Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  “What it means,” Malloy said, “is that Sevier has gone from being a person of interest to a suspect.”

  Twenty minutes later they were seated across from Detective Steve Lacy at police headquarters. He was on the phone. Malloy was talking to a detective on the other side of the room.There was an occasional laugh between them, a slap on the back. Jack understood the camaraderie between cops. It was the same between reporters. A wave of anxiety suddenly rolled through him. He was unemployed. A future full of uncertainty. Maybe down the road he’d be running into old news buddies, and they’d be slapping him on the back. Reminiscing about the old days. He shook it off and waited for Lacy to finish his call. Malloy sat down next to him.

  “That guy’s father was one of the best we had. He’s in Arizona now playing golf every day. Look at me, still getting shot at.”

  “Retirement probably isn’t your thing.” Jack meant it. The man’s eyes were full of spark. In his day, he was likely a talented investigator. Hell, he still was.

  Lacy hung up the phone, popped a piece of gum in his mouth, and leaned back in his chair. “You’ll be pleased to know, you’re no longer suspects in the murder of Sergio Pabon.”

  Malloy chuckled. “I didn’t know we were.”

  “I may have neglected to inform you officially,” Lacy grinned. “In any event, you can breathe easy. Though I have to say, you were pretty piss poor suspects to begin with. An ex-FBI agent and a reporter. Or should I say former reporter.”

  “Good news travels fast,” Jack said.

  “Seriously,” Lacy added.The glasses came off. “That sucks. Sorry to hear it.”

  Jack didn’t need the sentiment. He would have told him so, except it would have been counterproductive.

  Malloy leaned forward. “So if we’re no longer suspects, who is?”

  Lacy replaced his glasses and gave them a good hard look. Maybe he was trying to figure out if they were worth it. Apparently, they were because he looked around and said, “We think we’ve got a description of a car. And the doers. Looks like they filled up at a station two blocks from Pabon’s house.”

  “Details?” It was Malloy.

  “Hispanics in a small Jap car. The clerk says he gets mostly regulars and these guys weren’t. They looked like they were in a hurry, maybe high. We’ve got our artist over there now doing composites. The clerk is some whiz kid who never forgets a face, so we’re probably going to get a set of pretty good sketches.”

  Jack asked why there were no surveillance cameras.

  “They were removed,” Lacy told him. “They’re upgrading their system. That sucks, too.”

  Jack and Malloy looked at each other. Malloy was definitely thinking the same thing as Jack. Then Malloy cleared his throat and proceeded to tell Lacy what they’d been up to that morning. The visit to Sevier Holdings, the dimwitted security guard they’d run into. And the surveillance tape, which Malloy proudly removed from his jacket and deposited on Lacy’s desk.

  “Who the hell is Roberto Sevier and why should I care?”

  “You’ll care when you see that videotape,” Malloy said.

  Ten minutes later they were in an office filled with recording equipment. Lacy told them it was where they taped police interviews. Cables ran from a bunch of machines to the tiny rooms where the cops took statements from suspects. Lacy popped the tape in and hit play. Two Hispanics appeared, joined by Sevier, and then they vanished into an elevator. A moment later at the front of the building, the two Hispanics are there once more, accompanied by Sevier. Then a car pulls up at the front of the building. The two Hispanics get in and they drive off. Sevier is left standing there. His body language a pretty strong indication that he’s not happy.

  Lacy looked bewildered. “You want to explain?”

  Malloy began to speak. Slowly. “How about this? The guys who killed Sergio Pabon were the same as those responsible for yesterday’s drive-by. I think your whiz kid at the gas station will have no problem making a positive ID when he sees this tape. And I can tell you the automobile in this video tape is the same car I saw just before the shooting started on that sidewalk yesterday.”

  Lacy’s eyes widened. “So like I said, who the hell is Roberto Sevier?”

  “Bingo,” Jack said.

  32

  HAVANA, CUBA

  Havana was a decrepit, gaudy bitch, full of dank and rot and only faintly reminiscent of her bloom. Still, Roberto Sevier was momentarily overcome, like the jittery lover home from war and seeking his whore bride.

