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A dead CIA agent's
fingerprint at a
crime scene is the
first link in a
deadly chain!
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
Copyright @ 1980 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations ina review,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental,
'Nick Carter' ' is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast Publica-
tions, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Office.
A CHARTER BOOK
First Charter Edition October 1980
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PROLOGUE
A stolen Bell Telephone truck stopped on the corner
of Nassau and Liberty Streets in Manhattan. Two men,
dressed in Bell coveralls, exited from the passenger
side. The ü•uck idled conspicuously as the assailants
removed a manhole cover from the street alongside it.
They climbed down the steel ladder below street level,
closing the cover behind. The truck moved away at a
casual clip. It stopped. The driver and his accomplice
parked, then entered a brown, 1976 Mercury Cougar.
Below the street, the uniformed men searched the
underground for the cables which provided electricity
for the Chase Manhattan Bank one block away. Their
flashlights probed the darkness. The first man, an elec-
tronics and communications expert, found the main
trunk line without difficulty. He reached into his grip
for the cutting tools, then passed them to his partner.
Together, they severed the seven one-and-a-half-inch
cables. Within seconds the large urban bank would be
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NICK CARTER
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isolated—without telephone or alarm systems of any
kind. Their mission completed, the two conspirators
climbed the ladder leading back onto the street. They
replaced the manhole cover, then entered the waiting
Bell Telephone uuck. Below the front seat lay a suit--
case. In it were two .38 pistols, a rifle and a sawed-off
shotgun.
The 1976 Mercury Cougar circled Chase Manhattan
Plaza. With a Browning P-35 automatic strapped below
his arm, the group leader stepped from the car. The
driver patiently waited, a lookout. Since police car
passes had been timed in advance, he expected no
problems. He reconnoitered the Plaza and its surround-
ing area as the group leader entered the bank lobby.
Dressed in a conservative three-piece business suit, he
greeted the Chase Manhattan guard with a smile. They
chatted casually. "Ihe group leader glanced to his
Omega noting the Bell truck as it pulled
onto Wall Street, then parked. 10:25 A.M., everything
was on schedule.
A teller entered the office of bank manager, Law-
rence Sheffield.
"The phones have gone dead, " he reported.
Sheffield picked up his desk phone. "Nothing," he
muttered disgustedly. "Get hold of Bell. Tell them to
get down here right away. "
"Yes, sir. "
lhe teller turned to leave. Sheffield placed the re-
ceiver back into its cradle.
"No—wait," he said thoughtfully. 'Get the police
first. I don't like this at all. "
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NICK CARTER
isolated—without telephone or alarm systems of any
kind. Their mission completed, the two conspirators
climbed the ladder leading back onto the street. They
replaced the manhole cover, then entered the waiting
Bell Telephone üuck. Below the front seat lay a suit--
case. In it were two .38 pistols, a rifle and a sawed-off
shotgun.
The 1976 Mercury Cougar circled Chase Manhattan
Plaza. With a Browning P-35 automatic strapped below
his arm, the group leader stepped from the car. The
driver patiently waited, a lookout. Since police car
passes had been timed in advance, he expected no
problems. He reconnoitered the Plaza and its surround-
ing area as the group leader entered the bank lobby.
Dressed in a conservative three-piece business suit, he
greeted the Chase Manhattan guard with a smile. They
chatted casually, The group leader glanced to his
Omega wristwatch noting the Bell truck as it pulled
onto Wall Street, then parked. 10:25 A.M., everything
was on schedule.
A teller entered the office of bank manager, Law-
rence Sheffield.
"The phones have gone dead," he reported.
Sheffield picked up his desk phone. "Nothing, " he
muttered disgustedly. "Get hold of Bell. Tell them to
get down here right away. "
"Yes, sir, "
"Ihe teller turned to leave. Sheffield placed the re-
ceiver back into its cradle.
"No—wait," he said thoughtfully. "Get the police
first. I don't like this at all."
The two Bell repairmen entered the bank lobby.
niey went to the assistant bank manager immediately.
' 'There's been a localized power failure," one of
them explained. "We'd like to see Mr. Sheffield. "
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NICK CARTER
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isolated—without telephone or alarm systems of any
kind. Their mission completed, the two conspirators
climbed the ladder leading back onto the street. They
replaced the manhole cover, then entered the waiting
Bell Telephone üuck. Below the front seat lay a suit--
case. In it were two .38 pistols, a rifle and a sawed-off
shotgun.
The 1976 Mercury Cougar circled Chase Manhattan
Plaza. With a Browning P-35 automatic strapped below
his arm, the group leader stepped from the car. The
driver patiently waited, a lookout. Since police car
passes had been timed in advance, he expected no
problems. He reconnoitered the Plaza and its surround-
ing area as the group leader entered the bank lobby.
Dressed in a conservative three-piece business suit, he
greeted the Chase Manhattan guard with a smile. They
chatted casually, The group leader glanced to his
Omega wristwatch noting the Bell truck as it pulled
onto Wall Street, then parked. 10:25 A.M., everything
was on schedule.
A teller entered the office of bank manager, Law-
rence Sheffield.
"The phones have gone dead," he reported.
Sheffield picked up his desk phone. "Nothing, " he
muttered disgustedly. "Get hold of Bell. Tell them to
get down here right away. "
"Yes, sir, "
"Ihe teller turned to leave. Sheffield placed the re-
ceiver back into its cradle.
"No—wait," he said thoughtfully. "Get the police
first. I don't like this at all."
The two Bell repairmen entered the bank lobby.
niey went to the assistant bank manager immediately.
' 'There's been a localized power failure," one of
them explained. "We'd like to see Mr. Sheffield. "
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
3
Obediently, he led them to Sheffield's office. Once
inside, the assailants brandished their weapons. A
sawed-off shotgun was held to the assistant manager's
head.
"Open your safe or they'll be scraping this guy's
brains from your ceiling, " he told Sheffield.
Ihe assistant manager lost sphincter control instan-
taneously. Sheffield did not hesitate. Quietly, with no
outward appearance of fear, the distinguished looking
banker led the two men out of his office. Weapons
trained and out in the open, they followed Sheffield to
the huge, steel vault.
At 10:30 A.M.; the group leader's hand slipped inside
of his suit jacket. He produced his P-350 automatic
before the guard had a chance to react.
"One move and you're a dead man," he spat.
The guard was disarmed. He raised his hands into the
air. Together, the captor and his quarry moved into the
business area of the bank as startled customers gasped
in disbelief.
"Nobody leaves!" the group leader screamed,
wielding both weapons like a cowboy outlaw.
He ran to the center of the lobby waving the guns for
all to see, stealing nervous glances at the vault where
his compatriots stuffed a canvas grip filled with money.
Officer Joseph Spinella had just turned his patrol car
onto Liberty Street when he encountered the Chase
Manhattan teller.
"The bank's phones went dead about five minutes
ago," the teller told him. ' 'Mr. Sheffield thought I
should get one of you fellas over there. "
"I'll check it out," the young cop promised. He
called his location into headquarters, then proceeded up
Liberty Street swiftly, without siren.
He pulled his patrol car over near the bank's side
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
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3
Obediently, he led them to Sheffield 's office. Once
inside, the assailants brandished their weapons. A
sawed-off shotgun was held to the assistant manager's
head.
"Open your safe or they'll be scraping this guy's
brains from your ceiling," he told Sheffield.
Ihe assistant manager lost sphincter control instan-
taneously. Sheffield did not hesitate. Quietly, with no
outward appearance of fear, the distinguished looking
banker led the two men out of his office. Weapons
trained and out in the open, they followed Sheffield to
the huge, steel vault.
At 10:30 A.M. ; the group leader's hand slipped inside
of his suit jacket. He produced his P-3S automatic
before the guard had a chance to react.
"One move and you're a dead man," he spat.
The guard was disarmed. He raised his hands into the
air. Together, the captor and his quarry moved into the
business area of the bank as startled customers gasped
in disbelief.
"Nobody leaves!" the group leader screamed,
wielding both weapons like a cowboy outlaw.
He ran to the center of the lobby waving the guns for
all to see, stealing nervous glances at the vault where
his compatriots stuffed a canvas grip filled with money.
Officer Joseph Spinella had just turned his patrol car
onto Liberty Street when he encountered the Chase
Manhattan teller.
"The bank's phones went dead about five minutes
ago;" the teller told him. "Mr. Sheffield thought I
should get one of you fellas over there."
' 'I'll check it out," the young cop promised. He
called his location into headquarters, then proceeded up
Liberty Street swiftly, without siren.
u d his atrol car over near the bank's side
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NICK CARTER
entrance, then walked through the doors. His eyes
scanned the scene. The bank manager and his assistant
were being held at gunpoint. A robbery was-in prog-
ress, his mind clicked. He reached for his service re-
volver. He could not know that the robbery team's
lookout had followed him or that a Remington .38 was
aimed squarely at the back of his skull.
Spinnella took his service revolver in hand.
"Halt! " he cried, crouching into a fire-ready posi-
tion.
lhe two Bell repairmen looked up from their posi-
tions at the vault. The group leader turned toward him
as a torrent of fire came from the bank entrance.
The young officer's cranium seemed to explode as
three bullets ripped through it. His pistol fired as he fell
to the floor. The round grazed the group leader's wrist.
His Omega watch flew into the air and across the vinyl
floor. The lookout pumped a final round into the bloody
corpse as he returned to his post. A deadly silence
followed
"Okay," a voice echoed from inside the vault.
"Ihe group leader held his stinging wrist. He turned
once again to the gaping, steel vault where Sheffield
and his terrified assistant stood, hands raised high in the
air. The two Bell System imposters edged toward the
center Of the lobby.
"Good day, Mr. Sheffield, " one of them said as he
slung the canvas bag over his shoulder.
Weapons still trained on the employees and stunned
patrons, the robbers scrambled past their demolished
victim from the bank and entered the waiting Cougar.
The driver nodded in the affirmative, then put the gas
pedal to the floor. They would exchange this car for a
late model Chevy parked two blocks from the scene
where a fifth man waited.
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NICK CARTER
entrance, then walked through the doors. His eyes
scanned the scene. The bank manager and his assistant
were being held at gunpoint. A robbery was.in prog-
ress, his mind clicked. He reached for his service re-
volver. He could not know that the robbery team's
lookout had followed him or that a Remington .38 was
aimed squarely at the back of his skull.
Spinnella took his service revolver in hand.
"Halt! " he cried, crouching into a fire-ready posi-
tion.
lhe two Bell repairmen looked up from their posi-
tions at the vault. The group leader turned toward him
as a torrent of fire came from the bank entrance.
The young officer's cranium seemed to explode as
three bullets ripped through it. His pistol fired as he fell
to the floor. "Ihe round grazed the group leader's wrist.
His Omega watch flew into the air and across the vinyl
floor. The lookout pumped a final round into the bloody
corpse as he returned to his post. A deadly silence
followed.
"Okay," a voice echoed from inside the vault.
"Ihe group leader held his stinging wrist. He turned
once again to the gaping, steel vault where Sheffield
and his terrified assistant stood, hands raised high in the
air. The two Bell System imposters edged toward the
center Of the lobby.
"Good day, Mr. Sheffield, " one of them said as he
slung the canvas bag over his shoulder.
Weapons still trained on the employees and stunned
patrons, the robbers scrambled past their demolished
victim from the bank and entered the waiting Cougar.
The driver nodded in the affirmative, then put the gas
pedal to the floor. They would exchange this car for a
late model Chevy parked two blocks from the scene
where a fifth man waited.
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
In the lobby of the Chase Manhattan Bank, pan-
demonium spread like fire. Police sirens wailed in the
distance. New York 's largest bank had just been robbed
of three-quarters of a million dollars!
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CHAPTER ONE
Washington was rife with rumors of still more Cen-
tral Intelligence shake-ups as October approached. It
was getting harder by the day to figure just whose side
the Drummond Committee was on as the sting of the
summer's massive firings was beginning to wear off.
Where would it end? A question on the mind of
everyone involved in the U .S. intelligence community ,
including mine, as I entered the Amalgamated Press
and Wire Services building.
I boarded the elevator, then depressed the button for
the sixth floor of AXE headquarters where David Hawk
had his office. I had been called off an assignment in
Kuwait rather suddenly—a sign that whatever Hawk
had on his mind was pretty damn important.
As I entered Hawk 's large , sparsely furnished office ,
I could see that the door to his inner office was ajar.
Inside, I could hear my boss 's gruff, demanding voice
as he alternated between English and a questionable
Spanish dialect. I knocked lightly just as Hawk was
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7
hanging up the phone. He heaved a heavy sigh, then
looked up wearily. He was under the gun for some-
thing. Then again, these days what intelligence man
wasn 't.
"Carter, " he uttered as much to himself as to me. He
waved his hand in the general direction of a chair. "Sit
down. "
I obliged.
"You were in Kuwait. When did you get in?"
' 'This morning. I got your cable yesterday. From the
sound of it, I figured time was at a premium. "
Hawk nodded his large head. He chewed the end of
his cigar. "You might say that. "
He stared straight ahead, his expression reflecting
the delicacy of the subject he was about to broach.
'Carter, I don 't have to tell you what's going on here
in Washington these days. Times are tough. They have
been for months. On AXE, the CIA, everybody even
vaguely involved in covert operations. "
' 'I'm aware of that, sir. "
'Yes, well, I 've never had to ask you this before, but
off the record, how does this affect you?"
"The bad press, the Senate hearings, Congressional
guidelines, " he enumerated them with the wave of his
cigar. "What do you think about these things, person-
"Off the record?"
He nodded.
'SI think they've hampered our work to a large de-
gree. In some cases , jeopardized U. S. security. Look at
Iran. "
' 'What would you be willing to do to stop it—
hypothetically, of course. "
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NICK CARTER
I smiled inwardly. Philosophy was not Hawk's.
strong suit, yet that's what he was talking.
"These periods in history come, then go when
people realize the necessity of a strong intelligence
organization. I view it as passing, though none too soon
for me. I, personally, will wait it out, sir. "
"I thought so, Carter," said Hawk, granting his
approval with the squint of an eye. It was his way of
smiling. "You know where to draw the line. "
' 'Yes, sir. "
"Fine," he said, pulling a manila folder from his
top desk drawer. "Because the assignment you 're
about to undertake may well call for the restraint only a
seasoned professional of your caliber can offer. "
He tossed a dossier to me from across the mahogany
desk. I looked through it cursorily. It included the floor
plan to a bank, an eight by ten glossy of an unidentified
man, assorted news clippings from the New York
Times and the blow-up of a partial fingerprint.
'The main branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank was
robbed of $750,000 on Wednesday, Nick. "
"I read about it this morning," I said, leafing
through the information.
' 'Five men—all killers now. A work of genius in
many ways. Alarm and telephone lines severed. Stolen
Bell System uuck and uniforms used by the thieves to
gain entrance into bank offices. No witnesses; almost
no clues. "
' 'You said 'almost'. "
"Just that partial print you're holding. It was taken
from a shattered Seems one of the men left
it behind. "
I looked the photo over. "A commonplace bank
heist? What's the angle?"
' 'A robbery, yes. Commonplace," he chortled,
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9
"not by a long shot. You see, our lab men think that
partial print belongs to a CIA agent named Graves,
Warren Graves, "
"Graves?" I repeated, trying to place the name. I
placed it all right. "Graves died on a mission in
Rhodesia three years ago. "
"That's right, " said Hawk. ' 'At least that's what the
evidence indicated until now. "
"It's just a partial. Couldn't it be a coincidence?
There must be more than one man with this whirl
pattern. It's not complete. "
"Maybe. "
' 'All right. Where to from here?" I asked.
c 'That's up to you. Find out if Graves is our man. If
so, see that the authorities take him with as little embar-
rassment to his former associates as possible. "
"That's it?"
"For now. "
I shrugged. Ifthat was all he had to say, I knew it was
with good reason, Hawk's motives were beyond ques-
tion with me.
"Yes, sir. "
I rose, then walked toward the door.
S 'Carter, " he called after me.
' 'There could be much more to this than meets the
eye, " he said. ' 'Let's just say that I have my suspicions
and don 't want to prejudice a second opinion. " He relit
his cigar, staring dead at me. "I'll be in touch."
The Canadian headquarters for the commando unit
was located in southern Ontario. 'Ihe nearest town,
Chapleau, was nearly fifty miles away; a remoteness
which the group leader had found appealing three years
ago when construction of the barracks-like structure
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NICK CARTER
was undertaken. This night, he cut an almost fatherly
figure as he stood before the four otheis who comprised
his faction. Forty-eight years old, casually but neatly
dressed it was only his eyes and perhaps the taut,
strained lines of his face that intimated a personality as
deadly as he was fanatical.
' 'All of us here have been victims, " he began. "Vic-
tims of wholesale firings, Senate hearings and outright
doublecrosses while in the service of our country.
Stripped of pensions, disgraced, left with no prospects
for the future, we have been sacrificed to a bureauracy
that has ceased to protect our nation from foreign and
domestic threat. That situation is over, gentlemen,
over!
Ihe men applauded and cheered.
f 'Okay, okay," he said quieting them. "I know
you're anxious and excited, and you should be. The
free world is deteriorating as we sit here tonight, but
this group of brave , dedicated Americans is going to do
something about it! The Russians outmaneuver us in
Africa, Ethiopia and Latin America. Castro's Cuban
forces erode our strength in Angola, Nicaragua and the
Caribbean. The Shah of Iran is undermined and deposed
while U. S. Intelligence Agencies look on helplessly;
shackled by law, by media and Congress. Our mission
could not be more clear. We have the weapons accumu-
lated. We have the financing from our latest mission.
More, we have the expertise to get the job done. " He
looked around the table.
"Bob Sublett, small weapons expert. Dick Lee,
electronics and aviation engineer par excellence. Harry
Candy, linguist and marksman. Dave Long, explosives
and mechanical technician. " Graves paused a moment
to let his men savor the possibilities. "We have here, "
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11
he said at last, "the means to change the face of the
future. "
Ihe members of the group contemplated his words,
one looking to the other, nodding their conviction.
"We're with you! " offered Bob Sublett enthusiasti-
cally.
"You can count on it! " voiced another.
' 'That's fine, ' ' the leader said, distributing copies of
a photograph, "because our first target is going to be a
domestic Communist. A writer for the Washington
Post who's wHtten about each of us at one time or
another. He's sabotaged U. S. missions abroad, pub-
lished the identities of various high-level operatives
and boasts responsibility for the current Drummond
Committee investigation into CIA abuses. "
A rumble of discussion ensued as the men viewed the
picture of the popular columnist. It was a PR photo of
the writer smiling, staid and intellectual.
The group leader placed the picture down on the
table like the trump card in a game of bridge.
g 'Gentlemen, I give you our first victim. Lawrence
Burke of the Washington Post. "
By that time the next night, Larry Burke would be
dead.
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CHAVrER TWO
The drive to the CIA headquarters in Langley, Vir-
ginia, was one I had taken many times before, but today
I couldn 't help but have an odd feeling about my meet-
ing with the new Deputy Director for Plans. I'd never
met Jim Stratford, though I had heard he was
levelheaded and fair. However one chose to view it,
this was going to be an embarrassment to the Agency. I
decided to take a bright aggressive attitude for the
meeting I knew DDP Stratford would rather not have to
endure.
The CIA complex was huge, "Ihe impression I could
never quite shake was that it was like a city unto itself:
isolated in locale; independent, yet bustling and thriv-
ing with no need or desire for outside interference. I
signed a roster in the lobby, then showed my standard
identification. It made no mention of AXE as only a
handful of people knew of its existence, those being
agents and their administrators who reported directly to
the President.
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13
I asked to see Stratford and was surprised to find an
attractive brunette waiting in the lobby as my escort.
"Hello. My name is Margot Kidner," she said,
extending her hand with a dazzling smile.
I accepted the handshake. , Her hand was long and
delicate. Far more engaging than Stratford's, I was
sure.
"Glad to meet you. I'm Nick Carter. "
"I know," she said.
We walked through the west wing conidor to an
elevator which took us to the third floor where the
executive offices were housed. It was disconcerting to
see how many of my former friends and contacts were
absent either by choice, reassignment or for other,
more obvious, reasons.
f' You work for Jim Stratford, Miss Kidner?" I ven-
tured.
"In a manner of speaking. I'm an agent. But please,
call me Margot."
"That would be my pleasure, " I chimed, giving her
a casual once-over.
This girl was a doll. She had sharp, intelligent fea-
tures with a busty figure that tapered to a pair of legs
that begged for further examination. My eyes raised in
time to meet hers. She didn 't seem to mind the atten-
tion.
"Mr. Stratford's office is the first one on the right,
He'll be expecting you. "
I walked the short distance to Stratford's office as
Margot disappeared into the maze of corridors. As
she'd said, Stratford was waiting.
"Mr. Carter? Please have a seat, " he said, greeting
me. "I've heard a lot about you. "
"Ihe DDP closed the door behind me.
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NICK CARTER
I sat in a leather chair set before his large, polished
desk.
"It isn 't often that we have the pleasure of direct
contact with your office, but it's always with good
reason. "
"This time is no exception," I said, taking the
Graves file from my attaché case, "so I'll get right to
the point. Do you remember an agent of yours named
Warren N. Graves. "
"Why, yes, of course I do. " He sat back leisurely.
' 'But as you probably know yourself, Graves was
killed, oh, about three years ago. It was in Rhodesia as I
recall. "
"Yes. I know that's what the records say, but is there
more to it? Say, another story that the records can't
tell?
Stratford snickered. "Come, Mr. Carter. There's
only one story. "
"Do you remember how he died?"
"I do. He was shot to death by a band of nationalist
guerrillas. It was a tawdry affair. A mistake, if the truth
be told, on their part. You see, Warren Graves had been
sent to Rhodesia to support their cause. One of those
quirky deals; we'll call it a misunderstanding. In any
case, he died in service and was brought back to Ar-
lington for burial; a hero's burial. "
' 'I don't think so," I said, pushing the Graves dos-
sier across his desktop. "Warren Graves is alive. Ac-
cording to our people, he participated in a New York
bank robbery three days ago. "
"You're joking. "
' 'That wouldn't be very funny. "
Stratford read the AXE report momentarily. He
viewed the fingerprint and newspaper clippings, then
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chuckled, tossing the file back onto his
"And this is what you're going on? A smudged
"There's more. "
"Trust me. "
The Deputy Direcibr shook his head. "What are you
going for? What am I supposed to tell you? "Ihat
Graves 's death was faked so that he could take to rob-
bing banks for the CIA? Let Larry Burke write that one,
it suits him. But you?"
"I'm only telling you what I've been asked to look
into. "
"Well, it's a dead end. Warren Graves is in Gray
Stone Cemetery in Arlington. He died a hero while in
the service of his country. There is no other story. This
fingerprint? knows? This whirl pattern is no abso-
lute identification. It's a coincidence."
"And we leave it at that?"
"Carter, logic can 't take it any furåer. There's sim-
ply nothing to it. i'
I flashed him a quick smile. "So be it. "
We shook hands. With that, I made my way out of
his office. To my delight, I found Margot Kidner wait-
ing for me.
"I'll walk him down, Jim. "
' 'Sure thing—and Nick. Sorry I couldn 't help you on
that. "
I said nothing.
Margot must have sensed that the meeting went
badly, for neither of us had much to say after leaving
Stratford's office. When we reached the lobby, she
bade me goodbye, then shook my hand formally.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Carter. " she said.
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NICK CARTER
When I opened my hand, there was a note stuck to
the palm. I left the building, then opened it in the
privacy of my car.
"l need to see you tonight," it read. "Billy Martin's
Carriage House, Georgetown. 10:00 P.M. "
I destroyed the note. This could be the break I was
looking for.
The Georgetown section of Washington was buzzing
with excitement. All along Wisconsin Avenue
window-shoppers cruised the small shops and
boutiques while college students bar-hopped and
Washington's elite hailed cabs on their way to
cocktails , dinners and social gatherings in other parts of
town.
The Carriage House had a posh, dignified clientele.
Its atmosphere was restrained and private, yet jovial. It
seemed somehow created for the midnight rendezvous
of well-to-do businessmen with paramours in not-so-
uncompromised positions. No reservations had been
made under either Margot's or my name. I sat at a table
for two, conspicuous in my solitude, then ordered a
jigger of Chivas Regal straight up.
I was quietly savoring my drink when Margot en-
tered. Her nervous eyes caught mine almost im-
mediately. She looked ravishing in a floor-length dress,
cut to reveal at least a tantilizing percentage of her
physical endowments. She sat down at the tiny table as
I attracted the waiter's attention.
"Bourbon and ginger, " she told him absently. "I'm
sorry I 'm late, Nick. But I've been wracking my brain
since I saw you this morning."
"I know why you came to see Jim Stratford today
and I think I can help you. "
The waiter returned with her drink. She made a point
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of telling him that we would call him when ready to
reorder.
' 'Yes, " she said taking an anxious gulp of her drink.
"He asked that I pull Warren Graves's file after you
left. "
"What was in it?"
' 'Nothing you don't already have. Just the official
documentation on his career and death; but there's
something that file doesn 't have recorded. "
"What's that?"
"Graves did die a hero, but he wouldn 't have if he'd
lived three inonths longer. You see, the Church Com-
mittee was about to subpoena him concerning his role
in a Castro assassination attempt in 1961. That coupled
with his part of a failed Rhodesian adventure would
have put the capper on him and his career. Warren
Graves was about to be fired from the agency before
that could happen. "
"Were there others involved?"
Margot nodded, taking down the rest of her cocktail.
' 'Many. Most of them purged during the Church Hear-
ings, others during the Rockefeller House Assassina-
tion Committee's tenure. In any case, I thought you
should know that. "
I mulled over what she'd said. The fog of mystery
was lifting. "Margot, is it possible, even remotely, that
Graves is still alive?"
K'I don't think so. "
"Why?"
"I was at his funeral, myself, " she said. He died, not
a hero as Stratford would have you believe, but he is
dead. "
I took a long, final pull from my glass of Chivas.
"Yet you're convinced there's more to Graves than
meets the eye or you wouldn't be here. "
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NICK CARTER
"I am. There was a bank robbery in New York,
right? I don 't think Graves was involved, but there are a
lot of bitter ex-agents, trained to the gills in combat and
espionage, who I wouldn't put it past. "
"What are you implying?"
"I'm not sure, exactly, but here, " she said, handing
me a sealed envelope. ' 'This is a list of men forced to
resign in the past four years as a result of internal policy
changes. Most have been deserted, left out in the cold;
some after having devoted their lives to the agency.
Maybe it will help you. "
I pocketed the list.
Before I could say another word, I felt the gentle
tingle of Margot's lips on my face. She left with the
promise of another imminent meeting.
I left the Carriage House for my room at the
Georgetown Inn. The night air was brisk as I walked up
Wisconsin Avenue pondering Margot's phrase: Bitter
ex-agents trained to the gills in combat and espionage.
It was newspaper columnist Larry Burke 's custom to
work late on Friday nights. His column, set for the
Washington Post 's Sunday edition , dealt appropriately
with American intervention in the Middle East. Due
to leaks in the Security Council, he had gotten the text
of a conversation held in Paris between a former Iranian
military leader and Maxville Turner of the CIA. He
poured himself a cup of Sanka from the battered ther-
mos he had been using on late night sessions for ten
years. He sipped the black brew, wincing at its bitter-
ness, thinking fleetingly of his ulcer.
Burke placed the thermos cup back on his desktop.
Within minutes, a numbness seemed to stretch out over
him. He shivered with a sudden chili, then pushed his
chair away from his typewriter. He would stand to get
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rid of the tingling sensation in his limbs, he thought.
He tried to get up, then fell back into his seat. His body
seemed unable to perform the actions his mind willed.
He was weak. A drowsy, lethargic feeling spread over
him like the cold wing of some bird of prey; smother-
ing, suffocating, it had him pinioned. Again, he at-
tempted to rise, fighting the tidal wave of weariness.
He got to his feet, leaning on his desktop with one hand.
Keep moving, a voice inside him repeated over and
over again.
He took several, tortured steps, then fell to one knee,
clinging desperately to any sort of consciousness. His
eyes rolled white as a drill of bitter vomit worked its
way up from the pit of his stomach. He had been
poisoned and he knew it. There was nothing for him to
do, but accept this final realization. Seconds later, he
collapsed, dragging a pile of loose, typewritten sheets
down to the floor with him.
Larry "Skip" Burke died with all the symptoms of a
heart attack—as he had lived, friends would say, while
working on a column in the offices of the Washington
Post.
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CHAVrER THREE
I woke up early Saturday morning ready to undertake
the interview of former CIA agents en masse. It
wouldn 't be easy. I 'd studied the list Margot had passed
along and aside from being numerically extensive, the
current whereabouts of each man was anybody's guess.
Dismissed from their jobs, most of them without dis-
cernable histories of employment, where could they
go? Logic had me beginning with friends of Graves.
lhere were a few, some still in Washington.
I grabbed a light breakfast, then lit one of my custom
cigarettes with the initials N.C. embossed on the filter.
I took the cigarette with me to the door, then opened it
to find a busboy leaving off a copy of the morning
paper. I examined the headline: s 'Larry Burke Found
Dead. " "Ihe effect was like that of a physical punch.
I handed the kid a dollar, then closed the door,
absorbed totally in the article which followed:
Larry Burke, veteran reporter for the Washington
Post , was found dead yesterday evening, the victim of
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an apparent heart attack. Mr. Burke's career with the
Post began in 1956. He had gained prominence in the
newspaper field as an investigative reporter. Recently,
Mr. Burke had turned his attention to violations of the
new Central Intelligence Agency's guidelines where
he became the catalyst in a sweeping investigation into
such abuses by the Drummond Committee.
It was with this line that I decided I'd better do some
checking on my own, The police had already labeled
Burke's death natural, as had the coroner. With the
technology available to men like the ones I was after,
local authorities would be of limited assistance at this
juncture. I stubbed my cigarette in an ashtray, then
headed for the Washington Post offices on L Street and
15th, N.W.
