"We're from the clinic," she said pertly. "The CPS?"
Saarinen stuck out his tongue and vibrated it toward her left breast.
"The Center for Plastic Surgery," she explained, gently pushing him away. "Mr. Steiner's had a face-lift, and he can't be exposed to the sun, but he wants to go out on the ocean for a couple of hours. I'm trying to find an available boat and captain who'll take him out alone. Mr. Steiner's very self-conscious about his appearance just now."
The old man in the wheelchair gestured impatiently toward Saarinen. "Pah," the Finn said. "I can see why. Tell the old turd it's too late. You come downstairs." He grabbed her arm.
"I'm afraid not," she said prettily, unclasping his fingers. "Won't you come and talk to him? He's such a sweet old dear." She put her arm around Saarinen and half led, half walked him over to the man in the wheelchair.
"So?" Saarinen said. "What do you want?"
The bandaged man opened his wallet slowly and took out a hundred dollar bill. He offered it to Saarinen with shaking, arthritic fingers.
Saarinen shook his head. "It's too dark to go out to sea," he shouted, because he assumed the old man was deaf, and also because he enjoyed shouting. "There is nothing to see."
Mr. Steiner proffered another hundred dollar bill.
"I've been working all day. I'm tired. Go home, understand?"
For the third time the clawlike fingers fished into the wallet. This time they came up with three bills, which he added to the other two. The money fluttered in the faceless man's outstretched hand for several seconds before Saarinen snatched it away.
"Steiner, eh? Rich old Jew, yes?"
The mummified head bobbed once, slowly.
"Come on, then," Saarinen said with a sigh. "There's no moon, but maybe your friend will oblige us with a view." He rubbed the nurse's thigh abstractedly. She giggled and kicked up the stop on Mr. Steiner's wheelchair.
"Can you lift him?"
Saarinen made a disgusted sound and spat abundantly on the pier before getting on board. Then he reached down and scooped the old man out of the chair. "Someone your age should not be concerned with a youthful face," Saarinen grumbled. "Even if it gets you what you want, you wouldn't know what to do with it."
He set the old man down and heaved the wheelchair on board. "Okay," he said, panting. "Now you." He held out his hand for the nurse.
"Oh, I have to be back at work. I'll meet you back here in two hours. All right, Mr. Steiner?"
The bandaged man nodded again.
"Fuck your mother," Saarinen muttered.
He left Mr. Steiner on the starboard side of the deck, in utter darkness, as he polished off another half-bottle of Finlandia at the helm while motoring out of the sheltered harbor. After twenty minutes, Saarinen came outside. There was no moon, no stars. "Beautiful night," he said. "Lots to see, eh?"
"What direction are we traveling?" Mr. Steiner asked. It was the first time Saarinen had heard the man speak. For some reason, the voice surprised him. He hadn't expected normal male sounds to issue from the decrepit old body and the bandaged, featureless face.
"North," Saarinen said.
"Change your course. Head due south."
"The view won't be any different." Saarinen smiled, then frowned. "You are sick? You wish to go back to the plastic clinic? Here, I will help you to lie down." He slid his arms around Mr. Steiner. The old man pushed him away.
"Just change your course."
Saarinen rushed to the helm, cursing the melon-breasted nurse for refusing to come on board. "I will return with a corpse, and then the Americans will execute me for murder." He poured some vodka down his throat as the Kronen turned dramatically in midocean to face the other direction.
"Damn old Jew," he grumbled, coming back to Mr. Steiner. "Are you dead yet? We'll be back in Miami in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, I have no radio, but there will be police." He added, "There always are."
"We won't be going back to Miami," Mr. Steiner said. He removed his fedora. A shock of wavy white hair gleamed beneath it. "Just south." He flexed his fingers. They weren't crippled, after all.
"A trick," Saarinen raged, lifting the old man out of the wheelchair by his lapels.
"Put me down, you fool. I'm not going to hurt you."
"No? Then what is this for?" He pulled a Browning .38 from the man's jacket.
"Just take it easy, Saarinen." He held up both his hands, palms out to show he was harmless, then began slowly to unwrap the bandages from around his face.
