1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  Sanchez continued in Spanish, and Dumbas’s expression turned to surprise. He left with the guards. I slowly uncoiled myself and saw black shoes next to me. Handmade Italian. Karen would know the designer. I pulled myself onto the chair, nearly incapacitated from the pain. Sanchez looked at me as if he were an angry dog owner whose puppy had crapped on the foyer carpet.

  “You should have stayed in the internet business, Mr. Reilly.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You have a knack for putting your nose in places where it can get broken.” He held up my book on Santeria. “Breaking into a Tata’s studio, violating his prenda, photographing a government facility—”

  “Tata?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Cuban worms are digging at old scabs in America. If your government is foolish enough to allow media exaggeration to dictate their foreign policy, they’ll be in for a big surprise. Our influence goes far beyond our waters.”

  “Surprise?”

  His teeth appeared. They reminded me of a barracuda. “Let’s say the result would make 9/11 feel like a stubbed toe.”

  I balled my fists. Bring it on, asshole.

  “Your U.N. Ambassador Boltnek made a statement today. America is demanding an inquiry into the CANC’s accusations about a missing boat.”

  Prior to the president’s attempts to open dialogue with Havana, Allen Boltnek, the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, was a strong advocate for increasing sanctions against Cuba. And worse, he was a ham for the cameras. He and Posada were made for each other.

  Sanchez suddenly laughed. “Perhaps you will be the key, Señor Reilly.”

  The key?

  Sanchez knew of all my activities here, including rescuing Truck from Salvo’s. I was either followed, Ivan was an agent, or one of the others had broken under questioning. He walked out and left me alone with my throbbing back and limbs, and wondering if when an American screams in Cuba, could anyone hear it.

  44

  HOW DID SANCHEZ KNOW my father was a diplomat? A sudden thought hit me. Diplomat. Again I heard Dad’s voice, in his best French accent: “The original diplomat, a Virginian.”

  His inspiration couldn’t have been Franklin. He was a diplomat, yes, but not a Virginian, and was never Secretary of State.

  I sat up straight. That job was first held by Thomas Jefferson, a Virginian.

  Was Jefferson into codes? The original diplomat, a Virginian—it must be! A shriek down the hall interrupted my thought process, which was irrelevant to my present situation. I sank back down the cell wall.

  More bottom-numbing time elapsed before I was handcuffed and wedged between two brawny guards in the van that brought me here. Detective Dumbas was in front, along with my two bookends. My inquiries about our destination were ignored, as was my request to speak with the U.S. Interests Section. The Combinado del Este prison was the inevitable destination.

  Sanchez’s joke about my seeking asylum was an all-time low. That and his statement about my being the key bothered me. If he meant my abduction along with the three other missionaries being the key to trigger U.S. aggression, he could be right. Posada would use us as his next rallying cry, and the administration would be pushed closer to using the pre-emptive doctrine. I vowed that if I ever got out, somebody was going to pay, Sanchez, Salvo, Ivan, somebody.

  Our course took us southeast of Havana, through neighborhoods that seemed familiar. But every building outside the tourist center of Havana Vieja was crumbled in condemnable disrepair. A French jetliner descended slowly through humid air.

  We were close to the airport.

  Betty.

  Had she been pillaged down to her air frame? Would she become Sanchez’s personal plane? The van swerved down a narrow lane and stopped at a guarded gate. Security was minimal, less than what I’d expected for a prison. I absorbed the details, because the first chance I got I would try to escape.

  The sound of an engine raced up behind us. I blinked once, and then again, not believing what I saw. A van prominently marked with a red CNN on its side. How did they know?

  Dumbas saw them in the side mirror and rolled down his window. Time to—

  The bookends pushed in on me like a vise.

  I heard the sound of a door open behind us. Dumbas shouted something in Spanish, and the security guard opened the gate. My body felt like a coiled spring. If I didn’t do something now—

  “CNN! Help!”

  Dumbas swung around fast. “Stop that! Not another word!”