When I arrived at Burke's office, a loyal following of
his co-workers was still milling around outside its
perimeter. They included a pair of staff writers, the
paper's editor, Jerry Leland, and several of his young
researchers.
I showed Leland some identification marked vaguely
'Government Investigator,' which he accepted. He
then took me into Burke's office. It was surprisingly
small for a reporter of his stature; cluttered with
mementos and plaques. His file cabinet was locked.
"Were you here this morning?"
"Yeah. Early, maybe one c'clock, or so. 'Ihe
maintenance guy found him. Thought he was asleep at
first, then realized he was dead. He called me. Can you
imagine? Not the cops or an ambulance—me. Ah, I
guess I can understand it. Larry and I were very close. ' '
' 'So you were here before the police?"
"About the same time. "
'Since you knew what the office looked like before ,
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4
you'd be able to tell if anything was missing, is that
true?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Just this; I need to know if anything was taken. A
file? Research material or reports? Can you tell me
"Probably, Mr. Carter, but I don 't think anything is
missing. Larry was what you might call a workaholic.
He pushed himself. He had a bleeding ulcer. Doctors
told him to stop, but it was no use. Tell you the truth, I
couldn't even get him to slow down. No, I don't think
you'll find any funny business here. Heart attack?
"Ihat's the way I figured he'd go—working overtime,
guzzling that liquid poison from his thermos bottle. "
I looked to the thermos bottle toward which he had
gestured.
"Mr. Leland, I'm not going to trouble you anymore.
I can see how badly you feel. " My one hand brushed
his back lightly as the other reached for the metal
container. "One small thing, though. Do you mind if I
take this with me? I'll return it if you like."
"Return it?" the editor chortled. "Keep it. What the
hell do I care? I've got a paper to run. "
I left the Post building, then took a cab to AXE
headquarters on DuPont Circle. There, I submitted
Burke's thermos and its contents to our laboratory
where it would undergo chemical analysis.
While awaiting the results , I did some research of my
own at the Washington library. Going over micro-
filmed copies of the Post, it was apparent that Larry
Burke had been a busy man over the past few years.
From his recent bolstering of the Drummond Commit-
tee's investigation, to CIA assassination attempts
against Castro and Allende in the Kennedy Administra-
tion, Burke had singlehandedly attempted to dismantle
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the U.S. intelligence network. In a particularly interest-
ing column dated March 1977, the Post reporter had
actually identified foreign CIA operatives, One of the
names which struck me immediately was that of W. N.
Graves operating in a surveillance mission in Rhodesia.
I duplicated the column on the copying machine; add-
ing it to the file marked, R.F. dossier—Renegade
Faction.
When I returned to the lab that afternoon, our techni-
cians confirmed what I had suspected all along. To
Burke's coffee had been added intocostrin, the phar-
maceutical name for curare, the poison used by some
South American Indians to poison their blow darts.
Normally injected, it was the acidity of the coffee that
opened up the capillaries around Burke's ulcer so that it
could enter the bloodstream. When administered in
small amounts the drug would simulate the symptoms
of heart failure, causing paralysis of the nervous sys-
tern, The coffee in Larry Burke's thermos was literally
loaded with intocostrin.
The largest of the rooms at the commando Canadian
retreab was darkened as Bob Sublett stood behind a
projector. The four remaining group members sat
alongside him watching a five by five foot movie
screen. A film shot just one day earlier was about to
begin. Sublett started the projector. ne first image to
appear was that of a Mercedes Benz driving into the
executive parking lot of the Central Intelligence build-
ing in Virginia.
"Maxville Turner drives a 1980, white Mercedes
Benz," Sublett stated in a matter-of-fact voice, "Vir-
ginia license plate IHM306. He parks to the back of the
main office building in a reserved space. "
The car stopped. Its engine died as Maxville Turner,
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NICK CARTER
recently sworn in Head of the CIA, exited. Turner was
a handsome six-footer. His square jaw and clear, blue
eyes bespoke his profession as he stood, then
straightened his Yves St. Laurent suit jacket.
"'Ihat's our man, boys, Maxville L. Turner. Sworn
in after John Stansfield's forced resignation in August.
He was the President's hand-picked successor. An ad-
ministrator of some stature, but soft as they come in the
guts department. It has been suggested that Turner was
one of Burke 's chief sources. A weak-link whose major
concern is to establish stability in the U. S. intelligence
system. "
The film cut now to Turner leaving his home with
Lisa Turner, his blond wife and their seven-year-old
daughter, Allisson.
"Turner lives at 3819 P Street in North West,
Washington. His wife Lisa is thirty-four, devoted and
religious; a 'born again' Christian, or so People
Magazine says. She likes painting and music, and
attends an evening class at George Washington Univer-
sity. Iheir daughter Allisson is in the third grade at
Xavier Elementary School nearby. As for Turner, his
activities are not so limited. He plays raquetball on
Wednesday mornings and likes to catch nine holes of
golf at Arlington County Country Club in die after-
noon. "
"Ihe image of Turner with a young woman was pro-
jected into the screen. 'Ihe two were entering the Rive
Gauche, a Washington restaurant.
"Mr. Turner's attention has of late turned to another
extra-curricular activity. "
'Ihe film showed Turner and the woman at the Cellar
Door, a nightclub. Next seated together at a table at
Trader Vic's in the Hilton Hotel. The image froze at a
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frame of a smiling Tumer with the girl at a political
function at the Shoreham Hotel.
' 'The young lady we've been seeing, boys, is an
agent in our fomer organization. Twenty-six years old,
single and living in Fairfax. Turner has taken a fancy to
her. relationship exists between them is difficult
to say at this time, but she is absorbing an increasing
amount of the Director's attention. Her name is Margot
Kidner. "
lhe projector's lever was switched to the "off"
position. The group leader flicked on the lights to the
room.
"Excellent work, Bob. A fine piece of research
which I think will be important to our mission. "
He moved to the front of the room as Richard Lee
distributed dossiers on the Turner mission.
"l think what we see here is a solid opening. Turner
frequents a number of Washington night spots with his
young companion and without any security. As Bob
had proposed prior to this screening tonight, Maxville
Turner can be disposed of with relative ease. Further, if
our cards are played wisely , we eqn leave the inescapa-
ble impression that his death was the work of foreign
agents. A genuine advantage in that we can, perhaps,
awaken the public to the real dangers of foreign opera-
tives in the U.S. while displaying an obvious need for a
more aggressive intelligence operation of our own. "
Graves lifted a photo from his copy of the dossier. It
depicted Maxville Turner shaking hands with the Pres-
ident at his inauguration. He held it up. "In a nutshell,
my loyal patriots, CIA Director Maxville Turner will
be our next victim. "
My efforts at reaching former agents, as recorded in
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NICK CARTER
Margot's list, was going horribly. Yet, despite this, I
was never more certain that a link between Larry
Burke's murder and the Chase Manhattan robbery
existed. Most of the names were good but the addresses
were obsolete without exception. Many of the ex-
agents had left the Washington area permanently with
no hint of their current whereabouts. So far as family
ties, few had anything to say about their relations ex-
cept that depressed and embittered they had left the area
and, in some cases, the country fearing eventual crimi-
nal prosecution. Several were in detention centers cur-
rently. Among them, Glenn Ludin, serving a three year
sentence in Allenwood Penitentiary in Pennsylvania. I
took the short flight there two days after Burke 's death.
Allenwood was a rambling, minimum security
prison commonly referred to as the "country club. " It
housed some three hundred inmates, most of them
white and upper middle-class. Their transgressions
were generally not of the street crime variety: forgery,
computer extortion and business fraud were the going
fare. I saw Ludin without' complications. We chatted
over coffee in the cafeteria.
"Warren Graves, huh? Yeah, I know him. He died;
had the whistle blown on him by that Burke fellow a
couple of years back. It was a goddamn shame, letting a
Commie like Burke publish a list of foreign operatives.
I couldn't believe what I was reading the day that Post
rag came out." Ludin shook his head, then took a
thoughtful slow sip from his coffee cup. "But Burke
got his, didn't he?"
"I guess you could say that, but why?"
' 'Ask the Post. They're the ones calling it possible
homicide. You read Jerry Leland's editorial today,
didn't you?"
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"Yes. And assuming that's true, who do you think
did it? "
Ludin grimaced. "You kidding? How should I
know?
' 'The way I get it, you and Graves were pretty tight
when you served in the agency together. Burke put the
finger on Graves years ago. I think there 's a connection
you know something about, Glenn. "
The convict said nothing.
"You've got two more years to serve. The Justice
Department would look favorably on any leads you
could give us. I can promise a parole if you drop a name
or two now. "
Ludin chuckled sardonically. "The Justice Depart-
ment? I don 't think so, Carter. This place is pretty nice
in Spring. I'd kind of miss watching the dogwood trees
blossom; white, full flowers. Very pretty , you know. ' '
"How about your family, Glenn? What do they do
while you go ecstatic over nature?"
"Stick it, Carter. I don't need this crap. Not now.
I'm in a prison in case you haven 't noticed. Justice
Department! Between them and idiots like Burke and
Drummond my life has been destroyed. Do you know
what I think about at night—alone and aching for the
family I used to have?" Ludin leaned forward, his face
distorted with hatred. He stared, eyes wide and hands
trembling, then fell silent.
I swallowed hard as the former intelligence man's
expression melted.
"Glenn, is Warren Graves still alive? 'Y
A thin smile crossed his lips. "Graves is dead. He
died in Rhodesia in 1977. " He answered drily.
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CHAVrER FOUR
The "1789" Restaurant ono Street rests just above
the Tombs, a college pub frequented by Georgetown
students from the university two blocks away. An ele-
gant establishment, famous for its French and Ameri-
can cuisine, it was for this young, sophisticated atmo-
sphere that Maxville Turner chose it as a meeting place
for him and Margot Kidner. The two would dine incon-
spicuously at the '89, then walk downstairs to the
Tombs where they could enjoy a cold, draft beer in the
bustling environs of the latter.
Turner smiled inwardly as his white Mercedes
moved across the Key Bridge with Margot at his side.
She was young, probably too young if he let himself be
objective, but her freshness and beauty made such
mundane truths seem trivial. More, he recognized that
Margot was good for him. In her youth, Turner found
solace; an escape from a world where "image" and
"public face" were all that seemed to matter. Even
now, their relationship remained cordial, intimate only
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in the spiritual sense. A part of Maxville Turner rev-
elled at such adjecti ves; emotions lost to him until now.
The white Mercedes pulled up to the curb in front of
the "1789" Restaurant. A valet walked toward the
sedan. He opened the door for Margot as Turner
stepped from the car on the driver's side. He left the key
in the ignition and the engine running. Maxville Turner
and his lovely escort could not know that watching
from a rented 1979 Chrysler were two men bearing
Russian-made 9 mm Lugers. Their names: Richard Lee
and Harry Candee.
Turner walked around the back of the Mercedes as
the valet took his place behind the wheel. I ee and
Candee left their car for the street as Turner met Margot
on the sidewalk. He took her hand into his own. "Ihe
two assassins approached their victim from opposite
sides. Both wearing hats, the brims tilted low to
obscure their faces, they honed in on their prey as the
couple approached the heavy oak doors of the restau-
rant.
"Maxville Turner! " one of them called.
A myriad of impulses shot through the synapse and
nerve endings of the Director's brain. Who? Why? He
hesitated whether to acknowledge, but pivoted with a
smile as the killers let loose with a barrage of fire.
Turner was struck in the face and chest. A section of
brain tissue flew onto Margot's gown as he reeled
backward, still accepting bullets from the blazing Lu-
gers.
Margot's hand reached for her mouth as she
screamed, then uttered something incomprehensible. It
was too late for Maxville, she knew without thinking,
but instinct bellowed that she run behind the safety of
the oakwood doors. She turned as one of the doors
opened. A heavy set man, the restaurant owner, stood
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NICK CARTER
mouth agape. Checking the commotion, he could never
have expected this, but his luck was bad and as Margot
rushed passed him, three bullets hit inches to her right:
one pierced the door, two others lodged themselves
deep in the proprietor's fleshy, upper torso.
Margot ran to the back of the restaurant. Her pur-
suers launched an abortive start, but realized the folly
of their effort. One innocent man had already been
killed. The girl would have to be forgotten.
Candee and I ee looked to one another in frustration.
They ran to the car, then entered. Candee gunned the
engine and they were off to M Street and 33rd where
they abandoned the Chrysler for a Lincoln Continental.
Stripping their jump suits, they were left respectable
dressed in stylish blazers and tailored pants. They then
drove the Continental over the 14th Street bridge
headed for Dulles Airport where they would board a
private plane for Chapleau. All within a scant five
minutes.
Margot Kidner washed her gown in the lady's room
of the "1789", sobbing freely. With the disturbance to
the restaurant's front, few, if any, of the customers
noticed. She washed her face, then viewed herself in
the half-length mirror. She drew a deep breath, attempt-
ing to regain her composure. Her chin still quivering
with fear, she left the '89 by way of the side, Prospect
Street, exit.
Once outside, Margot reconnoitered the area around
the restaurant's front, few, if any, of the customers
a crowd assembled around the bullet-ridden bodies of
Turner and his unsuspecting companion in death. Brac-
ing herself, she walked through the crisp, fall night
toward the main Georgetown campus where she hailed
a cab.
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"Wisconsin Avenue, " she told the driver in a firm,
steady voice. "The Georgetown Inn. "
When the knock on my door sounded , I 'd been going
over the tape of my interview with Glenn Ludin.
Answering its I was taken aback by the sight of Margot.
Her blue eyes were blood red as she reached for me,
sobbing.
' 'What happened? What the hell happened to you? ' '
I asked incredulously, accepting her into my arms.
S'lt's Max," she uttered. "They've killed him!"
I held her at arms' length. "Turner?"
She nodded.
"Who did it?"
"l don't know. Two men. They shot him over and
over again. He's dead. There's no doubt about it. "
I led her to a chair, then moved toward the bar where
I poured a hefty shot of Jack Daniels.
"Here," I said, handing it to her. She gulped it
down. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, but Max," she blurted, clutching the
glass tightly in her hands, s 'it was horrible-—horrible ! "
"Take it easy now," I said. "Easy."
Once Margot's jangled nerves settled, I asked the
basic questions. She had little detail to add. It had been
an assassination; brazen and slick.
I reached for the phone, then dialed a number I'd
committed to memory for only a handful of such
emergencies. It was Hawk's number.
"Yeah," the voice on the other side rumbled. He'd
been asleep.
"Hawk, this is N3. Turner has been shot. I hear he's
dead. "
"Jesus Christ! Any arrests?"
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NICK CARTER
"Do you know who did it, Nick?"
"I have no way of knowing for sure, but this Graves
investigation is panning out to register one hell of a
conspiracy. "
"What do you mean?"
"You know what mean. Graves and his group of
ex-intelligence men are on a hunting spree. "
"Okay, okay," Hawk's voice came back sagely.
"We've come to the same conclusion. Can you prove
"Not yet. That's why I'm calling. I need you to fix
something with Stratford in Langley. We're going to
settle this thing once and for all and there's only one
way to do it: we've got to exhume the body of Warren
Graves from its tomb in Arlington. "
There was a long pause.
Hawk sighed heavily.
"Be at Gray Stone Cemetery 11:00 A.M. tomorrow
morning, " he said at last. "You 'II get what you need. "
With that there was a click. David Hawk had spoken.
I hung up the receiver. Margot had finished the drink
and seemed nearly herself again. We had another. By
midnight she was sleeping soundly. Next to her, resting
on the Chippendale night table was a .38 caliber pistol.
The next morning was overcast and dreary. A fine
drizzle fell from above us as three mirthless individuals
watched the cemetery workers shovel what damp
earth remained over the casket of Warren Graves. Earth
moving equipment had been used to dig the initial few
feet of soil, but three quarters of the way down it was
decided the rest should be finished by hand. Out of
respect for the dead, or undead as the case might be, the
workers didn't want to risk shattering the coffin. The
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last few shovel fulls were thrown overhead. At last, the
hollow, ringing sound of metal striking metal.
"We got it now, sir, " called out one of the men in an
Irish brogue. "It won't be but another five minutes. "
Hawk looked to me uncomfortably. An ambulance
idled noisily behind Margot and me. The cadaver
would be taken to Washington Memorial where the
police medical examiner would run comparative
studies between these remains and the extensive infor-
mation Central Intelligence had on file concerning
Graves.
"Well, sir, that about does it" the worker's voice
resonated from below. ' 'Lift her up steady, Jim," he
instructed his companion as he climbed up from the six
foot deep hole.
Ihe second worker cranked a make-shift pulley.
Slowly, eerily, the deteriorating coffin rose from its
confines; a resurrection of sorts. When the casket
reached ground level, it was shifted to one side. The
man then lowered it onto the sodden earth. The chains
around it were disengaged.
"He's all yours, sir, " the Irishman smiled, rubbing
the dirt from his hands.
"Thanks, " I retorted coolly. I motioned the ambu-
lance driver and his assistant over. "Let's get this box
loaded. "
Hawk stepped between the men and their work.
"Wait a minute. " He looked back to the cemetery
worker. "Open it."
The man's eyes widened. "The casket?"
g 'You heard me. I want to know there's a body in
there before we leave. "
The worker shrugged, then muttered something.
"Yes, sir."
He walked to the coffin , then shoved a spade beneath
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NICK CARTER
the lid, He jerked the shovel upwards leaning his
weight into the motion. ne lid snapped open. Hawk
peered inside as the Irishman turned away from the
emanating odor of rotted flesh.
Hawk nodded as he viewed the withered remains.
"It's here," he said turning to me. ' 'Now let's get this
thing loaded. "
"Ihe men carried the coffin to the waiting ambulance.
Hawk, Margot and I watched, then left to follow in a
separate car. As we entered, I turned back to the ceme-
tery plot. Behind us lay the grave; open and strangely
tenantless ,
The better part of the afternoon was spent waiting in
the office of the medical examiner. These results would
spell out the reality or fantasy of the case I had been
developing. If the exhumed body was that of Warren
Graves, it would mean starting all over again, re-
evaluating every shred of information AXE had ac-
cumulated. On the other hand, if the body was someone
other than Graves, the foundation of my theory would
hold: there was indeed a plot of gigantic proportions
underway. For now, we waited, nervously sipping cof-
fee from cardboard containers, speculating on the pos-
sibilities.
Nearly three hours had elapsed before the chief med-
ical examiner called for us. We entered Dr. McCor-
mach's office.
"What have you decided?" Hawk asked bluntly.
*Ihe doctor nodded sympathetically.
'It wasn 't an easy comparison. " He offered by way
of an explanation. "The size, age, frame—even the
dental records, were almost exact. Still, certain incon-
gruities are impossible to avoid. " He held up an X-ray.
"This collar bone, for example. Notice the white line
running through this upper section of the clavicle? It
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indicates a break. Hairline, veryold and probably sus-
tained in youth. But that, gentlemen, is all that it
takes .
"For what, doctor?" I asked impatiently.
"Why, to prove that this cadaver is not that of
Warren Graves. You see, Graves never broke a bone in
his life. X-rays taken during an annual check-up in
1976 tell us as much. "Ihey indicate a remarkably agile
and sturdy skeletal structure with no breaks or fractures
whatever. "
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CHAVI'ER FIVE
The NBC television cameras scanned the panel of
questioners on "Face the Nation" from Brendon
Wright of the Wall Street Journal to Roger Whitcomb ,
of the Baltimore Sun, to William Lassiter, of the New
York Times. The director motioned to Roger Mudd, the
moderator. "Ihe program had less than ten minutes
remaining. Mudd acknowledged the signal with a curt
nod. He turned to his guest Senator Peter Drummond as
the commercial announcements concluded.
"Senator, in the few minutes remaining, I'd like to
open this forum to questions from our panel of re-
porters. ' '
' 'By all means," he chimed.
The Senator watched as the camera 's red light moved
from him toward the panel. He mopped away the per-
spiration which had masked his handsome visage with a
handkerchief,
' 'Let's begin with Mr. Wright of the Wall Street
Journal. "
Wright shuffled some handwritten notes, then
looked up with an alert, pinpoint expression.
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' 'Senator Drummond, your committee has recently
exposed another in a series of allegations against our
U. S. intelligence organizations. Can you tell me what
it is that you hope to gain as a result of such inquiries? "
"Yes, " the Senator snapped back with crisp aggres-
siveness. ' 'The Congress worked long and hard with a
broad section of intelligence personnel to establish
guidelines to which U. S. agencies were obliged to
conform. As the prior Church and Rockefeller Commit,
tees revealed, this was a necessary framework under
which their power was to be confined. Political assassi-
nations, drug experiments, illegal wiretaps and other
abuses which came to light proved that the Central
Intelligence Agency had simply gotten out of hand.
Now, five years later, we are confirming those checks
and balances . . . making certain that these necessary
guidelines are being followed. "
Wright shot a square glance across the studio. "Are
they, Senator? Are the guidelines being followed?"
"It would seem that irregularities are the exception,
Brendon. "
"Ihe moderator focused his attention elsewhere.
"Mr. Whitcomb, of the Baltimore Sun. I believe
you're next. "
The cameras turned to Whitcomb for a close up. He,
too, was perspiring freely, as a result of the studio lights
overhead.
"Senator, as you know, Maxville Turner, Director
of the CIA, was murdered last week. By my lights, it
was an assassination pure and simple. What will be the
repercussions of this? Are we going to find this yet
another assassination mystery like that of Jack Ken-
nedy?' '
Three cameras pushed forward simultaneously to
capture Drummond's reaction. He appeared visibly
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NICK CARTER
moved as camera three took in a flush, frontal shot of
his face from behind the panelist.
"Max Turner was a personal friend of mine. His
death shook me probably as much as anyone in the
country. He was dedicated. He was one of the men who
cooperated wholeheartedly with the President and
Congress in reorganizing U. S. intelligence operations.
No, I can't say that his murder was an assassination
though it has all the earmarks. I can say that the new
director will be a man of Max Turner's caliber and that
he will uphold Max 's vision of an effective, but respon-
Sible agency , As for an assassination mystery who am I
to say? The case rests in the hands of local and federal
law enforcement officials. ' '
"Lastly, Mr. Lassiter. We have less than three min-
utes remaining," Roger Mudd reminded.
Lassiter frowned,
"Very well, then. Senator, I'd like to know if the
United States has an effective intelligence organization
at this point in time. With a multitude ofproblems in the
Middle East, with Fidel Castro's growing influence in
places like Nicaragua, Panama and the developing Af-
rican nations, how do your hearings affect the CIA's
ability to cope with an increasingly hostile Third
The Senator's calm seemed ruffled. From out of the
melancholy sentimentalism of seconds before seemed
to emerge a tiger of a man smitten by the directness of
the probe.
"Mr. Lassiter, these situations will present them-
selves throughout the 1980's and the Central Intelli-
gence Agency is prepared to survey them, to report
their extent and probable cause, but nothing more. The
nations of the Third World have the right to self-
determination. 'Ihe United States can and will influ-
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ence them where possible, but it will not interfere with
that basic human right. Fidel Castro is not the mrd
World 's savior and the people of those countries you 've
mentioned realize that. As recently as this September,
factions of the Cuban rightwing called for his abdica-
tion. No, Mr. Lassiter, the CIA has not been emascu-
lated. It has simply ceased its unethical practices
abroad so that the U. S. can be recognized for what it is:
the place for uue freedom in the Western Hemi-
sphere. ' '
Lassiter's face reddened. "But, Senator, in the past
five years seven countries—S'
Roger Mudd interrupted.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, time is up, " fte moderator
bade his audience return next week for the second
segment of the series.
*Ihe television voices sounded hollow and remote as
"Face the Nation " concluded and the program credits
began to cross the small screen.
Robert Sublett moved toward the set. He switched it
off, then turned to the four additional viewers behind
him.
"Same swill, new Senator, "
he complained.
"Where the hell is all of this going to end?"
Warren Graves ruminated.
"It will end, as planned, on Thursday evening! Are
there any questions about your instructions?"
None of the four had any. Candee stood. He rubbed
his hand across his face, perplexed.
"Warren, we've got just two more missions before
we're out of this group one way or the other. One
domestic, the other international. With everything
going so smoothly, why jeopardize everything with a
living eyewitness still at large?"
' 'The girl," stated Lee.
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NICK CARTER
"Yes. The girl," Candee responded emphatically.
"We know who she is. We know where she stays. Why
risk a witness in the event that one or more of us doesn 't
make it to Cuba?"
Graves acknowledged the remark instantly.
"It's been taken into account, Harry. That's why
we're going to separate into two groups on Thursday. It
won't be easy, but I think we can take care of her and
Drummond with a well-planned, coordinated effort. ' '
Candee felt a warmth of enthusiasm rise in fis chest.
It seemed topump color into his sallow complexion. "I
agree wholeheartedly. A hardhitting, coordinated ef-
fort. "
I was sitting at a table overflowing with information
tying the crimes of recent days with the motive we had
ascribed when Margot entered. She was excited; so was
I. The documentation had jelled to form a pattern—a
prime candidate for the renegade faction 's next murder.
Margot added another file to the growing collection.
"I've been working with your laboratory people and
the Washington police all morning. "
"Yeah?"
"Two of the bullets that killed Max and the restau-
rant owner had markings similar to those found after the
Chase Manhattan robbery last month. It isn't conclu-
sive, but odds are they were fired from the same
weapon, by the same man. "
"I figured as much. "
Margot's blue eyes lit with ardor. ' 'This is hard
evidence, Nick. A print first, now this. The FBI is
circulating pictures of Graves all over the country.
We're close. "
I didn't share her enthusiasm. Five men had been
killed already. Close wasn't cutting it with me.
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"Look," I said, beginning freshly. "I've formu-
lated a link between the robbery on September 25th, the
Burke murder on October 15th and Max Turner 's death
on October 29th. "
I uncovered a schedule I'd charted and placed it
before her on the table.
"The robbery, let's assume, was carried out for
money. Money to finance this unit of ex-CIA men.
With the money procured, they set about the business
of eliminating the major figures involved in the current
intelligence investigations one by one. Burke, who
blew Graves 's cover in 1977, was a major contributor
of information and media coverage for the Drummond
Committee. Max Turner, responsible for mass firings
less than a year ago was scheduled to testify before the
Committee this month. "
' 'That makes sense," Margot agreed. "It would fit,
but what's next?"
"Glad you asked. " I revealed the final link as I saw
it. "There's only one man left if the motive follows
through. Liberal, opposed to all outside CIA interven-
tion into the workings of foreign governments, his
committee promises to begin a shake-up identical to the
one Graves and his men fell victim to. More, it's his
hope to police Congressional guidelines with an eye on
subjugating intelligence operations for good. I could be
wrong, but it's worth a chance. "
Margot stared at the hit schedule's last entry aghast.
"My god, we've got to warn Senator Drummond. "
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CHAVI'ER SIX
Working through Jim Stratford's office, the Senator
was contacted immediately. He asked that I see him at
his office, but upon Stratford 's insistence agreed reluc-
tantly to an appointment at his home that night.
Senator Drummond lived in McLean, Virginia, on a
seven acre estate. He came from a long line of Eastern
wealth and as I took my Lotus up the winding drive that
led to his home, I couldn 't help but feel the isolation of
a man insulated from reality. Was the entire world an
extension of this estate to him? I wondered. What
would happen if this bubble of wealth and security were
deflated—what kind of man would be left?
I parked my car to the side of the asphalt loop which
arced the house front. "Ihe mansion, itself, managed to
be exquisite, yet tasteful in its traditional American
design. In the distance, a chestnut Hunter fed idly in its
pasture. I stepped out of the car. The house was white
with black trim. Wrought-iron railings framed either
side of the blue slate staircase, while a heavy, brass
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knocker graced the oak door. Underneath a golden
nameplate spelled simply the word: Drummond. No
more needed to be said.
I sounded a moderate tap on the door. Ihough I'd
expected a servant, it was Drummond who answered. I
introduced myself. He grunted, then invited me into his
study.
I'd never met the Senator though his family and
their politics were legend. He was a fair-sized man still
muscular at fifty-five, but not physically imposing.
Drummond made it known early along that he hadn 't
wanted to see me.
"I don 't often invite people out here, Mr. Carter. It's
a bad practice, but Jim Stratford thought it best. "
I seated myself before him without invitation.
"I 'm not in the habit of inflicting myself on people I
can assure you, Senator. "
Drummond made no response, but lit a pipe.
"The reason I asked to see you is because I believe
you may be in danger. My organization is investigating
the Max Turner murder as one part in a chain of possi-
ble assassinations. As you know, Larry Burke was
found dead prior to that. We feel that you may be a
future target. "
The Senator took the smoking pipe from between his
teeth. "Target? What on earth are you talking about?
Larry Burke died of a heart attack. "
He leaned forward in his leather chair; a mask of
incredulity came over his handsome countenance. My
expression was as unyielding.
' 'There's speculation, well-founded speculation,
that Mr. Burke was murdered. "
Drummond laughed scornfully. "Why, I don't be-
lieve that. Not for a minute! Larry Burke was examined
by a coroner who testified before my committee. "
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NICK CARTER
"I can prove otherwise. If we had the time, sir,
there's a lot we could discuss, but we don't. lhere has
been a series of murders all of them tied directly to your
committee 's work. *Ihrough a studied evaluation of the
information at hand, I've come to the conclusion that
you will be the next victim, "
"Victim of what, Mr. Carter?" he asked dully.
"Murder, assassination, call it what you like. There
is a group of rightwing fanatics who want to see you
dead. "
"And the purpose of this hit list?" Drummond
asked, sitting back in his chair again, drawing on his
pipe.
"19m not certain, " I admitted. "To stop the commit-
tee's work, perhaps. Vengeance is another possibility.
You see, the group, it would appear, is comprised of
ex-intelligence personnel many of whom were fired as
a result of previous hearings. "
Senator Drummond 's eyes softened to an amused
tolerance.
