Текст книги "Cuba Straits"

Автор книги: Randy Wayne White

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Figueroa was getting nervous. “I didn’t ask what’s inside. The general tells me to watch something, I watch it. He tells me not to look inside a briefcase, I don’t look inside. As a child, I made a vow to a certain deity that I will not lie unless—”

Tomlinson, after inspecting the flap, sat up fast, saying, “Son of a bitch—I was right,” but gathered himself when he saw the shortstop’s face. The poor guy was ready to run barefoot through the streets again. So he took a breath—like, No big deal—and added, “On the other hand, Figgy, I’m seriously blazed. For instance, I didn’t realize I spoke fluent Spanish until now.”

This was true, although the initials on the briefcase suggested it was a big deal.

“God damn, brother, you scared me, actin’ like you found something bad.”

“Dude, look for yourself. We’ve got ourselves a situation here. Do the initials F.A.C. mean anything to you?”

“Nope. You want to open this case, you welcome, but it’s up to you.” The shortstop pushed the thing toward him and reached for the lighter. “All I promised to do is watch.”

F.A.C. Tomlinson, after reconfirming those initials, decided, It’s got to be his. Damn few people, even Cubans, knew that Fidel Castro’s middle name was Alejandro. But that wasn’t proof enough. He fiddled with the lock, part of him hoping it wouldn’t open.

Cripes. Like magic, the flap peeled back to reveal what was inside. There were well-sewn pockets. They holstered reading glasses with wire cables and several antique pens. At the bottom was a stationery box adorned with a ribbon in the shape of a heart. The box smelled of lavender perfume, and had some weight when he placed it on his lap. This offered hope. A man, especially the leader of a revolution, wouldn’t keep something so blatantly feminine in his briefcase.

Figgy, gazing out the passenger window, said, “Hurry up. I’m tired of pretending not to see.”

Inside the box were letters. Several dozen . . . no, at least a hundred, written on paper that ranged from fine onionskin to postcards to cheap legal-sized. Even a couple of telegrams, all in Spanish.

Tomlinson said, “Dude, I’m going to need some help here.”

The shortstop refused to turn his head. “If you can speak it, you can read it. But, brother, don’t read out loud ’cause I don’t want to hear this bad thing you’re doing.”

Tomlinson let his mind go loose and picked out a letter at random. It had been typed; others were in cursive ink, written with a flourish that suggested a Jesuit education:

17 March ’53

My Adored Gaitica . . . I saw Mirta yesterday, she said that she had spoken with Mongo by phone. I haven’t been to the University since the softball game three days ago . . .

“Softball,” the English spelling.

“Figgy, how do you say ‘softball’ in Spanish?”

“‘Pig shit,’” he responded but didn’t turn.

“Float on, hermano,” Tomlinson replied, and skipped over several lines to:

There has been no blood shed until now. Havana is still in a sleepy state and nobody speaks on the buses. Last night they detained Dr. Agramonte and other Party leaders again. Fidel and I remain in hiding, although discreetly moving around a lot . . .

Huh?

He flipped the page over.

My regards to all and to you all the affection of your unforgettable love.

It was signed “Raúl.”

What the hell was a letter written by Raúl Castro doing in a briefcase with his older brother’s initials?

Tomlinson plucked out another letter, this one handwritten, three pages, dated April 1954 . . . and, my god, it was postmarked from prison on Cuba’s Isle of Pines. There was a censor’s stamp and red initials.

My Dear Little Doll . . . In the night I imagined you taking a bath in the washbasin and you were telling me in the mirror that you are too young to be so daring . . . I lay in bed rather absentmindedly and was soon in a state of ecstasy with thoughts of my sweet little girl . . .

Tomlinson spoke to Figueroa. “This one’s hot. I think the guy’s whacking off, which I don’t blame him because he’s in the slammer. You know? Locked up. But wait, let’s see how it’s signed . . .”

The shortstop covered his ears.

