“The thing that has our guys going is that the authorities gave the TV people passes for their camera trucks.”
“Each station got passes for two trucks,” Jake said. “The Post and the Times have hundreds of trucks.”
“Hey, I’m not arguing the case. I’m just filling you in on the news. That’s my bag.”
The silence that followed was broken when Yocke asked Jake, “How about a clarification of the ground rules between you and me. I agreed not to publish until ‘this is over.’ When will that be?”
“When all the troops leave and the civil government takes charge.”
“My editor wanted to know. I left him with the impression I’m getting red-hot sizzling stuff.”
“Are you?”
“Well, at least it’s warm.”
“Body temperature?”
“Not quite that warm. Tepid might be the word.”
“What can we do,” Jake asked Toad, “to give this intrepid lad some sizzle?”
“Let’s think about that. I could tell you what Rita told me last night when I asked for some sizzle, but I doubt if it would help.”
“Probably not.”
Yocke was busy explaining what he meant by sizzle when the windshield popped audibly in front of the driver’s seat and a neat hole surrounded by concentric lines appeared instantly, as if by magic.
Automatically Toad slammed on the brake.
“Floor it,” Grafton said. “Let’s get outta here.”
Tarkington jammed the accelerator down. The next bullet missed the passenger compartment and penetrated the sheet metal somewhere with an audible thud. The report followed a second later.
Toad swerved and kept going. The first corner he came to he went around with tires squealing.
“Anyone hurt?”
“Not me,” Grafton said and got busy brushing the tiny pieces of glass off the front seat. “You can slow down now.”
“Someone’s unhappy,” Yocke said. “There’s a lot of that these days.”
“That asshole could have killed one of us,” Toad groused.
“I think that was the idea,” Yocke said dryly.
Toad Tarkington raised his lip in a snarl. Yocke was still insufferable.
At the armory Jake spent a half hour in the command center. Random shootings were occurring at at least a half dozen locations in the city. Troops were being directed to the affected areas to find the snipers.
“We got over a hundred druggies back there locked up and more coming in all the time,” Major General Greer said. “If it’s just withdrawal or possession, I’m shipping them down to Fort McNair. We’re putting them in the gymnasium there until somebody figures out what to do with them. But the people with weapons, the people that are actively resisting our guys or carrying significant quantities of drugs, I’m keeping them here. We have to separate the wheat from the chaff some way.”
“They’re still carrying guns?” Jake asked.
“Oh yes. Apparently they’re fighting each other and the soldiers. Just two hours ago we had a raging gun battle in the northeast section. Seven civilians dead and wounded by the time the soldiers got there. They were using automatic weapons.”
“Any word on the terrorists?”
“Still looking. But even if we find them, my recommendation to General Land will be that we maintain martial law until this random shooting and gang warfare stops. We can’t just walk out now and leave this mess to the cops.”
Jake went back to the office General Greer had made available and got on the phone.
“I have something I want to tell you,” Jack Yocke told Jake a half hour later when he and Tarkington finally got off the telephones.
Something about Yocke’s tone caused Jake Grafton to raise his eyebrows.
Toad caught it too. “You want me to leave?” he asked the reporter.
“No. Maybe you both ought to hear this. You’ll know what to do with it. Needless to say, it’s not for public consumption.”
“Off the record?” Toad asked, horrified.
Yocke’s lips twisted and he nodded.
Toad tiptoed to the door, opened it and peeked out, then closed it and wedged a chairback under the knob. “Okay, fire away. But remember, even the walls have ears.”
“How do you stand him?” Yocke asked Grafton.
The captain rested his chin in his hand and sighed audibly.
“Three or four weeks ago they had a revolution down in Cuba.”
“We heard about that,” Toad said.
“I figured I’d avoid the mob of reporters and travel down there in a slightly unconventional way, a way that would generate a story. So I went to Miami and walked in on a group of Cuban exiles that might be planning on going back. I promised them I wouldn’t do any stories on how I got to Cuba. They weren’t too thrilled about having me but they took me with them to Cuba. As I said, I promised not to publish anything about them. But I didn’t promise not to tell the U.S. government.”
“Okay.” Jake nodded.
“At Andros Island in the Bahamas they loaded about three-dozen wire-guided antitank missiles aboard. That’s where they said we were, anyway.”
“Maybe you’d better tell us the whole story,” Jake said, and pulled around a pad to take notes.
Yocke did. His recitation took fifteen minutes. When he was finished, both officers had questions to clear up minor points.
Finally, when everything seemed to have been covered, Jake asked, “Why are you telling us this?”
Yocke just looked at him. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“You tell me.”
“I think the U.S. government ought to look into where those antitank missiles came from. Maybe they were stolen from a government warehouse. Maybe — oh, I don’t know. I’ll bet they were stolen.”
“Why didn’t you go to the FBI?”
“Because I’m a reporter. If it gets around that I tell tales to the FBI, I’m finished. People won’t talk to me.”
“Why now?”
Yocke twisted. “I wasn’t going to tell. But I know you fellows and now seemed like a good time.”
“You could have been killed down in Miami,” Toad pointed out.
“Well, I’m still alive.”
“I’m trying to figure out why that is,” Jake told him and leaned back in his chair and pulled out a lower desk drawer to rest his feet upon. “Why are you still among the living?”
“I told you what they told me.”
“Hmmm. You think that was the real reason?”
“It sounded real good to me at the time.”
“How does it sound now?”
Yocke cleared his throat and rubbed his lips as he considered the question. “It doesn’t really hold water. Why should they trust me when a bullet would have solved their problem? They could have just dumped me out in the Gulf Stream. Nobody would have ever known and that would have been that. I don’t know why they didn’t, and I don’t think the people in Cuba are going to give me any answer except the one they gave me then.”
“Surely you’ve got a theory or two?”
“Well, yes. This business about General Zaba got me thinking. You know, it’s easy to assume that our government is made up of a bunch of boobs who never know what’s going on and screw up anything positive they try to do.”
Jake’s eyebrows rose a millimeter and fell.
“I’ve come to believe that most of the time you guys do your job right. It occurred to me that possibly one of the reasons General Zaba is in the U.S. to testify against Chano Aldana is because the U.S. government helped the rebels overthrow Castro.”
“Interesting,” Jake Grafton said.
“I think the reason I’m still alive is because the Cubans were CIA or knew that the CIA would not be pleased if American citizens got murdered.”
Jake shrugged. “It’s possible. But you haven’t brought this up expecting me to find some answers, have you?” Jake asked.