Dream of a Falling Eagle Read online

  He'd been sent in virtually cold, with a limited briefing, and had apparently had little idea of what he was going to hear.

  "You're Haitian, aren't you, Detective?"

  "I said I'd ask the questions, Frederickson."

  I removed two business cards from my pocket, set them down between us on the table. "Detective Beauvil," I said evenly, "I want you to do us all a favor. It will help enormously if we can carve out the parameters of this conversation we're having. The one number is the FBI field office in New York. The FBIs have grown to thoroughly despise the Fredericksons over the years; they think we're really arrogant sons of bitches. The feeling is mutual. But they'll tell you we're straight arrows, and that we're on the side of the angels on this one. They'll also strongly urge you to cut us some slack on this business of not immediately calling you when we walked into the crime scene."

  "What the hell does the FBI have to do with this?"

  "Let them tell you. You might ask for Special Agent Mackey, but you can speak to anybody there. The FBIs will be working with you very closely on this case, which I'm sure makes your heart sing. The other number is where you can reach our current client. She'll vouch for us and tell you what we're up to. But she's tough as nails, and she is going to fire our asses if she finds out we went traipsing through a crime scene before reporting it—which I admit we did, but we didn't disturb anything. We had good reason. So I'd appreciate it if you'd be a bit discreet when you explain to her what we're doing sitting here in the Spring Valley police station. She's a retired senator, and if you'll look at the card I'm sure you'll recognize her name."

  The detective didn't look at the cards. "You were overheard suggesting the removal of an item from the basement of the victim's house."

  "Just idle chatter. Garth and I always joke around like that."

  Beauvil's eyes were cold as he abruptly reached out and brushed his arm across the table, sweeping the cards to the floor. He took a small tape recorder from the pocket of his suit jacket, set it down between us, and turned it on. "This incident took place within the village of Spring Valley, Frederickson, and we don't need the FBI or some retired senator to tell us how to do our job. If you want to make a statement, do it."

  "I thought I already had."

  "You haven't even begun to tell me what I want to hear. You want to keep tap dancing, we'll book the two of you and you can wait overnight in a cell for arraignment in the morning. Robert Frederickson, you've been read your rights and have waived your right to the presence of an attorney. Is that correct?"

  "That's correct," I replied, leaning back in my chair and breathing another heavy sigh.

  "Are you making this statement of your own free will?"

  "Well, that might be stretching the—"

  "Start at the beginning. Why were you at the house of the murder victim?"

  "We had an appointment. He was expecting us."

  "He was expecting you?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Judging from your pronounced lack of sorrow at his demise, I take it you weren't exactly friends. Why would he agree to see you?"

  "We had the goods on him. He knew we knew he was in this country illegally, on a very expertly forged passport we dearly would have loved to get our hands on. He was afraid we could get him shipped back to Haiti, or expose his identity and past to the Haitian community here. He didn't care for either prospect, and we'd led him to think we could cut a deal. We were planning to squeeze his ass for more information."

  "On behalf of this retired senator?"

  "On behalf of the president of the United States."

  That got his attention, and he sat up straighten "You told me this woman was your client."

  "Senator Harriet Frawley. She's the head of a Special Presidential Commission."

  "Investigating what?"

  "Willful malfeasance and criminal activity on the part of the Central Intelligence Agency, specifically its Operations Directorate, over the past thirty years, with an eye toward drastically overhauling—or even dismantling—the CIA, thus saving American taxpayers a minimum of three billion dollars a year and the world a lot of grief."

  Beauvil stared at me, and I stared back. We sat in silence for what seemed to me a long time, but was probably only a minute or two. Finally the detective said, "Go on."

  "Go on? That was my punch line. Haven't I sung enough for our supper? I explained to you what we were doing at the vic's house, and why we were poking—uh, looking—around. We're investigating something that's much bigger than this one murder. I've also assured you that we're the good guys, and we have the FBI and a retired senator who's working for the president of the United States to back us up. Garth lives here in Rockland County—in Cairn. Call Chief Bond of the Cairn PD if you want character references."

  "Ah yes, Cairn," Beauvil said with more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Hollywood on the Hudson, home of the rich and famous."

  "Not just the rich and famous, Detective, and Cairn isn't Hollywood on the Hudson. Give me a break and spare me the local politics. I'm saying you have a local police chief to vouch for Garth and me. Garth is local. If you pursue this, The Journal News is going to splash it all over page one. Then The New York Times and the rest of the national media will pick up on the story, and soon after that Garth and I will be taken off this investigation. We wouldn't like that. This case is personal to my brother and me. But, even more important, premature publicity is not what the commission wants or needs, and the entire investigation could be compromised. Granted that it would be the Fredericksons' fault, because we displayed a serious lapse in judgment by waiting too long to call you, but if this blows up, the Spring Valley PD could take some hits too. You said you didn't want the department to look foolish."

  "The Spring Valley Police Department is simply doing its job by investigating a murder. You and your brother were caught disturbing the crime scene."

  "We didn't disturb any—"

  "Tell me more about this commission, Frederickson. Why should the president want to dismantle the CIA?"