"How did you know my name?" Saarinen seethed.
"All Finnish alcoholics in Miami are named Saarinen. Didn't you know?" He removed the last strip of gauze.
"CIA," Saarinen whispered. "Bastard. I should have known from your big nose." He jabbed the automatic into Starcher's midsection. "What are you and your dogs following me for?"
"They're not my men. I'm retired."
Saarinen snorted. "Retired from what?" he demanded.
"I worked in Moscow. With Frank Riesling. And Corfus."
"Ah, yes. Corfus. Is your fat friend retired, too?"
Starcher hesitated. "I think Corfus is dead," he said quietly.
Saarinen sucked in his breath. "Then the ones watching me ..."
"No, they're Americans," Starcher said. "Can we go inside? It's getting cold out here. I'd like to explain some things to you."
"Explain your balls," Saarinen said, lumbering down the steps into the hold. He stuck the automatic inside his belt. "I have seen nothing but trouble since I had the stupidity to get involved with you dog-fuckers." He reached under the sink and pulled out another bottle of Finlandia. "What makes you think Corfus is dead?"
Starcher sat at the small table and told him about the strange disappearance of his assistant in Moscow, and the CIA's suspicions that Corfus had gone over to the Soviets.
"Corfus didn't work for the Russians," Saarinen laughed, tipping the bottle to his lips. "He rescued me from them, for God's sake."
"The CIA is citing his help to you as evidence that he was a double," Starcher said.
The Finn choked on his liquor. "They think I... ? No wonder they are watching me like owls after mice."
"It's all a lot of nonsense, but everyone's frightened. The Company's even accusing Riesling. Just about everyone, in fact, who ever worked for me."
"You, too?" Saarinen's face was a caricature of surprise. "Surely not..."
Starcher nodded. "Probably me, too, if they get crazy enough. That's why I'm here. I've got something to do that I don't want them to know about."
Saarinen lit one of his Gitanes, then went up to check on the helm. When he came back down, he was smiling.
"So. Now the grand old man himself has become an outlaw," he said through a cloud of white smoke. "And he comes to the smuggler for help, yes?"
"That's about it," Starcher said.
"Well, I suppose it won't break Mr. Cohen's heart if I don't show up to finish cleaning his boat tomorrow. Where do you want to go?"
Starcher removed his jacket. He tore open a seam in the back, reached inside the lining, and extracted a thick wad of bills encircled by a rubber band. He slapped the roll of money on the table.
Saarinen lifted the pile, whistling low as he began to count.
"Ten thousand," Starcher said.
"A long journey, then. Mexico? Venezuela?"
Starcher took out a cigar, clipped the end, and puffed it to life while the Finn waited. "Cuba," he said softly.
Saarinen lowered himself onto one of the wooden galley chairs, raising the bottle to his lips as he sat down. "Fuck my mother," he whispered. "You are with the Russians."
"Don't be ridiculous," Starcher said, annoyed. He thought for a moment, then decided to level with Saarinen. "Listen to me. I think the Russians have something planned in Cuba for next week, something big that's going to hurt the United States. I can't convince the CIA about it, and I want to go there and find out for myself."
"I don't believe this dogshit
," Saarinen said. "The CIA's not going to do anything, and an old fool like you is going into Cuba to save the world." He threw the money back on the table. "I've got news for you, Mr. Save-the-World-for-Democracy. I can't get you into Cuba. My boat's not fast enough. The Cubans have more fucking patrol boats than the Spanish Armada."
"Don't forget the Russians," Starcher said with a small grin.
"That's right. They're all over Havana Harbor. At the marina, there is talk of little else. Go find yourself somebody else to commit suicide." He took another hit from the vodka bottle. "Smuggle you into Cuba. Dogshit."
"I don't want you to take me in. I want you to take us out."
"Us? Who's us?" Saarinen said.
"Me. A friend. Maybe two others."
"The Kronen still can't outrun a Communist patrol ship. If they arrest me again, they'll hang my Finnish balls out to dry."
