Castro's Daughter by David Hagberg

them?” she asked.
    “Both. But it was too bad that you couldn’t have been in uniform in front.”
    She came out. “What are you getting at?”
    “Ibarra called this morning about twenty minutes after you’d left.” Julio Prieto Ibarra was Raúl’s chief of staff. “He wanted to know how we were involved in the kidnapping yesterday of an American here in Havana. I denied it, of course. But I promised that we’d look into it.”
    “Evidently he saw the police report. But how did he connect it to us?”
    “I didn’t ask him,” Ortega-Cowan said dryly. “But maybe he has a little bird whispering secrets in his ear.”
    “Someone here on my staff?”
    “Or at Cojimar.”
    María had worried about this possibility, because no operation was absolutely waterproof. Leaks were common, and the higher the stakes, the greater possibility of a breakdown.
    “I don’t think McGarvey will wait very long to come to his friend’s rescue,” she said. “So time is on our side.”
    “Perhaps not.”
    “What else did Ibarra say to you?”
    “Raúl wanted to talk to you as soon as you returned.”
    “In person?”
    “A phone call will do.”
    “Any hint?” María asked.
    “No, but I’d guess he wants to ask you about the kidnapping,” Ortega-Cowan said. “What will you tell him?”
    “I’ll think of something.”
    *   *   *
     
    She called on Raúl’s private line that only he answered. But it was four rings before he picked up. “Good afternoon, Colonel. Thank you for returning my call so promptly.”
    “Yes, sir. I only just got back to my desk from the funeral.”
    “It was a moving ceremony.”
    She didn’t know what to say.
    “I want to know what sort of a game you are playing,” Raúl said, a harsh edge to his voice. “Your chief of staff is evidently in the dark, which leaves only you to explain why a ranking officer of the American CIA was kidnapped and has disappeared.”
    “The police report came across my desk this morning. But I wasn’t aware that the man worked for the CIA. Was he a spy?”
    “Who better to know than you, if you are in complete control of your department.”
    “There’s been no reaction from my contacts in Washington. Maybe he faked his kidnapping so that he could go to ground here. It’s a possibility that we shall look into immediately, Señor Presidente. He may have had help from the CL.” Which was Cuba Libre, “Free Cuba”—the organization, not the drink. “He may even have been killed, for all we know.”
    “I’m ordering the police to stop their investigation. Your directorate is to take charge, either to find the man and arrest him, or to find his body and return it to Washington.”
    “Yes, sir,” María said. Pulling the police off the case was actually a break.
    “There has been no official reaction from Washington because although the man arrived aboard the State Department aircraft, his name was not on the manifest; therefore, he came here unofficially. But before I lodge a formal complaint, you need to find him. Am I clear on this?”
    “Sí.”
    “All eyes are on us,” Raúl said. “On you. Your father is dead, so you no longer have his protection.”
    María flared. “My father has been dead since my conception,” she said bitterly, but Raúl had already broken the connection.
    When she put the phone down, Ortega-Cowan offered a sympathetic smile. “That should hold him for a day or two, but not much longer,” he said.
    “Well, the cops are out of it for now, but I think that McGarvey will come either by boat or most likely by seaplane. I want you to coordinate with the navy to alert us when and where he shows up, but he is not to be interfered with.”
    “What if he’s not alone?”
    “I want him picked up and brought here undamaged,” María said. “There will be no other considerations.”

 
     
    SEVENTEEN
     
    At the Sheraton Key Largo, Martínez got them a room overlooking the Bay of Florida for five days and made a