“Avaro?” Alvarez said with concern.
“The cripple?” Sanz said, moving away from the desk. “Yeah. We nailed him. Plus we have some interesting tapes, you know, talking about missiles and stuff. Real interesting.”
Parra stood. “Whatever a man’s son has done, that man cannot be held responsible for. Avaro is an adult.” He knew that the young Alvarez would not implicate them, and he was certain that they were fully insulated from any legal connection to the activities. He just had to keep José-Ramon from saying something foolish in the hope of aiding his son.
“Maybe, but we’ll sure be checking on it,” Sanz promised, opening the door.
“Oh,” Testra added. “By the way, your flight to Cuba has been canceled. Those nonrefundable tickets are a bitch, aren’t they?”
The door closed behind the federal agents, leaving the leaders of the Cuban Freedom Society alone.
“Gonzalo, we have to get Avaro out of there!” Alvarez stared at his aide. “He can’t be in jail. He can’t.”
“Listen to me, José-Ramon. He knew the risks when he chose to work with us. Your son is no child.”
“But he was following instructions,” Alvarez implored. “My instructions!”
“Dammit, José-Ramon! Do you want to join him in prison?”
“But they have the tape. You heard what they said. And the FBI agent—”
“Goddammit! Listen to me! If you don’t get your head on straight, you’re going to end up saying something you regret! So what if one of their agents is dead? Is that for us to be concerned about? No, unless you say something that implicates us.”
“But I gave the order for Portero to be killed. Avaro just passed on my instructions. He didn’t intend for that agent to be killed.”
“And did you? No.” Parra’s blood pressure was ticking upward now as his leader inched closer to losing his grip on what was important. “We did what we had to do. We made bold moves. That is the way of the strong, José-Ramon. Portero was a pawn. He was useless to us, but he was also a danger.”
Alvarez stared at the wall and shook his head. The thought of his Avaro behind bars, with the lowlifes and the depraved. It just could not be!
“We still have a great fortune, José-Ramon. Remember that. The director has provided for us well.”
“And Avaro will be blamed for that, also. That, too, was my doing, and him following my instructions.”
Parra threw his hands up in frustration. “Will you not even try to underst—” Sounds from the adjoining room cut his words off. The two FBI agents entered the room a second later.
Sanz went to the desk and reached under its edge, removing the miniature transmitter he had affixed there. “Thanks, fellas.”
Testra smiled and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Looks like we have that evidence now.”
Parra’s eyes flared. He was a businessman, well versed in the laws of the land. “You cannot just record conversations without the authority to do so! Without a warrant! And you have none, do you?”
“You know, Freddy,” Testra said, looking to his partner, “I don’t think we do.”
“No,” Sanz agreed, reaching behind and under his coat. He laid the sign on the coffee table before Alvarez. “But we do have this.”
Alvarez read the placard silently. This is a United States Government Military Facility. Right to pass is subject to approval. All activities on this facility may be monitored by electronic and non-electronic means without prior notice. Please behave accordingly.
“You should have behaved accordingly,” Special Agent Chris Testra observed. “Now stand up and put your hands on the wall. You are both under arrest.”
Two hundred yards away, in a separate trailer that had been set up for the use of the guards watching over the CFS, Director of Central Intelligence Anthony Merriweather sat unaware of the events that were transpiring across the Florida Straits, or across the vacant tarmac. A knock on the door signaled the beginning of the end of his ignorance.
“Anthony.”
Merriweather’s eyes grew behind the distortion of the thick glasses. “Gregory, what are you doing here?”
Back to Gregory, is it? Drummond stepped in. Art Jefferson and Frankie Aguirre were right behind him.
“Who are these people?”
The DDI introduced his companions. “They brought something you might want to hear.”
Art set the cassette player on the television and pressed Play. The conversation began, prompting the DCI to test each of his would-be accusers with a look. None looked away from his weak attempt at intimidation. In just a few minutes the familiar exchange was over.
“And this is for what, Gregory?” Merriweather sat back confidently.
“Can you excuse us,” Drummond said to the FBI agents, who left with glances of distaste for the DCI.
“Your company should learn manners,” Merriweather commented.
Drummond reached under his gray jacket and scratched his chest through the new shirt he had chosen just for this occasion. “Why, Anthony? Why did you do it? You knew that Portero had something, and you ignored it.”
Merriweather laughed quietly and with pity for his Boy Scout deputy. “Gregory, Gregory. You have so much to learn, and the tragedy of it is that you never will.”
“Anthony, there was a missile down there. Portero wasn’t lying.” Drummond searched for some kind of recognition in the DCI’s face. Some kind of regret. “Anthony, good men died cleaning up what you could have prevented.”
“Prevented? I didn’t even know there was a missile.” For the first time Drummond saw his boss smile, though it was not motivated by joy. It was a smile of arrogance. “And that tape is inadmissible as evidence. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“I just wanted to know why. You led us to the brink of something that could have spiraled out of control. The President listened to you, Anthony. He took your advice and made bad decisions about SNAPSHOT.”
“Gregory, a President gets advice because he has to. All Presidents need it.” The DCI chuckled. “This one needs it more than others.”
Bingo. “He wouldn’t appreciate your attitude.”
“It would probably have to be explained to him.”
“You certainly aren’t the poster boy for loyalty,” Drummond commented.
“Loyalty has so many meanings, Gregory. I am loyal to what needs to be done. Cuba needed to be done, and I knew how to do it,” Merriweather said smugly. “The President could not have conceived SNAPSHOT, or anything of lesser complexity, without me there to hold his hand.”
“I see,” Drummond said, nodding as a smile came to his lips. Click.
“What was that?”
The DDI reached inside his jacket and removed the recorder, unplugging the hidden lapel microphone. “Your head on a platter, Tony.”
Merriweather pushed himself forward on the couch, his teeth bared like an animal who’d just been caught. “You son of a bitch.”
“Foul language. That will get you nowhere. And before you complain about illegal recordings, remember where you are.” Drummond rewound the micro-cassette, ejected it, and dropped it in his shirt pocket.
“What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want. It’s what you will do, which is submit your resignation to the President for, let’s say, personal reasons. Tomorrow would be a good time.”
“Or else?”
“Or else this tape will find its way into the court case that’s being prepared against your CFS friends.” Drummond saw the coming question. “Yes, the cuffs are on them right now. Espionage. Conspiracy to commit murder. You hooked up with some really bad boys, Tony.” The DDI thought he would relish this, but it wasn’t all that enjoyable.