Gutier showed no concern. “Perhaps you have provided the means to prevent that from happening.”
“What are you saying?”
“The Americans. They played right into our hands. Ruiz has made no secret of his desire to make peace with the United States and expand trade and tourism. His affection for America has always been his vulnerability. We’ll exploit it by implicating this NUMA ship in the death of Raúl.”
Díaz’s face lit up. “Of course. The public will go berserk if they think the Americans killed Raúl. We can make it look like a planned coup, an attempt to install the foreign minister as head of the government.”
“Just the whiff of a connection would be enough for the Council of State to turn their back on Ruiz,” Gutier said. “If not, I may be able to call on enough comrades in the military to back me in a temporary takeover while the charges are investigated.”
“The only thing better would be if you could claim credit for capturing the assassin,” Díaz said, his eyes dancing with inspiration. “Forget the research ship, we can go one better. I’ll give you the American in charge, a man named Pitt, who was aboard the submersible. We can pin the assassination on him.”
Gutier considered the prospect. “Yes,” he said, “we can certainly manufacture evidence to link him to the explosion. We’ll have a public trial, which would boost anti-American sentiment… and assure in the process that Ruiz is disgraced.”
“And it will allow us to proceed with our deal with the North Koreans. But what should we do about the NUMA ship?”
“I have heard of no private inquiries from the American government,” Gutier said.
“Nor has there been any public reaction.”
“Then sink the ship with all hands,” Gutier said. “It would be better not to have a chorus of denials. We can say it was lost in an accident. Or if the Americans resist, we’ll claim it was a CIA ship in our waters supporting Raúl’s assassination and the attempted coup. In the meantime, take a military helicopter to the facility to retrieve the prisoner and I’ll arrange for it to appear as if he was apprehended in the Cayman Islands.”
As Díaz nodded, there came a knock at the door. A portly secretary entered the office with a troubled look on her face. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s been a news report from the Cayman Islands. It seems a boat the president was visiting caught fire and was damaged. There’s speculation that the president may have been injured.”
Gutier nodded at his brother and rose to his feet. “This is terrible news,” he said, escorting the secretary from the office. “We must find out the truth of the matter at once.”
55
The Russian-built Mil Mi-8 helicopter flew in fast over the hills, slowing as it came to the clandestine mining facility. The pilot approached the concrete landing pad and set the chopper down on its center. He let the engines idle as Díaz unstrapped himself and hopped out an open side door.
Molina waited to greet his boss, an armed guard at his side. Díaz turned to peruse the dock as he stepped off the helipad. The barge and tug were gone, replaced by a Liberian-flagged bulk carrier named Algonquin. The shore crew was busy working the dock conveyor, loading uranium ore into the ship’s holds.
“I’m happy to see that the Algonquin has arrived on time,” Díaz said. “The barge is safely away?”
Molina nodded. “The fires were extinguished without incident. She has already met up with the Sea Raker. They should begin laying explosives at the Domingo 2 site within a few hours.”
“Good. Where are the Americans?”
“Follow me.” Molina led the way to the open garage on the lower level of the barracks. Pitt and Summer sat on a bench in an empty corner, with two armed guards positioned a few feet in front of them.
Díaz approached with a twisted sense of amusement. “I understand you enjoyed some extracurricular activities while I was gone. Your attempt to damage the barge and dock was futile, I am happy to report. Our excavation will continue unabated.”
“Blowing up those thermal vents will poison the seas for a thousand miles,” Pitt said. “Cuban waters and beaches won’t be immune.”
“You are wrong, Mr. Pitt. The Florida Current will carry it all to American shores. It will be your country’s problem, not mine.”
Pitt gave him a steely gaze. “It will be your problem when the world discovers you caused it intentionally as part of your uranium mining operation.”
Díaz chuckled. “That’s not about to happen, my friend. Now, on your feet.”
The guards jabbed their assault rifles at Pitt. He rose, and Summer followed suit.
Díaz looked at her and shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be going with him this time.” He turned to the guards. “You will be escorting him to Havana. The helicopter is waiting.”
Summer looked him in the eye. “Why are you taking him to Havana?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Díaz gave a reptilian grin. “President Castro is dead and your father has been implicated in his assassination. He will be going to Havana to stand trial.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Not at all. Numerous witnesses will place him at the scene.”
Díaz nodded at the guards, who pushed Pitt forward.
Summer stepped in front of the guards and embraced her father.
He gave her a reassuring look as he whispered in her ear to keep calm. But his insides were churning. He had no regard for his own plight, but the last thing he wanted was to leave his daughter behind with Díaz. The guards gave him no choice and he was forced toward the helipad.
Prodded into the helicopter, he was buckled into a bench seat beside the open cargo door. The guards took seats opposite him. One leaned forward and gave the pilot a thumbs-up sign. The rotor spooled up, and a few seconds later the transport helicopter rose into the sky. Pitt looked down in helplessness as he watched Summer being escorted into the office building with Díaz and Molina. Then the mining facility slipped away beneath him, replaced by an empty expanse of blue ocean.
The Cubans reconvened in Díaz’s office, where he took a moment to admire the Aztec stone. “I received an interesting report from a contact in the United States,” he said to Summer. “Your friend, Perlmutter, is quite a fruitful historian.”
She glared at Díaz. “Did you hurt him?” she asked with fire on her tongue.
“He is perfectly fine, although short a few documents. Documents that indicated the other half of the stone was not destroyed on the Maine after all.”
“So the treasure is still in play?” Molina asked.
“Very much so.”
Summer held her temper. Her father had started to describe a link he had discovered in the office between the stone and a lost treasure. But the guards had forced him to sit silently.
“So where is the other stone?” Molina asked.
“If Perlmutter’s data is correct,” Díaz said, “the stone was stolen from the Maine during her sinking. It was presumably placed aboard a steam packet named San Antonio that immediately left Havana. The American Navy apprehended her off the East Coast, but the vessel sank before they could recover the stone.”
Díaz smiled. “According to the naval records, the San Antonio lies in fifty fathoms, some fourteen miles due east of Punta Maisí.”
“You can locate the wreck with the oil survey ship Kelowna,” Molina said. “She’s still under charter for another month.”
“Actually, I’m sending you to go find the wreck, Silvio, just as soon as the Algonquin leaves the dock.” He glared at Summer. “I will personally oversee the remaining excavations to ensure there are no more interruptions.”