“Actually, it happened more than a quarter-century ago. The botched invasion at the Bay of Pigs occurred in April 1961, so it’s been twenty-six years. The paramilitary forces were trained and led by the CIA, and the failure of the mission was a major setback for the agency, as well as for President Kennedy.”
“But what’s the connection between the Bay of Pigs invasion and National Circuit Corporation? Why would Castro exact revenge on an electronics manufacturer, of all things? And why would he even bother, given all the time that’s passed?”
“Are you going to continue rattling questions off, or would you like me to answer some of them?”
“I’d love to hear what you have to say, including the answer to one more question: what does all of this have to do with me?”
Stallings said, “I’ll answer your questions in order. First, do you have any idea what NCC does?”
“Not really,” Tracie admitted. “I know they make electronic components. Beyond that, I couldn’t really say.”
“NCC owns the patent on electronic circuitry for the GPS receivers that have been in use by the United States military for decades. I assume you’re familiar with GPS?”
“Sure. I’ve used a couple of different versions of it in the field in the past.” When I was allowed to work in the field, she thought, but left the statement unspoken.
“Well,” Stallings continued, “One of the projects Dr. Kiley worked on for the agency back in the late 1950s and early 1960s was an early version of GPS. It was a dinosaur compared to today’s technology, limited by both the relatively small number of satellites available for position triangulation, and by ongoing problems with radio signal reception. But the technology was gradually improving, and one of the first ‘in-the-field’ trials of GPS under combat conditions occurred—”
“During the Bay of Pigs invasion,” Tracie said.
“That’s right. Over the last three decades, of course, different governments have developed their own versions of satellite-based navigation and location systems, most notably the Soviet Union. But at the time, back in 1961, it was revolutionary. Very few governments even knew we had the technology, much less that we were in a position to begin using it.
“That’s a quick and dirty answer to your first question, about NCC’s involvement with the Bay of Pigs. Allan Nesbitt’s father, James, the founder and original CEO of the company, was fully on board and, in fact, loaned Dr. Kiley to us for the duration of that phase of the project.”
Tracie sat silently, nodding as she considered the potential effect this previously unheard-of technology would have had on a military operation undertaken by a relatively small number of men in unfamiliar territory. It would have been an incredible boon.
Stallings continued. “I believe the answers to your second and third questions are interrelated. Our working theory is that Castro’s motivation for the attacks wasn’t based on the nature of NCC’s business, but instead was of a more personal nature. A matter of honor. Vengeance. James Nesbitt was a strong supporter of the Cuban expatriate community, the vast majority of whom have taken up residence in South Florida, and he worked tirelessly right up until the day he died to see a democratically elected government replace the Communist dictatorship Castro installed after the revolution.
“This would explain the murder of Allan Nesbitt in his hotel room, separate from the mass murder of the rest of NCC’s leadership in the banquet room. The Cubans wanted to single Nesbitt out, to emphasize the personal nature of the attack. Then they simply eradicated the rest of the company’s leadership in one fell swoop.”
Tracie closed her eyes, considering the logic of the argument. She supposed it was technically possible that the theory was correct. And Kiley, who had been heavily involved in the project so long ago, wasn’t arguing with Stallings’s conclusions. But the steps necessary to reach those conclusions required leaps of faith that still seemed too great. Twenty-six years was a long time.
Finally she spoke. “But why now? And why seek vengeance on the company that manufactured GPS technology, of all things? Why not wipe out the companies that manufactured the guns the expatriates used, or the boats they rode on to reach Cuba, or the bombers that provided air support, or any of a hundred other factors that would be critical to a successful invasion attempt?”
“First of all,” Stallings said, “who’s to say the carnage will end here? Maybe the attack on NCC was a warmup, a practice run for attacks yet to come. Maybe some of those other companies are also slated for attack. It would make sense: the bombers start off against a relatively small player. They refine their technique, learn from their mistakes, and then move on to bigger and more visible targets.”
Tracie remained silent, but something still didn’t smell right.
Stallings took a deep breath and then continued. “And as far as the timing is concerned, it actually makes quite a bit of sense. The Soviet Union is crumbling. The formerly ironclad control they’ve had on regimes like Fidel Castro’s is slipping. The Russians have enough trouble maintaining effective leadership at home, much less in tiny, far-flung countries like Cuba. It’s entirely possible Castro had planned on extracting revenge within a year or two of the failed invasion, but that the Russians simply would not allow it. Now, with the Soviet empire falling apart, Castro has been emboldened enough to strike against us on his own.”
Tracie was still unconvinced, but she knew better than to argue with Aaron Stallings. She wasn’t afraid of him, despite his best efforts at intimidation. But one thing she had learned early on in their working relationship was that she needed to pick her battles carefully. Nothing Stallings had said thus far affected her in any way, so nothing he had said thus far was worth challenging him on.
His next words made her reconsider.
“This is where you come in. The United States government cannot and will not tolerate the brazen, murderous attack on one of its critical defense contractors.
