The Successor Page 23

  “Sit down.” The man gestured at a captain’s chair positioned in front of a large window that looked into the next room—not the outside.

  Dorsey sat down in the wooden chair slowly, fascinated.

  “It’s one-way glass,” the man explained, sitting down beside Dorsey in another chair. “They can’t see us.”

  Dorsey nodded without taking his eyes off what was happening on the other side of the glass. Two men sat facing each other. One of the men was older, like the man who’d greeted him at the door, and wore preppy clothes—a button-down, blue oxford shirt, khaki pants, and Docksiders. Also a man Dorsey recognized from before—an associate of the man sitting beside him.

  The man sitting in the opposite chair had ramrod-straight posture, a crew cut, and was younger—late thirties, Dorsey guessed. A U.S. naval officer—decked out in his dress whites, cap resting in his lap. As he looked closer, Dorsey saw that the man must have had a bad case of acne as a teenager. There were deep pockmarks on his cheek, scars that had never healed.

  The man sitting beside Dorsey reached for a control panel on the wall and flipped a switch. Now they could hear the conversation in the other room.

  “Give me the update,” the older man was saying.

  The naval officer glanced at the glass.

  Instinctively, Dorsey looked away, not wanting to catch the man’s eye. Which was silly, he knew. The officer couldn’t see him. It was like when people were on a speakerphone and they still talked softly to other people in the room even after they’d turned on the mute button.

  “The audience must be ready,” the officer said loudly, still looking at the glass.

  “There’s no need to worry about that. It’s just a mirror. There’s no one watching us, we’re the only ones in the house.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  Dorsey noticed a guilty grimace crease the officer’s face.

  “Come on,” the older man urged. “I’m not paying you five hundred thousand dollars for your silence.”

  “Five hundred grand’s probably nothing for you. I should get more.”

  It was interesting, Dorsey thought to himself, watching the exchange. The naval officer clearly didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be giving away whatever his secrets were. You could almost see the sadness etched into the lines around his mouth and eyes. But the money was too tempting. Everybody had his price for everything.

  “The update. Please.”

  The officer took a long breath, then nodded, accepting his deal with the devil. “They’re almost ready to go. The U.S. civilian will be meeting with—”

  “Christian Gillette,” the older man broke in. “That’s the U.S. civilian, correct?”

  Suddenly Dorsey realized who the naval officer was. He was the deep throat inside the Pentagon, in the basement of D-ring. The man who knew about President Wood’s assassination order—and probably much more.

  “Yes,” the officer confirmed, “Christian Gillette.”

  “No chance that Mr. Gillette isn’t the real one? No chance he’s a diversion?”

  “No chance. The people in charge of this thing did set up a couple of diversions, just in case the people in Cuba figured out what was going on. The diversions include a couple of other civilians and two senior government officials. But Gillette’s the real McCoy.”

  “Who were the government officials?”

  The older man was looking for credibility, Dorsey knew. It didn’t really matter who the government officials were, he was checking the story out. He’d probably try to confirm what the officer said through another source. It was what these kind of guys did.

  “The undersecretary of the treasury and some Federal Reserve guy. I think it was the president of the Atlanta Fed.”

  The man sitting beside Dorsey reached for a pad and pencil and jotted down a few notes.

  “Where does it go from here?” the older man asked. “What’s the schedule?”

  “Gillette will be meeting with one of the Secret Six very soon. They’ll meet—”

  “Wait, wait,” the older man interrupted. “Secret Six?”

  The naval officer nodded. “That’s the name of the civilian group inside Cuba that will take on senior positions after the military has killed the Castro remnants. If Gillette approves of them,” he added. “There’s two backup civilian teams inside Cuba, but if Gillette gives the go-ahead on these people, they’ll be it.”

  “Do you know who the Secret Six are?”

  The naval officer looked around warily, as if he wasn’t certain how far to go with this. “Look, I—”

  “Unless you want me to make you take the polygraph, you will answer me.”

  “All right, all right. Yeah, I know.”

  Dorsey glanced over at the man beside him. “What was that all about?”

  “The officer gets half a million dollars for five interviews,” the man explained. “A hundred thousand per. This is his fourth one. Our agreement with him is that we can stop and give him a polygraph test anytime we want during the interviews. If he fails it, we don’t pay him. And he knows we’ll out him as a spy.” The man smiled thinly. “It’s a perfect game of chicken. It works because he knows we need him, too. The likelihood of us finding anyone else with this kind of information who’d be willing to help us is very small. We’ve told him we’re working with someone else inside the Pentagon, with someone else on the team, but he knows all of those people and he could probably tell from our answers that we were bluffing.” His smile grew wider. “Of course, he needs the money more than we need the information. That’s what tips the balance of power. We figured all that out before we decided who to approach.”

  It was the first time Dorsey had ever seen the man come close to smiling. He was obviously pleased with himself.

  “Come on,” the interrogator in the next room urged. “Tell me who they are.”

