Dry Bones

by Peter Quinn

  The waiter brought the coffee and rum. Bassante poured the rum into the cup, raised it to his lips with both hands. “We have a plan.”

  “That’s what Schwimmer said on the phone. What is it?”

  “Heinz resides in a comfortable villa off Calle G in the Vedado. He has two bodyguards, who are probably Cuban policemen hired by his protectors to provide personal security. He goes to the Hotel Nacional several times a week for either lunch or dinner but follows no set schedule—with one exception.

  “Wednesday and Saturday nights he visits a brothel on Calle Consulado, in the shadow of the Capitolio, where the national assembly sat until Batista seized power. Heinz travels with one bodyguard, who stays in the car. In true SS style, Heinz carries out his mission with efficiency and punctuality—arrives at midnight and leaves at one.”

  Bassante placed a leather cigar holder on the table. He flipped it open. Inside was a hypodermic needle. “This is for the driver, in the neck. The one who administers the needle hides on the car floor. Heinz will be annoyed to find him asleep but not surprised. The other two pounce, cover his face with a chloroform-soaked sponge, shove him in.

  “What do you think, Fin?” Bassante finished his coffee and rum.

  “Then what?”

  “We drive to the harbor.” Bassante put the cigar holder back in his pocket. “We’ve hired a boat, small but seaworthy. We sail to the Yucatán.”

  “And what if you’re stopped by the Mexican authorities?’

  “We’ve acquired the proper papers.”

  “To authorize a kidnapping across international borders?”

  “To assure we won’t be interfered with. They didn’t come cheap.”

  “And after the Yucatán?”

  “Mexico City.”

  “What’s in Mexico City?”

  “The Israeli embassy.”

  “They’re expecting you?”

  Stefan Schwimmer slipped in from the barroom to the left. He put his hand on Dunne’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve come, Fin.”

  “I’m explaining the plan.” Bassante fiddled with his empty cup.

  “I heard.” Schwimmer sat beside Bassante on the banquette. “You have doubts?”

  “Questions.”

  “For instance?”

  “You’re going to take Heinz to the Israeli embassy in Mexico City, but they’re not expecting you?

  “I met with the Mossad station chief. He said they’ve more ‘pressing priorities than chasing phantoms.’ I persisted in presenting the case that Hemmer is Heinz—that he’s alive and well. He suggested I’m ‘too emotionally involved’ to make a rational judgment. ‘Is there any Jew devoid of emotional involvement in bringing these Nazis to justice?’ I asked. He claimed they had ‘more concrete prospects.’ We’ll see what they think when SS-Hauptsturmführer Karsten Heinz is delivered to their doorstep.”

  “If you deliver him.”

  “You don’t think it’ll work?” Bassante continued tapping his cup.

  “I think you’re way ahead of yourselves.”

  “We’re about a decade and a half behind,” Schwimmer said.

  “Let’s hear Fin out.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being followed?”

  “By whom?” Schwimmer wiped perspiration from his palms with a napkin.

  “By anyone.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What makes you sure?”

  “I’ve never noticed even a hint of being followed.”

  “All that might mean is you’re being followed by a pro.”

  “We’re not being followed.”

  “Suppose you are … suppose the driver only pretends to be asleep … suppose he isn’t alone … suppose you turn out to be the hunted, not the hunters—what then?”

  “I’ve no idea how long Heinz will be in Havana. For all I know, he’ll be gone tomorrow, God knows where. Tomorrow night—Wednesday—is perfect.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “New Year’s Eve, streets filled with revelers, nobody paying attention.”

  “Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re making the same mistake Louie Pohl made. You’re jumping the gun.”

  Schwimmer threw the napkin on the table. “The only gun Pohl jumped was when he trusted Bartlett. This is the best—perhaps last—chance we’ll have to get Heinz. I’m not letting it slip through my fingers.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but look, you’re amateurs. You don’t have the slightest notion of what it takes to make sure a mission like this goes right—or what to do when it goes wrong.”

  “You forget. I served in the RAF.”

