Spy ah-4

by Ted Bell

  Stoke smiled and shook his head, “C’mon, now. You’re in America now. We have rules and regulations when it comes to interrogations.”

  “War is war,” Hawke said quietly.

  “Tell me about it,” Stoke said.

  Hawke shifted his eyes to a beautiful old ketch heeled over and beating to windward, a golden blonde lying spread-eagled atop her cabin house. Hawke could make out a tiny triangle of red material below her waist and nothing above it. What a glorious view that skipper had.

  Something, perhaps the sight of such a lovely boat under sail, triggered unpleasant thoughts of the anti-ship weapons Stoke had found on the submerged airplane. The fact that they were Russian-built was troublesome enough. Unfriendly Latin American strongmen in possession of these things was a huge problem. Especially in the Gulf of Mexico. Most of the oil America imported traveled up through the Gulf and entered at the Port of New Orleans.

  “So, your new best friend has agreed to share his deep dark secrets with me?”

  “Said he would. Just before breakfast this morning. I told him I wouldn’t make my world famous five-cheese omelet for him again if he didn’t.”

  “What did you get out of him this morning?”

  “He likes to mambo.”

  “That’s a joke I hope.”

  “You’ll see.”

  STOKE SMILED at Hawke, downshifting to pass an old couple tooling along in a green Volvo covered with “Save the Manatee” stickers. Stoke had nothing against Volvos, or the elderly, but he had almost zero tolerance for manatees. All the fat sea-cows did was eat and get fatter. Didn’t even eat anything bad like mosquitoes or snakes. Just hung around clogging the waterways and ate grass all day. They were totally useless. But, hey, what did he know? He was just saying.

  “Hold on to your hat,” Stoke said, blipping the throttle.

  Just before the intersection of Crandon and Harbor Drive, Stoke braked and downshifted once more, then took a hard right on a narrow, unmarked road. The street was barely visible amidst the thick foliage of an overgrown hedge. They crossed a small coral bridge, barely wide enough. The road became crushed shell beneath an arch of severely sculptured ficus hedge. Once over the bridge and through the hedge, the feeling was quiet and cool and withdrawn.

  “Does this place have a name?” Hawke asked.

  “Place called Low Key,” Stoke said. “Get it?”

  “That’s why there’s not even a street sign.”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  They drove slowly past one or two manicured estate entrances with vine-covered gatehouses. On either side of the gently winding lane were walls of mossy ivory and, visible above them, a few rose-colored crenellated rooftops, peaked, all at various elevations. The few mostly hidden homes, some festooned with exploding bougainvillea, were tucked away in riotous gardens of emerald, blue, and mauve. An old gardener they passed removed his floppy straw hat and held it reverently over his heart as Stoke’s American icon rumbled by.

  Alex Hawke suddenly found himself thinking about Fancha. He had never set eyes on Stokely’s lady friend. He understood that Fancha was lovely to behold. And, judging by this brief sample of her neighborhood, he also had to assume the nightclub singer from the Cape Verde Islands had enjoyed an extremely successful musical career.

  Glints of sun bounced off wave tops now visible through the thick palm groves as the bay came back into view. The shell road had turned to brick. It was cool and shady and the air was heavily scented with jasmine. This small and very private road, Stokely said, was called Via Escondida.

  The Hidden Way.

  33

  V ia Escondida led to a small peninsula that jutted into the bay. At the brick road’s end, they came to a broad cul de sac bordered with sharply tailored hedgerows and stately palms.

  Stokely had slowed almost to a crawl as they approached an apron of mossy brick marking an entrance. Here was a very impressive set of wrought iron gates cloaked with heavy vines and streamers of bougainvillea. The gates were framed on either side by stands of tall coconut palms and a wild profusion of birds-of-paradise in full flower. Hollywood could not have done a better job.

  “This is it?” Hawke asked.

  “God’s little acre,” Stoke said. “Actually, she’s got about ten of them back in here. Do you have any idea how much a square foot of dirt costs in this neighborhood?”

  “One hardly dares ask. How’d she manage it?”