  “There’s a prominent doctor,” the naval officer began, looking at the ceiling as though he were trying hard to remember, counting with his fingers. “A very senior attorney from the Ministry of Justice, the deputy minister of foreign investment and economic development, the number three or four guy at the Central Bank of Cuba.” He hesitated for a few moments, looking at the hand he was counting on and the four extended fingers. “Um, the deputy minister of agriculture, I believe…and somebody in the Ministry of Science and Technology.”

  Again Dorsey was aware of the man beside him scribbling on the pad. He could hear the pencil tip scraping on the page. He hated that sound, always had. It made his skin crawl.

  “Why the doctor?”

  “He can travel easily. Just tells the Cuban intelligence people he wants to see another surgery and is real open about where he’ll be.”

  The older man nodded several times as if he were irritated at himself, as if he should have figured that one out on his own. “Ah, got it.”

  “They still watch him when he’s out of country, but not very carefully.” The naval officer chuckled derisively. “The Cuban intel guys in the U.S. aren’t very good at high-level surveillance, or hiding who they are. They’re really nothing but buffoons. They’ve got no high-tech equipment to speak of, just old Soviet stuff. So we can get the doctor out of his hotel anytime we want without them knowing. Anyway, that’s who Gillette’s going to meet with first.”

  “When?”

  “It hasn’t been decided yet, but it’ll be soon.”

  “How soon? Like in the next forty-eight hours?” the older man asked, a worried expression coming to his face.

  The officer held up his hands. “No, no. Gillette hasn’t even had his ops briefing yet. They’re bringing him down to Maryland for that tomorrow. I’d say the meeting will be in the next few days. But remember, the doctor’s got to get out of Cuba without raising any suspicions, too. He can’t just say, ‘I’ve gotta go tomorrow.’”

  “What’s the doctor’s name?”

  “Don’t make me do that,” the officer begged. “He’s a good man. H
e hasn’t done anything—”

  “The doctor’s name.”

  The officer scratched his temple. “Nelson Padilla.”

  “Where will they meet?”

  “Hasn’t been determined yet, but probably a major city. Someplace the doctor can say he’s going to witness an operation. Boston, New York maybe.”

  “Miami?”

  The officer hesitated. “Maybe.”

  The older man leaned forward and pointed, his eyes narrowing. “Are you telling me everything here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because our information from another source says it’s Miami. Definitely Miami.”

  “I, I don’t know that, but I’ll find out. I’ll tell you as soon as I know anything for certain.” The officer shut his eyes tightly.

  As if he knew he was going to regret this, Dorsey thought.

  “It probably will be Miami,” the officer admitted. “It’s ninety-nine percent. Kind of has to be, you know? At least someplace close to that.”

  The older man inside the room leaned forward in his chair, excited. “Good, good. Of course, we know what happens after that meeting between Gillette and the doctor. We just have to be damn sure we know where the meeting with the doctor will be held as soon as possible. You got that, son?”

  “I do, I do. But it’ll be tough. Hell, those of us in the D-ring crew may not ever know for sure, at least not until it’s in progress. That’s going to be handled by—”

  “Dex Kelly?” the older man interrupted.

  The officer nodded. “The president wasn’t stupid. He gave you guys lots of room, gave you your assassination order, but he set up a couple of barriers. Us and Kelly. Us to make certain nobody got the assassination order, Kelly to keep you guys in the dark about at least a few things up until the last minute.”

  The older man spat. “Fucking Kelly. Traitor. Stupid, too. I’m not worried about him screwing us,” he said, more to himself than the officer. “I’m worried about him screwing the whole thing up. He doesn’t know how to keep Gillette safe. The whole thing could blow apart if somebody else gets to Gillette first.”

  “You mean the Cubans?”

  “Of course I mean the damn Cubans,” the interrogator roared. “They’ve got people on the inside in Washington. We’ve known that for forty years. Not deep, but deep enough. Shit, they don’t have to be very deep with a guy like Dex Kelly running this thing for the White House.” The older man glanced up. “How’s Zapata doing? General Delgado. You guys still sure he’s in?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Will the troops follow him?”

  It was the naval officer’s turn to lean back in his chair. He smiled. “Well, now, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” His smile faded. “Look, it seems like Delgado’s the man inside the FAR. As best the CIA and the DIA can tell, the Ochoa thing is still big for those guys and Delgado’s played his cards well. There’ve been other situations like Ochoa’s, too. Other senior FAR officers who have been hauled away in the middle of the night by the D-VI and never heard from again, and that’s got the military brass down there convinced they’ve got to act. The incidents haven’t been publicized. Even the Cuban contingent in South Florida doesn’t know the extent of it all. Apparently, the D-VI is run by El Jefe’s son-in-law, and supposedly he’s more paranoid than anybody. And getting worse every day. But it’s convinced Delgado and the men beneath him that they have to act.”

  “God help Delgado if the D-VI suspects anything.”

  The officer pointed at the older man. “That’s what everybody’s freaking out about. Delgado’s the key. If the D-VI suspects anything and throws him in jail or kills him, the whole thing falls apart. He’s the linchpin. And, of course, there are all kinds of rumors suddenly running around D-ring that there’s a rat somewhere in the Secret Six.”

  “When did those rumors start?”