'Mr. Carter, threats on my life are made regularly,
are you aware of that? If I took every one of them
seriously, I'd be living in a military compound, not
here in McLean. Very well, you 've passed along your
theory and I 've listened. Was there anything else you
wanted?" he asked, rising from out of his chair.
"No, sir. That was all. "
I left the senator's home without formality as none
was extended. Convinced as I was that Drummond was
in danger, I elected to stake out the house at least for the
night. If there was a schedule, Graves and his cohorts
would be striking again—and soon. I called Hawk from
my car phone to request some backup. A round-the-
clock vigil would be maintained henceforth.
Afterward, I gave Margot a buzz at the Georgetown
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Inn. Since Turner's death she had been staying at my
place. It only made sense since she'd witnessed his
murder and, so far as the killers knew, might be able to
identify them. Hawk had squared things with Stratford.
Her assignment now was to stay alive and aid AXE in
its investigation wherever possible. Her day had been
spent at the Amalgamated Building, she told me, going
through photos of suspects, undergoing questioning to
uncover any detail which might evolve into a lead.
News of the stake-out disappointed her, but it was Max
Turner's murder that lingered on her mind. She planned
to lavish in a hot bath, she confided, then retire early. It
was obvious to me after we'd finished that at this point
the beautiful agent needed a friend even more than the
protection of my private room.
It was after 10:00 P.M. by the time Margot Kidner
began drawing water for her bath. She disrobed amid
the warm steam of the tub and the throbbing rumble of
running water. Unexpectedly, a knock sounded at the
door.
"Yes?" she called.
"Room service," the answer came back.
Damn! They had come for the dinnerware. She
thought fora moment, then turned her long, ivory neck
toward the door.
"Can you come back in the morning?"
"Yes, Ma'am. "
Margot felt relieved. ' 'Thank you! " she added as an
afterthought.
Again, her attention turned to the bath. "Ihe luxury of
the steaming hot tub was something she'd looked for-
ward to since the afternoon. "Ihings had gone less than
well in her attempts at identifying Max 's assailants and
that frustration coupled with the endless questioning by
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NICK CARTER
AXE agents had made for a long, tedious day. Margot
entered the water. She lay back, then closed her eyes as
she ran a bar of perfumed soap from her outstretched
foot, to her calves, then down along her milky thighs.
She blinked, startled. Had she heard a noise? Her eyes
widened with fear. Richard Lee stood in the doorway , a
9 mm Luger pointed at her head.
"Very nice, " he commented, admiring her flawless
physique.
Margot covered herself with a towel. "Who are you?
What do you want?"
Lee smiled. "Don't bother with the towel, Miss
Kidner. I think we've both already seen too much. "
Dressed in pea green army fatigues, David Long
and Harry Candee were almost undetectable as they
trotted, low to the ground, toward the Drummond man-
sion. A half moon dulled by the cloudy night cast their
shadows long and distorted on the brown dirt. Their car
had been left one-half mile away on Chain Bridge
Road. They had decided to leg it most of the way in case
there were guests or family members to be dealt with.
-mere shouldn 't be any , they had agreed. Theirunit had
been casing out the estate for days, studying the
Senator's habits , acquainting themselves with the cus-
toms of his wife and their son, Duncan.
Confidently and with precision, Long opened the
wooden outer door leading to the mansion 's basement.
His accomplice, Harry Candee, had seen that it had
been left unlatched this morning while posing as a
meter reader for Vepco Electric. Good luck, it was still
open, Long thought, as Candee moved in beside him.
"Is Drummond still in his study?" Long asked.
Candee nodded.
' 'Let's move. "
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The two entered the basement in silence. Finding
their path with a flashlight, they moved up a flight of
stairs toward the kitchen. They entered the second
level. It was dark and quiet. Both drew weapons as they
proceeded through the plush dining area, then into an
annex leading to Drummond's study.' Ihe infruders
stood on either side of the doorway. Senator Drum-
mond, smoking his pipe, casually skimmed an article
about his committee in Newsweek. Candee and Long
looked to one another from either side of the doorway.
Candee nodded the go-ahead. They entered, weapons
trained on the Senator, as he looked up, startled.
Drummond took the pipe from his mouth, about to
protest.
' 'Keep your mouth shut and you won't get hurt,"
Long growled through gritted teeth.
Candee walked toward him.
"What—what is the meaning of this?" the Senator
blustered inanely.
Candee took a handkerchief from the upper pocket of
his fatigues. "Good night, Senator," he bade as he
clamped his palm tight over Drummond's mouth.
The Senator struggled from his chair, but it was no
use. Candee was stronger and, standing upright, had
the advantage.
Drummond 's last muffled pleas went unheeded. "Ihe
chloroform took effect within seconds. His limp body
slipped from the leather chair; his pipe and its contents
lay smoldering on the expensive wool rug.
Even before the Senator was unconscious, Long had
begun dousing the room with butane. When he saw that
Candee was finished, he spread the fluid closer, in a
circular pattern, around the protracted body. 'Ihe men
waited an additional moment to see that the fire was
catching. It was.
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NICK CARTER
In my Lotus outside the gates of the Drummond
estate, I viewed the light in the Senator's study. I noted
the additional figures with some alarm. I doubted they
belonged to either Michette, his wife, or his young son.
No, these were full grown men. It took only the sight of
smoke rising as a silhouette from within to set me in
action. I turned the ignition, then gunned the sport car
engine, racing toward the mansion. This is it, Carter, I
thought, willing the car to jet on even faster. He who
hesitates is lost.
The Lotus's brakes squealed as it leapt to a halt
before the plate glass windows of Drummond 's study.
The fire had begun to blaze inside. I reached to the back
of the car, grabbing a crowbar, then ran to those win-
dows crashing it into the glass; smashing it in every
direction.
By the time I cleared an entrance way, I could see the
Senator in flames. The entire room was lit with the
intense heat and devouring Fire of Hades as I grabbed
Drummond's body, then dragged it through the shat-
tered windows. It was impossible to know if he was still
alive as actual flames enveloped the lower half of his
body. I rolled him over and over again in the dirt until
the flames subsided. Without stopping to see if he was
dead, I ran to the back of the house in time to see one of
the assailants as he fled from the blazing structure. I
gave chase. Still on the run, he turned and fired once he
caught sight of me. It was a mistake for when he
stumbled, I fired two rounds , one of which caught him
in the chest. He fell. I followed with another shot from a
distance of fifteen yards as he struggled to get away.
This time it was his knee. He was alive, but wouldn 't be
walking away from this one. In the distance, his ac-
complice seemed just a shadow which made its way
mysteriously into the night.
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Candee dragged himself a short distance, but could
go no further. He was in even worse shape than I'd
figured. Wounded in the lower shoulder and with a
shattered knee cap he was bleeding badly and in ex-
cruciating pain. I didn 't think he was going to make it.
I leaned over him.
"Look, Candee, we've got your friends from every
direction, " I said in a soft voice. "We've got evidence
Graves is the boss. It's over, can't you see that?"
He grimaced with pain. His eyes were hazy; he
looked to me in silence.
"Innocent men are being killed. Graves is a lunatic.
Whatever he's toting to do has failed. I've got to know
where the others are hiding. "
Candee snickered contemptuously despite his
agony.
"You've got nothing," he sputtered venomously.
"Even if you know who's involved, how can you stop
us? You call yourself a patriot—the infamous Nick
Carter! We are the patriots. You are the traitors! We're
the ones who are going to clean up the mess this country
has gotten itself into
"How?" I asked in earnest. "How are you doing
that?"
The wounded man raised himself as with some
diabolic strength which his fanaticism afforded.
"You know what Burke was, and Turner and
Drummond, too. You're not so innocent, either. You
play the establishment's game, but you know as well as
I that somebody in our work had to take up the slack.
Well, they're dead: the three of them. 'Ihe Drummond
Committee is over. " He flinched with pain. "Our last
mission is one that even you might approve of, Car-
"What, Candee? What is Graves planning?"
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Harry Candee coughed and laughed at the same time,
He lowered himself back onto the ground, his eyes
shining with pain and triumph. "I can't tell you, Nick
Carter. But remember, what I told you about patriots. If
you do find out, you may want to join, not fight us. "
' 'What is that mission, Candee? I sve got to know. "
My inquiry was cut short by a gasp that sent a flood
of blood gushing from the ex-agent's mouth. I grabbed
him forcefully as if his white lips might yet reveal his
untold secret. It was too late. Harry Candee was dead.
Upon Candee 's departure from this world, I returned
to the Senator. A man servant stood by idly as Duncan,
his son, and Michette, his wife, knelt over the critically
burned man.
"Oh my God! What's happened? What in God's
name has happened?" Mrs. Drummond wailed
pathetically.
I approached. She was in shock. I knelt beside her;
put my ear to the Senator's chest to listen for a
heartbeat.
"He's still alive," I said hopefully as the mansion
crumbled in flames fifty feet away. "Call an ambu-
lance, " I ordered the servant, leaving Mrs. Drummond
with her husband, too badly burned even to moan.
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Warren Graves ' eyes scanned the faces around him.
"Our final mission will be carried out: by this time next
month, Fidel Castro will be dead. "
"Ihe group seemed relieved. The assassination of
Castro had been their chief priority for more than three
years when the planning first began.
Graves looked to Lee, ' 'Your contacts on the island.
Are they still viable?"
"Absolutely. Since my meeting last year with Vas-
quez in Paris, nothing has changed. His position has
never been more clear. Since this Nicaraguan thing, his
supporters are hopping mad. Now understand, I'm not
dealing with him direct. My contact's name is Sanchez.
I can cable him as soon as the date is set. "
"Fine. What about money? Have our State Depart-
ment clearances been forged, the payments made?"
"Yes, " answered Sublett. "But I've been consider-
ing our finances. I believe we should have more
insulation—for pay-offs, I mean. As it stands now, we
don't have it. Prado wants more to spread around
though Dick didn 't mention it, and why the hell not?
We're trusting his men to set Fidel up. It will be our
asses if they go chicken once we've made it there. "
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Graves pondered his words. "Dave, what do you
say?
' 'This is no time for cutting corners. I say we're
going to need all the financing possible. "
"Then it's decided, " Warren Graves stated firmly.
"We must put our alternative plan into effect. Lee, you
will cable your contacts in Cuba. "Ihe date will be
pushed back one month. Bob, I want you and Dick to
fly to Chicago tonight. Spend tomorrow and as much
time as you need casing out the First Bank of Chicago,
State Street branch, for the alternate job we had con-
sidered. Come back with the standard information:
number of guards, cameras , alarm systems and the like.
I don't want any problems with the police, either, so
make sure you spend a full twenty-four hours clocking
patrol cars and the passes they make. "
"You 've got it, Warren."
"Fine.- In the meantime, I will be keeping Ms.
Kidner company. I believe it 's imperative that we know
what her organization has found out about us. I intend
to get that information. Once you two return, we'll
formulate details for the Chicago bank job. And Bob, "
said Graves as an afterthought. ' 'How much do we
need? What's a number we can shoot for? "
Sublett worked some calculations on a scratch pad.
He looked up to the group. "We'll need at least
$150,000. "
"Dave, you did the original study on the bank, Can
we net that much?"
"Depends on the time of month. If we catch them
toward the final week when their cash flow is high, we
should get about that. "
"That's a consideration. Make sure they've got no
less. " With that, Graves closed a loose-leaf binder
which contained his notes and technical information.
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' 'Gentlemen, if all goes well, we will be on the island
of Cuba in less than two months. Within forty-eight
hours of that arrival, Fidel Castro will be dead, the face
of the entire Western world altered permanently. "
The session was concluded. In a cold, damp base-
ment room below, Margot Kidner pondered what on
earth was to become of her.
When I first learned of Margot's kidnap, I couldn 't
help but feel responsible. She had been staying with me
for nearly a month. Maybe I shouldn 't have left her
alone that night, or gone to her employers for help in
some kind of relocation. Yet, she had been enormously
successful in covering the depth of her involvement in
our investigation. I doubted she'd have left on grounds
of safety even at my urging. Was she still alive? That
was the thought that caromed like a bullet through my
brain. The answer, I felt, was 'yes'. Graves and his
cohorts had never been much on niceties. I was certain
that if they'd wanted her dead she'd be that way. As it
was , Margot figured as a nice piece of change for them
to bargain with and this was a warhing for me to back
off. Yes, I thought her alive. More, in the near future, I
expected a communique stating just that.
The investigation was proceeding swiftly after
Senator Drummond 's "accident," as the unsuspecting
newspapers reported it. Informed sources within both
AXE and the CIA now realized the extent of Graves's
dealings and were panicked. The facilities of both or-
ganizations were at my disposal which helped greatly.
Graves had accomplished his objective in disbanding
the Drummond Committee. With tneir main source,
Larry Burke, dead and Turner succeeded by Jeffery
Morrison, an ex-military man, it seemed the tenor of
the CIA had already reverted. Ihe changes were wel-
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comed by many involved, but those who understood
the conspiracy which had brought them about winced at
the thought of what Graves and his men might attempt
next. From Harry Candee's dying observations, I sus-
pected it was big—probably international. With the
worldwide contacts this faction had nurtured over the
years, nothing seemed impossible.
The exasperation of Margot 's kidnap weighed heavy
upon me as I entered my room at the Georgetown Inn.
When I passed the desk, the clerk handed me a mes-
sage. It was from Carl Dobey, an operative who'd
worked extensively with Glenn Ludin, and one of the
ex-CIA men on the list Margot had given me. I couldn 't
locate him weeks before when going down the list,
maybe he'd talked to Ludin; maybe he'd decided to
cooperate.
"Ihe adrenaline built with me as the elevator made its
way up to the tenth floor. Before I'd reached my room,
I had decided to have the phone number traced before
making contact. I called Hawk who agreed to have the
trace run. It would take the rest of the night, at least, to
have the phone's location, he told me. Fine, I thought.
I'd start from my end as the AXE technicians started
from theirs.
I dialed the number, a Washington exchange. It rang
several times before anyone answered,
"Hiya, "
came the muffled, woman's voice,
"Who's callin
I strained to pick up the background. It sounded like
a bar or nightclub from the music and conversation
behind.
"Carl Dobey, please," I answered succinctly.
"Carl? Oh, yeah, sure. Just a minute, Hun. I'll see if
he's still here."
The phone remained silent except for the music and
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the boisterous clatter in the distance. Finally, a low,
gravel voice picked up the receiver.
"Dobey here."
' 'This is Nick Carter. "
There was a prolonged quiet on the other end as if he
was wondering whether to hang up.
"Carl, it's important that I speak with you. No
strings. It could mean some money. "
Dobey's interest must have been piqued. Again, I
heard only his heavy, tubercular breathing. He cleared
his throat.
"Yeah," he rumbled in a coarse voice. "Be at
Joann's on One-half Street tonight. Bring cash. A lot of
it."
With that, the connection was broken. I held onto the
receiver for an additional moment. Was this the break
I'd been waiting for?
Not one to tempt fate, I understood the strong possi-
bility of a set-up in Dobey's suggestion. slipped into a
lightweight bulletproof vest, then covered it with a
button-down shirt. Over this I strapped my shoulder
holster, making certain that Wilhelmina my Luger, was
loaded with a fresh clip of ammunition. A blue blazer
would neatly cover the weapon. I was as ready as one
could be for whatever danger might lay ahead.
Within minutes, I was in my Lotus headed for One-
half Street in southwest Washington. Though I'd never
been to Joann's I knew the location. It was near the
navy yard; one of the tougher and more sordid areas of
the city. I sped down Pennsylvania Avenue, passed the
WW1te House, drawing nearer the Capitol Building.
From there I watched as the pomp and stately appear-
ance of Jenkins Bluff faded for the mundane realities of
ghetto existence. I turned on First street, then headed
down Independence Avenue toward the dreary
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warehouses and abandoned buildings of the shipyard
area. Few Vedestrians were visible until I •pulled onto
One-half Street where a band of derelicts drank their
wine, huddling around a steel oil drum which they'd
ignited for heat. Its flames reached out of the drum as
thick, black smoke poured out in profusion. Finally, I
saw it: a brick tenement obscured by its likeness to all
that surrounded it. The dull, neon sign spelled the name
JOANN'S.
I tucked my car in a space off the main drag, then
locked it. I felt for Wilhelmina with my hand; patted the
weapon reassuringly. There would be no surprises to-
night, I vowed. If necessary, I'd blow away the first
man who made an unfriendly move toward me.
My eyes combed the dilapidated brick structure.
Music tumbled from it like stale air. No one was in
sight. I walked to the door, then opened it. Inside a
crowd of about thirty revelled in the meanderings of a
young homosexual who danced to the back of the bar. I
entered. There were girls, too, I noticed, winding their
way through the drunken sailors and other male clien-
tele who showed only mild interest in the dancer. A
dated disco song by Frankie Valli blared from the juke
box speakers set up around the large , rectangular room.
I walked to the bar.
"Cutty and water," I ordered.
*Ihe bartender stared at me skeptically. A new face,
he must have been thinking.
"Cutty and water," I repeated more harshly.
He placed the glass before me, pouring the Scotch
freely.
I put a fifty on the bar feigning nonchalance as I
scoped out the place. Margot and I had been over
photos of Dobey taken in the early seventies, but I saw
no one bearing even a vague resemblance. Thoughts of
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a set-up persisted. Certainly, I was conspicuous
enough. Superstitions notwithstanding, I turned my
back to the bar in order to observe the door and those
who would stand behind me. My eyes fell again on the
male dancer, who undulated to the back of the large
room. He couldn't have been more than thirteen; a
young "chicken" to the middle-aged pederasts who
eyed him as he swayed, genitals all but exposed in a
fishnet G-string. 'Ihe music persisted, the dingy night-
club seemed alive as a mongrel as cigarette smoke rose
up to its high rafters like a cloud. Joann's was a con-
verted factory, I noted, and suspected immediately that
a false back had been constructed. A second area, not
quite as large as the first, no doubt existed beyond. This
for private rooms and the like, I gathered.
I finished my drink and was contemplating leaving
when an attractive black prostitute fell in beside me.
"Hey, mistah. You lookin' for somethin'?"
"Not something. Someone. "
' 'You not one of them, are you?" she asked motion-
ing toward the homosexual onlookers.
I shook my head in the negative. "Just a man here on
business. "
I placed my empty glass back on the bar. It was
refilled immediately.
"Who you lookin' for?" she asked seriously.
g 'Carl Dobey. "
"Ah, Carl," she purred. ' 'He don't hang round out
here. He be in the back. "
"Could you take me to him?"
I handed her a twenty from off the bartop.
"Why not?" she asked with a coquettish smile,
stroking my crotch with her fingertips. ' 'Follow me,
mistah. "
I felt the bartender's eyes on my back as I walked
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behind her. Under the circumstances, I was not anxious
to move into the closed quarters of any backroom. My
hand reached inside my blazer. I palmed my Luger,
then deposited it in my jacket pocket ready for the
worst.
We entered a door marked "manager" and it wasn't
hard to see where the bulk of the action at Joann 's took
place. As I suspected, it was in this dreary din that
customers counted their favorites for the night. A
heavy-set bouncer type greeted us. He looked me over,
then turned his thick neck to the girl.
"He's with me," she said gingerly.
"Ten bucks, " he demanded,
It was my turn. I peeled a bill from my wallet.
"Come with me," the girl beckoned.
Again I walked with her, my hand on the Luger now.
Half-dressed couples moved like traffic through the
narrow corridor. From the rooms came the low moans
of intercourse and the leather cracks and abusive com-
mands of "English" as the patrons would call it. We
came p a closed door at the end of the hall. ne girl
knocked lightly.
"Yeah?" the voice came back.
"It's Nicole. I got a man here says he wants to see
you, "
A rustling sound came from within. Ihe door un-
locked. It was Carl Dobey who peered through the
crack.
"Come in," he said to me. ' 'Nicole, get lost. "
"Ihe girl smiled a lingering invitation to me as I
entered. Dobey, unshaven and fifty pounds heavier
than his photo told, closed the door. This was his
office. He motioned me into a chair, then seated him-
self behind his cluttered, dishevelled desk. He pushed
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the mass of written records aside with the side of his
"Ludin told me you were at Allenwood to see him.
He told me that you're after Graves. "
"I am."
"Good," he stated abruptly. "I can help you, I
know all about what you think he's done. I also know
what information about him must be worth to you. He
killed Burke. He also killed Turner and did a job on
Drummond. I know that. nat's why you're here. "
I shrugged. "Now tell me something I don 't know. "
Dobey's heavy frame leaned forward onto his desk.
His large head thrust forward.
"What's it worth to your people?"
"A lot. "
"Fifteen thousand?"
"Maybe. "
' 'That's my price. Fifteen thousand and I tell you
what Graves confided—three years ago, before he
fakéd his death in Rhodesia. "
Dobey gave this information as a teaser. He wanted
me to know that he knew as much as we 'd spent months
trying to uncover.
I tossed an envelope onto his desktop. He opened it
greedily.
' enat's three thousand. Tell me what you know. If
it's worth my time, I'll see that you get the other twelve
grand tomorrow. "
"On the barrel. "
' 'Okay. I know you 're not about to blow an informer
like me over a piddley twelve note. Not with a guy like
Drummond out of the picture. "
I nodded.
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"All right, then. I can tell you that Graves tried to
recruit me into his group back in 1976. He wanted me to
quit the organization; go underground for a year, then
rejoin him. "
'Where?
' 'In New York; but that was just a meeting place.
The way he told it, they were going to set up some kind
of headquarters somewhere in Southern Canada, I
think. That's where he wanted to strike from. Just over
the border. Plan in Canada, strike in the United States,
then back over the border again. "
"Who was going to finance all of this?"
Dobey's fleshy face shook as he smiled his admira-
tion for the plan. ' 'That was the wildest part, Carter.
The missions were going to be financed by bank rob-
beries. Big ones. If you were to believe him, he'd
already gotten up most of the money. It was just a
question of what missions needed to be done most. I
figure the Drummond Committee must have been their
choice. "
He opened a desk drawer. It was filled with news-
paper accounts of the murders perpetrated over the
course of the year, The names were circled.
' 'It didn 't take much to figure out what was going on.
Ludin knew, too, but being in prison was afraid to talk.
Me, I don't care. I'm an entrepreneur. "
"Did Graves mention a specific location in Cana-
"No. Just Southern Canada. That's all he said, but
hell, that should be enough. You guys got your ways. "
"What about his next mission, Dobey? Any idea of
what it could be?"
"Watch the news at night, for chrissake. Africa,
Cuba, the Middle East—you name it. Our system is
crumbling, not that I give a damn, but Graves could
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make his move anywhere, even Russia. He's a lunatic,
so are the others. Who's to say what's possible?"
"Do you know the others?"
"No. He would never say. But I don't think it's a
large number. He always talked about a small, elite
group. Those were the words he used, small and elite. I
figure it's no more than a handful. "
"Is that it?"
"That's what I know, but I figure the Canadian
headquarters is the key. Find that and you've found
your men. "
"Thanks, " I said, rising.
"How about the rest of the money?" he asked
nervously.
"You'll get it."
Dobey smiled with gratification. "Say, you want
these? ' ' he asked, holding up the newspaper clippings.
I turned.
"Keep them. You might want to start a scrapbook. "
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The First Bank of Chicago on State Street had had an
exceptionally busy day for the end of the month. It was
late afternoon and the money on hand amounted to
better than $250,000. Each window had turned in its
share for the day , counted and logged into the Assistant
Manager's ledger. This was a first-rate operation and
Jim Freel, who was in charge, was delighted with the
day's efficiency. He had been bucking for a top man-
agement position at one of the bank's many branches.
Maybe his promotion was not so far away after all, he
thought, as two Wells Fargo carriers walked in through
the front entrance. They were a few minutes early, but
with most of the tellers already closed out, they were
ahead of schedule.
The two men passed the bank guard nodding a curt
greeting. Freel looked across the lobby. The guard
shrugged. These were new men; ones he hadn't seen
before. The assistant manager, a cautious man by pro-
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fession, took note of the guard's reaction. His eyes
scanned the bank lobby. Not fifteen steps from the
guard stood another unfamiliar man. Dressed in a
three-piece business suit, he certainly wasn't out of
place, but he 'd been there for several minutes loitering,
casting furtive glances around the bank.
Suspicions aroused, Freel motioned to a female
teller.
"Mary, have you ever seen that man before?"
The teller shook her head.
Freel grunted. "Two new Wells Fargo men. This
strange man milling around the guard. Something is
very wrong here. "
She looked to him in frustration. ' 'Mr. Freel, that's
what I was just coming to tell you. The phones are
dead. All of them. "
Freel's face turned an ashen white. "Go to Mr.
Burdon. Tell him what's happened immediately. "
The Wells Fargo men approached. The Assistant
Manager asked to see their identification. It was in
order.
"You're new men. Wells Fargo policy is to contact
us before they send anyone other than our regulars. "
"Smith is sick. Kendal was rescheduled," one of
them volunteered. "We're just here doing our job, Mr.
Freel. "
Freel paused a thoughtful moment,
"I'm afraid we can 't turn this shipment over to you.
Not until we verify this with your office first."
A .38 Smith and Wesson bulged through the carrier's
pocket. "I don't think that will be necessary, sir. Just
do as we say and everyone will stay healthy. "
*Ihe three men walked to the vault. In the bank lobby ,
the third member of the group disarmed the guard. He
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shoved the helpless man forward toward his ac-
complices, then stood at the bank entrance.
' 'Everybody put their hands in the air and no one will
get hurt! "
Once the vault was opened, one of the assailants
entered. He loaded the neatly-piled bills into his Wells
Fargo sack, as the other pressed a sawed-off shotgun to
Jim Freel's face.
"Don't try anything," he warned. "Who else is in
the back offices?"
"No one."
He shoved the shotgun forward. The assistant man-
ager gasped.
"Let's take a look," the robber barked. "We
wouldn't want any surprises now, would we?"
With this, the two walked toward the manager's
office.
"Knock on the door. "
Freel 's white knuckles struck the wood in a spastic
motion.
' 'Open it. "
Ihe door swung wide. Inside sat bank manager Elliot
Burdon and the trembling female teller.
"What do you want from us?" Burdon asked. "If
it's just money, take it; take it and leave us alone. "
"That's what we want all right—money. But we
don 't want anybody getting any ideas back here, either.
Stand up," he said with a wave of his shotgun.
The bank manager rose warily. Underneath the desk,
in the palm of his hand, he held a .22 pistol.
' 'Come on. Move! " the assailant ordered, pushing
Freel out of the way with the shotgun barrel, Before he
could turn to face Burdon, the manager raised the small
caliber pistol and fired four shots into his side.
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nle shotgun blasted its load into the air, blowing a
two foot square section of plaster from the ceiling, as
the robber fell to the floor. He was dead.
"Jesus Christ," the man in the vault muttered. He
sealed the Wells Fargo sack, then ran into the lobby.
His accomplice seemed shaken as he held the crowd of
bank customers at bay.
"Check it out!" his compatriot shouted, nervously
fanning his weapon around the stunned group.
Leaving the Wells Fargo sack behind, he ran toward
Burdon 's office. In the doorway, he saw the slumped
body of the dead man. One half step behind, he
watched as the shadow of Jim Freel moved from out of
the door, shotgun in hand. It was greeted by a barrage
of fire as three bullets ripped through the assistant bank
manager; one in the head, two in the upper torso. He
fell to the ground with a thud.
Ihe robber trained his pistol in the direction of the
office , awaiting any further reprisals , but no one called
his hand. He fled from the bank offices, retrieving the
sack of money in the lobby. He and his accomplice
escaped through the bank's front entrance as police
sirens sounded in the distance.
"Let's get the fuck out of here! " he screamed to the
driver of the get-away car.
*Ihe car engine roared as the driver responded to his
command. They would be changing carson Adams
Street where a late model Plymouth and a change of
clothes awaited them.
Margot Kidner lay, bound hand and foot, in a
Chicago rooming house less than twenty miles from the
First Bank of Chicago. The building had been unusu-
ally quiet since she 'd arrived there late last night. War-
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ren Graves had no doubt selected the location for pre-
cisely that reason, she calculated. Still, if only she
could strike the floor or rap on the wall, someone had to
hear her. Margot tried desperately to free her hands
from behind. "Ihe circulation in her wrists had been cut
off and even the unconscious twitch of a muscle seemed
torturous. All afternoon she had been thumping the
heels of her feet against the floor, but at this point it
seemed an empty exercise. She was certain that no one
could be living below. Graves and his men, while
obviously mad, possessed the alert maniacal intelli-
gence that often accompanied such afflictions. Yet,
against all odds, she pounded. "Please, please. Some-
body listen," she desperately prayed, but soon after-
ward, her legs again wearied and she lay on the mattress
which had been placed on the floor beneath her,
exhausted.
Margot shivered with fear as saturate as the black
night that enveloped her. Her eyes closed, though she
willed them stay open. Perhaps in defense of her sanity ,
her subconscious triumphed and a deep, death-like
sleep came over her.
lhe sound of the door unlocking awakened her with
a start. She had no idea how much time had passed but
her blouse was wet with perspiration and clung to her
body as she attempted to sit up. The door opened.
Graves, Lee and Sublett entered. They were in a hurry ,
frantic and jerky in their conversations and actions.
"Untie her," Graves ordered.
Margot wondered what was happening. And where
was the fourth man? she asked.
Lee undid the gag which covered her mouth. She spit
out a wad of cotton almost reflexively. I ee untied her
wrists. They were bleeding. She started to rub the raw
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rope burns even before he'd finished. Soon she was
completely free. She stood on shaky legs after having
been bound for nearly twelve hours.
"I'd like to use the bathroom, " she uttered in a quiet
voice.
Graves snickered.
"Go ahead. But leave the door open. No need to be
bashful around us. "
Margot entered the tiny cubicle. A low watt bulb
hung from the ceiling on its wire.
