Castro's Daughter (31 page)

“Plenty, but I’ll save it for Page and Marty because you guys won’t believe me and I don’t want to explain more than once.”

Patterson gave both of them the oddest look. “No one’s ever had trouble believing either of you; it’s the accepting part that’s sometimes a little tough.”

*   *   *

At the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building, they parked in the underground ramp and took the VIP elevator direct to the seventh floor. As always over the past few years, it seemed strange to McGarvey to be back. He felt out of place, and yet he’d spent the majority of his adult life working for and sometimes with the people here. He knew the tone of the place, he could feel the energy, and very often the uncertainties that could and did eat people alive.

McGarvey, along with Otto and Patterson, was ushered into the director’s large office, where Page and Marty Bambridge were waiting for them.

“You two have been busy,” Bambridge said, by way of greeting. “Anything you’d care to share with us?”

“That’s why we’re here,” McGarvey said.

“Coffee?” Page asked.

“We had plenty on the way over. And we’re not staying long—there’s a lot more yet to be done. But I think you deserve an explanation.”

“Please,” Page said, and when they were settled, McGarvey took them through the entire story, beginning from his arrival in Cuba to the discussions with María León, their escape, and the meeting in Mexico City with Dr. Diaz.

“Who was found shot to death with your Air Marshal weapon,” Bambridge said. “The Mexican authorities issued a warrant for your arrest, as has Interpol in Spain.”

“After we had safely reached Gibraltar and were already over the Atlantic.”

“But you can’t be serious about the business with a treasure in Spanish gold,” Bambridge said, and for the moment, Page seemed content to let his DDO take the lead. “Sounds like the ravings of a senile old man. Someone with dementia.”

“The DI took it seriously enough to send someone to Mexico City to murder Dr. Diaz, and to get the cooperation of some police authority in Spain to keep the pressure on us.”

“To do what?”

“To find the gold,” McGarvey said. “The same reason Colonel León left Cuba and showed up in Miami.”

“Unbelievable,” Bambridge blustered. “Then it was her, or people under her direction who killed three of our people?”

“Not her. It’s a power struggle inside the DI. Whoever’s behind it wanted to get rid of her once she no longer had her father’s protection. But then when they realized that there might just be something to this business with the treasure, they changed tactics. Now they’re trying to herd us, while giving us enough room to actually succeed.”

Bambridge started to bluster again, but this time Page held him off.

“What do you think?” the DCI asked.

What did he think? McGarvey asked himself. “Until we met with Dr. Diaz, who was convinced that a treasure did in fact exist, I thought that it probably was nothing more than a fairy tale. As Marty said, the ravings of a senile old man on his deathbed. But in Seville, we met with the curator of their national museum and document repository dedicated to the Spanish empire in the New World who said that she had personally spoken with Diaz, who urged her to help us. But that was after he’d been killed, so she was lying. In any event, Diaz told us that he was persona non grata at the museum for some past indiscretion.”

“But she believed in the existence of this New World treasure?”

“We presented ourselves as treasure hunters, and she had us sign a finder’s agreement,” McGarvey said.

“I looked at it,” Patterson said. “It’s a phony, couldn’t possibly hold up in any court of law, so this woman apparently has her own agenda, or possibly a deal with the DI.”

“And now?” Page prompted.

“I think that there’s a very real possibility that something’s buried out there, and Castro’s daughter has put her life on the line looking for it,” McGarvey said.

“Otto?”

“I have to agree with Mac, Mr. Director, although I didn’t at first. Not until Spain, and not until we found out that the colonel not only left Cuba and showed up in Miami but also insisted on coming here to talk to us.”

Bambridge sat forward. “Good Lord, she’s here in Washington?”

“Yes,” McGarvey said.

“Well, let’s have her, at least for ordering a murder and kidnapping.”

“Not yet. Not until we find out why she took the chance of skipping out, and the even bigger risk of showing up in Miami.”

“If the DI traced her to Miami as you say it did, then it’s likely they’ll trace her here.”

“I hope so,” McGarvey said.

