Havana Storm Page 22

  Sandecker shook his head. “There are other events in play that involve the President. At the moment, we can’t afford to stir the pot with the Cubans. That means no Navy, no Coast Guard, and no State Department. And no cowboy rescue attempts from NUMA. Check with me in another forty-eight hours and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “They might not have forty-eight hours.”

  “My hands are tied.” Sandecker rose from his desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to shower and dress for a cabinet meeting in forty minutes.”

  Gunn could only nod. He shuffled from the office with an angry despair. By the time he exited onto the street, his despair had turned to resolve. He dialed a number and waited until a gruff voice answered.

  “Jack, this is Rudi. How soon can you meet me in Miami?”

  53

  The warmth of the morning sun only added to Maguire’s fatigue. The mercenary pulled his hat down low over his eyes and let his mind wander. After an all-night reconnaissance of the white yacht, he and Gomez were bleary-eyed. They’d earn their paychecks shortly, he thought, envisioning the celebratory plate of crawfish étouffée he would enjoy upon returning to his home in Baton Rouge.

  “I have a small boat heading toward the target.”

  Maguire cocked open a tired eye. Gomez was hunkered down below the gunwale at the other end of the skiff, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  “How many aboard?” Maguire asked.

  “Three, plus the pilot. One looks like our man.”

  Maguire looked toward the shoreline. The skiff was positioned two hundred yards offshore of the white yacht as they engaged in more pretend fishing. The former sniper wielded his own binoculars and zeroed in on an aqua speedboat racing from shore. One of the yacht’s security patrol boats peeled off on an intercept course. But rather than challenge the speedboat, it looped alongside and escorted it to the yacht.

  “Better start the video,” Maguire said. “Let’s see if we can get a positive ID.”

  While Gomez swapped his binoculars for a video camera, Maguire pulled out a waterproof satchel and retrieved some photos. They all showed the same person: a short, fit, older man with gray hair, glasses, and a thin mustache. Most were distant shots, none particularly clear, but it was all they had been provided. Maguire passed the best one to Gomez. “What do you think?”

  Gomez had already studied the photos. He took a glance, then checked the video camera’s zoomed-in display screen. “The guy in the gray suit looks like our boy.” He took a second look at the photo. “You know, there’s something familiar about him.”

  Maguire nodded as he took another look at the speedboat—and the man in gray. The hair, the glasses, even the clothes seemed to match the photo. Alone, that wouldn’t be enough for his usual precise manner of doing business. But his employer had told him to expect the target to visit the yacht in the morning and there he was. He reached into his satchel and powered on a small transmitter.

  The speedboat slowed and pulled astern of the yacht. Gray Suit’s two companions climbed up a stepladder first and helped the older man aboard. From their cropped hair, hefty builds, and ill-fitting suits, Maguire could tell they were a security detail. They escorted the older man into the main salon, then returned to the speedboat. With the patrol boat at its side, the speedboat raced back toward shore.

  “Strange that his security detail left him aboard alone,” Gomez said.

  “He’s probably got a girlfriend on the way, or maybe one already waiting for him in the master cabin.”

  “If so, she must be invisible. I haven’t seen any sign of life aboard in the last twenty-four hours.” He looked at his partner. “Video’s still running.”

  Maguire nodded, then pressed a red button on the transmitter as casually as flipping a light switch.

  It sent a radio signal to the antenna Maguire had wrapped around the mooring buoy the day before. The transmission triggered a battery-induced charge to the detonator caps in the plastic case suctioned to the yacht’s hull. Their detonation in turn ignited the five pounds of plastic high explosives.

  A low bellow echoed across the surface as the yacht rose out of the water in a fountain of smoke, flame, and debris. By the time particles of the yacht began raining in a wide, circular swath, Gomez had the skiff’s outboard motor started. Any remnants of the yacht that didn’t disintegrate in the blast quickly vanished under the waves.

  As Gomez motored the skiff away, Maguire observed the scene with a morbid satisfaction. No man could have survived the blast, he thought. Then there came another rumble, this one from his stomach. All he could think about was crawfish étouffée.

  54

  General Alberto Gutier’s large corner office in the Interior Ministry Building was a model of vanity. The large-windowed suite, commanding a prime view of Havana’s Plaza de la Revolución, was plastered with photos of himself. Some showed Gutier as a handsome young officer commanding troops in Angola. Others showed him speaking with one—or both—of the Castro brothers. A few even showed Gutier with his own brother. But most were solo portraits of the man, gazing into the camera with mercurial poses of self-importance.

  A look of aggravation registered on the flesh-and-blood face of Gutier as his younger brother strolled into the office. Juan Díaz, who had been given his late stepfather’s surname while a boy, helped himself to a seat in front of Gutier’s massive executive desk.

  “You leave the country for a week, and when you return, there is nothing but chaos,” Gutier said. “You know I can’t afford any exposure with the mining operation—especially now. What is going on up there?”

  “An American research ship, the Sargasso Sea, came snooping around the Domingo 1 site as we were concluding extractions.”

  “Isn’t that the same vessel that happened by when you sank the drill ship?”