  “The CIA’s circling up with Delgado at some dairy ranch outside Havana tonight. At the last meeting he told them there might be a problem.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah, exactly. We’re so close, but, like I said, if Delgado goes down, the whole thing disintegrates.”

  “The doctor’s a key, too.”

  “Yeah, he is,” the officer agreed. “He won’t have much of a role after everything goes ballistic, but right now he’s very important.”

  Dorsey winced. If the Cuba thing didn’t happen, they wouldn’t have anything to hang President Wood with. If none of the senior Cuban officials were assassinated by U.S. Special Forces during the coup, they wouldn’t be able to bring the president up on impeachment charges. The law was clear. There had to be proof of an assassination, and there had to be credible evidence that the president had ordered it. If they had both pieces, they had an airtight case. It was a law the last Democratic administration before Wood’s had engineered. They were going to kill the liberals with their own sword. It was perfect irony, Dorsey thought to himself.

  “Do you have a copy of the order?” the older man asked.

  Almost timidly, Dorsey observed. As if he were afraid of the intense disappointment the wrong answer would bring.

  The officer smiled proudly, reached into his pocket, pulled out several pieces of folded paper, and handed them over. “Yep.” He inhaled deeply. “I almost got nailed in the copy room with the file, too. It was touch and go for a few seconds.”

  Dorsey watched the older man unfold the piece of paper, watched it shake in his hand as if it were blowing in the wind as he read. It was as if he’d discovered the Ark of the Covenant, it was so important. Suddenly they had half of what they needed. Now they had to get Christian Gillette to Cuba so he could give the president the green light. Then it was just a matter of a videotape.

  “YOU OKAY? ”

  Allison looked up. She’d been putting a deal file away in her desk—as usual she and Sherry were working late. It was almost nine thirty and she was meeting Christian at the Plaza hotel at ten for a drink in the Oak Bar. She couldn’t wait. He’d come into her office this morning and asked her on the date, even told her he missed her. She’d been tempted to play hard to get, but she’d been too excited. It seemed as if he really wanted to have time alone with her. He’d made a point of telling her it would be just the two of them.

  “What do mean?”

  “You seem a little on edge,” Sherry answered.

  Allison slid the drawer shut. “I guess I’m still trying to come to grips with Jim’s suicide.” Christian had told her about it and been very up-front about the note the police had found in Marshall’s apartment blaming him for the death leap. He’d been subdued, obviously feeling responsible. “It’s horrible.”

  “Yeah. I heard Jim wrote a note blaming Christian.”

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Things get around.”

  Allison slipped the desk key into the drawer lock and turned. The key was strung to a long cord hanging from her neck. Her elevator swipe card was hanging from the cord, too.

  “Is that a new card?” Sherry asked, pointing toward Allison’s neck. The swipe cards were bright white when they were first issued, but they faded over time. “Looks like it was just washed or something. You leave it in your clothes and run it through the washing machine or something?”

  “No, you’re right, it’s new.”

  “You lose your old one?”

  “Yup,” Allison answered curtly. “But I’m keeping this one around my neck so I shouldn’t have that problem again.”

  Sherry twirled her hair while she watched Allison pack her briefcase. “You want to get a drink?”

  “Can’t. I’m meeting Christian in a few minutes.” She liked telling Sherry that. It was wrong to feel that way, but ever since Sherry had lied to her about Christian asking her if she wanted a ride home, there’d been this unacknowledged tension between them. Allison hadn’t confronted Sherry with Christian’s story, but she could tell Sherry sensed that she and Christian had spoken abou
t it. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Hey, has Christian told you about his new flame?”

  Allison had been about to stand up, but she sank back into the chair. “Huh?” She tried to make it seem as if the comment hadn’t floored her, but she knew she’d given away her emotions right away. Sherry had a triumphant look on her face. Clearly she’d seen the reaction.

  “He’s seeing this girl who’s like half his age.”

  Allison’s heart began to pound. Was Sherry lying again, or was this real information? She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “How do you know?”

  “I was going home one night last week, and I saw them coming out of an Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. Let me tell you, this girl is gorgeous.” Sherry rolled her eyes. “And young. Like maybe still in college.”

  Allison stood up, promising herself she wouldn’t ask Christian about it tonight. Which was going to be tough, especially after a drink or two. “Thanks for the good news.”

  “Sorry,” Sherry said, standing up, too, heading for the door, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I figured you’d want to know.”

  Sherry was right about that. But the info could have been delivered a little more tactfully.

  “Oh, by the way,” Sherry called from the doorway, “congratulations on being named vice chairman of Everest. That’s great.”

  Alison watched her leave, then glanced down at the new swipe card hanging from her neck. So strange. She and Sherry had been good friends a couple of days ago, now suddenly it seemed as if they were intense rivals. As if somehow Sherry thought Christian might be interested in her. Allison picked up her purse and headed for the door. A few minutes ago, she wouldn’t have thought Christian could ever be interested in a girl as young as Sherry. Now she wasn’t sure. Maybe Sherry was just making all that up about Christian and a young girl coming out of that Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. But then Christian had helped that guy start the place. How would Sherry know that? Allison moaned as she headed toward the Everest lobby. She needed a drink. A stiff one.