Randy White - Dead Silence

I said, “Spanish treasure, that’s always interesting.” She couldn’t avoid discussing Myles, or getting me on a plane, forever.

“There are some political shockers, too. Three boxes of files on Meyer Lansky and what was called the Jewish Mafia. They controlled most of the gaming in Havana. If the documents are made public, some of our Middle Eastern friends are going to be upset about how Israel was financed in those early years. Everything’s being photographed, of course. Still, without the original documents…”

She let me figure out the significance and moved on. “The Catholic Church takes a big hit. There are documents that prove-well, that suggest anyway-that some priests entered into an alliance with Castro

… a sort-of covenant. But I can’t go into specifics, sorry.”

I didn’t need specifics. Barbara was referring to a secret meeting that took place in Havana in 1966 between ten activist priests and Fidel Castro. In return for Castro’s political blessing, the priests activated a plan to encourage and fund Socialism in Central and South America. Over the next two decades, newspaper readers in the United States would puzzle over the political assassinations of nuns and priests in the region. It seemed outrageous to a citizenry that knew nothing about the covert wars going on worldwide, so they suffered with mental images of murdered Flying Nuns and kindly Bing Crosbys.

I said to Barbara, “A covenant with the Catholic Church, that is a surprise. Was it around the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion… or the assassination?”

She thought she was being properly evasive, replying, “We found documents our intelligence agencies aren’t going to like. One or two people could face prosecution. Men in powerful positions who betrayed us, their country… I mean, if the information’s accurate.”

I said, “Bay of Pigs. An informant gave Castro’s people the landing date and time. Didn’t the informant go by a code name? I’m trying to remember…”

Barbara said, “Why do you do this? Instead of manipulating me to get information, why not come right out and ask?”

“Okay,” I said, “who was the traitor?” If it was Tinman, would she have even mentioned it?

The woman said, “I can’t tell you.”

“Lady, you can be so frustrating-”

“Not on the phone. There were two informants. At least two-not related to the assassination, so don’t assume that please. But there is something very interesting I learned about the day Kennedy was shot.”

The woman had lowered her voice. She was enjoying this, I realized, which I found heartening because it reminded me that I was still her confidant… and probably always would be her confidant. We shared an ultimate secret, the secret of her blackmail video. Barbara Hayes-Sorrento might try to distance herself from me, but if she slammed the door she would lose the one person in the world to whom she could say any damn thing she wanted to say with no fear of retribution.

“Castro kept the phone logs from the morning President Kennedy was shot,” Barbara said, her voice still low. “There were more than two dozen calls to his residence within twenty minutes.”

I wasn’t just listening now, I was interested. I waited a few seconds before I said, “And…?”

“And,” she said, “that’s all I can tell you right now.” Her tone became more formal. “Besides, I thought you called to ask for a favor, not chat about the files. We’re busy here, you know.”

The woman was maddening.

I started to say, “You’re the one who went off on a tangent,” but dropped it, saying instead, “Okay, fine. I need transportation to Florida… Sarasota, ideally. What can you do for me?”

“I thought you agreed to stop pestering Mr. Myles.”

“No, you suggested it. I didn’t agree.”

“But you expect me to back you? After the hoops you made me jump through to exhume those two dead horses? Waking up judges, calling in favors-for what? And you’re still not convinced!”

I started to say, “You’ve got to trust my judgment on this-”

“I want you to stay away from Nelson Myles,” she interrupted. “The man has been patient so far, but you will put both of us in a dangerous position if you keep pushing. On nothing but a hunch? I’m sorry.”

I said, “Dangerous legal position?”

“Yes! But also in terms of public opinion.”

“Public opinion,” I said. “Is that code for getting reelected?”

“Don’t get smart, Dr. Ford.”

“One of us needs to. What happened, Barb? Why are you suddenly scared of Nelson Myles?”

“Power, that’s why,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me, but I respect it. Let’s don’t even get into the damage it could cause to some of my working relationships. But if I doubled my fund-raising schedule starting today, I still couldn’t compete with the kind of money Myles and his friends have. Even if I had ten years left in my term, instead of only two. Plus-and this is the absolute goddamn truth-I respect the opinions of colleagues who know the man.”

I was tempted to say, “ Respect -another political euphemism for power?,” but instead I asked, “Are some of your colleagues Yale graduates? Members of Skull and Bones maybe?”

“The fraternity? What does it matter? The point is, all I care about is getting the boy back alive, and you’re wasting time.”

I said, “If you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can do. I’m open to suggestions.” I was going to Sarasota no matter what, but why tell Barbara and risk putting the man on alert?

“Doc,” she said, “I value our friendship.” There was nothing phony about the way she said it, but I didn’t reply.

“The best thing for you to do-for both of us, in fact-is to stay close to me. I need your moral support more than anything, so let’s let the FBI handle it, okay? I can’t sleep, I’m a ball of nerves.” She let that settle, then added,

“You’re maybe the only man in the world who really understands how hard it is for me to relax.”

Nothing phony about that either, nor was there any bawdy subtext. The woman was in trouble, isolated by her own office as much as by the anxiety associated with the kidnapping. That fast, I liked her again.

I said, “How about this? I’ll go home from here, spend a few days, then we can get together after this is done.”

Her reply surprised me. “How far is Busch Gardens from Sanibel, a couple of hours? Could we meet there tomorrow night?”

“What?”

“I wanted to fly Mr. and Mrs. Guttersen into D.C. at my expense. You know, to be near them until this is over, but Dan O’Connell beat me to it by inviting them to tour Busch Gardens. His family has a winter home near there.”

She added, “The Guttersens are meeting him in Tampa tonight-both of them, hopefully, if Ruth isn’t coming down with the flu. It will be good for all of us, to see this thing through together. Plus the military base at Tampa is our primary intelligence center. It can’t hurt to be within driving distance.”

“Senator Dan O’Connell?” I said.

“From Minnesota. He was the friend who asked me to meet William at the airport and take him to the UN. Dan’s got a place on the beach, a house and a couple of guest cottages. I won’t stay with him, I’ll book a suite of rooms nearby. My staff will communicate by phone and Internet. Can you meet me there?”

My brain was scanning for a way to work it to my advantage. I needed a reason why I had to return to Florida this afternoon, not tomorrow. I said, “I’d love to see you, but I’ve got so much catching up to do at my lab. But… if I could find a faster way home to Sanibel-”

“You’re doing it again, trying to manipulate me,” she interrupted. “I’ve made the offer. I need you, Doc. But you’ll have to fly commercial just like everyone else. If you change planes in Atlanta, you might run into the Guttersens. Otto Guttersen is a real character, Dan told me. A military background, a real tough guy… You two would hit it off.”