  Our driver stepped on the gas, and we shot down the serpentine lane through a scrubby pine forest. God bless ‘em, the CNN van hung on our tail. Come on, guys, keep up!

  We came to another gate, and what I saw next caught me off guard. Airplane hangars. Were they flying me to some remote prison? Dumbas looked over his shoulder, then past me to the van. He was smiling.

  We rounded a squat building, and there, surrounded by single-engine antique planes, and a couple of modern ones, was Betty. The CNN van raced up, their side door flew open, and a camera crew jumped out.

  “Say nothing, or you will be sorry. Extremely sorry,” Dumbas said.

  The van door slid open, and one of the guards pushed me outside. Dumbas grabbed the chains on my handcuffs, which sent shock waves through my bruised body. The CNN crew pointed their camera back and forth from me to Betty.

  Dumbas ran a palm through his oily hair and cleared his throat as the camera crew rushed over.

  “Buck Reilly,” Dumbas said, “You're being expelled from the Republic of Cuba for espionage….”

  All I heard was “expelled.” The reporter pressed the microphone in my face.

  “What were you doing at the government installation where you were arrested? Our Washington bureau has been covering live debate in Congress discussing possible action against Cuba. Are you CIA?”

  “I—” Dumbas squeezed my arm, cutting me off. “What about the others?”

  “Expelled with you.” He nodded toward Betty, then unlocked my handcuffs. “Your entire spy network is to leave immediately.”

  The reporter stood to the side and turned to the camera. “This man, along with three other CIA operatives, has been expelled from Cuba in a gesture by the Cuban government to counter accusations being made in the United States about a missing boat carrying missionaries.”

  Dumbas was barely able to contain his smile. These bastards were using me in a game of global misinformation. The key!

  One of the guards dropped my duffel on the tarmac. I placed my hand on Betty’s fuselage, then jerked it back at the sound of a muffled noise inside. I listened closely, tuning out the newsman’s hype.

  “Open the goddamn hatch!”

  I popped the side door to find Truck, Jimbo, and Chucky inside, soaked with sweat. “Get us out of this shithole!”

  Dumbas stood next to me and faced the camera. “The allegations about Cuba and the missionaries are false. In the face of the U.S. threats of aggression, our release of these covert operatives is a goodwill gesture. We desire peace in the hemisphere.”

  It was all I could do not to deck the bureaucrat.

  I stuck my head inside the plane. “Open the front windows to get some air circulating. I’m going to check her closely, make sure these jackals haven’t stolen anything”

  I felt a hand on my back. Dumbas.

  “Priority passage has been arranged with air traffic control. You’re to fly at fifty-five hundred feet. Leave now.”

  “Not before I inspect—”

  “Now.”

  Pain shot through my back as I climbed the ladder. I had come to Cuba hoping to solve my father’s cipher and maybe learn who was behind the theft of my pouch and the murder of the innocent missionaries, and possibly earn a $30,000 reward. I was going home a pawn in an international game of chicken that had been going on a half-century. The other guard came from the van with my bag in his hand. He placed it inside the hatch, and I heard the unmistakable sound of glass against g
lass. Glass?

  Dumbas winked at me. I slammed the door in his face. What I found inside the duffle made me want to throw up.

  “Rum?” Truck said.

  “Get up front.”

  I contorted my bruised limbs and torso into the left seat. Truck rubbed his knuckles, which showed fresh abrasions and raw skin. Whoever had the assignment to roust him out of Cayo Hueso must be missing a few teeth.

  “Get us out of here before they change their minds,” he said.

  Prevented from checking the exterior of the plane, I ran through a quick review of the basic systems, concluding that Betty was as I’d left her. We had half a tank of fuel, her hours hadn’t changed, and the batteries were charged. Out of habit I reached down to touch my stash, only to feel my heart trip yet again.

  The port engine turned over and a loud backfire sounded. Dumbas, vamping in front of the camera crew, dove to the ground and covered his head with his arms. My laughter stopped when I saw Truck’s terrified eyes.