At the bottom of the third page:

You are always in my thoughts. Fidelito

Whoa! Jackpot.

Check the mirrors, lock the doors, check mirrors again. Tomlinson started the van.

They were on I-75, south of the Twins stadium, before he finally said to Figgy, who was calmer, “I’ll tell you a great place to play baseball—you ever been to Key West?”

Ford was in his truck, crossing the bridge to the mainland, when Tomlinson phoned from a dugout where the Key West Fighting Conchs played, saying, “It’s top of the seventh, our lives are in danger, and so is yours. Oh . . . and guess who’s playing shortstop?”

It was late afternoon. The Gulf of Mexico, to Ford’s right, was a horizon of cloudy jade; not much traffic this close to sunset.

“You’re on the Keys? I don’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”

“Figgy Casanova,” Tomlinson replied, then muffled the phone to watch Figgy dive to his right, deep in the hole, but come up dealing and throw a runner out at home. “Poetry, man. He’s got a gun. Did you know his grandfather danced for the Moscow Ballet?” A pause, bleacher noise and whistling, before he added, “Seriously, Doc. Rivera’s a traitor. The shit he’s into could get us all killed. Plus, it’s just morally wrong, you know? My conscience won’t let me stand back and do nothing.”

Marion Ford, who had survived jungles and violence, was a stickler for small concessions to safety. Among them, talking while driving. Past the toll station, where gravel and mangroves edged the bay, he pulled close to the water and parked. “Okay . . . go over that one more time. What’s this about a gun?”

“I found Figuerito. He’s with me. Dude’s got a freakish arm; a true magician. And has this child-like quality. Plus, he’s a full-on stoner—but, with him, it’s more of a metabolism thing. Anyway, I had to get him out of Dodge, so I did, which gave me time to think. Thing is, Doc, if you’re already committed to the generalissimo’s deal, I can’t tell you much more. This wasn’t an easy decision, hermano. Just keep in mind, Rivera’s the problem. Not you. Oh, by the way—how’d your run go this morning?”

Assembling order from a scattergun conversation with Tomlinson required patience. “You’re at a baseball game. I can hear that much. But are you really—”

“Yeah, Key West. Seven hours on the road, and we saw some Roy Hobbs players at the Arby’s on Cudjoe Key. There’s a wood bat tournament; the finals are today, so why not? Their team hasn’t talked money yet, but it won’t be a problem the way my man Figgy is picking it clean. The manager, this team from Indiana, he wants to adopt him—or give him a job at his Cadillac dealership.”

Ford knew Tomlinson’s sailboat was in Key West—an obvious link—but played it loose, saying, “And it’ll be seven hours back. You are coming back?”

“Not through Hialeah. A black SUV tailed us clear to Homestead, so I took the back way to Key Largo and lost them in a convoy of bikers. That’s why I turned my phone off—there’s no running from a GPS, man. Didn’t even stop at Alabama Jack’s because—”

“Hold on. Why would anyone follow you? If you’re worried it was Rivera, it wasn’t. I’m on my way to meet him now. If this is paranoia, fine, but try to avoid the fantasy riffs. You’re confusing me.”

Ford heard the ting of an aluminum bat and more whistling. Had to wait awhile before Tomlinson replied, “Meeting the generalissimo, huh?” He sounded wary.

“You knew that. He’s in a rental cottage near the Sky Bridge to Fort Myers Beach. He called about an hour ago.”

More silence. “Doc, we’ve been friends a long time, and I want you to promise me something. Promise you won’t tell that traitor fascist where we are.”

“Okay. What should I tell him?”

“Nada, man. Rivera has played Figgy like a rube. First of all, the little guy’s age, he’s closer to forty than thirty, so no major league team’s going to sign him—especially without a birth certificate. Did you know that? No passport either.”

“How does that prove the general’s a traitor?”

