Текст книги "Cuba Straits"

Автор книги: Randy Wayne White

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Burning evidence, he decided.

The stove could wait. The cramps could not.

He carried the lantern to the next door and placed his ear against it. These prefab shelters were little more than sewage culverts designed to be dropped into three trenches that intersected. When the trenches were covered, occupants enjoyed the illusion of spaciousness because the tunnels branched into wings that could be sealed as private rooms. He had yet to reach one of those terminals. A moment later, he did. To his right, behind a vinyl curtain, was a cramped bathing area with a hand pump. In an adjoining stall was a Russian-made commode that resembled a wedding cake.

Thank god.

Training, though, demanded that the entire shelter first be secured. There were two doors here, both made of steel. One sealed an intersecting branch. The other continued along the length of the tunnel. He placed the lantern on the floor and chose the tangent branch. It opened into a dead-end room that was damp and smelled of mold. He thought it was empty until he retrieved the lamp. Inside was a religious shrine: sunflower and cane stalks tied into bundles, beads and cowrie shells, a statuette of the Virgin Mary on a ledge streaked with candy-colored wax from a thousand spent candles.

On a lower ledge were bottles of rum that had evaporated and cigars rotted to dust. Except for one bottle that was full, recently uncorked. A fresh cigar was balanced on the bottle’s lip. They sat apart above three loaves of concrete that appeared structural until he moved closer.

No . . . they were tiny crypts, infant-sized. Long ago, names had been scrawled in wet cement. Anatol didn’t care. He was more interested in what lay at the foot of the graves: a stainless fillet knife streaked with fresh blood.

Perfect. Fingerprints would validate his story.

Santería. It fit with the murder of a Santero.

•   •   •

THE LAST ROOM he cleared was the largest. It was a double concrete cell, where an old woman gowned in white lay sleeping, he thought at first, but then realized she was dead. Candles, burning in sets of three, sat on abutting nightstands.

Fidel’s mistress?

On the walls, photos in ornate frames proved that, at the end at least, Raúl was the only Castro she had cared about.

Good riddance, he thought. All of you. Burn in hell.

The room stunk of lavender and old age. Woodsmoke added an acidic edge. His stomach churned. All he wanted to do was use the commode, complete his search for the letters, then get the hell out. Protocol, however, demanded the basics. He’d already checked the bed and behind curtains that served as closet space. All that was left was a grated bulkhead that, he guessed, housed pipes, pumps, and conduit required for survival underground.

He took a last look at the old woman. Attractive, possibly . . . for a Cuban—six decades ago. Dusty sheets, no splattering of blood visible. This dried-up crone hadn’t killed the Santero, but details of her condition might be useful. He didn’t touch the corpse. He used his nose and eyes. Body fluids stain. Decomposition starts when the heart stops.

Convinced, he hurried to the steel grating that was flanged like a door, but wider and lower. It was locked.

Strange . . . No lock was visible. He rattled the bars and raised the lantern. Yellow light spangled the floor within. Anatol squatted. He pressed an eye to an open square . . . and, for the first time that day, he grinned, and marveled at his sudden good luck.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “So very, very . . . oh my god. You are mine.”

Hypnotic, the graceful lines that greeted him: a duo of Harley-Davidson Sportsters from 1957 . . . possibly ’58. The year was unimportant. Same with the patinas of dust. Same with his mild, fleeting disappointment when he saw there were only two, not three, motorcycles. Otherwise, it was better than finding gold. Step back half a century and these machines were fresh from the showroom floor. Tires were flat, of course, but, my god, even the rubber looked pretty good.

Dazed, he stood. Had someone been maintaining these fine machines? Apparently so. Vernum had lied to him from the start, the freak. After all, the Harleys were here, not hidden in the cemetery west of Havana. Either that or the old woman’s grandson had lied to everyone. That made sense. Figueroa Casanova, as a traitor, would be a shameless liar. Details were unimportant now. The Harleys were his—or would be after he snuck them aboard a troop transport disguised as a cruise liner.

