"I haven't decided yet." I shuffled toward the door.

"That would be ill-advised, Jack."

"Yeah, well, thanks for your concern," I said as I walked out, leaving Fisher in the cell, leaning up against the wall.

As it turned out, Kennedy got a smoother ride in Miami than anyone had expected. Forty thousand Cuban exiles-men, women, and children-rose to cheer as he and Jackie walked across the field to the fifty-yard line. The first lady was the warm-up act, not that they needed warming up, but she pushed them over the edge. She spoke in fluent Spanish, breathlessly saying how much she admired the members of the brigade and how she hoped that her young son would grow up to be half as courageous as those brave combatants for freedom. She laid it on pretty thick and they lapped it up like she really meant it.

I was standing on the sidelines with Sam when I spotted Fisher on the opposite side of the field, behind the president. He was with a half dozen of the returning prisoners, men I recognized from the briefing at Happy Valley, though their faces showed the transformation of optimistic young officers into solemn men who had learned a hard lesson in reality. They watched expressionless as Jackie wrapped it up and, accompanied by thunderous applause, returned to her husband's side. I thought Fisher spotted me, too, but he pretended not to.

I leaned into Sam's ear. "What's he up to these days?"

"He was working with Harvey King's group."

Harvey was a legendary character at the agency. A fat egomaniac addicted to booze, hookers, and guns, he was the master of "black ops"-actions that were better kept outside normal channels. In his midfifties, he was as reclusive as he was infamous, a shadowy figure who operated on the edges with few restraints.

"Why 'was'?" I asked.

"Harvey's out," Sam said with a hint of a smile. "Although he doesn't know it yet."

"Harvey King out?" I said, more than a little shocked. It was like Disney letting Mickey Mouse go. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

"Kennedy fired him," Sam grinned.

"No s.h.i.t." I shook my head. "What for?"

"Bobby found out he was putting Mafia hit men onto Castro."

"Since when do the Kennedys object to doing business with the mob?"

"When it's not their idea," he said, in a way that meant the discussion was over.

Kennedy stepped up to the podium, ready to give his prepared speech, but he was cut off by one of the brigade officers, another face I remembered from Happy Valley. The president seemed taken aback, unsure what was going on, until the Cuban offered him a folded brigade flag. Kennedy unfurled it for the stadium and got a huge cheer. He put his notes away and turned to the microphone.

"Commander," he said, sounding genuinely moved, "I want to express my great appreciation to you for making the United States the custodian of this flag." Then, his voice rising with emotion, he declared, "I can a.s.sure you that it will be returned to this brigade in a free Havana!"

The place went wild. I turned to Sam and had to shout above the din. "I thought they hated him!"

"He had a meeting with the leaders yesterday," he yelled back. "Made a lot of promises that he can't keep!"

I looked over at Fisher, who was leaning into the ear of one of the exile leaders. It was hard to believe that the Cubans still trusted this guy, but who knows what c.r.a.p he was feeding them. I thought about how they'd react when they heard Harvey was being dumped. It would be like a second betrayal, and I wondered if the Kennedy boys knew what they were playing with.

The president stepped away from the podium and walked to the sideline, where he started shaking hands with the returning prisoners. Everyone moved in on him, and suddenly we were in the crowd and Kennedy was standing right in front of us. He leaned in and spoke into Sam's ear.

"Looks like I'm a hit!" He flashed his famous teeth and brushed his hair back.

"Yes, sir, it certainly does," Sam agreed. Kennedy glanced over at me, and Sam pulled me forward. "This is lack Teller, Mr. President. He used to work with us, now he just goes fishing."

Kennedy smiled and leaned over. "The spy business didn't agree with you?"

"Let's just say we didn't always see eye to eye, Mr. President."

"I know the feeling!" he said, and moved on.

The crowd started stomping their feet and shouting, "Guerra! Guerra!" "Guerra! Guerra!" War, they demanded pa.s.sionately, but they would once again be disappointed by Kennedy. War, they demanded pa.s.sionately, but they would once again be disappointed by Kennedy.

SIX.

Powell had been giving me the cold shoulder since picking me up to go out to the airport, so we just stood there on the tarmac, not saying a word. He was p.i.s.sed off that I was holding out on him about the Colonel, which I could understand, but he was acting like a wronged woman about it. I was glad Sam was coming in to save me. the cold shoulder since picking me up to go out to the airport, so we just stood there on the tarmac, not saying a word. He was p.i.s.sed off that I was holding out on him about the Colonel, which I could understand, but he was acting like a wronged woman about it. I was glad Sam was coming in to save me.