"Dick, I know it's disappointing, but you 'II be stay-
ing behind, " she overheard Graves comment. "We're
hot, too hot now, so Bob and I will go it alone. You
know what to do. "
"No problem. The cables will be sent tonight. And
don't worry, you can count on me. The money will go
to the right people. "
Graves and Sublett seemed to be saying goodbye; but
where were they going? Cables, money , it had to be out
of the country, she thought. They didn't plan on ever
seeing Richard Lee again.
"Okay, sweetie," Sublett called to her. "You've
had plenty of time now. "
Margot left the shabby room. Graves and Sublett
carried two suitcases and were about to leave as she
entered. Graves looked mockingly into her racing eyes.
"How's your Spanish?" he asked her.
Margot did not answer.
"Grab your purse, Ms. Kidner. You'll be coming
with us."
She did as she was told. Graves and Sublett bade the
third man a final goodbye, then they left the shabby,
Chicago rooming house for the outdoors. lhere, they
entered the rented Plymouth. Graves stayed in the back
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seat with Margot as Sublett drove.
"Where are you taking me?" Margot asked as the
car engine started,
"We're going on a little trip," answered the
ringleader. "We'll be leaving from O'Hare Airport so
just relax. The plane ride will be strictly first class. "
Ihe short ride to O'Hare was mostly freeway driv-
ing. ne cold night air seemed to revive Margot's
faltering senses. Her mind ran through the possibilities
with computer speed, but no matter how she figured it,
more questions than answers remained.
They parked the car in the long term lot, then entered
the O'Hare terminal through a basement entrance. With
a gun pointed at her back from within Sublett's coat
pocket, she could do little more than what she was told.
Graves looked to his watch.
"The passengers should be boarding by now. I
suggest we take a walk up to the main terminal. And
Ms. Kidner," said Graves turning to Margot,
suggest you remember that a gun is at your back. "
Margot nodded.
The three took an escalator to the main terminal
where Sublett purchased three one way tickets for East-
ern Flight 924, headed for Houston, Texas, Aware that
his picture was circulating in the offices of every law
enforcement agency in the country, Graves took special
care not to be noticed. The men and their hostage
waited until the plane was boarded before they ap-
proached the ticket agent. They stood with Margot
sandwiched between them, holding their tickets in
hand.
' 'Your ticket please, sir," said the tall, well built
man.
Sublett passed it to him.
"Enjoy your flight. "
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Margot stepped forward. She shot the ticket agent a
significant glance, then turned to Graves.
"l told you, I don't want to go to Houston! " she
complained in a loud voice. "I'm simply not up to it.
I'm just not feeling well at all. "
With these words, she pretended to swoon.
The ticket agent moved to her aid. "Are you all
right, Miss?" he asked.
Warren Graves knelt beside her. "She'll be fine, "
he growled.
- "If there was just somewhere I could go. I'm—I'm
diabetic, you see . . . "
The ticket agent cradled her head. "Well, there is an
infirmary. "
"I don't think that will be necessary. "
"But if she's ill, I can 't have her board that plane, "
the man protested.
Graves produced his 9 mm Luger with lightning
swiftness. "I think you can," he contradicted.
The ticket agent was taken aback. His eyes were lit
with fear, but beneath that exterior a sense of despera-
tion ran deep within him.
Margot, who lay protracted on the ground, reached
for Graves weapon suddenly sensing that the man
would follow her lead. He did and as Graves struggled
to free his gun hand, the muscular ticket agent rushed
Graves fell backward. The gun flew from his hand,
then skipped along the terminal floor. Margot went for
it, but Graves held her back. It was the ticket agent who
retrieved the weapon, but not to his good fortune, for as
he fumbled to place it into his gun hand, Sublett drew
his own pistol.
"Watch out! In front of you!" Margot shouted.
The unsuspecting man had no time to react as the
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would-be passenger fired two shots which sent him
writhing onto the terminal terrazzo.
Sublett stepped forward striking Margot on the back
of her head with his gun. She fell unconscious as
Graves rose to his feet.
"Secure the plane, for Chrissake!" Graves com-
manded as a frightened stewardess ran through the
passenger's tunnel screaming.
Sublett turned, then dashed after her. In the distance,
ahead of him, he could hear the sound of her screams
and the tapping sound of her high heels. He ran breath-
less , until around a bend in the metal tunnel he saw her.
"Stop! " he called, aiming his pistol. "Stop or I'll
shoot!
Soundlessly, paralyzed by fear, the stewardess
stopped, then turned to him.
Sublett charged toward her. "You stay put, my
friend, I will be back for you," he promised as he
sprinted ahead the additional thirty feet toward the
Atop the plane's ramp, the co-pilot and a steward
argued.
"l heard shots!" the steward insisted.
Sublett dashed for the ramp as the men looked on
aghast. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard the lone,
high pitched voice of the stewardess.
"Close the hatch!" she screamed. "That man is a
hijacker! !
Sublett did not bother to turn. Instead, he ran in
desperation up the ramp and toward the plane where the
co-pilot and steward had shut the hatch and were at-
tempting to lock it from within. Ihis had not yet been
accomplished as Sublett made it to the ramp's top. He
tugged at the unsecured door with both hands as the two
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men inside attempted to hold it shut. Finally, he drew
his Smith and Wesson automatic, then fired three shots
through the aluminum hatchway. The warning shots
were enough. The two men moved to either side of the
door as Sublett opened it and entered. With Warren
Graves and his captives in sight not twelve feet behind,
he felt safe in his assertion.
"Hands on your heads everybody. This is a hijack. "
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CHAPTER NINE
News had been breaking fast for me over the entire
week. All of it helpful, none of it conclusive. In Chap-
leau, Ontario, mounties had broken into Graves's
headquarters, but all documentation concerning the
group's raids into the United States had been de-
stroyed. Nevertheless, valuable fingerprints were un-
covered. Ihey gave positive identification not only to
Graves, but to Robert Sublett, Richard I ee and David
Long as well. The latter was redundant. Long, as I'd
learned today , had been shot to death in a Chicago bank
robbery. Mounties were staking out the headquarters in
case the others returned, but those odds were slim. The
conspirators had fled. The robbery, it seemed, had been
undertaken for the most mundane of reasons: money.
They needed thousands and more for the next move
they were planning. As of yet, we had no idea of what it
was to be.
If only Long had survived for questioning or Candee
before him, I cursed, but such luck was not to be ours.
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The Chicago police and FBI had all roads and centers of
transportation locked up within an hour of the robbery.
Graves 's identity had been circulated shortly thereaf-
ter. With a breath of luck, they had cut their schedule a
little too fine this time. I suspected the three were still in
the Chicago area. If that was the case, I had never been
closer to nailing them and freeing Margot, who I
prayed, was still alive. After an emergency session
with Hawk, it was decided I'd fly onto O'Hare Airport
tonight. If Graves was in Chicago, I wanted him.
The flight from Dulles Airport to O 'Hare takes about
two and one half hours in a Boeing 747. Ihat was one of
the reasons I knew that something was wrong when I
glanced at my wristwatch. The flight had taken unusu-
ally long. More, as I considered the situation, the pilot
had likely been circling the airport for some time. I
called for the stewardess.
"May I speak to you for a moment in private?" I
asked in a polite voice.
The attractive blonde nodded. We stepped to the
front of the large jet just outside the cockpit.
"Why are we circling the airport?" I asked. "Is
there some problem below?"
My expression told her that a lie wouldn 't do. We'd
been over O'Hare for nearly forty-five minutes.
"Well, yes. There's a problem with one of the run-
ways. We haven't been able to get clearance. "
The stewardess seemed flustered. A pinprick of in-
tuition whispered that something serious had hap-
pened.
"Miss , " I said showing my government credentials ,
' 'if it's something routine, that's fine, but I'm in
Chicago on an urgent matter. If this had anything to do
with good guys, and bad, I need to know about it now. ' '
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She took the identification, examined it closely, then
looked up. "As I understand it, sir, there's a hijacking
going on down there. It's in progress. That's why we
can't land. "
"In that case, I'd like to see the pilot immediately.
Ihis could be extremely important. "
Ihe stewardess smiled nervously. "I 'II tell him that
you asked. May I take your identification with me?"
"By all means," I said handing it to her.
I waited impatiently outside the cockpit.
"Ihe plane's captain, a man named Lawson, came
from out of the pilot's quarters to greet me.
"Mr. Carter, you wanted to see me?"
' 'Yes, I did, sir. I understand there's a hijacking in
progress below. Could you tell me where the hijackers
want the plane to land?"
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I
wasn't supposed to know that much.
"Yes, I could," he admitted, "but I'd rather not.
Mr. Carter, is this really necessary?"
"It is a matter of national security. "
The captain cast me a long, appraising stare.
"All right, " he nodded. "Cuba. The hijackers have
ordered the plane be taken to Havana, Cuba. "
I swallowed hard.
"If that's the case, sir, it is imperative that this jet
land now, immediately. "
"I take my orders from the tower. "
"Then have them changed goddamit! There's got to
be some alternate runway for emergencies. Tell them
you 're low on fuel, I don't care what you tell them, but
this plane must be brought down and now!"
"Mr. Carter, " the captain appeased. "If you could
tell me why, perhaps then I could do something, but the
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control tower still has final say. All I could do is pass
your request along by radio. "
"Okay, fry this one on for size. nie men who are
hijacking that plane are the ones that killed a man in that
Chicago bank robbery yesterday. They have a
hostage-—a young female agent who happens to have
been working with me on the case!"
nie captain thought for a moment. "Your story
checks out," he conceded. "Two men with a female
hostage. That's them. I'll radio ahead. We should be
able to get some kind of clearance with a story like
that. "
O 'Hare was buzzing with police by the time I made it
to the control tower. ne hijackers had literally shot
their way onto Eastern Flight 924 and were making
ready for take-off. The district director of the FBI's
Chicago offices explained the situation. Approxi-
mately ninety minutes before, Graves and Sublett
stormed the craft with Margot as a hostage. They shot
their way past security, critically wounding an air
marshal to show they meant business. The medium
range jet, scheduled for Houston, Texas, was now in
the progress of refueling. With fifty-eight passengers
on board, the FBI were hamstrung. *Ihe hijackers
would let no one near the jet excepting one man , forced
to strip naked, who was doing the refueling.
enre district director turned to me. ' 'Any ideas?"
"What about the girl?"
"She was used as a hostage earlier, but I'd say she's
no less safe than the other fifty-eight passengers now. ' '
"Was she hurt?"
"I don't think so. "
I sighed audibly.
' 'Some connection between you two?"
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' 'You might say that," I answered drily. I consid-
ered the dilemma. "Couldn't we get a man under the
plane somehow, up through the emergency hatch be-
neath the flight deck?"
"Graves is standing with a gun pointed at the pilot's
head. He's in the cockpit. "
"How about snipers?"
"We've got four men, each with high powered
rifles, on either side of the jet, but they rarely show
themselves. When they make their demands it's your
friend, Ms. Kidner, who stands outside the hatch to
pass them on. "
"Goddamit! " I slammed my fist into the wall.
"These bastards have thought of everything. "
"Afraid so," the district director lamented.
Margot Kidner shivered as the cold steel of Sublett's
gun barrel touched her temple. She was certain now
that they were going to kill her.
"Get up," he ordered.
She rose slowly. The paralysis of fear had all but
rendered her incapable as Sublett nudged her toward
the hatch with his revolver.
"We have 40,000 pounds of fuel. Tell the man
we're at capacity.
Sublett undogged the forward hatch. It was thrown
open. Margot edged forward to the door of the plane.
Sublett took aim at the middle of her skull, standing
inside, as she spoke.
"We have enough fuel," she called to the worker
who was refueling the craft.
He looked up to her from beside the mamouth fuel
truck.
"We have enough fuel. Stop pumping," she re-
peated in a loud voice.
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The man acknowledged with the wave pf a hand.
Margot turned as if to re-enter, but leapt from the
hatchway underneath the plane instead.
Sublett fred two shots, one of which grazed Mar-
got's shoulder. A volley of rifle fire followed instan-
taneously. He dove backward for protection.
Beneath the belly of the huge jet, Margot dragged
herself. The hijackers dared not show themselves
again. She had only to crawl out from underneath. She
pushed forward with her legs. Her right shoulder stung
from the bullet wound she had sustained. In the dis-
tance, she could see a police car as it rolled, without
headlights, toward her. She had made it, she thought,
as the car pulled nearer and she inched away from the
craft. She looked up. The lights of the jet shone like
candles above as her head spun dizzily. When she
awakened, she was in the police car ready for transfer to
an ambulance.
She looked up.
' 'Nick, " she gasped. "I was sure they were going to
kill me. "
I took Margot into my arms, watching futiley as
Eastern Flight 924 readied for take-off.
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CHAVI'ER TEN
Back in Washington, I sat in David Hawk's office
along with Jim Stratford, DDP for the Central Intelli-
gence Agency. Hawk was seething with anger at the
hijacking.
"How the hell could we let this happen? My god,
everyone knew Graves was trapped in that Chicago
dragnet. We let them slip through our fingers—to
Havana, no less, As if we don't already have enough
trouble with Castro!"
Stratford, who had to feel foolish for his lack of
cooperation early along, spoke up.
' ' The State Department, through the Swiss Embas-
sy, has petitioned Castro to return them. The Anti-
Hijack Treaty of 1972 guarantees extradition. "
"Anti-Hijack Treaty, my ass," Hawk snorted.
"These men are calling themselves 'defectors'. With
the knowledge that both Graves and Sublett have of our
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overseas operations , Castro won 't even consider it. The
Russians wouldn't let him. "
Stratford said nothing. His naiveté had once again
bared itself.
"I think there's more to it than that, " I stated forth-
rightly.
Hawk lit up the half smoked cigar that lay cold in his
ashtray. "Well," he said staring at me through a cloud
of smoke, "I'm listening."
"No one here buys the story that Graves and Sublett
truly defected, am I right?"
"More like right wing fanatics, I'd say," offered
Stratford.
"Exactly. And Candee, before he died, boasted ofa
final assassination, an ultimate mission. "
"That was before the Chicago fiasco, ' 'Hawk inter-
jected.
"True and certainly there's an argument to be made
for the obvious motive of a getaway, but we had also
decided that Graves' next mission would be interna-
tional. If we look at the hijacking in that light, a two-
fold plan emerges: yes, Graves and Sublett needed to
make a getaway beyond U. S. jurisdiction, but they
might also use that location for their final assassina-
tion."
"Castro?" Stratford chimed incredulously. "That's
impossible! Everyone knows that the best any hijacker
can expect in Cuba is prison. Of the fifty or so that
managed to make it there, most returned to the United
States voluntarily to face charges and certain impris-
onment here. Frankly, I don 't see it, Nick. Graves just
doesn't have the wherewithal to do it. "
Hawk reserved judgment. He sat back in his leather
chair. The smoke of his cigar billowed around him so
that his face appeared that of a mystic.
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I addressed myself to him.
'How do we know what Graves has or doesn 't have?
After what's gone on over the past few months, who
can overestimate him? The third man, Richard Lee, has
yet to turn up. I say that he's still in this country. I
believe he's been left behind for a reason; very possibly
to lay the groundwork for the plot Graves and Sublett
are about to execute. "
Hawk pushed his large frame forward. "Does
Graves have a background to suggest strong contacts in
Cuba?" he asked Stratford.
"No. "
' 'How about Sublett or Lee?"
"Sublett, no. I ee may have been involved in some
sabotage attempts on the island late in the Kennedy
administration, but the records are hazy since orders
like that are never written. "
Hawk nodded.
' 'Then it's possible," he concluded abruptly.
The senior AXE man sat back once more. He seemed
to be searching his mind for a connection; something
that would make it all fit.
Again, I seized the initiative.
"Hawk, it's more than a possibility. Consider Cu-
ba's position: a virtual satellite of Russia forced by
economic necessity to send its soldiers to fight in An-
gola, Ethiopia, even Nicaragua. Castro admits the
presence of ten thousand Russian troops. For the past
year intelligence reports assumed these troops were
there to harass the U. S. , but maybe not. Rumors of
unrest on the island have persisted over the months,
could it be that the troops are there to intimidate an
expanding force of counterrevolutionaries?"
"What are you trying to say, Carter?" Hawk asked
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
in a gruff, impatient voice.
' 'That Graves could be used as the catalyst for such a
movement. If we assume that there are people who
want Castro assassinated, what better method than to
let him be murdered by an outsider? An American
completely unconnected to their movement. With Cas-
tro out of the way, the very people who planned his
death take over, still mourning their fallen leader. "
"That could bring about the mrd World War. "
"Or the rebirth of Cuba as a totally non-aligned
nation. "
Hawk and Stratford looked to one another. The mag-
nitude of my statement struck them both between the
eyes,
From the back of my mind the voice of Harry Can-
dee. 'Our last mission is one that even you might
approve of, Carter,' he had said. 'If you do find out
you may want to join, not fight us.' The successful
assassination of Fidel Castro, I thought. Was it really
possible after all that had gone on before? The answer
came back a resounding "yes. "
Stratford was the first to speak.
"Gentlemen, espionage is not my cup of tea. I'm an
administrator, a politician in many ways. But I'm
forced now to wonder whether we can assume that
Graves has merely escaped to Cuba. Any man can be
killed. Given the proper time and place, all one needs is
a weapon—a knife or even a brick can kill a man. So,
though it's risky, I've reconsidered the CIA's position
on this. We've got to take action, if only as a precau-
tion. We've got to stop Warren Graves before he can
get to Castro. "
A calculating smile crossed my lips.
"If I may, sir," I said to Hawk. "I'd like to suggest
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that we launch an intensive manhunt for Lee. If my
hunch is right, he's finalizing the details for whatever
Graves has in mind. "
"Agreed," barked Hawk.
"Second, I'd like to point out that any State Depart-
ment warnings to Castro concerning a possible assassi-
nation plot would appear to be attempts at discrediting
Graves. As important, they might be interpreted as CIA
involvement which is the last thing any of us want. "
Stratford gave a nod of approbation.
Hawk cast me a hard stare.
"What then?" he asked, cigar in mouth.
' 'We've got to send an agent onto the island. While
there, he could evaluate the risks involved and deal
with Graves and Sublett accordingly. "
"And I suppose you'd like to volunteer for that
mission, is that it, Carter?"
"Yes, sir. "
David Hawk evaluated my proposal. If I was caught
and proven a spy, execution was the penalty. Another
damaging embarrassment to U. S. prestige abroad was
the larger result of which Hawk was acutely aware. He
weighed his options. The thought of Castro's death at
the hands of an American was intolerable; a play into
the Soviets' hands and a field day for Third World
propagandists. After the Bay of Pigs, who would be-
lieve that Graves and others had acted on their own?
"Okay, Carter. You've requested this dangerous
assignment and you 've got it, " said Hawk. He pointed
his lit cigar in my direction. "But I warn you now that
you 'II be acting on your own. You'll have no connec-
tion with this department' or any other government
agency. From this day on, you will be as much a
renegade as the men who you're pursuing. You will
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live or die on your own ability with no backup or
acknowledgment by the United States Government. "
Strafford seemed shocked at the brute force of
Hawk's words. In all of our minds, I knew, this was a
meeting that had never taken place.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tme two hijackers were strip-searched by the G2,
Cuba's secret police, in a private room at the. airport
terminal. Between them they had $32 in American
currency, one Timex wristwatch and two drivers'
licenses, one issued in Washington, D. C. , the other in
Arlington, Va. All of these were confiscated. They
dressed, then were handcuffed by a short, medium built
plainclothesman.
"We're not criminals," Graves objected. "We
won't be put in jail. "
'Ihe investigator nodded accommodatingly.
"Do not worry," he said simply.
Graves and Sublett eyed him warily. Reluctantly,
they obliged, their stares never waivering from the
man's sympathetic gaze.
Together, the five men present left the room marked
"Policia." Almost magically, an entourage of
Spanish-speaking G2 appeared. The hijackers were
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enveloped by a phalanx of police, then shoved toward a
waiting car.
' "We are giving up willingly!" Warren Graves
screamed over the shouts and buzzing conversation of
pedestrians, held in abeyance by police. "I want that
recorded! We are defectors! We will not go to jail!"
Quiet," demanded the plainclothes investigator
who clutched his arm. "You will not go to jail."
The two men exchanged short, suspicious stares.
Handcuffed, Graves and Sublett were ushered forward
amid the commotion and vocal speeulation of hundreds
of curious Cubans.
The rear door of the Russian sedan swung open.
'Ihe hijackers were pushed into the waiting car. Cuban
investigators positioned themselves on either side. The
front seat filled as precisely. The engine, which was
running, accelerated suddenly. The heavy, tank-like
vehicle jerked forward leaving the crowd behind re-
strained by uniformed police.
Sublett lifted his cuffed hands to wipe the perspira-
tion from his forehead. The heat was stifling.
One of the men in the front seat, dressed in a neatly
pressed white suit, turned to extend his hand.
"My name is Luis Garcia, " he said to Sublett. "Do
not worry, either of you. If what you say is the truth,
you will live in Havana freely, as Cubans. "
Sublett accepted the handshake awkwardly.
"My name is Sublett. Robert Sublett. "
The low slung car hit a pothole. Indeed, the driver
appeared inured as he swerved from one side of the road
to the other in order to avoid the bulk of them.
Sublett bucked forward. Garcia extended his hand to
Graves. The ringleader accepted without emotion.
"Why are we in handcuffs? I thought you said we
weren 't prisoners. "
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Garcia smiled tolerantly. Sublett viewed the de-
teriorated reality of what was called Old Havana. It was
a Third World backdrop of bustle and poverty, frustra-
tion and joy. In the distance, irony of ironies, a mag-
nificent resort hotel of the 1950's stood like a haunted
castle; an anachronism on this communist isle.
' 'After you have been cleared by the police, ' ' Garcia
answered, ' 'you will be free to do as you please. "
Sublett watched as a barefoot boy chased a puppy
along the side of the road. 'Ihe sedan passed dozens of
bicyclists as it sped down Avenue del Oeste. The car
passed scores of barracks-like housing. A billboard
celebrated the construction. "I Gracias a la Revolu-
qion!" it read.
"Where are you taking us?" Graves asked bluntly.
"You will be taken to the Ministry of Interior.
There, you will be asked some questions about your
background and this strange predicament you are in. "
"But no imprisonment," Graves reminded.
"No," Garcia assured. "No imprisonment. "
rlhe Russian sedan continued along the ridiculous
obstacle course of potholes and broken traffic lights.
Garcia and the driver conversed in high speed idiomatic
Spanish. 'Ihe driver, an excitable man, was emphatic
about seguridad, security. Garcia took in his words
calmly. "It would be handled," he responded with a
trace of irritation in his voice.
A thought crossed Warren Graves's mind as the car
jostled them in their seats. It caused him to wonder.
Was it possible the Cubans didn 't know what to do with
them? Two American hijackers had dropped them-
selves into Marti Airport this sunny morning. They had
called themselves political dissidents, "defectors"
from the United States. Could it be that the G2 didn 't
know how to handle it? Graves listened intently to the
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discussion which raged between Garcia and the driver.
If that was the case, if there was no procedure for cases
such as theirs, that would be either a very good or very
bad circumstance with which to contend. He could not
decide.
The scenery changed abruptly as they entered
downtown Havana. The stark housing of the outer city
gave way to the crowded streets, cluttered with ancient
cars and buses which darted along Avenue de Acosta.
Monuments to the revolution were everywhere present.
Statues of Castro, Ché and Antonio Maya stood in the
square where black and brown children played in the
sandy earth.
' 'fiat is the Ministry of Interior, ' ' Garcia said point-
ing. "And next to it, eI Hospital del pueblo. "
Graves grunted.
The car pulled into a drive which tunneled beneath
the yellowed marble of the massive government build-
ing. The sedan stopped. A guard stood before a wooden
barrier. The driver flashed a permit as a formality. The
barrier raised. They entered the basement lot, then
traveled to an even lower level.
Two armed guards greeted the sedan as it rolled to a
halt. They opened the back doors from both sides. The
police investigators disembarked. Graves and Sublett
followed their unspoken command.
"Come with us," Garcia stated in precise English.
The hijackers looked to one another uncomfortably.
They had been promised that they would not be impris-
oned; an obvious lie. Still, what kind of treatment
would they be subjected to here? They wondered in
silence. This facility, two floors beneath ground level
and blatantly isolated, held the implicit promise of
i interrogation and worse.
The men walked, surrounded by their captors. A
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chill ran up from the small of Sublett's back as they
entered the building through a heavy, metal door. A
pungent stench rolled like fog from within. It was the
miasma of a prison: sweat, rancid food and human
excreta.
The empty , metallic sounds of men confined echoed
through the corridors as the hijackers were escorted
beyond the unseen cells to the interrogation rooms. The
two were separated for questioning. So this was it,
Sublett thought with a shiver. Beneath the Ministry of
Interior, Castro's prison for counterrevolutionaries.
I left AXE Headquarters understanding fully the
magnitude of what lay ahead. There would be two days
of intensive briefings by CIA authorities on "to-
day's" Cuba. At that time, I would be given the names
of contacts still active in Havana. It was risky business ,
all of it. I bought a cup of coffee at Marty 's , then looked
over the morning paper.
"Plane hijacked at O'Hare, " the headline read. My
eyes scanned the story. "Eastern Flight 924 landed
safely in Havana's José Marti International Airport at
9:00 A.M. A group of fifty or more soldiers and police
awaited the American hijackers. The two unidentified,
white males surrendered their weapons willingly, pro-
claiming themselves "defectors" from the United
States. *Ihe hijackers pledged full cooperation with
Cuban authorities and requested political asylum. The
fifty-nine passengers aboard the medium range, Boeing
jetliner were fed sandwiches and tea. An Eastern
employee was shot to death in the taking of the plane.
No other injuries were reported. After refueling, East-
em Hight 924 took off from José Marti Airport. It
arrived in Miami at 1:42 P.M. EST. "
I downed what remained of my coffee leaving the
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newspaper behind. Margot had been transferred to
George Washington Hospital after her emergency
t treatment. There, she was listed in condition. I
knew she'd be waiting to hear from me after all she'd
been through. And who could say? With the mission I
was about to undertake, I might not get the chance to
see her again.
I drove my Lotus from DuPont Circle to G Street,
N.W. where the hospital was located. I parked in the
visitors' lot, then entered the modern building. From
what I understood, Margot's wound had been superfi-
cial. Her hospital stay was for observation as much as
physical therapy. She had been through a traumatic
experience, but resilient as she was, I doubted she 'd be
there long.
I took the elevator to the fifth floor, then exited. A
police guard stood before room 557; this was Margot's.
I showed my identification. Ihe officer checked my
name off of a clearance list he had been issued. I tapped
on the door.
"Come in," the voice sang out.
I entered. Mbaot was reading To Die In Winter, a
Ron Felber spy She looked up, pleasantly sur-
prised.
"Nick."
I walked to her smiling to see her looking so well. I
kissed her lightly.
' 'My aren't we looking fine," I commented.
Margot was sitting in a chair near the plate glass
window. The sunlight shimmered in her blond hair.
She wore a half-length silk robe which clung tightly to
her lithe body. Through the thin fabric her ample breast
shown prominent.
"Thanks. Actually, I was hoping you 'd come by this
morning," she said crossing her legs.
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Margot held my hand, stroking it fondly as she
spoke.
"I've missed you. "
I smiLed at the sentiment.
' 'lhere was a time when I worried that we wouldn 't
be seeing one another again, ever. "
Margot's long legs uncrossed as she stood. The robe
fell to one side to reveal her milky thigh.
"But those worries are over. Aren't they, Nick?"
I demurred at the thought of my upcoming Cuban
adventure.
"For the time being," I said, a trace of sadness
creeping into my voice. "I'll be pursuing this assign-
ment outside of the country , as you 've probably already
guessed. "
Margot stared from out of the large window, her
back to me.
"Yes, as I've already guessed. "
I approached her in silence. I caressed the side of her
face from behind. She turned, then melted in my arms.
Trembling, she moved from me, then stepped
toward the door. She locked it.
I stared ahead quizzically, but my unspoken ques-
tions were answered in an instant.
Margot walked to the narrow, hospital bed. She
undid the sash ofherrobe. It fell open like the doors to a
palace of treasures. She stood before me, her pert
breasts all but exposed; her creamy thighs meeting at a
tuft of gold.
She walked to me, undoing my shirt as she spoke.
"These beds are made for one, but two can fit quite
comfortably in the right position. "
Again, I caressed Margot as her busy fingers
worked their magic. I pushed my shoes to the side. We
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lay together on the bed as the sterile smell of the white
sheets gave way to the acrid, earthy aroma of a woman
on fire.
"I see what you mean," I uttered breathlessly as I
kissed her flush on the mouth. "About the bed, I
mean. "
Margot sounded a throaty growl as we writhed
rhythm to the most primitive of drums. Her legs spread,
drenched in wetness.
' 'Nick, " she groaned in ecstasy as I passed beyond
the palace gates. "Nick, darling. "
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CHAPTER TWELVE
Luis Garcia was a gentleman in many ways. His
demeanor, even his gait were those of a gentleman as he
paced the floor of the interrogating room before Warren
Graves. Yet, there was a calculating frigidity to the
man, the hijacker noted. It bespoke the presence of
danger, even of death, endless and most horrible.
"You tell me, Sefior Graves, that you are a rev-
olutionary. That you worked for the government of
the United States as an intelligence officer, then de-
fected. Is that correct?"
"Yes. "
' 'You claim to have committed murder. That you are
the leader of a group which has assassinated American
leaders—Senator Drummond, for one. "
'There 's a difference between murder and political
assassination. I 'am a Revolutionary. I killed with a
purpose in mind. That is, to undermine the government
of the United States. Ihe group I led was attempting to
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change the face of the country. We wanted revolu-
tion."
Garcia snickered.
' 'You are in Havana, Cuba, now Serior. Why did
you leave your country?"
"I told you. We were on the run. We financed our
cause through bank robberies. All but Sublett and me
have died for the cause. We came to Cuba for sanctuary
from the police. "
Garcia considered his words.
