Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Jack loved what he was hearing. Disenfranchised CIA planner circumvents his political bosses to try and save the day. This was another element for his documentary, the juicier the better.

  Pabon took another smoke, twirled it in his fingers. “Blatch was aware the CIA had an asset close to Castro. It might even have been one of his generals—it wasn’t his job to know. What he did know is this assetwas providing the CIAwith regular intelligence onCastro’s movements. The agency wanted Castro dead and exploding cigars and the like weren’t cutting it, but on the morning Pluto was launched they knew exactly where Castro would be bunkered to lead the defense of his country. The strategy was simple. Cut off the head of the snake and the body, it dies.” Pabon smiled at that, continued. “Blatch knew that Castro’s death would have created panic and chaos within the counter attack. Remember also that Operation Pluto’s success was built on the premise of a popular uprising against Fidel’s regime and certainly his death would have propelled that forward, to say the least. Our Blatch thought Castro’s death was vital. In fact he was convinced it was the only route to victory because of what the White House fools had done to his well-thought-out strategy.” Pabon lit the cigarette. “If that were the case, the man in that photograph of yours was our only hope.”

  Bingo. The dots were there now, each a tantalizing piece of the puzzle. Connecting them would reveal the earth-shattering truth about Helena Storozhenko’s enigmatic legacy.This was huge. Pabon’s voice brought Jack back to the moment.

  “Julio,” Pabon said simply. “Julio Rasconi.”

  Malloy wrote it down furiously, as if to validate the fact it had actually been spoken aloud. He stared at the paper. “Cuban.”

  “Yes,” Pabon replied. “And very special.”

  “Special, how?” Jack said.

  Malloy shot him a look. “In what way, special?” he repeated.

  Jack shrugged.

  Pabon ignored the question. “Rasconi was not landed with the main invasion force. It was two nights before, just east of Giron Airport in a place where a small boat would go unnoticed under cover of darkness. Two days it took for him to reach his perch,most of it on his belly. He nearly bled to death because of the bloodthirsty insects. When the invasion began he had one operational imperative.”

  “To kill Castro,” Jack interjected.

  This time Malloy remained silent.

  “Right here,” Pabon said, touching his temple. “A bullet in Castro’s large head.” Pabon took a moment to savour the thought. “He got to within several hundred yards, and for Rasconi it would have been a walk in the mall.”

  “In the park,” Jack corrected.

  Pabon cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, as you say, in the park.”

  “Obviously he never took the shot?”

  “No. He never got the opportunity,” Pabon replied, disgustedly. “He was betrayed.”

  Jack and Malloy looked at one another.

  “The CIA asset was found out, and summarily executed, but apparently not before spilling the exact position of the man whose mission it was to put a bullet in Castro’s head. At least that’s what we think. Julio Rasconi was captured before Castro ever showed himself.”

  “Any thoughts on the culprit?” Jack said.

  “To this day we know nothing of how the CIA’s asset was revealed to the Cubans. That betrayal sealed Rasconi’s fate, and to a large extent left us quite fucked.”

  “What happened to Rasconi?”

  “Imprisoned along with the rest of us.”

  One man, one bullet, and a whole lot of history might have been different. Jack imagined Rasconi on another perch, sighting another target—a man in a limousine in Dallas.

  Pabon looked at the photograph again. His face full of respect. “Julio Rasconi was god-like in his ability to take a human life. He never missed. Never.”

  Jack exhaled loudly, and in that instant connected the last large dot.

  Julio Rasconi was as damned as any man could be. His great moment crushed by betrayal.Then cornered and captured like an animal by Castro’s soldiers.Though, according to Pabon, they were lesser sins than the one that destroyed him.

  The librarian removed his spectacles and swept a sleeve across his face. “It was obviously clear to the Cubans that Rasconi was sent to kill Castro,” Pabon said. “So he received ‘special treatment’.” Pabon looked away, muttered something. “One night, they came for him. Thugs. They took him to the mountains for a reunion with his family. A younger brother, his father. His mother. His loving family and Julio the hero liberator.” Pabon stopped for a moment, squeezed the bridge of his nose.“They shot his father first. Then the boy and his mother.”

  “Jesus,”Malloy muttered.

  Pabon touched the photograph, with acid in his words. “His ear. They hacked it off. Something forever.”