  The streets were full of soldiers. Armoured troop carriers marshalled like an occupation force. Sevier wasn’t surprised at the level of security, nor did it concern him. They sped past a cluster of soldiers manning a roadblock on the boulevard leading to Revolution Square. Sevier turned in his seat as they drove by.

  “If you were hoping on visiting the square—”

  “I wasn’t,” Sevier said.

  “Entry is not permitted,” the driver reported anyway, “until after the ceremonies.”

  A large black SUV came alongside. Its windows dark. He could guess its occupants.The Suburban was standard issue for the Secret Service and he knew there would be plenty more prowling the city. The vehicle sped away with a second one at its bumper.

  “There was a grand hotel near Obispo Street,” Sevier said, “before your day. But your father would have known of it.”

  The driver stopped at a red light.

  “Hotel Flamingo,” Sevier said.

  “Hotel Flamingo?”

  “Yes. On Calle 17.”

  The driver glanced at the meter, paused. Maybe calculating his tip. “There are no hotels. Only government buildings now. I can take you there if you wish.”

  Sevier remained silent. In his mind’s eye, a young boy’s feet are slapping on cobblestone. His arms are full of bread, freshly baked and warm against his chest. He is nearly out of breath when he halts abruptly in front of his father’s hotel. The youngster sprints into the cool lobby, dodging guests who are smiling and cooing as he brushes by. He hunkers low to avoid their hands and then presses forward until he reaches the broad wooden doors leading to the kitchen. He forces his way through and steps into the madness. Columns of steam rise from a dozen cauldrons. There are the gas fires and loud commanding voices. Mickey, in his tall white chef’s hat, stoops until they are eye to eye. “Ten minutes late, boy,” he scowls. “The bread will be cold by now.”The gold American watch on Mickey’s wrist is the youngster’s doom. “This time, your father will hear about it.” Mickey grabs the loaves and stomps away, a storm of white melting into the chaos. The youngster waits until he is gone before smiling broadly. Fingering the peso in his pants, Roberto bolted through the doors and ran from the hotel, disappearing into the crowd on Calle 17.

  The light turned green.The driver waited for an answer.

  “No matter,” Sevier said. “The hotel disappeared years ago.”

  The cab sped along the Malecon de la Habana. Waves crashed over the seawall, making Sevier want to stop and to taste the salty spray. There would be plenty of time for that later. His father and mother were long dead, declared enemies of the state. As a young man he had escaped the same fate by refusing to repeat the mistakes of his parents. He didn’t beg, but he didn’t have to. They saw the potential in him and were eager to exploit it. He trained at the jungle camps where Fidel’s insurgents were hunkered down. Battle tested veterans drove him relentlessly, sometimes as though they preferred his death. But as a powerful young man, he survived their torture and had proven himself. He accepted their ideology and had fought with them. He was welcomed.

  The pig Valquez, had pulled him to one side once, drunk. “Your father died a traitor and a coward. Which made me wonder at first about the little acorn beneath our boots. Who was it your mother fucked to produce the man who stands before me now?”

  Sevier took him down then. Pounded away several of his teeth before they pulled him off.

  Not long after, aboard
a fishing boat named Golden Star, Sevier became one of many who fled Castro’s bloody retribution, though none left behind a file as thick as the one bearing his name.

  Two days later, on a wharf in Florida, he presented himself to an immigration agent.

  The man was freshly showered, smelling of soap and hair cream. A belly full of good coffee and his wife’s hot breakfast. “What’s your name, son.”

  “Roberto Sevier. From Havana, Cuba.”

  “Are you a communist?”

  “The communists killed my parents. I am a political refugee.”

  “Welcome to the United States.”