"You are either a madman or a liar, " he spat back.
"I am neither. "
Garcia frowned. Three hours of questioning had
netted him no more than this initial story. Graves was a
well-schooled operative, the interrogator had recog-
nized from the beginning. His story, as incredible as it
seemed, never waivered. It was his motive that Garcia
suspected, however. No matter what the hijacker told
him, it would be assumed he was still working for U. S.
intelligence. Certainly, he would be jailed as a spy, but
Garcia was a professional. Pride, if nothing else, de-
manded that he penetrate the composed arrogance of
this espia, who called himself Warren Graves.
Luis Garcia studied the prisoner, pondering the situa-
tion and the man who sat before him. These were
troubled times for Cuba internationally. With Fidel 's
stepped-up campaigns in the Third World, relations
between his country and the United States had never
been worse. nere was no room for diplomacy. The
harsh realities of espionage and survival were all that
counted. He touched a manicured hand to his face in
assessment.
"I've considered all that you've told me, Sehor
Graves, " he said at last, "and I have decided that you
are probably a spy. Your country has attempted many
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tricks such as this in the past. It is nothing new. I do not
know why you are here. " He shrugged. ' 'Really that is
unimportant. What is of concern is that you are a
dangerous criminal. You are a murderer. You have
worked before in the service of the United States spies.
Your only hope is to confide your true mission to me
now. Afterwards, perhaps we can expel you from the
island, safe and unharmed. This has happened before. ' '
"I can't go back, Garcia. I've told you that before.
I 'm wanted. I'd be killed. Can 't you understand that? "
Garcia's face reddened.
'That is a lie and you know it! You are a spy and if
you don't cooperate . . i"
'Ihe interrogator caught himself mid-sentence. He
swallowed hard, regaining his composure.
"Miguel!" he called out suddenly.
rlhe door to the dank cubicle opened. A small, wiry
guard entered.
"Come with me, Sefior. I want to take you to your
friend. Perhaps then you will see the value of your
cooperation in this matter.
The guard walked to Graves. He grabbed him by the
arm. "Ihey followed behind Garcia as he left the room,
then entered a cramped elevator. It cranked noisily
upward, then came to an abrupt, jolting stop.
i' Venga."
They walked through a dingy hallway. The closeness
was unbearable as they passed cell after cell of beaten
half-starved prisoners. Finally, they entered the door-
way to a room. Perspiration dripped down the sides of
their faces, all except Garcia who, in his immaculate
white suit, seemed immune to such coarse banalities.
"Ihe sweltering room was much like the one they had
left. In it was a long wooden table, a stool and a low
watt bulb which dangled from a wire in the ceiling.
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DEATH MISSION: HAVANA
The light was switched on.
"Now you will see yourfriend, " Garcia stated with
a twist of contempt.
The guard pulled a panel from the wall. It exposed a
one-way mirror. Through it Graves could see Robert
Sublett seated in a heavy, wooden armchair. He was
strapped into it. Electrodes had been connected to his
fingers, toes and testes. He was unconscious. A guard
doused him with a bucket of water as his interrogator
looked on.
Sublett stirred to a semi-conscious state.
"Why have you come to Cuba?" The interrogator
asked, grabbing him by the roots of his hair.
The hijacker mumbled incoherently.
"Ihe interrogator shook him. Sublett's eyes opened
half-way.
"Why have you come to Cuba?" the interrogator
States' purpose in sending you here?"
Robert Sublett looked to him groggily.
"We are revolutionaries. We hijacked a plane to
escape the American police. "
The interrogator cracked the back of his hand across
his face like a whip. A raw welt formed instantaneous-
ly.
"That is a lie! We know that you worked for the CIA
spies before. You have been sent here on a mission.
What is it?"
Sublett shook his head wearily.
Ihe interrogator turned, then nodded a go-ahead to
the guard. A lever was pulled. The hijacker's body
turned rigid as volts of electrical current passed through
him. His eyes bulged grotesquely. His mouth opened,
but odd squealing sounds and not words poured forth.
Tiny billows of black smoke emanated from the electri-
cal contact points as his flesh cooked and his limbs
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quaked with horrifying violence.
"Animals!" Graves cursed, turning to Garcia.
' 'Goddamn animals, all of you!" he charged as the
guard pulled his manacled hands high up behind him.
Graves grimaced with pain. "Ihe two men's eyes
locked in hatred.
Again, Sublett had lost consciousness. "Ihe inter-
rogator motioned to the guard who threw water on him
once more. It was no use. The subject's body remained
immobile. Not a muscle twitched.
"How unfortunate, " Garcia said in a polite, mock-
ing voice.
"It appears your friend has fainted.
Miguel," he ordered turning suddenly on his heel,
"take this prisoner to his cell. "
Warren Graves glowered at the smug G2 man as a
guard shoved him toward the door. It opened. He was
led just twenty steps. A key was turned. The door to an
empty cell opened. A feeling of nausea overcame him
at the realization: this was the cell where Sublett had
been housed. The guards took their handcuffed pris-
oner inside the filthy chamber. They led him to the far
corner where a set of shackles lay at his feet. Sensing
what was about to happen, Graves struggled but with
no effect. He was clubbed on the side of the head, then
shackled to the wall by his hands and feet. His hand-
cuffs were removed. 'The guards left the darkened cell
as the tough, veteran agent fell to the ground. 'Ihe door
slammed shut. Still very much alive, Graves was left in
what amounted to a dungeon. In silence he waited for
Raul Prado, the man who was to lead him to Fidel
Castro.
The warmth of Miami was a welcome change from
the drab, wintry weather of Washington. I might have
enjoyed my surroundings if it wasn't for the hellish
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mission I'd be facing in five hours or less. Hawk had
accompanied me to Florida's "sun" city to finalize the
last of my transport arrangements and, I suppose, to
offer moral support. Such practices were ordinarily
viewed as superfluous, but this venture was anything
but ordinary. Castro had been a busy man over the past
six months, importing his professional agitators all
over the Spanish speaking world and even the Middle
East. Entering Cuba covertly was a chore these days;
staying alive in Cuba as a foreign intelligence agent all
but impossible.
David Hawk and I sat in a restaurant overlooking the
Southern Keys fishing docks. It was nearly 7:30 P.M.
The red-yellow sun was sinking as the evening closed
in around the isolated marina. Hawk sipped a cup of
coffee. We were waiting for our contact.
The elder AXE man leaned his heavy frame onto the
formica tabletop.
"You will be taken within thirty miles of the coast,
Nick. There, you 'II be met by a Cuban operative who
will take you onto the island, We chose Jaimanitas
because it's the hearest point to Miami with the clearest
access to the heart of Havana. You know what to do
from there."
I nodded.
' "If you have any questions, " said Hawk in a gruff,
concerned voice, "now's the time to ask. "
"Just one. "
"Shoot. "
' 'I 'm told there 's radar set up all along the coast. The
first drop will bring me thirty miles off shore. The
second into Jaimanitas. At what point do we come into
range?"
"Both," Hawk answered conclusively. "The first
drop will be in a high speed craft. 'Ihe second will be a
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fishing boat. There are no guarantees you'll go unde-
tected in either case. Of course, you have identification
in the event you are detained by the shore patrol. Other
than that, you 're on your own. Any other questions?"
"None," I said crisply. "I know what has to be
done. I intend to do it. "
Hawk was about to say something, but deferred as a
young Cuban man approached our table.
The Cuban nodded a curt greeting. No introductions
were necessary. We all knew that it was time.
I rose, then shook Hawk 's hand for what could be the
last time.
"Good luck, Carter, " he said.
I didn't say anything but turned to leave wiül the
handsome Cuban emigré who was to take me the first
leg of this most dangerous mission.
A cool breeze rolled in from the Atlantic as we
boarded the Scarrabe high speed boat. Capable of
speeds up to 70 miles per hour and with a fuel capacity
of 150 gallons, this was the perfect vessel for our trip.
*Ihe young skipper, a man who called himself Quatro,
fired up the engines. One had only to hear the sound of
them to recognize their potential should we be detected
inside of Cuban territorial waters.
I went through my gear as Quatro steered the twenty
foot craft away from the dock headed for the open sea. I
checked Wilhelmina, my Luger, to see that it was oiled
and loaded. Ihe weapon would be held in a waterproof
holster AXE Technical Services Division had de-
signed. I pocketed the Luger. My eyes fell on part of a
larger arsenal. In the cabin across from me was a 30
caliber machine gun ready for mounting ifnecessary. A
black wet suit lay spread on a bunk not far from it in
case my contact had been discovered and I would have
to swim onto the island. I looked to the young Cuban
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who steered the boat to the cabin's front. Already we
were heading out at a 40 knot clip. Quatro's eyes
scanned the expanse of water searching for other craft;
hoping that our own Coast Guard would remain absent
as we made our way into international waters.
I sat on the bunk going through a series of forged
State Department papers, Cuban identification cards
and passes issued to me through the CIA. It was impera-
tive that I commit the names, dates and locales to
memory in the event I was arrested by Cuban police
once on the island. They were in order. I felt confident
that none of the many details about which I'd been
briefed had escaped me. Ihe exercise was, literally, a
matter of life and death.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Quatro as he
viewed the panorama of stars on the horizon. He turned
several times to observe me. He didn 't know my name
or anything about me. I supposed it was an odd
feeling—taking a stranger into the jaws of death, then
leaving him. An abandonment of sorts. Finally, he
spoke up in a clear, unaccented voice.
"You are a brave man entering Fidel 's island at this
time, " he said.
I looked up expressionless.
' 'It had to be done. If I didn 't, someone else would. "
Quatro nodded.
"Yes, but it is you. That's what is important. My
father and mother left Cuba in 1958. I was just five
years old at the time. It was dangerous even then. "
I smiled. Quatro was twenty-seven. His jet black hair
and compact, muscular body gave him the appearance
of a dignified strength.
"You 're not exactly a department store clerk your-
self. 'lhere are risks to everything. "
"And rewards as well," he was quick to add.
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He chortled.
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"Satisfaction. My parents did not leave Cuba by
choice, mi amigo. ney were expelled. I am a member
of Omega 7. With the help of God, we will someday
return to our homeland. "
"Everyone's got their dream, Quatro. Keep after it.
Someday it might come true. "
'When Cuba is returned to her people, ' ' he said with
vehemence, ' 'that will be the day of reckoning for all of
the thousands of exiles living in the United States. "
I said nothing. Quatro veered the boat southwest
toward the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates
where we were to be met. I returned my papers to the
watertight billfold I had been provided, then changed
into my wet suit. So far we had met no resistance. We
would be entering Cuban waters within the hour. I
wanted to be ready.
Quatro looked over a nautical map, marking it in
relation to the boat's compass, Beyond the darkness
and out of sight, lay the northern coast of Cuba some
thirty miles away. The engines slowed. Our position
was 810 longitude, 230 latitude. This was it, Quatro
assured me. We had made it to our rendezvous point
without complication. We had only to wait for the
signal from Perez, our Cuban contact.
My eyes searched the blackness: nothing. No sign of
a vessel of any kind. "Ihe quiet was heavy around us.
*Ihe waves lapped softly against the side of the speed
boat as our minds toyed with the possibilities. What if
Perez was caught or worse, if he had gutted-out and
talked to Cuban officials. The next sight we saw could
be the shore patrol as easily as the fishing boat which
was to transport me onto the island.
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The speedboat's night light shot a funnel of white
onto the misty ocean that spread before it, Billows of
condensing water floated eerily above the sea evaporat-
ing into the chill night air. This was the waiting time, I
thought. The precarious period when anything was
possible, when danger seemed as pervasive as the
ocean fog that enveloped us.
"Mount the gun, " I told Quatro.
"But if the shore patrol
"If the shore patrol comes into sight, we'll blow
them out of the water," I snapped. "Now mount the
weapon. ' '
Yielding to experience and an apprehension just
short of fear, Quatro did as he was told. 'Ihe move was
precautionary. If a patrol boat was to spot us, Quatro
would make a run for it. The machine gun might be just
enough to break him free to international waters. If he
was caught, with or without the weapon, he was certain
to be jailed as a spy. The choice was not a hard one. As
for me, I was going for broke. Shore patrol or no, I
would be entering Cuba if I had to swim the thirty
miles. Prior {nissions had called for as much. It
wouldn't be the first time.
I stood behind the mounted machine gun as Quatro
operated the boat's night light. Its beams stretched like
fingers into the boundless night, probing deep into the
dense fog. I turned the gun and my attention toward a
barely discernible flicker of white off our starboard
side.
'Quatro, look over here," I whispered.
young Cuban came toward me. His eyes strained
as he attempted to assess the boat or ship to which it
belonged.
'SI don't know. It could be Perez. It could be the
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shore patrol. I can't tell from this distance. 'i
"Start the engines, " I ordered. "We'll move toward
it. "
Quatro was anxious. What if it was the shore patrol?
he wondered. The sinking of a Cuban PT boat could stir
an international incident. The annihilation of an un-
marked speedboat in Cuban waters would not incite the
blink of an eye. Reluctantly, he started the engines.
Slowly, cautiously, we approached the light as it grew
more apparent, yet still unidentifiable.
My hands wrapped tightly around the machine gun.
Quatro, I knew, was ready to turn on a dime if our
encounter was to be unfriendly.
"Faster, Quatro. Veer to their right so we can turn
away if we have to, but for godsake get there! "
*Ihe hesitant skipper proceeded. Omega 7, I thought,
had trained us a gutsy kid. I could not know how gutsy
until now with teeth gritted, Quatro speeded up the
engines. We were within two hundred yards of the
stationary vessel. My hands eased off the 30 caliber
weapon at one hundred and fifty yards. A red lantern
flashed, the signal that our presence was acknowl-
edged. An audible sigh of relief came from within the
cabin. Quatro brushed the perspiration from his
forehead with the back of his hand. We were within
thirty feet of the fishing boat when I called out.
"Si," the voice came back.
"Tengo una nuheca vestida de azul," I recited. It
was the established code.
"Con zapatos blanco y velo de tul," he answered.
I nodded to Quatro. He pulled up alongside the craft
where Perez was waiting on deck. An older man in his
sixties, he smiled a toothless grin when he saw me.
"Buenas noches, Sehor," he said merrily.
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I turned to Quatro. We shook hands perfunctorily.
He then took me into his arms in an embrazio.
"Bueno suerte," he said earnestly.
"And good luck to you, my friend," I responded,
then boarded the ancient fishing boat of Manual Perez.
"Let's go," I said.
We would be in the port of a small Cuban town called
Jaimanitas in less than an hour.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
*Ihe prisoner had no idea of the time or day that the
bolt to his cell door was undone. A wedge of light
entered through the crack in the door. His eyes, accus-
tomed to the dark, were temporarily blinded. He
shielded them as a uniformed man entered.
"Seior Graves," he said by way of salutation. 'SI
have heard much about you. You are a brave man with
contacts all over the world, I am certain. "
The prisoner detected a note of prodding in his
words. It seemed more a question than a statement.
"l am a defector from the United States," he
answered mechanically. "l have come here for politi-
cal asylum. "
"And you have never heard the name Prado?"
Graves squinted as much to clear his mind as his
eyesight.
"Prado?" he whispered.
"Raul Prado, Seior. Chief of the Secret Police. "
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Graves' head dropped as if in silent prayer. "Thank
God," he sighed.
Prado stepped toward him.
The hijacker looked furtively about the dimly lit
cubicle.
"Is it safe to talk?"
"It is never safe to talk in Cuba, Seior, but my
reputation here is above reproach. Still, we must
hurry."
Prado scrutinized him. He seemed fascinated as he
viewed the gash along the side of Graves' head.
"They have tortured you?" he asked touching the
wound with his fingertips.
Graves pulled away.
"It's nothing. Not now anyway. The important thing
is that you're here. "
"Very well," retorted Prado in an efficient voice.
He moved away circumspectively. "You know why I
am here. For your own reasons, you have elected to
partake in this dangerous venture. You want Castro out
of the way for the benefit of your country. We want him
displaced so that Roberto Vasquez can succeed him and
the Russian presence in Cuba can at last be ended. "
' 'I'm with you. I kill Castro. The U. S. is rid of the
Soviets. What about you?"
"Castro is a traitor to this country. We broke the
yoke of United States imperialism. Now we must cast
the Russian demons out as well. If Fidel can be elimi-
nated by an outside force, a coup is inevitable. The only
logical choice in that case would be Vasquez, com-
mander of Cuba's armed forces. He is a man truly
non-aligned. In this way, both of our ends can be
served.
"Agreed. But how, Prado?"
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' 'The plan is simple. Tomorrow you will be taken to
the Palacio de Revolucfon for questioning by the secret
police. Ihey are anxious, as you can understand, to
learn of the United States' strategy in counteracting
Fidel 's ridiculous ventures in the Middle East. Ihey
think you know more than you are telling, One of the
guards transporting you, however, will be a plant. He
will let you overpower him. He will let you take his
gun. 'Ihe office of Castro is just one floor up from
where the escape will be staged. Roberto Vasquez will
see to it that Fidel is in his private study within the
office complex. It is there that he will be assassinated. ' '
"Do you have a floor plan for the building?"
' 'Si. ' ' Prado took a diagram the size of an index card
from his shirt pocket. "You will enter through the back
of the Palacio as is the custom with prisoners brought in
for questioning. " He pointed to the location. "Fidel 's
office is here, one floor above. An elevator is thought to
be the only way to this floor, but there is a stairway
which leads directly to his study. This was constructed
as a means of escape during the early days of his
administration. It is from this point that you will enter.
There, Fidel Castro will be waiting. Vasquez is, of
course, aware of all this. "
"And then?"
Prado smiled slyly. ' 'Then, mi amigo, you will be
on your own. "
Graves considered the plan. It was an easy bet that he
would be killed immediately after shooting Fidel , mak-
ing Vasquez the hero and him the fall guy. Still, he had
his own ideas about how this assassination scenario
would end. Certain death had been his assumption in
the undertaking early along. A long shot would have
him surviving.
"You've got it, Prado," he said as if injected with
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the very serum of vitality. "I think it can work. "
"Very well, then. It is decided. "
Raul Prado shook the hand of the shackled prisoner.
"Vaya con dios, Seior," he whispered in an ardent
voice, then turned abruptly toward the door. "Guard!
Guard!! " he called.
As the ancient fishing boat chugged noisily toward
the Cuban shoreline, I shed my wet suit for the set of
clothes which Perez had brought me. They were typical
of what a Cuban citizen might wear. Plastic soled
shoes, baggy gray pants without zipper and a faded
blue, chambray shirt.
I ripped my forged papers from their waterproofing.
lhere would be no need for a swim in these Caribbean
waters tonight, I thought. The phony documents iden-
tified me as Pedro Mendoza , 36 , a soil expert employed
by Cuba's sugar industry. It was a background of mod-
eration; neither wealth nor abject poverty. I shoved the
ID in the pocket of my trousers, along with my Luger
and 700 pesos. Minutes later, we were rumbling into
the tiny port of Marcelo Salado, in Jaimanitas, on the
outskirts of Havana.
The old man, who spoke little English, motioned me
down. I lay along the boat's deck as he surveyed the
dock area. It was past eleven o'clock. %ings were
quiet.
Perez took the boat in whistling 'SEI Manicero, " a
Spanish folk tune as he guided it toward the dock. He
killed the engine, then anchored the boat. He moored it
to the weatherbeaten wharf, then touched my shoulder
with his coarse, bony hand. I responded and in an
instant we were off the boat and into a dilapidated Ford
pickup which was at least twenty years old. Perez used
this to transport his catch to market, I gathered. I stayed
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with him in the truck 's cab, confident that if stopped, I
could bluff my way through as his assistant.
"Where are we going?" I asked the old man in
Spanish.
"Into the city," he answered. "I will leave you with
a woman there who is active in the underground. Her
name is Maria. She will help you in your work. What-
ever that may be," he added.
Perez took the truck up Fifth Avenue toward Nuevo
Vedado, where the wealthier Communist Party mem-
bers , la burgess, resided at the government 's expense. I
had not been in Havana since the early 1960's and it
was appalling to see the changes that had occurred over
the past twenty years, Downtown Havana, once bright
and lively with tourists and shoppers, seemed lifeless
and drab. The symptoms of a failing economy could be
witnessed even in these wealthier sections of the city
where dingy walk-up apartment houses and i112kept
bars and restaurants stood as testimony to the "peo-
ple's" revolution.
Perez took a turn on Avenue del Rio after we passed
through Embassy Row. "Ihis was the way to Vedado
Heights. The old truck sputtered ominously going up
the incline. The old man smiled proudly once we had
come to its zenith. This was the exclusive section of
Havana. It was here that party leaders resided. With
housing at a minimum, private homes were all but
impossible to buy even for the wealthiest of Cubans,
the old man told me. This complex of four-story build-
ings represented the most luxurious of homes. It was in
one of these faded four-story buildings that Maria pe
Los Reyes lived. She was, Perez confided, one of
Havana's socialites, the mistress of an important mili-
tary man.
I bade the old fisherman farewell, then turned to
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Aeave when he touched my shoulder.
'SAS you can hear, Sefior, my truck's engine is badly
in need of repair. "
I hesitated.
"Since any parts for a truck such as this must be
purchased on the black market, " he explained, "they
will be very expensive. And remember, ' ' he suggested,
"it is I who will bring you out of Havana once your
work is complete. "
I chortled. Perez had been an undercover operative
for the CIA since the late 1950's. Long out of graces
with even the local branches of the CDR, Citizen 's For
Defense of the Revolution, poverty and he had become
long time companions. I took a handful of coins from
my pant pocket. The old man accepted them eagerly,
smiling triumphantly as the truck drove off in a clamor
of grinding gears and tapping pistons.
I approached the second in a row of four-story
apartment houses. I entered through the front door
which was open, then walked up two flights to a door
marked 4. I knocked. Maria De Los Reyes must have
been brushing her long, black hair for the brush was
still in her hand when she answered.
"I was taken here by Perez," I said in Spanish.
Her lovely face blanched suddenly. Her eyes shot
above and below the staircase.
"Come in, " she said, switching to perfect English.
I entered. The apartment was hot and cramped, con-
sisting of a kitchenette, a narrow windowless living-
room and what I imagined to be a bedroom to the
back.
Maria closed the door behind her, then bolted it.
"You are Seior Carter, I presume. "
' 'Yes."
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She walked away wrenching her long, delicate hands
together.
"It is really very dangerous, your being here now, "
she cautioned. "The situation in Cuba is tense these
days , Seior. I know why you are here and I am, in many
ways, divided. Through Comandante Allissimo, a
member of Vasquez's security staff, I have learned of
the plot on Fidel Castro's life. If it were not for the
motive behind their plan, I would do nothing to prevent
it. "
"Yes, yes, " Maria walked to a cabinet, then poured
herself a glass of Dorado Rum. Nervously, she took a
long sip from it. "Graves is being duped. *Ihe Soviets
want Castro dead. They plan to use his assassination by
this CIA defector for propaganda against the United
States. If possible, even as a justification for a first
strike atomic offensive against your country. "
"I thought as much," I said bitterly.
she agreed excitedly. ' 'That is what I
"Si, si,"
mean. *Ihe situation is disastrous. We must prevent
Fidel's death before it is too late! "
The edge in Maria's voice took me by surprise. I fell
into a chair without invitation,
"How? That's what I need to know. Has Allissimo
said anything about how Graves will kill Castro?"
The young woman shook her head violently from
side to side.
"I don't know. I can only tell you when it is happen-
ing and who is involved. "
"Okay, " I said in a composed voice. 'That's a start.
Who are the men involved in the plot?"
Maria walked across the room and into the kitchen.
She pulled a cabinet drawer from out of its socket.
Underneath, she had taped a file. She brought it to me,
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She walked away wrenching her long, delicate hands
together.
"It is really very dangerous, your being here now, "
she cautioned. "The situation in Cuba is tense these
days , Seior. I know why you are here and I am, in many
ways, divided. Through Comandante Allissimo, a
member of Vasquez's security staff, I have learned of
the plot on Fidel Castro's life. If it were not for the
motive behind their plan, I would do nothing to prevent
it. "
"Yes, yes, " Maria walked to a cabinet, then poured
herself a glass of Dorado Rum. Nervously, she took a
long sip from it. "Graves is being duped. *Ihe Soviets
want Castro dead. They plan to use his assassination by
this CIA defector for propaganda against the United
States. If possible, even as a justification for a first
strike atomic offensive against your country. "
"I thought as much," I said bitterly.
she agreed excitedly. ' 'That is what I
"Si, si,"
mean. *Ihe situation is disastrous. We must prevent
Fidel's death before it is too late! "
The edge in Maria's voice took me by surprise. I fell
into a chair without invitation,
"How? That's what I need to know. Has Allissimo
said anything about how Graves will kill Castro?"
The young woman shook her head violently from
side to side.
"I don't know. I can only tell you when it is happen-
ing and who is involved. "
"Okay, " I said in a composed voice. 'That's a start.
Who are the men involved in the plot?"
Maria walked across the room and into the kitchen.
She pulled a cabinet drawer from out of its socket.
Underneath, she had taped a file. She brought it to me,
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NICK CARTER
She walked away wrenching her long, delicate hands
together.
"It is really very dangerous, your being here now, "
she cautioned. "The situation in Cuba is tense these
days , Seior. I know why you are here and I am, in many
ways, divided. Through Comandante Allissimo, a
member of Vasquez's security staff, I have learned of
the plot on Fidel Castro's life. If it were not for the
motive behind their plan, I would do nothing to prevent
it. "
"Yes, yes, " Maria walked to a cabinet, then poured
herself a glass of Dorado Rum. Nervously, she took a
long sip from it. "Graves is being duped. *Ihe Soviets
want Castro dead. They plan to use his assassination by
this CIA defector for propaganda against the United
States. If possible, even as a justification for a first
strike atomic offensive against your country. "
"I thought as much," I said bitterly.
she agreed excitedly. ' 'That is what I
"Si, si,"
mean. *Ihe situation is disastrous. We must prevent
Fidel's death before it is too late! "
The edge in Maria's voice took me by surprise. I fell
into a chair without invitation,
"How? That's what I need to know. Has Allissimo
said anything about how Graves will kill Castro?"
The young woman shook her head violently from
side to side.
"I don't know. I can only tell you when it is happen-
ing and who is involved. "
"Okay, " I said in a composed voice. 'That's a start.
Who are the men involved in the plot?"
Maria walked across the room and into the kitchen.
She pulled a cabinet drawer from out of its socket.
Underneath, she had taped a file. She brought it to me,
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hen layed out a stack of photos across the table.
Ihe first was a thin, wiry man. He was in his forties
tnd mustachioed. Ihe red bars and gold medals on his
Iniform identified him immediately as one of the big
;uns in the Cuban army.
"This is Roberto Vasquez, Chief of Cuba's armed
forces. He is the man who will necessarily succeed
astro if the assassination attempt is successful. *Ihe
foundation of his popularity is a strong appeal to CUban
tionalism. Russian presence has infuriated him
for two decades. A halt to the expansion of Soviet
troops here is an obsession with him. "
I studied the photo. If what Maria told me was true,
the KGB would see to it that he never made it into
office. With Castro dead, a hawkish, pro-Soviet was
inevitable.
Maria touched a shaking fingertip to the second of
the photographs. It was of a severe-looking man. His
-•heekbones were high, his teeth slightly bucked so that
the skin of his face was pulled taut like a stocking over
bandit's face.
"His name is Raul Prado. He is head of the secret
olice and is Vasquez 's most prominent backer. Prado
is ruthless. He made his name after Castro's takeover
by creating La Principal, a prison in La Cabana. There,
he tortured and executed anyone who questioned the
authority of the Premier. Even today La Principal is the
most feared facility on the island. It is filled with
political prisoners and counterrevolutionaries, none of
whom can survive even a year in the prison 's squalor. ' '
Lastly, Maria handed me a recent photo of Coman-
dante Miguel Allissimo.
' 'This, Senor Carter, is the man to whom I am
mistress," she said with disdain.
I scrutinized the general. There was a plump, self-
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satisfied quality to his face which suggested gluttony,
or at least a leaning toward the sensual.
"Miguel is a pig, " Maria stated flatly. ' 'He is weak,
but cunning, and will let anyone prevail upon him
provided they have the power. He drinks too much and,
I believe, has other women he puts through the same
misery as me. Convinced, as he is, that Vasquez will
come into power, he has sided with Prado. It is through
Allissimo that we must learn the details of the assassi-
nation plot. "
I nodded.
"Do you know where the American hijackers were
taken?"
"l cannot be certain, but it would probably be in the
holding cells. That is, beneath the Ministry of In-
terior. "
"Where is that from here?"
She pulled a map from the packet of photographs,
memos and statistical information. Her thoroughness
impressed me.
"The Ministry of Interior is in Vibora on Avenue de
Acosta. 'Ihe building, itself, is seven stories, three of
those beneath the ground. The prison occupies the
bottom two. "Ihe rest are administrative offices. It is
there that the hijackers would have been interrogated
and no doubt imprisoned. "
I looked the map over.
' 'And where would Castro figure into this? Aren't
his offices in the Palacio de Revolucion?"
"Yes. That is the headquarters for the Cuban Com-
munist Party. His offices take up the third floor. "
"Is it likely that Castro would visit the Ministry of
Interior?"
' 'No. But the hijackers might well be transported to
the G2 offices for questioning about their connection
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widi the CIA. Ihose offices are also in the Palacio.
Two levels below "
"I see, " I stated grimly. "Assuming Graves does try
to pull off this assassination, when do you think it will
happen
Maria played nervously with a stray lock of hair.
"Soon," she answered soberly. "Within a day.
Maybe two. "
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Ihe Riviera Hotel was alive with excitement as the
two hundred invited guests of the Cuban government
danced and conversed amid the music of a Latin or-
chestra, Built by Meyer Lansky, the organized crime
figure in 1958, Cuba's largest and most luxurious hotel
had become symbolic of Fidel's revolution. This eve-
ning the foremost of the island's elite had gathered to
celebrate the fifty-fourth birthday of their leader. 'Ihe
highest ranking military leaders, diplomats and Com-
munist party officials were present. It was rumored that
an announcement of major importance would be made.