"No, not the Kronen." Starcher looked at his watch and climbed the companionway to the deck. The night was so dark that Starcher bumped into his wheelchair. "Do you have searchlights?" he called.
With a shrug, Saarinen switched on the big floods that illuminated strips of stark ocean. "You are perhaps expecting company?" The Finn's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you have given me this sad story to catch me off guard, to set me up for your CIA dogs. But remember, I still have the gun."
"Oh, stop," Starcher said wearily. "Look, I can get another sailor. Ten thousand can buy most of the ship captains in Miami for the night. I chose you because of old ties, nothing more. Because Riesling always said you weren't afraid of anything. The money would be enough to get you settled wherever you want. And if I can pull anything at all off in Havana, you won't have to worry about being followed for the rest of your life. So if you can't believe me, then just turn the offer down." He looked down at the .38. "Hell, go ahead and pull the trigger, if you're that crazy."
Saarinen took a quick drink, his eyes and the barrel of the Browning fixed on Starcher. "Where in Cuba?" he asked at last.
Starcher smiled. He held out his hand. Reluctantly, Saarinen dropped the gun into it. "There's a place between Marianao and Guanajay, about thirty miles west of Havana. We'd have to get there at night to meet you."
"Of course," Saarinen said. "You know the area?"
"Somewhat," Starcher said. "I spent a year in Havana during the fifties."
"So long ago." Saarinen made a face.
"This place will be the same. It's a natural deep-water dock, but because of the terrain, there won't be any other ships."
"What about the terrain? Trees can be cut, buildings can be demolished. The place could be crawling."
"Not trees. A cliff. To go ashore, you've got to climb almost straight up for a hundred feet or more."
"I see," Saarinen said. "And you plan to climb down this mountain and swim to meet me?"
"That'll be our problem," Starcher said. He looked out to the shafts of light on the water, and pointed westward. "Do you see something out there?"
"Pah, what could be out there? Any ship would have its own lights. What about the Russian cruisers?"
"What?"
"In Havana Harbor. The Kronen can't do twenty-five knots. If they find us, they kill us."
"If you're any good, they won't find us."
Saarinen grunted. "Ten thousand is not enough to risk my life."
Starcher grasped his arm absently. "Over there," he whispered, pointing into the darkness.
Saarinen looked. Something dark appeared to be bobbing on the surface of the water. "You snake, you did trap me." He rushed to the bridge, turned the Kronen around by ninety degrees, and grabbed a pair of binoculars. The forward floodlights of the Kronen rested on a sleek, powerful-looking pleasure boat floating silently in the sea. It was painted a dull matte black, and would have been all but invisible without the Kronen's floods trained on it. The deck was deserted.
"Mother of God," Saarinen whispered, moving his boat closer to the elegant black cruiser. "What's that?"
"That's how we're going to get out of Cuba." He reached behind Saarinen and flashed the Kronen's floodlights once. Immediately the other boat burst into light, its hull gleaming. Then a solitary figure emerged from the bridge onto the deck.
"Who's that?"
"His name's Justin Gilead."
"He's going to Cuba, too?"
Starcher nodded.
"And the boat? She's yours?"
"For the moment."
They pulled up directly alongside the magnificent new boat, tied up, and climbed aboard. "What a beauty," Saarinen said, running his hands along the rails. "How fast is she?"
"She'll average thirty-five knots," Justin said.
Saarinen looked up. "Your friend?" he asked.
Starcher nodded.
"A face like a movie star," the Finn said with some disdain.
He squinted, moving closer to the younger man. "The necklace," he said, his voice hushed. "It's the same."
Justin inhaled sharply. "The same as what?" Starcher asked.
"The drop of gold at the bottom ... It must be the same." Tentatively, the Finn extended an index finger toward the medallion. He gasped when he touched it, drawing away. "It is! It is the one Riesling stole from me."
"Riesling stole it?"
Saarinen shrugged. "He paid a pittance. But he held me at gunpoint during the transaction."
"And where did you get it?" Justin demanded.
Saarinen stared at him for a long time, then averted his eyes, throwing up one hand with a shrug. "It was so long ago ..."
