Tolliver es un agente de inteligencia que participó activamente durante la Guerra Fría. Sus experiencias van desde el servicio en México, Cuba, África, Inglaterra, Berlín y Moscú. Comenzó el servicio gubernamental sirviendo como asistente personal del presidente del Subcomité de Seguridad Interna del Senado de los Estados Unidos. Su acceso y experiencia en el ámbito del espionaje internacional y la intriga proporcionan percepciones únicas y vitalidad a sus escritos. Después de su jubilación, enseñó técnicas de investigación en el Departamento de Justicia Criminal de una universidad de Florida. Actualmente es instructor del programa de capacitación del Departamento de Aplicación de la Ley de Florida.

Lie and Deny

By Kenneth R. Tolliver

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Kenneth R. Tolliver
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-0476-5

Chapter One

The crew of the fishing boat heard the buzzing of a small aircraft engine passing low through the moonless night, but although they strained their eyes looking anxiously around the horizon, they couldn't discern any navigation lights. The sound grew louder for a few moments and then began to trail off as the Doppler Effect altered the motor's pitch frequency. The crew speculated on the mysterious passage for the next half hour. What was a small, lone plane doing flying over the Gulf of Mexico? Most decided it must be one of those drug smugglers that persistent rumors reported.

"There's not enough money in the world to tempt me to fly out over this black sea," one of the voices closed the subject. A match flared in the dark as it lighted a cigar. "Risky to fly without lights," a heavily accented voice floated softly across the deck. It was muzzled by the throb of the boat's diesel below deck.

Had their boat's course taken them over the restless waves a scant mile further south of their present position they might then have observed an unusual pair of yellow lights emitting from the belly of the aircraft's fuselage. One of these two beams was focused straight downward, casting a sharply defined circle of illumination fifty feet below on the oily waves. A second shaft of light, aimed forty five degrees forward, painted an oval of light on the sea's surface. The geometry probably escaped the crew but this configuration provided critical assistance to the pilot in holding a precise fifty foot altitude above the waves. If he kept the beams converged, he was also safely below radar. The simplicity of this system was enhanced by the addition of a pair of automobile style side view mirrors secured to the left wing strut with silver masking tape. By glancing in these mirrors, the pilot could keep the reflected light circles in view. It was nerve wracking, but not more so than flying blind on instruments.

As the plane's engine noise faded, the man with the accent aboard the fishing boat detached himself and went below. He switched on the red bulb of a night lamp, opened a locker and removed a small box. He carefully placed it next to a short wave radio. Checking his watch, he noted it read a few minutes shy of two o'clock in the morning. He wrote a brief notation of this fact and proceeded to write a short message, "1400 SW 10". He opened the wooden box and slowly typed out these letters and numbers on a code machine's miniature keyboard. As he typed, tiny lamps responded with illuminated labels. As if by magic, the machine converted his message so its LED's displayed three nonsense words, "bxdfe, weehy, opexx."

After double checking his work he switched on the radio transmitter and keyed his message into a Morse code stream of dots and dashes.

In the same muggy darkness 50 miles away another radio operator adjusted his headphones. The message he copied made no sense to him, but the signal was enough. The encrypted message was repeated three times and then there was only silence. Nearly 2000 miles away an elaborate array of wires also picked up the dots and dashes. These electronic pulses were routed to a bank of computers. Operators made adjustments and frowned. No matter how they toggled switches, or twisted dials, the signal refused to yield INTELligence and stubbornly remained just dots and dashes.

"Route it to the wizards at Fort Mead and see what they can make of it," the chief operator directed his staff. "It may not be anything, but you never know," and with a grin, he added, "It will at least keep the lazy bastards awake."

Meanwhile the light plane held a course which would bring landfall low over western Cuba. On the island, a group of two dozen men made hasty preparations for its reception. Three antique pickup trucks, each with a tub of sand resting in its cargo bed, drove in a slow convoy up and down a stretch of empty road paralleling the beaches. Four other men on foot carrying buckets stopped only long enough to fill them with more sand. Another small contingent advanced along the dark roadway counting their steps until they had trotted an estimated 1000 meters. Here they paused and deployed a strange contraption consisting of three cardboard tubes, each six inches in diameter and three feet long.

The swarthy man in charge of these activities stood by the side of the road and surveyed the results of his orders. Satisfied, he looked up just as a jeep, its headlamps masked, approached him. "Its time now!" came an anxious whisper from someone sitting next to the driver. "Our picket boat reported the plane was heard passing close about 20 minutes ago. Time for us to do our part now."

