Part 2 (1/2)
”Sure. Tightest security precautions taken for one man in the history of the country, or something- right? Made a lot of Americans mad to think we took better care of a dictator than we do of our own Presidents. What about it?”
”That's when we made our first contact with a General F.C. Halcn, one of the top men in Castro's army. Since then his code name has been Hawk. And Hawk has proved invaluable to us. He's fairly representative of a growing disenchantment with Castro in Cuba-even among the higher-ups. The last report we got from him informed us of the agents being planted among the refugees, but it also contained the words-in code, of course-'storm nest.' That was his predetermined way of telling us he wanted out; things were getting hot for him, and he wanted us to get his a.s.s out of Cuba.”
I said, ”Not all that easy, I imagine.”
Norm shrugged and toyed with his coffee cup. ”Normally, no. But it so happened that Halcn was a.s.signed to run security operations in Mariel Harbor. So, three days after receiving his message, the CIA sent its agents in a forty-foot trawler, renamed Storm Nest, with orders to evacuate the Hawk.”
”And what happened?”
Fizer looked up at me, the concern in his face obvious. ”The CIA's people just disappeared. Vanished. Through a pretty complex code system, they got word to the Key West marine operator that they had arrived, and they were awaiting contact from the Hawk. And then poof, nothing.”
”Maybe Castro's people were on to the whole operation and rounded up all four of them.”
”That's what we figured at first, but four nights ago we got another code transmission from Halcn. He's anxious as h.e.l.l to get out and can't figure why we haven't sent anyone to get him. That's why I'm here, Dusky.”
”Hold it,” I said. ”I want a beer in my hand before I listen to this.”
Fizer gave me that college-boy grin. ”Jesus, MacMorgan, you act like I'm some sort of flimflam man or something.”
”Or something,” I agreed. I put an unrequested bottle of Hatuey on the table in front of him, then sat back down with my own, feeling the malted carbonation of the beer sluice away the acid taste of coffee.
”Dusky, we want you to take another of the CIA's agents to Mariel Harbor. A fine officer, a Lieutenant Santarun-another Cuban by birth, and supposedly one of the CIA's best people.”
”I only work alone, you know that, Norm-and that's not to say I'm even considering-”
”Just listen for a minute, dammit! We just want you to take Santarun over there. The lieutenant will do the rest. I just want you to watch and listen, and give me your impressions when you get back. For your own protection, we're not even telling Santarun that you're one of our people. And you are never to let on that you know who Santarun is. All you have to do is play the role of the slightly stupid charterboat captain-and then report back.”
I watched him for a moment. He toyed with his beer-hardly touched-nervously. ”You're a bad liar, Fizer. Does Santarun know that you're using him for bait?”
Fizer's dark eyes caught mine. ”It was the lieutenant's idea, Dusky. Something's going on down there in Mariel Harbor, and we have to know what it is. If Castro's people knew beforehand that we were sending agents, it means that the CIA has a serious security breach to deal with. And if there is a breach, they'll come after Santarun, too. You're our ace in the hole, Dusky. They'll rig some way to get the lieutenant-some way that will probably seem innocent enough-then send you packing. They're not going to waste their time with a civilian. And that's all you'll be in their eyes-and in the eyes of Santarun. It's risky, you're right. But not for you. Like I said, it was the lieutenant's idea. We have to know, once and for all, if Castro's goons s.n.a.t.c.hed our agents-”
”Norm-”
”-because, if they did-”
”Norm-”
”-we'll have to pick up a couple of theirs and start-”
”Norm, you're still not telling me everything, dammit!”
He stared at me in mild surprise. Boyish. A ”What, me?” kind of innocence.
I knew that look. I'd seen it before. Back in an attack a.s.signment in the jungles of Southeast Asia where no American was ever supposed to be. I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the table between us. ”Norm, old buddy, I was raised in the circus, remember? I grew up with the ten-in-one-show gypsters, the fire eaters, the magicians, and the backlot c.r.a.pshooters. Don't try to con a carnie, Norm. I learned to recognize a scam before I learned the Pledge of Allegiance. There's a big chunk of your story missing, old buddy. Why not just tell me straight?”
”Tell you what?” The mock innocence was gone, replaced by a somber, searching look.
