“It has to be sabotage—pressure bombs,” Jesse said. He realized that he had overextended his credit with the general. He had been able to present the group’s theory—this alone had seemed impossible only a few days before—now he was pressing his case too hard. Now he was bankrupt of influence.
“No, it doesn’t, son,” the general said. “You aren’t aware of all the facts. That Nine-Nine from Corpus Christi was carrying air-to-air rockets. Explosives in the warheads are like that which burned Lear’s clothing. Maybe the rockets were defective. Ordnance is working on it now. And we’ve examined every aircraft in SAC. Thus far, no pressure bombs, no tampering.”
Jesse knew that the interview was over. He said, “Yes sir. There’s just one more thing. Can I remain here for a while on detached duty?”
“Yes,” Keatton said. “I’m sure you can help Buddy Conklin.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jesse said. When he and Katy were outside he said, “Well, at least I’m still in the Air Force.” 8
As protocol required, Felix Fromburg, upon his arrival in Havana, had gone first to police headquarters to express an interest by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the robbery of Robert Gumol, banker from Upper Hyannis, Pennsylvania. He was introduced to the chief of police, and passed down the chain of command to José González, a lieutenant of detectives who had been placed in charge of the case, a man of much humor who could no longer be surprised at the lengths to which the American turistas would go to achieve disaster.
“This robbery is unusual,” said González, “only in the amount of money involved. Shorten the sum by three zeros, and I am sure it would be of no concern to anyone, even to Mr. Gumol himself. In fact, I have a feeling in my stomach that Mr. Gumol wishes he had not mentioned the matter, even for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“Understandable,” said Felix, “if a shortage shows up in his bank.” He felt en rapport with González, who, like himself, was rather small and physically unprepossessing. González’ brown face was marred by smallpox scars, but his mind was quick and logical.
González was thoughtful. “I doubt that it will be a shortage. It is something else—something queer. Now that you are here, I am convinced it is very queer.” One jet eye was hidden in a wink. “I know something of the FBI, my friend, and I know which division is yours, and I know your division is not interested in robberies, except of paper of greater importance than money.”
“That’s true,” said Fromburg. “Still, this particular money could be part of something else. Do you think you’ll catch the woman?”
“A certainty,” said González. “But we’ll catch her man, her pimp, first. The very size of the robbery—you call this type a ‘rolling,’ do you not?—insures its solution. Fives, tens, even twenties the man may spend without me knowing. But within an hour after he shows his first fifty dollar bill, I will know. He will never get to the hundreds, or the thousands. He will show himself, I think, within three days.”
González took Fromburg to Gumol’s hotel, and they went up to his room, unannounced. Gumol was seated in front of the opened French doors, a highball glass in his hand, staring out over the water. It was not yet the heat of the day but he was shirtless, his face was bright with sweat, and a river of sweat inundated the patches of gray on his chest and flowed across his thick and waxy middle.
Fromburg introduced himself politely and showed his credentials. An unpleasant-looking ape, he thought, and unhealthy, and smelly as a Skid Row stumblebum. Yet his questions, at first, were as diffident and respectful as any banker, and upright citizen, could expect. How had this unfortunate thing occurred? Would he please describe the woman? Had he mentioned having this large sum of money with him? And then:
“By the way, was this your money, or did it belong to the bank?”
“It was mine. Personal funds.”
“Did you draw it out of your account before you came to Havana?”
“No. Took it out of my safe deposit box.”
“Were the serial numbers of the thousand dollar bills registered?”
Gumol’s fingers twisted a knot of hair on his chest. “Why, no, I don’t believe so.”
“That’s going to make it difficult to trace them,” Fromburg said. “Of course you know the banking regulations concerning registration of thousand dollar bills?”
“Now look here, I don’t see why the FBI should be interested in this. I don’t think you have any right—”
Fromburg smiled. “Only trying to help you, Mr. Gumol, as we try to help any citizen.”
And he kept on pumping the questions. If it was true, as Gumol insisted, that the money was to be used for a Cuban business deal, then what was the deal? With whom? Was the money part of Gumol’s income? Had he paid taxes on it? How long had the money been in the vault? How much more cash did he possess? Would it be helpful if the Treasury Department was called in to refresh Gumol’s memory?
At the end of four hours Gumol seemed to break. “All right! All right!” he said. “Now, I’ll tell you the truth. Truth is that I’m running away from my wife. Maybe that’s a crime, maybe it isn’t. She’s a vicious, jealous old harridan. Made my life miserable. I’ve been saving up for years waiting to make the break. Now, why don’t you people try to get my money back instead of trying to pin something on me? You’re law enforcement officers, aren’t you?”
“Well, Mr. Gumol, I’m glad you came out with it,” Felix said. “It makes our job easier, knowing all the facts.”
Gumol relaxed a little, and Fromburg calculated the measure of his relief. “However, there are just a few more questions.” He began to dig into Gumol’s past history. He began to ask about Gumol’s father.
At six o’clock that evening González was wearied, and left.
Fromburg kept at it. Several times Gumol refused to talk further. Each time Fromburg found that he could prod him into answers by hinting at publicity, or extradition. It became obvious that Gumol was deathly afraid of something. Somewhere back in the United States was something more fearful than the anger of his wife or an investigation of his funds.
More rum was brought. Fromburg drank just enough to keep the edge on his energy. He allowed Gumol to take three drinks to his one. He allowed Gumol to drink until his speech slurred and he weaved in his chair like an animal brought to bay after an exhausting chase. Food was sent up. Gumol revived somewhat, and spun lies as he ate.
At length Fromburg judged his target was wavering. He said, in the same tone as he used for the most innocuous of questions, “Your wife says you’ve been getting money from the Commies, Mr. Gumol. Is that true?”
Gumol’s mouth was slack, his eyes dull as if he had been punched. He shook his head. “Lies. Another one of her dirty lies. She’d say anything to get me into trouble. Why, it’s ridiculous. Can you imagine a banker being a Communist?”
Fromburg nodded. “Why, yes, I can,” he said. “I have known millionaires who were Communists, and well-paid editors who were Communists, and a few government people who were Communists. So it isn’t hard for me to imagine a banker being a Communist, and it certainly isn’t difficult to imagine a banker dealing with the Communists, even if he isn’t one himself. Perhaps your wife was referring to some deals in foreign exchange.”
Gumol didn’t speak at once. He was reflecting on how much could be learned from old records. “It is always possible,” he said cautiously, “that years ago, before the war you know, my father may have executed a few commissions for them. Perhaps that’s where my wife got the crazy idea.”
“Perhaps,” Fromburg said. He looked at his watch. He had been at it twelve hours. It was about enough for that night. In the morning he would have Gumol go back over the whole story, have him retell his whole life history. Fromburg was confident that after he had caught the man in enough lies, Gumol would break. Now he wanted to give him something to think about. He wanted to be sure that Gumol’s night would be sleepless, and that he would be terrorized by his own imagination. “Mr. Gumol,” he said, “I happen to know that you’re here because you’re afraid. I don’t blame you. I don’t think your life is worth much, at this moment. Nothing’s going to save you, except perhaps the truth. Now I’m going to leave you but I’m going to be in the next room, and I’ll be back here for breakfast with you in the morning. Don’t try to leave. Lieutenant González wouldn’t like it.”