
Amelia Salandro was sound asleep, her head cuddled against Marsten’s chest as the truck bounced over the rough road. Amelia stirred, and he held her close. They had been on the run for eight days, constantly moving, always one step ahead of the army or secret police, as chaos swept Cuba. At first Amelia was his passport to the Guardians and their sympathizers. But their relationship quickly changed when she showed him how to make the best use of his Krugerrands. Without her he would have never made contact with the man known simply as Rogelio. The short, heavyset Cuban was one of the new entrepreneurs who was willing, once the right amount of money had changed hands, to take them to safety in one of his trucks.
Suddenly the road smoothed, and the truck accelerated. Marsten pushed the canvas covering the back aside and chanced a glance outside. It was night, and they were racing down a street fronted by darkened luxury hotels. In the moonlight he could see gentle waves breaking on a beautiful beach. He dropped the canvas. “Where are we?” Amelia murmured.
“I’m not sure. I saw a beach and counted three or four luxury hotels. No lights.”
“Varadero,” she said. “It’s a resort for foreigners. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Castro went after tourist gold.” The truck ground to a halt behind a hotel, and willing hands helped them climb down. Both were stiff from the ride, and they walked slowly together, very much a pair. Rosalinda was waiting for them inside.
Mother and daughter fell into each other’s arms, both crying and talking at the same time. “Thank you, thank you,” Rosalinda kept repeating over and over to Marsten.
“It was the least I could do.”
“Come,” Rosalinda said, “you can stay in my room,” she said. She used a flashlight to lead them up the stairs to a room on the fourth floor. “You can take a bath,” Rosalinda told her mother.
Amelia disappeared into the bathroom while Marsten walked out onto the balcony. It was a gorgeous night, and Rosalinda joined him. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“It’s chaos,” she replied. “About one third of the people are loyal to the revolution and support the army. Another third are behind us, and the rest are neutral, waiting to see who wins.”
“So who is winning?”
Rosalinda shook her head. “Who knows? The Guardians hold key positions in the government, all public utilities, and the airports. Most of the police and the navy are with us. The air force is switching sides constantly, and no one knows which side they’re on at any moment. I think it depends on where the army is. People are flooding in from all over the world bringing money and weapons to help both sides.”
“How are they getting here?”
“Mostly by boat, because the air force has shot down many planes.”
“Maybe we can bribe a captain to take us out?”
“I must stay,” she said.
“I was thinking of your mother.”
“It’s possible, if you have enough money.”
He allowed a tight smile. “How do you think we got here?” He decided not to tell her about the gold Krugerrands he still carried in his belt and shoes. Another thought came to him. “What happened to Castro? The last I heard, the Guardians had captured him.”
“We have. We’re putting him on trial.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
Washington, D.C.
Stuart had turned his apartment into a neatly ordered war room. Two flowcharts on the wall tracked every lead he had pursued, while one of his personal computers automatically searched the Web for leads. The new search program he’d “borrowed” from the Pentagon could dig deeper than any commercial search engine and was producing some results. The printer whirred, and another hit printed out. He read it, annotated the flowchart, and dutifully filed it in the correct folder. He made a cup of coffee, sat back in his swivel chair, and took stock of where he was.
“Stymied,” he muttered to himself. It was true. It was a relatively simple matter to probe the basics of offshore oil exploration. But the detailed information he needed was more closely guarded than Critical Nuclear Weapons Design Information, one of the numerous top-secret clearances he’d once held. “Maybe a process of elimination?” he mumbled. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He’d been at it for over eighteen hours and needed some sleep. He set his coffee cup down and dozed.
Next thing he knew, the phone was jolting him awake. How long have I been asleep? A quick look at the master clock on the wall. Less than thirty minutes, he decided. He hit the speaker button on the phone. It was Sam Broad, his lawyer.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Mike. I just came out of a meeting with the DA, and she says they’re going ahead with your trial.”
“Tell me I’m still asleep and having a nightmare.”
“You’re awake, but it is a nightmare. Apparently she got a phone call from someone saying they wanted to see a positive resolution in the matter.”
“After the custody hearing Barbara Raye said I was dog meat.”
A long pause. “I don’t think it was her,” Broad finally said. “This call was from someone with smack. Any idea who it might be? I could use it in a motion to dismiss.”
“Will that work?”
“Probably not,” Broad conceded. “We’ll need to go to a SODDI defense.”
“What the hell is a shoddy defense?” Stuart asked, expecting the worse.
Broad spelled it. “S-O-D-D-I. Some other dude did it.”
“I might be able to find something,�
� Stuart said.
“The sooner the better,” Broad said. “The DA’s asking for an early trial date.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, the phone call was from somebody with smack.” He broke the connection.
Stuart punched off the speaker and fought the panic that loomed over him like a tidal wave. His mind raced with possibilities, but he always came back to one inescapable fact—the survey ship he saw in Cuba was the key. But no oil company was going to reveal where they’d been shooting seismic. What he needed was a name. Once he had that, Broad could subpoena the ship’s log and charter, which would lead him to the so-called other dude. But how could he find the name? “Jane,” he decided. He grabbed the phone and dialed the number for the satellite telephone aboard Temptress. He heard it ring. “Come on, answer.” He counted the rings.
On eleven, he heard her voice. “Jane, it’s Mike.” No answer. “Please don’t hang up. I need the name of the ship we followed into Cuba during the hurricane.”
“Ask the port captain.” Four words or less. Not good.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Where are you?” She broke the connection.
He dropped the phone into its cradle. “Damn.” The phone rang almost immediately, and he punched the speaker on, hoping it was Jane calling back with a change of heart.
It was Smatter, the Arlington police detective. “You’re on a short leash, Stuart. Don’t leave town, and report in every morning before ten A.M. or we’ll revoke your bail.”
“Does this count for today?” Stuart asked.
“Yeah,” Smatter replied. “Don’t fuck with us on this one or you’re back in the slammer.” He broke the connection.
Stuart turned to his computer and searched for the telephone number for the port captain in Cienfuegos. He had it in less than a minute and was dialing the number. But the international operator told him all lines were down. “Shit, fuck, hate,” he spat, surprised at how much he sounded like his father. He searched the news channels to see how bad the situation was in Cuba, and an item caught his attention: Brothers to the Rescue was flying messages, supplies, and people into Cuba. They were operating out of Marathon in the Florida Keys because it was close to the part of Cuba that was held by anti-Castro forces. He tacked a map of Cuba onto the wall and circled Marathon. The airport was a hundred miles north of Cuba. Because he was tired, it took a few minutes for him to realize that Cienfuegos was another sixty-five miles away on the southern coast of the island.
The Trojan Sea Page 37