by Stephen Frey
“Why would they kill Christian? What’s the deal?”
“I don’t know. Graham wouldn’t tell me. You should have seen her, though. She was a mess. Sobbing, not making any sense. I couldn’t believe it. All she told me was that they were going to kill him while he was in Cuba, but she wouldn’t tell me why. I think she’s worried about herself at this point.”
Probably ought to be, Quentin realized. “Why didn’t Graham just tell Christian when she found out what was going on?”
“She couldn’t let Dorsey know she was the one tipping off Christian. But after the guy turned the tables on her, she called Dorsey right away. She called Dorsey before I got to her.”
That didn’t make any sense. “But if she knows the people carrying out the Cuba thing are going to kill Christian, and Dorsey’s involved with them, why in the hell would she call Dorsey?”
“She thought those people were the only ones who could rescue Christian from this guy who kidnapped him,” Allison explained. “She said she didn’t know what else to do.”
“Where is Christian?”
“Miami. Apparently he set off some transponder or something and they tracked it.”
Quentin shook his head. Christian was one cool customer. “How long ago did she call Dorsey?” he asked, afraid of the answer.
“It’s been a couple of hours.”
Quentin motioned for his men to relax. At this point Christian was back with the spooks—or dead. There was no point racing to Miami. They’d be way too late. “I guess he’s on his way to Cuba then.” If the spooks had him, that was where Christian was definitely headed. And Quentin wanted Allison to hear him be optimistic. “I’d try to get down there myself, call a few of my buddies in the Rangers and see if there’s a way to parachute in or something. Problem is, I wouldn’t have any idea where to go when I got there.” Dr. Padilla would know, but he was observing the operation with his Cuban handlers. There would probably be no way of getting to Padilla without alerting the regime at this point, either. “Ally.” Nothing but silence from the other end of the phone. “Ally?”
“What if I could tell you where to go?” she finally asked.
“How could you do that?”
“Stay where you are,” she said excitedly. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
CHRISTIAN HOPPED UP onto the spindly pier of the camp, followed by Barrado. He’d never been so happy to see anyone in his life. After they’d killed the guy who’d kidnapped him, they’d untied him and told him who they were. Told him they were taking him straight down into the Everglades. That from there he’d be choppered out to a navy ship waiting for him in the Gulf of Mexico. On the ship he’d board another chopper, then be dropped into Cuba early in the morning along with his protection squad of Rangers. Time was of the essence now, they’d told him as they’d hurried him out of the ranch house to the SUV. Told him that he needed to meet with the rest of the Six as quickly as possible to give President Wood the word—thumbs-up or -down. If it was up, everything would explode. By this time tomorrow, the old regime might no longer control Cuba.
Christian knew right away these guys were real. They had details about the mission that convinced him. And Barrado had asked for the transponder as soon as he was untied, smashing it with his boot on the floor beside the kidnapper’s body when Christian handed it over. Christian had wanted to hug the man—but he hadn’t.
He wanted to call Quentin, too, but they wouldn’t let him. Barrado had said that he didn’t want to chance someone picking up the transmission, but they’d been in downtown Miami—and it wasn’t as if they were staying or that he would have been stupid enough to say anything that would have given away their location. You could trace a cell phone to a specific antenna—he knew that—but they were on the move. By the time anyone could have figured out what antenna he was in contact with, they’d be long gone from that cell. But he hadn’t argued, too glad to be safe.
“Come with me, Christian,” Barrado said, waving. “I want you to take a look at this snake we killed this morning. It’ll blow your mind.”
“HI, ALLY, ” Quentin said quickly. It had been a couple of hours. “I was getting worried.”
“It took me a while to get back in touch with Ms. Graham.”
“What did you find out?”
“The government guys got Christian back. Graham called Dorsey. He confirmed that Christian’s safe.”
“Thank God.”