Anatol couldn’t take his eyes off those sweet, sweet classic lines. Pristine, the motorcycles leaned on kickstands with a gangster swagger. Spoke wheels, Sportster in italics cast in steel. Chrome everywhere: hydraulic forks and drums, swooping handlebars and headlamps. Fenders and fuel pod on the nearest bike were brilliant jet-stream blue. The other Sportster was red—candy-apple red of a hue that pained his heart and knotted his stomach.

No . . . it was another goddamn cramp.

He grunted, clutched his side, and groaned. Kostikov wasn’t a garrulous man. It was unlike him to speak to leather motorcycle upholstery, but he did, saying, “You would be ruined. I’ll get you out of here before she starts to stink.”

Imelda Casanova had been dead for at least two days, probably longer. He had seen enough corpses to know.

Running was risky, so he hurried through the tunnel, taking short, fast steps, until he was close to the commode and out of danger. His belt buckle required both hands. He placed the lantern, then the pistol, on the floor and closed the curtain. Once he was seated, stomach cramps took charge. Finally, when he was comfortable enough to retrieve the pistol, he had to snake an arm under the curtain to find the damn pistol.

It wasn’t there.

What? The pistol had to be there.

His fingers probed until they finally made contact, but what they found wasn’t a Glock 9mm. He snatched the object anyway and held it up to see . . . his stolen wallet.

Shock—rare in KGB veterans, yet his thoughts mired as a voice said in Spanish, “You’re a big target, Kostikov. If you have other weapons, slide them under the curtain. Slowly. I can see you just fine from here.”

The lantern. Because of the damn lantern, Anatol realized, his silhouette was visible from any angle, yet he was blinded from seeing anything but the curtain. Well . . . that and his own shoes where pants were piled around his ankles. Never had he discussed such a predicament with aspiring agents. Bluffing, congenial manipulation, however, were part of daily fieldcraft. Even he could decipher the accent of an American speaking Spanish.

“Ah,” he said, “how are my friends at Langley? Forgive, I am expecting you, but have—how you say?—a case of shits bad.”

The lantern. He stared at the thing while he hurried to clean himself. Molotov cocktails, homemade incendiaries. He considered the curtain’s fabric: waxed cotton, material used for military tents before noninflammables became popular. A natural accelerant.

The American said, “You don’t have the shits. It’s uranium poisoning.”

Kostikov stiffened for an instant, eyes wide as he listened.

“Vernum Quick, he put a few drops on a sandwich he gave you. He told me all about it. Jerked chicken. Remember what you ate in Jamaica?”

Nauseating, the bile that hiccupped into Anatol’s throat. Whether from the sandwich or the possibility it was true could not be distinguished. “Is lie,” he said. “You think I not know symptoms? What you expect if you torture such a liar as Vernum? Torture”—he used a scolding tone—“is illegal from Geneva Convention. Too bad if international headlines you are in. But only I see body out there, huh? Is possible I might forget. You understand?”

The voice replied, “Guilt has killed better men than Vernum Quick. Cooperate, maybe you’ll live long enough to get to a hospital. Last chance, Kostikov—if you have a weapon, slide it under the curtain.”

Anatol crouched, hoping for movement, a sound. Several seconds passed. “See?” he said. “Is okay. Only my phone I have here. Is how I know Cuban military is on way.” His hand moved to the wall, then down the wall, where he slipped his fingers around the lantern’s wire handle. “Me, I have much time. You, my friend, not so much. Unless a deal we strike, perhaps. Would you like see phone as proof?”

“Reception fifteen feet underground?” The American found that amusing. “Here’s the only deal you’ll get.” An old logbook fell from somewhere and slapped the concrete at Anatol’s feet. A ballpoint pen rolled free from the pages. “You’re going to write a confession. Marta Esteban and her daughters, Sabina and Maribel. You set their house on fire. You killed them. Write it down, then sign it. In Spanish, not Russian. Or English, if it’s any better. What happened to the KGB? You used to be big on language skills.”