“He’s an asshole, too. In Figgy’s mind, no birth certificate means he’s ageless, but why get the guy’s hopes up? Mostly, I’m pissed because of the briefcase. Rivera stuck him with it for a reason, almost got the dude killed. He’ll get me killed, too, if he knows where we are.”

What’s in the briefcase? Ford wanted to ask, but held off. Through the mangroves, he watched fishermen wade the sandbar and a lone woman paddleboarding. Tomlinson had his quirks but also a gift for reading people accurately. Stoned or straight, his IQ was off the charts. If this wasn’t paranoia, it was serious.

He waited for background noise to quiet. “I warned you about Rivera, remember? So whatever you say, sure. If you want, I’ll help you pull some kind of switch, or just play dumb. Tell me what to do, I’ll do it.”

Tomlinson, reading Ford’s mind, said, “After I tell you what’s in the briefcase, you mean?”

•   •   •

WATCHING THE WOMAN PADDLEBOARDER, he left a message for a friend who owned Tampa–Havana air charters, then left another for his seaplane pilot pal, Dan Futch. If Tomlinson panicked and turned his phone off, no contact, so Ford might need to fly out tonight, Thursday at the latest. A narrow window. Even in a clunky old Morgan sailboat, Key West to Cuba was only a full day’s sail, two if the wind was wrong.

It all depended on Tomlinson . . . and if Juan Rivera would talk.

At McGregor Boulevard, he turned right toward Fort Myers Beach, still unsure if his pal was in danger or just reacting to THC and systemic guilt. The contents of the briefcase, albeit valuable, weren’t as dangerous as he’d feared. It contained love letters to a young girl, nearly a hundred, written between 1953 and 1963 by two men who even then were the equivalent of Cuban rock stars.

Fidel Castro and his younger brother, Raúl.

Hearing those names, Ford had muttered, “Bastards,” which Tomlinson assumed referred to Gen. Rivera.

Stand back, though, view the big picture: Having the briefcase wasn’t that bad. They were personal letters, not political documents, according to Tomlinson. Never mind the brothers were writing to the same girl. Their mistress had saved them, plus snippets of poetry and a lock of Castro’s hair, in a binder decorated with hearts and dried wildflowers. It was a totem of adolescence, Tomlinson had reasoned, from a girl besotted by two older, famous men.

The letters would bring cash from collectors, no doubt, but weren’t worth killing for, although Tomlinson disagreed—not that a man who didn’t speak Spanish could be relied upon to judge. He’d only had time to leaf through the folder, fearing his van was being followed.

Figueroa Casanova was no help. He’d refused to participate due to a moral conflict, some childhood vow to never lie.

No matter. One thing Ford had learned after years of dealing with international intrigue types, power players such as Gen. Juan Simón Rivera: everything was potentially dangerous, nothing was what it appeared to be.

For Ford, it felt like arriving home without leaving Sanibel.

The generalissimo had called around five from a blocked number. He’d sounded subdued; didn’t mention the missing shortstop, but did say, “Make sure you’re not followed.” That meshed with Tomlinson’s claims. So at the Sky Bridge, Ford checked mirrors before turning left onto Main Street, which wasn’t much of a street, just a long asphalt lane. For a mile, it separated the shrimp docks from a geometry of mobile homes fenced and spaced in rows, in contrast to weeds and Elvis-era rentals on the other side.

Rivera was, indeed, traveling incognito. Perhaps that’s why he had provided directions, not an address.

Ford slowed, looking for a dirt road, and noticed a black Suburban behind him. He waved the vehicle around, used a pencil to jot the license number, and watched the SUV drive several blocks, then turn. Rivera’s cottage was bayside, fifty meters past a house with dogs chained in back, and the first drive after a sign that read Weekly Rates. As described, a white Mustang from Hertz was in the drive.

Ford didn’t pull in. Using his phone, he photographed the house, then drove to the end of the street before looping back and parking under a banyan tree. More photos. He scanned for neighbors and surveillance cameras. Cigar smoke and loud salsa music suggested Rivera was inside. In the back of the Mustang, an empty rum bottle warned the general had been drinking.