“Yeah, safe for now. Dorsey wouldn’t tell her anything else.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. Frankly I’m surprised he’d even tell her that.” Quentin glanced out at the ocean. They’d been sitting on the beach. There’d been nothing else to do. “I didn’t think Dorsey was going to tell Graham where Christian was meeting with people in Cuba,” he said glumly. He’d assumed that was what Allison was going to try. “I thought that was a long shot, Ally.”
“I didn’t need to ask her that. I already know. I just wanted to make sure Christian was safe before you went to Cuba.”
Quentin sat up in the chair. “What? How do you know where the meeting is?”
“When Graham told me to watch Christian, I took her seriously. I snuck into his office one night, and I found a file,” she explained triumphantly.
Something clicked in Quentin’s brain. The file Dex Kelly had given Christian at Camp David.
“He almost caught me that night,” Allison explained. “I’d made a copy of it, and I was putting it back in his desk when he showed up. I had to hide in his closet until he left. I read it when I got home. I figured it had to do with what Graham had told me, about the trip he was supposedly taking. It made me believe she really knew what she was talking about. But I never showed it to her, and I never told her I’d found it.”
Good girl, Quentin thought to himself. “It has the location, doesn’t it? Where he’s supposed to be meeting with the Six?”
“It does.” She hesitated. “You really think you can get down there?”
CHRISTIAN KNELT in the high grass and cattails as the helicopter settled down through the darkness onto the lit, makeshift pad the men had constructed close to the camp. The aircraft couldn’t actually set down—the ground was too soft and it would have sunk into the mire—so it hovered a few inches off the area they’d cleared of brush.
“Let’s go!” Barrado yelled above the thud-thud-thud of the whirling rotor and the scream of the engine, grabbing Christian’s arm.
Christian rose up and jogged forward through the hurricane and the mud, bent over at the waist, helped along by Barrado. As he made it alongside the chopper, arms reached out to pull him and Barrado inside. Moments later they were up in the air, speeding through the night toward a ship in the Gulf.
20
THE MARINE TRANSPORT HELICOPTER sped along at low altitude through the darkness, skimming just above the calm ocean. It was two in the morning, the weather was clear, and they were close. Christian could see a few faded lights well off to the east—the very outskirts of Havana. Around him in the troop area were eight men. Eight Army Rangers in full combat gear, right down to the green, black, and brown camouflage paint on their grim faces. Brandishing what looked like nasty weapons. He’d never felt so exhilarated in his life.
One of the men—the lieutenant in charge of the mission—tapped Christian on the shoulder, then handed him a helmet, pushing it roughly against his stomach.
“Put it on!”
Christian nodded. The guy was only a foot away, but he could barely hear him it was so loud. They’d given him fatigues and boots back on board ship—the suit and leather loafers he’d worn to meet Padilla in Naples weren’t going to cut it in the jungle.
“Three minutes!” the lieutenant yelled as the helicopter climbed quickly above tree level, then raced over the breakers rolling up onto the beach. “We’ll be near the ground for less than five seconds. You gotta jump as soon as I tell you.”
Once again Christian nodded.
“We start taking any fire, you
stick right with me!”
Christian touched the grip of the Beretta 9 mm they’d given him after he’d climbed into the chopper, as it was lifting off the deck of the ship. The gun was in the holster on his belt. “Don’t worry, I will.” The lieutenant hadn’t needed to tell him that. If they started taking fire, as far as Christian was concerned, the lieutenant was going to have a Siamese twin.
He felt the chopper slowing, then it settled down into a clearing. Moments later it was only a few feet above the grass and the lieutenant was in his face shouting at him, “Move, move, move.” Suddenly they were on the ground, tearing for the tree line, and just that quickly the deafening sound of the helicopter was gone, replaced by the peeping of frogs in the trees.
“Count off,” the lieutenant hissed when they’d reached cover.
Christian heard each number in rapid succession. Then they were moving again, hustling through the jungle. He was glad he wasn’t carrying all the equipment each of the Rangers was—fifty pounds for this mission. Even without that extra weight it was all he could do to keep up. They were good. Strange to feel this now because they were in hostile territory, but he felt remarkably safe. As if these men could take on an entire Cuban brigade and probably hold their own.