After leaving the house on Berlinerstra.s.se, I'd walked back to the Kempinski, where I knew either Johnson or Chase would be ready to take me "into custody." I was relieved to find it was the young Texan laid out on the king-size mattress, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest, like a corpse waiting for a funeral. He was fully dressed except for his eyegla.s.ses and shoes, which were sitting beside the bed, military style, at a precise ninety-degree angle to the wall.

"You know," he said without moving a muscle, "I never woulda believed a bed could be as comfortable as this one is. It's like floating on air."

"Yeah, well, don't let me disturb you," I said, grabbing my wallet off the dresser top.

He lay there a beat, reluctant to end his transcendental experience, then smoothly swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the mahogany bed. He removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and gave his eyegla.s.ses a quick polish before fitting them onto his face.

"You're in a mess of trouble," he said almost sympathetically.

"Really?" I started counting the bills in the wallet, first the marks then the dollars. It didn't make a whole lot of sense since I had no idea how much had been in there to begin with, but Johnson didn't know that. He watched patiently until I'd finished and put the billfold away.

"I'll hang on to your pa.s.sport," he informed me as he pulled his shoes on and laced them up. "I guess it wasn't the smartest thing you ever did to leave that stuff behind."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I replied.

He stood up and smoothed the bed out, carefully eliminating any trace of his presence. "I'd better let the chief know I've located you," he said, reaching for the phone. I pointed out that I was the one who'd located him, but he wasn't interested in the nuance. He dialed out and waited.

"Shame to bother him at this hour," I said. "He's probably asleep."

"Oh, he'll want to see you right away," he a.s.sured me with a smile. "No doubt about that."

BOB-Berlin Operations Base-was located on the grounds of U.S. Army headquarters in the southwest corner of the city. The huge gated complex of two-story stone buildings on Clayallee was built for the Luftwaffe in 1938 and was home to Hermann Goring for much of the war. In '45, the U.S. Army confiscated the facility, which hadn't suffered too much damage in Allied bombing, and the military government, headed by Eisenhower, established itself there. Ten years later, the relatively new Central Intelligence Agency needed offices for its expanding Berlin operations and was allocated a building in the compound. The Company and the military had maintained a cordial but mutually mistrustful relationship since then.

Powell was waiting in a windowless interrogation room on the second floor, feet up on a long table, flipping through a copy of Life Life magazine with an elfish Shirley MacLaine on the cover. His checkered shirt and casual slacks made him look almost normal, but that impression was quickly rectified when he fixed me with a cold, hard stare as I was escorted in. magazine with an elfish Shirley MacLaine on the cover. His checkered shirt and casual slacks made him look almost normal, but that impression was quickly rectified when he fixed me with a cold, hard stare as I was escorted in.

"Thanks, Andy," he said, eyes locked on me. "Go home and get some sleep."

"Feel free to use the suite," I tossed out as he exited. "I don't think I'll be needing it tonight." Johnson glanced back with a hint of a smile, which I took to mean he might just take me up on it. The kid was okay. We'd talked on the way over and I found out that he was the youngest of seven boys, joined the Marines at seventeen, made the Green Berets, and was recruited by the agency out of Laos. He'd spent some time in Guatemala on the Cuba Project, but I skirted the subject and he didn't press me, which I appreciated.

I took a seat across from Powell, who showed signs of rigor mortis. That was fine with me-he could give me the evil eye all night and I'd be very happy. There was a pack of Kents on the table, so I reached across and helped myself. I noticed that the magazine, which he'd set aside, was open to a photo spread of a Buddhist monk who'd committed suicide in Saigon by dousing his body with gasoline then setting himself ablaze. The picture was making all the papers and getting Vietnam a lot of unwelcome attention, from our perspective anyway. The monk was protesting against the regime of President Diem, a Catholic who by all accounts treated the Buddhists pretty badly-his troops had recently fired into a street demonstration and killed nine monks. All this made things awkward for us since we had about sixteen thousand military "advisors" supporting Diem's fight against Ho Chi Minh. But the way I heard it, Diem was more concerned about the Buddhists than he was about the Communists and there were rumors that he might even be talking peace with the North. If that was true, his days were numbered, and it wouldn't be a very high number.

Powell coolly watched me smoke his cigarette down to the filter before he spoke up.

"It's true what they say, then."

"Okay," I smiled gamely. "I'll bite. What do they say?"

"That you're such a dumb a.s.shole you don't even know when you're being well and truly f.u.c.ked."

"You're just upset because I made you look like a jerk." I crushed the b.u.t.t in a tinfoil ashtray. "By the way, what did you put in your report? I mean, you couldn't really say that you got locked in the bathroom, could you? Stuff like that tends to stick."

He smiled, but not out of amus.e.m.e.nt. "You'd better have a d.a.m.ned good story for me."

"I don't know about the story"-I shrugged-"but I've got a h.e.l.l of a storyteller."

