by Ross Thomas
The general nodded. “Continue.”
“You needed money,” Citron said. “You needed it for yourself and to pay your troops and to keep a semblance of order. But because of your human-rights record, which I think is usually called ‘appalling,’ Washington was out. They couldn’t lend or give you a dime. Congress wouldn’t let them. So you turned to your friends in the CIA. You do have friends in the CIA, don’t you, general?”
The general smiled. “A few.”
“Well, even the CIA couldn’t slip you that kind of money under the table, but they came up with something just as good, although God knows where they got it. They came up with a ton or two of cocaine.” Citron looked at Yarn. “What was it, one or two? I’m not sure.”
“Two tons,” Yarn said. “And they got it by calling in some past favors.”
“Two tons of cocaine will fetch how much now?” Citron asked.
Tighe thought about it. “Seven hundred and fifty million a ton on the street,” he said. “But wholesale, about thirty-five to fifty million a ton.”
“Which wasn’t quite enough, right?” Citron said. No one answered, so he asked again. “Right?”
“Continue,” the general said.
“So you decided to buy the two tons of coke from the CIA with government money, steal it from yourselves, and then wholesale it in the States. And that's what you did. All of you.”
Citron stopped talking. After seconds passed, Yarn turned to him. “I think the general would like a few more details.”
“I have to ask a question first,” Citron said.
The general nodded.
“How long have you known my mother?”
“Years. Twenty-five at least. We met in Barcelona.”
“Then you knew her when she was still with Langley.”
The general smiled his acknowledgment. “We were dear friends.”
“I can imagine,” Citron said. “So you went to her, described what you had in mind, and—I suppose—offered to cut her in. She put you in touch with an ex-big-time coke dealer called B. S. Keats. And Keats lined you up with just the people you were really looking for—the Maneras brothers, Jimmy and Bobby. Or Roberto and Jaime.”
“Bobby was just in on the edge of things,” Tighe said.
“Right. So let's talk about Jimmy, who was B. S. Keats's son-in-law. He was also a double agent of sorts working for both Cuba and the FBI, and Jimmy must’ve been the one who brought you two in.” Citron looked first at Tighe and then at Yarn. Both men nodded slightly.
“You three worked out the details, am I right?” Citron said.
“The three of us—plus the general, of course.”
“I’ll bet you even had a name for it.”
“We thought we’d call it the Spookscam,” Yarn said, “but it never came to that.”
“It was cute, though,” Citron said. “The idea. The FBI supposedly would catch the CIA red-handed selling cocaine to finance the operation of a repressive Central American dictatorship. Imagine the flap.” He looked at Tighe. “What was in it for the Bureau—South America?”
“Sure,” Tighe said. “It was the Bureau's peapatch originally, and they’d very much like it back. Central America, too.”
“So that's how you sold it to them: catching Langley with its hands dirty. Very dirty. And that's how you got that ton of money you needed to make the buy.”
Yarn smiled. “We just borrowed that from the narcs at DEA. It was confiscated money. We took about all they had.” The memory made Yarn smile some more.
Citron looked at the general. “I have one more question,” he said. “What's my mother's connection with B. S. Keats?”
“You don’t know?” Tighe asked.
Citron shook his head.
“She works for him,” Tighe said. “When B. S. got out of the coke trade a few years back, he had all these millions sloshing around, so he set up this dummy corporation and bought himself a going business, or controlling interest in it anyway. He bought the American Investigator.” Tighe paused. “He also bought himself a chain of shoestores, but they’re not doing so hot.”
“Please continue, Morgan,” the general said.
“Well, it's pretty simple from here on. These two and maybe a half-dozen or so other special agents flew down with the money to make the buy. The CIA, of course, believed they were legitimate drug dealers. These two here stayed on the plane, I’d say, and loaded the coke on while the other FBI innocents paid over the money and then tried to arrest the CIA people. Well, from what I understand, the CIA wasn’t having any. The shooting started. Nine people died: four FBI agents and five CIA people. But the CIA still got what it was after: the money. So the ones who weren’t dead loaded the money up and delivered it here. You did get your money, didn’t you, general?”
The general only smiled.
Citron looked at Yarn. “And you two flew back with the coke, dumped it off with B. S. Keats to peddle, and then went on to Washington with your sad story of how you’d lost not only the coke and the money, but also four men in a shootout with the CIA. And then the cover-up started.” Citron shook his head dubiously. “Did they really believe you in Washington?”
“They didn’t have any choice,” Yarn said. “They couldn’t press charges or the whole story would’ve come out. So they made us swear a blood oath of silence and then fired us. Can you imagine that?”
“What about the other FBI agents—the ones who survived?”
“We took care of them financially—and the pilot,” Yarn said. “If you’ve got enough money you can take care of damn near anything.”
“Except one thing,” Citron said. “Jimmy Maneras. Something had to be done about him before he slipped what he knew to Cuba.”
“B. S. took care of that for us,” Tighe said. “He finally let Jimmy catch him in the sack with what's-her-name, that daughter of his.”
“Velveeta,” Yarn said.
“Old Jimmy went wild, pulled a gun, and B. S. shot him dead.”