  “As a bombardier, if I remember correctly.”

  “You’re a professional, aren’t you? A veteran of clandestine operations?”

  “Long ago and far away.”

  “I asked you here because I thought you’d ensure our success. If it turns out to be only the three of us, so be it.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bassante, you, and who else?”

  “Her.”

  Dunne looked up. Mirror, mirror on the wall. The lean, honey-haired woman reflected in the glass above Schwimmer’s head approached with quick, determined stride. He didn’t recognize her face but remembered her eyes: green and as purposeful as her step.

  Dunne lingered in the lobby with Frieda after her brother and Bassante left. If she were the damaged, fragile creature her brother had made out, she gave no sign.

  “Stefan didn’t want me to come. He thinks people who give expression to their emotions are weak. I think the opposite.”

  “There’s no room for mistakes.”

  “He thinks he knows what I endured. He doesn’t. Not all of it.” She stared down at the carpet.

  “Your brother is trying to look out for your best interests.”

  “How is it possible for anyone who wasn’t there to truly know?” She looked up. Her green pupils seemed to intensify into fiery emerald. “I was one of the girls Heinz sterilized. It was an ‘experiment.’ There were a dozen of us, Jewish teenagers. He did it without any anesthetics. Four of the girls died from infections. I was the one who labeled him der Blaue Teufel.”

  “You survived.”

  “Yes, thanks to Dr. Niskolczi, I was among the few. Did you know he took his own life?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “When he reached Budapest, he confirmed that his wife and daughters had perished at Auschwitz. He came to Nuremberg and gave a lengthy deposition for use against Heinz. After he learned of Heinz’s transfer to London, where he ‘died,’ Niskolczi bit down on a lethal pill. He suspected the truth, I’m sure.”

  “I admired him.”

  “And he admired you … and your companion, Major …”

  “Van Hull.”

  “Yes.”

  “He survived the war, yes?”

  “Yes. He died only a short while ago.”

  “Stefan says you’re not alone.”

  “I brought my wife.”

  “Though he won’t tell you so, my brother was displeased. He thinks she’ll be an impediment.”

  “Roberta, my wife?” He laughed. There was no way to share her story—their story—in a few sentences, saga of the last twenty years, how they’d met, her strength and courage, how their marriage came about, what it survived, crests, plateaus, troughs, distances imposed and incurred, all they’d come to mean to one another. Why even try? It would all come out garbled and sentimental. “If anything, she’ll be an asset.”

  “You sounded so dubious about being part of this.” The intensity in her eyes had subsided. Her face was expressionless. “Yet you’ve agreed.”

  “I’m still dubious. What I’m certain of is what will happen if I don’t go along.”

  “You’re brave.”

  “I’m just too far down the road to turn back.”

  She took his hand, gently squeezed. “A great philosopher once said: ‘That which does not kill
me makes me stronger.’ I’m stronger all the time now. Stronger than my brother. Hearing your voice on the phone, I remembered the assurance Niskolczi gave us. Providence, he said, would see to it some measure of justice is done.”

  Dunne had a vague memory of the exchange: Providence. A third-rate city in a third-rate state. Or something more. It remained to be seen.

  The plan they agreed on took advantage of the presence of Roberta and Frieda. They’d rendezvous on New Year’s Eve at nine p.m. in the Barcelona’s second-floor ballroom—tourists enjoying a festive supper with good food and a Latin band, and none of the overpriced excesses associated with the high rollers at the splashy nightclubs and casinos.

  After the midnight revel, the women would retire to their rooms. The three men would go for a stroll, mixing with the crowds who filled the streets, rich and poor mingling in a raucous but good-natured melee of drinking, singing, and dancing. They’d gradually make their way west to Calle Consulado, where the presence of several well-known but discreetly run brothels added to the celebratory mix.

  Once they’d taken care of the bodyguard and chloroformed Heinz, they’d drive to a prearranged spot on the Prado, where Frieda and Roberta would be waiting in a car hired by Schwimmer. (He’d dropped a wad of dollars on the driver to get him to take the night off and, after a stormy disagreement with his sister, consented to let her act as driver.) They’d transfer Heinz and proceed to the pier where the boat to Mexico was moored.