“You want us to sit on it?” Bambridge asked. “Just like that?”

“Just for now.”

“You have to be kidding,” Bambridge said, but again Page held him off.

“For now, this has nothing to do with national security, so it’s not in our brief. But blood has been shed in Miami, and Interpol has listed you as a person of interest, so at the very least, the Bureau is interested in having a word with you and Colonel León. But I think I can hold them off for twenty-four hours.”

“Forty-eight,” McGarvey said. He’d gotten what he wanted: the CIA’s interest and some breathing room.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Page said.

*   *   *

From the CIA, they took a cab into downtown Washington, getting out at Union Station and walking down to the Hotel George, where they had a drink at the bar. McGarvey was nearly 100 percent sure that they had not picked up a tail, but it had always been suspected that the DI as well as a number of other foreign intelligence agencies kept a lookout in the vicinity of the CIA’s main gate, so he had to consider the possibility that he and Otto had been spotted.

Otto phoned Louise to make sure that she’d run into no problems and that Colonel León was behaving herself, while McGarvey phoned Martínez.

“Where are you?”

“Driving up from Homestead. Are you back in Washington?”

“Yes. Page has agreed to give us a little space—forty-eight hours, does that give you enough time to settle your people down and explain what they need to do?”

“I can be pretty convincing when it’s necessary. What about Seville?”

“It was a setup, but the curator seems to think the story is plausible. The next step will be to convince Colonel León for the ruse to have any chance of working,” McGarvey said.

Martínez laughed. “She came to us this time. I think she’s ready for what you have to tell her. But the DI up there will be on your case, so watch your step.”

“You, too,” McGarvey said.

FIFTY-THREE

María came downstairs to the kitchen from where she’d taken a shower and changed into a pair of jeans and white blouse but nothing on her feet. She’d done her hair up in back, and Louise thought she looked stunning—fresh, pretty in a dark island girl way. But it was just looks, after all; the woman was a killer, or at the very least she’d signed orders for innocent people to be arrested, interrogated, and then executed.

Louise was leaning against the counter. “You found everything okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” María said. “Could I have something to drink?”

“Water, coffee, tea, wine, or beer.”

“Anything stronger?”

Louise kept her temper in check. Mac wanted her here in one piece, and it was she who had apparently defected from Cuba and come to them. “We have some cognac, but it’s for Mac when he shows up.”

“He’s gotten word that I’m here?”

“He and my husband are on their way.”

“Can you tell me what they’ve been doing?” María asked.

Louise just stared at her for a longish moment, trying to find some measure of the woman, trying to find something in her eyes that would indicate what she was, what she’d done. But only a wariness mixed with weariness and a little hesitancy showed.

María shrugged. “A beer will be fine,” she said.

Louise motioned for her to have a seat at the counter, and she opened a couple of Red Stripes and got a couple of glasses.

María raised her glass. “I’m not exactly what you think I am.”

“What do I think you are?” Louise asked, holding her temper in check. Her fingers were still beat up from trying to remove the screws from the window where she’d been held.

“A fanatic, a monster.”

“The men who kidnapped me did so on your orders.”

“To convince your husband to come to Cuba. It was the only way I could get Mr. McGarvey to come talk to me.”

“You could have left Cuba and met him on his turf.”

“He’d gone to ground—we knew that much, but not where.”

Louise wanted to throw the beer bottle at the woman. “Joyce Kilburn was the name of the woman shot to death at the day care center. By your men, operating under your orders.”

“It was an accident.”

“If I brought her husband and three children here, what would you say to them? Oops?”

“I don’t know this word. But I would tell them that I was sorry, and that if it were in my power, I would change everything for them.”

“Including my kidnapping?” Louise shot back.

Still María did not look away. “No, that I would not have changed. You were a means to an important end that had to be accomplished as quickly as possible.”

“They drugged me.”

The faintest of smiles raised the corner of María’s mouth. “They were idiots. But you gave a good account of yourself. They were finally very glad to be rid of you.
Pavorosa,
was the word they used. Formidable, dreadful.”

