“But… But… President Castro, it is an atomic weapon. How can I. .”
“You have no choice. None. If you go to war over this, you will lose. How will your other allies see their benevolent protector if you crush a small country such as my own? You know what they will do. You will have revolt along your borders. Is it worth this, Premier Khrushchev? Is it?”
“I must…”
“Your Politburo will not understand. This secret is yours, and it is mine.”
“It will remain as such?”
“It will. We can even send you the bodies of your soldiers who died so tragically. They can be transported from La Isabela with their associated units. A fine funeral for the heroes will placate your Politburo.”
“No. No. There must be no hint of bodies. I suggest that they were consumed in the fire. Dispose of them as you wish.”
“They were soldiers, following orders. They will receive a fine burial.”
Again there was silence on the tape, but none of the agents spoke. What was there to say, other than a few choice expletives that could scarcely express the gravity of what they had just heard?
“Yes, I hope that they… that they will. I hope that…”
“It is done, then, Premier Khrushchev. Done.”
“Yes. Yes. It must be.”
“It is. Good-bye.”
The sound of the connection being broken clicked loudly.
“Lock the tape away, Alejandro. The good premier is not to be trusted. His memory of what transpired here may need to be refreshed someday.”
“Yes, Presidente.”
A shift from static to total nothingness signaled the end of the recording. Jacobs slid his headset off and stopped both tape decks, hitting the Rewind button next. Frankie and Art pulled theirs off a second later.
“Oh, my God,” Frankie said, summing up the collective feelings completely.
“Can this really be true?” Jacobs asked, wondering just who could answer the question.
“I don’t know,” Art answered, afraid to be more certain. “I’ve heard early tapes of Castro’s speeches. That sounded like him.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed, her head swinging slowly from side to side. “But how could that be… I mean, if it is true, then there could still be…”
“I know.” Art shifted his thoughts from the past to the present, not wanting to deal with the future quite yet. “This puts a more sinister spin on the shooters who hit Portero. You may have been right before — they could be working for the Cubans. There certainly is a motive for the silencing aspect of this now.”
“Jesus.” Frankie had never wanted to get into the counterintelligence stuff the Bureau had to deal with, but now an uglier side of it appeared to be rearing up right in front of her. “If so, then Sullivan could be in more danger than we thought. Much more.”
There was no hesitation in Art’s response. “Get downstairs and sit with him. Don’t let him out of your sight. They’ve already proved they’ll kill for this.”
Frankie needed no more prompting. She was out of the TS lab and hitting the stairs a few seconds later.
“Dan, you say nothing of this. Clear?”
“Hey, who the hell would believe me?” He popped the two cassettes from their respective machines. “Do you want copies?”
“Yeah. Two of each.”
“All right. There’ll be a little degradation, remember. That recording is at least a second-generation copy made from the original reel tapes.”
“Okay. Okay.” Art was thinking fast, trying to plot the proper avenues of action in his head before setting anything in motion. It was quite a foreign manner of operation for him in this type of situation. “I’ve got to get in touch with the director. This has to go to him.”
Dan knew that the special agent in charge, William Killeen, was not keen on having street agents go over his head. “What about Bill?”
“Remember the SAC conference.” The Bureau’s SACs were gathering at the academy in Quantico, Virginia, for a so-called budget summit. Everybody was feeling the heat. “You think this can wait with what’s going on down there?”
“Not my call.” Jacobs thought for a moment. “What about Lou? He’s in town.”
Step by step, Art. “You’re right.”
“He can give you the go over the phone. He’d have to.”
Shit. “No, that won’t work. This has got to go over a secure line. He doesn’t have one.” Lou Hidalgo, Art’s boss’s boss, lived in Mission Viejo, a good hour away. Too far. Too long to wait. “I’ve got to do this.”
“Like I said, your call,” Jacobs cautioned.
Frankie burst through the door to the lab. “He’s gone!”
“Gone?” Art stood quickly. “To fucking where?”
“Don’t know,” Frankie answered, her breaths coming fast and hard. “The lobby guard said he saw him leave about ten ago.”
Dammit. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him.” The senior agent let the rush pass, measuring his breathing, just as he was supposed to do. You idiot, Jefferson! “Okay, get a bulletin out. I want a protective warrant issued for Sullivan.” He paused again, straining to regain his composure, knowing he would need it when talking to the man who had authorized his de facto demotion a year before for pushing limits that he shouldn’t have.
Art Jefferson knew this could be construed as similar behavior, but he didn’t really give a damn at the moment. He was doing what he had to…his job.
“There is a problem.”
General Asunción studied the Russian’s expression. “What problem? It will not work?”
Anatoly Vishkov shook his head. “It will work, but you can not carry out a complete fueling of the booster.” He pointed to the series of valves and gauges that were connected to the underground storage tanks for the fuel and oxidizer three hundred meters distant. “There is contamination in the tanks.”
“What!” It was not a question, for no answer would truly be acceptable. “How?”
Vishkov wiped his hands on a rag, rubbing it nervously. “Water, I believe. But there is more. I will show you.”
Asunción followed the physicist to the mass of gauges and flow meters that would allow the weapon to be fueled.
“The fuel gauge indicates one hundred and eight thousand kilograms of propellant. Here, see?”
“I see. What of it?”
“There are only supposed to be an even one hundred thousand kilos of UDMH,” Vishkov reported, referring to the undimensional dimethyl hydrazine. “A similar reading comes from the NTO tank.” That contained the oxidizer, nitrogen tetroxide. “I suspect that rains of a week ago infiltrated through a rupture in the upper portion of the tanks.”
“So the water makes the fuel useless?” the general asked disgustedly.
“Not the water, so much, as the soil residue that was sure to seep in also.” Vishkov tossed the rag onto the tree of silver pipes and valves. “Filters and traps will remove the water and residue, but the soils here are high in nitrates. It is a process of the swamps to the east and natural fertilization. There was certainly a nitrate infiltration, which can upset the balance of the oxidizer to the fuel. We cannot know how much the ratio has been altered, so fueling the booster would contaminate the internal tanks.” He paused, thinking on the increasing sounds of explosions. “Any attempt to actually fire it would likely fail.”