  “She was married to the owner back in the late nineties. A serious club owner from Chicago. Bought this place back in the eighties. He died somehow.”

  “Somehow?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “Another American regulation.”

  Stoke turned into the gravel drive and stopped just outside the gates beside a crumbling stone column with a shiny keypad mounted on top. He reached out and pressed several buttons. The engine was ticking over nicely and Hawke enjoyed the deep burbling note of the muffled exhaust. It was a lovely sound combined with the tinkle and zing of invisible insects.

  He’d had just time enough to read the cracked and peeling painted tiles set into the vine-covered wall. A colorful plaque declared that this was Casa Que Canta. The name roughly translated into something like “The House That Sings.” Appropriate enough, he supposed, considering the current owner’s occupation.

  A second later, the gates swung slowly and silently inward revealing a twisting crushed stone drive that disappeared into the wild yet perfectly maintained jungle. On the other side of this faux wilderness, a monstrous white palazzo sitting atop a gracefully sloping lawn that ran down to the water’s edge. The house was a blend of Spanish, Moorish, and Italianate influences. A three-story-tall tower dominated one end, which Hawke imagined gave spectacular views of the bay and Miami skyline at night.

  The large center portion of the house, which included an ornate entrance portico, was a long colonnade of graceful white arches covered with red barrel tiles. Beyond the arches, a large tiled fountain splashed in a tranquil garden courtyard. Tropical birds of various colors and sizes flitted about the garden.

  “How many bedrooms?” Hawke asked, knowing it was the required question.

  “She stopped counting at eleven,” Stoke said.

  Stokely eased the rumbling machine to a stop under the porte cochere and switched off the engine. As they climbed out of the Pontiac, a manservant in a white jacket swung open a tall cypress door, carved and studded with hammered bronze nails. The man, who had flaming red hair swept back in a pompadour, saw Stokely coming around the front of the car, stepped outside, and said, “Lovely morning, Mr. Jones.”

  “Isn’t it, Charles?” Stoke said, beaming.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Very laird of the manor these days, aren’t we, Mr. Jones,” Hawke whispered to him as they walked up the flagstone path to the arched entrance.

  “Almost as bad as you,” Stoke said, laughing. Hawke, shaking his head, followed him through the door.

  Inside, it was dark and cool. A salt breeze filled Hawke’s nostrils. The central hallway of blue tile and stucco led all the way through the house. At the far end, the brilliant blue bay and silky green lawn were plainly visible. Hawke, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, slipped away to open a very grand door to his left. He stepped inside. It was the living room, a great barrel-shaped affair with a fireplace at the near end that was surely Carrara marble and must have weighed eleven tons or more.

  “Alex?” Stoke said from the open door.

  “Sorry, just looking.”

  “We don’t want to keep the Mambo King waiting.”

  “Where’s the lady of the house?” Alex asked the butler as their footsteps echoed down the length of the hall. He was now even more curious about this woman who might one day marry one of his closest friends.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, Madame said to tell you she had an emergency appointment at the studio. Overdubbing, I think was the expression she used.”


  “Charles calls Fancha Madame,” Stoke said. “Says it all the time. He doesn’t mean anything derogatory by it.”

  “Quite normal, I assure you my good man,” Hawke said, suppressing a smile. He wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

  “Well, we won’t be here too long anyway,” Stoke told Charles.

  “This is Mr. Hawke. He and I are going out to the Boat House to check on our houseguest. How’s he doing, Charles?”

  “The colonel seems much better this morning, sir. I just took him some tea. Would anyone else like a chilled beverage? Mr. Hawke? Mr. Jones?”

  “Maybe later, thanks,” Stokely said, and led Hawke out into the sunshine on the lawn. The ruffled blue waters of the bay lapped at the grass and a Great White Heron picked its way along the shore. Hawke caught a glimpse of a large stucco structure just visible through the grove of coconut palms by the water.

  “That’s the Boat House?” Hawke asked, surprised at the size of the thing. It would have made a nice pensione on the Grand Canal.

