An exemption was a noncombatant minor. Exceptions are exempt -another rule of a black ops team that had no rules.
I wanted to believe him. Harrington had a daughter. Like me, he had lived through a kidnapping. Plus, the man had changed in a way I’d yet to quantify. In our meetings, he’d been personable, not cold. He’d admitted past mistakes and made comments that were introspective, even philosophical-totally out of character. Maybe years of accumulated guilt had snapped some internal guy wire.
It happens. It has happened to stronger, smarter men than me, which is why I focus on the present, not the past. I am aware of the dangers of exploring murky demarcations between principles and morals, obligations and duty. I prefer sunnier places, like the Amazon.
A more compelling reason to believe Harrington was what Choirboy had told me while we were in the water. My second question was: Why kidnap the senator?
Choirboy’s answer had implicated a group of religious crazies. But even if he spoke the truth, it didn’t guarantee he knew the truth.
I said to Harrington, “If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I be your first suspect?”
He replied, “You’re right about the timing. Yes, I understand. But this is a business call, not social. Do you mind?”
Someone could be listening. A warning in his tone. I sighed, preparing myself for a code protocol that was outdated but still part of the game.
Harrington said, “I think what happened tonight has to do with the library collection we discussed. Are you with me?”
He gave me a moment to translate: Castro Files.
“I want that collection. Sure. At least, take a look. But I’m not the only one. There are people all over the world who want it. And powerful organizations. A library that extensive? No telling what it’s worth on the open market.”
I said, “I know, I know. People are dying to get their hands on it.”
“I’m not that desperate. Not yet. Move too fast, I overpay. But moving too slow could be even worse-for both of us. That’s another reason I called. I’m counting on you to keep me updated. That shouldn’t be hard. Same hotel, right?”
He was referring to Barbara.
“It’s like you’re a mind reader.”
“Odd, that you should make that reference. I enjoyed your friend’s lecture. It was interesting. Maybe you should consult him on the matter.”
He had heard Tomlinson speak on psychic surveillance? The new, open-minded Harrington.
I listened to him say, “The people who screwed up your dinner plans tonight are making a bid on the collection. That’s what happened.”
“A theory?”
“If your girlfriend’s people haven’t heard, they soon will. The info’s coming in right now. Hold on.” The phone went silent. I guessed he was reading a bulletin on the SIGINT web, a high-clearance intelligence source. “The party crashers don’t want the entire library. They want four volumes.”
Harrington was telling me the kidnappers had made contact with a ransom demand. I looked at the door, wondering if Barbara knew.
“The same volumes we want?” We wasn’t used editorially. It was possible that a carton labeled C/CN-103 contained information on an illegal organization. Harrington was still involved. I was once a member. It was the Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group-the Negotiators. Information about the organization could be filed under C for Castro and CN for Clandestine.
If there was such a file, it contained the last documents anywhere that proved the Negotiators existed-or so Harrington had promised me.
Harrington said, “Different volumes. There’s proof, if you need it. What they’re after wouldn’t interest you or me. Feel better?”
I asked about the boy, saying, “Do they still have something to trade?”
Harrington said, “Looks like they might-there’s a photo. I’m reading their offer right now.” There was another long pause before he said, “Do me a favor, stick by the phone, okay?”
He hung up.
More than just files and property had been seized. Harrington had finally told me the whole story after our meeting with the Alpha 66 militant.
Cuba was not a peaceful place, despite the death of the man Cubans once called the Maximum Leader, or the Bearded One.
Fidel Castro’s secret retreat had been uncovered on a tiny island off the southern coast of Cuba, Playa Giron. The island had been declared a military zone in 1962 but, in fact, Castro owned the island. Used it for vacations, then as his home in later years, finally as a sanctuary when he became ill.
After officially transferring control of Cuba to his brother, Raul, Fidel had spent his last year on Playa Giron, writing his memoirs, almost a hermit except for medical attendants, visiting physicians and a few friends. His most valued possessions were brought to him-a common request for a dying man but Fidel Castro was anything but common. He ordered his valuables hidden, anticipating that his regime might have to live in exile for years before returning to power.
He was at least partly right. The Castro regime collapsed soon after his death in December, although not as soon as some expected, and the main players had fled to a sympathetic Venezuela, either unaware of what the Maximum Leader had left behind or where the valuables were hidden.
When the U.S. military discovered the cache, Castro’s assets-Playa Giron included-were declared to be without legal provenance and so were confiscated. The collection now filled an entire warehouse at a secret facility in Maryland, not Langley, Virginia.
Fifty years of secrets, tens of thousands of documents censored to protect only Castro, plus a hidden cache of Fidel’s personal possessions. Because the Senate and the CIA had been in a tug-of-war, courts had sealed the containers soon after they were grouped and before most were cataloged or analyzed.
There was worldwide political interest because of the files, but there was also a treasure trove of valuables-literally.
Two decades before his death, Castro started a government-funded salvage company, Carisub. Several dozen Spanish treasure galleons had sunk in Cuban waters, and Carisub’s mission was simple: Find the treasure and notify Fidel, who was an avid diver.
Carisub used four boats and employed sixty divers, who were trained in archaeology, epigraphy and numismatics. They were an elite team, all loyal members of the Cuban Communist Party.
Cuba is a treasure diver’s dream, and Carisub’s pros found a lot of wrecks and salvaged a fortune in Spanish gold, silver, coins, emeralds, rubies and jewelry.
It was known that the Cuban dictator had invested in small rarities to shield his own wealth and also to give him a quick out. Fifty million in gold was fifty kilos of trouble. But fifty million in rare stamps and gems could be hidden in a hatband and converted into cash anywhere in the world.
To the world’s clandestine organizations, though, the cache of private papers were more valuable. Unknown facts about the Cuban Missile Crisis, President Kennedy’s assassination, the Soviet collapse, funding of anti-Western terrorist organizations, the truth about Angola and Granada-surprising data might surface.
The same groups were worried that other secrets might surface, too. Appointed as cochair of a Senate intelligence subcommittee, Barbara had been at the center of the political firestorm that followed. Fidel’s private papers and files were a small part of what had been seized, but their contents might have a big impact in terms of national security or intelligence. Barbara Hayes-Sorrento, backed by the powerful Cuban-American lobby, wanted the papers to be made public.
Harrington and I did not want them made public, not until we knew what the files contained anyway, something I hadn’t told the senator.
My friendship with Barbara Hayes-Sorrento was coincidental but was now potentially useful. It put me in a helluva tough position. My standards of morality change with border crossings. But never in my life have I set up a friend or allowed anyone to use me as bait to harm a friend.