The woman and her brats were dead? Finally, some good news. It was something he could work with, but then another cramp caused Anatol to lose focus. Recovery time, a moment to think, was needed. He snatched up the book, asking, “How are names spelled?” Then scribbled them down before adding Yo mató estas mujeres—“I killed these females.”

He signed with a false name that was close enough to fool an American and pushed the book under the curtain—but only halfway. As he did, he slipped one foot clear of his pants, then the other. He was free, ready to move.

The lantern. Anatol lifted it, as if to show he was done, while his eyes were fixed, waiting for a hand or the American’s shoes to appear.

“Your Spanish sucks, but the signature looks familiar. Yeah . . . I’ve seen that signature before. For some reason, I hoped you were smarter. Weird, huh? Two grown men and we’re still playing the same goddamn stupid game. Fool’s Mate.”

Where the hell was that voice coming from? Tunnels echo. Anatol’s ears tried to zero in . . . until he realized what the American meant. Another stupid error. The name he’d used was on a false ID in the wallet the American had stolen.

“I left your emergency money,” the voice said. “Think of it as professional courtesy. Now sign the goddamn paper again. Your real name . . . Anatol.”

“But I did—” A searing contraction cut off his air. “I did, but you haven’t looked at it closely.” Sweat beaded, slid down his cheeks, as he nudged the logbook another inch into the hall. “I’m sick. You speak of professionalism. You, whose head I own when DGI comes, but I would not give you to fools of DGI. A deal we will make, huh?” His knuckles whitened on the lantern handle. “You are calling General Anatol Kostikov a liar?”

The voice replied, “Stand up, and I’ll make it quick.”

Click-click. The metallic latching of a pistol hammer always, always signaled an end to negotiations. Anatol winced but wasn’t afraid. Training took over. When cornered, attack. In Ukraine, the ancient land of Cossacks, soldiers entered battle with the same ancient war cry. A guttural howl. That howl carried Anatol into the hall, lantern slashing, but the goddamn curtain came with him, draped over his head like a shroud.

Snap-Snap. Snap. Three plastic-on-plastic reports. The Russian heard the sounds, but they held no meaning except that each coincided with sudden hammering blows that stabbed him twice in the thigh and once in the kneecap.

Anatol tumbled forward onto the floor, aware in numb consciousness that he was bleeding . . . and that the curtain he could not shed from his body was on fire.

My silent pistol, he realized. Bastard shot me with my own weapon.

The humiliation was enough to rally the giant to his feet. “You want fight Kostikov?” He slapped at flames in his hair and roared. “Come, you pizda! Like men!”

Figueroa and his strange friend, Tomlinson, were on their haunches, backs flat against the wall, when the Russian peered into the space where they were hiding and saw the motorcycles.

That was several minutes ago.

An understanding of Russian wasn’t required to know the giant would return. He wanted those Harleys. In Figuerito’s life, only two outsiders had ever seen them and they had lost their lives during their first attempt. Big men, difficult to drag, but it had to be done. He had loved these pretty blue and red machines since childhood. His earliest memory was of someone—his grandmother, possibly—revving the engines as he lay in a crib, or box, too young to talk but old enough to cherish the vibrations and the sleepy odor of exhaust fumes after she had closed the door tight.

His next memory: darkness, alone and thirsty, but too content to make a sound when someone—definitely his grandmother—entered the bedroom carrying something small and naked and dead while candles burned. The familiar odor of cigar smoke had accompanied the woman’s sobbing, then her rage.

For years afterward, dozing beside those rumbling engines was Figgy’s favorite way to drift off—and one of the rare recreations the old woman had allowed him.

There was no doubt the Russian would soon return. Even so, the strange gringo sighed a Whew of relief when he was gone and whispered, “That was a close one. We should have run for it, man. No matter how drunk some bandito happens to be—a pissed-off husband is a better example—hiding is the surest way to get your ass kicked. Next time, you should listen to me.”