”Tell me who else might have s.n.a.t.c.hed those three CIA people. I mean, if they've turned up missing, why not just a.s.sume it was Castro's people? Our people sure as h.e.l.l just didn't sink in Mariel Harbor with fifteen hundred other boats anch.o.r.ed around them, did they? You're not telling me something, Stormin' Norman. The CIA isn't going to take the chance of losing another good agent just to prove a point. So why not tell your old friend Dusky who else might have grabbed the agents?”
He stood up and walked across the room, draining his beer in long, thoughtful swallows. The planks of the stilthouse creaked beneath the solid weight of him.
”That's all I'm supposed to tell you, Dusky.”
I shrugged. ”So get yourself another boy. I'm not going into this thing with blinders on.”
”It's for your own good-”
”Horsec.r.a.p!”
He studied me momentarily, and then the grin returned. ”Sometimes, MacMorgan, you're a little too smart for your own good.”
”We hermits do a lot of reading.”
He sat back down, all business now. ”Okay, you asked for it. But you have to promise that you'll play dumb with Santarun-it could get you both killed. Okay? When the CIA first realized its agents had vanished, it was pretty much-as you said-a.s.sumed that the Cuban authorities had gotten hold of them. And just when the CIA was about to raise holy h.e.l.l about it, this Lieutenant Santarun came up with a very interesting alternative explanation for their disappearance.”
”And that is?”
Norm leaned back in his chair, measuring his words. He said, ”It's just possible that the three agents weren't s.n.a.t.c.hed at all. It's just possible that they disappeared of their own free will.”
”Double agents? All three of them?”
Fizer shook his head. ”Worse than that, I'm afraid. It's just possible that they've turned renegade. And the more I think about it, the more plausible it seems. No one hates the Castro regime more than our own Cuban-Americans. CIA agents or not. They could have gone to Mariel Harbor, abandoned their orders to try to evacuate General Halcn, and disappeared into the backcountry to regroup and carry out some kind of private commando operations. I don't have to tell you the immediate effect that would have on the eight or ten thousand Americans waiting in Mariel. Any act of war by those agents would make the members of the Freedom Flotilla prisoners-and d.a.m.ned unpopular prisoners at that.”
I said, ”So in a way you're actually hoping this Lieutenant Santarun will be s.n.a.t.c.hed?”
”I know it seems crazy to hope that the CIA does have some kind of security leak, but we are. That will be a h.e.l.l of a lot easier to deal with. But either way, we have to find out. We have to know for sure.”
There was still something else on Fizer's mind, but he didn't need any nudging now. I gave him time, and after a thoughtful moment he said: ”Do you know what we're scared of, Dusky? If those agents have turned renegade, we're afraid that they're going for the biggest game of all. And if they succeed, it'll mean there are going to be a h.e.l.l of a lot of bodies floating around Mariel Harbor. American bodies. And maybe even a world war. Dusky, we're afraid those agents have plans to a.s.sa.s.sinate Fidel Castro. . . .”
4.
I first got suspicious of the television film crew when they followed me from the fuel docks down to the old submarine base at Trumbo Annex.
Two Cuban-looking guys. The one shouldering the camera pack was the bigger of the two. Black hair combed back. Open s.h.i.+rt with gold chains and unicorn horns curving through the thatch of black chest hair. A snappy dresser who didn't spend enough time looking through his viewfinder. He spent too much time eyeing me as I topped off my tanks with diesel fuel and loaded on the big blocks of ice for the long trip to Mariel Harbor.
So Fizer had finally convinced me.
Three agents might have gone bad. They might have shelved their duties to get a chance at putting a bullet through Fidel's beard. Or maybe there was just a rotten egg in the hallowed halls of the CIA.
Either way, I had spent the afternoon after Norm buzzed off in his whirlybird battering myself with recriminations. Why in the h.e.l.l had I given in so easily? I played with the idea of trying to back out; supported the idea with the rationale that I was letting Fizer's little super-secret organization of troubleshooters run my life.
After all, when had he called that I hadn't jumped to answer?
Not since the nasty job on Cuda Key-and that is never.
So I had spent a tawny, late day in April getting the stilthouse squared away, storing this, locking that, b.i.t.c.hing at myself all the while for giving in too easily.