“In self-defense, of course,” Yarn said piously.
Citron nodded. “So that left only brother Bobby—a very scared brother Bobby who skipped to Singapore, where he sold what he knew to a washed-up old hack called Drew Meade who immediately peddled some of it to a political type called Jack Replogle. Replogle knew exactly what he wanted to do with it, only he got killed up in the mountains of Colorado before he could tell what he knew to Draper Haere.” Citron looked first at Yarn, then at Tighe. “Who killed Replogle—you two?”
Tighe nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“So, Morgan,” the general said, “what now, hmm?”
“Now?”
“Yes. Your predicition of events to come.”
“Well, now, I suppose, you take your millions and run. I don’t think you can hold this country together much longer. No one could. Another month or so and they’ll drag you out of here and put you up against that same wall out there.”
“I shall be long gone before that happens. I’ve almost decided on La Jolla—at least, for part of the year.”
“La Jolla's nice,” Tighe said. “We’re kind of thinking of Buenos Aires.”
“Of course,” Yarn said, “the Bureau, and especially Langley, still aren’t too happy with us, but as long as we help keep it all under wraps, well, they’re not going to be too difficult. They’ve scratched the kitty litter up over worse than this.”
No one had anything else to say for almost a minute. Finally, the general sighed heavily and said, “You know, Morgan, sitting here listening to you just now, one phrase kept popping into my mind: loose cannon.”
Citron said nothing.
Again, the general sighed, even more heavily than before. “Gladys will never forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m going to have you shot.”
Citron only nodded and looked away. As usual, he thought, the prisoner showed no emotion. He merely shriveled up inside. Death in a very hot country. It was not an altogether unexpected end. Ever since Africa
, he realized, he had been anticipating it somehow or, perhaps more accurately, dreading it.
“Well, at least you won’t rot in jail,” Yarn said.
Citron looked at him, still wearing no expression except for a certain deadness in the eyes. “Yes,” Citron said. “There's that.”
CHAPTER 32
The call Draper Haere placed to Los Angeles had just gone through when the shooting started. He was in his room on the top floor of the Inter-Continental and the shooting sounded like small-arms fire. It also sounded faint and sporadic and very far away.
“Would you hold a moment, please,” Haere said, put the phone down, went to the window, and looked out. All he could see was his splendid view of the Pacific Ocean. He went back to the phone, picked it up, and said, “Gladys Citron, please. This is Draper Haere calling. It's about her son.”
“One moment,” the woman's voice said.
Gladys Citron came on the line with a question. “What's this about Morgan?”
“How are you, Gladys?”
“I’m fine. What's wrong with Morgan?”
“He's in some trouble and I’m trying to get him out of it. He was involved in a shootout this morning and—”
Gladys Citron interrupted. “Is he hurt?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m not absolutely sure. He was taken to the Presidential Palace by a couple of Americans who sometimes call themselves Tighe and Yarn. Ever hear of them?”
There was a silence of several seconds before Gladys Citron said, “Go on.”
“That's all I know except that in about one hour from now I have an appointment with the charge d’affaires at our embassy. His name's Rink. Neal Rink.”
“You say they took Morgan to the Presidential Palace?”
“That's right.”
“Have you tried to talk to Carrasco-Cortes?”
“That's the first thing I tried to do,” Haere said, “but all I got was the usual no habla ingles runaround.” He paused. “I’ve also got calls in to Washington to a couple of senators I know. I thought if you knew anyone at State who—” Haere stopped talking because the line went dead. There was no click or buzz. Only silence. Haere recradled the phone, waited ten seconds, and picked it up again. It was still dead. He hung it back up and listened to the small-arms fire, which seemed louder and closer and not quite so sporadic.
Gladys Citron waited behind her desk until her Chinese secretary came in with the report. “All the circuits to down there are kaput,” she said. “Nothing going in or out.”
Gladys Citron turned her chair around so she could look out the window. When she turned back, her expression was resigned. She looked up at her secretary.
“I want you to get me a seat on the next flight to Miami. The very next.”
The secretary nodded. “You want me to call Mr. Keats and ask him to have someone meet you?”
“No. Don’t. What I do want you to do is take all my calls and tell them you don’t know where I am or how long I’ll be gone. And that means everyone.”
“Even Mr. Keats?”
“Even him,” Gladys Citron said.
Draper Haere walked down the hotel corridor until he came to the room occupied by Morgan Citron and Velveeta Keats. He knocked at the door. It was opened by a short, chunky black man.
“Who the hell are you?” Haere said.
“I?” the man said. “I am Cecilio. And you?”
Before Haere could reply, Velveeta Keats was at the door. “It's all right, Cecilio. This is Mr. Haere.” To Haere she said, “Morgan's not back yet, but come on in.”
Haere entered the room to find that it was occupied by yet another black man, a tall thin one. “This is Jacques,” she said. “He and Cecilio work for my papa and he sent ‘em down to, I don’t know, baby-sit, I reckon.” She paused. “They’re Haitian and they speak French a whole lot better’n they do English. You speak French?”
“A few words is all,” Haere said.