Tomlinson got to his feet; peeked through the steel grating, then tested the dead bolt at the top of the frame. “Gad, he almost ripped out the damn screws. What a monster. Just gave it a little shake. See for yourself. Dude, we’ve got to get out of here. He cut the pinga off that poor bastard and we both know it. Even with me, superstition only goes so far.”

Figueroa, speaking of his grandmother, replied, “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean her temper has improved. No blood on the sheets, I understand, but it’s different here. Her spirit can come out of the earth and do all sorts of nasty shit. How long you think she’s been dead?”

Tomlinson took another look through the grating. “Maybe he’s not coming back. Christ, I hope he’s not coming back.”

Figuerito only shrugged. “Did you hear what he said about the motorcycles?”

“He spoke in Russian, for god’s sake. But look—he closed the door, at least, when he left. That’s a good sign. I think I heard another door close, too. It’s what people do when they’re not coming back. A guy that size, what’s he want with a Harley? These old classics”—Tomlinson was already coveting the bike of jet-stream blue—“are half the size of a modern-day hogster.”

Figuerito was becoming irritated. The hippie was always offering advice or lecturing him on the difference between right and wrong. Surprisingly uncooperative, too, when they had pried open a crate stamped SERVILLETAS SANITARIAS but which, in fact, contained a pair of old gangster-style Thompson submachine guns.

“We have many bullets,” Figgy whispered. “Here . . . see?” He produced a weathered box of .45 caliber Remingtons. “Show me how the guns work.”

Tomlinson recoiled as if the box contained mierda. He didn’t want to hold a machine gun either, although he was impressed with the gold lettering that read LOYAL BEYOND DEATH—FULGENCIO BATISTA.

“Geezus Christ. General Rivera would sell us both into slavery to get his hands on these babies. A tampon crate is exactly where they belong. Put them away.”

This was all very confusing. “Would you rather use the guns as clubs? They’re heavy enough, I suppose, but he’s a big one, that Russian. It’s safer, I think, to shoot him.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not shooting anyone. There’s got to be another way out of here.” The hippie, whispering, went to the back wall, where there was an air vent, the wall streaked with mold beneath a low cement ceiling. “You’ve got to get off this killing kick. Seriously, it goes against every moral code and law—even in the minor leagues. Violence just begets more violence.”

Figgy had one of the Thompson machine guns on his lap. “Of course. Why do you think I want to shoot him? The problem is, the old woman didn’t mind me playing with the motorcycles, but I wasn’t allowed to touch these”—he turned the gun upside down—“and shooting is more complicated than I thought.” He pressed a button, gave a yank, and the magazine drum popped free. It resembled the film canister, only thicker. “Hey . . . do the bullets go in here?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Figueroa felt his ears warming, but he concentrated on a lever at the front of the drum. He pushed, pulled, then pried. One side of the drum broke free and clattered like a hubcap when it hit the floor. “¡Ay, caramba!” he said, looking inside. “Lots of little spaces in here.” He began inserting cartridges. “Hey . . . they fit. Okay . . . once it’s loaded, then what?”

Tomlinson was at a rack of metal shelves, moving boxes to see what was behind them. He didn’t bother to respond.

Figuerito didn’t like that. They were running out of time. “Brother. You’re from Florida. Everyone in Florida knows about guns. Have you forgotten the bandito in the parking lot? And the baseball team, the ones who chased me from Texas? Even in the dugout, their catcher had a—”

Tomlinson threw his hands up but kept his voice down. “I swear to god, I don’t know how to load a Thompson submachine gun. If we could just wiggle through a crawl space or, hell, fire up those bikes, maybe, and . . . Geezus, the damn tires are flat. What next?”

“There’s a bicycle pump,” Figuerito said. “In front of you, next to the red can. But don’t use it all. Later, that’s when I’ll need it. The gasoline, after I shoot him.”

“Does it work?”

