Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Vega paused. Smoke from his cigar drifted towards deep-set eyes. “In a perfect world, yes,” he said. “But your terrorists evaded our ambush and were able to kill ten of my men before they were reacquired and dealt with.” Vega looked sourly at him. “The cockroaches were planning to take out a bridge when we received your updated coordinates.”

  “Well done,” Sevier said.

  “In any event,” Vega continued, “Rasconi died bravely, never knowing about your many betrayals, and believe me you would not have survived his rage.”

  Sevier shivered at the remark. “What did you do with him?”

  “Something special,” he said quietly.

  Sevier did not push the subject. He could guess.

  Vega glanced at his watch. “You remember the messenger who was sent to you, Roberto. How long ago was it?”

  “A long time,” Sevier replied.

  Vega had seen the file and knew full well the details of that meeting. “Was it Miami?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes. And after that you were able to buy your first shiny new hotel, remember. Where was it?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Of course you don’t. The extravagance would have been an embarrassment to any one of us.” Vega gave Sevier an appraising look. “You’ve apparently weathered it well.”

  “It was expected of me,” Sevier replied calmly. “Part of what I was supposed to be which you are also fully aware of.”

  “Absolutely,” Vega smiled. “And we appreciate all that you have done for us as a result. Even as a capitalist you’ve managed to carry on a great service to the Revolution. The services you continue to provide, for which you’ll be greatly rewarded.” The smile suddenly disappeared. “But there is a small matter involving the librarian.”

  “The librarian no longer presents a problem,” Sevier replied immediately.

  “Then the two men he spoke to. The TV journalist and the Bureau man. Do they present a problem?”

  A moment passed while Sevier considered what to say. “The journalist I cornered after he wandered into our little dominos park. The Brigade was uncomfortable so I confronted him. We discussed current events. He had an old picture for me to look at.”

  “A picture?”

  “Of our friend. Rasconi.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I’m afraid the photograph was a troublesome mystery,” Sevier replied. “From a time, long ago. Rasconi is a young man. Disfigured. I can’t say where the picture was taken, or exactly when.”

  Vega showed his displeasure. “What did you tell the reporter?”

  “I pretended ignorance,” Sevier continued. “But the librarian. He was more than willing to talk. He confessed to saying too much. Eventually.”

  Vega nodded. “It appears the two inquisitors have an investigation of some kind underway. Involving people who must remain in the past.” The general was unwilling to say another word.

  “Those people are dead and buried,” Sevier responded. “Along with their secrets.”

  “Do what it takes to keep it that way,” Vega said.

  “It will be taken care of.”

  The two men were suddenly interrupted by a commotion.

  Vega returned to the window. Just in time to see a shock of white hair in the courtyard below. He grinned. “The Georgian has arrived,” he said. “And he has much to report.”

  34

  Poole studied the long dark shadow a hundred yards down the pier, bleeding rust at her waterline and bilge water spewing from several holes along her hull. Beyond the ship, on the other side of Havana’s harbour, city lights appeared as stars. The freighter, a black hole.

  Poole smoked a cigarette as he sat alone on a bench. A warm breeze carried the stink of diesel and the thick exhaust from cars along Primer Anillo del Puerto.

  The vessel was named Celeste and she was already familiar to him. The ship’s layout, her nooks and crannies, the places where a man could hunker down and not be discovered. Celeste carried eleven crew, including deckhands, a cook, and officers of the bridge. They would be fat and stupid, numbed by the monotony of their delivery schedule. Once a week, Poole knew, Celeste sailed a round trip between Havana and Port au Prince, her cargo tanks brimming with heavy, low-grade oil. When she set sail again, Poole planned to be aboard.

  It had been his plan all along. Airports were out of the question. That meant the only safe option was escape by water. Poole inhaled from his cigarette and watched as two crewmen stumbled up the gangway and disappeared inside the ship. No one was on guard duty. Why would there be? Who would want to stowaway aboard such a bleak scow and for the nightmare of Haiti? Poole smiled to himself, stomped out his cigarette and got up to leave.

