by Cuba (lit)
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 Jos6 Lopez 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 bis mind, and a
missing ex-finance minister would of necessity be far
down on the list.
Maximo would take his chances. He was hi
Europe, the money was hi the banks just down the
street, the loud and clear call of destiny was ringing
hi bis 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 'acr. 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 tieea"...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 timeea"...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.
"Rail here. For Vargas."
After a few seconds, Rail spoke again.
"Buenos diets, senor.
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 Senor Rail 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. Rail 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 know 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, bossea"...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 hi every building, be filming every move, every
gesture, every movement of the lips.
So neither man said anything.
Carmellini directed then- 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 repaur
van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man
closed the door, and the van rolled.
"Vargas is having a powwow in his
officeea"...Carmellini reported. "It sounds as if
Castro is dead."
"Nobody lives foreverea"...Chance said lightly. "Not
even dictators."
"That isn't the half of it. They're talking about
biological weapons again."
"Bingoea"...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 thatea"...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 Guantanamo 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 Guantanamo after they
crash through the fence."
"Maybe they know we're listening to themea"...Chance said.
"Maybe this whole thing is a hoax."
"Could beea"...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 attache 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 Rail?
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 hare 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 Rail 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, Maximoif you cannot control yourself you
will soon be dead. Or a subject for that pervert's
experiments.
He wondered if Rail had told the truth about
torturing people.
lust thinking about that subject and the way the bastard
told him about itwith obvious relishmake 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 dbor.
Maximo moved to a different seat at the same table
so mat 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, wiped 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 die 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
Rail 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