  It was an old two-story building, clearly built at the same time as the main house. The architecture was more Venetian and a long dock extended out into the bay. On the landward side, a beautifully tiled exterior staircase led to an upstairs apartment, probably used at one time by servants or the owner’s dock master.

  There was music coming from the apartment. Loud, but with a lot of static, as if from an old wireless set. Tito Puente and his Mambo Kings were singing, “Hernando’s Hideaway.”

  Stoke led the way upstairs and used a heavy key to unlock the weathered wooden door. They entered a small sitting room with old varnished bamboo furniture and a leafy green wallpaper that was tired and water-stained. Shafts of smoky sunlight through the many windows provided most of the room’s illumination. An open door on the far wall led to a small Pullman kitchen; and a second door revealed a slightly larger bedroom containing a single unmade bed.

  In the corner, a man in white pajamas was sitting in a sagging armchair reading the Miami Herald, tapping his toes to the mambo beat. An old RCA Victor radio set, sun-bleached blond wood cabinet, stood by his chair. He was young for a colonel, Hawke saw, probably not more than thirty years old. Beneath his pajama top, heavy bandages were visible. He had a lean coppery face, busy black eyebrows, and no moustache above the white teeth.

  The man spread his paper across his thighs and smiled around his cigar as his host and the visitor approached.

  “Colonel,” Stokely said, “this is Mr. Hawke. I’ve been telling him all about our exciting meeting in the Tortugas. Mind if I turn this music down a little?”

  The man grinned, showing a lot of teeth. “Señor Hawke, it is an honor. I am Colonel Fernando de Monteras, of the Fuerza Aéreo Venezolana. I am honored by your presence. Forgive me for not standing. Won’t you please sit down?”

  Hawke and Stokely pulled up two bamboo side chairs.

  “Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Hawke said amiably. “Sorry to hear about your accident. Where were you flying from when your plane went down?”

  “Cuba. The Isle of Pines. A big island off the southern coast. Do you know it?”

  “Well enough. I believe El Jefe landed there with his boat Granma prior to his glorious revolution in 1959.”

  “He is a great politician.”

  Hawke said, “You’re an admirer of Fidel, Colonel de Monteras?”

  De Monteras shook his head. “No. I said only that he is a great politician, Señor Hawke. Politics is the art of enriching oneself, the art of robbery; that is the very definition of politics for an immense majority of Latin American people.”

  Hawke leaned forward and spoke carefully. “I would like to help you, Colonel. I understand from Mr. Jones you seek asylum. I may be able to arrange that. In return I want you to tell me why your government is buying Russian anti-ship missiles from the Cubans. And, of course, a great deal more.”

  “Señor Hawke, please believe me. If you can provide a safe haven for me and my family now living in fear in Caracas, I will tell you everything I know.”

  “Why do you want to leave Venezuela, Colonel?”

  “I believe my government, in league with others in the hemisphere, is stoking a confrontation with the United States. They are fanning the fires even now as Chávez calls for a communist jihad against American influences in the region.”

  “You don’t support this thinking?”

  “Señor, I think such confrontation as Chávez imagines would lead to the ruin of my country and the death of many millions of people. I am a warrior who loves his homeland. But I am not a suicidal fool.”

  Hawke turned to Stokely. “Could you please call Charles and ask him to send some iced tea and sandwiches out to the Boat House? I think the Colonel and I are going to be here awhile.”

  Stoke rose from his chair and went to the phone.

  “Tell me something, Colonel. Are you really a pilot?”

  “No, señor. I am a commandant in the secret police. I wear the FAV uniform sometimes for travel on unofficial business.”

  “Business that takes you to Cuba. How deeply are Fidel or other Latin American leaders involved in this business of yours?” Hawke asked the Colonel.

  “Up to here, Señor Hawke,” Monteras said, making a slashing motion across his neck. “If not to their eyeballs.”

  “I saw pictures of the two missiles on your airplane, Colonel. Unless I’m mistaken, those are EMP warheads. Electro Magnetic Pulse devices. Am I right?”

