“Chandler Forrestal. He was in my older brother’s class at Andover. Captain of the lacrosse team and the debating club. Uncle was secretary of defense, Daddy ran one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies this side of the Atlantic until he gambled everything on a government contract that his brother personally blocked. He hung himself when Chandler was thirteen, and a year later Uncle Jimmy jumped out a window of the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Chandler went off to Harvard like he was supposed to, but instead of going prelaw he studied philosophy, then went for his doctorate in, what was it, comparative religion? Something ridiculous like that. I heard he even talked about becoming a man of the cloth. But I see he’s become a man of the bottle instead.”
Naz listened as Morganthau rattled off this capsule history, less interested in the facts than the vehemence with which Morganthau recounted them. Although she had no idea what had prompted his anger, it was clear he didn’t just know Chandler: he’d set this up. This was more than a prank, or research for that matter. This was revenge.
“You make it sound like he’s a murderer. Why should you care if he wants to study religion, or preach it for that matter?”
“Because he turned his back on his duty. His family. His
“Maybe he had something he had to do for himself. Before he could help ‘his country.’”
But Morganthau was shaking his head. “Men like us don’t have the luxury of ironic quotation marks, now less than ever. There’s a war on, and the stakes, in case you missed the little brouhaha in Cuba last year, are bigger than ever.”
All of a sudden Naz realized she was drunk. Drunk and tired. Terribly, terribly tired.
“Why are you making me do this?”
Morganthau’s lips quivered. Smile or smirk, Naz couldn’t tell.
“Because I knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to you.”
“Not
Morganthau’s head turned toward the main room, then back to Naz. He put his hand on her shoulder—not heavily, but not altogether lightly either.
“No one’s making you do anything, Naz. Just say the word and you won’t ever have to ask someone to buy you a drink again.”
Morganthau’s hand squeezed Naz’s shoulder, not tightly, but not loosely either. His lips were visible beneath the shadow of his hat, moist, parted slightly, his breath hot in her face and laced with Irish whiskey. For a moment the two of them just stood like that, but then, when Morganthau leaned in for a kiss, she stepped back and shrugged his hand off her shoulder. Morganthau inhaled sharply. His head tipped back and for a moment his whole face was visible, the boyish charm disfigured by lust and contempt. Then he hunched forward and it disappeared again, although the feelings still radiated out of him like heat from an open oven.
He shoved a hand into his pocket. “Here. Give him this instead of the usual stuff.”
Naz slipped the glassine into her purse, less wary than weary. “A new formula?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Another mirthless smirk flickered over Morganthau’s thin lips. “Give me ten minutes before you head out. I definitely want to set the camera up for this one.”
Camaguey Province, Cuba
October 27, 1963
Melchior was so focused on his target that he was almost surprised when a neat hole appeared in the Russian’s forehead. A moment later the sound of his pistol going off slammed into his ears. The mob guard with the M-16 was already turning, and Melchior’s second shot caught him rather more messily in the side of the head.
God bless Lucky Louie. Suspecting a double-cross, he immediately unloaded his gun into the remaining Russian. He fired wildly, and Melchior thought he heard the ricochet of a bullet bouncing off metal. Nothing exploded, though, so he kept shooting.
With a military target, Melchior’s plan would have had much less chance of success. Soldiers would have kicked their way out of the mill at three different places, and even if they hadn’t managed to take Melchior out, at least one would have gotten away, and with him any hope of that corner office in Langley. But these were mafia men. Thugs. Used to digging in against police officers who’d just as soon take kickbacks as tough out a gunfight. And certainly none of them was willing to be a sacrificial lamb: anytime Louie tried to give an order, one of the other two—Sal and Vinnie seemed to be their names—invariably screamed, “Shut the fuck up, Louie!”
Even so, it took twenty minutes for Melchior to pick off the first two, at which point Louie ran. Melchior took him down with a shot to the pelvis. Louie’s left leg spun limply away from his body, and Melchior imagined the mill hadn’t heard screams like that since the old
Louie’s gun lay inches from his body, but he was so blinded by pain that he didn’t think of reaching for it until Melchior was virtually on top of him, at which point Melchior just stepped on his spasming fingers. The soles of his sandals were so thin that he could feel Louie’s fingers clawing at the soft, fertile soil. Melchior kicked the gun out of reach and knelt down. Louie’s mouth was clamped shut now, but he was still moaning like a dog run over by a truck.
“Who sent you here?”
Louie stared right at Melchior, but Melchior wasn’t sure if he saw him or not.
“I’ll tell your wife where you’re buried,” Melchior said in a soft voice. “Just tell me who sent you here.”
Louie chewed air, but he seemed to be coming back to himself. The plates of his broken pelvis pushed visibly against his skin, but he tried to put on a brave face.
“I don’t got a wife, tell my mother.” He managed a wet chuckle, then said, “Same folks sent me as sent you,