  Jack imagined Rasconi’s helplessness. They wouldn’t kill him. But his family, they were fair game. Their executions were the ultimate payback for his determination to assassinate Castro. Jack thought about the Brigade. The imprisoned men of Castillo del Principe were released for fifty-three million American dollars, eighteen months later. Then they scattered, licking their wounds like whipped dogs, to Florida, Nicaragua, and other places where, if they chose, they would never again speak of the Bahia de Cochinos.

  “What happened to Rasconi,” Jack said, “after you were freed?” “Rasconi vanished,” Pabon replied. “After all there was lots of work for a man of his talent. Viet Nam, the East Bloc. There was talk of Lebanon, even Alpha 66 with the hit and run missions inside Cuba. Anti-Castro groups were a dime a dozen in the decades following the operation. Rasconi would have been a good fit. Let’s just say he was motivated after what they did to his family.”

  “How motivated?” asked Jack. How far would Rasconi have gone to satisfy his bloodlust?

  Pabon responded without delay. “He was beyond rage. Insanity would be closer. For weeks at a time in that shit-hole prison, he withdrew. Not eating, not shitting, and sometimes not even breathing. There was self-mutilation. It’s what they call it now, but back then, to the rest of us, it was the mad Rasconi flinging himself into the prison walls like a man possessed. There was a doctor among us—Duarte I think. He did what he could, but Rasconi was beyond anyone’s help. So we gave him his corner and did the best we could to restrain his head bashing. Six months after his family was slaughtered we were repatriated. Free men. Julio on the other hand…,” Pabon took a minute to choose his words. “Julio would never be free.”

  Malloy studied his notes. “That’s when he went underground?”

  “Good choice of words. Went more to his grave,” said Pabon. “In fact if it were not for Sevier, Julio might well have rotted in that Cuban prison.There was nothing to come home to.”

  Jack perked up, immediately. “Sevier?”

  “Si,” Pabon replied. “Roberto Sevier.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed.

  “In prison, Sevier paid special attention to Rasconi,” Pabon continued.“They shared a cell for some time. Hours they spent alone with his madness. Sevier seemed able to calm him. In a way, Rasconi owed him his life.”

  Jack had been duped, big time. Only hours ago enjoying coffee and a chat with a marquee player. He chastised himself again.

  Pabon spent the next ten minutes recounting the day of their release. The aircraft full of stinking, defeated soldiers.

  Jack asked the question. One word. “Rasconi?”

  “I can not say for sure whether he was aboard any of the airplanes,” Pabon said. “When we landed, as you can imagine, things were a little chaotic. The whereabouts of a mad man were not my concern at that moment.”

  “What about Sevier?”

  “A wealthy man now with his hotels. He still supports the Brigade. A free Cuba.”

  Jack filed that away.

  They thanked Pabon and were shown to the gate. Then Pabon quickly retreated.

  In the cab, neither man spoke. Malloy seemed preoccupied,
while Jack took his time sorting the new information. Julio Rasconi was a man of duty and honour, for which he had paid dearly. Part of that, the most painful, had been the murder of his family. It was an unfathomable atrocity that had rendered Rasconi a mad man. Bashing his head against prison walls to dull his suffering. Wanting death. He’d survived his hell thanks in large part to Roberto Sevier. Then he vanished, a man full of rage. Jack wondered what it would have taken to slay Rasconi’s demons. What single moment of vengeance? Would Rasconi have taken the shot that day in Dealey Plaza? Could he have? Jack knew it was possible, and certainly plausible. Like two hunters tracking the same target, neither aware of the other. Or maybe they were both put to the same task that day in Dealey Plaza. Jack ran the Zapruder film through his mind. The instant when Kennedy’s head snapped back and disintegrated. Assassination buffs had long maintained it would have been impossible for an Oswald bullet to drive the President’s head back when fired from behind the motorcade. The kill shot must have come from the front. The Warren Commission be damned. While Jack knew the Cuban was good enough, and crazy enough. Circumstantially, neither meant Rasconi fired a bullet into the President’s cranium. Helena’s photograph, however, was undeniable proof he was there.

  Ten minutes after saying goodbye to Sergio Pabon, they drove in silence along Calle Ocho. The sensual cadence of bongo drums and the screech of trumpets reached them inside the cab. People strolled along the sidewalk in time to the music, a harmony of movement and mood to which they were mere spectators. The outdoor patios were bursting with patrons. Servers darted between tables carrying trays of food and drink as Little Havana slipped easily into a narcissistic rhythm.

