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  “But don’t worry, son, I don’t care about that. The people you screwed were scum. I was glad you outted ’em. Point is, don’t underestimate me. You got that?”

  Christian hesitated for a moment before answering, “Yeah.”

  “Good. Now, I’m going to need you back down in Washington early next week. Actually, just outside it. As the chief executive made clear, we need to move quickly. Can you be there? I need your total commitment.”

  “I’ll be there,” Christian agreed, suddenly understanding that this was getting real as Quentin’s warning in the car on the way down here played in his head over and over. About the danger involved, specifically the possibility of torture if he was ever caught. “Don’t worry.”

  “Good, we’ll communicate by code from now on.” Kelly reached into his pocket and produced a laminated card with tiny writing on both sides. “These are phrases we’ll use by phone and e-mail. Beside each phrase is its real meaning. Do not lose this. Do not let it out of your sight. Sleep with it under your pillow. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.” Christian took the card and slipped it into his pocket.

  Kelly grabbed Christian’s arm. “But if you do lose it, let me know right away. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “E-mails will come to you from your portfolio company in Minneapolis. The sender will be a JRCook. Got it?”

  “JRCook,” Christian repeated, suddenly feeling a chill. It was getting very real very fast.

  “All right,” Kelly said, taking on a less authoritative tone, as if he were finished with the important stuff. “It’ll probably be Tuesday and Wednesday next week when we’ll need you.”

  “Yeah, sure. One more thing.” Christian knew this was going to piss Kelly off.

  “What?” Kelly growled.

  “I told the president this when I saw him, but you need to hear it from me, too. Just in case President Wood forgot to say something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of my partners at Everest is a man named Quentin Stiles.”

  “Yeah, yeah. The guy we just finished the background check on.” Kelly waved. “But I knew about him way before that.”

  Which didn’t surprise Christian. Quentin had a hell of a reputation inside the government even though he’d been out of it for a few years. Of course a senior guy like Kelly would still remember him. “Quentin’s going to be advising me on this. He’ll know every detail of what’s going on. I won’t do anything unless he approves.” Even in the dim light, Christian could see Kelly’s face twisting in irritation. “I’m absolutely serious about this.”

  “That’s impossible. I can’t agree to—”

  “Then you don’t get me. And you can tell President Wood that.”

  Kelly’s eyes flashed. “Is that file I gave you in a safe place?” he snapped.

  JIM MARSHALL moved confidently past the guard desk in the lobby of the Everest building. It wasn’t unusual for Everest employees—even managing partners—to come and go at late hours, so the two guards simply nodded and waved him toward the elevators without making him sign in, recognizing him, unaware that Christian had put him on paid leave. Marshall pushed the button for the elevator, giving them a quick nod as the doors opened and he entered the car. Then he took out the woman’s magnetic card—he assumed she was still back at the hotel, passed out—and swiped it through the slot, now able to access the Everest main floor. The card was the other reason the guards hadn’t made him sign in. Using it left a recognizable set of fingerprints that Christian could check—which he probably did every morning. The prick, Marshall thought to himself. Probably had a detailed report sent to him by the building’s property manager just so he could see who was working late, whose fingerprints showed up. Marshall chuckled as the car rose. The good thing was, his fingerprints wouldn’t be on there.

  The car slowed and opened to the main floor of the Everest Capital offices. The firm had three floors in the building—including the two directly below this one—but you had to enter on the main floor, then head down the staircases to get to the other two. He pulled out the key he’d retrieved from his apartment and slid it into the lobby lock. He was inside quickly, past reception and heading toward Christian’s office, which was in the very back. Moving through the dimly lit space past other offices—managing directors, then the managing partners. Blair’s, then his, then straight to the back past Debbie’s desk.

  “Send me to a detox center, will he?” Marshall muttered as he reached Gillette’s door, pulling out a set of lockpicks from his pocket. “He’ll be sorry he screwed with me.”

  One of Marshall’s portfolio companies at Everest was the largest wholesaler of hardware in the country. A couple of weeks ago he’d gotten a lesson in lock picking from one of the top salesmen when he was visiting the headquarters in Stamford, Connecticut. Telling the guy he’d always wanted to know how those TV detectives did it so easily, unconvinced that it really was so easy. Only too willing to please, the salesman had retrieved the lockpick set and shown Marshall how to do it.

  Marshall was into Christian’s office in no time. He went straight for the desk, for the drawer he’d seen Christian pull his hand away from as if it were electrically charged when they’d met earlier. Marshall used the same pick set to unlock the drawer and smiled when he heard the gentle click from inside indicating that it was open. Then he stowed the pick set in his pocket and pulled the drawer open. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer. Nothing but blank loose-leaf pads.

  “Damn it!”

  Hopefully he’d find something else in here and hopefully he’d find it fast. He didn’t want to be in here too long.

  “HEY, GUYS. ” Christian waved to the guards behind the lobby desk as he hurried past.

  “Hello, Mr. Gillette,” one of them called. “You all sure are busy tonight.”