“The gasoline? Three years ago, of course. Harley-Davidsons don’t run on diesel. Do they use diesel in the Estados Unidos?”

Tomlinson tested the tire pump’s plunger a few times, but his attention drifted to something lying atop a box. A baseball card with sewing needles stuck in it like some type of Santería curse. On the back: Iván Bárbaro Figueroa, Birmingham, Alabama, Tigers, 1980. He’d hit .344 in ’78, but then suffered a hitless two-year slump that, presumably, had ended his career. Tomlinson’s blue eyes moved from the card to Figgy, then back to the card. Too many similarities not to ask, “Are you related to this guy?”

Figuerito was busy reattaching the magazine to the machine gun but glanced over. “Him? He was an outfielder. Brother, even in English I know that.”

“I don’t know . . . something about the ears, his chin, the whole look. Are you sure?”

“To an outfielder? My abuela would not have ordered me to chain a relative from the outfield in the cellar if Iván Bárbaro ever came back. He didn’t come back, but she kept that ugly picture, so I know what he looks like.”

On the back of the card, Tomlinson read Born Pinar del Río, Cuba. Five feet four, two hundred and five pounds. “A righty. Geezus, you’d need a backhoe to knock the guy off his pins. Uhh . . . speaking of pins . . .”

“I spit on his name, the thief, and my mu-maw cursed him. Before I was born, there were three motorcycles and three nice machine guns. One was painted gold, which, of course, matched these pretty words.” His finger traced the inscription LOYAL BEYOND DEATH. “I blame Iván Bárbaro for her dislike of baseball. For firing the maid, too, who, even as a youth, I knew had beautiful pink chichis.”

Tomlinson shrugged his understanding. “He stole them both. I get it.”

“No, just the motorcycle and the gun. Isn’t that enough? Gold’s my favorite color.”

After a last look at the baseball card, Tomlinson returned to the moment, while, under his feet, the floor vibrated with the sudden impact of a big man falling on cement.

Figuerito didn’t notice. He pulled the gun’s bolt back and let it snap into position. Success. Then bounced to his feet saying, “Hope I didn’t put the bullets in backwards. What would happen, you think? I don’t want to shoot myself. If I shoot myself, then it will be up to you to . . .” He froze, crouched, and thrust up a warning hand. “Listen. Did you hear that?”

From the echoing distance, through two steel doors, a man’s bellow reached them, then one familiar word in Russian.

Pizda.

Figgy turned to his friend. “The Russian’s calling you names again.” He pulled the dead bolt clear and pushed the steel grating open. “Brother, that makes one of us mad.”

•   •   •

SOMEWHERE IN THE TUNNEL, beyond the bedroom, furniture crashed. There came the thump of heavy flesh on concrete, of hollow bone hitting bone, and the clang of a steel door banging open . . . or slamming closed. No way to know.

Figueroa, with the machine gun at waist level, paused at the foot of his grandmother’s bed. Another steel door slammed . . . then silence. Woodsmoke carried an unfamiliar chemical odor. He sniffed the air, turned, and spoke silently to the dead woman: Stop nagging. I’ll burn everything, just as promised. Letters and movies and photos. Even the motorcycles. But—he stepped back fearing a sign of protest—I didn’t say when I’d burn them . . . did I?

Candle flames twitched, the woman lay motionless. He pressed ahead.

So . . . I’m going to use the motorcycles for a while. Probably drive to baseball games. Keep this nice gun, too—if it works.

The corpse did not budge.

Good. Finally, she approved.

Behind him, Tomlinson stopped, made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Safe passage, Imelda Casanova.”

Strange words, even for a left-handed pitcher, but at least he had stopped lecturing about the evils of shooting the Russian. Fear of losing his pinga, Figuerito suspected, had opened the man’s mind to new ideas.

Now all he had to do was kill the Russian, then figure out how to transport the dead giant and the bad Santero to the special place high above the sea. The mule was missing, but they had that nice Buick station wagon. Remove the chickens and there would be room enough.