  After walking for half an hour, Poole hopped in a cab and rode deeper into the old city. When they reached Calle Dragone, he paid the driver, stepped out, and walked through an arched gateway into Chinatown. Pulling his cap low, Poole strolled briskly past gaudy restaurants decorated with paper lanterns and gold dragons. The smells of deep-fried food reached him, and might have made him hungry, though he knew only a few of these restaurants served food that was actually fit to eat. Poole stared at the beautiful waitresses, their bodies wrapped in fine silks. The exotic blend of Chinese and Cuban genes. In other circumstances, he would have taken time to enjoy one.

  Past a busy vegetable market, Poole reached a narrow street, lined with broken down tenements. He felt more at ease now, walking the dark empty corridor until he reached the doorway to a crumbling two-story building. Notmaking a sound, he stepped inside. As always, Mrs. Li sat at a table in the small room near the front door. Poole waited,wondering if the blind old woman would sense his presence. It was a game to him since renting the room at the top of her house.

  “You smoked one of those horrible cigarettes,” she finally said, a surprise to Poole because it had been nearly an hour. “My husband smoked them as well. He was a fool. But you, a doctor. You should know better.”

  Poole watched in wonder as she lifted a crescent-shaped blade and rolled it across a huge tobacco leaf. She deftly sliced and wrapped until a moment later, an enormous cigar was added to a box that contained a dozen or more just like it.

  “Would you care to try a blind woman’s cigars, doctor?” Mrs. Li laughed loudly, too big a sound for such a tiny body. Her ruined eyes stared at nothing.

  He told her no, to which she frowned, deepening the lines in her face and then,without a sound, Poole climbed a narrow staircase until he reached his room. He listened for a moment and then produced a tiny flashlight that he shone on the doorjamb. Detecting no signs of unwelcome entry, he opened the door and stepped quietly inside. Moonlight from a small window illuminated the bed and a plain dresser. Leaving the light off, Poole shifted the dresser away from the wall and bent. It took him only a second to remove a couple of floorboards, revealing enough space for a padded leather case. He picked it up, placed it on the bed, and zipped it open. Inside were a laptop computer and a satellite telephone. He powered up both. A moment later a cable was connected between the two. With a few keystrokes, Poole was connected to the Internet portal for his bank. An account number was provided and a password, and then a series of accounts and numbers flashed onto the screen. Poole was pleased. He dropped onto the bed. A softmoan escaped his lips. There was a farm outside Siena with so much land you could walk for days. Poole would have to disappear. It was as good a place as any.

  A moment later, Poole disconnected from his bank and brought up an Internet news service. Denton and Ortega were big news. There was much to write about. A lot was happening in Washington and Havana. A security analyst expressed concern over the President’s safety. It would be impossible, he said, to cover all the high points within Revolution Square. Too big an area. Too open. Denton was “dangerously vulnerable.”

  Poole absorbed anything useful from a half-dozen news services, though he already knew the broad strokes of the target’s movements. That was thank
s to Asatiani. Poole didn’t question his sources. Air Force One would land at Havana’s airport right on time. Ortega and his entourage would greet the American President on the red carpet, and then they would depart by motorcade. The following day the two would arrive at Revolution Square aboard a marine helicopter. The two leaders would disembark the helicopter for a short walk to the top of the stairs at the Jose Marti Memorial. The national anthems of both countries would be performed and then both men would speak. Documents would be signed and then after the requisite photo op, the presidents would be whisked aboard Denton’s armoured limousine for the drive to Ortega’s official residence. The public event was designed to provide minimal exposure for the two world leaders. It would provide the iconic images, which an historic event like this demanded. Poole knew exactly how the event would unfold since he’d seen it all many times before. It was fatally predictable.

