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Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

Page 17

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

 

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