  “Always,” he called back, moving into one of the elevators and pulling out his swipe card. He liked hearing that, liked knowing people were burning the midnight oil. “Have a good night.”

  Moments later he was in the Everest lobby, opening the main door with his key, then hurrying back toward his office. Kelly and Quentin had gotten him nervous about the Cuba file and he was going to grab it—even though it was after one in the morning. He was going to keep it with him at all times now, maybe even destroy it—he’d memorized every word and there had to be a duplicate with Kelly’s people. He slid his office door key into the lock, turned the knob, and trotted to the desk, flipping on a green-shaded banker’s lamp, then unlocking the drawer with a third key. He let out a long, low relieved breath when he saw the file. He grabbed it and headed out.

  The young woman finally exhaled when she saw the small shaft of light at her feet go out and heard Christian’s door shut. It seemed as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she’d heard him unlocking the office door and bolted for the closet, the copy of the Cuba file pressed to her chest. She’d barely had time to slip the original file back and lock the drawer when she’d heard the rustling at the door.

  Just to be safe, she was going to wait another few minutes before coming out.

  13

  THE SECRET SIX were meeting in Gustavo Cruz’s barn, in an office the cattle rancher had set up in a corner room to manage the farm. A room where he kept all his falsified records of milk production. File cabinet after file cabinet of meticulous reports—that were completely bogus.

  Nelson Padilla shook his head as he gazed at the cabinets, monuments to one of the things that were wrong with Cuba. As General Delgado had explained in detail to Padilla, there were no authentic records anywhere on the ranch, nothing that could incriminate Gustavo Cruz if the D-VI suddenly showed up. The 40 percent of production Cruz sold on the black market was all done in cash, and that cash was kept in a watertight safe buried at the corner of two fields. Only Cruz and one of his sons knew the safe’s location—Delgado hadn’t forced the location out of him, or so he had maintained. The cash was used to buy foo
d and spare parts on other black markets so there were no records of it ever running through an account anywhere. And Cruz made certain that he never kept more than 50 percent of his herd in the fields near the barn. The rest were on back fields, well away from the barn through the jungle, splintered into miniherds.

  Cruz could have been caught in only two ways, according to Delgado. The first was by the intelligence people checking his falsified records, then getting in a helicopter, flying over the entire ranch, and literally counting cows. The good thing was that the cows in the back fields often went into the jungle during the day to escape the heat, so it would be difficult for the D-VI to spot all of them from the air—Cruz assumed they wouldn’t actually go look for cows in the jungle on foot. That would be incredibly time-consuming and, he hoped they would feel, not worth the trouble. That there were easier fish to fry.

  The second way Cruz could have been nailed was by having a spy in his midst. One of the men or women from the town whom he employed, even one of his own family members. There was nothing he could do about that except watch them closely. Which was why he paid his bribe. So that the man he paid would tell him if someone was passing on information.

  General Delgado had told Padilla all of these details about Gustavo Cruz several weeks after the night Padilla had hit Cruz’s cow on the darkened lane. General Delgado had also confirmed for Padilla that Cruz had in fact done exactly what Rodriguez had accused him of. Cruz had led the cow to the road to be killed so he could have its meat without worrying about going to jail for slaughtering state property without authorization.

  After relaying all that, Delgado had then informed Padilla that they could use Cruz’s ranch for Secret Six meetings whenever they wanted. As Delgado would use Cruz’s ranch for clandestine meetings with his U.S. military contacts. That in exchange for not saying anything about Cruz’s true motivation that night on the lane and enabling Cruz to take over Rodriguez’s ranch, Delgado had made it clear that the ranch could be used for these kinds of activities. Cruz had immediately agreed and promised absolute loyalty. Delgado believed Cruz would never be a problem.

  “You’ll keep watch for us,” Padilla said to Cruz as they walked out of the barn into the darkness. It was after ten o’clock at night. “Until we’re done.”

  Cruz nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

  Padilla sensed that Delgado’s analysis of the situation was exactly right. Cruz would never be a problem—he was shaking in his boots. The rancher had patiently waited in the house until all the men were in the barn before coming out, kept his family in there, too. Even suggested a clearing in the woods a quarter mile down the lane to hide the van they’d all taken out here together. Which was a risk. But Padilla had decided that trying to hide six cars with registration numbers that would lead directly to them was an even bigger risk.

  If they’d told Cruz what the meeting was all about, he would probably have been even more committed to what they were doing. Padilla had checked on the rancher’s family history. Before the Revolution, they had been wealthy, one of the wealthiest on the island and extremely influential in politics. But like everyone else, they’d lost everything when Castro had come to power. Cruz would probably figure that if he helped the group and the Incursion was successful, he would get his land back. But they couldn’t tell him what it was about, couldn’t take the chance that he might inadvertently give them away. Couldn’t take the chance he might name names in a torture session because some D-VI hard-ass had figured out that he was cooking the cattle books.

  They moved to the head of the driveway, near the barn, frog and insect calls loud in the warm, humid air. From here, Cruz would quickly see any cars heading up his driveway and get to the meeting fast so the men would have plenty of time to scatter into the jungle.

