Randy White: Dead Silence

I said, “As a general rule, I’m suspicious of anyone who invites me to lunch. Almost getting killed proves it’s a good rule.”

In the last week, Harrington and I had met several times, usually at the Lotos Club, but once at the Cafe Vivaldi, in Greenwich Village, where we’d interviewed a member of Alpha 66, a Cuban militant group. Fidel Castro’s personal possessions-the contents of a secret home, including his private papers-had been discovered, seized and shipped to Langley. That was the story leaked to the international press anyway. Castro Files was the phrase being used to underplay that more than three tons of personal effects, books, photos and papers had been confiscated.

Harrington had a personal interest in what the files contained. So did I. It was my main reason for coming to New York.

I changed my question to eliminate wiggle room. “Did you have any prior knowledge about what happened tonight? Even a hint?”

With the phone to my ear, I was searching the room, opening closets, switching on lights. Empty rooms make me nervous. So do telephones.

Harrington said, “Zero. No involvement. It’s not the way we operate. Even off the reservation, it would mean breaking all the rules. Can you think of an exception?”

He was talking about the kidnapping. Anywhere outside the United States was off the reservation.

I said, “The only rule is, there are no rules,” quoting one of the organization’s own maxims. But he was right. I couldn’t think of an exception.

“Besides, do you really think I would’ve okayed anything involving an exemption? How long have we known each other?”

An exemption was a noncombatant minor. Exceptions are exempt -another rule of a black ops team that had no rules.

I wanted to believe him. Harrington had a daughter. Like me, he had lived through a kidnapping. Plus, the man had changed in a way I’d yet to quantify. In our meetings, he’d been personable, not cold. He’d admitted past mistakes and made comments that were introspective, even philosophical-totally out of character. Maybe years of accumulated guilt had snapped some internal guy wire.

It happens. It has happened to stronger, smarter men than me, which is why I focus on the present, not the past. I am aware of the dangers of exploring murky demarcations between principles and morals, obligations and duty. I prefer sunnier places, like the Amazon.

A more compelling reason to believe Harrington was what Choirboy had told me while we were in the water. My second question was: Why kidnap the senator?

Choirboy’s answer had implicated a group of religious crazies. But even if he spoke the truth, it didn’t guarantee he knew the truth.

I said to Harrington, “If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I be your first suspect?”

He replied, “You’re right about the timing. Yes, I understand. But this is a business call, not social. Do you mind?”

Someone could be listening. A warning in his tone. I sighed, preparing myself for a code protocol that was outdated but still part of the game.

Harrington said, “I think what happened tonight has to do with the library collection we discussed. Are you with me?”

He gave me a moment to translate: Castro Files.

“I want that collection. Sure. At least, take a look. But I’m not the only one. There are people all over the world who want it. And powerful organizations. A library that extensive? No telling what it’s worth on the open market.”

I said, “I know, I know. People are dying to get their hands on it.”

“I’m not that desperate. Not yet. Move too fast, I overpay. But moving too slow could be even worse-for both of us. That’s another reason I called. I’m counting on you to keep me updated. That shouldn’t be hard. Same hotel, right?”

He was referring to Barbara.

“It’s like you’re a mind reader.”

“Odd, that you should make that reference. I enjoyed your friend’s lecture. It was interesting. Maybe you should consult him on the matter.”

He had heard Tomlinson speak on psychic surveillance? The new, open-minded Harrington.

I listened to him say, “The people who screwed up your dinner plans tonight are making a bid on the collection. That’s what happened.”

“A theory?”

“If your girlfriend’s people haven’t heard, they soon will. The info’s coming in right now. Hold on.” The phone went silent. I guessed he was reading a bulletin on the SIGINT web, a high-clearance intelligence source. “The party crashers don’t want the entire library. They want four volumes.”

Harrington was telling me the kidnappers had made contact with a ransom demand. I looked at the door, wondering if Barbara knew.

“The same volumes we want?” We wasn’t used editorially. It was possible that a carton labeled C/CN-103 contained information on an illegal organization. Harrington was still involved. I was once a member. It was the Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group-the Negotiators. Information about the organization could be filed under C for Castro and CN for Clandestine.

If there was such a file, it contained the last documents anywhere that proved the Negotiators existed-or so Harrington had promised me.

Harrington said, “Different volumes. There’s proof, if you need it. What they’re after wouldn’t interest you or me. Feel better?”

I asked about the boy, saying, “Do they still have something to trade?”

Harrington said, “Looks like they might-there’s a photo. I’m reading their offer right now.” There was another long pause before he said, “Do me a favor, stick by the phone, okay?”

He hung up.

More than just files and property had been seized. Harrington had finally told me the whole story after our meeting with the Alpha 66 militant.

Cuba was not a peaceful place, despite the death of the man Cubans once called the Maximum Leader, or the Bearded One.

Fidel Castro’s secret retreat had been uncovered on a tiny island off the southern coast of Cuba, Playa Giron. The island had been declared a military zone in 1962 but, in fact, Castro owned the island. Used it for vacations, then as his home in later years, finally as a sanctuary when he became ill.

After officially transferring control of Cuba to his brother, Raul, Fidel had spent his last year on Playa Giron, writing his memoirs, almost a hermit except for medical attendants, visiting physicians and a few friends. His most valued possessions were brought to him-a common request for a dying man but Fidel Castro was anything but common. He ordered his valuables hidden, anticipating that his regime might have to live in exile for years before returning to power.

He was at least partly right. The Castro regime collapsed soon after his death in December, although not as soon as some expected, and the main players had fled to a sympathetic Venezuela, either unaware of what the Maximum Leader had left behind or where the valuables were hidden.

When the U.S. military discovered the cache, Castro’s assets-Playa Giron included-were declared to be without legal provenance and so were confiscated. The collection now filled an entire warehouse at a secret facility in Maryland, not Langley, Virginia.

Fifty years of secrets, tens of thousands of documents censored to protect only Castro, plus a hidden cache of Fidel’s personal possessions. Because the Senate and the CIA had been in a tug-of-war, courts had sealed the containers soon after they were grouped and before most were cataloged or analyzed.

There was worldwide political interest because of the files, but there was also a treasure trove of valuables-literally.

Two decades before his death, Castro started a government-funded salvage company, Carisub. Several dozen Spanish treasure galleons had sunk in Cuban waters, and Carisub’s mission was simple: Find the treasure and notify Fidel, who was an avid diver.