Asunción nodded. Anything to make the bastard squirm. “You believe he will remain silent.”
“He will. He has no choice.” Fidel noted the smiles on the faces of the soldiers. “He will do as we will to maintain the secret. For him exposure will mean death. For us…” His shoulders came up. “We will not have to worry about that. You have chosen those to trust?”
“Two men,” Asunción confirmed. “Single, no family, and fiercely loyal. They and I will debrief my men and your guard troops individually before the sun is up.”
Fidel nodded soberly. More must die. He looked beyond the row of those who had already been sent to their supposed maker. The four tank trucks attached to the unit were being driven into position near the corpses. “A mighty explosion it will be.”
Asunción heard the comment but did not connect it to the presidente’s meaning. For the briefest second he thought that… “Yes,” he agreed with relief. “Nothing will remain. Just pieces.”
“The perfect excuse,” Fidel observed. It wasn’t, he knew, but it would suffice.
The colonel noted that all was ready for the next phase. “Presidente, we must go now. The missile must be moved.”
“Yes. A moment.” Fidel took some steps back and let his eyes fall upon the weapon. What was at its top interested him most. The power of a million ordinary aircraft bombs in a device that weighed no more than three of them. A beautiful piece of engineering, made possible by the application of years of brilliance toward a common goal to harness the power of the inner universe. Yet that was applicable only to the so-called superpowers, technological behemoths who had acquired their strength through much testing and sweat. Fidel Castro Ruz had engineered his nation’s entry into the realm of true power with the sacrifice of blood.
That in itself was cause for celebration, though it would be only of a personal nature. For the power to be of the use he intended, it must remain in the deepest, darkest shadows of existence, removed for use only to protect the Revolution. Would that ever be necessary? Would the secret be revealed? Fidel hoped not, thought not, content himself to know that the island nation of Cuba, in the early-morning hours of a fateful autumn day that would end with the world breathing a collective sigh of relief, had become the fifth member of the nuclear club, not by way of technical mastery, but by a calculated act of thievery.
CHAPTER ONE
EVENTS
“There he is.”
Jorge leaned forward against the van’s dash, looking to the left past Tomás. The man was walking with the crowd in the pedestrian crossing, hands pushed deep in his pockets and his balding head moving from side to side. “Right on time.”
“He looks nervous,” Tomás commented.
“He has reason to,” Jorge said, sitting back.
Tomás scooted forward in the driver’s seat, his slight paunch pressed against the steering wheel, and removed the revolver from his back waistband. He kept it below the window line and slid it between his legs, the barrel pointed bravely backward. He would not do the same with the semiautomatic pistol under his coat. It was cocked and locked, ready to fire, with the safety on, but he trusted safeties as much as he did weathermen. The nice thing about revolvers was that they went off only when one wanted them to, without the risk of jamming, features that still made them popular with many nostalgic American policemen, and equally popular with men in his line of work.
“Going inside,” Jorge reported. He, too, was armed, carrying the identical mix of weaponry, though he left his concealed for the moment. There was no rush. The time would come soon enough.
“One for lunch?” the hostess inquired.
The man’s eyes searched the room. ¿Dónde está? He wasn’t there.
“Sir?”
“Yes. No. I… I am meeting someone.”
The hostess smiled politely, her blue eyes twinkling benignly below the perky blond coiffure. Fucking immigrants. She had to work her ass off just to survive while attending UCLA, and these people came over the border and somehow ended up with all the money they needed. His accent wasn’t Mexican, though. Probably a fucking chiropractor or something trained in Guatemala. Her smile widened as she led him toward a table at the back corner of the restaurant. If I have to work two jobs just to make it through pre-med, you can live with some kitchen noise.
“Will this be all right?”
“Yes,” the man answered. “Very fine.”
He watched the hostess walk away. She was young and might have received closer attention at another time, but his gaze soon shifted outside, through the window on his left. He felt somewhat more comfortable where he sat. The entire dining room was visible, as was the entrance.
“Water, señor?”
“Si. Gracias.” He looked up at the busboy and slipped him a dollar. It was truly the underlings who deserved the tips.
“Gracias,” the young Salvadoran said, his eyes beaming. “Gracias!”
The man lifted the glass to his lips but jumped at the sound of dishes falling behind. A splash of water leaped from the glass and spilled on his trousers, drenching the left side. He quickly grabbed the napkin from the table and set it on his lap.
But it wasn’t the clothing he was concerned with.
“Are you ready?” Jorge asked.
Tomás nodded, straightening himself as much as possible in the seat and tucking the revolver in the front of his waistband. He buttoned the coat next.
“Let’s go.”
He was killing himself. There was no doubt about it. Frankie watched him put the end of it in his mouth. It was only a matter of time.
“Mmmmm.” Art Jefferson bit into the bacon-chili cheese dog with a satisfaction he had avoided for almost six months.
Frankie Aguirre shook her head and sipped her flavored seltzer. “You gonna make me watch you do this? Huh? Is this so I can testify at the probate hearing? ‘Yes, Your Honor, I saw him do it.’ ”
Art heard his partner’s protest but continued anyway, chewing the first bite until swallowing was a necessity. “Ooooh. That is good!”
“Yeah, right.” Frankie drained the bottle and set it down on Pink’s streetfront counter, her fingers picking at her chips.
Special Agent Thom Danbrook nursed his root beer and took in the good-natured exchange as an eager observer. “Does he always eat this stuff?”
“Hey, twice a year,” Art said, explaining before his partner could do his culinary reputation harm. “That’s what I give myself. Kinda like a vacation from boring food.”
“From healthy food,” she corrected him.
He did plenty of that, Art could say, eating healthy and all. Lots of salads and fruits, chicken, pasta, veggies till his mouth tasted like broccoli all day. Bush had it right on that green hunk of nutrients, he believed. It had been just over a year since the heart attack, and he was doing fine. Even his cardiologist said an occasional divergence into cholesterol land was acceptable. The whole idea was moderation, something his partner exhibited little of in the area of overprotectiveness.
But that’s what partners were for, inasmuch as the Bureau had ‘partners’ (the correct term was ‘team’), and Special Agent Francine—‘Don’t call me that’—Aguirre was top-notch. She and Art had been paired since he left desk duty and returned to real work, as he called it. A true Bureau street agent, just the way he began his career in the days of old J. Edgar. It was also the way he wanted it to end. Three more years to a full thirty, and he was damned glad he’d gotten out of the bureaucracy end of things. That would have killed him. The heart attack had been a very clear warning that the stress of command and his screwed-up personal life was too much, and Art had heard it loud and clear.