  In the morning, they did a dry run, visiting each location and going over every detail. A bottle of champagne with compliments of the management was delivered to Fin and Roberta’s room in the late afternoon. They left it untouched. When they were on the boat to Mexico, they’d have a real celebration.

  The ballroom at the Barcelona was filled to capacity. They did their best to look as if they were enjoying the New Year’s festivities, taking turns on the dance floor with Roberta and Frieda, who, unlike the men, genuinely seemed to be having fun. They bantered with two other American couples at nearby tables, toasting with champagne-filled glasses they conveniently misplaced or spilled.

  By half past twelve, the reserve exhibited earlier in the evening had fallen away. The band was playing louder. Everybody was up dancing. A conga line formed. Roberta and Frieda made an inconspicuous exit. Dunne led Schwimmer and Bassante out among the tide of swaying dancers, strolling guitarists, bongo players, and sloshed yanqui tourists surging through the streets.

  They turned onto Calle Consulado. Roused by a burst of fireworks, a squadron of bats swooped around the dome of the Capitolio. Heinz’s car was where they expected it to be. The driver puffed on a cigarette, ignoring the antics of giddy, inebriated pedestrians.

  They huddled in a darkened doorway across from the brothel. Schwimmer pushed back his sleeve and nervously eyed his wristwatch. “Heinz will be out any minute. Let’s take our positions.” He turned to Bassante. “Ready?”

  Bassante carefully removed the syringe from its case. “Ready.”

  “Soon as Fin and I get to the other side, make your move.”

  Dunne surveyed the street. Perfect setup for an easy snatch. Too perfect. Too easy.

  “Let’s go.” Schwimmer stepped out of the doorway.

  Dunne grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

  “For what?” Schwimmer spit out the words in a tight, angry whisper.

  “For Heinz to come out.”

  “For Christ’s sake, that’s not what we agreed to.” He shoved Dunne’s hand away.

  “Heinz may not be in there.”

  “If you’re backing out, fine. Bassante and I will take care of this.”

  Dunne stepped close to Schwimmer. “Are you sure that’s Heinz’s regular driver?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Maybe this is a diversion.”

  “If it isn’t, we’re blowing our best—and probably last—chance to grab him.”

  “What’s the harm in waiting until Heinz comes out? We’ll still have the advantage of surprise.”

  “Fin is right. If we go ahead and he isn’t in there, we’ll be exposed.”

  “It’s already ten after one.” Schwimmer glowered at Bassante “This is a hell of a time to change plans.”

  “It’s better to make sure before we move.” Bassante repocketed the syringe.

  “I guess you two have made up your minds.” Schwimmer stalked away. Dunne followed him to the other side of the street. They loitered silently in the gloomy space beneath the portico of shuttered building beside the brothel. A few tipsy patrons emerged and went their way. Heinz wasn’t among them. His car and driver stayed where they were. Bassante peeked out of the doorway once or twice. One thirty came and went.

  Schwimmer began to pace. “I think we should go in and see if he’s there.”

  “I doubt the madam will give us a guided tour.”

  The crowd in the street thinned until all that was left was a woman in a long gown and her escort in a bedraggled tuxedo. They fell asleep on a doorstep.

  At two o’clock, a portly, cigar-smoking man in a guayabera and paper party hat stepped out of the brothel. He pulled a string of firecrackers from his pocket, lit the fuse with his cigar, and tossed them into the street. He stopped in front of the portico and smiled at Schwimmer. “¡Feliz año nuevo!”

  Schwimmer smiled back, unprepared for the left hook that crashed into the side of his head and sent him reeling toward the street. Brass knuckles flashed in the light of the street lamp as a second blow hit. Schwimmer swayed but didn’t fall.

  Dunne pivoted. His neck was noosed by a thick forearm that jerked him back. The choking pressure made him feel as if he might pass out. He rammed his elbow backward, swung around, grabbed his attacker’s hair, pulled his head down, and shot a knee into his face. A geyser of blood spurted from his nose.

