“These people are all losers,” the old man said, “including me. We came looking for something we will never find. Why are you with us?”
“It’s time for someone to relieve López on the pump. I will do it for a while, then you relieve me, old man.”
“We are going to die soon, I think,” the old man said.
Ocho hissed, “There are children listening. Watch your mouth.”
“When we can pump no more we will swim. Then we will die. One by one people will drown, or sharks will come.”
“Look for a ship,” Ocho said harshly, and went below.
Sharks! The old windbag, scaring the children like that.
Of course sharks were a possibility. Blood or people thrashing about in the water would attract them, or so he had always heard. Sharks would rip people apart, pull them under.
He pumped for a bit over twenty minutes, then took a break. The water came in fast. After five minutes he began pumping again. Another twenty-one minutes of vigorous effort was required to empty the bilge.
The water was coming in faster than it did yesterday. Pumping the handle manually seemed to require more effort too, though he knew he just had less energy. Pump, pump, pump, take a brief rest in the stinky bilge, then pump again … .
The more tired he grew the more hopeless he felt. All of them were doomed. Dora, the baby growing within her, the baby that he had put in her womb …
It was his fault. If he had been man enough to say no, to not surrender to lust, all these people would still be in Cuba, they would have a future to look forward to, not watery death. All the people who had been swept to their death would still be alive.
Alive! He had no idea of the horrible things he was setting in motion when he opened her dress, felt the ripeness of her body, felt the heat of her.
The guilt weighed on him, made it hard to breathe. He must do what he could to save them all. That was the only honorable choice open to him. Save as many as possible and maybe God would forgive him.
Maybe then he could forgive himself … .
And he shouldn’t give up hope yet. As he worked the pump handle he scolded himself for being so negative, for not having faith in God, in His plan for the twenty-six human beings still alive on Angel del Mar.
Soon a ship would come. The sailors would see the boat and rescue them. Give them cool, clean water, all they could drink; and food. Let each of them eat their fill. Soon it would come. Any minute now.
He pumped and pumped, sweat burned his eyes and dripped from his nose, though not so much as he sweated yesterday. He was very dehydrated. The salt had built up in his armpits, his groin, and it cut him. With his free hand he scratched, which only made the burning worse.
Any minute now a ship will come over the horizon. Soon …
Maximo Sedano took a taxi from the Zurich airport to an excellent hotel in the heart of the financial district where he had stayed on six or eight previous visits. The hotel was old, solid, substantial, almost banklike, yet it was not the primo hotel. This was the last time he stayed here, he told himself. Eduardo José López would stay at the best hotel in town because by God he could afford it. And because the staff over there had never seen him as Maximo Sedano.
He would have to make many adjustments, avoid photographs, avoid places where prominent Cubans might see him, like the heart of Madrid or London or Paris. Of course, if Vargas was assassinated in the turmoil following Fidel’s death, he could relax his vigilance somewhat. Vargas was a bloodhound, a humorless man with a profound capacity for revenge. Still, if Vargas came out on top after the succession struggle in Havana, he would have many things on his mind, and a missing ex-finance minister would of necessity be far down on the list.
Maximo would take his chances. He was in Europe, the money was in the banks just down the street, the loud and clear call of destiny was ringing in his ears.
He was sipping a drink and thinking about where he might go for dinner when he heard a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
“Delivery.”
“I ordered nothing. There has been a mistake.”
“For the Honorable Maximo Sedano.”
Curious, he opened the door.
The man standing in the hallway was European, with thinning hair and bulging muscles and a chiseled chin. And he was holding a pistol in his right hand, one pointed precisely at Maximo’s solar plexus.
The man backed Maximo into the room and closed the door.
“Your passport, please?” A German accent.
“I have little money. Take it and go.”
“Sit.” He gestured toward a chair by the bed with his pistol. Maximo obeyed, thankfully. His knees were turning to jelly and he had a powerful urge to urinate.
“Now the passport.”
Maximo took the diplomatic passport from his inside pocket and passed it across. Taking care to keep the pistol well away from Maximo and still pointed at his middle, the man reached for the passport with his left hand.
He glanced at the photo and name, grinned, and tossed the passport on the bed. The man took a seat.
“You look white as a sheet, man. Are you going to pass out?”
He felt dizzy, light-headed. He put his hand to his forehead, which felt clammy.
“Loosen your tie,” the German ordered, “unbutton your collar button, then put your head between your knees.”
Maximo obeyed.
“Don’t breathe so fast. Get a grip on yourself. If you aren’t careful you’ll hyperventilate and pass out.”
Maximo concentrated on breathing slowly. After a few seconds he felt better. Finally he straightened up. The pistol was nowhere in sight.
“Vargas said you were a jellyfish.” The German shook his head sadly.
“Do you work for him?” He was shocked at the sound of his own voice, the pitch of which was surprisingly high.
“I do errands from time to time,” the German replied. “He pays well and the work is congenial.”
“What do you want?”