Tomlinson, after waiting through more silence, said, “The Russian, he’s gone . . . or maybe he passed out. Did you smell his breath? Smirnoff, a hundred proof.”

“Drunk?”

“Yeah, and I’m envious. Figgy, this is batshit nuts. Hell, if he wants the letters, let him have them. They’re not worth dying for, and your grandmother is beyond caring.” His eyes drifted away from the bed. “We don’t even know if that gun works or not. Amigo”—Tomlinson took a big breath—“sometimes talking is best. Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

Strange as the man was, he was thoughtful and sometimes made sense. “You’re worried the bullets are in backwards.” Figuerito smiled. “That I’ll shoot myself. Brother, I’ve never had a friend as devoted as you. We’ll go together.”

He cracked the door a few inches, intending to sneak a look, then said, “Uh-oh!” and tried to squeeze through in a rush because he saw flames. The machine gun, with its wide magazine, snagged and the gun went off, a deafening chain of explosions that rang in the shortstop’s ears even after he’d stumbled into the hall. It took another second to realize he had to take his finger off the trigger to stop the weapon’s wild convulsions.

“Wow,” he said, looking back at Tomlinson. “This is some gun.”

The gringo, fingers in his ears, was yelling, “Holy Geezus shit! Have you lost your beaner freakin’ mind?” and other words in English, to which Figuerito nodded agreeably.

“That’s what I think. If the Russian’s out there, I’ve killed him by now. Come on.” He jogged toward the fire, which turned out to be only a blanket or bedsheet burning. No . . . it was a shower curtain. He stomped out the flames, then, turning toward the next room, saw that the door to his abuela’s shrine was open. In the doorway lay the giant.

Figuerito aimed the gun at him. “Bring the lamp,” he said but didn’t wait. When he was close enough, he nudged the Russian’s foot with his sneaker. Then nudged him hard enough that a conscious man would move. But the giant didn’t move.

Tomlinson arrived, carrying the lamp above his head. “Oh shit. Now what are we going to do?” Then said, “I know, I know—the cliff. Or . . . maybe he’s still alive.” He knelt by the Russian. “Christ . . . you shot him at least three times. See his legs? Help me roll him over. There have to be other wounds.”

“Shot him, yes, but I didn’t steal his pants. Check under his shirt. I wonder where they went.” Figuerito leaned to see into the shrine, which was busy with Santería offerings, and the crypts of unknown children his abuela had forbidden him to discuss or ever mention to outsiders.

“Those are the only bullet wounds,” Tomlinson said. “His burns . . . I don’t see anything that bad. But his head—such a weird angle. And at least one arm broken. Gad”—he moved the lantern a little—“a compound fracture. And that hand . . . his fingers aren’t much better.” He turned to Figuerito. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Are you sure?” He motioned with the machine gun. “I’ll do better now that I know how this works. Don’t you think you should move?”

The strange gringo tried to yank the gun from his hands, but Figgy was too strong. “Go get your own—but I’m only loaning you the other gun. When you come back, maybe our problems with the Russian will be done. After that, we have work to do, so bring the briefcase. Oh, and the movie film. The film will help the gasoline.”

“Listen to me!” Tomlinson put his hands on Figuerito’s shoulders. “He’s already dead. You didn’t kill him. That crashing sound we heard? Someone else was here. Someone beat the hell out of this guy, then broke his neck.”

Figuerito raised the machine gun and turned a slow circle. “Who?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t kill the guy, and you didn’t kill that poor bastard out there by the tree. Dude, it’s like freedom. See? We’re not guilty of anything. You’re still a Cuban citizen, and I’ve got a visa, so—”

Figgy didn’t want to hear any more. “We’ve got to find this violent person. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

That was true. They both waited, ears alert, but heard nothing. Finally, Tomlinson said, “Let me think for a second. I want to be sure before we do anything crazier.” He squatted by the body. Got on his knees and crawled around, using the lantern to see. He found a pistol but didn’t touch it. “A Glock,” he said. “I didn’t hear any shots.”