"Where?" Justin rasped, grabbing the man by his shoulders.
"Justin, stop," Starcher said.
The Finn eyed Justin curiously. "The medallion, it has perhaps more value than I thought. Riesling asked the same questions." He saw Justin's ice blue eyes staring at him and said quickly, "I bought it in Poland. The man I got it from said it belonged to the Undead One. He said it carries the curse of death with it. Are you the Undead One?" he asked.
Justin turned and went below.
"What's wrong with him?" Saarinen asked.
"Bad memories," Starcher said. "Now, how about my offer?"
Saarinen's expression immediately changed as he looked over the sleek new boat. "Ten thousand plus her?"
"That's the deal."
"What about the Kronen? The authorities will look for her when 'Mr. Steiner' and the infamous Communist ship captain do not return. If they find her abandoned, they will know."
"There are fires on board fishing boats with galleys," Starcher offered. "Especially when the captain is known to drink."
Saarinen's eyes widened in surprise. "Burn the Kronen? But she is my child, my woman, my lover. I would sooner burn the flesh off my arm."
"Then give me back the ten thousand," Starcher said levelly.
"What?"
"I have the gun now. Don't make me use it."
Saarinen looked longingly at the battered old boat. "I suppose a grease fire would do it," he said with a sigh.
Starcher smiled. "Have you got any matches?"
"Matches, yes," Saarinen mumbled huskily, turning to board the Kronen. "But it will be the soul of my soul that I burn."
He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he carried under his arm a clutch of bottles filled with clear liquid, and a faint orange glow appeared sporadically in the entranceway to the Kronen's hold. Saarinen took the bottles to the bridge. "Open one, please," he said to Starcher. "I'm afraid I will need it."
He started the engine. "When will we have this glorious Cuban holiday?"
Starcher handed him the bottle. "Next week."
As the Azimut sped northward, the Kronen burst into tongues of high flame.
"Fuck all our mothers. Sometimes one must change to live, yes?" Saarinen said brokenly.
"Spoken like a true philosopher."
"And there is nothing to keep me from calling this new beauty the Kronen also, yes?"
"Nothing whatever."
Saarinen un
screwed the lid on a bottle of Finlandia. When the fire reached the old boat's fuel tank, the Kronen exploded in a blazing roar that tossed the newer craft like flotsam on the churning waves.
Saarinen, his eyes moist, let loose with a howling whoop of merriment. "That's how to go, girl!" he shouted, hoisting the bottle high above his head in salute. "To tomorrow." He leveled the bottle to his lips and drank a deep and long toast to the destroyed boat.
Starcher, too, felt a vague elation at the destruction of the craft. Death always provided the best cover. With the wheelchair on board, if anything was ever found, investigators would assume that the captain and his passenger had perished in the fire. But more than that, Saarinen had been right about the way to go. Off in a blaze of glory, that was how to do it. In his youth, part of his attraction to the dangerous and unpredictable line of work he had chosen had been that he had a good chance of dying well. As things turned out, he would most likely be far removed from any semblance of glory when his own time came: His destiny was to die ignobly beneath the electric shocks of a cardiac team's defibrillators after his leaky valve finally gave out; of that he was close to certain. But his old fantasies came to life again in the light of the burning ship. With the wind in his face, he felt the heroics of the old fishing boat's death throes. Maybe Cuba. Maybe he would die worthily there. It was not the worst of ends.
On deck, Justin, too, watched the flames.
Always by fire, he thought. All I have ever loved has perished in fire.
Come back, Justin, the voices in his head called. Come back to your demons, your fears. We wait for you, Justin. We wait...
The wind blew the hot tears from his cheeks. He couldn't go back. He had promised Tagore to follow the man who had led him this far, and who would take him to the end.
Perhaps in the end, he himself would die by fire.
It didn't matter anymore. As long as it happened soon.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Starcher and Justin Gilead sat at a small tile-topped table in one of the cocktail lounges at Mexico City's sprawling airport, with an hour to wait before boarding their flight to Cuba.
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