“Vargas wanted me to remind you that you were sent to do an errand. You are to transfer the money to the proper accounts tomorrow and return to Cuba. If you do not, I am to kill you.”
The German smiled warmly. “I will do it too. There is a side of my personality that I am not proud of, that I do not like to admit, but it is only fair that I should tell you the truth: I like to kill people. I enjoy it. I don’t just shoot them, bang, bang, bang. I see how long I can keep them alive, how much I can make them suffer. I own a quiet little place, out of the way, isolated. It is perfect for my needs.”
The German’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You seem a miserable specimen, but I like a challenge. I think with a little prior planning I could probably make you scream for at least forty-eight hours before you died.”
Maximo’s heart was hammering in his ears, thudding along like a race horse’s hooves.
The German picked up the telephone, told the operator he wished to place a call to Havana. He gave her the number.
One minute passed, then another.
“Rall here. For Vargas.”
After a few seconds, Rall spoke again. “Buenos días, señor. I have given him your message.”
The German listened for a few more seconds, then passed the telephone to Maximo.
The Cuban minister of finance managed to make a noise, and heard the voice of Alejo Vargas:
“The money must arrive tomorrow, Maximo. You understand?”
“Your thug has threatened me.”
“I hope Señor Rall has made the situation clear. It would be a tragedy for you to die because you did not understand your duty.”
The line went dead before Maximo could answer. He sat with the instrument in his hand, trying to keep control of his stomach. Rall gestured, so he handed the phone to him.
The German listened to make sure the connection had been severed, then placed the instrument back in its cradle. He stood.
“I don’t kn
ow what else to say. You understand the situation. Your destiny is in your hands.”
With that the German went to the door, opened it and passed through, then pulled the door shut behind him until it latched.
Maximo ran to the bathroom and vomited in the commode.
William Henry Chance was lying on the bed in his hotel room reading a magazine when he heard the knock on the door. He opened it to find Tommy Carmellini standing there.
“Hey, boss,” Carmellini said. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Give me a moment to put on my shoes.”
Chance did so, pulled on a light sportscoat, and locked the door behind him on the way out.
Neither man spoke as they rode the elevator downstairs. Out on the sidewalk they automatically checked for a tail. No one obviously following, but that meant little. If the Cubans had burned them as CIA, they could have watchers in every building, be filming every move, every gesture, every movement of the lips.
So neither man said anything.
Carmellini directed their steps toward one of the larger casinos on the Malecon. Latin music engulfed them as they walked into the building. The place reminded Chance of Atlantic City, complete with crowds of gray-haired retirees buying a good time, mostly Americans, Germans, English, and Spaniards. No Cubans were gambling, of course, just foreigners who had hard currency to wager.
The only Cubans not behind the tables were prostitutes, young, gorgeous, and dressed in the latest European fashions. At this hour of the evening the cigar smoke was thick, the liquor flowing, and the laughter and music loud.
The two men drifted around the casino, taking their time, checking to see who was watching them, then finally sifted out of the building through a side door. At the basement loading dock a man was inventorying supplies in a telephone repair van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man closed the door, and the van rolled.
“Vargas is having a powwow in his office,” Carmellini reported. “It sounds as if Castro is dead.”
“Nobody lives forever,” Chance said lightly. “Not even dictators.”
“That isn’t the half of it. They’re talking about biological weapons again.”
“Bingo,” Chance said, a touch of satisfaction creeping into his voice.
“Yeah. Vargas says there is a warehouse full of biological warheads at Gitmo.”
It took a whole lot to surprise William Henry Chance. He gaped.
“Not only that,” Carmellini continued, “he has one of the things. He’s going to show it to the Cuban people, prove to the world what perfidious bastards the Americans are.”
“He’s got an American CBW warhead?”
“You’ll have to listen to the tape. Sounded to the technician like the thing was stolen from a ship.”
“Biological warheads at Guantánamo Bay? That’s gotta be wrong! Have these guys been smoking something?”
“I think Vargas and his pals have gone off the deep end. Either that or they plan to plant some biological agents in Guantánamo after they crash through the fence.”
“Maybe they know we’re listening to them,” Chance said. “Maybe this whole thing is a hoax.”
“Could be,” Tommy Carmellini agreed, but to judge by his tone of voice, he didn’t think so.
Maximo Sedano was committed. He couldn’t transfer the money to Cuban government accounts in Havana because the transfer cards contained the wrong account numbers. Changing the numbers was out of the question: any alteration to the cards would be instantly spotted and cause the Swiss bankers to suspect forgery.
Maximo carefully arranged the combination locks on his attaché case and opened it. At the bottom was a pistol, a very nice little Walther in 7.35 mm. The magazine was full, but there was no round in the chamber. Maximo chambered a round and engaged the safety.
He put the pistol in his right-hand trouser pocket and looked at himself in the mirror.
He put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the weapon.
He had to go to the banks tomorrow, act like a bureaucrat shuffling money for his government while they shoveled $53 million plus interest into his personal accounts. Well, if he could kill the German and get away with it, he sure as hell could keep his cool while the Swiss bankers made him rich.