  Malloy and Jack stuck out like sore thumbs when the cab dropped them off on the sidewalk outside their hotel.

  A street performer belted out some kind of Spanish ballad for a swelling crowd.

  “Despieta, vidamia, ya no duermas…”

  People were swaying to the music. Singing along. Enjoying themselves while the balladeer strummed a worn guitar and rolled out deep baritone lyrics. Malloy stood there like a post, scanning the crowd while Jack was getting into the music.

  Then Malloy yelled. “Get the hell down!”

  The air split with the crack of gunfire. Thud! Thud! Thud! Bullets slapped into a garbage bin only feet away. In one fluid move, Jack spun and dove to the ground. Survival instincts took command. He dragged himself to cover as bullets raked the sidewalk. A piece of rock stung his cheek. Jack rubbed it. There was blood.

  People were running, trampling one another in panic. The balladeer was down, clutching his abdomen, blood spurting from between his fingers. A young woman’s lifeless eyes stared at Jack from a few feet away, the side of her head, a bloody mess. Jesus. At that instant, Jack chanced a look around the garbage bin. A large black gun was snatched into the open window of a speeding car. Belching smoke as it squealed around a corner. Jack’s heavy breathing mixed with moaning everywhere along the sidewalk. Someone nearby sobbed a prayer. A trickle of blood snaked past on the sidewalk, making him suddenly nauseous. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Jack checked himself. Miraculously, he was unscathed. Just a cut on his face. He pushed himself to his knees and surveyed the horrific scene. People were bloodied and crying. Malloy was face down about twenty feet away. Jack stumbled to him, steeling himself. He knelt at his body. Lowered his face to Malloy’s chest. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing. A second later he saw the entrance wound, just above Malloy’s right ear. Jack swore. A head shot. Christ. Gang bangers preferred the rounds that exploded on impact—pulverizing flesh and bone. Imagine what they did inside a human skull. Blood was oozing down Malloy’s face and onto the sidewalk. His eyelids fluttered. Damn. Jack shouted for help and then someone suddenly appeared next to him holding a cloth of some kind. He grabbed it and pressed it against Malloy’s head. Sirens blared, becoming louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. Seconds later, someone was pulling him away from Malloy’s body. A man snapped on latex gloves, exuding purpose. Jack stood on shaky legs and moved back, allowing the paramedics to do their work. Malloy was gently turned over; bandages and a neck brace were expertly applied. Then came a breathing tube. Jack breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the paramedics wouldn’t waste time or resources if Malloy were dead already. Gloved hands fiddled with the plastic wrapping on an IV line while his partner barked into a radio.

  “Get moving,” Jack said to no one.

  Paramedics carefully slid Malloy onto a backboard and then hoisted him onto a gurney. A few seconds later they rolled the gurney into the back of an ambulance, jumped in, and pulled the doors shut. When they sped away, Jack stared sickeningly at his bloodstained hands.

  Other things came into focus. The cops had arrived and were busy trying to control the crowd. Jack counted six ambulances, each one part of a life-and-death drama playing out on the sidewalk. Paddles were placed on the balladeers chest. His body arched. They loaded him and then hit him a second time in the ambulance. The wounded were rolled off one by one. More shouted orders from a cop who looked like he was the one in control. He wore a crisp uniform with razor creases and looked slightly pissed because the crowd was swollen with thrill seekers who were tromping around the crime scene. Then, Jack saw the first of the news crews. It was Kaitlin, Seth, and Maria.

  Kaitlin’s eyes widened in shock. She ran to him, throwing herself against his body. Frantic hands reaching to the cut on his face.

  “I’m Ok, fine. Just a scratch,” he whispered. Jack gently loosened her from him and turned to Maria who was already uncapping her pen. “Ready?”

  “Shoot,” said Maria.

  Jack gave her the basics. “It was a drive-by. At least one shooter, maybe two. He opened fire on a crowd of about thirty people. I’d say at least a dozen rounds. So far there’s one dead, maybe more. Half a dozen wounded and, by the looks of it, seriously. There were plenty of witnesses.” Jack pointed. “That guy saw it all and that’s probably CNN he’s talking to on his cellphone.”