Figgy thought, You were smart to put your fingers in your ears. Bells in his head were still ringing. He left the strange gringo and checked the bathing area, grimaced at what he saw in the commode. Then crossed the hall, stepped over the Russian, and entered his grandmother’s Santería shrine.

The stainless fillet knife was gone.

Tomlinson continued his search. In the breast pocket of the Russian’s shirt was a folded piece of paper; the paper was old and resembled the pages in the radio logbook. Tempting, but he didn’t touch that either. Bundled against the wall was a woman’s robe. Nearby, he found a ribbed collar torn from a child’s shirt, or pajamas, the material pink with white checks, the checks spattered with blood.

“Don’t touch a damn thing,” he said. “This is a crime scene. A setup. Very, very orderly.” Orderly—he mouthed the word again. “Gotta be. That devious bastard. Maybe he didn’t realize we were in here.”

Peculiar, the gringo’s tone. It was as if he were puzzled but already knew the answer to the puzzle.

Figuerito stepped into the hall, where Tomlinson was cleaning his hands on his shorts. “I need to check on something outside. Won’t be a minute.”

“Not without me,” Figgy told him. “Whoever it is took my abuela’s knife from her shrine. The man who could do this”—he indicated the Russian’s contorted arm, his broken neck—“that man is dangerous.”

“Sure, if you want. The knife—probably seeding more evidence or destroying it. Who knows? There’s always a reason with him.” Tomlinson looked back. “Leave the gun. Mostly, Doc’s a nice guy.”

•   •   •

FIGUERITO WASN’T GOING to part with the beautiful Thompson submachine gun even for his close friend and shipmate, the strange hippie who, once again, was mostly wrong but a little bit right.

There was no dangerous man waiting outside. There was no dangerous man waiting in the trees near the body of Vernum Quick, the dead Santero. Someone had visited recently, though. The fillet knife lay atop a pile of clothing at Vernum’s feet.

Tomlinson, holding the lantern, said, “Here they are, the Russian’s pants. You could make a circus tent out of—what?—probably size fifties. And look—”

In the sand was a pistol, its handle brassy-colored like a cigarette case. Strange in appearance when compared with pistols seen on TV.

“Planting evidence,” Tomlinson said, “didn’t I tell you? With him, there’s always a reason.” He did a slow circle, his head swiveling as if expecting to see a familiar face.

It didn’t happen.

“I have things I must do,” Figuerito said.

“Go ahead. I want to do another lap.” The hippie stopped. “In the bomb shelter, you mean? We haven’t broken any laws. Remember that. There’s no need to get rid of anything, especially off a cliff. ¿Comprendo?”

Tell that to the old woman, Figuerito thought.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the shelter, filling the tires of the red Harley-Davidson, when Tomlinson returned, saying, “We need to talk.”

Figgy watched him enter. “I’ll loan you the blue motorcycle, but this red one is mine. We can’t both ride tonight anyway. Olena, the chicken woman, will want her chickens back, so one of us has to drive the Buick. I like that Buick, but I was never allowed to drive the motorcycles. Just start them, you know? I’d sit on the seat and twist the handles. Do you know how the gearshift works?”

Tomlinson squatted so they were face-to-face. “Listen to me. We’ve got a decision to make. If you want to go back to the United States, you’ve got to leave tonight.”

“Huh?”

“I found my friend, Doc. Well . . . he found me. I don’t know what hellbroth he’s stirred up, but that’s the deal. You leave now or risk another week while my sailboat’s repaired. I guess I could go, too, and fly back to Havana in a few days.” Before Figuerito could respond, he continued, “I know, I know . . . they’ve got no reason to arrest us. On the other hand, there’s no predicting what Cuban cops will do if they check, and you don’t even have a birth certificate. And the American immigration cops—gad, don’t get me started. It’s up to you . . . brother. He’s waiting for us at the river.”