A training exercise, that’s what this felt like. One of those hide-and-seek games at Langley or at the Blackwater facility across the Virginia line in Moyock, North Carolina. Evolutions, they were called, a new game for every day of the week. As demanding as the courses were, key elements couldn’t be simulated, such as fear of the crosshairs, or an adrenaline spike that, in the real world, caused some men to vomit, others to freeze.

The cottage was faded wood on pilings. Ford was still in practice mode when he approached the front steps—then everything changed. The side door to the garage was open, but the main doors were closed. A small detail that seemed all wrong in this neighborhood.

He veered to get a different angle. Beyond a tangle of hibiscus, a black SUV had nosed into a lot where boats were racked, most covered by tarps. A man wearing coveralls and a tool belt was standing there. He pretended to inspect a boat but was actually eyeing Rivera’s cottage—the cottage on stilts above the floodplain, so Ford was able to slip underneath the cottage into the garage unseen.

The same Suburban? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t see the license. Above him, through the floor, came music and a muffled bearish voice: the general talking, but a one-sided conversation . . . a phone call.

Talking to whom?

Ford moved to the window. The man in coveralls, no phone in hand, was crossing backyards toward the cottage. He was dressed like a cable installer, but cable guys drove vans, not black Suburbans.

FBI? An undercover detective, possibly.

When Cable Guy was closer, Ford decided, No. Feds and local pros don’t mount sound suppressors on their weapons. This man had. From his coveralls, he’d produced a pistol with a lethal-looking tube on the barrel, now close enough to thump his shoulder against the garage while he paused and took stock.

Ford, on the other side of the wall, felt that thump, separated by half-inch particleboard, and knew this wasn’t a stakeout. Cable Guy was a killer. At the very least, he was prepared to kill as quietly as ballistics allowed.

A pro—or too many movies.

It was the way Ford’s mind worked.

Overhead, Rivera, still on the phone, turned the music louder, which proved the conversation was important, and began to pace. His weight sprinkled dust onto a floor that was packed shell, not cement, junk piled everywhere. The particleboard was slick like moldy bread. Spongy enough to put a fist through. But then what?

Ford’s brain shifted from spy games to protocol.

There were two options: remove the asset (Rivera) from harm’s way or neutralize the threat. Training didn’t allow a third, which was to run like hell, although he was tempted. This was Rivera’s problem, damn it. On the other hand, they shared a history, and “neutralize” didn’t necessarily mean “kill.”

In every garage are weapons: clubs and cutting edges and fire accelerants. He chose something milder, a can of Raid Wasp & Hornet Killer, and put an eye to the window. Cable Guy had rounded the corner and was opening a utility box. Part of his act or he was actually doing something, no way to confirm. Ford, an analytical man, went to the door, dropped to a knee, and waited. A lot could be learned from how a gunman entered a room.

Cable Guy was pretty good. Came through textbook-fashion: empty hand up as a shield, the pistol at high ready while his eyes scanned what is called the fatal funnel. Then stepped through to confront the room’s unseen wedge, his shooting arm not fully extended, but enough. Also, he pivoted too slowly.

Ford, from his knee, grabbed the pistol, clamping hard enough to freeze the slide, and used the wasp spray while forcing the barrel down and away. Jetted the man’s eyes and mouth as they wrestled for control, Ford thinking, Pull the trigger, damn you. That’s what he wanted: freeze the slide until one muted shot emptied the chamber without cycling another round. With both hands free and the weapon disabled: end of story.

Instead, the pistol tumbled free. Cable Guy, rather than diving for it, charged blindly. Ford sprawled, spun behind, and used the wasp spray again, but sparingly: one blast in the mouth to silence the man, that’s all. Gagging, the man crawled a few yards and pawed at his eyes.