“Where are they now?”

María shrugged. “Havana, I suppose. I didn’t have the time to deal with them.”

“But you let Mac and my husband escape. Why?”

“It was a little more complicated than that. My house was under attack, and had I been there, the same consideration wouldn’t have been given to me.”

And there it was, the crux of the matter in Louise’s mind. A constant, almost an axiom, that people of María’s stripe held dear: The United States was expected to play fair, to play by the rules, while everyone else could do whatever they wanted, including 9/11. They could kidnap anyone and cut off their head. But God forbid we grab them and take them to a place like Guantánamo Bay, clothe them, house them, feed them, supply them with Korans, and find out—by sometimes admittedly harsh means—information needed to save American lives.

Impossible, Louise thought, to argue religion with a believer.

“My questions stand: Why did you let my husband and Mac get away, and why did you give the order to have me released?”

“Because I’d found out what I needed to know, and I found out that my father had been right when he’d promised that Mr. McGarvey was an honorable man who might be persuaded to help if he understood the true nature of what he was being asked.”

It sounded like a carefully rehearsed speech. “So you’ve made it this far, what next? Because if you think that by some twisted sort of logic, you’re going to convince him to find a treasure and turn it over to your government, you’re deluded. Worse than that, nuts.”

“Not to the government, to the people.”

“Save it for the gullible, Colonel, because when Mac gets here, he’s going to want the truth, not bullshit.”

“I am telling the truth,” María flared. “I burned my bridges in Cuba to come this far.”

“You burned your bridges because you found yourself in the middle of a power struggle. With your father’s death, you were vulnerable. It would have been only a matter of time before you found yourself behind bars, probably in front of a firing squad. You ran for your life.”

“And the lives of my people!”

“Your people,” Louise shot back. “Who the hell are you trying to kid? What did you really come for? Political asylum in trade for secret information from inside the DI? The true skinny on your father’s monstrous treatment of
your
people?”

“Mr. McGarvey believes me,” María said. “And so does your husband.”

“Right.”

“Otherwise, why did they go to Mexico City to see Dr. Diaz, the historian my father wrote about in his journals? And why did they go to Seville? It means something.”

“It’s not the possibility of a Spanish treasure hidden somewhere after several centuries that is under serious question. It’s your motivation, Colonel, that nobody believes.”

“Well, someone does, because the DI tried to get to me in Miami, and there’s little doubt that they’ll try to find me here.”

“To do what, give you legitimacy?” Louise demanded. She found that she was becoming disturbed, not just by what the woman was saying, but also by what she
wasn’t.
No apologies, no defense for her actions. María León was a believer, but of what?

“Maybe just that. Or maybe if the DI succeeds in assassinating me, you’ll finally believe that I was telling the truth.”

“You’re a mass murderer.”

“An apparatchik, a functionary,” María said weakly.

And Louise laughed. “Delusional. And it would almost be comic if people like you didn’t have actual power.” Otto had told her that María had almost certainly been trained by the KGB in Moscow. “Is that what you learned in Russia? To blame the system for your excesses—or would you rather call them mistakes?”

A look of genuine anguish made María’s face drop. “I was alone for most of my life.”

“Save it for the confessional,” Louise said harshly.

“I’m here to help.”

“To help yourself.”

“No,” María said. “You have to believe me.”

“We’ll see,” Louise said, and she glanced out the window at the deepening gloom of late afternoon, wishing that Otto and Mac would get here soon. She’d felt competent all the way to this point, even through the ordeal of her kidnapping, But now she felt as if she were in over her head, and she needed help.

FIFTY-FOUR

Fuentes sat in the back of a Capital City Florist windowless van just around the corner from the brownstone where López’s operatives had traced the two women. From here, the sophisticated low-lux cameras and surveillance equipment sensors and antennas had clear sight lines to the rear and west sides of the three-story structure. But nothing electronic, mechanical, or infrared was showing up on the scanners. All they had was the dim early-evening visual image on one of the monitors, and although he was disappointed, he wasn’t surprised; the woman and her husband were technocrats.