“Our response must be swift and unequivocal. While the State Department has already launched a diplomatic effort designed to get to the root of the problem, I believe—and the president believes—that it is important we strike back hard against the Castro government.”
“Excuse me sir, but is there any solid proof Castro is even involved? Everything I’ve heard so far just seems…flimsy. While I don’t deny the theory could be one hundred percent correct, it also seems there may be dozens, even hundreds, of alternative scenarios that could be equally valid. Why would we risk starting a war based on conjecture?”
Stallings’s face began to redden, a sight Tracie was all too familiar with. The longtime CIA director ruled his agency with an iron fist; he was a dictator in charge of one of the world’s most secretive organizations. He was not a man who appreciated—or usually even tolerated—dissent. He was clearly building toward an explosion, and Tracie steeled herself for the verbal abuse that was sure to come.
Before Stallings could open his mouth, though, Edison Kiley spoke up. His voice was thoughtful and controlled, a clear counterpoint to the thunderous diatribe she had expected to hear from Aaron Stallings.
“It’s not just conjecture,” Kiley said. “There’s more.”
“What other evidence do you have?” Tracie spoke quickly, before Stallings could interrupt.
“Over the past several months, I’ve received a series of letters that can only be described as…disturbing.”
“What kind of letters? Threats?”
“Oh, yes,” Kiley said. “Never anything specific, at least not as far as the nature of the threats was concerned, but I received probably a half-dozen of these letters over the past six months, and all of them referenced the Bay of Pigs and my personal involvement in the disaster, as well as National Circuit Corporation’s involvement.”
Tracie sat back, stunned. This changed everything. She felt a flash of annoyance at Stallings for being so circumspect in his analysis, when he could simply have started off with the most compelling evidence in his
possession and convinced her of his position much more easily. But that was how he operated, and he wasn’t about to change his methods to suit the desires of a covert operative working on such a secret clearance only Stallings and the president were even aware of it.
And she often wondered how much President Reagan really knew about the arrangement.
“It wasn’t just me,” Kiley continued. “I know for a fact that Allan received a number of similar letters, as did several other top management people at NCC.”
“Nesbitt didn’t take them seriously?”
Kiley waved a hand disgustedly, like he was shooing away a bothersome fly. “The only things Allan Nesbitt took seriously were his drugs and alcohol. And I suppose—given the manner in which he died—his prostitutes, although it would be a stretch to think I was at all familiar with that part of his private life.”
“Still, Tracie said, “it seems that even the most cavalier of people would be shaken up by having their lives threatened.”
“As I said,” Kiley answered, “the nature of the threats was very nonspecific. My letters contained statements like, ‘The time has come for you to pay for your treachery at the Bay of Pigs,’ or ‘Your failure in Cuba in 1961 must be addressed,’ that sort of thing.”
“Were Nesbitt’s letters similar to yours?”
“As far as I know, yes,” Kiley said. “Although, to be honest, we never actually sat down and compared them side by side. Nor did I compare my letters with those received by other NCC people. Truthfully, I did my best to avoid Allan and most of the rest of the management team. I wanted to concentrate on my work, not on office politics or administrative matters or anything else.
“But, assuming the letters were similar to mine, it’s not hard to imagine Allan simply ignoring the threats. It is not particularly unusual for upper management people at defense-related companies to receive death threats and other nasty correspondence from disgruntled citizens. And given the fact that the letters consistently referenced an event that occurred before Allan even entered college, it would have made perfect sense for him to disregard the potential danger. And, as I said earlier, he wasn’t the most…involved…of executives.”
By now, Stallings’s anger seemed to have subsided, or at least he no longer appeared to be teetering on the verge of a meltdown. He said, “Convinced?”
Tracie shrugged. It was now certainly much more difficult to discount Stallings’s theory, and he did have the benefit of decades of CIA experience behind his analysis.
Still, something continued to nag at her. The idea of anyone, even Fidel Castro, being so hell bent on revenge that he would orchestrate the murders of more than a half-dozen people related in only the most superficial way to a decades-old military conflict—a conflict Castro won—struck her as a real stretch.
And yet it was hard to discount the evidence.
“Do you have copies of these threatening letters?”
Kiley began to answer but before he could, Stallings interrupted. “I have copies of everything you’ll need to review before you begin your assignment. There’s an entire package of material.
“But if I’m right about this attack being only the beginning, with a series of similar attacks on others defense contractors to follow, it goes without saying that time is of the essence. I want you to root out these terrorists and eradicate them. Bring them to justice if you can, but that is not the top priority.”
“No?”
“No. The top priority is to take them out of the game. By any means necessary.”
10
Tracie stared at the sheets of plain white stationery scattered across Aaron Stallings’s desk like giant snowflakes. The CIA director had pulled them out of a drawer and dropped them onto the polished surface just before pushing himself up from his chair and leaving his office. Edison Kiley had offered to stay and examine the letters with her, but she wanted an opportunity to study them free from distraction.