  “The Alta. Yes, that was happenstance. But there was no happenstance in their return to the site. If they are to be believed, they were tracking plumes of mercury that are being released in the sea when the thermal vents are blown.”

  “I told you that was a mistake to sink the drill ship.” Gutier scowled.

  “If we didn’t clear the site, we couldn’t complete our excavation. And if we didn’t complete the excavation, we would fall short of our promised delivery.”

  “You are naïve,” Gutier said. “This vessel is CIA, and they’ve discovered our deal with the North Koreans.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve confirmed that the mercury releases are occurring. Quite a large disturbance has been created from the Domingo 1 site.”

  “Will that be of harm to Cuba?”

  “No, the currents will carry it northeast.”

  “That is good but no proof of the Americans’ intentions.”

  “The vessel’s history tracks to strictly oceanographic projects,” Díaz said. “And we found no weapons or covert equipment aboard the ship. As you know, one of its submersibles was caught examining our excavation. Two men from the American ship then snuck aboard the Sea Raker and caused some damage. Commander Calzado felt it imperative to launch a counterassault, which you authorized. This was successful and the research ship has been relocated to our territorial waters.”

  “There was no choice,” Gutier said, “but now we are playing with fire.”

  “I feel the same, but it has already been done. There has been no outcry from the Americans yet, so we still have time to bury things.”

  Gutier relaxed slightly. “This still has the potential to blow the lid on our entire project.”

  “I’ve performed some calculations,” Díaz said. “We now have sufficient quantity to exceed by twenty tons our first delivery, which, incidentally, is scheduled for pickup tomorrow. I’ve taken the liberty of accelerating our final shipment to three weeks from today. Our customer has arranged for shipping accordingly.”

  “That�
�s two months earlier than we agreed.”

  “Yes, but the ore at Domingo 1 has proved a much higher grade than the previous sites. The customer will accept a reduced quantity on the second shipment if the ore contains a uranium oxide content exceeding thirty percent. We’re seeing amounts surpassing fifty percent, and I expect Domingo 2 and 3 to show similar yields. I’ve sent explosives to the sites in order to open the vents as soon as possible. If we blow the vents and begin extraction immediately, we can meet the shipment schedule. We just need to keep the Americans at bay until then.”

  “You are asking a lot, but I suppose we have little choice,” Gutier said. “What about the mercury poisoning? I believe Domingo 2 and 3 are much larger thermal vents.”

  “Yes, it could create an environmental disaster for the Americans.” Díaz stared up at a portrait of his brother, wearing his finest dress uniform while astride a black stallion.

  “Alberto, it was I who discovered the uranium deposits during our oil surveys with the Mexicans. I was merely investigating the possibility of mining gold or silver from the vents. The existence of uranium—and in such high content—was a complete surprise. Yet it was you who saw the potential to use it to strengthen Cuba in the world. Our own leaders are not even aware of what you have accomplished.”

  “Which makes it all the more damaging if things are revealed too soon.”

  “You knew the risks when you engaged the North Koreans. Trading a thousand tons of high-grade uranium ore for a pair of tactical nuclear missiles was a bold gesture—and it remains such.”

  “Bold but risky,” Gutier said. “I regret to say it was not even my idea. The Koreans wish to enlarge their nuclear arsenal and are short the raw materials to do it. The issue just happened to surface while we were discussing a small-arms trade. Still, it is a brilliant proposal.”

  “A nuclear-armed Cuba will no longer be a pushover for the Americans,” Díaz said.

  “We will take a rightful seat among the world’s powers.” Gutier clenched his fist, recalling their father’s death at the Bay of Pigs invasion. “Unfortunately, the deal can still unravel quickly.”

  “Not with half the order going out tomorrow. But what of your own status? I thought you were anticipating some movement soon.”

  Gutier checked his phone. “I am waiting for news at any moment.”

  “The people look up to power,” Díaz said. “Bringing these weapons to Cuba will make you the country’s most powerful man. You will have achieved something that even Fidel could not.”

  The words played on Gutier’s ego and his anger softened. “I am still concerned about this American ship and the possible repercussions.”

  “We can say they were defecting.” Díaz smiled. “Convert the ship to our own use and quietly send the crew to a political prison.”

  Gutier stared out the window, searching for a better idea. His phone beeped and he found an anonymous email with a video file attached. He played the twenty-second clip and a wide smile crossed his face.

  “This changes matters.” He held up his phone and replayed the video.

  Díaz watched as a man boarded a yacht, which moments later blew up in a massive fireball. A shocked look crossed Díaz’s face. “That man on the boat—he looks a lot like Raúl.”

  “It is Raúl. He was in the Cayman Islands for a meeting of the Community of Latin American and Caribbean States. I had privileged information that he would be staying aboard a yacht owned by the Cayman’s deputy governor.” Gutier beamed. “It would seem there was an unfortunate accident.”

  Díaz shook his head in disbelief. “My brother, that is a risky operation.”

  “It was handled by outside elements. Professionals who have no interest in talking even if they thought they were killing somebody else.” Gutier gave a wry smile. “My only regret is that Foreign Minister Ruiz was not aboard. He was scheduled to have joined Raúl but canceled at the last moment.”