An anticipation had been building since the start of
the huge banquet. Still, the premier had yet to appear.
Whispered speculation echoed throughout the hall as
the privileged members of Cuba 's poverty-stricken so-
ciety smoked cigars and drank daiquiris. What did
Fidel have in mind? they wondered. An undertow of
unrest had been welling among the working class for
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months since the construction of a Russian submarine
base and requisite expansion of troops. Was Castro
preparing them for yet another foreign adventure of the
Soviet Bear's behest? If so, Maria De Los Reyes
seemed immune to such tensions as she bantered with
her escort Comandante Miguel Allissimo and his en-
toUrage of sycophants.
Raul Prado, Chief of Secret Police, stood alone,
sipping an ihfusione laced with vodka. He observed
Allissimo's attractive mistress warily as she threw her
head back in laughter. He appraised her coolly, feeling
a mixture of admiration and skepticism. Allissimo was
a fool, there was no doubt. Since fools were attracted to
fools, he thought silently, it was peculiar that such an
intelligent and beautiful woman would find the overly-
ripe Comandante desirable in any way. Maria's
background was well known to him. He had after all
lusted over her for years , but his overtures had been met
with rejection. And why? he asked himself. Because of
Allissimo? The notion was revolting. That she would
have chosen the Comandante over him? Ridiculous!
Still, her background was anything but distinguished.
Her father had been executed as a traitor to the revolu-
cion when she was a child. Her mother, a common
worker, lived in Alamar, a showcase housing de-
velopment owing to Allissimo 's influence. So, perhaps
that was it, Prado reasoned. Maria De Los Reyes knew
no better. She was a whore who recognized a good
thing when she saw it. She couldn 't afford the luxury of
choice and so passed up the real man for this imposter
who bribed her with his wealth.
Maria grinned coquettishly as she stared into the eyes
of her Comandante. Her hand brushed across the
diamond necklace that graced her throat as Allissimo
whispered something in her ear. ne men who sur-
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rounded them burst into laughter at the slurred remark.
Allissimo had had too much to drink.
A Russian-made military jeep with a AK-47 auto-
matic rifle mounted on the dashboard pulled up to the
Riviera Hotel. The crowd of peasants who had gathered
outside closed in around it, Four members of the G-2
exited. Shouts of "Fidel! Fidel! ! " penetrated the sultry
night air as Castro stepped from the vehicle. A cluster
of city policemen cleared a path. Ihe Premier waved to
the people. Dressed in traditional olive-green fatigues
and black boots with pistol belt and pistol, "The
Beard," as the peasants called him, seemed immuta-
ble. On each shoulder was sewn a diamond of red and
black signifying his rank, comandante. Beneath that,
on his right side, an insignia partially encircled by gold
braid indicating comandante en jefe, the commander-
in-chief.
The band of security men enveloped Castro as he
walked toward the hotel entrance. "Happy Birthday
Fidel!" a banner read. "Ihe premier stopped to shake
the hand of a supporter.
"Have you been living well, my friend?" he askéd
in Spanish.
'Ihe young man grinned broadly.
"l am in the university, thanks to you, El jefe," he
answered.
Castro nodded jovially as he proceeded toward the
Riviera's plate glass doors. One of his men opened it
for him. He entered, then moved swiftly along with his
group into the main ballroom. Spontaneous applause
erupted as the premier entered.
"Viva Castro! Viva la revolucion!'j came the in-
evitable shouts that rang out wherever he appeared.
Fidel nodded his thanks. He bathed in the favor of his
people , shaking hands, delivering personal greetings to
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those who flooded toward him with the grace of a
demi-god. The orchestra played 'Himno de la Revolu-
cion," the Cuban national anthem. "To die for the
revolution is to live forever, " the line went as he made
his way to the speaker's podium set to the front of the
hall. When he arrived, his G-2 security men dropped
back. The orchestra stopped. "Ihe crowd of dignitaries
quieted. As always, when Castro spoke, near mystical
forces gather amid the chatter and cigar
smoke that drifted eerily above the room.
Castro tapped the microphone to make certain it was
operational. Satisfied that it was, he began.
"My friends, my fellow Cubans! I am happy to be
celebrating my fifty-fourth birthday with all of you.
Tonight is a great day for me. It is a great day for all of
the world's people engaged in the obliteration of
tyranny and oppression," his deep voice bellowed.
"Ihe crowd applauded its approval. A sharp forward
glance from the podium quieted them.
"Since the casting out of the imperialist devil
twenty-two years ago, " he began, "great strides have
been made toward social equality for all citizens. It has
been a time of sacrifice, but in sacrifice we have found
triumph. "Ihe Third World is awakening tonight as we
celebrate. 'Ihe sleeping giant is emerging and has an
appetite for all that it has been denied for generations.
"Tonight, my fellow revolutionaries, I am pleased
to announce that the seeds of revolution have been
engendered throughout the Third World. "Ihe govern-
ments of Nicaragua, Peru, Chile, Northern Africa,
Jamaica, San Salvador and thirty other countries
have agreed to participate in discussions to be held this
winter in Havana. It is our hope that through the work
of this council, the Communist Party will come to
represent the point of view common to all emerging
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non-aligned nations of the *Ihird World. "
Castro's eyes darted ahead, gauging his audience's
reaction. Ihey seemed quiet now, ponderous. A smat-
tering of Communist slogans were shouted; the
sporadic sound of clapping, but the premier went on,
not waiting for applause.
"For this reason," he stated in a firm, calculated
tone , ' 'I tonight announce the formation of a permanent
organization to be named the Third World Alliance.
Comprised of black, brown and Spanish-speaking na-
tions of the world, its sole purpose will be to further the
cause of the Communist Party and to crush the United
States through a concentrated boycott of raw materials
and discontinuation of leases to strategic defense loca-
tions. Through this unity of purpose, Cuba will become
the beacon of freedom to suppressed people all over the
world. The formation of the *Ihird World Alliance
comes after much planning and deliberation. It is only
appropriate that I make this announcement on the day
of my birth' "
Ihe crowd applauded wildly. Shouts of enthusiasm
filled the banquet hall of the Riviera Hotel as Maria de
Los Reyes took the arm of Comandante Miguel Allis-
simo. She whispered something to him. He smiled. To
the front of the enormous room, Fidel Castro held up
his hands to silence his followers.
"Cuba is alive!" the premier bellowed frantically.
"Cuba is vital! In less than two decades we have
become the leaders of the entire mrd World while the
United States stares like a shackled monster from
across the Atlantic. We will survive! We will con-
quer!! " he raged, pounding his fist again and again on
the podium.
The crowd cheered on erupting in near frenzy at
their leaders vows of revenge and nationalism. Coman-
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dante Allissimo clapped his hands politely. Maria De
Los Reyes looked on enraptured, both knowing that if
the American hijacker succeeded, Castro would be
dead in a matter of hours.
Maria tugged at the drunken Comandante's arm.
' "Come, Miguel. Let's go to the room where we can
be alone. "
From the wings of the theater-like banquet hall, two
waiters rolled out a cart on which a huge cake had been
mounted. Lit candles covered its top. This, for Fidel.
Drinks were raised in toasts from every area of the
room. Still carrying his drink, Miguel Allissimo fol-
lowed Maria out of a side exit.
From the hall's other side, the searing stare of a thin
man with dark, intense eyes, followed the two lovers as
they left. It was Raul Prado, Chief of the Secret Police.
Awkwardly , the Comandante downed the final swig of
his rum, then boarded the elevator with Maria.
The lift moved slowly up from the lobby toward the
ninth floor where Allissimo kept a room for his women.
He and Maria had spent more than one night dining and
drinking until, with luck, he was unable to perform and
she was happy. The evening seemed predictable
enough to Maria as she awaited their floor; except for a
minor change in format.
*Ihe elevator stopped. The couple exited. The Com-
andante leaned upon his slim mistress for support as she
led him to the door of their suite. She turned the key,
then pushed the door open. She entered, Allissimo a
step behind. Once in, she shut the door, then stood with
her back pressed against it, unblinking. The Coman-
dante turned to her. His plump hand reached for her
breast. Maria stared straight ahead. Allissimo seemed
puzzld He turned to see what it was that held her
attention.
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' 'What is this?" he asked incredulously. "Maria,
my love, who is this man?"
' 'My name is Nick Carter, " I said, pointing the nose
of my 9 mm Luger directly at him. "I'd like to ask you a
few questions, if you don't mind. "
"l do mind! " Allissimo protested in Spanish. "This
is an outrage! Maria, tell this man to leave im-
mediately! "
Maria bolted the door. She walked across the room,
then stood beside me.
s 'I cannot do that, Miguel. You see, he is with me.
For your own sake, I suggest you do as he says. "
The Comandante's childlike face twitched percepti-
bly.
"Please. Have a seat, General," I said. "I need to
know some specifics about your plans for Fidel. "
Silently, the shattered military man approached me.
He sat in a chair directly facing mine.
"I know nothing of any plans for Fidel Castro, " he
bluffed. "The premier has had my support from the
beginning.
' 'That 's a lie, Allissimo. I know you 're at the bottom
of a plot to assassinate him. "
He looked sharply to Maria.
"So you have betrayed me," he spat acidly.
Maria nodded. "Yes, Miguel. I have at last had the
chance to take a stand for something I believe in. I am
not for Castro. I am not for you. Ihe Soviets have been
using all of us, but you are too blind to care. "
"Too blind? With the Russians we have power.
Without them, we are nothing. You are a traitor, align-
ing yourself with this imperialist scum. If Vasquez
were to come into power, I would become his right
hand man, Even if the Russians were to kill him after-
ward, with Fidel out of the way, I would be a hero to the
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Cuban people. Castro's day is over. Vasquez's star is
rising. So why not make the best of the situation?"
"And for this you would die?"
The corpulent Comandante smiled.
"No, Maria. I will never die. L dislike violence and
the touch of death's scaly hand. I am a survivor, mi
dulsura. Whoever is in power, Miguel Allissimo will
be his staunchést ally. You see, we are not so unalike. It
is only your feminine charm that makes you appear
more desirable. "
Maria slapped his face with her open hand.
"You disgust me, Miguel. "
"I entrance you, " he mocked lechorously.
I rose from my chair.
"That'll be enough of that, " I ordered, casting the
two of them a lethal stare. "l need to know about
Warren Graves , Allissimo. Other than that, I don 't give
a goddamn about either of your personal lives. "
"I have told you. I know nothing, Carter. If I were
you, mi amigo, I would be worrying about how to leave
this hotel alive. After all, this entire building is crawl-
ing with G2."
I grabbed him by the throat.
"Listen, you overstuffed coward. I don't have the
time or inclination to screw with your stalling. Start
talking or I'm going to take you apart piece by fatty
piece. "
Allissimo turned his head away in rejection.
I released him slowly. My fingers left their white
imprint on his olive throat.
"Maria, tie and gag him," I ordered.
She took a cord from the curtains. She ripped a
bedsheet for a gag, then proceeded to bind him, hands
and feet, to the chair.
"What are you going to do?" he asked nervously.
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"Shut up, " I snarled, cocking the Luger's hammer
by hand, then placing it to his temple. ' 'The only words
I want to hear from you, are the ones I ask for, under-
stand?"
' 'No! No! You can't do this!"
I slammed the side of his head with a backhand. A
trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck from
inside his ear as Maria gagged him with the section of
bedsheet. His muffled protests went unheeded when I
pulled my stiletto from its chamois sheath.
I looked on as Maria completed her work. This was
not my idea of fun, but with a world catastrophe in the
balance, the comandante would die if that was what it
took. He would die—and miserably—if that was what
it took.
I leaned over him, knife in hand.
"I'm giving you a last chance to talk before the
bloodbath begins," I whispered hoarsely. "Talk and I
promise you'll live to see the outcome of this mess
you've entered into. "
The Comandante said nothing. His face contorted as
I grabbed him by his oily, black hair.
Maria winced.
I raised my stiletto, then pressed it gently onto his
fleshy throat. A string ofred beads formed at the blade.
Maria 's expression altered to a blank panic as a loud
knock sounded on the door.
My eyes darted to her.
She shrugged.
"Get it," I said in an urgent whisper.
Maria walked to the door. I followed, laying flat
against the wall and behind. She looked to me for the
go-ahead, then opened it.
'Raul, " she exclaimed, feigning pleasant surprise.
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"I heard a commotion, Senorita. Is everything all
right ?
"Why, yes, of course. Everything is fine, Raul. "
is Miguel? I must speak with him at once. ' '
"Miguel?" she asked nervously. "Why he has left
for the ballroom. I wasn't feeling well, you see, "
He grunted skeptically. "So you are alone?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
' 'Only that I thought this might be a good opportun-
ity for us to speak," he stated, angling beyond the
doorway.
Maria attempted to stop him.
' 'Raul, ' ' she uttered, trying to constrain her despera-
tion. ' 'Miguel will be returning soon. ftink of what he
would say. "
Prado grabbed her forcefully by the arm.
' 'What do I care? Don't pretend you don't know
what I have to tell you, How much longer did you think
you could •evade me in favor of that pig?"
His grip tightened around her wrist.
"Raul, you are hurting me. "
The Chief of Secret Police laughed sadistically..
' 'And why shouldn 't I? You are a whore, but I love
you in spite of it. "
Prado forced his way into the room. He pushed the
girl backward, ripping open the front of her dress. He
slammed the door shut without turning, then froze
when he saw Allissimo bound to the chair before him.
A staggering realization must have flashed through
his mind, but he never lived to tell about it. I took him
from behind. My stiletto slid smoothly across his
throat, severing his windpipe.
Prado lurched forward toward the Comandante, who
sat silent and horrifiedas the dying man clutched his
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throat trying to speak. A surge of blood jetted from the
gash. Gurgling noises and not words were the only
sounds he made and even these did not pass from his
lips as he fell at Allissimo's feet.
"Ihe famed torturer of thousands would live to punish
no more. He died in a final spasm of anguish.
I pushed the body aside with my foot, then ap-
proached Allissimo, holding the bloody stiletto to his
nose. Maria looked on in horror.
'Will you be talking or dying today, Comandante? ' '
I asked.
rlhe Comandante nodded in the most positive of
fashions.
I undid his gag.
"When is Castro to be assassinated?" I growled.
"Tomorrow, Senor. At nine o'clock tomorrow
morning, the American will be taken to the Palacio de
Revolucfon. There he is to be questioned. The guards
are to supply him a gun, then let him escape. "
"And what about Castro?"
Allissimo hesitated. I grabbed his hair, pulling him
toward Prado who lay in a pool of blood. The feel of my
stiletto pressed against his juggler must have jarred the
Comandante's memory.
"He will be in his office," blurted Allissimo, 'fin
the Palacio de Revolucion. One flight from where
Graves will make his escape. "
' 'How will he get to Castro? The G2 will be guarding
his office. "
"I swear, I do not know, Seior Carter. I do not
know. "
I pressed the pencil thin stiletto harder. Allissimo
shrunk away in dread.
"And the man who will pass Graves the gun. Who is
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' 'Please, please, Seior. On the grave of my mother,
I have told you all that I know. Please do not kill me! ' '
Convinced he had spilled everything he knew, I
relaxed the stiletto 's pressure slowly, then returned it to
the sheath,
I looked to the whimpering Comandante, then down
to the corpse of Prado which stared open-eyed at the
ceiling.
' 'Gag him," I told Maria, "while I put this one
somewher€ a little less conspicuous. "
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was I A.M. when Maria and I sat down to discuss
our strategy for foiling Warten Graves 's death mission.
We had less than eight hours to uncover and sabotage a
plot that had been years in the making. Ihe unknown
quantities were many, but the two that most concerned
me were the essentials: who would be passing Graves
his weapon? What was the path he planned to take in
reaching Fidel?
Maria drew a detailed diagram of the Palacio de
Revolucfon. 'Ihe one thing we had going for us was that
we knew where and when the attempt was to be made.
Our plan was simple. Using the prior knowledge we
had, we would attempt to put ourselves in the right
place at the right time. Maria had become a recogniz-
able figure among the police who guarded the Palacio
de Revolucion. With any luck, she would aid me in
gaining admission into the Palacio in the hopes of
heading Graves off before he reached Castro. lhere
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was no doubt in either of our minds that our mission
was as suicidal as Graves 's.
'Ihe minutes and hours ticked away like the sweeping
second hand of a clock. Each action or lack of action
cost us, strained our resourcefulness, as we attempted
to surmise the route *which the G2 would choose in
transporting Graves. 'Ihe possibilities were virtually
unlimited as the upper levels of the Ministry of Interior
were constructed for public access. Entrances and exits
were literally on all sides of the rectangular building
with others on the lower prison levels. We could only
guess the most logical route. That was the west side
exit, facing the Palacio de Revolucfon and at the first
basement level. If we were wrong, we could then fall
back to cover the entrance to the Palacio. Finally, if we
were wrong a second time, we would meet at the offices
of Castro, himself. It was blind optimism that had
Maria calling Perez, my transport onto the island, to
ask that his boat be ready for tomorrow 's departure. In
all likelihood, we both knew, I would never leave
Cuba. Not alive anyway.
As the morning light crept through the lattice of the
window to our room at the Riviera Hotel, Maria and I
drank a final cup of strong , Cuban coffee. Even without
sleep, we were both too keyed up to be fatigued. For
our entire time together, our minds focused on only one
thing: preventing Warren Graves from getting to Cas-
tro.
Maria filled me in on last minute details as they came
into her pretty head. All the while, I couldn't help but
recall the strange, almost haunting words of Harry
Candee. It seemed like years ago. 'When you find out
what our mission is, you might want to join, not stop
us! In these few remaining minutes before we set out for
the Ministry of Interior, I pondered his words. Here
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NICK - CARTER
was Nick Carter, AXE agent, risking certain death to
protect the life of a man who represented perhaps the
greatest threat to the United States of any politico alive.
The inevitable question arose: Why? I reminded myself
of duty and of the subtle ways of espionage in the
1980's, but was forced to take the inquiry further.
Graves had to be stopped because he was playing into
the hands of the Soviets. Roberto Vasquez wanted
Castro dead because he felt the Premier had betrayed
the revolution. As Fidel's successor, Vasquez planned
to reassert Cuba's independence, usurping the Rus-
sian's hold on the island forever. ms appealed to
Graves. What neither of them realized, however, was
what I knew. Ihe Soviets never planned to let Vasquez
assume power. They wanted Castro dead and him, too.
Fidel had been speaking out of turn, attempting to
organize a Third World Alliance which counted the
Russians out. With Castro dead, Vasquez would be
' 'exposed ' ' as a CIA operative and a more docile pup-
pet installed. Afterward, they could propagandize
anti-Americanism to the "Ihird World; even justify a
fint strike at the U. S. The web was as intricate as it was
lethal. Owing to negligence and naiveté, the United
States had been put in the position of fall guy, once
more. I couldn 't let that happen, not even if it meant my
life.
I looked to Maria. In the silence that pervaded the
spacious, air conditioned room, I knew her mind must
have been going through the same gueling exercise.
"You know that what we're doing is the right
thing," I said.
She nodded.
"I know. The world is a complicated place. It is a
community of contradictions so that sometimes we
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must even kill to save lives. I believe that. I believe that
if we die today it will be in the name of humanity. "
I smiled gently.
"We'd better be going, Seiorita, " I whispered.
It was 7:45 A.M. Dressed in the Cuban garb Perez had
given me and with Wilhelmina, my Luger, strapped to
the small of my back, we left for the Ministry of
Interior.
Warren Graves wondered what time it was as he
squatted in his reeking cell. They had allowed him to
shave and wash earlier this morning. He guessed that
they were coming to take him for their final round of
questions when he heard the jangle of keys at the cell
door. It opened. Two men stood at the entrance. One of
them was Luis Garcia. Dressed in his white suit, im-
maculate as ever, he stood smiling as the second man
walked toward him.
"Buenas dias, Senor Graves, " Garcia greeted.
The hijacker spit on the floor.
Garcia shrugged as the guard undid Warren Graves 's
leg irons and manacles. He replaked them with a set of
standard handcuffs.
"You will be coming with us for more questioning.
Isn't that nice?"
"That is none of your concern. "
"What about my friend?" Graves snapped.
' SAh, Sehor Sublett. I am sorry to say that he is dead,
mi amigo. It seems he was overexposed to electric
shock therapy. The treatment is used only in the most
severe cases of depression and only when absolutely
necessary. Tragic, but it was somehow administered at
too intense a voltage. You compatriot was killed .
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yes, literally fired to death, Seior. "
Graves' eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at the
ruthless G2 man. It was impossible to think that Garcia
could be his contact. Then it was the second man, the
guard, who had to be Pedro Sanchez.
His eyes ran up and down the small, disheveled man
who stood before him.
"Sanchez?" he whispered.
"Ihe guard did not acknowledge, but took hold of his
arm firmly.
"Sanchez," he stated neutrally. Neither an admis-
sion, nor a denial. A word. The name that meant all
systems were go.
By the time Sanchez had stepped from him, a small
metal T lay in the palm of Warren Graves's hand, the
key to the handcuffs.
"Where are you taking me, Garcia?" the prisoner
asked in a low rumble.
The G2 man considered his question, chortling at its
innocuousness.
"If you must know," he conceded, ' 'you will be
taken to the offices of the Secret Police. Now that we
understand one another, perhaps you will tell us what
you know about your government 's operations in Cuba
and the Third World. "
"l can't tell them what I don't know. You've mis-
judged me. I wanted to cooperate from the beginning.
You must realize I'm no longer working for them by
now."
Garcia frowned.
"Perhaps not, Senor Graves. " He pulled the pris-
oner's cuffed hands high up behind him. "Come along
now. Pedro! See to it that the van is waiting. "
The three walked in a column along the concrete
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corridor—and into the sunlight of the east side of the
Ministry.
Maria and I were waiting on Avenue Figueros across
from the Minisfry of Interior. We had driven Allis-
simo's Alfa Romeo sedan; a car the Comandante was
known to have lent Maria often. This day, it seemed
more a mobile arsenal than private transportation.
Aside from my 9 mm Luger, we had a M16 telescopic
rifle and half a dozen grenades the Cuban underground
had provided. An arsenal to us. Two members of the
wealthy "Alpha" class to the Cubans who would ob-
serve us. Ironically, it was the class system of this
classless society that would provide the perfect facade
for our mission.
I puffed a Dorado cigar perfunctorily. The rifle lay at
my feet as Maria scouted the area from the driver's side
of the car. Las Ruinas, a restaurant, was opening for
business on my left as government workers filed into
the Ministry of Interior across the street on my right.
"What time is it?" I asked impatiently.
Maria looked to her watch.
"Eight forty-five, Nick. "
"We're at street level on the west side. Could they
have left already from another level?"
Maria shook her head in a helpless, non-answer.
"I do not know. It is impossible to say. "
My mind raced like a computer. If we were wrong. If
they had left from another exit and were headed for the
Palacio de Revolucfon, it would mean the end of any
chance at stopping Graves. If we were correct in our
choice of the west side exit, but left before they did, we
could still catch them as they entered the headquarters
for the Cuban Communist Party. Either way it would be
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chancy, but a decision had to be made.
I reconnoitered all visible entrances and exits to the
Ministry of Interior, contemplating the possibilities. To
the front ofLas Ruinas , a group of three Cubans chatted
socially. There was nothing unusual in that. I had
learned long before that Cubans loved to talk. Ihe
problem was that one of them was a policeman.
Maria nudged me,
I turned to see the Cubans looking our way. Parked,
as we were, the city cop found us a prime target for his
attention and a possible citation. He took a step in our
direction.
"Don't look up. Just start the engine and get out of
here," I said through clenched teeth.
Maria did as she was told. A skein of perspiration
formed on my forehead in the oppressive morning heat.
Slowly, ihe Alfa Romeo rolled onto the main
thoroughfare.
fie car moved swiftly through the light Havana
traffic. With most of its citizenry working, there were
few cars or pedestrians to interfere. 8:50 A.M. The
Russian-made watch on Maria's wrist might have been
burning a hole through her flesh the way her eyes
traveled from its face, to the traffic, then to the watch
again.
My right hand stroked the rifle at my feet as if it were
alive. Maybe we had pushed it too close back at the
Ministry of Interior, I cursed. We had taken Allis-
simo's time schedule so literally. What if Graves had
been transported thirty minutes early? Even if he stood
in the lurch waiting to fire on Cuba's Premier as we
raced down Avenue de Acosta on our way to stopping
him?
My eyes shot to the face of Maria's watch as if
attracted by destiny 's own magnet.
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"According to your diagram, prisoners are taken
through the back entrance of the Palacio. "
- "Yes. "
"Is there any way of knowing if they've entered the
building once we get there?"
Maria ran her right hand over her face in anguished
concentration.
"Prisoners are transported in a police van," she
answered. "I would be able to recognize it. If Senor
Graves has entered the building, we will know. "
I prayed she was right as the sedan turned onto
Avenue de la Independence. 8:52. The Palacio de Rev-
olucfon, which housed the offices of Fidel Castro,
came into view.
The Alfa Romeo jetted through the narrow street,
sandwiched between rows of cars on either side. We
parked on a side road, directly across from the marble
building's back entrance. Our chances were running
short. The police van was no where in sight.
"They haven't arrived yet," Maria gasped.
I heaved a sigh of relief. If only I was as confident of
that fact as she. Graves was no nickel and dime political
dilettante and everyone knew it. Who could say that the
standard procedures would be used at all on the day that
promised to rock the civilized world?
The seconds fell away like sand through an hour
glass. If only those meteoric instants could be stopped,
then held to the light and examined. But no. We were
all victims of the natural order of things today. Maria,
me, Graves and even Fidel Castro.
8:55 A.M. An electrical impulse dashed across the
surface of my wet skin as the brown government van
turned onto Ermita Street. This was it. Maria's eyes
widened with anticipation as she watched me take the
M16 from the floor of the car. I laid it across my lap,
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then opened the car window. Kill the killer, my mind
throbbed to some trained instinct that burgeoned inside
me. Kill the killer. Okay, I thought, placating the voice
that attempted to instruct me. I know what to do.
Warren Graves is as good as dead.
The van passed us. It was impossible to see the
prisoner as he was seated between his two captors. *Ihe
procedure had been gone over one hundred times be-
fore. Tie prisoner would be taken from out of the van 's
sliding, side door. He would be escorted into the back
entrance by two, or perhaps three, guards.
Kill him! That instinctual mass of keyed nerves and
titillated synapse screamed to the back of my brain. A
cooler, more persuasive, part of me held the cries in
abeyance. A miss now would do no one any good, it
reasoned. Watch. Wait. Take aim, then fire when a
clean shot presents itself. Not before. Never before
that.
'Ihe brown van pulled into the concrete drive leading
to the back entrance of the Palacio de Revolucfon. It
stopped. I raised my rifle to window level as the Alfa
Romeo engine started, then idled. The glistening blue,
steel barrel jutted out like a claw or some other attack-
ing appendage of my body. Seconds, minutes, hours;
the rags of time paraded on unceasingly. There was no
need to look at a watch. Graves and I stood, both at
destiny's door. I'd have no more than one clear shot
before the guards would fall to the ground with their
prisoner, obscuring any chance of a second, deadly try.
An abortive effort now would lay waste to everything
we'd done to put ourselves in this position.
The sliding door opened. Two guards waited on
either side as the driver stood, machine gun at belt
level, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
My rifle barrel peeked three inches out of the car
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window. Crouched below, with Maria at my side, I
studied the precise ritual in which the guards engaged.
From one hundred yards away. The windowless van
gave not a clue as to when the prisoner would exit. 'Ihe
guards stepped onto a running board which stretched
below the sliding door. My hands perspired. My finger
tensed upon the burning steel trigger as my one open
eye strained to catch just a glimpse of Warren Graves as
he disembarked.
The pupil of my firing eye narrowed to a needlepoint
as I searched for an opening.
The Cuban G2 had schooled these men well. The
guards enveloped Graves in unison as he stepped down
from the runner, then fell behind the driver as he
combed the street for possible assailants. His clear,
wary eyes stopped at our Alfa Romeo.
The long, blue steel barrel of my M16 receded
slowly as the guard squinted winterpret what he had
just seen.
"It's no good," I said. "Pull the car around front.
We're going to have to nail him from inside the build-
ing. "
Maria circled the building. We parked hurriedly,
then took the mountain of stairs in seconds flat. A
member of Castro's watchful security staff greeted us
as we entered.
' 'Buenas dias, Seörita, " the guard chimed from his
desk.
"Buenas dias," she responded curtly, signing the
visitor's register. ' 'This is Sehor Mendoza, a personal
friend of Comandante Allissimo 's. We are to meet him
in his office at nine o'clock. "
'The Comandante has not yet an-ived, ' ' he retorted.
'Then we will wait for him upstairs. He will have no
objections. ' '
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'Ihe guard eyed me suspiciously.
"I must see your identification. "
I obliged. From the building 's opposite side, Warren
Graves was no doubt making his move toward Fidel.
"Very well. This seems to be in order," he said,
handing the card back to me, 'but I must insist that you
stay behind until the Comandante arrives. "
"Pero que?" I asked, feigning outrage.
Maria stepped forward before he could answer.
"Officer, I am well known to you. The Comandante
grants me many privileges and I can tell you that he will
be angered to find this man detained. Now, I must insist
that you let him pass!"
The guard scratched his head thoughtfully. In the
background, the first of nine chimes sounded from the
clock positioned atop the Palacio.
I reached behind me to the Luger which was
holstered at the small of my back. My hand wrapped
snugly around it. It was sheer suicide to attempt shoot-
ing our way into Castro's office, but the sound of the
ninth chime seemed a convincing argument.
Seconds before I drew, the security force captain
walked into the vestibule.