“I’ll let you know when I have questions, thank you,” she said. She felt a little guilty watching the elderly man struggle to his feet and then leave the room on his crutches, but if she was going to get a handle on this killer or killers, it was critical she turn her full attention to the documents.
Kiley had been right when he said he had received “probably a half-dozen” of the threatening letters over the last six months. There were exactly six, assuming he had turned all of them over to Stallings.
He was correct also regarding their lack of specificity. It made sense, of course, that the attackers would not reveal their plans to one of their prospective victims, but they weren’t shy about making clear that Kiley was to suffer for his role in the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion. Every single letter referenced the disastrous mission.
They were all slightly different, but all basically the same. Short, terse, and meant to frighten. The letters were unsigned, of course.
And that was it.
Except for a mark at the bottom.
The mark was located in the same location on each letter, in the approximate spot where a signature would be placed in normal correspondence. It was relatively small, circular in shape but with an opening at the bottom and a short horizontal line protruding outward from each side of the opening. Inside the open circle was an odd design that vaguely resembled a child’s stick figure drawing of a family of three.
The letters had already been checked for fingerprints, she was sure of that. It was the first thing law enforcement would have done, and Stallings would have ensured the process was repeated at Langley. There were no envelopes included with the letters placed on Stallings’s desk, but Tracie felt certain they would have been thoroughly examined for fingerprints and trace evidence as well.
She took one last look at each letter. Turned each one over and examined the backs. All were plain, white and empty.
It was time to have a chat with Edison Kiley.
***
Tracie didn’t waste any time getting to the point. No sooner had Kiley struggled into Stallings’s office and gotten seated than she tossed the first question at him. She was a little surprised that the CIA chief hadn’t accompanied the old scientist back into his office, but Kiley told her it looked like Stallings was busy with an important phone call.
Kiley lifted his injured foot onto the padded divan and leaned his crutches against the desk.
Tracie said, “This young woman you saw in the hotel hallway as you were getting off the elevator—you’re sure she exited Nesbitt’s room?”
Kiley took a deep breath and looked up at her. He was clearly exhausted and had to be suffering from the knowledge that his home was gone, as was nearly everything he had owned, all destroyed in the massive fire following the bombing of his house. Still, his expression was resolute and his voice strong.
“I’m sure. I never took my eyes off her from the moment I stepped off the elevator until the moment she disappeared behind the fire door at the rear stairs. I had nearly arrived at Allan’s door by that time. There is no doubt. She came out of his room.”
“Could you describe her for me?”
“I’ve been through all of this with the police, multiple times,” he said tiredly.
“I know,” Tracie answered as gently as she could. “But if you’ve worked with the agency in the past, you probably realize our coordination with the DC police—and even with the FBI, for that matter—will be minimal. Getting copies of police reports, etc., is time-consuming and problematic, given the…limited…nature of the CIA’s mission domestically. And although I have every confidence Director Stallings could expedite the process, you heard him yourself when he directed me to begin working on this assignment immediately. So if you don’t mind going over a few things again with me, that would be very helpful.”
“Of course,” Kiley said. He smiled gamely and straightened in his chair. “I apologize. It’s just been a long couple of days. Anyway, keeping in mind that I never got a close-up look at her, and also that my eyes at eighty aren�
��t what they once were, here is what I observed: the woman was young. If I had to guess, I would say she was your age, or within a couple of years either way. She had dark hair and a dark complexion.”
“She was a black woman?”
“No, no, she wasn’t black. She looked as though she might be Hispanic, or even just a young white woman with a very deep tan. The hallway was relatively dark and, as I said, I never got very close to her, so I really can’t be much more specific than that, I’m afraid.”
“I understand. What about her height and weight? Any identifying characteristics?”
“She was slim, like you, and beautiful, also like you, if you’ll excuse me for being so forward. Hers was a different type of beauty, though. She looked somehow…hard. She was dressed like a prostitute—very provocatively, with a leather vest and leather short-shorts over black lace stockings and boots—and the look was not at all hard to believe. It didn’t seem out of place on her at all.
“But it was more than that,” he continued, gazing over Tracie’s shoulder at nothing in particular as he relived the moment and tried to recall every detail. “The young woman radiated a sense of danger. I felt it the moment I laid eyes on her. My first thought was that she was going sprint down the hallway and shoot me between the eyes, or stab me in the heart. And this was before I had any idea that something had happened to Allan. As far as I knew at that point, he was just late for the NCC banquet.”
Tracie was quiet for a moment as she absorbed Kiley’s statement. It was entirely possible—likely, even—that the sense of danger the elderly scientist claimed to have felt after exiting the elevator was something his subconscious had inserted into his memory after the fact. Although there was not yet any proof the mystery woman had killed Nesbitt, simple logic said her appearance and his death immediately subsequent to that appearance had to be related.
Still, she believed his words. Or rather, she believed he believed his words. His unease was clear when he spoke about the prostitute. His posture stiffened, his voice trembled, his hands shook. All these manifestations were so slight that he probably didn’t even notice them, but she did. In the field, the difference between life and death often depended upon her ability to read people.
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