  “Thanks.” Maria darted towards the emergency vehicles, followed by Seth with his camera already rolling.

  For the moment, Jack was Kaitlin’s world. She reached up again to touch his bloodied cheek.

  “Really, I promise. I’m alright,” he said. He dropped his gaze to the pavement. “Ed was hit. I don’t know how bad, but I’m thinking it’s pretty serious.” Jack struggled for an even voice. “Not good.”

  “Oh, Jack.”

  There wasn’t time. Jack swung around at the sound of screeching brakes. A news satellite truck rolled to a stop and a crew jumped out. “Get going,” he said. “You’ve got work to do.”

  Kaitlin seemed to awaken to the scene unfolding before her. A second later she reluctantly surrendered to the storm. Biting her bottom lip, she squeezed his arm and then she was gone.

  Jack watched her for a moment, then turned and ran down the street in the other direction. He stopped to flag a taxi. The driver said the ambulances were headed to Mercy Memorial, which had the best gunshot docs in the city. “Fixed me up once,” he said, eyeing the bloody mess on Jack’s face. “I think you’ll live.” He ripped a fistful of tissues from a box on the front seat, tossed them back at Jack, and stomped on the gas.

  It took six minutes to get there. Jack wiped away the blood while the cabbie weaved like a mad man through traffic.The cab screeched to a stop. Jack slapped a bill into the man’s hand, thanked him, and leapt from the car.

  The air-conditioned emergency room of Mercy Memorial was awash in fluorescent light revealing walls of discoloured tiles and a grimy scuff trail. Rows of dull chrome and linoleum seats faced a wall of triage stations.

  Jack spotted a woman in greens and marched towards her.

  “You’ll have to take a seat,” she said, with a cursory look at his wound. “Like everyone else.” A clipboard was consulted. “It’ll be a while.”

  “I don’t need help,” Jack interrupted. “I mean I do need help. One of t
he wounded from the shooting on Eighth. He would have been brought in about ten minutes ago.”

  “Name?” she said, finally looking up.

  “Ed Malloy.” She looked to be in her fifties, blond hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail with thin lips and a sallow harried face. Her name tag said E.Winburn and Jack couldn’t tell if she was a doctor or a nurse.

  “Are you a family member, sir?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry. Information is restricted to family members only.”

  “Is it Doctor Winburn?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I understand the rules,Doctor. But what are the chances we can bend them just a little?” Jack brought two fingers close together. “He’s a friend of mine. I was with him when he was shot.” Jack nonchalantly touched his bleeding face, hoping to milk some sympathy.

  Doctor Winburn was business like. “Sorry, sir, any information on the shooting victims is being handled by Miami PD—unless you’re family.”

  “I know you’ve got a job to do….”

  “Yup, and it just got a lot busier.”

  A door swung open, someone else in hospital garb. “Doctor.”

  Winburn turned on her heel and disappeared.

  Jack had no interest in playing by the rules. Not today. He scanned the room and saw that anyone in authority was busy handling patients. A second later, he pushed through the same door as Winburn and found himself in a long narrow hallway lined by blue curtained cubicles. A woman wearing a white jacket was on the telephone with her back to him. Jack moved quickly past her. Ten feet later another white coat burst from one of the cubicles, apparently too preoccupied to pay him any attention since he vanished without a word behind another curtain. Jack stepped quickly to the end of the passageway where it turned sharply left. He stopped and then peered around the corner. Greens everywhere. Busy little beavers. Jack scooted back a step, out of sight. He breathed, listened to voices and the sounds of life saving equipment. He poked his head around. There were four trauma suites. Doctors were calling shots, lots of tubes and beeping machinery. ER types in practiced chaos, likely too busy to notice an intruder. A couple of cops were loitering around. Jack thought for a moment and then spied a stainless-steel cart. He made his move then, walking with purpose towards it. He grabbed something from the cart and continued walking. One of the cops glanced at him but discarded his interest when Jack brought up a clipboard and ran his finger along an imaginary list. A second later, Jack ducked into the curtained trauma suite and breathed a sigh. When he looked up, he saw the body. It was covered with a blue sheet. The trauma room was a scene of failure. There was a nauseating swish of bloody footprints and sterile wrapping across the floor. Plastic tubes poked out from the sheet, including a breathing tube like the one the paramedic used on Malloy. Jack cursed quietly.