  Poole played everything in his mind. Twelve hours he would remain inside the man-sized duct overlooking Revolution Square. All of his needs were taken care of. Everything was ready. Poole returned the laptop and satellite phone to their place in the floor and a few minutes later he left the house. He walked to a tiny restaurant where he knew the food was good enough to eat. He was invisible there, at a table in the shadows at the back of the room. Poole thought again about what he was being paid to do. The enormity of the crime would have led other men to grave doubt, but not him. Men died for all kinds of reasons. He didn’t care at all about what he was doing or why. That was for others to worry about. It always had been.

  35

  It never ceased to amaze, that so much chaos could produce something so polished and smoothly performed. Jack knew if viewers could see what he was seeing at this moment, they would be absolutely flabbergasted.

  “Sorry, Jack, you’re in the way.”

  Jack sidestepped a guy clutching a videotape. Watched him until he disappeared through a door at the side of the newsroom.

  Malloy watched him, too. “Looks like the guy’s running for his life.”

  “Just his job,” Jack replied with a chuckle. “They take it seriously when stories don’tmake it to air on time.”

  They were standing in the Miami affiliate’s on-air newsroom, which was a sea of chrome, darkened glass, and glowing flat-panelled television monitors. A dozen editing suites circled the plant and, by the looks of it, most of them still contained producers and stressed-out reporters. First Edition was five minutes to air and that meant things were about to get even more hairy. Jack smiled.

  Malloy was staring at him. “You’re enjoying this?”

  “How could you not,” he replied. “It looks like hell, but believe me, everyone knows what they’re doing.”

  At the front of the room, the anchors were checking their script and barking for the things that high-priced talent needed before taking air.

  Jack pointed towards the anchor desk, at a guy with a headset standing next to a camera. “See that man with the fingers.”

  Malloy nodded.

  “He’s counting them in. Watch what happens when the opening rolls.”

  Malloy waited. On one of the flat-screen monitors the opening played. A moment later the anchors appeared.

  “Good evening….”

  Malloy’s head swivelled from the anchors at the front of the room to the shot being broadcast on live television. “They lookmuch bigger on screen.”

  “Adds ten pounds,” Jack said. “Now, take a look around.”

  Malloy did.

  The newsroom was remarkably quiet. The editing suites suddenly empty.

  “No matter how much panic, it all works out. The stories get edited; everyone makes it to air, on time, usually with a few seconds to spare. The anchors carry the load. They have since they were given the cue to start speaking. It’s their gig now. The work of a couple of hundred people filters through them.”

  Malloy nodded. “When push comes to shove, you guys take the heat. I’m impressed.”

  Jack smiled wryly. “Thanks. But sometimes it goes down the toilet, too.”

  The guy who nearly ran Jack down earlier walked by. “Good thingDenton doesn’t come to town that often,” he said. “Kaitlin’s in number eight, Jack. You might want to rescue her. McCoy’s being a pain in the ass. Gonzales is doing her best, but you know how the jerk likes to stick his nose in things.”

  “Thanks, Bret.” Jack gotmoving.

  Malloy followed. “Who’s McCoy?”

  Jack showed a face full of disgust. Tim McCoy was by far the biggest as shole he had ever had the displeasure of working with. He was quick at the mouth and loose with the facts, which was usually a fatal combination, unless of course you had a protector. In McCoy’s case it was Frank Simmons, the star of the network’s show, who likely kept McCoy under his wing because he saw much of himself in McCoy. If McCoy was here it was likely because Simmons wanted to make sure things were done his way.

  Jack crossed the news room with Malloy at his heels. Editing suite number eight was in a corner at the back. Maria was standing at the door, amurderous look on her face. When she saw Jack she rolled her eyes.

  McCoy had his head buried in Kaitlin’s script. Kaitlin looked like she was ready to sink her well-chewed pen into the top of his skull. Neither of them knew Jack was standing there.

  “What about Dumont,” McCoy was saying.

  “What about her?”

  “You’ve heard the rumours. She’s been sleeping with the President for months now, but she gets no mention in your script, even though we’ve got the visuals of the both of them coming off the plane.”

