The same there. The mattress was off the heavy oak-and-steel frame, lying against one wall, its fabric covering sliced open exposing the springs. Drawers pulled out and left lying on the floor, along with all their contents. The fucking robber had…
But nothing is missing. The video player was there, in the corner on a pile of clothes, its cover torn off? The same with the television. What the… No way!
Someone was looking for something. They weren’t here to rob him, they were here to… What if it’s the same ones who…?
Sullivan backed out of the bedroom and went to the kitchen, his feet sliding through the glass littering the linoleum floor. There was something there he had to get, something he needed. No fucking work today, that was for sure. So who would give a — There! He found the bottle, still intact, thankfully, and twisted off the cap. The sweet, smoky flavor rolled down his throat a second later.
The drink hit him where he needed it. He had to get his head on straight and figure this out. He thought of calling the police, but what would he say? “Hi, I witnessed a murder yesterday and just ran away. Oh, and by the way, the guys who did it were just over at my place.” No way on that one. He took another swig, still thinking, the ideas racing through his mind. He had to relax. Had to calm down. Another drink. But what if they came back?
That question hit him like an unwelcome brick of sobriety, which he washed away with a long, steady draw on the Jim Beam. What if they do? He knew what to do about that, or at least what he could do, or maybe what he might be able to do. Shit! He went back to the bedroom and fished through the piles that had been his life until sometime between yesterday and today. The box was under a mound of his various sweats and T-shirts, its lid open and…the contents right under it.
George picked it up, holding it tightly in his right hand while his friend stayed true in the other. He was really safe, now, he believed, but had no idea what came next. None whatsoever. With such a stunning plan he sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and waited. For what, he hadn’t a clue.
He was in the basement of the Defense Ministry in Havana, the Plaza de Revolución fifty feet above. Buried by the Revolution, Fidel Castro thought. A proper way to go.
What the president had heard from his brother so far led him to wonder if his destiny did lie in failure. Yet it was early. Though the threat was serious, the gravest he or the country had ever faced, they were still in power. Still the chosen leaders. The people would come to the defense of their land as they had been trained to do. All would be well. All would be fine.
“We have almost no aircraft remaining to fight with,” Raul Castro said in exasperation, hoping to break through the disbelieving trance his older brother had fallen into. As defense minister, he knew the gravity of the situation, and it fell on him as his brother’s closest confidant to explain it. “The last two MiGs we had capable of flying, both out of the capital, did not return from their mission. They were more than likely shot down by antiaircraft fire, or…”
“Or what?” Fidel asked, the spell broken by the trepidation in his brother’s words.
“They may have gone north.”
The aged leader rose up, his right fist clenched as it came up even with his face. “The cowards!” His fist crashed down upon the makeshift map table before him, causing the group of senior military officers present to jump where they stood. “If ANY man so much as THINKS about surrender or defection to the enemy, I want him shot dead ON THE SPOT! Is that clear?! IS IT?!”
“It is, Fidel,” Raul said. “Every man here knows that. They are all loyal to you, to the Revolution.”
Fidel turned sharply to one side and paced two steps, then back to where he had stood. “We will defeat this coup d’état. The perpetrators will be captured and hanged in the plaza!”
“Si, they will.” Raul acquiesced more than agreed. He had to get the seriousness across to his brother somehow. “But we have to ensure your safety. If the rebels are fortunate, they may—”
“Fortunate! To hell with their fortune! Wars are fought not on the basis of luck, but by men with vision! By men with a fire in their belly!” The president looked down at the map table, noting the location of units in the center and west of the country. In the east there was less fighting, mostly from ragtag partisan bands, he suspected. From there the crushing blow to this coup would be struck. “Raul, listen to me carefully. This is what I want done. From Camagüey I want Colonel Torrejón to move west and strike at the flank of the units moving southward toward Cienfuegos. This will force them to halt their advance. I know Torrejón. He will take the fight to them and destroy them!”
Raul looked away from his brother and cleared his throat before looking back. “Fidel, Torrejón is not responding to requests from us. He is apparently among the plotters.”
It was as if an invisible fist had struck him in the stomach. Fidel grimaced and slid backward into his chair, the air leaving his lungs in a loud, wet gasp. He was literally in pain. How could Torrejón have done this? How? He had been with Fidel and Raul aboard the Granma when the cabin cruiser brought them from Mexico to Cuba in 1956 to begin the Revolution. He had marched with them through the Sierra Maestras. He was a patriot! How could this have happened? Who was responsible?
“Fidel. Fidel.” Raul leaned over the table, watching helplessly as his brother’s head shook in disbelief.
Who is responsible? Fidel repeated it over and over, searching for a guilty party to strike out at. Looking for those culpable. There had to be…
Yes. His eyes came open and met Raul’s. There was a responsible party. One that bore the blame for more than this episode in his country’s history. A true enemy of the Revolution. The would-be destroyer of his nation.
But not before a price was exacted for the actions that allowed this to happen. A lesson in the cost of war would be taught to the responsible one. A lesson to never be forgotten.
Fidel sat forward in his chair and lifted the phone from its cradle. It was answered immediately in the army’s communication center. “Get me General Asunción at once.”
“Dios mio,” Raul said aloud, invoking the name of a being whose existence he doubted but whose wrath he suddenly feared.
CHAPTER FIVE
SOUNDINGS
“What do you think?” Drummond waited patiently for the reply.
I think Anthony has a lot to learn,” Deputy Director, Operations, Mike Healy answered. “I didn’t even know he was talking to Paredes.” He shook his head ruefully.
“This is his thing, Mike, and I mean his.” Drummond took a long drink from the red-and-white can held tightly in his fist. “You and I are window dressing on this one. Talking to Paredes isn’t the half of it. He’s micromanaging SNAPSHOT all the way. All my people in Miami have been reporting directly to him, and only to him, since this op came to life.” “All” meant the two Agency screeners attached to the INS for the purpose of identifying those of lesser character who might come through the favorite port of entry for those fleeing Cuba and other Caribbean nations. That Langley had people operating there at all was a closely held secret, even though the practice did not technically violate the restriction on the CIA operating within the United States. They were “consultants,” though certain civil-liberties zealots would obviously see it otherwise. “He’s afraid the other Cuban-American groups might get wind of us being sweet on the CFS and wants to personally know if that’s happening, or if any scuttlebutt is coming over with any refugees.”