It had been a rather constant theme of his, almost from the first, when he began to realize that there was more to this business than met the eye. (Actually from the moment the woman’s photographs had revealed the type of weapons the hijackers carried.)
A Mahler symphony was playing softly on the stereo in the large, pleasant living room. Trotter had fixed them each a drink, and they sat by the fireplace. It was nearing Thanksgiving and was quite chilly. Danielle had thrown his overcoat carelessly over the back of a chair and had taken up a position on a corner of the couch. His actions and manner were irritating just then.
“There’s nothing we can do, publicly, that would help us,” Danielle began. His voice was soft. Hoarse. He sounded worn out. “In fact there are certain … shall we say, delicate matters on the burner now.”
“Christ, their shooters were signatures chiseled in stone on the cave walls for the entire world to see,” Trotter shouted. His blood pressure was rising. He could feel it. His face was flushed. “Someone is bound to make the connection.”
“That is certainly possible,” Danielle said.
“Then what do you expect of me?” Trotter said. Much later he recalled that at that moment he felt as if he were rushing headlong down a narrow, darkly blind alley. At the far end was danger. He knew it. Could feel it. Yet he could not stop himself.
“We don’t expect anything more of you than what you’ve already done, John. Just your very best effort. It is appreciated.”
Trotter rolled his eyes. He could not believe his old friend had said that. “Save that for the virgins. Just save it for the kids.”
Danielle, who at fifty-five was ten years Trotter’s senior, sat forward, his drink cradled in his small, delicate hands. “The agency is out of this investigation as of now.”
“I’m left holding the bag. Is that what you’ve come all the way out here to tell me?”
“Let this business run its natural course—”
“Unnatural, if you ask me,” Trotter interrupted.
“The hijackers are dead, the maintenance man who supplied the weapons is gone, and the two fine Americans killed in the heat of the moment have been buried. Passions were high. Havana has apologized. Leave it at that.”
“State is pressing.”
“Let them press, John. It will pass.”
“Herbert Danson was by today, actually came by my office, sat me down like a schoolchild, and gave me my ABCs.” It still rankled. “The New York Times is pressing them for more information. It somehow leaked that there were photographs.”
Apparently unperturbed by this news, Danielle nodded. “I know,” he said. “Donald asked me to stop by tonight to have a little chat with you.”
This was the payoff then, Trotter thought. They were bloody well trying to buy him off. Christ. “Then have your chat and get the hell out of here.”
Danielle looked genuinely pained.
“I have an investigation petering out here with holes in it large enough for a Mack truck. Meanwhile, you sit over there in your palace with all the answers. At least point me in the right direction.”
Danielle nodded sadly, finished his drink, and set the glass down.
“Another?” Trotter asked, but Danielle shook his head. He seemed to be weighing his words with care.
“Norma will have dinner waiting.” He stood up and got his overcoat.
Trotter got to his feet. He felt very frustrated, yet here was an old friend whom he had wounded. “Listen, Larry, I’m sorry.”
Danielle waved off the apology. “No need for that, John, I understand. Believe me, I do.”
Trotter nodded.
Danielle was staring at him. “If there was one question …” he said.
“What?”
“If there was one question for which you had an answer, our very best answer mind you … would that help?”
Trotter would forever retain the impression that he was being manipulated at that moment by a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had known all along that their meeting would come exactly to this point. But he could not help himself. The offer was too tempting.
“They carried Soviet weapons. Where did they come from? Who supplied them with the hardware?”
“CESTA.”
The word meant nothing to Trotter, though he had a visceral feeling he knew what was coming next. “KGB?”
“More than that. The Soviets have their networks in the Caribbean. Banco de Sur, El Rodeo. But CESTA is more than that.” Danielle spoke very slowly, precisely, each word measured carefully, a rare and precious substance to be handled with the utmost respect. “CESTA is composed of the intelligence-gathering systems of all the Warsaw Pact nations, sharing responsibilities as well as product.”
“Based in Mexico City.”
Danielle nodded.
“And who runs this super organization? Who is the man in charge? The brains?”
At this Danielle shook his head. “That’s all, John. As it is, I’ve overstepped my charter.”
The symphony on the stereo was over. The silence held an ominous note.“Then let’s go after them, Larry. You and I.”
“Stay out of it, John. As one friend to another, I’m telling you to stay clear. There’ll be a lot of fallout in the months to come. The man with the clean hands and clear conscience will come out on top.”
Before Danielle turned and walked out of the room, Trotter suddenly realized that there was something about his old friend just then that he had never seen before. The way the older man held himself, the set of his shoulders, the hooded expression in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw. It took a moment, though, before Trotter recognized just what it was he had seen, and the effect on him was profound, deeper than any mere words could adequately describe. But forever afterward Trotter would swear that at that moment in time he had seen fear written all over the deputy director of Central Intelligence Agency operations.
That very night, Donald Suthland Powers stood alone at the window in his office on the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Langley complex, trying to see into the future. He was short, somewhat stoop shouldered and slight of build, with a squarish, scholarly face, thick eyebrows, and absolutely the most penetrating, intelligent blue eyes that had ever peered across the DCI’s desk. At fifty-six he wasn’t so terribly old that he had slowed down, yet he was of the age when he could begin looking back at his youth, to a time when the future was a bright penny still untarnished. Since the president had appointed him DCI a year ago, his goals had seemed very clear. At least they had until this night. Terrible goals in the sense that he was a general waging a war in which casualties were being incurred, but exciting in that the endeavor was right: his president and his nation were behind him.
He had spent most of his life in service to his government in one capacity or another, but never from such an awesome position of responsibility and never with such a strong, clearly defined mandate. For the first time, though, the future wasn’t clear to him.
“Perhaps you should speak with Trotter,” Danielle had suggested. “He’ll stand down. He’ll give us the room.”
Powers was frightened. He needed time. Use the considerable Powers charm, he counseled himself. The power of this office, of your experience and charisma. There would be a lot of fallout. Jules and Asher were only the first. They had been lost in the opening salvo. There would be more, many more. Could he stand it?
God knew he had tried to get out of the agency after his father died. For a year in Hartford, operating the Political Action Think Tank, he had very nearly succeeded. But when the president called him back to arms, he had not been surprised or very saddened. Here was where he would wage his battles. From this very fortress was where he would expiate the sins of deadly competition, nuclear confrontation, and, on a smaller but much more intensely personal scale, the murders of Jules and Asher. They would be the cry to arms. The point around which all of them would rally.