The officer standing by the side of the road, his arms folded, nodded. "Light up," he agreed. In further response, he pointed to a number of rum bottles and motioned his men to pick them up. "You can have your cigars now," he smiled. Well rehearsed, his team quickly poured several bottles, smelling strongly of gasoline, into the sand tubs aboard the pickup trucks. Next they added the contents of the remaining bottles into three smaller buckets. With the air reeking of gasoline vapors, the leader went from truck to truck igniting the fuel. He directed the jeep's driver to transport the three men with the smaller sand buckets back up the road.

The convoy, now carrying flaming beacons, proceeded slowly down the road. The men carrying the three small flare pots placed these across the road. These pots marked the threshold of a 3000 foot strip of the roadway to be used as a runway.

He directed the placement of the strange array of cardboard tubes in the very center of the pavement at the far end of the landing zone. Using an oversize protractor made of wood, he carefully placed one tube pointing skyward at a 45 degree angle, aimed the second tube at a smaller angle and the final barrel at only a 15 degree incline. Next he called for a man to bring him a 12 volt automobile battery. He attached a wiring harness with clips to the brass lugs on the back of each small automotive spotlight. Next, he fitted these lights behind the color filters fitted over the ends of the tubes. As soon as current was applied, the bulbs lighted brightly. It was then that his observers began to guess their purpose.

It was now clear to the crew that their labors had produced a simple but effective little airport. The trucks with their flame beacons moving down the road would serve to guide a pilot to the location of the facility, the burning pots placed across the road marked the beginning of the "runway," and the tubes at the far end served to provide an effective glide slope. If the pilot came down at too steep an angle, he would see an amber light, if his descent was correct he saw green and if dangerously low, red.

The sweating workers now stood by with shovels, prepared to smother the fire markers. If correctly done the makeshift airstrip would disappear back into blackness a few seconds after the aircraft landed.

A muted cheer swept through the ground crew when they heard the aircraft's engine. Their captain started to hush this outbreak, but changed his mind. They had preformed so well they deserved this small indulgence as a reward. Their timing had been almost perfect. Even as the plane circled to land, the fire tubs in the pickups were extinguished. The pilot, wet with perspiration, leveled out and reduced his throttle. He saw the flames of the three "threshold marker" buckets lined up across the road as they flashed by under him. He glanced at the side mirrors, noted the light circles were quickly diverging with his descent. Directly ahead a light flickered between amber and green. "Better a little high", he noted. It wasn't his best landing and the ship bounced twice before he chopped the power and applied the brakes. It came to a full stop only a few feet from the makeshift glide-slope lights. He shut down the idling engine by pulling the mixture control to lean. Only then did he remember he had forgotten to apply carburetor heat during final approach. If the moist air had resulted in icing in the carburetor the engine would have quit had he suddenly needed its power. His palms were soaking wet and his knees shook.

Before he could further review his landing, a hand reached up and pulled open the cabin door. A voice greeted him out of the restored night. "Welcome to Cuba" it said with warmth. "Keith, if that's still your cryptonym pry yourself free and let me help you down. My men will push this crate across the road where we have prepared netting to foil anyone snooping from above when daylight comes. Come, my old friend, I'm sure you could use a refresco or cervasa and a good smoke. No, I forgot, you don't smoke. We have a safe house near and plenty of time before your appointment. You can clean up and take a kip."

Keith struggled out of the cockpit, found his cramped legs protested unfolding. "Ah, Captain Estaban, the beer and one of your delicious Cubanos will both be welcome. Wait, excuse me, Roberto, even in this dim light, aren't those major's leafs insignia on your collar."

"Good eyes, my Keith, but in my poor country, the pay is the same." He chuckled as he guided the still lame pilot to the jeep. Keith observed the non-uniformed men pushing his aircraft across the makeshift airstrip under trees and spreading netting over it. Major Estaban tapped the plane's fabric skin as it was pushed into hiding. "Couldn't they have given you something more befitting your mission's importance."

Keith smiled. "It's virtue is that it's a poor radar reflector. And on the subject of suitable vehicles, your jeep is no limo." It was only a short bumpy ride before the Major turned down a tree shaded driveway and pulled up beside a traditional colonial whitewashed masonry house. He was reminded of the hours and his empty belly as his nose caught the smell of spicy pork and chicken cooking. "Ah, you know how to hurt a hungry visitor, Roberto."

The Cuban officer roared with glee, "If the smells torture you, wait until you cast your eyes on the cook's tatas."

Keith shook his head, "I'm afraid she would be disappointed. I'm so tired that I'll be lucky if I don't fall into my bowl and drown."

Roberto reached out and patted the pilot gently on the shoulder, "I'm sorry. Of course, my friend, you must be exhausted from your flight." The Cuban officer looked at his watch quickly. "I insist you lie down and have a few hours of sleep. Your mission is far too important to each of our nations for you to approach it with a sleep deprived brain. There is a quiet bedroom down the hall and when you need to be awakened and fed I'll send someone to rouse you. Now, come with me, I'll see you aren't disturbed. If I know my man coming from Havana he will be late. We expect your face-to-face with him won't happen before eleven."

