The Trojan Sea by Richard Herman Page A

have to say?”
    Seagrave gave him a sad look. “Which question to answer first? Ah, height. Six feet three inches in my socks. Question one: Robin Seagrave. Question two: eight thousand hours on fighters. Question three: your chaps. Question four: It was either take off or kill half the crowd on the runway. Not a long time to make that decision, and I don’t recall hearing any input from the CAA at that particular moment, which would have been most helpful. Question five: six hundred knots. That’s six hundred ninety miles per hour for you nonflying types.”
    The CAA man sputtered. “That’s supersonic!”
    Seagrave shook his head in resignation, his suspicions about the CAA fully confirmed. “Don’t you consider it strange that no one heard a sonic boom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Try seven hundred sixty miles per hour at sea level for Mach One. What was I saying? Oh, yes, question six: I’ve already answered that, but if you mean altitude, two hundred feet.”
    Seagrave leaned into the CAA official, his eyes cold blue steel. “As to what I have to say? Are you naturally thick, or did you take a course? Talk about failed common sense. If you, as the CAA official in charge, had done your work properly, you would have known a protest was planned and exercised proper crowd control or canceled the taxi demonstration.”
    Shanker had to add his two cents’ worth. “I saw the CAA talking to the demonstrators about two hours earlier in the parking lot.”
    The CAA official whirled on Shanker. “Your contribution was not called for.”
    Shanker gave him an expressive shrug that was clearly a “fuck you” message.
    “Offhand,” Seagrave said, rolling in for a second strafing pass on the CAA, “it appears that your lack of appreciation of the situation allowed those bloody stupid demonstrators to place a large number of people in danger, the least of whom were my passenger and myself. In fact, I plan to raise the issue with my MP.”
    The CAA official blanched at the thought of Seagrave’s MP, or member of Parliament, questioning the CAA in the House of Commons. Now it was his turn to attack. “I want this aircraft towed to the nearest hangar and salvaged immediately. It will never fly again.” He stormed away without waiting for a reply.
    “Have a nice day,” Seagrave called. He took a deep breath and turned to the ground crew. “I’m afraid I cocked it up. Looks like the end for the old girl.”
    “Maybe,” Shanker said, “I can help.”

3
     
    Miami, Florida
     
    Eduardo Pinar was the first to arrive at Café Martí, a sidewalk café in the heart of Little Havana. He found a table at the back and collapsed into the chair, his slender body spent from the exertion of walking two blocks in the early-September afternoon sun. As always, he was oblivious to the noise and hustle around him. Just another dreamy young man with a droopy mustache and limpid, brown eyes going nowhere and without ambition.
    A waiter approached and made small talk as he waited for Eduardo to order. “The heat has finally broken,” the waiter said in Spanish. “Soon we’ll see the tourists again.”
    “Will we?” Eduardo replied in English. “Espresso and a newspaper, por favor .”
    “Cuba Libre?” the waiter asked, not that it made any difference. Cuba Libre was the only paper allowed in the café, which was frequented by equal parts anti-Castro exiles, Cuban spies watching the exiles, and FBI agents watching both groups and trolling for recruits among either. For the waiter the only question was which group Eduardo currently belonged to. Allegiances changed almost daily, but he’d sort it out.
    A skinny little woman Eduardo knew only as Carita arrived at the same time as the espresso and newspaper. Like Eduardo, she ordered a small cup of the potent brew that could etch a sidewalk. “Where’s Luis and Francisco?” she demanded in English.
    “Coming,” Eduardo replied. He didn’t like Carita, but Luis had