  Most of the people who had sent him to Miami as a provocateur were dead. Though Sevier had not been forgotten. The prodigal son was back as a wealthy man, in the same business as his family, but with a fortune that would have made his father and his mafia partners blush. There were twelve hotels now, each one bringing in more money than the Spaniard Franco Sevier would ever have dreamt. Civil war had driven his father to Cuba and into the arms of a pretty young girl from Santiago. They had a son. A youngster whose only duty was delivery of the fresh, crusty bread his father’s wealthy guests devoured. What a treat he was to them with his large brown eyes and thick black hair. “Dance for us, Roberto. Sing that little song.” A peso was always dropped into his shirt pocket, the weight of it thumping at his chest while he jumped and gyrated, his soprano voice a meow against howls of laughter. “Franco’s little monkey,” they giggled. His father laughed just as hard as the rest of them. When Roberto was fifteen and not nearly so cute, the brooding teenager with his slicked back hair and menacing eyes made the guests feel uncomfortable. No one asked him to dance and sing then, and when he wasn’t loitering at the front of the hotel, he visited their rooms and stole what he could, until he was discovered to be a thief, and tossed to the streets.

  Sevier stared out the window as his cab sped through Vedado, past a stretch of disgusting cold war apartment buildings. The old avenue then became a blur of colourful, crumbling stone manors, and a few kilometers farther, the cab skirted Havana’s colonial heart where fishermen and teenagers stood fast against the rage of a foamy sea. The cab came to a stop outside a gleaming hotel with a name that meant nothing to Sevier. He thought benignly about that day when he was just a kid, his arms full of bread. A heart swelling with pride beneath the hotel marquee.

  For the son of parents executed as enemies of the state, it was better left forgotten.

  33

  Aday before Fidel Castro’s forces marched across the threshold of victory, Castro was comfortably and safely ensconced at a small villa about two hours by tank from Havana. On the eve of crushing Batista’s tired and demoralized army, the ultimate leaderwas bedding the daughter of a local farmer.Her namewasGracia, and like somany other beautiful daughters of the revolution,many named Gracia, Fidel was a god to whom they would have gifted their virginity a hundred times over. Fidelwas gone before dawn towards the bloody prize of his revolutionary innocence.

  On the night before Castro’s victory, Cayo Vega was sent ahead to secure food and lodging for El Jefe. The villa had already been abandoned by its wealthy owners, though not looted since the spoils of the revolution belonged to Fidel. The pilots of Batista’s spotter planes were blind to the villa’s existence because of the dense jungle canopy that swallowed it. It was the reason Vega had chosen it then and the reason he felt comfortable here now.The villa was invisible from the sky and,more critically, from space.

  The villa’s first floor served as a librarynow, though its upper floor, like the crown atop a queen’s corpse, had been maintained in relative opulence for the woman who had provided an evening’s distraction for a battle weary legend. Fidel’s little Gracia was sixty-six when she died from syphilis.Nevermarried. Bedded only once.

  General Vega smoked a cigar while he remembered the night

  so long ago. He walked stiffly to the window and stared benignly at the armed men on gate duty. A dozen others were stationed around the residence.

  At that moment a car pulled up and a man got out. Vega watched as he was searched and then led into the villa. A minute later came the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside the door. Vega turned and studied the man. He was well dressed. Tall and thin with dark aristocratic features. Roberto Sevier could have been a diplomat.

  “Welcome home,” Vega said.

  They shook hands and then Vega motioned his guest to a faded armchair. Both men appraised each other while they made conversation concerning things that Vega didn’t care about. It was then time to remind his guest of the purpose for their meeting.

  Vega spoke for ten minutes believing that the plot, even in its broad strokes, was extraordinary.

  Sevier offered congratulations. Then asked. “The strength of your forces?”

  “Operational security,” Vega replied. “Let’s just say that numbers are more than sufficient as well as the material resources. We are many from Baracoa to Pinar del Rio.” Sevier would not be told everything, especially not the names inside Ortega’s government.They were angry men who beat their chests and demanded blood. “Legions of fighters are unnecessary,” Vega continued. “Even the suggestion of a fist will suffice. As it always has.” Ortega was weak. Vega was his opposite. He had risked everything to bring together the disenfranchised. Most carried arms, but not all. They were children of the revolution who found themselves suddenly orphaned by Pilious Ortega.