Keith suddenly felt a tangle of emotions. He was weary, his eyes hurt, his back ached, and his mouth was dry with anticipation. He dared not dwell on it, but failure in his mission was too likely to contemplate. Lives and the futures of two countries might rest on the clear keenness of his mind in a scant few hours. Yet, as much as he longed for the refreshment of sleep, he could not relax and seek its blessed healing. Even after the major departed, sleep alluded Keith. He forced himself to close his eyes, but it was at best a sham of rest.

He was instantly aware at the click of the door lock and the sensation of someone standing next to his bed. He pretended sleep, but peeped from under one eyelid. The sweet scent of vanilla wafted into his nose. The pungent smell was a common substitute for perfume among Cuba's poor females. It was certainly a woman who had entered the room and who now stood over him. Had she come to plunge a knife into him? His eyes began to adjust to the room's gloom. In the sparse light which seeped in through frayed curtains, he could discern the woman's figure. He realized her eyes must also be adjusting and Keith was alarmed as her hand reached down toward his face. His muscles coiled as he prepared to leap up. He would not be murdered without a fight. But, before he could launch a desperate defense, her fingers firmly clamped over his mouth and a hushed voice, without threat, ordered, "Relax, pilot. They have given you my bed. Kindly share it".

He let his body relax and sank back against the mattress. He nodded his head and uncoiled his muscles. He had so fatigued earlier, that he had not undressed but lain down fully clothed after kicking his shoes off. He depressed the little button on his watch and its dial glowed. Dawn was not far off. He was aware that the woman had undressed down to her under-clothes before joining him. The scent of vanilla lingered in his consciousness as he bid sleep return.

The coolness of the birthing new day awoke him and he savored the cozy animal heat from the woman lying close beside him. Morning sounds echoed down the hall as muted voices, clinking dishes, and running water brought him regretfully wide awake. The woman stirred, stretched, and arose. With only a fleeting glance in his direction, she climbed out of bed ignoring his gaze at her near nakedness. Her breasts burst forth as she released her bra and hurried into the room's small adjoining bathroom. He heard the shower splashing and a few minutes later she emerged draped in a towel. She remained mute as she opened a battered dresser, and after rummaging through a drawer, threw fresh lingerie on the bed.

"Do you mind?" she broke the silence. "Perhaps you would like to bath and shave. They brought your bag inside last night and left it just outside our door. I'm sure you want to look presentable when the hombre arrives. I need to hurry to supervise breakfast and attend to all the other preparations that men seem to think just appear as by magic."

All the while as she spoke she continued to dress without any false modesty. She brushed her hair quickly, adjusted her skirt and blouse, and flashing him a surprisingly warm smile, rushed out of the room.

"Her name is Maria Jesus," the Major explained later as they sipped sweet coffee on the veranda. "No one calls her by that name. She prefers 'Ciggy', although I don't know where she got that, how you say, 'nick name'. But, my friend, be careful around her. She may appear an easy woman, but men around here have learned it is safer to keep their hands to themselves. And, it's also no use to try honey words in an attempt to get around her. Fortunately for us men, there are easier targets about, like tigers in the jungle."

Major Estaban had arrived in time to share Keith's breakfast and to review the day's schedule. "As I said last night, el hombre will be late. But we can't fault him. He had to leave Havana secretly and make certain he is wasn't followed by security vultures. And, given his position, it's not easy. The risk is great."

Keith nodded in sympathy, his own clandestine departure from the Florida Keys in the dead of night was still fresh in his mind. "But is all this hush-hush necessary, and how about all your men. From my experience when more than two or three people observed what transpired last night, security is always compromised."

The Major shrugged. "Of course there is such a danger, but my Keith, this is not the United States, and if you forgive me, our men's loyalty meets different tests. There was not a man last night, or today, who has not suffered torture, wounds, and deaths in his family at the hands of the Fidelistas. If any of these men you see here was even half suspected of either betrayal or careless talk, I shudder to even imagine his fate. Of course it has happened in the past, but things are not what they once were here in Cuba."

Their conversation was interrupted by an out of breath boy who half ran and half limped toward them. "Ah, here is my watchdog come to summon us. From his expression I wager our big man has arrived," the Major rose to greet the runner. "He is here?" The boy nodded and tried to catch his breath. "Si, he waits in the garden house."

Keith and Estaban exchanged meaningful glances as they followed the boy. The garden house was a small building, hardly worthy of being described as a house. It was more a shed for garden tools, with several advantages as a meeting place. Strategically situated it offered no concealment. The guards would have a clear field of fire.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Lie and Denyby Kenneth R. Tolliver Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth R. Tolliver. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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