"Ah, Senorita De Los Reyes! What seems to be the
problem?"
The young guard stammered an explanation which
the captain abruptly halted.
"IfSeiorita De Los Reyes and her companion are to
see the Comandante, let them pass," he said with a
curteous smile. "You should know better than to ques-
tion her. La Senorita 's reputation is above reproach! ' '
My hand shrank from the Luger. Maria smiled po-
litely.
"Gracias, Captain. We are, of course, expected. "
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The driver of the police van stayed behind as the man
named Sanchez waited for the elevator which would
take them to the second floor. Garcia tapped his foot
impatiently. Sanchez cast a significant glance in War-
ren Graves's direction. "Ihe elevator halted at this the
ground floor. The mechanical door opened.
"Perhaps with your friend dead, you will begin to
see the futility of hiding your secrets from us, Seior
Graves, " Garcia lectured.
They entered the lift. Graves stretched his forefinger
into his palm, then placed the handcuff key between it
and his thumb. His hatred of the impeccably dressed
agent was palpable. He cleared his throat as the cuff
lock sprung open.
'You realize, there are many avenues open to a man
with your knowledge of American intelligence , Seior.
We could make it rather pleasant for you if you'd let
us. "
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Graves sidled up to Sanchez as the elevator door
closed and the compartment raised by degree. He took
Sanches's .45 caliber automatic pistol into his right
hand as Garcia continued his innocuous diatribe.
' 'I thought about what you 've said, Garcia, " Graves
stated coldly, raising the weapon to his chest, ' 'and I
think that you're full of shit. "
The G2 man's eyes screwed to the ceiling when he
saw the weapon. It was a prayer that he had begun
reciting when Graves pressed the automatic pistol to his
heart, then fired one muffled shot.
A spurt of red blood pulsed through Garcia's white
suit as he fell to one knee. By the time the elevator
reached the next floor, he was dead, but still twitching
convulsively in a river of blood.
Graves turned to Sanchez, then struck him a jolting
blow to the side of the head. The double agent crumbled
to the right of the dead man, his face buried in the
crimson pool which had formed on the floor.
The hijacker ran from the elevator, then down the
corridor to a door marked "Puerta de Emergencia,"
emergency exit. It was exactly as Prado had told him,
Graves thought excitedly. One floor above lay Fidel
Castro's private offices.
Graves climbed the concrete staircase leading to the
third floor. Prado had been explicit in his description of
where it would lead and in what position he would be in
relation to the Premier. There would be an unlocked
door one flight above him. Having entered, he would
be in an alcove directly across from a desk where Castro
and Vasquez would be seated.
He clenched his pistol tightly in the palm of his hand,
then moved up the staircase carefully, silently. It was
crucial that Castro be caught unaware lest he draw his
own revolver, and a gun battle ensue. With security as
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tight as it was and only a handful of G2 involved in the
plot, any deviation would bring certain disaster. Step
by step , Graves took the stairs. Prado had promised this
passageway would remain open for his escape, but
there was little chance of escape, he knew. That did not
matter. The only thing that did matter was that Castro
die.
Once out of the captain's view, Maria and I ran
feverishly to the third floor where Castro was engaged
in his first meeting of the day with Roberto Vasquez,
commander of Cuba's armed forces. We stopped to
observe the casual, business as usual demeanor of the
government workers present. Secretaries and pages
strolled the corridors with their high ceilings and
polished marble. The security man stationed outside
die entrance of Fidel's office complex stood, totally
unaware of the magnitude of the events about to trans-
Pire.
Maria and I looked to one another. Where was
Graves? Our minds raced in tandem. With a guard
stationed here, he had to be entering from the back. Of
course, I thought. nere had to be a back entrance
absent from any of the blueprints through which he
planned to penetrate security. Graves was in the build-
ing. He was making his move on Castro. He had to be
stopped.
We approached the tall, well-built security man. He
recognized Maria immediately.
"We are looking for the Comandante. Senor Men-
doza has an appoinünent to see him this morning. "
He shrugged.
"I have not seen him, Senorita. "
Maria reached into her purse. She took some papers
from within, then dropped them at the man's feet. He
• reached down to retrieve them with an embarrassed
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smile. I drew my stiletto from its sheath, then pene-
trated the base of the guard's brain with its pencil-thin
point as he rose.
The tall man fell forward. Not even a drop of blood
emanated from the minuscule wound as I took him into
my arms, then dragged him through the entrance.
"There's been an accident! This man has col-
lapsed!" Maria exclaimed to the score of secretaries
and administrative workers who looked to us.
Several of the personnel rushed to aid us as I laid the
guard's body onto the thick carpet.
' 'Mio dios!" a woman prayed.
The group moved forward as Maria explained the
sudden collapse of the security man. I drifted toward
the office of Fidel.
"What is the meaning of this?" one of Castro's
aide-de-camp's boomed in a deep voice.
"One of your men has collapsed," I answered,
pointing excitedly toward the conflux of office workers
that encircled him.
"We'll see about this," he vowed pushing his way
passed me. "Everyone stand back!" he ordered as I
stood to the side, then passed through the door leading
to Castro's study.
I closed the door behind me. Ihe study was empty.
Several couches and chairs were tastefully placed
around the small room. Potted tropical plants and hibis-
cus decorated the chamber. A door lay to its back, this
leading to the adjoining cabinet room.
I passed through the study, drawing my Luger.
Stealthily, I entered, pleased to be beyond the outer
study, reasonably certain that the next men I'd find
would be eye-deep in the assassination plot.
I held my breath, then pushed the door open a crack.
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Still, nothing. No sign of Graves, Vasquez or the Pre-
mier. I entered. A long chrome table, for what must
have been forty people, was set to the middle of the
large room. Simultaneous translating equipment was
rigged to each place. Beyond the conference table lay
the third door—leading to Castro's private office.
I approached the entrance cautiously, my weapon
cocked and ready to fire. I put my ear to the wooden
door. The muffled voices of two men conversing could
be heard from within. Gently I turned the door knob.
Further, further, I moved it by painful degree as if
working the tumbler to a vault. At last, the clicking
sound of the lock gave way. Slowly, I pulled the door
toward me. Through the wedge opening, I could see
Fidel seated at his desk, smoking a cigar, as he talked to
Roberto Vasquez. Behind them was a bookcase filled
with the writings of Ché Guevara and scholarly works
on Cuban agriculture and economics. To the right of the
desk lay a small conference table; beyond that was an
alcove.
I scrutinized the darkened area to the back of Cas-
tro's private office. None of the diagrams I had studied
showed this. A sixth sense told me that in that alcove
was a door which led three flights down to the ground
level. A shadow fell to the left of the alcove. It was the
shadow of a man.
I raised up on the balls of my feet, ready to spring
forward on an instant's notice. Warren Graves , the man
who had travelled from the tomb to vent his hatred on
unsuspecting enemies, loomed across the room from
me, just forty feet away. It was strange to think that
once, seemingly light years away, we had been on the
same side. Yet, how unalike were we? Born of like
organizations, it was only the means and not the ends
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that divided us. A quirk of fate, a twist of philosophy
had me gripping a Luger, ready to kill the man I would
call enemy.
Graves inched forward.
I opened the door a fraction wider.
Our minds must have worked simultaneously for at
that moment Graves leapt from out of his hiding place.
He crouched in combat ready position for a clean,
steady shot. It was then that I burst through the door.
"Get down! " I screamed.
Graves ' eyes darted from the desk where Castro and
Vasquez were situated to me.
"Goddamn you!" he muttered breathlessly, then
turned the gun on me.
It was too late for I had the drop on him. Our testing
stares locked in the split instant before shooting. He
looked different from his photos: tall, with black,
short-cropped hair, graying at the temples. His eyes
intense and determined. Graves's sudden appearance
sent a chill through me. It was as if I had been granted
one flashing glimpse into a macabre world where
Graves and I were the same man separated only by
time.
I fired my Luger. Ihe 9 mm bullet pierced his
forehead. He reeled backward, dead before he hit the
ground.
Castro looked up from his desk astounded. His
bright, intelligent eyes assessed the situation, but he
seemed paralyzed to do anything. He looked to me in
dumb amazement.
My ken fell back to Graves' protracted body. A
stabbing pain seized me momentarily. It had been like
killing a twin, I observed, touched by the strangeness of
the situation. Even as the thought crossed my mind, I
could see Roberto Vasquez in the corner of my eye. His
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face contorted with rage and frustration as he stood,
then shouted to no one.
"Get that man!"
Realizing the absurdity of his reaction, Vasquez
went for his sidearm. The same one he intended to use
on Graves had the assassination been successful.
I fired my Luger a second time, winging the Cuban
military leader as Fidel Castro dove to the floor. I
dashed across the room and into the alcove before
Palacio Security had a chance to react.
Like a man on fire, I ran down Fidel Castro's secret
escape route. Graves 's plot hopelessly dashed, saving
my own skin was all that mattered.
One flight, two flights and finally the third passed
beneath my feet as I raced through the Palacio de
Revolucion. The little-known staircase was deserted.
Who could say where it would take me?
At ground level, a metal door awaited me. It was
double bolted from within. Gun drawn, ready for the
worst, I undid the bolts, realizing that Vasquez and
dozens of Castro's G2 were seconds behind. -me heavy
metal door opened. Before me lay a concrete corridor
leading to the outside.
I ran from out of the stairway, down a narrow conduit
and into an expansive garage whereone of Castro's
jeeps was kept. To the right was the mouth of a tunnel.
This was the complex of underground passageways
only rumored to exist until now. The network stretched
beneath the entire length of Havana, leading ultimately
to la Cabafia fortress. It was through these tunnels that
Castro could make it to safety in the event of an inva-
sion.
I peered beyond the darkened entrance. The cor-
ridors were illuminated by tubular neons which ran like
white tracers across the ceiling. Security officers were
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set along the hallway. A military officer was speaking
over a walkie-talkie rapid fire to his men stationed
throughout the Palacio. From above me, I could hear
the Spanish-speaking voices of the G2 as they pursued
me through the labyrinth. It was time to move and now,
I anguished. But where? I looked helplessly around me.
The clatter of weapons and sound of army boots stomp-
ing on the steaming concrete followed too close for
comfort. Feeling there was nothing to lose, I ran to an
unmarked door just as the first of the soldiers arrived at
ground level. I was tempted to fire a shot behind, but
opted for restraint as I passed through the door, jubilant
as a waft of hot morning air encompassed me.
"Ihe sun stared down from the sky like a searing
goldpiece as I galloped from this forgotten area of the
Palacio. A group of militia stood, drinking coffee and
talking as I rushed passed. A smattering of Spanish
expletives followed, but I offered no chance for specu-
lation. With my back to them, I raced toward the
outskirts of the Plaza; not turning to see what the
soldiers planned once they realized I was the hottest
item they would ever stumble upon.
"Halt! " I heard a booming voice shout in Spanish.
The sound of the word sent a renewed burst of
adrenaline rushing through my system. In my mind's
eye, I could see the young Cuban soldier as he took aim
with his rifle at my back.
Pure instinct drove my body to the brink of collapse
as I continued my race with death. A shot rang out.
Silently I wondered why I was still alive when I realized
the rifle fire had come from in front and not behind me.
Perhaps sixty yards away, I saw Allissimo's Alfa
Romeo sedan. It was Maria who had fired. A short
distance behind me, the bewildered soldier dropped to
the ground.
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The sharp smacks of renewed rifle fire followed. The
long stem of the M16 rifle, poking from out of Allis-
simo's sedan, responded effectively and without hesita-
tion. The passenger door swung open even before I
reached the car. The Alfa Romeo sped off as I entered.
Sucking air into my lungs like life itself, I collapsed in
the passenger's seat as one-half dozen soldiers and
police entered their vehicles in blistering, hot pursuit.
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CHAVrER SEVENTEEN
'Ihe Alfa Romeo shot from the Palacio de Revolu-
cion passed the Jose Marti monument and up Avenue
de Colon. Regardless of what happened now, we knew
that the seemingly charmed Castro was alive and on his
way to Ia Cabana fortress. Graves was dead. His plan
and the strategy of the Soviet braintrust had been foiled.
It was only a matter of time now before the G2 con-
tacted its installations across the island to set up
roadblocks for our capture. Within an hour of that,
CDR block leaders would begin a house to house search
of the barrack-like houses in Old Havana in an attempt
to locate us wherever we hid. Still, all of this seemed
unimportant. Our mission had been successful, It was
survival instinct pure and unmitigated that had me
hastening to analyze the situation in the desperate hope
of finding a way out.
I turned around in my seat, looking behind us. Maria
made a sharp turn onto Avenue Loma, a main
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boulevard. Seconds later, the military jeep we had left
behind at the Palacio followed.
"Where are you headed?" I asked tersely.
' 'To the beach. You have Cuban papers, is that not
"Yes, yes. "
"I will leave you at Veradoro. There you can pass as
a tourist. Perez 's boat will be waiting off shore from the
International Hotel. "
' 'What about you?"
'Ihe wind blowing through the sedan 's open window
scattered Maria's long hair into one thousand direc-
tions.
' 'I will continue toward Jaimanitas as a decoy. With
God's grace, you will make it out to international
waters where you will be safe. "
I said nothing. Suicide was not a subject that needed
elaboration.
Again, I turned in my seat. The jeep was gaining on
us. Maria 's eyes darted to her rearview mirror.
"Well, I guess it's time to pull the stops out, " I said,
drawing my Luger.
Maria nodded, her eyes glued to the minor.
'If we can get free of thejeep, I may be able to make
it by way of the backroads. "
"l couldn't agree with you more, Senorita, " I con-
curred, taking aim with my Luger from out of the side
window.
At a distance of fifty yards, I could see a dispatcher
next to the jeep's driver, transmitting his location to
other units in the area. I steadied my arm with my left
hand, then fired two rounds. The dispatcher fell limp
against the driver's shoulder. To the rear of the jeep,
two riflemen, roused at my accuracy, took aim.
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' 'Hang low in your seat, " I instucted, firing several
rounds to thwart their effort.
It was then that four bullets shattered the rear win-
dow of the sedan. I could hear a whistling sound as they
passed.
Maria's hands tensed on the steering wheel.
"Not to worry, " I lied. "Take a right here, maybe
we can throw them.
The Alfa Romeo's tires squealed wildly as Maria
turned so sharply that the sedan skidded sideways.
I put a second clip in my Luger. The jeep behind us
managed a turn I would have thought impossible.
Temporarily, they weretoo disorganized to fire. It was
a moment's reprieve.
"How much farther to the International?" I asked.
"More than fifty kilometers, Nick, " she said.
We were doing sixty miles per hour down Avenue
Kohly , a two lane street near Nuevo Vedado. All along
the way, Cubans gathered to watch, pointing in as-
tonishment as fire continued to be exchanged. My chief
worry was that one of their rifle shots would pierce a
tire, not a difficult feat from this short range. I shot back
almost haphazardly simply to keep them from setting
up for the effort. Still, the driver was dispatching word
of our route; a sure sign that the formation of a military
roadblock was in progress.
'Ihe sedan, itself, was already a shambles. Bullets
had passed through the vacant back window and shat-
tered the windshield. The exterior was riddled with
holes.
"Maria, you have grenades, don't you?"
"Yes. In the back. "
I pulled a hand grenade out from under the rear seat.
An Ak-47 rifle slug whistled over my head as I held it in
my hand, contemplating our next maneuver: The
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crowded urban area of the city was behind us. In order
to get to the coast we would have to pass through the
residential section of Miramar, a perfect spot for a
roadblock. If we were going to break free of our pur-
suers, even temporarily, it was now. I opened the door
slightly, then pulled the pin of the grenade. I rolled the
explosive device to the center of the highway in antici-
pation of the jeep.
The rifle fire continued and was answered by five
consecutive rounds.
"Please, please stay to the center of the road," I
prayed.
Maria's frantic eyes glanced expectantly into the
rearview mirror as I continued firing.
"!Dios protegenos!" she whispered as the army
vehicle passed over the activated grenade.
We had missed, I thought for a split second. "Ihe
explosive lay passive as an apple beneath the jeep 's gas
tank when suddenly the timer detonated. A flashing
eruption sounded, shaking the ground and our sedan as
we drove. •me jeep's back wheels blew away to the
sides as the chassis lunged forward like a green coffin.
The wheelless jeep struck the pavement, then burst into
a conflagration as we sped away unharmed from the
decimated vehicle and the four burning corpses scat-
tered about the street.
My shirt was drenched with persipiration. We had
little to be optimistic about even now, I speculated. One
jeep out of hundreds had been debilitated, four men out
of an army. Soon the G2 would be swanning like bees
around a smashed hive, ready to avenge our intrusion
onto their island.
"We will never make it to Veradero, " Maria con-
fided as we entered the section of the city known as
Miramar. ' 'Ihe roads leading to the beach are already
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sealed, perhaps less than five miles from here. You
must make a contact here or you'll certainly be cap-
tured. This car is identified. I can lead them away from
Miramar toward Jaimanitas. They will be looking for
it, not you."
I attempted an objection. Maria slowed the car, put-
ting her hand gently to my lips.
"No, no. It is my fate. There is no way that I can
stay. I have wasted my life until now. I have already
decided. It can be no other way for me. "
I gazed into her deep black eyes. 'Ihey were glisten-
ing as she spoke.
"Go to the Swiss Embassy. It is not far from here.
Yallo Lindstrom is an advisor who sympathizes with
your government. I know he will help. "
I kissed Maria a final time. It was the first and last
time our lips would meet, I knew.
In the background, sirens sounded. The entire island
seemed possessed by some hellish spirit of anger and
vengeance.
I stood by the roadside on the outskirts of Miramar as
the ruined sedan sped off west in the direction of
Jaimanitas. I began my trek due north toward Fifth
Avenue where the Swiss Embassy lay. For the first time
I allowed myself the hope that I might be leaving this
prison without bars called Havana alive.
Yallo Lindstrom sat at a typewriter in his second
floor office of the Swiss Embassy. He pecked at the
keys amateurishly. He was practicing. His wife, who
had left Cuba a month before, would find his having
typed a letter amusing, he thought, visualizing her
expression when she received it. He reread the half
page that protruded beyond the black roller.
'Since you have left, the International Boxing Tour-
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nament has arrived at the Payret Theater,' it said. 'I
know how you detest the sport and perhaps your illness
has prevented an argument about my attending. Several
countries, including the United States, have boycotted
the games over Russian expansion here, but the com-
petition will be stiffin any case. Well, not to bore you,
my dear. I expect to be returning to Geneva in two
weeks if all goes well. '
Lindstrom ran his hand over his blond crewcut. He
pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up on the bridge of
his nose. His fingers returned to the typewriter keys as
he began once more. He had been in Havana for two
long years. The international situation considered, he
would be glad to leave—forever. "Ihe vice of to-
talitarianism was closing and even the diplomatic corp
was feeling it. Rationing was tighter. The Cuban
citizenry was restive with the endless shortages and
vague promises the future held. Havana was simmer-
ing. The number of Russian troops had swelled. The
completion of a Soviet submarine base had served to
unite the West so that international pressures and
economic sanctions were multiplying by the day.
Geneva would be cool this time of year, he dreamed.
He missed his wife. He was anxious that amid this
climate of growing suspicion, his function as an opera-
tive for the CIA would one day be uncovered.
'Ihe phone on Lindstrom's mahagony desk rang
once. He picked up the receiver.
"Yah?"
' 'There is a man here to see you, Mr. Lindstrom,"
the secretary stated professionally. "His name is
Mendoza. He says its important that he see you. "
'Ihe diplomat cast a short stare from out of his win-
dow overlooking Fifth Avenue. He took off his specta-
cles, then nervously wiped the lenses.
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"Tell him to make an appointment. Tell him I'm
busy," he said in German.
A muffled conversation ensued. The secretary re-
turned to the phone.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you, Mr. Lindstrom, but
he says that a Miss De Los Reyes sent him, if that
means anything to you. "
He hesitated, pressing the receiver tight against his
ear, A silence followed as the significance of the name
registered.
' 'Tell Mr. Mendoza I'll be down to see him, " he said
ominously. ' 'I'll be down directly. "
Lindstrom rose slowly from his chair. The reluctance
was not a by-product of middle age, or physical in
nature at all! He was frightened. Two weeks to go, he
thought fatefully , Two damnable weeks and now this.
When Yallo Lindstrom walked down the flight of
stairs to the lobby, I knew it was him. His face was gray
and drawn. He was performing a duty, not a voluntary
action in seeing me.
"Ah, Mr. Mendoza," he proclaimed, feigning rec-
ognition. "When you were first announced, I did not
recognize the name. "
I smiled as best I could. With half the island on my
tail, it was an exercise in theatrics.
' 'Would it be possible to speak with you for a mo-
ment, Senör?" I asked in Spanish.
"Si, si. Esta muypossible," he responded, showing
me the way to his office.
I followed. Once inside, he closed the door. Neither
of us sat.
"Is it safe to talk?" I asked anxiously.
"No. You should understand that by now. "
"Then, we'll risk it," I answered bitterly.
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DEATH MISSION HAVANA
"What is it you want?"
"A way to the International Hotel. My contact is
waiting. This island is about to explode, Lindstrom,
and I want to be far out to sea when that happens. "
'You Americans have a flair for drama, ' ' he began.
I cut him short.
"Castro was nearly assassinated less than an hour
ago, amigo. I was sent here by a girl who may be dead
by now. "
"Yes. She helped me this far. Now tell me straight
and fast, can you get me to Veradero or not?"
Lindstrom turned away ponderously.
"Yes, " he admitted, "but if you 're caught I'd have
to be certain, damn certain, that I wouldn 't be impli-
cated. "
I patted the bulge where my Luger was holstered.
"If I'm caught, Lindstrom, I know what to do. "
"Very well. Who's after you?"
"Pick an organization. The whole island. Get me
those twenty kilometers and I swear you 'II never see me
again. "
"Will there be roadblocks?"
I nodded.
"Can you help me?"
"I'm thinking, damnit! " he said suddenly angered.
"Ihe fiery glint in his blue eyes cooled almost im-
mediately. He took off his spectacles, wiping them
clean as he spoke. "I'm sorry. My wife has been ill.
Ihis is happening at a bad time for me. Yes, yes, of
course I can help you. I drive a Mercedes. You could
hide in the trunk. They'd never search me; I'm a dip-
Iomat. "
"I wouldn 't count on that. Not now. Is there another
way? Do you have a driver, for example?"
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"Couldn't I drive you? In uniform and with proper
credentials, I might get by. "
"That's possible. Yes, " he said bringing his hand to
his chin. "Yes, that might be the best way. Do they
know what you look like?"
"Not yet. That's why we've got to move now, be-
fore La Grama is published, before they can get hold of
a half-decent description. "
Lindstrom sighed, then nodded agreement as he
placed his gold-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of
his nose.
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CHAVrER EIGHTEEN
The battered Alfa Romeo raced down Fifth Avenue
headed for Jaimanitas. It was a hopeless exercise from
Maria's standpoint, but with luck, her American coun-
terpart would find some breathing room. She wondered
where the roadblock would appear. La policia were no
doubt aware of her destination. It seemed only a matter
of time before they surmised her route and closed off
die entire area.
'Ihe toe of Maria's high heel shoe pressed down
determinedly on the gas pedal as she thought of Allis-
simo and of her life in Cuba. Since earliest childhood
she had manipulated and connived in an attempt to
survive amid the law-enforced poverty of the society.
True, she had even sold herself for the security the
comandante and his like offered. Deep inside, how-
ever, there burned a flame of rebellion which no gov-
ernment could hope to extinguish. It was this torch of
defiance that inspired her collaboration with Perez and
others in the underground. Everything she had ever
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done. All things cowardly and all things brave seemed
to culminate in these last, impassioned acts.
Maria looked into her rearview mirror. Behind her
charged two military jeeps in obvious pursuit. The
bullet-ridden car was not difficult to identify. They had
found her. She gritted her teeth, squaring her lithe
frame behind the steering column. If they wanted a
chase, the female operative.vowed, they would get it.
*Ihe toe ofher shoe pressed still harder on the gas pedal ,
until it touched the floor. The sedan responded im-
mediately. The speedometer needle jumped from one
hundred and forty kilometers to one hundred sixty , then
eighty and beyond.
The car would go no faster. She was losing ground as
each minute passed. It was not detectable at first, but
soon it became all too apparent that the gap was clos-
ing. What had begun as a mile lead had already de-
teriorated to several hundred yards. The situation was
not going to improve. She let her mind go. How much
easier this would have been if Nick were with her, she
conjured. Dying would have been somehow easier with
a man beside her; but here, alone and frightened, these
last moments seemed intolerable. Her only solace
would be the lonely satisfaction of knowing that she
was redeemed.
Maria thought desperately of a way out; even of
prolonging the time before her capture. Should she lead
them off the main road? Would that help or ultimately
lead to her destruction? Her revery was interrupted by a
bullet which struck the highway to the left of the car,
then ricocheted passed her with a metallic whistle.
Another followed, then another—this one rocketing
through the Alfa Romeo 's back window. She turned the
wheel slightly to the left, then jerked it back in a
diversionary pattern. The soldiers who stood to the
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back of the two jeeps must have enjoyed her desperate
ploy for they began firing more often. Like a cat play-
ing with a cornered rodent, giving it room only to draw
it back to its opening gambit seconds later, the jeeps
stalked her. All the while, she knew, distances and
street locations were being dispatched to police and
military outposts throughout Querejeta. The soldiers '
high-powered rifles spat three bullets which lodged
themselves in the sedan when a fourth entered through
its trunk. The slug passed through the car's back and
front seats, finally lodging in her back. Maria's body
jolted forward. She had been hit, she knew immedi-
ately. She felt the wetness of blood as it streamed from
her spine onto her clothing and the seat's vinyl. A
tenuous sensation of paralysis accompanied the feel-
ing, but to hey surprise, she could still drive. The
thought gave her a moment's gratification as she perse-
vered, the sound of screaming bullets and blasts of lead
and powder grim reminders of the hopelessness of her
situation.
Maria 's arms grew weak. The effort it took even to
depress the gas pedal seemed munumental. The mili-
tary jeeps were closing in for the kill. The shots they
fired were better aimed and more frequent. As her
vision began to blur, she saw the sight she had been
expecting since leaving Nick Carter in Miramar: three
two-ton army vehicles closed off Fifth Avenue. -me
dragnet had tightened. She was in the middle and the
noose was ready for wearing.
She smiled deliriously as her very life flooded down
her back and onto the seat where she sat paralyzed. The
jeeps were directly behind her and attempting to pull
her to the roadside as she jockeyed, slung low in the
seat, to keep them from overtaking her. The three
military trucks lay before her immobile as mountains.
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A bevy of soldiers stood in front of a wooden barrier.
The sight of the roadblock was dizzying as it ap-
proached. The Romeo engine thumped like a jack-
hammer. ene entire car reverberated as the chassis
shook with feverish violence. The jeeps would not
overtake her. The soldiers, realizing her suicidal intent,
set up and began firing into her windshield. Their
bullets struck her countless times in the last seconds
that elapsed. Her face and upper trunk were indistin-
guishable as the soldiers scattered and the Alfa Romeo
crashed like a torpedo beyond the wooden barrier,
blazing into the make-shift wall of Cuban trucks.
Yallo Lindstrom and I stared out onto the Atlantic
through binoculars from the balcony of our room at the
thirty-story International Hotel. Ihe Swiss diplomat
brought his binoculars to eye level, searching the night
ocean and landing where four speedboats were docked.
' 'Despite the appearance of lax security, those boats
are carefully watched. "
"I don 't doubt that for a minute, " I answered strain-
ing to see them.
Lindstrom's blank expression turned suddenly
grave.
"You didn't tell me that you killed a man, Mr.
Carter. That's not going to make things any easier. "
"Several men. I wouldn't be alive myself if I
hadn 't—neither would Castro. "
He glowered.
s 'Ihe entire island is crawling with G2 agents. Your
escapades are being broadcast on television. Everyone
is looking for the imperialist spy. "
I stared at Lindstrom for an idle moment. The Swiss
operative had wearied of his role in Havana. It showed
in the way be carried himself: a burnt-out case.
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"You 've taken me here. That's all I asked, " I said at
last. don't you leave?"
Lindstrom's pasty face reddened.
"Because it isn 't going to be that simple. You don 't
seem to realize that there are guards all along this beach
and that even if your contact does manage to desert his
boat out there, " he said with the wave of a hand, "there
are PT boat stations on the beaches and a radar network
strung out on buoys for miles off shore. "
The diplomat fell silent as his eyes caught my stony
-stare.
' 'There's something that you've forgotten, Lind-
strom, and it must have been a long time ago, but peo-
ple are a lot better, a lot stronger than you give them
credit for. Do you know that last week a man tried to
buck those fantastic odds you 've just talked about? Do
you know how he did it? He floated passed the boats
and all the Cuban radar buoys on the inflated inner tube
of an old truck tire, So maybe I 'm not so impressed with
the Cubans and the barless prison they 've tried to make
of this island. For every bastard who tries to subjugate
people, there is a man born among them who's destiny
it is to liberate. So don't complain to me about odds. I'll
beat them or die trying. "
Lindstrom looked down to his lap, then out over the
Atlantic.
"I apologize, Mr. Carter. Let's just say that you
caught me in a moment of weakness. I'm fifty-eight
years old. I 've been bucking the odds for the last fifteen
and I'm praying that my luck doesn 't run out. i' He said
these last words like an admission, as much to himself
as me.
The balcony on which we sat was quiet except for the
rustling sound of the breeze which blew in from the
ocean.
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"Well, then, let's get back to business, shall we?"
he asked looking up in an attempt at appearing cheerful.
"Yes, " I agreed. "We were talking about the land-
ing. "
Seeing my hardened expression, Lindstrom nodded
to end the discussion.
'There are four speedboats at the marina for tourists
mostly," he began, "but they'll be carefully watched
after what's happened today. *Ihe G2 will be
everywhere, even at the International , but you might be
able to steal one, or even swim to where Perez has
anchored his boat. "
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I have
no way of knowing until he arrives. "
Lindstrom agreed.
