Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Asatiani nodded grimly.

  They stored the rest of his equipment inside the space and then replaced the panel. Poole watched as the Georgian pushed back the boxes, and after making sure nothing was disturbed in the office, both men quietly left.

  Asatiani led the way again, silently through the building, until they reached the electrical room and the trapdoor that led them back into the tunnel. Poole watched him. He would not trust the man. Not in this place.

  They emerged from the tunnel and left the utility bunker without being seen. Both men climbed into the car that had been parked in the shadows. Poole would relax only when they were inconspicuous within the maze of surrounding streets.There was always the chance some over zealous polizia would pull them over, leaving a trail to be examined. If that happened there would be blood.

  The Georgian was staring at him.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” Poole commanded. “I haven’t forgotten Moletski Road.”

  Asatiani laughed. “I believe I struck something that night.A cat. Or someone’s dog.”

  “It was a man,” Poole said benignly.

  “A vagrant,” Asatiani replied. “They die everywhere, except hospitals. Besides, we were in a bit of a hurry with the politsiya boys on our tail.”

  “They dealt with two dead men that night.”

  “One yours and one mine.”

  “I got paid.” Poole was smiling.

  “I got us away.”

  “Just don’t hit another worthless human.”

  They drove along a narrow avenue of shops and palm tree restaurants with billboard menus featuring lobster, steak, and grilled chicken.

  Gaudy neon signs lit the way.

  A motorcycle belched blue smoke as it thundered by, a teenager in skin-tight jeans clinging to the driver, leaning with the bike around an ancient slow moving Ford. Poole lingered on the fine shape of her ass.The place had many young beautiful women, but nowhere near the number in Moscow.

  On the next corner was a cathedral,with its pitted stone columns and towering spires. A useless structure, even when this wasn’t a Godless country. The car sped by a cluster of Santeria shops with their dark doorways and candle-lit windows. Poole had seen the mysterious powders and potions. The ancestors of Yoruba slaves would not be shaken from their religion within a religion.They clung to the voodoo but bowed to Vatican princes and marble saints.

  Even this late, tourists packed sidewalk bars, and through his open window, Poole listened to their loud boozy voices.There was vibrancy in the air.The city was quivering with anticipation. Bellies would be full, babies nurtured, and homes would be bristling with the latest house wares, and flat-screen televisions.They believed their suffering was over, like Fidel’s life-sucking oppression. When the Americans arrived with their hard currency, Cubans would be ready. There was sugar and rum, oil and minerals. Cuba’s payless scientists were leading the world in the development of childhood vaccines. America’s giant pharmaceutical companies had already begun sniffing them out. Of course, there were still miles and miles of undeveloped beaches and the cigar industry was ramping up for an expected ten-fold increase in demand. Plantations across the fertile land were seeding thousands more acres of fine tobacco.

  Poole told Asatiani to pull over when they got near Chinatown. Before getting out of the car, Poole leaned into him, as if there were a thousand ears, and whispered a few words.

  Asatiani nodded.

  Poole stepped to the sidewalk and watched him drive off.

  Poole would allow himself a nightcap, but not on Calle Obispo with its crowded outdoor bars. Instead, he dashed across the street, dodging coco taxis and horse drawn carriages. A moment later, he was seated in the dark corner of a tango establishment. Scattered tables watched a young couple’s sensual movements on the dance floor. A waiter stepped over, took his order, and glided away.

  Poole stretched his long muscular legs and broad shoulders. Even after the long day, he was still full of energy. He considered going for a long walk along the Malecon but knew the seawall was lousy with homosexuals. He’d likely be approached by some queer with a death wish.That was out of the question. Poole thought again about the money, about Siena. He’d have to become fluent in Italian, develop an even greater appreciation for fine wine and food. He was no farmer, but what would it hurt to plant a few acres. He would learn quickly. He always did. Poole had no family. Both parents died vicious alcoholics; a brother was long dead in Afghanistan. Soldiering came early and easy. But it was time he settled down, forged a life minus his past. He made a mental note to email his Florence broker. Negotiations should start immediately before some other buyer scooped up the farm.The asking price was far too high and Poole wanted it bargained down.