  "I didn't say he did. I want him to take apart the whole damn outfit, because I don't think reorganization or other half measures will do the trick. The problems there are systemic. But dismantling is only one of several measures he—or, more likely, his successor—will have to consider. The commission's job is to gather information, submit a final report, and possibly make recommendations. May I ask if you followed the Aldrich Ames case?"

  Beauvil nodded curtly.

  "Ames was a worm that got loose, and as a result a whole lot of other worms started wriggling to get out of sight at the bottom of the can. He was the most destructive traitor in American history, a man responsible for the deaths of at least two dozen agents. But the real culprit is the CIA culture. Ames couldn't have held a job outside the agency selling used cars, but his superiors entrusted him with the nation's secrets and gave him life-and-death control over scores of people. Ames was a known drunk, incorrigibly irresponsible and sloppy. That was his track record over the years. So what did the CIA do with this fool? They kept promoting him. And what happened after it was discovered he was a Soviet mole? Nothing. Nobody even got demoted, much less fired, and a couple of retired officers got mildly nasty letters."

  "I said I was familiar with the Ames case, Frederickson."

  "The point is that the Ames incident finally tipped the scales. A lot of important people in government have been unhappy with the CIA for a long time, because the agency has been out of control for a long time. But not much could be done because the CIA and its friends were too powerful, and it was seen as necessary to counter Russia and the KGB. All this, of course, changed with the collapse of the USSR and when it was discovered that the CIA had been consistently overestimating Russian strength for decades in order to keep fattening their own budget. The Ames incident opened all this up. People who thought their Operations department—which is what that multibillion dollar circus is really all about—was
staffed with a lot of James Bonds discovered it was really a Woody Allen movie. A number of congressional committees were planning to hold hearings, hut the last election changed all that. The CIA has always had close ties to the right wing in this country—in fact, that's a facet of this investigation. With the right wing controlling both houses of Congress, plans for the hearings were dumped. Finally, although he denies it, the chances that this president is going to be reelected in November are none to nil. He's almost certainly going to be replaced by a conservative from the other party, and very likely it will be somebody from the hard right. That person isn't going to make any changes in the CIA. So he decided to do something about the problem while he still had the chance. He appointed his own commission to look into the company's activities over the years. Garth and I were offered a piece of the action. We're just one team of investigators among many working on this thing. We were assigned what you might call the 'Haiti desk.' Other investigators are looking into CIA activity in Iran, El Salvador, Chile—countries all over the globe. The final report will be compiled, published, and made public before the election. Then, no matter what happens, the information will be out there, and the new president, Congress, and the American people will have to deal with it, whether they want to or not. That's what this is all about."

  Beauvil shrugged. "For you and your brother, maybe. Our concern is with a murder investigation. What was the victim's name?"

  "General Vilair Michel. He started off as a teenage Ton-ton Macoute, then grew up into a big player in both Fraph and the army. For a few years he was commandant of Fort Dimanche—Haiti's Treblinka. That's where he used to do to other people what was now done to him. In Fort Dimanche, political prisoners were raped, castrated, blinded, and had their limbs amputated. Michel got off easy."

  "You're saying you think this was a revenge killing?"

  "No. I know it wasn't a revenge killing. Michel was murdered to shut his mouth, and to put a good scare into any other Haitian who might be tempted to cooperate with the investigation. The people we're after are plugged in everywhere. Somehow they found out—or guessed—that Michel would be willing to talk to us. So they made sure they talked to him first. There have been five ritual killings just like this one—all Haitians, each person a potential witness to illegal CIA activity in Haiti. Two of the murders occurred in New Orleans, one in California, and two in New York. That's why you're going to have FBIs in your pants five minutes after you finish talking to them. It's also why I suspect it was one of the killers who called you. They want the publicity; they want to terrify Haitians. The good news is that all of the victims were murderous thugs like Michel; they're the only people who know what really went on in Haiti."

  Beauvil frowned slightly. The film of fear had returned to his dark eyes. He might be an educated man living in the United States, but he was still obviously made decidedly uncomfortable by talk about voodoo and ritual murders. "What really did go on in Haiti?" he asked quietly. "How is the CIA connected?"

  "Jesus Christ," I said, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. "Let me count the ways. Let's see if I can't just sketch in the big picture. You ever catch a TV program back in the sixties called The Prisoner? Patrick McGoohan?"

  "No," the detective replied curtly. "My family didn't have a television set. They couldn't afford it."

  "It was about a top British Intelligence agent who quits the service in a huff. Because he knows too many secrets and is considered untrustworthy, he's drugged and bundled off to an island that's essentially a prison. That premise could have been modeled on Haiti—or so Garth and I have good reason to believe. Right now I'm betting the CIA wishes they had shipped Aldrich Ames off to Haiti a long time ago. But then, they never considered Ames untrustworthy. This case does have its humorous side."

  "You're saying the CIA used Haiti as a penal colony?"