  “The revolutionaries who died must not be forgotten,” Vega said. “Certainly not what they died for.”

  Sevier nodded. “Never forgotten.”

  Vega was suddenly energized. He shook himself up and marched to the bar. Returned with two bottles and sat. “No, my friend. But now Ortega pisses on every one of their graves.” Vega’s face reddened. “He simply hands this country over to the Americans.”

  Sevier tasted the bottle. Swallowed bitterly. “He will be stopped.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Vega’s eyes narrowed.

  Sevier got the message. “We’ll be ready,” he said. A bird squawked outside the window, filling the silence. “But…”

  “Go on.”

  “Why wasn’t Ortega dealt with when we had an easier opportunity?” Vega showed his displeasure. Unlike him, Sevier risked nothing. “He was protected,” Vega said evenly. “The chosen one. Fidel believed in him since Ortega looked like one of us and spoke like one of us. But Castro’s mind was weakening and then, once both brothers were gone, Ortega showed himself for what he really was.”

  “A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “A democrat,” Vega hissed, “with an old friend in the White House. By the time we realized the threat he posed, it was too late. He became a fucking rock star. Everyone was dancing to his song. They loved him quickly, and who could blame them? They were hungry and tired, fed up with the revolution’s empty promises. Ortega gave them something that we couldn’t. Hope.Maybe even dignity.”

  “Hitler accomplished much by doing the same.”

  Vega jabbed a finger. “Don’t flatter the man with such a comparison. At least the Fuehrer wasn’t a manservant to the White House.”

  “Which brings us to Denton.”

  “Yes, Denton.” Vega rose from his chair and relit his cigar. “Can you imagine the balls of this man, bringing his offer of friendship from a country which has wished nothing but our destruction, or at least our surrender?What arrogance to think he can stand before us, beneath the great Jose Marti and proclaim America’s new friendship with their little neighbour.The man is a bully. Look what he did to those Colombian drug lords. Rotting in an American prison.” Vega suddenly went silent. “Like Kennedy was a bully,” he whispered. “Kennedy thought he was invulnerable, too. But Dallas hated him.” There was a pause. Vega sat again, grinning. “Your friend Rasconi despised him too and with good reason. As he would have hated you had he known your betrayal.”

  It was because of Sevier that Rasconi had been captured at the Bay of Pigs. Se
vier had also provided the Cubans with the location of Rasconi’s family.

  “Rasconi didn’t get to take his shot and Castro lived to drive off the invaders,” Vega said. “Obviously, Fidel was thankful.”

  “And I spent several months in prison,” Sevier added quickly.

  “A necessary inconvenience,” Vega said. “You had a part to continue playing even if it meant sharing that hole with Rasconi and the others. Besides, you did very well for yourself once you were repatriated. In the language of an entrepreneur you were a ‘good investment’.”

  The statement found its place. Sevier simply nodded. He had fit in easily among the Castro haters in Miami. His actions had brought him to the attention of the CIA. They had sought him out and used him. First to recruit for the Bay of Pigs. Then as a source of information against Castro. Sevier had served the CIA well, but served his Cubanmasters better.

  “How does it feel to be a richman?” Vega said smiling.

  “You’ll know, soon enough,” Sevier responded.

  Vega ignored it and changed the subject. “Of course, Rasconi wasn’t finished his little campaign.”

  For amoment, Sevier stared silently into his bottle.

  Vega produced a handkerchief andmopped his brow. “And you sent him back to us.”

  Sevier nodded. “Rasconi was nearing the truth.”

  The general’s face straightened. “So you betrayed him once more.”

  “Gladly.”

  Vega stared out thewindow. “He destroyed a generating station. Twenty resorts were without power for weeks. The tourismminister called formy balls.”

  “Rasconi needed a target. And I needed his continued confidence,” Sevier said. “There were rumours Castro was funding the insurgent attacks himself. I convinced Rasconi otherwise, and then pumped his bank account full of cash. He mounted the entire operation, but he wasn’t supposed to get anywhere near the target.”