  Poole understood the risks that went along with the kill. In truth, the danger was a potent drug, which made him an adrenaline junkie. He felt a momentary thrill. How many could shape events on such a huge scale? He thought about some who had.There were the righteous and the wicked.The maniacal Jew hater, Hitler had killed millions, Stalin too. Both had been worshipped. On a much smaller scale, Poole wondered where he fit in. It was almost intoxicating. Pity he would never be able to take credit for changing the course of one nation, maybe two.There would be considerably more money if he succeeded at that.Though money was only part of it.

  The waiter returned with Poole’s beer.

  Poole gulped a mouthful, preferring the currency of cold retribution.

  43

  Acarriageman’s crop cracked loudly across a horse’s rump, rousting Jack from a restless sleep.The first thing his tired eyes saw, through the open balcony door, was a headdress of silver and gold atop a straw coloured mare. Neighing loudly, her russet mane whipped wildly about, and then she clip clopped from Doyle’s sight towards a new day.

  “Honey?” Doyle followed his outstretched arm to discover that Kaitlin was not there.There was a note instead on her pillow.

  “I’ve contacted the Swiss Embassy, which handles American interests here.They’re already involved in the search for Ed. Here’s the number of the embassy. The man’s name is Jenis Olstrom. He’s expecting your call. Seth did a vid-cap of Malloy from his hero interview in Miami. He’s already emailed it to you. Please, have good news soon. I’m sorry you have to face this alone. But you know I have no other choice. Luv you, Kaitlin, xoxoxo. P.S. Be very, very careful. Please.”

  Jack understood completely that Kaitlin had a job to do.He would never have challenged her priorities. He would deal with Malloy’s disappearance. Or was it a kidnapping? He didn’t know yet what to call it.He looked at his watch. It was eight in the morning.He reached for the phone and a moment later was connected to the Swiss Embassy. Jenis Olstrom answered his extension on the third ring.

  Jack introduced himself.

  They spoke for five minutes during which Jack repeated much of what he had already told the police.

  For a moment, Olstrom was silent. “Is there anything to suggest your assailants had a political agenda?” he said. “Because you are Americans, I believe this could be important right now.”

  Good question. “Anything’s possible,” Jack replied, “but it didn’t seem political.”

  “A simple robbery then?”

  “We were lured to the scene,” Jack told him. “It took set up.They definitely had more than robbery on their minds.”

  Jack provided Olstrom all the information he could about Malloy, including his physical description.

  “Photograph?”

  “I’ll email a vid-cap to you.”

  “This is?”

  Doyle checked himself. What would a diplomat know about video capture? Every second of tape was made up of thirty potential photographs when slowed to one frame at a time. All of this he explained with a promise to provide the image as quickly as possible once the man provided his email address, which he did. Jack jotted it down. Olstrom promised to forward the image to his contacts at police headquarters and to the other embassies.


  “Ex-FBI, you say.” Olstrom said.

  “Career agent.”

  “That may be important.”

  Despite his apparent concern, Olstrom had no power to influence the search for Malloy, even if he did have the time. Every diplomat in town had their hands full right now, especially the Swiss. Jack thanked the man and was told everything possible would be done to find his colleague.With that Olstrom hung up.

  Jack quickly showered and twenty minutes later found a table on the hotel’s rooftop where he gulped thick espresso and picked at a bowl of icy fruit.The pool shimmered brilliant blue beneath a cloudless sky. Giant Royal Palms encircled an urban oasis dotted with sun-drenched bodies.Walls of plate glass kept the stink and noise of Havana traffic to a minimum and seemed to magnify a spectacular view of the Capitolio dome.

