“Who did he blame for it all collapsing?” A hand rested softly on the globe’s surface.
“The Russians. Why?”
Bud’s hand lifted a bit, leaving just one finger to trace on the uneven surface west from the Urals. “The speech he gave at the fifth party congress last year — do you remember the text?”
“Sure,” the DDI said. He had read the translation of the five-hour speech in full in preparation for a roundtable discussion hosted by GW University. “He went on for hours haranguing all the ‘enemies of the Revolution.’ “
“Were we among those?”
“Right near the top.” Drummond’s mind seized on one of his words.
“Near? Who was at the top, Greg? Who did Castro say had committed the greatest crimes against the Revolution?” Bud’s finger straightened and pointed down upon a single city.
“Oh, no,” the DDI said, looking at the still-unaware chief of staff. “It can’t be.”
Bud turned back. “The extra range isn’t overkill; it’s necessary.”
“For what?” Ellis nearly demanded.
“To reach his target,” Drummond said in a shaky voice.
“What target?” The COS saw both men go a shade lighter before the answer came.
“Fidel. The target?”
They had done worse than attack the Revolution, Fidel Castro thought — they had forsaken it. That transgression must be avenged. It must.
“Moscow.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PLANS AND ACTION
Art looked at the small card just handed him. One look was all it took. “Dan, this is beautiful.”
“Thank the computers and Luke Kessler,” Dan Jacobs said. “He got the information we needed from the Florida DMV muy pronto.”
Frankie took the card. Without a real Florida driver’s license to compare it to, this one could pass for legit. It might have to, she knew. “It’d be just our luck that one of the desk clerks is from Florida.”
“All right,” Art said, motioning for the agents to move closer. “We are going to do this right, so listen carefully. Omar and I will each be directing the two search teams. Frankie and Shelley will be doing the actual casting of our bait.”
“Using their feminine ways,” the same agent as before cracked.
“I’ll ‘feminine way’ your family jewels,” Shelley Murdock shot back, getting a better response than her verbal nemesis.
“Enough locker-room crap,” Art said, getting them back on track. “Frankie and Shelley will each have one of these.” He held up the counterfeit Florida license produced by the lab. It was a real representation of one of the licenses of their shooters shown on the photocopy from the rental agency. Dan Jacobs had taken the color composite photo put together from Mrs. Carroll’s description, cleaned it up using their suspect’s picture from the copy, then shrunk the image on the computer and added it to a close approximation of a Florida driver’s license. It was an FBI-produced forgery to rival the forgeries the shooters had been using. It was also the bait. “Six of us on each team besides them. Their job is to go to the desk clerk at each of the motels on our list and play like they’re delivering a lost wallet to the guy on the license. They’ll say they work at some store and that Mr. Flavio Alicante — aka whoever — called and asked if a lost wallet was found. They were supposed to hand-deliver it to him at such and such motel but didn’t give a room number. If the clerk recognizes the name and face and gives a room number, then we’ve got ‘em. If not, we move on.”
“How do we know they used the same names to check in under?” an agent asked.
“We don’t, but either way we should be okay. These desk clerks deal with enough ‘John Smiths’ and ‘Joe Blows’ that a false name on the register won’t spook them. It’s the picture that will get us our shooters…not the name.”
Deputy SAC Lou Hidalgo had listened from the back of the group. He was not there to pass judgment on Art’s plan of action, though Jerry Donovan had cautioned him to do just that. What he had heard didn’t bother him in the least. It was a smart operation. But he did have some questions. “Art, what’s the separation on the two teams going to be?”
“Two short blocks,” he answered. Los Angeles, like many cities, was a patchwork of rectangular blocks with short and long sides. “If we get a hit, the other team can be there in a minute.”
“And the rovers?” Hidalgo went on.
“Sixty agents out there now. When we find them, we lock the area up tight and get any innocents away from the scene. LAPD will set up a perimeter, and we make our move…even if that’s just waiting.”
Hidalgo nodded approval. Art Jefferson, despite Donovan’s worries, didn’t need watching anymore. At one time, maybe, but no longer. His choice of Omar Espinosa, a tough, straight-shooting agent, as a second in this case only added to that belief. “Do it.”
Frankie took the wallet and slid the license into the plastic cover that would prevent too close an examination when showed to the desk clerks. Shelley Murdock did the same. The choice of the two female agents to do the point work was a practical one. Women were less threatening. It was societal, and Art was willing to use whatever tricks he could muster to catch the killers of Thom Danbrook. A suspicious desk clerk could ruin it all.
“Okay, partner, showtime,” Frankie said.
Art checked the communications rig on her. It would allow her to speak to the three Bureau cars tasked with watching her backside, but not to hear them. An earpiece would be too obvious. Almost as obvious as her anticipation of this. “Right. You just keep talking. Let us know what’s going on.”
“Easy enough.” Frankie tucked her holster farther back than it usually rode, hiding it under the loose jacket.
“We’ll keep you in sight,” Art said. It was more of a promise. It was also a need, he worried.
“Okay,” Frankie responded quickly. “Let’s get to—”
Art grabbed her arm and pulled her into their cubicle. The other agents had filtered toward the elevator, leaving them alone.
“What?”
“Frankie, this is for real.”
She looked up at her partner with an expression of puzzlement and anger. “What the hell do you think I think it is?”
“It certainly isn’t a fucking dream,” Art yelled in a hushed voice, one eye on the group of agents just boarding the elevator. The look of recognition in Frankie’s face washed away the other emotions. “Yeah, that’s right. Your mother called me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’s worried about you. Just like I am.” He let go of her arm. “What is going on up there, Frankie? Huh? This is not some personal vendetta you can let your mind dream about, because I am not willing to let that cross over into your behavior. No chance.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on those of the man she respected more than any other. On the man she hated almost as much as herself at the moment. “It won’t.”
“I can take you off of this, Frankie.”
“Then why haven’t you?” It was a simple question, and a more difficult challenge.
“Because I have faith in you, partner.” He glared down at her. “And in your professionalism. Don’t give me any reason to doubt that.”
“I won’t,” Frankie said, meaning it at the moment. It was the future that she wasn’t sure of.
“Then let’s get going.”
Frankie watched Art turn and walk toward the elevator, leaving her alone. Very alone. “Yeah, let’s.”
No booze. No broads. Just a too-soft mattress and the first hangover in years that he hadn’t doused with bourbon.
Sober mornings were pretty shitty, George Sullivan thought upon waking to his first in a long time. But it was the first, he realized. Maybe, like the booze that had kept him from experiencing them, they got better with age.