  “They are, señor. New weapons to destroy command and control centers.”

  “I know what they are. Only two countries have the technology to generate EMP without the concurrent use of nuclear weapons. Britain and America. So those warheads were stolen. I want to know where and by whom. Now.”

  “I don’t know, señor.”

  “You don’t? Then I don’t know if I can help you, Colonel. My very best wishes for a safe trip home.”

  Hawke stood up and looked at Stokely, shaking his head.

  “Please! Señor Hawke, please sit back down, I beg you. I am aware of one name. A man now in England who may have been deeply involved in the illegal purchase of these restricted devices. Perhaps he can be of some help to you.”

  “His name?” Hawke said, remaining on his feet.

  “He’s German. A former ambassador in Brazil.”

  “Zimmermann,” Hawke said quietly.

  “Yes. You know this name? Rudolf Zimmermann. He negotiated the sale of the EMP technology to my country. Something went wrong during the negotiations. A large sum of money disappeared. Chavez wanted his head. He fled to England, leaving his wife behind at Manaus. I don’t know where he is now.”

  “I know where he is now,” Hawke said, returning to his seat and looking at the Venezuelan with narrowed eyes.

  “Where is that, señor?”

  “He’s en route to Manaus in a small urn,” Hawke said. “No matter. I want you to tell me absolutely everything you know about this Zimmermann transaction.”

  “You’ll get my family out? What do you want to know?”

  “Not what I want to know, Colonel. What I need to know.”

  “I understand the distinction, Mr. Hawke.”

  “Good.”

  34

  MADRE DE DIOS, BRAZIL

  H arry Brock slung his gun over his shoulder and started down the nearly vertical gully that descended beside the waterfall. The narrow muddy ditch ran all the way to the pool at the bottom. The footing was nonexistent but he made it safely down, mostly on his butt, by grabbing at low-hanging branches and exposed roots to ease his rapid descent. He wasn’t entirely successful in slowing his fall and made it to the bottom in no time.

  Caparina and Hassan followed right behind. Harry watched the girl and was amazed at how much more graceful she was coming down. It had started to rain again, hard, and that didn’t make things any easier.

  When they had all three finally reached the slope’s bottom, Harry cupped hi
s hands and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Yeah, I think this is it all right!”

  You had to scream, even though the people you were screaming at were standing only a foot away. They were standing on a rocky ledge at the very bottom of the towering waterfall. The heavy mist made it tough to see more than a foot ahead, and the falling water sounded like God’s drum solo.

  “Let’s go inside,” Harry said, edging along the outcropping. Then he left them and disappeared into the swirling mist, pushing through the curtains of white water.

  A second later, he had entered the sudden wet stillness at the cave mouth. It was the same one, he saw, the place where he’d hidden. He’d stood right here, terrified, waiting for the dogs to find him. A piece of sheared-off bamboo he’d planned to use as a weapon lay just where he’d left it three weeks earlier. He’d never gotten to use it when they’d burst inside and dragged him away.

  Caparina and Hassan waded in, stamping their sloshing boots and wiping the water from their eyes.

  “This is it?” Caparina said, hope rising in her voice.

  “Definitely,” Harry said, fingering his bamboo shaft. “See? My trusty spear.”

  “This way,” Hassan said.

  Saladin had wandered off, running his hands over the cave walls. He pulled a rubber-coated flashlight from inside his waistband and clicked it on. Caparina did the same with her own flashlight and Harry followed. Their beams disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, a gentle incline leading away from the mouth.

  “The cave is natural,” Saladin said, “the tunnel is not. Hurry.” Harry got the feeling he’d been looking for this place for a very long time.

  “Come on, Harry.” Caparina disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel on the heels of her ex-husband.

  They were forced to walk single file through the narrow tunnel. Water dripped from above, annoyingly cold when it spattered on your head and ran down your back. They had to stoop, and sometimes crawl, to climb through some sections. Harry guessed they’d ascended a good fifty feet from the entrance, perhaps passing under a river at some point the dripping was so bad.