"I pray for your sake, Mr. Carter, that he does. "
I ignored the ugly fruth. Together we waited for the
appearance of an old fishing boat on the horizon. If it
was anchored and unmanned, that was Perez' craft; the
one I was looking for.
Neither of us said much during the time that elapsed.
Lindstrom looked through his binoculars toward the
open sea. I studied the landing and the activities which
transpired, Maria De Los Reyes still very much on my
mind. I figured she'd be caught by now and was either
dead or in La Principal, Everything considered, she
was better off dead than alive, I knew.
'It's really quite pleasant here, isn 't it?" Lindstrom
commented in an uneasy attempt at conversation. ' 'The
International was built with Mafia money in the late
1950's. It was confiscated during the revolution, of
course, and was closed to the public for years. "
I viewed the white sand and pale blue water of
Veradero, the most beautiful beach in the Caribbean.
"You'd never know that to see it now. "
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"No," said the Swiss operative. "With the Cuban
economy failing as it is, European tourism has been
encouraged in the hope of snatching up the foreign
dollar. That's why the International was a good choice
for you. You'll be safe here, for awhile anyway. "
I smiled wryly.
"But not that long, huh?"
Lindstrom nudged me. ' 'Look, " he said handing me
the binoculars.
I put them to my eyes. Perhaps four miles out to sea,
Perez 's fishing boat chugged along the calm Caribbean
waters.
"That's him," I said.
s 'Has he anchored?"
' 'Not yet, but he's about to. Maria told me he would
come as far inland as possible. I guess this is as close as
he wants to come. "
Lindstrom nodded.
"Let's go," he said. "We're going to have to try for
one of those speedboats. "
I was already peeling my black jacket for the swim-
suit which was underneath. I took Wilhelmina, my
Luger, from her holster, then shoved it down the suit's
front.
"You said 'we'. "
s Yes. You 're going to need help. I don 't think it can
be done alone. "
I turned to Lindstrom. He took a deep breath like
most men would take a stiff drink. He plucked a .38
automatic pistol from out of his luggage, then placed it
in his inside pocket.
Together we walked to the beach, separating about
one hundred yards before the marina. Lindstrom went
up toward the dock where two military guards were
stationed. I moved along the shoreline. A full moon
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hung in the black sky like a giant, pale eye staring down
upon us. It cut a wide glimmering path across the ocean
and into oblivion.
My attention fell on the dock which rose from out of
the water before me. The boats were moored less than
twenty feet away. The two guards chatted conversa-
tionally atop the wooden dock. They were armed.
Normally a police guard would have been there. Since
my adventures in central Havana, the military were
everywhere, especially where transportation off the
island could be gotten.
In silence I walked along the water's edge, finally
wading into the water, then disappearing beneath the
waves. I swam into the darkness. Once beyond the
view of the guards, I edged toward the speedboats.
Lindstrom, I could discern, was a good distance behind
the soldiers. With luck, I would be able to board one of
the craft, then slip away once the Swiss diplomat got
their attention. I stole surreptitious glances back toward
the shore as I neared the boats. Lindstrom was to ignite
a maintenance shed at the base of the dock as a diver-
sion. I was to wait for the flames and the guards'
departure, then make my move.
Yallo Lindstrom's body was trembling as he took a
five gallon gasoline can into his callousless hands. The
moonlight reflected off the glass of his spectacles as he
turned the cap open, then began dousing the wooden
shed. Gasoline fumes rose from the flimsy stucture as
he looked around him to make certain he was unob-
served. Would he run away once he had ignited the
shed? He asked himself as he placed the can onto the
dock. Perhaps he should watch from the beach to be
certain Carter got away. Like a man preparing for his
first encounter with military combat, Lindstrom won-
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dered how he would react. The line between cowardice
and bravery was thin, he had heard. Only now did the
cliché take on meaning to him.
Lindstrom lit a match. He tossed it at the saturated
shed as if his self-doubts, too, would be destroyed in
the immolation. The dried wood burst immediately into
flames. He jumped from the dock onto the sandy beach.
His gold-rimmed spectacles jerked from the sides of his
face as he landed. Damn! he thought as he looked down
to the sand. Above him the guards had taken note of the
flames. The clapping thud of their boots sounding on
the wood could be clearly heard as slid
beneath the dock.
"Water! We need water!" one of the voices bel-
lowed.
The guards ran for help. When the speedboat engine
started, anyone who might have noticed was too far
removed to do anything about it.
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There was no telling how long I would have before
Cuban authorities were on to me. I wasn't taking any
chances. I boarded the speedboat when Lindstrom gave
me the go-ahead. He waved his hand in the air, motion-
ing me on from the beach while the dock area blazed. I
cut the anchor, then rowed out a short way before
starting the small outboard. Minutes later, I was off at
capacity speed leaving Veradero Beach and my Swiss
contact far behind.
Luck and timing were the intangibles that would
once again determine my fate, Ihe thought was fleet-
ing, almost ironic, as I considered all that had hap-
pened. A guard could well have seen me as I left, or
noticed the boat gone once I was out of firing range. In
that case, it was a certain bet that they would soon be on
me. If my luck held out, it would be some time before
the boat's disappearance was observed. I would board
Perez's vessel, then have only the Cuban radar and
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shore patrol to contend with. "Ihe ultimate reality—
whether I made it into international waters alive-—-
might as well have been decided by the flip of a coin. I
jammed the boat's throttle forward. The deserted fish-
ing boat on which the success of my escape hinged, lay
placid on the blue Atlantic. I looked behind me , fearing
the worst. "Ihe corners of my lips pulled to form a taut,
tenuous smile: so far, I was not being followed.
The tide gently pushed and tugged at Manual Perez's
time-beaten fishing boat. The waves lapped against its
sides as I hopped aboard. A vaguely pleasant sensation
of release and familiarity welled within me as my bare
feet touched its deck. "Ihe Cuban shore patrol was not
yet on to me and probably wouldn 't be until their radar
detected the full extent of my intentions to escape the
island. This battered hulk had taken me into Cuba,
perhaps it would now take me away—permanently.
I walked to the bow , then took up anchor. Who could
say how much time I would have? The faster I was out
to sea , the better my chances of escaping the gravity of
Cuba. I moved to the crude pilot deck in the elevated
center of the boat. I turned the key. The engine started
with a rumble as I pressed the throttle forward. It
sounded like Perez had left his tools in one ofthe engine
chambers for the dissonance. I looked to the boat's
compass , then set a course due north toward the Florida
Keys. It was then that I noticed a shuffling sound
coming from the cabin below. I listened closely. This
time nothing, yet still I was certain I was not alone.
I took my Luger from out of my swim trunks, then
started for the source in silence. noughts of an ambush
rustled to the back of my brain like leaves on a fall
morning. The juices of instinct secreted freely as I
stepped down from the pilot's deck, then around to the
cabin. Far from deserted, I could hear the involuntary
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sounds of at least one other man aboard the boat. I
contemplated firing blindly into the cabin. What man
who would call himself friend could be there? I won-
dered. "Ihe answer was not difficult to come by. I had
played these games with fate before. I held my Luger
straight out in front of me, my trigger finger coiled
around the steel trigger. Now! I sprang into the door-
way, crouched and ready to empty my full clip at
anything that moved, but there was no enemy. It was
Perez. He sat at a small wooden table, drinking wine
and eating a smoked bonito.
"Buenos noches, amigo," he greeted in a sprite,
playful voice.
My eyes darted around the cabin, checking for
another who would not be so friendly.
Perez smiled.
"It is only me," he said in Spanish. "Just an old
I lowered my weapon.
"You could have been killed. "
He seemed indignant.
"I thought you knew I was here, " he grumbled.
I shook my head.
"Well, what are you here for? This boat was sup-
posed to be left deserted. "
' 'That could not be," Perez disagreed. "The CDR
has caught on to me. It is not safe for me in Cuba
anymore. I would be killed. "
"And now I will go with you los Estados Unidos. I
will live with my children in Miami. Besides, I am an
old man. I do not want to die in Havana. I have no one
there anymore. "
S 'That's impossible, Manuel. You must know that
I 'II probably be killed before making it to the States. Go
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home. Go back to Havana now before we reach interna-
tional waters. "
"I cannot return. They would murder me in Cuba.
No, no, " he reasoned aloud. "l will be better off with
you. Who knows , maybe we will make it to Miami. My
life will be better there. "
I stared appraisingly at the old Cuban seaman. He
was stubborn as a goat, I knew already. Having him
return to the island now would be like sentencing him to
certain death.
"All right, Perez. But I make no promises. You can
stay, but I tell you now, this could be far worse than
anything your people would do to you. "
"I must take my chances, Seior," he answered,
bringing a handful of whitefish to his mouth.
I walked back up to the pilot deck. Perez ambled
behind. With the engine started, we began our trek at a
cautious pace, knowing that any hasty departures
would only create suspicion. Behind us, the fire which
had blazed at the marina was now extinguished. Cuba
rested like a silhouette in the dim. The tall hotels along
the beach, Playa Giron, where the Bay of Pigs invasion
had been staged , La Cabana Fortress with its lighthouse
and the ancient stone wall which surrounded it, all
fading; another memory locked away within me, never
to be recounted, often to be recalled.
Perez pointed to the string of buoys that stretched out
before us.
' 'This is the first set, " he called over the sound ofthe
boat's engine. ' 'There will be more. "
I knew what he meant. Distances from the island
were charted by the buoys. Fishermen were allowed to
the third string. After that, the boat stations were
alerted. As we passed the first heading for the second,
an eerie feeling of being constantly observed came over
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me. 'Ihe military craft like tentacles would lash out to
snare anyone attempting to leave the island. Our situa-
tion, if not hopeless, was anything but good. I looked to
Perez, who had taken the wheel. The wiry old man
seemed unconcerned. A member of the underground
since Castro's takeover in 1959, Perez had been one of
the CIA's most valued contacts. Now his hour had
come. Detection in Cuba meant execution. The fog
horn near La Cabana would sound at 9:00 P.M. every
night. The crack of rifle fire was not so easily camou-
flaged. It was there that Perez would die if he had
stayed. Splattered in ignomy, another of the faceless
"counter-revolutionaries " who were executed daily. I
noted the second string of buoys, thinking that it was
only fitting the tough old salt die at sea. There would at
least be dignity in that. The reeking prison of La Princi-
pal with its torture and starvation was unworthy of him.
We would die together, I supposed, as the fishing boat
chugged past the second string of buoys and on
toward the third.
The boat station at Nautico had been established
in 1961 after the Bay of Pigs and a series of failed CIA
attempts on Castro's life. Similar stations had been
established in Jaimanitas, San Lazaro and Playa del
Chivo. The logic was simple: using radar, they could be
made aware of impending invasions and the escape of
defectors from Cuban society simultaneously.
This night, four Russian trained specialists huddled
around the radar screen. Awaiting the blip they were
certain would be soon in coming. Three of their power-
ful cruisers were combing the shore near Veradero at
the moment so far without success. The panicky guards
at the International Hotel had alerted them of a missing
boat. It could mean only one thing: the American was
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attempting his escape from the resort area. He had
fooled them by passing up the closer points to Miami by
leaving from Veradero. Soon his luck would run out,
they speculated. The speedboat was too limited in
range to take him the 30 miles necessary. He would be
but another of the many refugees picked up, half
drowned and exhausted, ready to spill their guts to
authorities given the opportunity.
A heavy-set Russian advisor and technician ob-
served the screen from behind the four Cubans. His
thoughts were not so complacent. The American, who-
ever he was , had assassinated Warren Graves and saved
Castro to foil their plans. "Ihis was no haphazard coin-
cidence. He had pursued Graves onto the island. He
had somehow been made privy to their most daring plot
in the Caribbean in twenty years. This was no average
man, he ventured. The United States had employed and
uncovered its major operatives to prevent the total
Soviet takeover of Cuba and any connection with Cas-
tro's death. "Ihis man had changed history, whether he
knew it or not, and he would pay for that with his death.
A flurry of Spanish passed between the technicians.
The Russian stepped forward.
"What is it?" he asked brusquely.
One of the men turned, exposing the screen where a
white dot blinked as it traversed a grid bearing lon-
gitude, latitude and estimated speed.
"It is the boat, sir. He has passed into the range of
our radar. "
Even before we passed the third string of buoys, I
had Perez crank his souped up diesel engine to its
maximum. He claimed it would give us 40 knots; a
tortoise pace compared to the giant Packard V12 en-
gines the VI' boats were equipped with.
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s 'Let go with everything, " I instructed the old man
and he did.
Our speed increased considerably. The tired engine
thumped with a force that made the boat vibrate wildly
as the pistons worked overtime. It wouldn't be long, I
knew, before a squadron of Cuban boats was on our
tail. Everything considered, it didn't take much cal-
culating to know that we would have to do some fast
thinking.
The island was gone and long out of sight when I first
saw them, Two boats, both forty-eight footers, off our
starboard side. •me beast and its prey, I couldn 't help
but think in a world of spiders and flies. *Ihe search-
lights of each boat penetrated the darkness as we sped
forward, an open target for their 50 caliber guns, no
doubt already zeroing in on us. A hit, or even a near
miss, would turn this glued together wreck into an
insignificant pool of floating splinters and oil. It was in
exactly vulnerability that our hope for survival lie.
' 'Do you have a gun on board?' ' I called out to Perez.
"In the cabin—a rifle! " he hollered back over the
tumult of wind and clanking engine.
I ran into the cabin where an M 14 automatic rifle was
hidden under the table. I took it, checking the firing
mechanism, as I made my way back to the deck.
American made, it seemed a trophy of the disastrous
sixties. It hadn 't been fired in years, if ever. I laid it at
the old man's feet, then began dousing the lower deck
with gasoline from a nearby container.
' 'How are you at swimming, old man?"
Magnifico!" he responded.
"Good. We're going to be in the water in a few
minutes," I said, taking the rifle into my hands."
"When we go overboard just hold your breath. Go as
deep and as far away from this heap as you can."
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Perez acknowledged with the wave of his hand.
The PT boats were several hundred yards away.
Already their huge searchlights had closed in on us , If I
could draw their fire, we would take the only course of
action left to us: destroy the boat; make them think we
were dead.
"Get down! " I called to the pilotdeck. "Secure the
steering wheel so we stay due north. "
Perez tied the wheel with some rope as I took three
pot shots in the direction of the boats. The searchlight
beams intensified as Perez joined me at the cabin en-
trance. We hung low to the deck. Ihe barrel of my
weapon spit bullets as I trained it on the boats which
surged forward in pursuit.
lhe M 14 automatic was snug against my shoulder as
I fired and the searchlights attempted to locate me. I
aimed directly into the blinding light, then launched a
salvo of four shots, one of which must have shattered
the giant lamp. Perez laughed aloud with excitement. It
was an odd barking sound as if he had simply been out
of practice. Once they began taking this marksman
seriously, fire from their side was inevitable.
Ihe second searchlight found me. No longer a game
to them, their machine guns were in position.
"Move to the side, Perez. Go overboard when I tell
you. This boat will be going up like a roman candle! "
I doubted that the old seaman knew what I was
saying, but he did a duckwalk toward the port side.
Again, I fired, this time it was too close for comfort.
Tme boats were less than one hundred yards away
when the barrage began. Their gunmen sprayed the
area around us with machine gun bullets which struck
the water and sides of the craft.
I emptied my third clip, one after the other.
' 'Now!" I screamed to Perez, lighting a match as
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they answered with a blistering volley.
I tossed the match onto the deck, then slipped over
the side. The boat was a huge ball of fire by the time i
hit the water, then traveled deep down into the blue
crystal sea. The yellow and orange ball sped away over
me and to the right. It was perhaps sixty seconds later
that I heard the roaring explosion. "Ihe boat with its
I ,000 gallon gas tank had burst sky high in a conflagra-
tion of lead and shrapnel.
At the Nautico tracking station, a Cuban technician
turned to his Russian advisor excitedly.
"Sir! Sir! The blip is gone. They've gotten him. The
boat has been destroyed!"
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CHAPTER TWENTY
When I came to the surface, the shooting had sub-
sided. I breathed from the side of my mouth, not daring
to expose my skull. It was then that I saw Perez. He was
struggling in the dark, almost like an apparition in the
shadowy water.
"Perez! Perez!! " I hissed.
The old man turned as I swam to him. The PT boat
engines rumbled as they approached our boat's
wreckage.
'I have been wounded in the leg, ' ' he whispered, his
face twisted with pain.
"Just hold on, old-timer. We 'II get you through this.
You'll see Miami yet. "
I did not think. I did not even take the time to fill my
heaving lungs. Back below the water's surface, Perez
and I swam. Taking hold of one phistic hand, I led him
away from the watchful G2. "me PT boats would take
nothing for granted. They would carry out a thorough
search into the morning if our bodies were not found.
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My arms and legs worked like machinery as we
swam beneath the warm Caribbean waters, coming up
for air only when Perez could go no further. It was
imperative that I take my body to the brink of endur-
ances The huge engines churned as they idled in the
darkness. I could hear the garbled Spanish of the Cuban
security men as we painstakingly made our way, flail-
ing toward some haunting notion of freedom.
The huge searchlight panned the area around the
wreckage for bodies or survivors. There were none
immediately visible.
"You okay?" I asked Perez.
The old man nodded, shivering in my arms.
The searchlight was making a pass. Together we
plunged down into the black water. They had not found
a body and this proof they needed. It would mean their
lives if it was learned that they had let the American
fugitive escape. Like obstinate hunters, they probed the
night; a cat and mouse game as some twitching nerve
end called intuition must have told them we lived.
'Ihe light was coming our way again. Perez sighed.
"It won't be much longer," I lied.
The old man nodded, his eyes shut tight with pain as
we submerged ourselves once more.
The boat cruised in circular patterns. I was cold
and exhausted from carrying Perez's weight, but man-
aged to time their passes as the boats' high-powered
engines rumbled ceaselessly around us. They could not
know for certain if we were dead or alive, I reasoned as
the blinding orb shot its piercing beam our way. Soon
they would tire of the exercise. It would be far easier to
assume we were dead.
"It won't be long now, old man," I said, whisper-
ing encouragement. ' They will be leaving back for the
island soon. ' '
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The churning water and low rumble grew louder.
The boat was coming our way.
"Down, " I uttered breathlessly. "We must go down
under again. "
We submerged deep into the ocean depths. Above
us the boat passed us unknowingly. Its intense spot-
light lit the ocean floor illuminating a panorama of coral
formations and marine life. Schools of tiny fish darted
away from the probe, dashing toward the obscurity we
so badly desired.
As the PT boat moved onward in another of its
ceaseless circles, Perez and I emerged. Our chests
heaved. The old man seemed to thrive on the brink of
life and death; each brush with danger but another test
of courage he would rally to beat, then rest in a welter to
meet again.
I could not tell how long we had been dodging the
G2. It was certainly hours and probably most of the
night. Once beyond the parameters of their circular
passes , the boat captains seemed somehow to know
and expand their sweeps so as to keep the psychological
pressure constant; the physical levels of endurance
extreme. Our heads bobbed precariously above the
choppy sea, yet still the tenacious Cubans would offer
no respite.
Perez rested, unconscious in my arms , when the next
pass came.
"Okay, old man, Okay," I whispered as he jerked
forward with a start and we ducked down into the
water.
I stroked my numb arms and legs in unison as Perez
clung to me. The cold night had taken its toll. My lungs
felt brittle, incapable of expanding to hold air any
longer. *Ihe lack of feeling in my limbs told me that it
would be sheer willpower that prevented the sensation
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NICK CARTER
from encompassing me in a watery cloak of death. This
time when we emerged, it was the wake of the VT boat
engines that greeted us. 'Ihe Cubans were gone, con-
vinced we were dead.
I smiled wearily.
"Perez, Perez," I said, attempting to shake him
from his sleep. "We've made it. They're gone. "
The old man lay unconscious in my arms. I slapped
the side of his face trying to rouse him, but it was no
use. Perez was dead: drowned.
Slowly, I unclasped my arms from around his bony
frame. The body drifted away , resting face down in the
water, like debris or some other unliving thing.
'Ihe U. S. S. Beaufort had been sent to monitor
Soviet submarines launched from the recently cone
structed base near Jaimanitas. When the radar blip first
appeared on their screen, they had no way of knowing
what it represented. A submarine on the surface,
another of the Cuban defectors in flight from the island,
it was all the same to them: the craft was checked out
automatically and without hesitation.
When radar called to report the sudden disappear-
ance of the blip to Commander Blakely, he knew what
it meant. DDPStratford of the CIA had contacted him
concerning the possibility. An operative was attempt-
ing to escape Cuba. He would be turning up this day or
the next, or he would probably not be turning up at all.
Standing on the bridge with his First Officer, Blakely
picked up the ship's phone.
' 'Send two copters out for reconnaisance. Have them
comb the area near where the signal disappeared. I want
minute-to-minute reports.
"Yes, sir, " the voice came back.
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177
With schooled efficiency, the first of two Sakorski
helicopters was dispatched. It was a twenty-minute
flight to the coordinates radar had cited. If it was a
Cuban defector, as the pilot expected, he had learned to
search the waters along the way. Though few men
survived the grueling ordeal, those that did could be
xpected to turn up anywhere. lheir spirit, proned to be
ear superhuman, carrying them well beyond the dis-
tances normally estimated.
'Ihe pilot of the first copter took the transmitter Into
his hand.
"Oh-three-seven here," he said in a clear voice.
'S We're approaching longitude eighty degrees, latitude
twenty-four degrees. See anything on your end?
Over. "
"Negative oh-three-seven. Proceeding at an air
speed of thirty-five knots. I 'm going down to see what I
•an. Over. "
"Check, Lansing oh-three-two. I'll move on ahead.
Over. "
'Ihe second of the two copters jetted forward at an
titude of three hundred feet. The pilot scanned the
nusually rough sea, forty-five miles off the coast of
Cuba. This was the "gray" zone; still nothing.
"Lansing oh-three-two to base. Over. 'i
"Base to Lansing oh-three-two, go ahead. "
C 'Approaching gray zone. Still nothing. Request in-
;u-uction. "
The answer came back after a drawn silence. "Pro-
:eed, Lansing oh-three-two. Require spontaneous re-
rts. Over."
The pilot was surprised at the affirmative response.
He had never penetrated this far before. In the privacy
of his own thought, he pondered the possibility of
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Cuban retaliation. His piercing eyes scanned the hori-
zon for MIG's, then sank again to the open sea. A
nausea rose inside him. He had never flown over Cuban
waters. This was the work of high flying, high speed
reconnaisance planes, not a copter. Yet, here he was,
he thought dismally, risking his life and relations with
the Russians.
Copter 037 slowed, then moved west at a seventy-
five-mile-per-hour clip. *Ihe pilot had seen something.
"Oh-three-seven to Lansing oh-three-two. I have
just spotted something floating longitude eighty-four
degrees, latitude twenty-four degrees. I think it's a
man, but can't be sure he's alive. Over. "
"Roger oh-three-seven. Will assist immediately.
Over. "
Copter 037 's lateral motion ceased as it hovered less
than sixty feet in the air.
"Oh-three-seven to Lansing oh-three-two. It is a
man; and good lord is he ever alive. He's waving his
arms below me right now. Will await your arrival
before plucking him out of the drink. Over. "
' 'That's just great. Sounds like another of our Cuban
escape artists , Jim, Pick him up. Let 's get the hell out of
here while we can. Over. "
I was weak, mainly from dehydration, so that climb-
ing those forty rungs of the rope ladder the second
copter threw down to me felt like the last steps I would
ever take. The sense of relief was consummate. After
coming as far as I had, this ladder seemed like the
stairway to heaven.
Once I got aboard the craft, the copter jockies were
more than obliging. "Ihey stripped my clothes, then
wrapped me in a warm, synthetic blanket.
One of the men, a paramedic, rubbed my limbs to
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renew the circulation which had long since stopped.
'He 's suffering from exposure, " he told another as
he slapped the side of my face.
I stared ahead blankly when he asked, "Who are
you? What are your intentions?"
Then, the second man, a southerner, came forward.
Quieneres? Ouales son tus intenciones?" he
said in a Spanish dialect that suggested the state of
Georgia and mint juleps.
I smiled wistfully.
"I am a Cuban citizen. My name is Pedro Mendo-
za," I said in a soft, effete voice. "I want political
asylum in the United States of America. "
The Spanish-speaking southerner called to the pilot.
'He 's okay, Jim. We 've got ourselves a genuine, bona
fide Cuban defector! "
The pilot plucked the radio transmitter from its cra-
die.
' 'Oh-three-seven requests permission to bring Pedro
Mendoza aboard. Subject claims to be a refugee from
gray zone. Over. "
It was Commander Blakely's voice that came back
over the air.
"Permission granted. Clearance immediate, " he
barked.
"What's his condition, Jim?"
The pilot glanced over his shoulder to me.
"Cold and tired, sir, but I think he'll be fine, just
fine. Over. "
Commander Blakely signed off, smiling wryly at the
name Mendoza. These hugh-hush boys were true to the
bitter end, he thought. Medical complications not-
withstanding, the waterlogged spy would be on board
and headed stateside within forty-eight hours.
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EPILOGUE
tlhe gathering at Margot Kidner's home on Prospect
Street in Washington was small. Since I was still less
than myself, the guest list consisted only of David
Hawk, Jim Stratford, Margot and me. We shared two
bottles of champagne in crystal glasses. A nice touch, I
thought, but privacy would be my best companion for a
while.
Hawk raised his glass in a toast.
' 'To Nick Carter, " he revelled, "the best damned
foreign service employee living! "
I raised my glass with the others, half-smiling. The
qualification 'living' caught in the back of all of our
minds. How many other AXE agents were now dead, I
woildered.
The Mumms champagne flowed comfortably passed
our palates and into our stomachs, The sensation was
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pleasant, bringing a warm smile to each of us in his
turn.
"Well, Nick, you did it," Jim Stratford said. "l
never thought it could be done, truthfully. It was what
you fellows might call a 'death mission, ' but you beat it-
and came out unscathed. "
I disagreed.
"Not unscathed. But I made it. "
His smile evaporated.
"Yes, I guess there were a couple of people who
didn't. Lindstrom is in prison. Maria De Los Reyes is
dead. "
"So is Perez as long as we're counting. "
Margot picked up the thread of conversation, at-
tempting a solemn optimism.
"Perhaps that should be our next toast, then, " the
beautiful honey blonde chimed. "A toast to the great
patriots who helped in this cause, " she said, raising her
crystal glass high in the air.
"Here, here, " added Stratford properly.
David Hawk lifted his glass to his lips, less inspired.
When we had finished, he swirled the remainder of the
white, sparkling wine in his glass.
' "You know it's odd, isn 't it, Nick? How things turn
outv "
"What do you mean?"
"Just this. Castro is alive. Three of our best opera-
tives are dead and you 've made it back on a shoestring.
makes you wonder what would have happened if
things were reversed. I mean, if Castro was dead. "
"It could mean war, I suppose, sir. "
Hawk nodded. He, too, seemed to long for the sim-
pler days of AXE when logic had fewer twists and
added up to a solid conclusion in the end. Yet, our
mission was over. Richard Lee, the last of Graves'
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killer faction, had been arrested in Miami two days
earlier.
Stratford discerned the underpinning of frustration in
Hawk's remark.
' 'The focal point of this was Graves, not Castro, ' ' he
reminded. "Graves had killed a dozen men. He had to
be stopped and you did it, Nick. There was no other
way. "
Stratford said this gently. As if to give comfort; to
justify Maria's death, at least. I took solace in his
words. They were true.
Hawk placed his champagne glass on an end table.
He pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket, then
glanced to Margot.
"This might be a good time to leave Mr. Carter to
Margot's succor, Jim, " he commented to Stratford.
The CIA man nodded wisely.
"Nick," he bade, shaking my hand. He then
turned to Margot. "Enjoy yourselves. You both de-
serve it."
Hawk and Stratford left. A gravity seemed to lift
from the townhouse room once they were gone.
Margot stood at the bar. She mixed two martinis.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.
"Bored. Until now," I answered.
She smiled, then walked to me. She handed me my
drink. I sipped it.
"Have you seen the papers?" I asked.
"Yes. "
"Unbelievable, isn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted again.
I stepped toward the Zenith color television, then
switched it on.
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Dan Rather, the 6:00 P.M. newscaster spoke in a
clipped voice as he reported.
"Cuba's Premier Fidel Castro is in the news again
today. He has accused the United States intelligence
community with an attempt on his life three days ago.
He claims_ to have proof that at least five CIA agents
were involved in the plot. Correspondent Linda Guthrie
asked Senator Eugene Williams about the Cuban alle-
. gations in an interview this morning. "
The television cameras cut to a video tape clip of the
interview.
"Senator Williams," Ms. Guthrie inquired. "Do
you feel the CIA has taken advantage of the Drummond
Committee postponement to participate in yet another
covert assassination attempt in Cubå?"
The Senator smiled a toothy grin.
"It's obvious to me that Castro has hard evidence to
confirm his allegations. Of course, the Williams Com-
mittee will pick up where Senator Drummond's work
left off. This Cuban assassination attempt will be our
first order of business. As you know, we will be recon-
vening this month
The female news correspondent was about to make
another probe when I switched the set off. The idiots, I
diought. They understood nothing, yet passed judg-
ment on everything.
.1 downed my martini. Margot grinned coquettishly.
I put my arms around her, then caressed the nape of
her neck running up the side of her soft, smooth cheek.
Margot purred with desire.
We would make love. I would take a month off to
reacquaint myself with her and relax, putting Cuba far
to the back of my mind. Still, Maria and many others
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were dead and what was there to justify any of it? A
media that still pointed fingers toward Washington
whenever an international incident occurred?
Margot and I left for her plush, mirrored bedroom. I
would lose myself there for the night or longer, then
awaken to begin preparing for my next mission.
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