  Schwimmer lay in a ball on the ground—knees drawn up, hands covering his face—trying to protect himself from a ceaseless succession of kicks. Dunne pulled his gun from his pocket and slammed Schwimmer’s attacker at the base of his skull, knocking off his party hat and sending him to his knees.

  “Fin!” Bassante wobbled toward him from across the street. He stopped and collapsed face first. His head hit the curb with an ugly, hollow thud. Whoever he’d been struggling with hopped into the car supposedly waiting for Heinz. The driver stomped on the gas pedal and the car roared away.

  Dunne knelt beside Bassante and rolled him on his back. The syringe he’d held at the ready was stuck in his wrist. Dunne dragged him under the portico. Schwimmer lay moaning in the shadows.

  Their attackers had fled. Dunne pounded on the door of the brothel. It stayed closed. A car turned the corner from the direction of the Capitolio. Dunne stuck the gun in his belt, planted himself in the middle of the street, and waved his arms back and forth as the headlights approached.

  The car stopped. The passenger door opened. Roberta ran toward him. “Fin, we waited on the Prado. Finally, Frieda insisted we look for you. Where are the others?”

  “Help me get them into the car.” He led her to the portico. They lifted Bassante and Schwimmer, who were both unconscious, into the back. She gasped when she saw their battered faces.

  Dunne got in the front seat. At his feet was a small ice-filled bucket with a bottle inserted upside down. “What’s this?”

  Roberta popped her head up from the back. She pressed a handkerchief to Bassante’s bloodied face. “It’s the bottle that was sent to our room. Frieda and I thought we’d celebrate once we got to the boat.” She held out her hands. “Pass me the ice.”

  Dunne plucked a chilled bottle of champagne from the bucket. “You got a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think?” He lifted the bucket and shifted it to her over his shoulder. “‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.’”

  He read her eyes in the rearview mirror: more irritation than fear. She scooped out a handful of ice, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and held it to Bassante’s face.


  As Frieda drove down Calle Consulado, he gave them both an abbreviated version of what had happened. Frieda banged the dashboard with the heel of her hand. “Heinz fooled us.”

  People were streaming toward the Malecón. The celebration seemed to be spontaneously reviving. “Do you know where he lives, Frieda?”

  “I rode past with Stefan. It’s off La Rampa. I’m sure I can find my way.”

  “We have to get these two to a hospital.” Roberta leaned into the front seat. “Heinz must be gone by now.”

  Frieda veered onto the Malecón and sped toward the Vedado. “We won’t know for sure until we see for ourselves.” They turned left when they reached La Rampa. The car in front braked to a sudden stop. She had to swerve to avoid hitting it. Lights were coming on everywhere. Cuban flags sprouted from windows.

  “Pull over.” Dunne stopped a crowd of teenagers. “¿Qué pasa?”

  They danced around him. “¡Batista se fue! ¡El Presidente ha huido!”

  A band of men wearing red-and-black armbands—the colors of Castro’s Twenty-sixth of July Movement—marched down the middle of the street. They surrounded the car. Several waved revolvers. A twentyish-looking youth lowered his revolver, stuck his brown, handsome, smile-creased face into the car. He glanced around and yelled, “¡La revolución está aquí!”

  Frieda looked at Dunne. “What should I do?”

  “For starters, put the car in park.” Dunne reached down, grabbed the bottle of champagne, opened the door, and got out. He ripped off the gold foil, untwisted the wire around the top, and levered the cork with his thumb until it shot into the air with a loud, celebratory pop. Fizzing, bubbling liquid gushed out. A cheer went up

  Dunne raised the bottle to his mouth, gulped. The contents spilled across his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle to the revolver-wielding youth, who took a generous swig as he simultaneously pointed his revolver into the air and fired a shot. There was more cheering. “¡Acompáñenos!” The youth put his arm through Dunne’s. The crowd moved off with Dunne in tow.