  Jack was enjoying the vista when it was suddenly interrupted by a flurry of wet blonde hair and a flapping towel. He might have thought it rude, except for the body in the middle of it all. It was simply astonishing, and even just admiring it brought a wave of guilt. Of all the men enjoying the show, it was as though the performance was meant for him alone. Slightly embarrassed, he averted his eyes.

  The blond beauty leaned back in her lounging chair and covered her stunning face with a wide straw hat.

  She was familiar to him. He couldn’t imagine why and then it suddenly occurred to him.The lobby bar the night before. Just as they were boarding the elevator. A glass held high in toast. But there had been another time, an occasion he would have to dig for.

  Jack adjusted the crease in his lightweight pants and sat slightly forward. Sweat had already stained the back of his short-sleeved shirt. “Excuse me,” he said.

  She didn’t respond which made him feel foolish. Everyman there was suddenly watching his progress. Jack tried once more, louder this time. “Do I know you?”

  The straw hat shifted slightly, revealing a pair of humongous green eyes. She smiled impishly. “I would have thought the great Jack Doyle would have a better come-on line.”

  At least she didn’t tell him to get lost, and for that Jack was grateful. It must have showed.

  The beauty rose on both elbows, extended a slender hand and with the hint of an Eastern European accent said, “I’m Lilia Brechkovsky.”

  Of course. Jack showed his embarrassment.

  “No.Mr. Doyle. No need for the awkward moment. Unlike you television celebrities, print people toil in the shadows of obscurity and anonymity. To you I would be just a byline—ink on a page.” She smiled warmly.

  “I suppose that’s so,” Jack replied, wondering why this beautiful woman hadn’t been swayed to the glamour and celebrity of television. Though even as a print reporter, because of the stories she frequently broke, her face was reasonably well known. “Still, it’s a byline that carries a lot of weight,” he added.

  They shook hands and shared a chuckle. “Thank you. I didn’t realize you were a reader.”

  “I didn’t know you were a viewer,” Jack replied.

  “I’ve always been a big fan.”With that, Brechkovsky sat up and swung her shapely tanned legs onto the pool deck. She removed her hat and slowly began to towel her wet hair.A waiter brought her drink. “Can I order you a beverage,” she said.

  “Thanks. No.”

  The waiter hung there for a lustful moment and then left.

  Doyle knew where they had met. It was Panama, a year ago. Just after their escape from Colombia. From Maradona and from death. Kaitlin,Mercedes, and him. Carmichael had arranged a news conference at the hotel where they were hunkered down before being repatriated to the US. For a couple of days they were big news. CNS reporter Jack Doyle undertakes a covert mission to the blood-soaked Colombian jungle to locate his producer,who was believed dead, from the clutches of rebel soldiers and a brutal cartel fronted by the most vicious drug lord in South America.The story had a remarkable twist. Kaitlin O’Rourke was reunited with a twin Colombian sister in the process. The story had an incredibly happy ending. Jack recalled Brechkovsky had attended the news conference, full of questions for Kaitlin and her sister, fewer for Jack. She understood that Kaitlin and Mercedes were the story, a yarn for the heart—memorable. He had admired her for that and had told Kaitlin so. “Better be the only thing you admire about her,” Kaitlin had said.

  A child darted by them and leapt into the pool, splashing Jack and the beautiful woman in front of him.The heat made him wish he had worn less, say a pair of swimming trunks and a good sunblock. Though in truth, there was no time for such things, not with Malloy still a missing person. In a moment, he’d leave, take a cab to police headquarters where he intended to rattle some cages.That was just the beginning.There was an old friend at State, whom he intended to call. Surely, when three American citizens were attacked in a foreign country, it warranted someone’s attention.

  “You’re here for the ceremony, I assume,” Brechkovsky said, interrupting his chain of thought.

  “Yes, and no,” Jack replied.

  Brechkovsky tilted her head in question.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “To be told in a minute and a half, I’m sure. It’s the curse of you television reporters,” she said with a cluck of her tongue. “No time for the luxuries of details and nuance. You can tease, but not completely satisfy.”

  Jack’s face reddened. “And you?”