  “Don’t leave this spot until we’re done,” Padilla ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t let your family or your workers come out of the house.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  Padilla smiled. He had to admit that it was a little psychologically intoxicating to have this man address him so deferentially, but it wasn’t right. In fact, it was what they were fighting. “Don’t call me, sir,” he said gently. “Please.”

  Cruz put his hand on Padilla’s shoulder. “I don’t know exactly what you are doing, but I hope you are successful.”

  Of course, Cruz had guessed. But that was all right. He didn’t know who they were, couldn’t name names. Padilla thanked him. “I’ll see you when we’re done.”

  “Okay.”

  Padilla turned around and headed for the barn.

  The other five were already seated around a makeshift table when he entered the room. Like most of the other places they’d met, this room was lit only by candles. He was instantly irritated because the attorney from the Ministry of Justice had taken one end seat and the Central Bank executive the other. Even more irritated when they both offered smug smiles when he made eye contact with them, like children who’d found seats in a game of musical chairs smiling at the one left out. They knew he felt that he deserved an end seat—a traditional seat of power in any culture—and he could see they were taking pleasure in shutting him out. But he didn’t show his emotion, simply sat in the last seat available—a wooden stool.

  “The meeting will come to order,” Padilla said loudly, sitting down on the uncomfortable stool. Amazing, he thought, that even a group with as noble a cause as theirs could have ego issues. Just the natural result of testosterone, he knew.

  “It stinks in here,” the deputy minister of foreign investment and economic development spoke up.

  The deputy minister of agriculture laughed. “No, it smells good, señor.” He took a deep breath for effect. “Ah, manure. The sweet smell of success.”

  “All right, all right,” Padilla said. “Enough.”

  “When are you going to the United States?” the man from Science and Technology asked. They all knew things were heating up, that the time was getting close.

  “Soon,” Padilla answered. “I don’t know exactly what day it will be, but it will probably be in the next two weeks. If that goes well, the man I meet with will come here to meet all of us and the general. In fact, we’ll probably use this place for both meetings.”

  “Can you tell us any more about this man you’re meeting with?” the attorney asked. “More about his standing in America?”

  “He’s in the private sector but has the ear of the president. Most definitely.”

  “Who tells you that?”

  “My contacts in the United States. As do the general’s.”

  “It would be very disappointing if when you met him you found out he was not of stature.”

  “Well, I—”

  “But you would tell us right away if that was your feeling,” the deputy minister of agriculture pressed. “Wouldn’t you? Because if he is not of stature, that will tell us that we may not be able to depend on these people. That we’re putting ourselves in a lot of danger for no reason.”

  “Or that they are working with others here on the island,” the man from Science and Technology added, “and that we’re the second team.”

  “We’re not the second team,” Padilla assured them.

  “But how do you know?”

  “We must have faith. We must—” Padilla interrupted himself as he heard the sound of running footsteps.

  Gustavo Cruz appeared at the door, fear all over his face. “Señores, there is a vehicle stopped at the end of the driveway.”

  STEVEN SANCHEZ had been in Spain working on another project, one that was much broader in scope and would require a large team. Which meant the pay was better, but also meant that there were many more headaches—and more ways to get caught.

  Now he was back in Miami, just off the plane from Barcelona and at his hotel in South Beach. It was late—eleven ten—and he was dead tired, as he’d been up since early morning yesterday Europe time. But he had one more meeting t
onight before he could go to sleep, before he could let his head hit that soft, soft pillow of his suite in the Ritz Carlton. He planned to crash for at least twelve hours to completely recharge his batteries, then hang out on the beach under the palm trees and the warm sunshine until the thing with Christian Gillette went live. Which wouldn’t happen for at least a few days and might not happen for as much as another two weeks.

  In a way, despite his exhaustion, Sanchez was looking forward to tonight, to finally finding out who was behind this whole thing. He’d been operating on this project through an intermediary—which he hadn’t understood until yesterday. Until the intermediary had told him that, and that the person pulling the strings wanted to sit down with him to go over a few final details as quickly as possible.

  “Here is your suite key, Mr. Emilio.”

  “Thank you.” The young woman checking him in was quite pretty. A Latina, no more than twenty, with long, straight, jet-black hair, unblemished caramel-colored skin, pretty facial features. And he was a sucker for those big brown eyes. He glanced at the name tag pinned to her blue blazer: Mariposa. “Tough to work the night shift, huh?” he asked, picking up the plastic card and the bar key. He and the girl were the only two people in the lobby.

  She shrugged and gave him a polite smile. “What am I going to do? I have to earn money, you know?”

  Suddenly Sanchez realized that he hadn’t had sex in six weeks, and that the last go-around hadn’t been very good. A midthirties woman he’d picked up in London who’d looked a lot better dressed in the dim light of the club bar than undressed in his hotel room. And who’d demanded $100 to stay before she’d take off her clothes. He hated ever paying for it—especially when he hadn’t anticipated that the woman was a hooker—but he had anyway. And he’d been sorry. She’d been completely boring about the whole thing, even after he’d paid her.