When they’d gone half a mile, the lieutenant signaled for the squad to halt. During the last few minutes, they’d climbed a ridge, and now they could see back to the clearing where they’d landed. Well, the two men with night-vision binoculars could. Christian watched as each man trained his field glasses on the spot.
“We want to see if any unfriendlies show up so we know whether or not they saw us coming in,” the lieutenant explained. “We’ll be here for an hour. Unless the unfriendlies show up,” he added ominously.
QUENTIN CLIMBED INTO the cargo area of the helicopter, then turned to shake hands with his old friend Jack Haley, now a colonel in the Rangers. “You’re the man, Jack!” he shouted over the roar of the rotor. Haley had informed him belowdecks that Christian had taken off from this same deck only two hours ago. “Thanks again.”
“No problem, pal. Godspeed.”
The chopper lifted off and Quentin gave Haley a quick wave. Then the ship quickly grew smaller and smaller as they gained altitude. It was just him, the pilot, and one other man in the helicopter. ETA to the clearing where Christian and the squad had landed was forty-two minutes. Quentin hadn’t needed Allison’s directions after all. The Rangers had been only too happy to get him to Christian, happy to help an alumnus. It was nice to have old friends, he thought to himself, turning away from the open door. Loyal friends.
“Sorry, sir!”
Quentin glanced up into the haunted eyes of the young man who had been ordered to accompany him to Christian. “What the—” Suddenly he felt an awful, searing pain as the bullet tore through his chest, followed quickly by the sense of being pushed out of the aircraft and falling through the darkness. Then he hit the water. He saw the lights of the chopper turn and head back toward the ship, then he sank beneath the surface.
AFTER WAITING AN HOUR on the ridge to make sure no one showed, they’d hiked through the woods another hour toward the rendezvous point—what Christian understood was a cattle ranch. Now they were just inside a tree line, watching the ranch’s main house. It was four o’clock in the morning and it didn’t look as if anyone was awake. The house was pitch-black—no lights at all. It didn’t look as if anyone was even here.
The lieutenant jabbed in the air toward two of his men, then jabbed toward the barn that was fifty yards from the house, off to the left. The men he’d signaled to nodded and threw off their packs, then took off across the open ground in the moonlight, quickly disappearing around a corner of the barn. Less than four minutes later they were back, talking in hushed voices to the lieutenant. After a few moments he moved to where Christian was.
“Everything’s ready. They’re going to take you in,” he whispered, gesturing toward the men who had just raced to the barn and back. “But there’s one hiccup,” he growled. “Seems like there always is, damn it.”
“What’s the problem?” Christian asked.
“There’s only five of them in the room in the barn. Supposed to be six, right?”
Christian nodded.
“Well, the men waiting for you wouldn’t tell my guys what happened,” the lieutenant explained. “Wouldn’t say what happened to the sixth guy. Said they wanted to tell you first. Sounds suspicious.” He hesitated. “You still want to go in? I can get you out of here if you want. We got choppers up in the air off the coast round the clock at this point.”
They’d come this far. There was no turning back. “Is the doctor in there?”
The lieutenant waved to the two men who had gone in. They were beside Christian and him almost instantly. “Ask them,” the lieutenant ordered.
“Is the doctor in there?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Padilla. He’s waiting for you.”
Christian glanced at the lieutenant. “Let’s do it.”
“All right.” The lieutenant waved to the others. “Give ’em cover, boys,” he hissed to the rest of the squad.
Moments later the three of them raced across the yard toward the barn, then around the corner and inside. The strong scent of manure hit Christian’s nostrils as they moved down a straw-covered corridor between a long row of stalls filled with black-and-white cows.
“There, sir,” one of the Rangers said, pointing with his weapon.
Christian knocked on the door. Two hard raps.
“Come in.”