  “Absolutely. I love pomp and ceremony.”

  Jack doubted that. Lilia Brechkovsky was Izvestia’s correspondent for South and Central America. She had seen more bloody coups than the Central Intelligence Agency. Targeted more than once by right-wing death squads, she was considered a friend of leftists across the region. Doyle was dying to ask her about a famous incident in Caracas, but Brechkovsky suddenly begged off to take a call on her cellphone.

  It was time to leave, which Jack was about to do, when he heard the rapid click clack of female heels on terracotta tile.He turned in time to see two uniformed officers escorting Kaitlin, with tears streaming down her face.

  44

  The body had been discovered near the waterfront by a young boy fishing with his father. Both were enjoying a delightful morning that produced a bounty of baby Barracuda. One after another they went into a canvas bag, which soon became full.

  “Fresh fish for dinner.”

  The youngster smiled. “Mama said it takes fools to walk to a fish market like this and come home without enough fish for a week.”

  The man nodded. “Your mama is a smart girl, eh, Dom. Maybe one day you’ll pull one just like her from the sea.”

  “I hope so, Papa.”

  The man wiped his face with a ragged sleeve. “Pick up your mama’s fish, Dom. Take them over there to that shed. It’s cooler inside. She’ll have my nuts if we bring home fish that’s not fit to eat.”

  The youngster picked up the sack and ran to the shed.He opened the door and then stuck his head in. A moment passed. “Papa.”

  “Yes,my son.”

  “You better come now.”

  Jack didn’t know exactly if the man in white was a coroner or a forensics man from the Major Crimes Unit of the National Revolutionary Police.When he’d said his name, Jack was too numb to absorb it.

  They were standing in the middle of the Havana morgue watching as an attendant wheeled a gurney towards them.There were about a dozen sheeted corpses in the room, including the one that had just rolled to a stop in front of them. The smell of chemicals was sickening and Jack suffered a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  “I must warn you,” the man said grimly, “the body has been mutilated.”

  Jesus. Jack braced himself.

  The sheet was swept back and his breath caught. Malloy’s fingers were pulpy stumps. His ears had been cut away.There was a meaty gash across his throat.

  Jack nodded grimly and the sheet was gently replaced. Five minutes later they were seated in an office.

  A man with short black hair, a long narrow face,
and sad eyes handed him a card. Detective P. Manteez. “Call me Peter,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friend.Wewill do allwe can to bring his killers to justice.”

  Jack stared at him blankly.

  “Will you be contacting his family?” the detective asked.

  Buck Kelly was as close as Malloy got to family. “Yes,” he replied.

  There were a few more questions from the guy, but Jack needed to move on to his own. “Where are you in the search for suspects?”

  “I’m afraid, not very far,” Manteez replied. “We have your descriptions, but that’s about it.The scene of the crime has produced nothing useful. It was late and most of the buildings in the area are unoccupied, whichmeans there are no witnesses.”

  “How about the bird lady?”

  “Excuseme.”

  “The vendor.The woman with the birds. She was the reason we stopped in the first place.”

  Manteez wrote something in his notebook. “Can you describe her?”

  Jack swore to himself. Who would remember what a human looked like when you were being distracted by cages full of squawking exotic birds. He shook his head.

  “Your companion?”

  Jack doubted whether Kaitlin would remember much about the vendor, though he made a mental note to ask her anyway. He went back to his questions. “How many investigators are on the case?”

  The man shrugged. “How many are you looking at?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I’mnot kidding, senor.”

  Jack struggled to hold his temper. “An American citizen has been brutally murdered for Christ’s sake.”

  Manteez shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He closed his notebook. Looked at him with bleary eyes. “I’ll do the best I can. Please believe that. But there are very little resources available for anything but the visit of your president. When I leave here, I’m going to arrest a former mental patient who has threatened to shoot President Denton the moment he steps off Air Force One.”Manteez shook his head. “The threats are coming in every day. As you can imagine, the Secret Service is keeping us very busy.”