  I remembered the human stew and carved plane in Salvo’s studio. Was that carving now in ashes on his altar?

  This bird no fly. Leave the spirits of the dead alone.

  I’d rather swim back to Key West then be stuck on this surreal rock any longer, but with CNN broadcasting my involvement here, and with Dumbas’ statement associating me with the missing missionaries, my plan for out of sight, out of mind was shot to hell.

  So much for lying low. Despite my good intentions, I was back in the public eye. Who was I kidding anyway? I had tried to help Willy when I discovered it was his daughter I’d taken to the Carnival. I guess it’s like they say, no good deed goes unpunished. The press, of course, would see it differently.

  45

  HAVANA CONTROL GUIDED ME through a series of taxiways until we finally stopped at the end of runway 4. I clicked the internal mike and turned to Truck.

  “You ready?”

  “Pedal to the metal, Bro.”

  The others were strapped in and sweating profusely. The television crew and European passenger jets were lined up in wait while Betty roared down the runway. When we lifted into the sky there was a collective cheer from all on board. The tower vectored us east of the city and echoed Dumbas’s instructions to climb to 5,500 once out to sea. We gradually increased altitude, and I peered through my side window. The brown ribbon of Havana harbor spread out below us, extending like a ditch of sewage toward the green waters of the Gulf Stream.

  It hit me that Dumbas hadn’t returned my money belt. Willy’s advance of $2,000 was history. An uncontrollable urge came over me. I broke off from Havana Control’s instructions and followed the ribbon of dark water along the city’s western shore. My altimeter read three thousand feet. The voice from the tower grew anxious.

  I keyed the internal mike. “Hang on, partner.”

  Confusion twisted Truck’s features. I gave the other two guys the circled okay sign with my index finger and thumb. Havana Control again repeated instructions for me to vector east. I cleared my throat.

  “Havana Control, we’re having engine problems. We can’t maintain altitude.”

  Truck’s eyes narrowed. I pressed the yoke forward. Betty began a steady descent toward the harbor. I scanned the coast until I could see the warehouse where I’d been arrested. Something Dumbas asked me resonated in my head, and I had to check it out. Little boats, smacks, a container ship….

  No.

  A big white fishing boat with red stripes on its bow-flare was moored at the warehouse. Could it be?

  Betty rocketed toward #1 Obrapia like a Japanese Zero of similar vintage. A pallet of wooden crates sat on the dock. Just as I started to pull us out of the dive, some people ran out of the boat’s salon onto its back deck. One, two, three men, and…a woman?

  Truck elbowed my bicep, inadvertently hitting one of the welts from the rubber hose. I pulled back on the yoke and barely cleared the Carnival’s tuna tower.

  “You fucking crazy, man?”

  “Did you see—”

  “All I saw was you trying to kill us!”

  The interrogation began to make sense. Why Dumbas was asking about the boat, along with Sanchez’s concerns.

  The air traffic controller’s voice went apoplectic. I maintained that our engine problems were persisting. Our altitude had increased to six hundred feet, and between us and open water another target emerged. Truck’s mouth formed a perfect circle as we bore down on the towers of the Morro Castle, perched high atop the hill at the mouth of Havana harbor. Alarm bells would be ringing all over José Martí airport, radar screens at the closest military base, and even surface to air missile batteries hidden within the city.

  I blocked out the screaming air traffic controller along with Truck from the seat next to me and pushed the yoke down even further, aiming Betty at the ancient Spanish fortress. The startled tourists’ eyes stared up as we spun on the port wing a hundred feet above them, dodged the domed lighthouse, then banked hard to starboard. The top of the sea wall was above us as we lit out over the Gulf Stream.

  “Adios, assholes!”

  Havana Control had gone silent. Truck had paled like coffee diluted with cream.

  “Come in, tower, I’m trying to get the problem under control.”

  “Y coño. Roger that, Grumman. Maybe you should return to José Martí.”

  Truck turned to me with Bela Lugosi eyes.