Ford empathized. Spray had slipped under his glasses, and his left eye was tearing. The damn stuff was oily; it burned. He retrieved the pistol, and used a rag that wasn’t too grimy. The pistol was a .22 Beretta with a mag full of subsonic hollow-points—a favorite of the Mossad and assassin pretenders.

Above them, Rivera was still yakking, oblivious. Outside, no sign of movement within the Suburban. Ford dropped the rag near Cable Guy’s hand, saying, “Use this and keep your voice down. So far, this is just between us. Who sent you?”

The reply was emphatic but garbled, while Cable Guy scrubbed at his eyes.

“Any other weapons?”

A shake of the head.

Ford would have checked anyway. No billfold, no cell phone, but a mini Sig Sauer in an ankle holster, which he pocketed after clearing the chamber. The tool belt had a pocket—two tiny gel transmitters with alligator clips. In the breast pocket of the coveralls, a batch of freshly minted business cards: Ace Cable & Utility / Largo, Florida. No logo, but an 800 number. At the bottom: Hector Spalding / Your Installation Specialist.

Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.

Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”

Cable Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.

Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”

That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”

“It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”

“Your real name.”

“Hector. I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”

“I’m not going to play question-answer.”

“You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”

Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.

Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”

Ford waited.

“Assaulted me, doing my job.”

He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what he does.”

Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”

“It’s not.”

“You were actually there?”

“I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”

“Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”

“I suppose so.”

“Jesus Holy Mary. After that, he tells the prisoner—interreges is the right word—he says to them, ‘Listen to what your gut tells you. I’ll wait.’ Or your ‘inside voice’—something similar—is what I was told. Sounded like bullshit to me. Is it true?”

Rivera did everything with a flair, it was possible. Ford nodded.

“No shit? Why you think I came armed?”

Ford replied, “That’s fairly obvious.”

“No . . . not to kill the man, but as a precaution for my own personal defense. In the security business, that’s what we’re taught. Something else I was told”—Hector, becoming cautious, looked up—“well, that Rivera . . . General Rivera . . . was traveling with a . . . not a bodyguard, exactly, but some serious badass. You know, as in approach with extreme caution. Safety first, man. I’m not some crack addict. We have what’s called a procedural checklist. That don’t mean I came to kill anyone.”

No need for more wasp spray. Ford, placing it on the ground, added flattery. “From the way you came through the door, I knew you’d had some training. Keep talking, maybe we can work this out.”

“From how I handled myself, you mean? Same with you, when you grabbed my weapon—but I expected this psycho Cubano, not a gringo-looking dude. Not that I’m making excuses.”

“Oh?”

Hector, speaking as one pro to another, said, “Tell me something. If I’d pulled the trigger, would it have blown up? I’ve heard different things about freezing the slide. Not from anyone with the balls to actually, you know, experiment, so I’m interested.”

The temptation was to point the Beretta and demonstrate, but better to keep things moving. “Who told you I was Cuban?”

Hector, sitting on his butt in dirt, replied, “I’ll talk, but I want my weapons back. That one there”—a nod at the Beretta—“don’t belong to me. I’ll lose my job, man, if I can’t account for that suppressor. Don’t screw with the ATF, right? And you’ve got to promise not to tell the general until I’m gone. Hey—is he really a general?”

After a long, uneasy silence while Ford stared, the man added, “I ain’t saying you’re crazy. This Cuban dude, I mean. More of a murderer than a pro.”

Another chilly silence. “Man . . . by ‘gringo,’ I didn’t mean no racial slur. That’s what I was told: a Cubano who escaped and hooked up with Rivera. The big concrete jail in Havana—a prison asylum, I’m talking about, the one by the baseball field on your way to José MartÍ. You never been to Cuba?”

Ford thought, Uh-oh. “What’s the guy’s name?”

“The psycho Cuban?”

“Of course.”

Hector sensed an opening. “Do I get my guns back?”

Ford picked up the wasp spray.