“Our English grows,” Cecilio said.
“I can see that,” Haere said and turned to Velveeta Keats. “We’ve got a problem.”
“A problem!” Jacques said. “It is why we are present. Let us make the repairs.”
Haere's forehead wrinkled with doubt. Cecilio looked hurt. “I can see by your visage you have much doubt. Is it because our skin is black and our English poor but growing?”
“You haven’t heard the problem yet, friend.”
Jacques nodded thoughtfully. “That is true. Tell us.”
Again, Haere looked skeptically at Velveeta Keats, who said, “Papa swears by ‘em both, Draper.”
“Okay,” Haere said. “Well, the problem is this: Citron got into a shooting scrape this morning. He was taken to the Presidential Palace. He may still be there. Or he may be in jail. I want to find out where he is and get him out.”
“Was he hurt?” Velveeta Keats asked.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Shooting scrape?” Cecilio said, his tone asking for a translation.
“Bang-bang,” Haere said.
“Aaah. Please. Listen.” Cecilio pointed toward the window. The small-arms fire could be heard quite clearly. It sounded even closer. Cecilio smiled. “Much bang-bang.”
“You know what it's all about?” Haere asked.
Cecilio nodded. So did Jacques, who said, “La contre-revolution”
“Is this indeed the same Monsieur Citron who speaks the fine French?” Cecilio asked.
“He speaks French, Spanish, and I don’t know what else,” Haere said.
“English, clearly,” Jacques said and turned to Cecilio. They conferred in their rapid soft Creole-accented French for almost a minute. Their conference over, they turned back to Haere with supremely confident expressions.
“We have experience considerable in such matters, Cecilio and I,” Jacques said. Cecilio nodded. Jacques continued: “Money is essential.”
“Bribes?”
“But of course.”
Haere looked again at Velveeta Keats. She shrugged. “All I know is Papa swears by ‘em.”
Haere looked first at the fireplug Cecilio and then at the beanpole Jacques. “And you know Citron?”
“He is our dear friend,” Cecilio said.
Haere started unbuttoning his vest and shirt. When open, they revealed a tan nylon money belt. Haere twisted the belt around until he could untie its ends. He took it off, placed it on the writing table, zipped it open, and counted out $1,000 dollars in $50 bills, which he folded and placed in his pants pocket. He handed the money belt to Jacques. “There's nine thousand in there,” Haere said. “See what you can do.”
“We are wise spenders,” Jacques said as he caressed the money belt.
Both men started for the door, but stopped when Haere said, “By the way.”
“Yes?”
“How's your Spanish?”
“Excellent,” Jacques said. “Almost as good as our growing English.”
“Except for a small Cuban accent,” Cecilio said.
“Which we work to correct.”
They went through the door, closing it behind them. Haere turned to Velveeta Keats and noticed the tears running down her cheeks.
“That won’t do any good,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.
“I can’t help it.”
Haere found a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Here. Blow on that or something.”
She wiped her tears away and blew her nose loudly. “What do we do now?”
“You and me?”
She nodded.
“We go raise hell at the embassy.”
“Will it help Morgan?”
“Probably not.”
She blew her nose again. “Draper?”
“Yes?”
“They wouldn’t shoot Morgan or anything like that, would they?”
“I really don’t know,” he said.
The prison that the young captain and the even younger lieutenant took Morgan
Citron to had been built 206 years before on a cliff facing the sea. It was high-walled and damp and smelled of rotting fish and human waste.
Citron stood in the chief warder's office, his wrists locked behind him in handcuffs. The warder studied the papers on his desk that contained the instructions for the disposition of the prisoner. The warder was an army major called Torres. He was fat and overage in grade. A trace of saliva leaked from the left corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a green silk handkerchief as he studied the papers. After finishing the papers he glanced up at Citron and then leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting to the young seated captain. Citron thought the warder's eyes spoke of corruption. He hoped he was right.
“The telephones are out,” Major Torres said, keeping his tone casual, almost indifferent.
“When are they not?” the captain said.
“And the firing? It seems to be coming from nearer the city center.”
The captain shrugged. “A small band of drunkards with old M1 s and eight rounds each.”
Major Torres nodded. “And the television?”
“I have not watched the television,” the captain said.
“Nothing but Gunsmoke episodes. On the radio there is no news either. Nothing but martial music. Each time I turn it on they are playing ‘The Washington Post March.’“
“It both soothes and inspires,” the captain said.
“And what of the general?”
“He is well and fully in command of the situation. Already he has taken corrective measures.”
Major Torres nodded doubtfully, wiped his mouth again, and pointed at Citron with his chin. “And this one. He is to be shot tomorrow morning. Why not do it now and get it over with?”
“Tomorrow morning,” the captain said firmly. “Everything must be done exactly according to your orders. It is a matter of some delicacy.”
Major Torres grunted. “Executions are never delicate.” He studied Citron. “Is he rich?”
“No,” the captain said.
“Important?”
“He is a convicted spy. That's all you need to know.”
Again, Major Torres grunted. “If he is neither rich nor important, we should shoot him now.”
“You have your orders, Major,” the captain said.