Read Online Shift: A Novel by Tim Kring and Dale Peck - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Kring and Dale Peck
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glowing tip of Melchior’s cigar like a rabbit transfixed by a swaying snake.
“The elusive Melchior,” he said, averting his gaze with difficulty. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, just to find out if you were real. That story with the slingshot still makes the rounds.”
“You should see what I can do with a cigar.”
Everton ashed so hard he broke his cigarette in half.
“I, ah, read about that in your report. Actually, I have a few questions about your account of your time in Cuba.”
Melchior waved the cigar like a magic wand. “Ask away.”
It took Everton another moment to tear his eyes from Melchior’s cigar.
“Right. So. Twenty-three months ago you were dropped into the Zapata Swamp as part of Operation Mongoose. There were six people on your team: you, two American freelancers, and three Cuban defectors with contacts in the anti-Communist resistance movement. You yourself are reputed to have extensive and impressive field credentials from Eastern Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia, among other places, yet within a week of your arrival all three Cubans were dead, one of the freelancers had been deported, the other was MIA, and you were in Boniato Prison.”
“That sounds about right.” Melchior puffed contentedly. “Rip ever turn up? I owe that son of a bitch for ditching me.”
A thick stream of smoke from the broken cigarette spiraled in the air between Everton and Melchior. Melchior could tell Everton wanted to put the cigarette out, but he just kept talking.
“After nine months behind bars, you claim that not only were you released, but were brought to the office of Raúl Castro and asked to keep an eye on Red Army activity in Cuba.”
“He gave me this suit too.” Melchior flipped open the left lapel, revealing the small hole over the heart. “Took it off a man he’d had executed. Was nice enough to have it cleaned first, but he left this
memento mori
to make sure I knew what the stakes were. Even threw in a pair-a shoes. Well, sandals, really.” Melchior lifted his feet again, waggled them at Everton.
Everton threw up his hands, which caused the smoke from his broken cigarette to dance around like an impish genie.
“You
have
to realize the idea that Fidel Castro’s
brother
hired a CIA agent to work for him defies credulity.”
“With all due respect, Acting Assistant Deputy Director for the Western Hemisphere Division Everton”—Melchior sucked air dramatically—“the Company sent me to Cuba to try to get El Jefe to smoke an
exploding cigar
, so I’m not sure where you get off saying what’s credulous or not.”
“Desmond Fitz—ugh.” Everton couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a pencil and used the eraser to stamp out the broken cigarette. “Desmond FitzGerald read too many James Bond novels,” Everton said when the smoke had finally dissipated, leaving behind the smell of burning
Hevea brasiliensis
sap, “and is a little too impressed by what Joe Scheider 17 cooks up in his labs.”
Melchior rolled his eyes. The exploding cigar had been a stupid idea, but it was hardly the point. “Why is it so far-fetched that a pair of totalitarian governments should be prone to the same factionalism that’s in the process of ripping apart this country, not to mention this agency?”
“I don’t—”
“Listen, Drew. I been back in the States three days. Just about the longest time I been here since I was thirteen. But it didn’t take me more than three hours to see that there’s been a shift. This country’s splitting in half. Democrats on one side, Republicans on the other. Liberals and conservatives, reformers and old guard, beatniks and squares. What was the gap in the last election? A hundred thousand votes out of seventy million? High school elections have more swing than that.”
“Kennedy won. That’s all that matters.” Everton didn’t sound at all pleased by this fact.
“With a little help from Momo Giancana,” Melchior said, “who, I
“The elusive Melchior,” he said, averting his gaze with difficulty. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, just to find out if you were real. That story with the slingshot still makes the rounds.”
“You should see what I can do with a cigar.”
Everton ashed so hard he broke his cigarette in half.
“I, ah, read about that in your report. Actually, I have a few questions about your account of your time in Cuba.”
Melchior waved the cigar like a magic wand. “Ask away.”
It took Everton another moment to tear his eyes from Melchior’s cigar.
“Right. So. Twenty-three months ago you were dropped into the Zapata Swamp as part of Operation Mongoose. There were six people on your team: you, two American freelancers, and three Cuban defectors with contacts in the anti-Communist resistance movement. You yourself are reputed to have extensive and impressive field credentials from Eastern Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia, among other places, yet within a week of your arrival all three Cubans were dead, one of the freelancers had been deported, the other was MIA, and you were in Boniato Prison.”
“That sounds about right.” Melchior puffed contentedly. “Rip ever turn up? I owe that son of a bitch for ditching me.”
A thick stream of smoke from the broken cigarette spiraled in the air between Everton and Melchior. Melchior could tell Everton wanted to put the cigarette out, but he just kept talking.
“After nine months behind bars, you claim that not only were you released, but were brought to the office of Raúl Castro and asked to keep an eye on Red Army activity in Cuba.”
“He gave me this suit too.” Melchior flipped open the left lapel, revealing the small hole over the heart. “Took it off a man he’d had executed. Was nice enough to have it cleaned first, but he left this
memento mori
to make sure I knew what the stakes were. Even threw in a pair-a shoes. Well, sandals, really.” Melchior lifted his feet again, waggled them at Everton.
Everton threw up his hands, which caused the smoke from his broken cigarette to dance around like an impish genie.
“You
have
to realize the idea that Fidel Castro’s
brother
hired a CIA agent to work for him defies credulity.”
“With all due respect, Acting Assistant Deputy Director for the Western Hemisphere Division Everton”—Melchior sucked air dramatically—“the Company sent me to Cuba to try to get El Jefe to smoke an
exploding cigar
, so I’m not sure where you get off saying what’s credulous or not.”
“Desmond Fitz—ugh.” Everton couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a pencil and used the eraser to stamp out the broken cigarette. “Desmond FitzGerald read too many James Bond novels,” Everton said when the smoke had finally dissipated, leaving behind the smell of burning
Hevea brasiliensis
sap, “and is a little too impressed by what Joe Scheider 17 cooks up in his labs.”
Melchior rolled his eyes. The exploding cigar had been a stupid idea, but it was hardly the point. “Why is it so far-fetched that a pair of totalitarian governments should be prone to the same factionalism that’s in the process of ripping apart this country, not to mention this agency?”
“I don’t—”
“Listen, Drew. I been back in the States three days. Just about the longest time I been here since I was thirteen. But it didn’t take me more than three hours to see that there’s been a shift. This country’s splitting in half. Democrats on one side, Republicans on the other. Liberals and conservatives, reformers and old guard, beatniks and squares. What was the gap in the last election? A hundred thousand votes out of seventy million? High school elections have more swing than that.”
“Kennedy won. That’s all that matters.” Everton didn’t sound at all pleased by this fact.
“With a little help from Momo Giancana,” Melchior said, “who, I
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