look from Ross but ignored it.
“I remember this attempted coup, yes,” de Santos said. “It was in all the papers. The New York Times. Fox TV.”
“Well, our boy, this suspect, he was double-dipping back then. The U.S. government discovered hundreds of millions the generals put in offshore banks. Cayman Islands, Bermuda, not to mention Miami. CIA found some of it, but not all of it.”
“We believe our suspect has access to these funds, Senor de Santos,” Ross said. “If he’s here, I would imagine he has created a new identity for himself. Changed his name and appearance. Possibly living as a wealthy, highly respectable member of society.”
“There are many, many Cubans who fit that description in the exile community, Inspector,” de Santos said, lighting a cigar. He offered his opened gold case to Ross and Stokely who declined. “What does he look like, may I ask? Age, et cetera?”
“He’s got no eyes,” Stoke said.
“No eyes, senor?”
“No color in his eyes. Like some zombie in a horror flick.”
Ross said, “I’m sure this man kept a low profile when he first arrived. But he may feel sufficient time has passed for him to surface. Enjoy his wealth.”
“Ah, I see. Perhaps I have an idea,” Cesar said. “There is a party tonight. My foundation’s annual benefit dinner. The very top echelons of Cuban society will attend because we will award this year’s Medal of Freedom.”
“That just might be a very good place to start, Senor de Santos,” Ross said. “Thank you.”
“Cocktails are at seven, dinner at eight. The Grand Ballroom of the Fountainbleau Hotel on Miami Beach. Invitations will be in your names at the registration table. I look forward to seeing you there. It’s black tie, I’m afraid.”
“That means tuxedos, Ross,” Stoke said and got another look from Ross going out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Paris
MONIQUE DELACROIX STOOD BY THE TALL FRENCH WINDOWS of the Ambassador’s study, dragging on a Gauloise while she watched the media circus. Preparations for today’s press conference in the embassy gardens had started at dawn. It had been a hectic morning. The French press as well as the FOX, CNN, SKY, and BBC crews had arrived at eight. Beyond the high walls surrounding the large embassy compound, she could see the forest of telescoping dishes mounted atop their various uplink video trucks. Delacroix, Ambassador Duke Merriman’s personal assistant for the last few months, had made all the press arrangements at Merriman’s insistence.
The event was scheduled to begin at noon, today, Saturday.
“Happy now?” Agent McIntosh asked her. She let the question hang in the air amidst her clouds of blue smoke. She knew he didn’t like her. He didn’t trust her. And she certainly didn’t like him. She resented taking orders from anyone but the ambassador. Especially this gruff bear of an American who’d suddenly appeared at the embassy. It was an awkward situation. The new chief of security wanted Monique out of this house every bit as badly as the ambassador wanted her in his bed. It was a battle of wills that, so far, Ambassador Merriman was clearly winning. DSS had, after all, only so much power over a bullheaded ambassador in love.
She knew McIntosh was “looking for dirt” on her, as the Americans say. Her friend, Noel, the chief housekeeper at the embassy, had overheard two of his agents in the kitchen talking about her. Let him look, she’d told Noel, she was a good girl of good Swiss stock from the Canton de Vaud. She had always had been a good girl. No?
The DSS Special Agent who’d been assigned to protect America’s ambassador to France and his family, Agent Rip McIntosh, was, on this warm June morning, not a happy camper. The leathery, sharp-featured man with the brush-cut grey hair was sitting across the room in a leather armchair, glaring at the woman in the sharply tailored red and black Chanel suit.
“I said, are you happy now?” he repeated.
“Unlike you, I am always happy, Agent McIntosh,” she said without looking at him. She expelled a thin plume upwards, lifting the bangs of dark hair off her pale forehead, a blithe spirit.
Rip McIntosh was happy now and then, on those rare occasions when all the hatches were battened down, all the guards were posted, the perimeter was secure, and everybody was accounted for, all snug in their wee beds. But Rip McIntosh was not happy now. There were any number of reasons, the foremost being that he definitely did not like the idea of this impending press conference. Even though he didn’t know exactly what Ambassador Merriman was going to say, he had a fairly rough idea.
“You could at the very least be a little more supportive, Miss Delacroix,” McIntosh said to the statuesque brunette, breaking the silence. “My agents and I are charged with the protection of the ambassador and his children. Not to mention all embassy personnel within these walls, including, God help us, you. And, by God, that’s what we’re going to do.”
“This ground, it has been covered, Monsieur McIntosh,” Delacroix said, her face still turned towards the sunny window. “I work for this man. And he say to me, Monique, arrange a press conference. I am supposed to say, ‘No, no, so sorry, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur. Special Agent McIntosh, he say it’s a bad idea?’ ”
“No, you say that the secretary of state herself thinks it’s a bad idea and that—”
“It is your problem, monsieur, not mine.”
“I keep forgetting. You’re French.”
“You keep forgetting. I’m Swiss.”
“Oh, yeah. Neutral. Great. Even better.”
At that moment two nine-year-old boys, tow-headed identical twins, roared into the room, both wielding tommy-gun shaped water guns. Ambassador Merriman, who had been widowed in September 2001, had his hands full with his two sons. Especially now that he, his children, and the entire embassy staff were all basically under house arrest by the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service.
The spring term at l’Ecole du Roi du Soleil had just ended, the boys were home for the summer, and it looked to be a long one. The children had grown accustomed to having the run of the three-acre embassy grounds and the many beautiful Parisian parks beyond their walls. Now, since the tragic events involving Ambassador Slade’s family in Maine, the boys suddenly found themselves confined to the house itself. It was a lovely old mansion just off the Bois de Boulogne in the heart of Paris; but it was not nearly big enough to contain Duncan and Zachary Merriman.
“You can’t run, you’re dead!” Duncan screamed as his brother dove for cover behind a large upholstered sofa. “Tu es mort, tu es mort!”
Zachary popped up from behind the couch and squeezed off a stream at his brother.
“Au putant! It was only a flesh wound,” Zachary laughed at his brother.
“Yeah, right,” Duncan grinned, “the flesh right between your eyes!” Duncan then charged, aimed his gun and fired back.
“Christ,” McIntosh muttered. He didn’t blame the kids. He’d raised two boys himself. Twins. Those long Wisconsin winters were a nightmare for a couple of cooped-up ten-year-old kids. He could escape to his ice-fishing hut out on the frozen Lake Wausau, but the boys—
“Duncan, enough! Ca suffit!” Mlle. Delacroix shouted, and McIntosh saw Duncan had nailed her, a big wet spot right on her red Chanel fanny. She turned and grabbed the back of Duncan’s T-shirt to prevent him from running away. “Behave! Both of you! What is the matter with you?”
“Cabin fever!” Zachary shouted from his hiding place behind the sofa. “That’s what Papa says we’ve all got! Cabin fever!”
Zachary popped up from behind the sofa and trained his weapon on Delacroix. “You let my brother go or I’ll blast you!”
“You can’t shoot her, son, she’s Swiss,” McIntosh said mildly, enjoying himself for the first time all day.
