has been granted to land on runway one. You are surrounded by four F-16s, and they are authorized to fire immediately upon any deviation from the proper course. Do you read?”
There was silence, then a response from Mustang. “He’s got it.”
“Roger. Mustang, lead the way.”
After thirty seconds of dead air, the controller returned. “Mustang, what’s your unaided visibility?”
“Our friend should be seeing fine. Approaching the south end of the main base.”
Matta used another stretch of silence to explain, saying, “The main base is to the east of the landing strip. They have to pass over the main base, and then fly across the bay in order to land.”
“Whoa!” shouted Mustang. “Target is in a nosedive!”
“November two six Golf Mike, pull up!”
“Still in a nosedive,” shouted Mustang, his voice racing.
“Pull up immediately!”
“No change,” said Mustang.
“November two six Golf Mike, final warning. Regain control of your craft or you will be fired upon.”
“He’s headed straight for Camp Delta.”
“Fire at will!”
A shrill, screeching noise came over the speakers. Then silence.
Matta hit the STOP button. “That’s it,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Slowly, he walked around the desk and returned to his seat in the wing chair.
Jack was stone silent. He wasn’t particularly close to Saint Preux, but it was still unnerving to think of what had just happened to him.
Matta said, “Did Mr. Saint Preux have heart trouble?”
“Not to my knowledge. But he had pancreatic cancer. The doctors gave him only a few months to live.”
“Did he ever talk of suicide?”
“Not to me.”
“Was he depressed, angry?”
“Who wouldn’t be? The guy was only sixty-three years old. But that doesn’t mean he deliberately crashed his plane into Camp Delta.”
Matta said, “Do you know of any reason he might have to hate the U.S. government?”
Jack hesitated.
Matta said, “Look, I understand that you’re his lawyer and you have confidentiality issues. But your client’s dead, and so are six U.S. Marines, not to mention scores of detainees. We need to understand what happened.”
“All I can tell you is that he wasn’t happy about the way the government treats refugees from Haiti. Thinks we have a double standard for people of color. I’m not trying to slap a Jesse Jackson rhyme on you, but as the saying goes—If you’re black, you go back.”
“Was he unhappy enough to blow up a naval base?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know,” said Matta, his voice taking on an edge. He was suddenly invading Jack’s space, getting right in his face. “I believe that the heart attack was a ruse. I think this was a planned and deliberate suicide attack by a man who had less than six months to live. And I suspect the logistical support and financial backing for an organization that only you can help us identify.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Jack.
“Are you going to sit there and pretend that he didn’t mention any plans to you, any organizations?”
Jack was about to tell him that he couldn’t answer that even if he’d wanted to, that conversations with his client—even a dead client—were privileged and confidential. But one thing did come to mind, and it wasn’t privileged. Jean had said it in front of Jack, in front of Theo and in front of about a half-dozen other drunks at Theo’s tavern. Jack could share it freely.
“He mentioned something called Operation Northwoods.”
Matta went ash-white. He turned, walked into the next room, and was immediately talking on his encrypted cell phone.
7:40 p.m., Two Weeks Later
Sparky’s Tavern was on U.S. 1 south of Homestead, one of the last watering holes before a landscape that still bore the scars of a direct hit from Hurricane Andrew in 1992 gave way to the splendor of the Florida Keys. It was a converted old gas station with floors so stained from tipped drinks that not even the Environmental Protection Agency could have determined if more flammable liquids had spilled before or after the conversion. The grease pit was gone but the garage doors were still in place. There was a long, wooden bar, a TV permanently tuned to ESPN, and a never-ending stack of quarters on the pool table. Beer was served in cans, and the empties were crushed in true Sparky’s style at the old tire vise that still sat on the workbench. It was the kind of dive that Jack would have visited if it were in his own neighborhood, but he made the forty-minute trip for one reason only: the bartender was Theo Knight.
“Another one, buddy?”
He was serving Jack shots of tequila. “No thanks,” said Jack.
“Come on. Try just one without training wheels,” he said as he cleared the lemons and saltshaker from the bar top.
Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere. “I met with a former military guy today,” said Jack. “Says he knows all about Operation Northwoods.”
“Does he also know all about the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny?”
“He worked in the Pentagon under the Kennedy administration.”
Theo poured another shot, but Jack didn’t touch it. “Talk to me,” said Theo.
“He showed me a memo that was top secret for years. It was declassified a few years ago, but somehow it never got much press, even though it was titled ‘Justification for U.S. Military Intervention in Cuba.’ The Joint Chiefs of Staff submitted it to the Defense Department a few months after the Bay of Pigs invasion. No one denies that the memo existed, though former Secretary of Defense McNamara has gone on record saying he never saw it. Anyway, it outlines a plan called Operation Northwoods.”
“So there really was an Operation Northwoods? Pope Paul wasn’t just high on painkillers?”
“His name was Saint Preux, moron. And it was just a memo, not an actual operation. The idea was for the U.S. military to stage terrorist activities at Guantanamo and blame them on Cuba, which would draw the United States into war with Cuba.”
“Get out.”
“Seriously. The first wave was to have friendly Cubans dressed in Cuban military uniforms start riots at the base, blow up ammunition at the