Christian recognized Padilla’s voice and burst through the door. The five men were sitting around a makeshift table—the room was lit by a single candle, and a blanket was over the lone window near the ceiling. Christian didn’t know why—it was instinct more than anything—but he strode right to Padilla, the only one standing, and hugged the man strongly. The return hug was even tighter, impressive for a man of such small physical stature.
“My friend,” Padilla said softly, pulling back. “You’ve come to free my country.”
Christian saw mist well up in the doctor’s eyes. As if a tsunami of relief had just washed over him. As if he hadn’t been confident that Christian would actually show up, even when the two Rangers had burst into the room a few minutes ago. As if the only thing that would make him believe that it was real was the sight of Christian in front of him. “I told you I would.”
“A man’s word is one thing,” Padilla murmured. “His actions are quite another. Now I see that you are a man of action.”
“It’s going to be all right, Doctor,” Christian said soothingly. “I promise.” He glanced around. The other four men were staring at him expectantly. “We will support you,” he said to them firmly. “This won’t be like 1961.” They nodded respectfully, understanding the terrible risk he was taking. “The banker’s not here.” He’d studied the files diligently. He recognized right away which one was missing. “Why?”
“He was a spy,” Padilla explained. “But he never got a chance to tell his story.”
Christian gestured at the two Rangers. “Secure the entrances. I’ll be out in a while.”
When they were gone, Christian began the questioning. All the things he needed to ask to test the men. An hour later he realized they were even more competent than he’d hoped. An hour wasn’t much time to decide the fate of a country, but oftentimes the most crucial decisions had to be made on the fly. And this one felt good.
“Thank you for your time,” he said politely. “Thank you for the risks you’ve taken.”
“What’s the verdict?” the attorney asked.
Christian liked that. A bottom-line guy. Blunt, no bullshit. “I’m going to tell President Wood that he should support you. He’s told me he’ll follow my recommendation.”
“Even without the banker?”
Christian smiled. “That’s going to be my job anyway.”
Padilla moved to Christian’s side. “Thank you, my friend,” he
said, shaking Christian’s hand warmly. “Now there’s one more person you must meet.”
Christian understood. The general. Zapata. He shook each man’s hand in turn, then followed Padilla out of the room and back down the corridor between the stalls.
Just before they reached the door to the outside, Padilla turned left into a small room. Christian smelled the cigar even before he saw the general. When they were inside the room, Padilla shut the door and Christian noticed a figure move out from behind a stack of hay bales. The only light in the room came from the tip of the cigar, but it was enough.
“Señor Gillette,” the general said, shaking Christian’s hand. “I am Jorge Delgado.”
Christian had never felt a firmer grip. “Señor Delgado. It’s an honor.” As soon as they finished shaking hands, Christian reached up with both hands and pulled the chain from around his neck. He handed it to Delgado. “I believe you needed to see this.”
Delgado chuckled as he held up the cow’s identification tag dangling from the end of the chain. Held it up in the glow of the cigar tip. “You are a good man, Christian Gillette. A very good man.” He closed his fingers tightly around the tag, then stared intently into Christian’s eyes. “Now it all starts.”
“IT’S GOT TO be quick, sir,” the lieutenant said, holding the satellite phone out for Christian.
“I understand.” Christian took the phone. “Mr. President?”
“Yes, Christian,” the president confirmed, his voice deadly serious. “What’s the verdict?”
“I support them,” Christian said, recognizing Wood’s voice at the other end of the line.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
MELISSA HART raced to the first ATM she could find in the Los Angeles airport. The money should be there. She’d held up her end of the bargain. Victoria Graham better have held up hers.
Melissa slipped the card into the slot and nervously punched in the code—one she hadn’t used in a while—waiting breathlessly for it to take. When it did, she selected the CHECK BALANCE option, still holding her breath. As the number came up, her shoulders sagged. Fourteen dollars and twelve cents. She’d been screwed. All that risk and she’d been screwed. She felt the tears beginning to flow. No choice now but to go back to her father and beg for forgiveness.