  “She’s his press secretary, Tim. She flies with him.”

  McCoy shook his head. “I think we need to deal with this. Before the tabloids get hold of it.”

  “Rumours don’t make news,” Kaitlin replied. She looked up then to see Jack standing at the door. “Hi, honey.”

  McCoy turned.

  Jack kept his mouth shut.

  McCoy gave him his best television smile. “Hey, Jack.”

  “Hey.”

  McCoy looked around him.

  “That’s Malloy,” Jack said. “A friend of mine.”

  Bothmen nodded.

  Kaitlin tapped her watch. They were working to a deadline. The editor cutting Kaitlin’s story turned back to the computer and wheeled ahead to a shot of the President coming off Air Force One. Kaitlin’s voice track played. “President Frederick Denton has done what many in Washington considered impossible—building a bipartisan agreement on Cuba that even conservative Republicans are lining up behind. Today, the President arrived in Miami for meetings with leaders of South Florida’s Cuban community. There were holdouts, the doubters and disbelievers who have been sowing much resentment in the minds of ex-pat Cubans, but after face-to-face talks, those holdouts fell like dominos. Now it appears Denton has won the broadbased support for rapprochement which he has been working months to achieve.” The video showed Denton seated at a table with half a dozenmen. Everyone smiling—someone gives the camera a thumbs up—laughter punctuated Kaitlin’s read.

  Jack smiled in her direction. She had summed it up nicely. Watching her, Jack couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret. He was there as a spectator and he suddenly realized how badly hemissed the pressure ofmaking it to air.Kaitlinwas in her element, script clutched in one hand, her notebook full of time codes in the other. The editor spun ahead to an interview with one of the Cuban leaders. At Kaitlin’s instruction he isolated a clip and deftly dragged in onto the timeline. Then more video of Denton’s busy day and a presidential clip—the pitchman using a photo op to drive home his message. “Decades of mistrust and acrimony will soon be at an end. The time has come for a new friendship and all that it will bring to the people of Cuba and the United States.” The men seated with Denton looked earnestly at the President, and then, as if on cue, they began to applaud. Jack gave the man credit for having the balls to make things right. It had taken a lot of political currency and arm
-twisting to accomplish it. Kaitlin’s voice track pointed out the same.

  McCoywas on his cellphone, likely reporting to Frank Simmons. The network anchor was probably telling McCoy to take control of things because Kaitlin was missing the most important part of the story. The rumored relationship between the President and his press secretary. Jack knew bothmen would be pissed, though neither held any real power over Kaitlin O’Rourke. ThatwasWalter Carmichael’s turf, which he guarded like a junkyard dog.

  McCoy snapped shut his phone and grimly reported that the desk wanted Kaitlin to cut twenty seconds from her story because of a late addition to the lineup.

  “You’re kidding,” Kaitlin said.

  Maria was flabbergasted. “What’s bigger than this?”

  “Twenty seconds, no debate,” McCoy said.

  Jack was incredulous. McCoy was technically the senior man on the ground. He should have fought for Kaitlin. Instead, he surrendered without a fight and that was unforgivable.

  Kaitlin looked at Maria. “Call New York. Get Carmichael on the phone.”

  Maria’s cellphone flashed to her ear.

  Go get’em, Jack thought.

  McCoy was clearly upset at the challenge to his authority. He turned to the editor. “Get rid of the Cuban leader’s clip,” he commanded. “And lose the paragraph leading into him.”

  Kaitlin was about to protest, but Jack couldn’t take this prick anymore. “Hold on a moment,” he said. “Back off, McCoy. That’s Kaitlin’s call.”

  Kaitlin flashed her eyes.

  Shit. Jack realized he had overstepped his boundaries, but this guy needed to be reigned in.

  “Leave the clip,” Kaitlin said sternly.

  McCoy wasn’t listening. Instead he stared smugly at Jack. “As I recall, you no longer work for the network, Doyle. That show of yours is history. The bean counters deserve some credit.”