Could he kill Rall?
How badly did he want to be rich?
He stood at the window looking at the Limmat River a block from the hotel, and beyond it, the vast expanse of Lake Zurich. Beyond the lake half-hidden in the haze were the peaks of the Alps, still white with last winter’s snow.
He certainly didn’t want to go back to Cuba.
A drink of scotch whiskey from the minibar helped settle his nerves.
An hour later he left the hotel. He turned left, crossed the Limmat River on the nearest bridge, and headed for the main thoroughfare. Perhaps an hour of daylight left, but not more. He didn’t look around him, sure that Rall was somewhere near. He took his time strolling along, pretending to enjoy the early summer day and the ebb and flow of the crowd, many of whom were young people on school holiday.
Finally he turned into an old cobblestoned street too narrow for vehicles and walked up it toward the hill which loomed above the downtown area. Medieval buildings rose up on either side and seemed to lean in, making the street seem even narrower and more confining than it really was as the daylight faded from the sky.
He found the restaurant he remembered and went inside. Yes, it was as he recalled, with the tables and chairs just so, the kitchen beyond, and past the kitchen, the rest room. One with an old tank mounted high in the wall with a pull chain.
How long had it been?
Two years, at least.
The waiter was new, didn’t seem to recognize him. Not that he should, but it might be inconvenient if he should later recall seeing Sedano here this evening.
Maximo sat with his back against the wall, so that he could see both the front doorway and the door to the kitchen.
He ordered an Italian red wine, something robust, while he studied the menu.
The truth was Maximo was so nervous that he didn’t think he could eat anything. The automatic felt heavy on his thigh, its weight an ominous presence that he couldn’t ignore.
He tried to slow his breathing, make his pulse stop racing.
He used his handkerchief to wipe his hands, his face. He was used to the heat of Cuba; he should not be perspiring like this! Get a grip, Maximo—if you cannot control yourself you will soon be dead. Or a subject for that pervert’s experiments.
He wondered if Rall had told the truth about torturing people.
Just thinking about that subject and the way the bastard told him about it—with obvious relish—make his forehead break out in a sweat. He swabbed with the handkerchief again.
There were two couples and another single man in the restaurant. Only one waiter shuttled back and forth through the kitchen door.
Maximo moved to a different seat at the same table so that he could see through the kitchen door. Yes, now when the waiter came through the door he could see most of the length of the narrow kitchen. The chef was moving back and forth, working on something in a pot, checking the oven, taking things from a refrigerator … .
“More wine?”
The waiter was there, holding the bottle.
“If you please.”
As the waiter poured, Maximo murmured, “Have you a rest room?”
“Yes, of course. Through the kitchen, on the left in back.”
“I do not wish to disturb the chef.”
“Do not stand on ceremony, sir.”
He waited, sipping the wine, trying not to stare through the kitchen door. When the waiter returned he ordered, something, the first thing he saw on the menu.
One of the two couples left, the second finished their dinner and ordered coffee, the other man’s meal came at about the same time as Maximo’s.
He was just starting on the main course when the chef came to the door, w
iped his hands on a towel, and said something to the waiter. Then he stepped outside into the narrow street and lit a cigarette. Night had fallen.
Maximo got up and headed for the rest room.
As the kitchen door closed behind him, he looked for the drawer or shelf that held the tools.
Quickly now …
He opened one drawer … the wrong one.
Next drawer, forks, knives and spoons.
Next drawer … yes!
He saw what he wanted, and quick as a thought reached, palmed it, and strode for the rest room.
Ten minutes passed before he was ready for the dining room again. The chef was back at his pots and pans. He nodded as Maximo walked by.
Maximo resumed his seat, took his time, stirred the food around on his plate but could eat nothing more. He took a few more sips of wine, then ordered coffee.
He was just reaching for the bill at the end of the meal when Rall dropped into a seat at his table.
“I should have come in earlier, let you buy me a meal.”
“Get out.”
“Oh, don’t be impolite. I wish to talk to you awhile, to learn what you do for the Cuban government.”
“If you wish to know can I pay more than Vargas, the answer is probably no. I am just a civil servant. I suggest you take up the question with Vargas.”
Maximo took enough money from his wallet to pay for the meal and a tip and dropped it into the tray on top of the tab.
“I have a diplomatic passport. If you do not leave I will have the waiter call the police.”
“And have me arrested?”
“Something like that.”
Rall stared into Maximo’s eyes. “I don’t think you appreciate your position.”
“Perhaps. Have you properly evaluated yours?”
“A roaring mouse.” Rall pushed himself away from the table, rose, and walked out the front door.
Maximo lingered, considering.
He left the restaurant a half hour later, his right hand in his pocket around the butt of the pistol. He looked neither right nor left, walked purposely along the thoroughfares. He crossed the Limmat River and walked toward the main train station, which was well lit and still crowded with vacationing students laden with backpacks. The students sat around in circles, sharing cigarettes and talking animatedly as they waited for their trains.
Cuba Page 14