  "Depending on who was sent there and for what reason, it was used as a penal colony, a death camp at Fort Dimanche, or luxury resort among the villas up in the hills. The problem is that all this is very difficult to prove. Former Haitian army officers who could provide hard evidence keep getting their hearts cut out. What we can prove is that Vilair Michel, along with hundreds—possibly thousands—of Ton-ton Macoutes, Fraph people, army officers, and government officials, was on the CIA payroll. CIA money has been going into Haiti for years, going all the way back to Papa Doc—who was probably a CIA creation. We think we've collected enough evidence to convince reasonable people that the whole country of Haiti served as a kind of offshore bank for the CIA, which used it to hide and launder large amounts of money generated through things like drug running, and which it then used to finance other secret, illegal operations. Needless to say, there was no congressional oversight of these affairs. That fool William Casey dreamed of setting up what he called an 'off-the-shelf' operation. What he didn't know was that people buried deep within the organization had already created precisely such a thing decades before, and it was running smoothly. Casey's another guy I'll bet the CIA wishes it had shipped off to Haiti. They probably killed him."

  The corners of the detective's mouth curled upward in just the slightest trace of a smile. "With the CIA's infamous brain-tumor pill?"

  "Ah. A flash of humor there. I take that as a good sign."

  "That would be a mistake."

  "Try to remember that paranoids often do have real enemies."

  "What about Oliver North?"

  "Just a tool. North is a CIA poster boy—the kind of person the company loves to have around to run errands, and run for office. What Garth and I are trying to prove, Detective, is that that whole goddamn hellhole of a country was essentially a CIA asset. It was a company store, if you will, owned lock, stock, and barrel by the CIA. Aristide's election can be viewed as a hostile takeover. They did what they could to stop it, and gave it their best shot with the military junta, but they came up short. Now we're trying to get hold of the books of that company store. That isn't easy, since most records over there were literally just jotted notes on pieces of paper. It also isn't so easy interviewing the major shopkeepers when they keep winding up dead. And that, Detective, is why Garth and I were doing a walkabout in the good general's home."

  "Jesus," Beauvil said in a flat tone.

  "None of this need concern you, Detective; as you've pointed out, your responsibility is to investigate a murder that took place in the village of Spring Valley. But that killing is just a small part of a very large conspiracy that Garth and I are digging into. We would have called you, and then we'd have called the FBI ourselves. If you cut us loose and let us continue our work, there's at least a chance that the men who did this, as well as the bigger fish who put together and run this voodoo hit squad, will be caught and brought to justice. Bring us down, cause a stir in the newspapers that could end our role in the overall investigation by the commission, and your chances for ever catching them are diminished. A great deal of work by many people could be put in jeopardy by the premature disclosure of what we've been up to these past months. It's up to you."

  The detective's hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached out to turn off the tape recorder. His eyes gleamed, and his neck was slightly flushed. He seemed about to say something when there was a single, sharp rap from the other side of the one-way mirror. Beauvil pocketed the tape recorder, then stood up. He stooped to pick up the cards he had swept to the floor, then walked briskly out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Twenty minutes passed, time I spent with my feet flat on the floor, hands folded on the table, staring at the opposite wall and trying not to look as anxious as I felt. Then I heard the door open, and I turned to find my brother standing in the doorway. His soulful brown eyes glinted with amusement, and there was a thin, wry smile on his face. He said quietly, "It looks like you've done it again, you silver-tongued devil."

  "We're outta here?"

  "Yeah. Let's get a move on before they change their minds."

  "Right," I said, rising
and walking quickly through the door Garth held open for me.

  We headed down a narrow corridor, past two other interrogation rooms and a holding cell. As we turned a corner and entered the booking area I could see into a small office where Beauvil was standing and talking to a portly, gray-haired man wearing a chief's uniform and sitting behind a littered desk. The two officers who had arrested us were standing across the lobby, staring at us with curiosity. We nodded to them, then headed for the exit.

  "Hold it!"

  We stopped just before the exit doors, turned to see Beauvil, who had just come out of the office. Behind him, the chief was closing the blinds covering his window. Beauvil came up to us and ushered us outside.

  "We're doing you two a favor because we don't want to interfere with the work of any Presidential Commission," he said softly, squinting into the rising sun. "Now you do us one."

  "Name it," I replied.

  "We don't want to be accused of showing any favoritism toward our local celebrity here and his famous brother. We don't want any of this to come back and bite us in the ass."

  "That's not going to happen, Detective."

  "The easiest way to handle this is not to file a report that the two of you were arrested at a crime scene shortly after a man was murdered. As far as we're concerned, you weren't there—and you haven't been here."

  "Garth and I hardly ever come to Spring Valley, and we don't even know where the police station is."

  "The report will state that an anonymous caller phoned in about the killing on nine-one-one. The caller also advised us to notify the FBI."

  "That's exactly the way it would have happened."

  "The FBIs will figure it was you and get in touch."

  "Or we'll call them when we get back to the city. Thanks, Detective." I paused, scratched my head. "Uh, there is one other little thing. When we were busted we were looking at a photograph placed on a voodoo altar down in Michel's basement. It could be important. Is there any way—"