  “An audacious action nevertheless. On the heels of Fidel’s passing, it will be a great shock to our country. Perhaps it is best that Ruiz was not there as suspicions might have been directed at you. On the other hand, you are still left in a precarious situation. The foreign minister is a lock to succeed Raúl, once our feeble vice president succumbs. You will not be able to maintain your position of power when that happens.”

  Gutier showed no concern. “Perhaps you have provided the means to prevent that from happening.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The Americans. They played right into our hands. Ruiz has made no secret of his desire to make peace with the United States and expand trade and tourism. His affection for America has always been his vulnerability. We’ll exploit it by implicating this NUMA ship in the death of Raúl.”

  Díaz’s face lit up. “Of course. The public will go berserk if they think the Americans killed Raúl. We can make it look like a planned coup, an attempt to install the foreign minister as head of the government.”

  “Just the whiff of a connection would be enough for the Council of State to turn their back on Ruiz,” Gutier said. “If not, I may be able to call on enough comrades in the military to back me in a temporary takeover while the charges are investigated.”

  “The only thing better would be if you could claim credit for capturing the assassin,” Díaz said, his eyes dancing with inspiration. “Forget the research ship, we can go one better. I’ll give you the American in charge, a man named Pitt, who was aboard the submersible. We can pin the assassination on him.”

  Gutier considered the prospect. “Yes,” he said, “we can certainly manufacture evidence to link him to the explosion. We’ll have a public trial, which would boost anti-American sentiment . . . and assure in the process that Ruiz is disgraced.”

  “And it will allow us to proceed with our deal with the North Koreans. But what should we do about the NUMA ship?”

  “I have heard of no private inquiries from the American government,” Gutier said.

  “Nor has there been any public reaction.”

  “Then sink the ship with all hands,” Gutier said. “It would be better not to have a chorus of denials. We can say it was lost in an accident. Or if the Americans resist, we’ll claim it was a CIA ship in our waters supporting Raúl’s assassination and the attempted coup. In the meantime, take a military helicopter to the facility to retrieve the prisoner and I’ll arrange for it to appear as if he was apprehended in the Cayman Islands.”

  As Díaz nodded, there came a knock at the door. A portly secretary entered the office with a troubled look on her face. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s been a news report from the Cayman Islands. It seems a boat the president was visiting caught fire and was damaged. There’s speculation that the president may have been injured.”

  Gutier nodded at his brother and rose to his feet. “This is terrible news,” he said, escorting the secretary from the office. “We must find out the truth of the matter at once.”

  55

  The Russian-built Mil Mi-8 helicopter flew in fast over the hills, slowing as it came to the clandestine mining facility. The pilot approached the concrete landing pad and set the chopper down on its center. He let the engines idle as Díaz unstrapped himself and hopped out an open side door.

  Molina waited to greet his boss, an armed guard at his side. Díaz turned to peruse the dock as he stepped off the helipad. The barge and tug were gone, replaced by a Liberian-flagged bulk carrier named Algonquin. The shore crew was busy working the dock conveyor, loading uranium ore into the ship’s holds.

  “I’m happy to see that the Algonquin has arrived on time,” Díaz said. “The barge is safely away?”

  Molina nodded. “The fires were extinguished without incident. She has already met up with the Sea Raker. They should begin laying explosives at the Domingo 2 site within a few hours.”

  “Good. Where are the A
mericans?”

  “Follow me.” Molina led the way to the open garage on the lower level of the barracks. Pitt and Summer sat on a bench in an empty corner, with two armed guards positioned a few feet in front of them.

  Díaz approached with a twisted sense of amusement. “I understand you enjoyed some extracurricular activities while I was gone. Your attempt to damage the barge and dock was futile, I am happy to report. Our excavation will continue unabated.”

  “Blowing up those thermal vents will poison the seas for a thousand miles,” Pitt said. “Cuban waters and beaches won’t be immune.”

  “You are wrong, Mr. Pitt. The Florida Current will carry it all to American shores. It will be your country’s problem, not mine.”

  Pitt gave him a steely gaze. “It will be your problem when the world discovers you caused it intentionally as part of your uranium mining operation.”

  Díaz chuckled. “That’s not about to happen, my friend. Now, on your feet.”

  The guards jabbed their assault rifles at Pitt. He rose, and Summer followed suit.

  Díaz looked at her and shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be going with him this time.” He turned to the guards. “You will be escorting him to Havana. The helicopter is waiting.”

  Summer looked him in the eye. “Why are you taking him to Havana?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know?” Díaz gave a reptilian grin. “President Castro is dead and your father has been implicated in his assassination. He will be going to Havana to stand trial.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Not at all. Numerous witnesses will place him at the scene.”

  Díaz nodded at the guards, who pushed Pitt forward.

  Summer stepped in front of the guards and embraced her father.

  He gave her a reassuring look as he whispered in her ear to keep calm. But his insides were churning. He had no regard for his own plight, but the last thing he wanted was to leave his daughter behind with Díaz. The guards gave him no choice and he was forced toward the helipad.