The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(54)

The SUV eased to the curb.

“He’s waiting for you near the slave market,” our driver said. “We prefer you not haul that case around in the open. There’s a backpack in the rear. Use it.”

I made eye contact with Coleen and nodded.

She reached around and found a green canvas shoulder bag. Then she removed the files from the case and stuffed them inside.

“You have to leave the gun,” the driver said.

I shook my head.

“It’s not a request. No weapons. We don’t want any attention drawn to this gathering.” The guy paused. “We went to a lot of trouble to set this up in a nice public place, so you’d feel at ease. You’re definitely going to want to hear what he has to say.”

I weighed the options and made another of those choices.

“Leave it,” I told her, then I climbed from the vehicle.

We crossed the street into the plaza.

Coleen donned the backpack.

Concrete walks stretched in several directions beneath the leafy canopy. I caught sight of the olden monuments, the cannons, a wooden cupola topped with a bell, and a Spanish well. We followed one of the paths to an open-air pavilion that had acquired the dubious label of slave market. Whether any slaves were ever sold here was a matter of debate. Waiting out front was a short, thin man dressed in a sport coat and jeans. Perspiration glistened at the start of a receding hairline.

“Lieutenant Malone. Ms. Perry. I’m Dan Veddern.”

The guy did not extend a hand to shake.

“I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet. You’ve both been nothing but trouble.”





Chapter Thirty-three


I immediately disliked this guy.

He reminded me too much of my current CO. Arrogant. Self-righteous. Moralistic. Little-man syndrome.

“I was forced to come all the way down here to this godforsaken heat and humidity,” he said. “Thanks to you two.”

“It’s the oldest city in America,” I pointed out. “Great place to visit.”

He tossed me a wiry grin. “I bet that smart-ass attitude really endears you to your commanding officers.”

“I learned it in anger management class.”

He didn’t seem amused at my humor.

“I’m director of the intelligence branch for the FBI.”

I assumed we were supposed to be impressed.

“And if Stephanie Nelle had come to me, instead of recruiting you, we wouldn’t be here.”

The plaza was busy with tourists milling in every direction, taking pictures, pointing out landmarks, enjoying the agelessness. The streets beyond were lined with taverns, restaurants, galleries, and shops. All busy. I liked that we were in public. I didn’t like the fact that this guy had chosen both the time and place.

“What do you want?” Coleen asked.

“I assume you’ve read the files on your back.”

Neither of us replied.

“Okay. I get it. I’m the enemy.”

He stood close and spoke low. We were positioned off to the side, about ten feet away from the airy pavilion, off the concrete path, in the grass. Nobody paid us any attention.

“You opened a bad can of worms,” he said to Coleen. “When you talked with Valdez.”

“How do you know she did?” I asked.

“We monitor international calls.”

News to me.

“And when the words 1933 Double Eagle were mentioned,” he said, “that grabbed our attention.”

“So you can isolate certain words in certain calls?”

“You’d be amazed what we can do.”

Probably so, but that discussion was for another day.

“Was Valdez once FBI?” I asked.

“Unfortunately. Before that he was CIA. He was the one who gave them the bad intel on the Bay of Pigs.”

I hadn’t heard those three words in a long time.

Three days in April 1961. A military invasion of Cuba, carried out by thirteen hundred CIA-sponsored Cuban exiles, which failed so badly it only strengthened Castro’s hold, making him a national hero, driving Cuba straight into the arms of the Soviet Union. I recalled a New York Times article from a few years back when an internal CIA report on the invasion was finally declassified after thirty-five years. It found that the agency had exceeded its capabilities and failed to realistically assess the risks. Even worse, it had recruited poor field leaders, established no organized internal Cuban resistance, exercised awful internal management of communications and staff, and, overall, lacked a realistic battle plan.

A disaster all the way around.

“In hindsight,” he said, “Valdez probably gave them the bogus intel intentionally. He ended up working for Castro in the 1970s and ’80s. He was probably playing both sides all the way back to ’61. The CIA got rid of him in ’62. That’s when Hoover picked him up. I’ll ask again. Have you read what Valdez brought?”

“We both have,” Coleen said.

I could see that development troubled him.

“I keep secrets for a living,” he said. “This country has always needed people like me to keep its secrets. You do realize that this whole thing is way beyond classified.”

“How are these reports classified?” I asked. “They came from Cuba.”