  “Negative, tower, we’re going to try and make it across.” He repeated our flight instructions, reiterating that we were to climb to 5,500 feet as soon as possible, but I’d already tuned him out. “Paybacks are hell, Bubba.”

  Truck hadn’t seen the boat, and if I told him now, I wasn’t sure how he would react, but air piracy wouldn’t be out of character. I knew there had been something about that warehouse. It was controlled by the government, but the crate in Salvo’s back room had its address. Did the Carnival tie them all together? And if so, how? To what end? And why would they threaten me to ‘butt out’ in Key West, and then let me go when they had me in Havana?

  Betty skimmed the azure sea. Cannonballs and MiGs be damned. They’d have to find us kissing wave crests to get even for the stunt over the Morro Castle, because my flight plan had us in stealth-mode. I was done kowtowing to Havana Control, or anyone else from the Cuban government. They wanted me at 5,500 feet? Betty’s altimeter read 55.

  Once we were clear of the Cuban territorial limit I radioed the Coast Guard to report sighting the Carnival. Truck turned toward me so fast I thought he’d hurt his neck. Dejá vú set in when they promised to dispatch the Coast Guard Investigative Service to meet us at the airport. All things considered, seeing that boat had at least added some value to this trip, but at what price? Were the blackmailers the type to watch CNN? Willy’s response to the news would help explain his behavior about Shaniqua and the secrecy about Santeria.

  After the Mayday and two dead bodies, the news of the Carnival afloat in Cuba would launch the media frenzy into overdrive and add validity to the voices demanding a government reprisal. Were the three men on board the original crew? And the woman, could it have been Shaniqua? There had to be answers in Key West. I just hoped finding them would be easier than solving my old man’s riddles.

  Truck watched my every move like a prison guard. “You bother with those gauges, man?”

  “They help, but mostly I fly by these.” I pointed to my eyes. “VFR.”

  “Hell’s that?”

  “View From Roof.”

  “No shit, like a two-story Conch house.”

  Had the authorities connected him to the attempted feeding of Bobby the bull shark at the Aquarium? I imagined him at the helm of the tourist-packed Sea Lion and shook my head, pitying any mouthy drunks.

  Something else struck me about when I dropped Shaniqua at the Carnival. Her interest in my chart. “Looks like a treasure map,” she’d said.

  “What does Shaniqua do for work?”

  “You mean what did she do?” His expressio
n hardened. “Something at the Treasure Salvors store. Sales or tours, I don’t know.”

  Oh no.

  The out-islands around Key West began to emerge as faint smudges on the horizon. Thunderheads rose above them. It looked like we were in a race to reach the airport before a storm hit. Having never succumbed to the dull addiction of golf, the term par for the course still felt appropriate. I aimed Betty straight into the darkening skies. Neither hell nor high water was going to keep this bird away from its base of operation.

  Adrift,

  Alone,

  Alive

  46

  “CHARLES B. REILLY THE THIRD. Why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of this?” My legs faltered at the sound of my full name off the lips of an FBI agent with wild eyes. And worse, I recognized him but couldn’t place from where.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, interfering with a federal investigation?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You jeopardized our entire operation with that hair-brained frontal assault in Havana. CNN, for God’s sake!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I ought to throw your ass in jail for obstruction of justice, on top of the other investigations pending against you.”

  Truck glanced over at me. We were in the Conch Flyer, which had been closed for our interrogation. I’d been getting my ass chewed by Special Agent T. Edward Booth of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He waited until I finished explaining what happened in Cuba before he blew my mind.

  “It’s been what, two years since you were allowed to leave Virginia? Now you’re mixed up in this Cuban mess.”

  Truck pulled his sleeve down over the barbed wire tattoo. Booth had a badge in the belt of his khakis, and his blue blazer might be concealing a 9mm Glock, but he’d never have the chance to reach for it if he didn’t back off.

  “Hell’s the FBI messing with us for?” Truck asked.

  “Agent Booth was in town investigating a smuggling operation. The state’s attorney asked for his help after Jeffries’s body was found,” Lieutenant Killelea from the Coast Guard Investigative Service said.