“A prosecution for stealing the Peabody diamond from the Museum of Natural History in Washington would probably crimp your plans, wouldn’t it?” she said sweetly. He gaped. Sat there like a fool with his mouth hanging open, the brain completely stalled.
He had seen her credentials, which certainly looked official enough. Central Intelligence Agency. The Government with a capital G. But there had never been the slightest hint that anyone was on his trail. Not even a sniff.
“It would do that,” he managed.
After a bit, the question of how she knew formed in his mind, and he began trying to figure out how to ask it in a nonincriminating way.
“You’re wondering, I suppose,” she said matter-of-factly between sips of her coffee, “how we learned of your involvement.”
Unable to help himself, he nodded yes.
“Your pal talked. The Miami PD got him on another burglary, so he threw you to the wolves to get a lighter sentence.”
Well, there it was. His very best friend in the whole world and the only guy who knew everything had sold him out.
“You need some better friends,” she said. “Your friend is a pretty small-caliber guy. A real loser. He got eight years on the state charge. Moving stolen property across state lines is a federal crime of course, and Justice hasn’t decided if they will prosecute.”
It quickly became plain that at that moment in his life, the CIA was his best career choice.
After finishing law school, Carmellini spent a year in the covert operations section of the agency. Now he was an associate of William Henry Chance, who had been with the CIA ever since he left the army after the Vietnam War. The cover was impeccable — both men were really practicing attorneys and CIA operatives on the side.
Carmellini remembered the first time he met William Henry Chance. He was running a ten-kilometer race in Virginia one weekend when Chance came galloping up beside him, barely sweating, and suggested they have lunch afterward.
Chance mentioned a name, Carmellini’s boss at the agency. “He said you were a pretty good runner,” Chance said, then began lengthening his stride.
Tommy Carmellini managed to stay with Chance all the way to the tape but it was a hell of a workout. Chance didn’t work at running; he loped along, all lean meat, bone, and sinew, a natural long-distance runner. Carmellini, on the other hand, was built more like a running back or middle linebacker.
About half of Carmellini’s time was spent on agency matters, half on the firm’s business. He was a better covert warrior than he was a lawyer, so he had to work hard to keep up with the bright young associates who had not the slightest idea that Carmellini or Chance were also employed by the CIA.
Sitting in a telephone company van in the middle of. Havana listening to intercepted conversations, Tommy Carmellini wondered if he should have told the CIA to stick it. He would probably be getting out of prison about now, free and clear.
And broke, of course. His friend had fenced the diamond and spent all the money, never intending to give Carmellini his share.
On the table were a set of photos the technicians had taken of the University of Havana science building. They had had the place under surveillance for the last two days.
Carmellini looked at the photos critically, as if he were going to burgle the joint. There were guards at every entrance, some electronic alarms: getting in would take some doing.
After a while Chance handed the headphones to a technician. He sat looking at Carmellini with a frown on his face.
“I think Vargas plans to kill Fidel,” Chance said finally.
“When?”
“Soon. Very soon. Today or tomorrow, I would imagine.”
“And then?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
The men left alive aboard Angel del Mar were unable to get the engine restarted, so it drifted helplessly with the wind and swell. Ocho took his turn in the tiny, cramped engine compartment. Something down inside the engine was broken, perhaps the crankshaft. Rotating the propeller shaft by hand made a clunky noise; at a certain point in the shaft’s rotation it became extremely difficult to turn. Admitting finally that repairing the motor was hopeless, Ocho backed out of the small compartment. His place was taken by someone else who wanted to satisfy himself Personally that the engine was indeed beyond repair.
After a while they all gave up and shut the door.
Without the engine they had to work the bilge pump manually. Fifteen minutes of intense effort cleared the bilges of water. With daylight coming through the hatch one could just see the water seeping in between the planks where the sea had pounded the caulking loose. It took about fifteen minutes for the bilges to fill, then they had to be pumped again. A quarter hour of work, a quarter hour of rest.
“If we can just keep pumping,” the old fisherman said, “we stay afloat.”
“If the water doesn’t come in any faster,” Ocho added. He was young and strong, so he spent hours sitting here in the bilge working the pump, watching the water come in.
Twenty-six people remained alive. The captain’s body was still in the wheelhouse, where he had fallen. No one wanted to take responsibility for moving him.
After a morning working the bilge pump, Ocho Sedano stood braced against the wheelhouse and, shading his eyes, looked carefully in all directions. The view was the same as it was yesterday, swells that ran off to the horizon, and above it all a sky crowded with puffy little clouds.
At least the sea had subsided somewhat. The wind no longer tore whitecaps off the waves. The breeze seemed steady, maybe eight or ten knots out of the southwest.
One suspected the boat was drifting northeast, riding the Gulf Stream. The nearest land in that direction was the Bahamas.
The United States was north, or perhaps northwest now. A whole continent was just over the horizon, with people, cities, restaurants, farms, mountains, rivers … if only they could get there.
Well, someone would see this boat drifting before too long. Someone in a plane or fishing boat, perhaps an American coast guard cutter or navy ship looking for drug smugglers. They would see the Angel del Mar drifting helplessly, give the people stranded on her water and food, then take them to Guantanamo Bay and make them walk through the gate back to Cuba. Or maybe they would be taken to hospitals in America.
Already some of these people needed hospitals. They had vomited too much, been without water for too long. They had become dehydrated, their electrolytes dangerously out of balance, and if left unattended would die. Just like the people swept over the side last night.
Of course, knowing all this, there was absolutely nothing Ocho Sedano could do. He too felt the ravages of thirst, felt the aching of the empty knot in his stomach. Fortunately he had not been seasick, had not retched his guts out until he had only the dry heaves like so many of these others lying helpless in the sun.
The wheelhouse cast a little shade, so he dragged several people in out of the sun. Maybe that would help a little.
The sea seemed to keep the boat broadside to it, so the shade didn’t move around too much, which was a blessing.
There wasn’t room in the shade for everyone.
“The sail,” said the fisherman. “There is an old piece of canvas around the boom. Let’s see if we can get it up.”
They worked with the canvas in the afternoon sun for over an hour, trying to rig it as a sail. It wasn’t really a sail, but an awning. Finally the fisherman said maybe it was best used to catch rain and protect people from the sun, so they rigged it across the boom and tied it there.