"Go on," he said. "Make me happy."

"Would a STASI colonel do it for you?"

It stopped him cold. He pulled his feet off the table, leaned forward, and extracted one of the Kents from the pack. "How do you know that?"

"He told me," I answered.

"Maybe he's lying."

"No, he's for real," I said flatly. "I'm sure of that." Powell gave me a dubious look, but he believed me.

"Name?"

"He wouldn't go that far," I said. "But you've probably got him on file." I was hoping to get stuck on the question of ident.i.ty and avoid talk of a.s.sa.s.sination plots until the morning, when Sam arrived. I could look at photos all night.

"Does he want to come over?"

I shook my head. "No. That was the first thing out of his mouth."

"Can we get him to double?"

"I didn't get that impression."

He paused to light up and think. "So? What does he want?"

"Well..." I shifted in my seat, tried to look like I was considering it. "He was kind of elusive. You know, said a lot but didn't give out much."

Powell knew I was stalling. He gave me a look, stood up, and paced the room a couple of times before stubbing out his cigarette and sitting on the edge of the table. Taking the high ground.

"You had two meetings with the guy, correct?"

"Right."

"Why don't you take me through it? Step-by-step."

There was no legitimate reason to hold out on him. After all, he was chief of station and had an absolute right to know everything the Colonel had said to me, word for word. But the guy was cross-examining me in an interrogation room. What an a.s.shole.

"I'd rather wait for Sam," I said.

He went rigid and his face started to turn red. I really thought he was gonna go pop this time.

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you're talking to, Teller?" he snarled, low and quiet, from the back of his throat.

"Look, Chief, I don't want to f.u.c.k with you," I lied. "It's just that Sam brought me into this and I feel like I should go over it with him before anybody else. It's not personal." I ended with a smile.

That was bulls.h.i.t, of course, and he knew it. But there was another, more legitimate reason I didn't want to say anything. The idea of a conspiracy within the U.S. government to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president seemed even more far-fetched now than it did when I'd first heard it. I didn't want to give Powell the pleasure of laughing in my face.

At the moment, of course, he wasn't laughing.

"Okay," he said, standing up. "If that's how you want to play it, that's how we'll play it." He scooped up his magazine and headed for the door. "Sorry we don't have any jet sprays in here for you. Sleep well," and he turned out the lights. I stretched out on the floor and, actually, I didn't sleep too badly.

Sam was the last one off the aircraft, which had flown in from Frankfurt with a motley crew of journalists, Secret Service, and advance men. He finally emerged with the pilot, immersed in deep conversation. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Sam talking excitedly and jabbing his finger into the man's chest, the pilot holding his ground. Finally the two men shook hands and parted.

Sam spotted us and sauntered over with a c.o.c.ky grin on his face. "I just got three-to-one on Clay to take the t.i.tle from Liston. Dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Where's the car?"

"Over there." Powell pointed toward the terminal building where we'd left the driver. Sam took the lead and we fell into step.

"Did you see what the kid did to Cooper in London last week? And Cooper's no pushover."

"I missed it," Powell said with deliberate apathy. "What happened?"

"Your man went down, that's what happened," I said to Sam.

"Ah, he was playing with the guy and got caught off guard. I was there, in the first row, and I've got Cooper's blood on my suit to prove it. It was over in the second round, but the kid was p.u.s.s.yfooting around, waiting to get him in the fifth just because he said he would. You should've seen him," he laughed. "Dancing around, making faces at the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I heard the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d laid Clay out pretty good," I noted. "If Liston connects like that, they'll have to sc.r.a.pe your guy off the mat."

"You want a piece of the action?" he offered, but I declined. Sam didn't make losing bets.

"Too bad he's got such a loud mouth," Powell threw in, just to stay in the conversation.

The driver, waiting by the car, opened the back door for Sam, who stopped long enough to give Powell a contemptuous look. "This kid's got the best jab in the history of boxing and he's gonna be champ before he's twenty-two years old. Who the f.u.c.k cares if he's been to charm school?"

I was starting to feel better already.

Powell sat up front with the driver, I got in back with Sam. We had a few moments of silence, just the hum of the Mercedes while Sam cut a Monte Crista and fired it up. He looked tired, older than in Miami, which had been just six months earlier. Maybe time was catching up with him, or maybe it was the travel.

"So I hear you boys don't play well together," he grumbled through the cigar. "What's the story?"

Powell turned around so he could look Sam square in the face. "I want him out of my hair. He's dangerous."

Sam turned to me. "Jack?"

"He's right, I am dangerous," I said.

"And still a pain in the a.s.s," he muttered, before turning back to Powell. "So what the h.e.l.l happened? I told you to get this guy on tape from the git-go."